#reborn on the mars

[trinitybloodbr]

ÍNDICE - R.O.M. 01

TRINITY・BLOOD - Reborn on the Mars

The Star of Sorrow - A Estrela do Lamento

Autor Novel: Sunao Yoshida - Desing de Personagens: Thores Shibamoto

INTRODUÇÃO TRINITY BLOOD R.O.M I PRÓLOGO - A NOITE DO CAÇADOR

CAPÍTULO I - A CIDADE SANGRENTA

PARTE I・PARTE II・PARTE III・PARTE IV

CAPÍTULO II - O BANQUETE DA ESCURIDÃO

PARTE I・PARTE II・PARTE III

CAPÍTULO III - O CAVALEIRO DA TRAIÇÃO

PARTE I・PARTE II・PARTE III

CAPÍTULO IV - A ESTRELA DO LAMENTO

PARTE I・PARTE II・PARTE III・PARTE IV・PARTE V PARTE VI・PARTE VII

EPÍLOGO - TARDE DOS CAÇADORES PÓSFACIO - NOTAS FINAIS

[jadarnr]

TRINITY BLOOD

REBORN ON THE MARS

(Storia: Sunao Yoshida // Illustrazioni: Thores Shibamoto)

Vol. 1 - La Stella di Lacrime

PROLOGO - LA NOTTE DEL CACCIATORE

Traduzione italiana di jadarnr basata sui volumi inglesi editi da Tokyopop.

Sentitevi liberi di condividere, ma fatelo per piacere mantenendo i credits e il link al post originale 🙏

Grazie a @trinitybloodbr per il contributo alla revisione sul testo originale giapponese ✨

Non appena aprì la pesante porta, fu investita da un intenso odore di sangue.

Nonostante il vento fetido che soffiava dal fondo della cappella e che le fece aggrottare le sopracciglia, Sasha non dimenticò di stringere nuovamente la presa sul candeliere d'argento che teneva in mano. Le sue mani bagnate di sudore le davano una sensazione di disagio.

Le fiamme tremolanti e fragili del candeliere sottolineavano l'oscurità malvagia che si celava dietro ogni angolo. Le ombre che fissavano la coraggiosa ragazza, dense come miasmi velenosi, sembravano osservarla dall'alto come esseri dotati di una volontà propria.

Era il luogo che Sasha aveva frequentato quasi ogni settimana, dal giorno del battesimo fino al compimento dei quindici anni. Quella sera, però, la cappella era immersa nell’oscurità in un modo in cui la ragazza non aveva mai visto prima.

Vergine Santa, per favore, proteggimi. Per favore, proteggimi Vergine Santa…

Dopo il fratello, Sasha era la persona più coraggiosa del villaggio.

Non appena loro erano apparsi, i vili abitanti del villaggio avevano abbandonato tutto e si erano rinchiusi nelle loro case. Anche suo padre, che era il Capo Villaggio, si era rintanato nella sua villa, spargendo aglio e biancospino, e vivendo come se stesse costantemente trattenendo il respiro per la paura. Non c’era stato nessuno che aveva offerto aiuto a suo fratello, che era andato a cercare di salvare la fidanzata che gli era stata rapita.

Tre giorni prima, Sasha aveva cercato di accompagnare il fratello maggiore quando era andato alla chiesa che era stata occupata da loro. Ma lui si era opposto, chiedendole di proteggere i genitori durante la sua assenza, ed era andato da solo, per non tornare più.

Signore, per favore, proteggimi. Vergine Santa, per favore, proteggimi…

Sasha avanzava un passo alla volta, esaminando con cautela l’oscurità attorno a sé. Sentì come una mano fredda toccarle la spalla, come uscita da uno dei suoi incubi. Le bruciavano dolorosamente gli occhi spalancati, poiché si era dimenticata di battere le palpebre. Le assi del pavimento scricchiolavano intorno a lei, mentre si inumidiva le labbra secche.

- Chi.. chi è?!

L’ombra di una donna gigantesca era emersa debolmente davanti la luce del candeliere che Sasha stava puntando davanti a sé come un’arma. Per poco non si paralizzò per la paura. Istintivamente fece tre passi indietro, ma solo allora si accorse che la donna teneva in braccio un bambino piccolo ed aveva un sorriso gentile scolpito nel marmo bianco.

Dalla bocca di Sasha sfuggì un sospiro di sollievo.

- Che paura… per piacere non mi spaventi così Vergine Santa…

Il cuore di Sasha batteva forte e riusciva a malapena a controllare il tremore delle ginocchia mentre si asciugava il sudore della fronte. Dopo aver scherzato con la statua della Madre Santa, che era anche la divinità protettrice del villaggio, si voltò all’improvviso, e questa volta il suo cuore quasi si fermò.

Due ombre erano sedute su una delle panche.

- Oh, sembra che sia arrivato qualcuno, Miris…

- Maris, guarda, sembra un adorabile passerotto che si è perduto

Erano due donne, che si stavano scambiando sguardi e sorrisi.

Erano identiche. Sia la loro carnagione color alabastro che i capelli biondi lunghi fino alla vita erano uguali. Anche se stava per nevicare, entrambe indossavano i medesimi vestiti di sera fine. L’unica differenza era il colore del rossetto sulle labbra: una indossava una tonalità rosa chiaro, mentre l’altra un colore tendente al blu scuro.

Gli occhi color ambra di entrambe scintillarono, poi le labbra colore rosa chiaro sussurrarono:

- Miris, abbiamo un problema. Finalmente abbiamo un’ospite speciale, ma non abbiamo nemmeno preparato del te. Dove abbiamo messo il samovar?

La donna si guardò intorno con fare teatrale mentre rideva, e Sasha agitò il candeliere contro di lei.

- C..cosa avete fatto a mio fratello, mostri! - Gridò la ragazza con tutta la forza che possedeva, nonostante internamente fosse terrorizzata.

L’ondeggiare della fiamma della candela fece danzare le tre ombre come strane creature.

- Sono Sasha, figlia di Lord Casprek, del villaggio di Konavli. Sono venuta a vendicare mio fratello maggiore! Vi sfido a battervi lealmente con me!

- Fratello maggiore? Quest’uccellino non starà parlando della coraggiosa gallina di prima, Maris?

Sussurrarono le labbra rosa chiaro, muovendosi in modo seducente.

- Beh non ti ricordi? Quel pollo che è stato così gentile da leggerci la Bibbia l’altro giorno

- Se parlate della Bibbia, ne ho una anche qui!! E anche un crocefisso!

Urlò Sasha, mostrando le sacre scritture nella mano sinistra ed il rosario appeso al collo. Le ginocchia però le tremavano per l’intensa paura: era terrorizzata. Credeva che il suo cuore si stesse congelando per la paura.

Conversando come se stessero cantando e sorridendo con grazia, le figure di quelle donne erano belle come se fossero spiriti delle tenebre. Ma Sasha non si lasciava ingannare dal loro aspetto. Quelle belle donne erano due di loro. I nemici dell’umanità che erano apparsi in quel mondo dopo la Grande Catastrofe, l’Armageddon. Conosciuti come ‘Creature della Notte’ o ‘La Stirpe Notturna’ oppure gli ‘Abitanti delle Tenebre’, questi erano alcuni dei nomi con cui erano chiamati. Essi erano mostri terribili. E tra tutti i nomi, il più noto era quello di…

- Vampiri! Preparatevi a consegnarmi le vostre teste!

- Tuo fratello è stato estremamente gustoso, uccellino

Dissero insieme le due dolci voci, sussurrando direttamente nelle orecchie di Sasha.

Due mani le afferrarono le spalle, una per lato, facendo diventare il volto della ragazza completamente bianco, come se un gelo fosse calato sopra di lei. Le ombre, che fino ad un attimo prima erano sicuramente sedute sulle panche, erano improvvisamente scomparse. Come se si fossero teletrasportati, i due mostri erano ora dietro la coraggiosa ragazza.

- Leggi pure la Bibbia con tutte le tue forze…

- Brandisci il crocefisso…

- E poi piangi ed implora per la tua vita

- Ed infine diventa il nostro pasto!

Sasha non riuscì nemmeno a rispondere alle voci le che sussurravano alternate alle sue orecchie. Come congelata, la giovane donna rimase immobile sul posto, mentre dita gelide le avvolgevano la mano, facendole cadere a terra il candeliere d’argento.

- Questo uccellino ha superato anche il fratello, non è vero Miris? È arrivata ben preparata

- Esatto Maris. Questo detestabile argento… È ciò che noi Metuselah odiamo di più dopo i raggi del sole

La donna con il rossetto blu scuro, un’espressione di disgusto solo per il fatto di doverlo guardare, calciò il candeliere caduto in un angolo della cappella. La candela caduta a terra si spense e l’oscurità tornò ad avvolgere tutto.

- Non c’è bisogno di avere paura, uccellino. Anche tu presto raggiungerai il tuo amato fratello

Dalle labbra rosa pallido sfuggì un luccichio troppo lungo per dei semplici canini assieme ad una voce dolce ed appiccicosa.

- Allora, uccellino, quale sarà il tuo sapore?

Nella debole luce lunare che filtrava dalla finestra, le labbra blu scuro sfiorarono il collo della ragazza. Le zanne lucide scavarono lentamente nella pelle morbida e fresca.

Fu in quel momento che un bagliore, come di ghiaccio, squarciò l’oscurità.

La vampira con il rossetto blu scuro indietreggiò violentemente, emettendo un urlo che sembrava provenire da un altro mondo. Inchiodato profondamente nella sua mano c’era un comune crocefisso. Lanciata da una forza sconosciuta, la croce, che non sembrava nemmeno troppo affilata, le aveva trafitto il dorso della mano ed attraversato il palmo.

- M..Miris!

Mentre stringeva fra le braccia la sorella che urlava di dolore, la vampira rosa chiaro si guardò indietro con rabbia. I suoi grandi occhi si restrinsero diventando di una malvagità indescrivibile.

- Chi è? C’è ancora uno sciocco in questo villaggio che osa intralciare il nostro pasto?

Attraverso il soffitto di vetro si poteva vedere il cielo notturno blu. Da quel cielo, verso sud, due lune guardavano la terra: la prima era un cerchio perfetto color argento; la seconda, rossa come il sangue, aveva una forma irregolare. Sotto la sua luce inquietante, un’ombra rimaneva ferma immobile.

- Sfortunatamente, non sono un abitante del villaggio

Disse la voce dell’ombra in tono calmo.

- Vampire Maris e Miris Zadrovshka, in nome del Padre, del Figlio e dello Spirito Santo, siete in arresto con l’accusa di ventidue omicidi e furto di sangue nel villaggio di Konavli.

- Maledetto! Indossi un abito da prete! Sei…!

Miris sfoderò le zanne di fronte all’ombra illuminata dalla luce della luna. L’ombra era quella di un uomo alto che indossava un abito religioso nero ed un mantello dello stesso colore. Sul suo petto brillava un rosario d’oro.

- Vaticano!

- Ah, perdonatemi. Non mi sono presentato. Sono stato inviato dalla Segreteria di Stato del Vaticano per gli Affari Sacri…

La presentazione, così cortese da risultare fuori luogo in quella situazione, fu interrotta dal suono umido di qualcosa che trafiggeva la carne.

Profondamente conficcato nella schiena dell’uomo c’era il crocefisso che aveva precedentemente trafitto la mano della vampira. Senza che l’uomo se ne fosse reso conto, Miris, che era ora in piedi dietro di lui, sputò parole piene di una rabbia velenosa.

- Tu, un semplice terrestre, hai osato ferirmi… Muori e paga per questo, cane!

Le mani aggraziate, ma più forti di un orso bruno, si mossero elegantemente e conficcarono il crocefisso ancora più in fondo. Nello stesso momento in cui risuonò il suono terrificante del suo cuore che esplodeva, le ginocchia dell’uomo alto crollarono e si piegarono bruscamente. Nel bagliore della luce lunare blu, gocce di sangue schizzarono sul bel viso pallido di Miris, che sorrideva soddisfatta.

- Che creature insignificanti… sia il prete che il ragazzo di prima, cani addomesticati del Vaticano, stanno diventando sempre più deboli, non credi Maris?

- Non mi interessa. Ma per favore, smettila di fare casino, Miris. Assumiti la responsabilità di quello che hai combinato e pulisci tutto questo sangue da sola.

Con discrezione, Maris affidò alla sorella minore il compito di ripulire il disordine, ormai ubriaca di vendetta e di sete di sangue. L’uccellino coraggioso aveva sgranato gli occhi ed era svenuta di fronte alla tragedia che si stava consumando davanti a lei.

- Inizierò con questo uccellino

Maris sorrise, scostando i capelli della ragazza che le erano caduti sul viso pallido. Per essere una terrestre, era ragionevolmente carina. Sicuramente anche il suo sangue doveva essere delizioso.

Nella chiesa buia risuonò il rumore delle zanne che scavavano nella carne, seguito dal dolce suono della sorellina che beveva il succo della vita. Il sangue della preda era così delizioso che le sfuggivano sospiri di piacere.

- Miris, lasciane un po’ anche a me per piacere

Disse Maris avvicinandosi alla sorella minore e scostando i capelli dal collo della ragazza svenuta.

- Ti lascerò bere metà del sangue di questo uccellino, ti va bene così?

- Mi spiace ma non posso permetterlo

La voce calma che si udì non era quella di Miris.

- Sono abbastanza rigido con la mia dieta… non posso accettare il sangue di questa ragazza

Quando istintivamente si voltò, quello che vide Maris fu la figura di sua sorella, con gli occhi spalancati dal terrore come se fosse una semplice terrestre. Le sue labbra blu scure erano aperte come se stesse emettendo un grido, ma quello che ne usciva era solo un fragile respiro, ed il suo viso, già pallido, era ora bianco come la carta. Tuttavia, non fu la figura della sorella a spaventare la vampira. Era l’alta ombra piegata sulla sua gola.

- A…assurdo! Chi sei?!

Come se la stessero baciando, le labbra dell’uomo erano posate sul collo di Miris, facendo fuoriuscire un rivolo di fluido rossastro. Era una scena estremamente familiare per Maris. Ma quello che l’uomo stava succhiando era…

- Incredibile! Questo tizio… il sangue… il nostro sangue!

- Quindi non avevate mai pensato ad una cosa del genere?

L’uomo sorrise tristemente, posando a terra il corpo di Miris, che aveva perso le forze a causa della perdita di sangue e della paura.

- Gli esseri umani si nutrono di bovini e pollame. Voi succhiate il sangue degli esseri umani. Ed io…

- Ho capito! Ho sentito voci al riguardo… Che il Vaticano, i nostri nemici, mantengono un mostro incredibile. E questo mostro succhia il nostro sangue…

Avvicinandosi al vampiro, le cui zanne fremevano per la paura, l’uomo si presentò con un tono di voce leggermente malinconico.

- Io sono un vampiro che succhia il sangue dei vampiri

[spectral-snippets-and-drabbles]

A Martyr From the Ashes

For everyone in the fandom saying saying that Danny thinks Martian ManHunter is cooler than Superman, we don't really see it all that much in writing.

I'mma try and fix that...

~•~•~•~•~•~

The Martian Book of Legends held the heroic tale of Saint Da'han'yul Fen'tuun of Mars, a sickly albino priest of a small town that held marriages, sermons regarding life and how it should be enriched and lived to its fullest, and specialized in funerals that used cremations with fire, a feat thought to be physically impossible by the masses. As people saw him look into the flames without fear while others cowered, rumors spread that the young man was blessed by H'ronmeer himself, the Martian God of Fire, Life, and Death.

People spoke about how Da'han'yul turned down all attempts at courtship, for he had decided to dedicate his life to bring light in the darkest times to all lives in the name of his God. He was a thing of beauty with a gentle soul and shy demeanor, even the Red and Green skinned who had still held a firm belief on the caste system could not deny his charm. How the terminally ill Martian carried on his mission with a smile, nobody knew.

However, tragedy struck on the day that should have spelled the beginning of the end for the Martian people. A parasitic species had invaded the Martian Homeworld and was causing untold havoc. As civilians fled from the threat and prepared a counter offensive, it was Da'han'yul Fen'tuun who charged into the danger headfirst to save his people from becoming prey.

As others pleaded for him to run away, in a great bright flash of light, a gigantic Martian loomed over the enemy emerged where the ill Martian stood, coated in flames in a form they've never seen before with a halo and body that burned a haunting green.

The deafening silence still held as the enormous creature brought a massive fist on the giant pale walker that was destroying homes. A wave of its hand sent a wall of green flames raced towards the foot soldiers, reducing them to ash while his people and buildings were not harmed in any form without an ounce fear of these fires the creature used to purge the enemy. Within the hour, the threat had been neutralized and peace was brought back to the red planet.

As the Martian people looked to the titan, they knew. H'ronmeer's had chosen his most loyal servant, Da'han'yul, as the avatar of his wrath to smite those who would bring his people harm. The people hugged and wept tears of joy and cheered for the priest and H'ronmeer for saving them, but the tears soon became tears of sorrow.

The giant groaned in pain as he fell on one knee as it began to crumble into ash before the people's very eyes. Like a flame, Da'han'yul Fen'tuun had burned his brightest when life needed him most, and now death called to him as it slowly extinguished it to give him peace. With a final message, he pleaded to his people to come together as one and to not see one another as lesser or greater than, but as equals who can help one another in the darkest of times and the hardships yet to come. With his final moments gone, a final telepathic embrace was given to all before he fell silent for the last time.

The massive pile of ash that were his remains was brought back to his little village and made into a beautiful garden of ash in the temple where the newly titled Saint made his home in, where it would be made a holy site that many would come to give their thanks and pay their respects for H'ronmeer' and his champion alike.

And for centuries, peace was held before it was shattered by Ma'alefa'ak, who unleashed the Fire Plague to take vengeance on his people for his inability to experience the psionic way of life that was the norm. His smile as his people screamed in anguish was knocked off his face in the most literal of terms when a Martian struck him down and had him by the throat.

A Martian with eyes burning in anger as Ma'alefa'ak failed to break free and was being beaten severely for his crimes against the people of Mars. A Martian made entirely up of ash and green embers.

Saint Da'han'yul Fen'tuun had returned, if only for a moment longer. And he was not happy.

Quickly, one by one across the planet, the martians set ablaze burned a gentle green that healed them. In this miraculous act of divine intervention, not a single Martian had lost their life. Most were now unconscious with labored breathing being heard.

J'onn watched on as his brother screamed in agony as his body burst into green flames as a pool of ash began to swallow his brother whole. Before disappearing entirely, Da'han'yul told him the punishment his brother would be facing.

"Ma'alefa'ak's psionic abilities have been awoken. He will be sentenced to become a living flame until he has lived the collective life span of all that he has tried to extinguish."

J'onn was too stunned to speak. With how long a Martian can live, it was the equivalent of telling him his brother would be suffering for an eternity. It seemed unethical, but he knew his brother had dug his own grave the moment he saw the reanimated remains of Da'han'yul Fen'tuun's ashes take swift action.

"Everything will be ok now, J'onn. Go to your family and tend to them.

"Da'han'yul...Thank you. I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you when you were still alive." J'onn solemnly uttered as he looked to the ground, unable to look at his deceased youngest brother.

"Nonsense J'onn, it's not your fault...The caste system...it–"

"I could've done more! Instead I saved myself instead of being there when my brothers needed me most!"

"J'onn...you were just a child."

"It makes none of it right!"

He was right in that aspect, but it still didn't feel right. Ma'alefa'ak' was ostracized by society, was treated like a freak of nature for lack of natural gifts and he wanted to burn society to the ground in the most literal of terms because of it.

While Da'han'yul, the forgotten youngest brother, was treated horribly for being albino and treated cruelly. He contracted a deadly disease when he separated himself from the family to live in isolation with other albinos that made him sickly and cut his life expectancy down severely. Knowing what befell him, seeing him struggle to move and hold down food at times while J'onn and their parents did nothing.

These tumultuous emotions sat in J'onn for so long. The way he wanted to go and help them both, but the fear of association and social punishment for merely being seen with his brothers made him cry when he younger for being so weak willed. It wasn't until their parents bragged about the sacrifice their forgotten child had made, the sone they purposely scorned made him snap.

"J'onn, promise to keep my message alive for me. Help our people become whole again."

"Of course, brother." Is what J'onn tells him as he watches his little brother vanish again for a third and final time.

[gremoria411]

Zeon Remnants: Why so many?

*Spoilers for most of the Universal Century Below*

So a common criticism of Universal Century I see is that it’s essentially all Zeon Remnants, all the time. That it every antagonist to the Earth Federation is either a Zeon remnant or related to such and it makes the universal century feel smaller.

That is 100% a valid criticism.

However, it’s not something I particularly notice as a problem, so I figured I’d make a post delving into my reasons why. I’ll be talking about each of the “main” Zeon groups (The Principality of Zeon, The Delaz Fleet, Axis Zeon, Char’s Neo Zeon and The Sleeves) and I’ll talk about why Zeon are so frequently the antagonist. Alright, enough preamble, let’s get on with it.

Why don’t I have a problem with Zeon always showing up, all the time?

Because I usually consider each Zeon group its own thing. Like, yeah the aesthetics and some mobile suits tend to match up but they typically have…. If not different goals, then different cultures. It’s not just the same thing all the time.

I’ll be dividing them by roughly four factors:

Motivations - *Why* are they fighting, how unified are they?

Size - big force or little force, since it affects how they fight.

Newtypes - Oh hey, it’s just possibly one of their more important contributions to the setting in general. Kinda important. Focusing more on how they’re used and how they’re seen.

Mechanics - Mobile suits and overall tech level for the time.

The Principality of Zeon

First up, the good ol’ Principality of Zeon. The P of Z, if you will. Founded by Degwin Sodo Zabi in the aftermath of Zeon Zum Deikun’s death in U.C. 0068. Rapid Militarisation of Side 3 (Munzo), the colonies composing Zeon followed, with what would become the One Year War being declared in UC 0079. It’s sometimes known as “The Duchy of Zion” in older translations.

It’s a little unclear *why* war was declared, but the official line and the view of the average citizen would be that it was a war of Independence from the Earth Federation. Zeon Zum Deikun (who Zeon was named after) was the father of Contolism, a philosophy that combines two major elements:

Elseim - The Earth is Sacred, and must be protected (The Earth is Humanity’s Cradle, but man cannot live in the cradle forever-type stuff, with a big focus on environmentalism).

Sideism - All Space Colonies should be independent from the Earth Federation (This is where all the “Those whose souls are still bound by gravity”-type stuff comes from).

And nestled riiight in the middle of those two is the Newtype Theory, which postulates that ascending into space is the next stage of mankind’s evolution, giving rise to a “new type” of individual, with the ability to communicate over great distances and divides.

Due to Class divides and economic disparity between the Earth Federation “elite” and the Space Colonists (particularly those in Side 3), Contolism was massively popular, with Zeon Zum Deikun being raised to leader of Side 3. However, he died suddenly and (apparently) appointed Degwin Zabi as his successor. Degwin would instigate a purge of Zeon’s most loyal followers, and place his children in high ranking political positions, ruling the Principality of Zeon as absolute dictator. It’s unclear if Degwin declared war as the logical conclusion of the Contolism Philosophy to wrest Earth from the Federation, if he viewed it as a way to secure greater power or if he genuinely wanted to rule the entire earth sphere.

What I’m getting at here is that your average Zeon soldier believes he is fighting for the Independence of the Space Colonies and the safeguarding of Earth against the Federation Elites who seek to exploit it. The higher command however, is incredibly fractious, since each one is operating under a different member of the Zabi Family, and so there tends to be a lot of friction. Even if Zeon had won the OYW, it’s likely it would’ve had to deal with a Civil War at some point or another (dependant on which members of the Zabi family survived).

Zeon is also notable in that it’s the single largest organisation here, and since mobile suit combat was relatively new, it fought with a lot more variety than any of its successors, such as tanks and mobile armours. It also had the advantage of, with the notable exception of the RX-78 and its derivatives, being far better off than the Earth Federation technologically, possessing advanced mobile suits and actual Newtype research (important note; With one singular exception, it is never suggested that Zeon’s Newtype laboratories are anything less than above-board. Are they under immense pressure to succeed? Absolutely. But crucially, they aren’t inhuman). It had a large variety of mobile suits - usually a few good “workhorse” units (Zaku’s and Dom’s) with a bunch of oddities on the side (like Gyan’s and Zakarello’s).

Lastly, the One Year War itself. This is a point I’ll be coming back to frequently throughout this, but; The Federation possessed a major population and material advantage over the Principality of Zeon for the entire war, and was able to deploy a staggering amount of enlisted soldiers into the war. Zeon possessed the advantage of mobile suits early on, but they were also forced to mobilise a great many soldiers. Both Sides of the One Year War lost half of their respective populations in the early stages of the war (The One Week Battle) and Side 4 Moore was utterly devastated. What I’m getting at is that there would be an awful lot of individuals with millitary training and/or technological know-how running around after the war, as occurred in the real-world World War II and Cold War (strictly speaking I’m looking at them being an easy source of millitary experience in genre fiction, but you get the idea). So you have a lot of Ex-Soldiers and remaining military equipment hanging around, and a lot of people with “legitimate grievances” to hate the other side (Warcrimes on both sides, The Earth Federation essentially doesn’t change, Zeon Remnants remain an active problem with several becoming pirates and there’s a lot of Federation “mop-up” teams going around, the precursors to the Titans).

So, The Principality of Zeon in a nutshell; Principled reasoning (i.e. Contolism), massive force, Newtypes rare and incredibly valued (since they’re essentially a living reminder of why they’re fighting and a massive force multiplier), mobile suits essentially brand new and largely experimental.

The Delaz Fleet (and Zeon Remnants in general)

The Delaz Fleet was formally created in U.C. 0081, being primarily composed of former Gihren Zabi Loyalists from the Principality of Zeon, led by Aigulle Delaz (above, left). They were most famous for Operation Stardust in U.C. 0083. I’m also going to be discussing Zeon Remnant groups in general here, since the Delaz Fleet is essentially just a very large and successful Zeon remnant group. Delaz’ goal is relatively simple - vengeance. Delaz wishes to deal a hefty blow to the federation, largely to avenge the Principality’s loss at a Baoa Qu, with much of his forces feeling similarly (note: it’s possible that, had their been less withdrawals of Gihren Faction Loyalists like Delaz, A Baoa Qu may have gone differently). The forces under his command is relatively small, to the point where he is forced to seek aid from both the Axis Advance Fleet (though this is largely in materials and recovery) and the Cima Fleet, which costs him dearly.

Delaz specifically embellishes the “cause” of Zeon, focusing less on the Principality’s totally necessary warcrimes and more on Zeon’s fight for Independence against the Earth Federation. This is relevant because Delaz reaches a wide audience, espousing his own Zeonic ideals, largely divorced from the original Contolism basis. He also blames the weakened political leadership of the time (read: that nasty Kycilia murdering his precious Gihren Zabi). Delaz is specifically the most successful of the Zeon remnants in his era, directly to the space colonies detriment, since his actions directly lead to the founding of the Titans, who brutally crack down on the Colonies.

Equipment-wise, Zeon remnant groups are a varied bunch, but typically fight using older or ad-hoc equipment - The Delaz Fleet primarily utilises upgraded machines from the One Year War - Zaku FII’s, Rick Dom’s and, most notably, Dra-C’s - mobile suits cobbled together from spare Zaku and Gattle fighter-bomber parts. Any other materials they use are either stolen from the Earth Federation or are acquired through other means.

Newtypes are kinda weird here, since there just aren’t any in 0083, and the general theme with Newtypes in other remnant groups around this time is typically that they’re either propaganda or just not very good. It’s possible that the Newtype philosophy was largely dormant for a while immediately following Zeon’s defeat - either viewed as propaganda or directly suppressed by the Earth Federation themselves (like Amuro). The Newtype philosophy likely experienced as resurgence with the emergence of the Titans, since it would have been a rallying cry for spacenoid independence once more. As such, Newtypes just aren’t a big thing in Zeon remnant groups around this era, at least as near as I can tell (Delaz is the only animated force we see, and I try not to rely too much on manga, at least for Universal Century).

So, Delaz Fleet (and immediate postwar Zeon remnants) in a nutshell; Varied Motivations (though typically vengeance or survival), Small Guerilla Force, Newtypes near non-existent, mobile suits either OYW cast-offs or stolen.

Axis Zeon

Which I admit I’m using because it’s more easily distinguished than Neo Zeon, Neo Zeon and Neo Zeon. Anyway, Axis Zeon is made up of the various Zeon remnants that fled to the Asteroid Axis after the One Year War, this includes several pilots, scientists and engineers, which ensures that Axis enjoys a massive technological edge for most of its existence. Axis, in contrast to Zeons prior, is primarily concerned with “The Restoration of the Zabi Family” since one of the people that ended up there is Mineva Zabi, daughter of Dozle and the Zabi family’s only living heir. Except Glemy maybe.

Since Mineva was of the Zabi family lineage, of course she’d want to resume their conquest of the Earth Sphere, and so Axis was reconstructed into a fortress for her to rule when she came of age, with a regent being appointed to rule in her stead, which eventually fell to Haman Karn. Haman was essentially able to use Mineva as a figurehead in order to mount an invasion of Earth, and struck at the end of the Gryps War, when both the Titans and AEUG were reeling from that conflict. It’s also notable that a lot of the Axis members we see are very young, so were raised on “The Glories of Zeon” without actually seeing the realities of the One Year War with their own eyes.

Neo Zeon also was able to develop and field newtype weaponry, with newtypes being a potent threat against the AEUG. However, they still weren’t common, and so Cyber Newtypes were fielded. In contrast to “true newtypes” who have naturally awakened to their powers, cyber-newtypes are those with Newtype potential who have been forcibly conditioned with drugs and implants in order to function for combat. Though deadly threats, they are very unstable. You may notice that this seems anathema to the Contolism Philosophy espoused by Zeon Zum Deikun, and is incredibly dehumanising to boot, signifying that Axis is barely even paying lip service to its ideals of spacenoid independence. Axis Zeon is also notable for utilising clones to supplement its Newtype forces, which…. I don’t think is strictly counter to Contolism? But it feels like it’s against it in spirit, if not in letter.

It’s especially notable that a great many members of Axis Zeon espouse things like “For the Glory of Neo Zeon” and “For the Restoration of the Zabi Family” without really understanding what they mean. It’s also notable that, barring links with surviving Zeon Remnant groups, Axis isn’t noted as being very popular with the colonial population, likely because they don’t really understand what the “Ideals of Zeon” mean, and the civilians recognise them as merely parroting Zabi rhetoric.

Axis Zeon would eventually be undone by a Civil War within the organisation led by Glemy Toto, coupled with the AEUG’s offensives. Unlike the political manoeuvring of the One Year War, the Glemy Faction coup occurs very suddenly and results in massive casualties in the organisation due to his command of the Newtype corps.

Technologically, Axis is absolutely cutting-edge. They really don’t cheap out on mobile suit development and are able to design and field a variety of units comparable to the Principality in its heyday. Axis forces are essentially the best-armed Zeon will ever be, helped massively by the sheer amount of Newtype weaponry they can deploy (they have three mainline mobile suits in the Neo Zeon War, all three seeing good amounts of production at various stages and they’re typically first pick for Zeon Remnant Groups in the U.C. 0090’s). They also have the facilities for Newtype cloning, as mentioned above.

Axis Zeon in a nutshell; Hollow Motivations (Restoration of the Zabi Family and Conquest of the Earth Sphere), large force, newtypes and cyber-newtypes prevalent, mobile suits many, varied and cutting-edge.

(I haven’t quite finished all of ZZ, so forgive me if this one’s a bit rough)

Char’s Neo Zeon/Newborn Neo Zeon

Sometimes also known as Char’s Rebellion. It was basically founded in order to accelerate space migration….. by plunging the Earth into nuclear winter and making it near-uninhabitable. Founded by our good buddy Char Aznable in U.C. 0093, there’s less to go on for this particular iteration of Zeon, basically just a movie and supplemental information. It is composed of various Zeon remnants and political factions under Char Aznable with the express purpose of instigating the Axis Drop in order to make the earth uninhabitable and stop humanity from damaging it. Which is a terrible plan, barely paying lip service to the Contolist ideals Zeon was founded upon.

That’s because it’s a lie.

Char is in fact mounting a suicide run on the entire Earth. Creating a threat so massive that Amuro will be forced to kill him to stop it. Which is rather informative. Char is essentially using his influence to hold the entire operation together, and it’s notable that a good chunk of his own forces actively move to counter his goal when the option presents itself. Consequently, there isn’t much in the way of ideals on display here - Char is famous both for being the son of Zeon Zum Deikun and for his Dakar Address when he was a member of the AEUG. It kinda seems like a lot of his support is coming from people who know him from that, as opposed to what he’s actually doing. Newborn Neo Zeon is basically headlined and held together by Char, and has the vibe of a desperate last gasp for Zeon. It’s also notable that the only time we see Char actually lead Zeon is when he’s using its name for his own ends.

Newborn Neo Zeon also has a great more political pull than many of the other groups - Char Succeeds in a lot of his goals because he’s essentially able to play the Earth Federation like a fiddle, while remnant groups happily provide him aid. Technologically he has the backing of both Anaheim and Newtype Labs. Char’s mobile suits are, while not cutting-edge as such, very well rounded. The Geara Doga and Jagd Doga both share components and a general body structure, and the only reason the Sazabi is unique is because they couldn’t make the frame suit Char’s abilities (there’s a bunch of prototype units that pave the way to the Sazabi). Newborn Neo Zeon also retains a number of Axis Zeon Remnants, which bring their mobile suits and technical skill as well. Newtypes, while not exactly common, are considerably more stable than their Axis predecessors, and are given Jagd Doga’s, which are probably the closest a Newtype machine has ever come to reliability and ease of use. There’s also the Alpha Azieru…. which is also there (I don’t really have a lot to say on it honestly, it’s just kind of another “big newtype weapon”). Unfortunately, I really don’t have much to go on here regarding how the force views its newtypes - they’re essentially just treated as a special branch of the forces, no contolist ethics here, which is genuinely pretty sad. Because it illustrates just how far Char’s fallen from the ideals he espoused at the end of Zeta, especially considering he’s the son of Zeon Zum Deikun.

Char’s Neo Zeon in a nutshell: Motivations lean Char-centric, middling force with a lot of soft power, Newtypes present and mostly stable, small mobile suit variety but what’s there is very good.

(The Geara Doga’s one of my favourite grunt suits, so I’m probably quite biased here)

The Sleeves

Last of the “main” Neo Zeon Organisations. The Sleeves is a melting pot of every Zeon remnant group going. Founded around U.C. 0096, they were led by the man called Full Frontal, known as the “ghost of char”. Due to their disparate status, they aren’t recognised as a legitimate organisation by the Federstion, instead being branded a terrorist group - which they essentially are, being an aggregation of a bunch of other informal Zeon remnant groups. This mixed nature leads to a similar diversity in views and equipment - you have die-hard contolists, Glemy faction remnants, newborn Neo Zeon cast-offs and everything in-between.

They are essentially a return to form for Zeon Remnant groups, but are able effectively leverage their limited assets to fight quite effectively, though again, they’re heavily reliant on soft power, such as their relationship with Anaheim and political connections. They don’t have the forces to steamroll through the Earth Federation, so they’re forced to adopt an almost cell-based approach (at least that’s my read on Full Frontal and Suberoa Zinnerman’s relationship). It’s an odd mix of the realities of a Guerilla war against the federation and hearkening back to Neo-Zeon groups past (who were themselves hearkening back to the days of the old Principality). I should also note that The Sleeves maintain links with several other Zeon Remnant groups, such as some of the forces that attack Torrington in Unicorn. This is interesting not just because it shows a greater deal of collaboration between these groups than seen prior (Delaz and Cima were not exactly trusting of each other), it also shows a different mechanical composition to pre-U.C. 0090 remnant groups.

They’re kind of all over the place. Which I love because it’s 1:1 with their philosophical composition - they’re remnants from a bunch of different forces and groups, so of course it makes sense that their mobile suits would reflect that. The Sleeves do possess the…. Not-quite-cutting-edge-but-at-least-new Geara Zulus and the absolutely fabulous Sinanju (s), Kyshatriya and Rebawoo, but that’s kind of all they’re at. Everything else is from at least Char’s Rebellion or earlier - there’s one-of-a-kind custom units, old axis castoffs, even some stuff from the One Year War and immediate postwar period (like that poor regelgu). A varied armament for a varied force.

However, it is notable that The Sleeves don’t really have much of an identity of their own, largely due to their patchwork composition. They’re the scattered remnants of previous causes, and this is both called out and used against them in-universe. It feels like an examination of Char’s actions during CCA - Full Frontal certainly has Char’s charisma, but he doesn’t have his drive as evidenced by his eventual goal, which isn’t necessarily a *bad* aim, it’s just not Char.

Following on from this they share Newborn Neo Zeon’s just general…. disinterest in newtypes. They’re like any other pilot, they can just use different equipment. All the Sleeves Newtypes we see are very well-equipped though, so how they precisely look at them is unclear. This could be viewed as another extension of Char’s attitudes in CCA.

The Sleeves in a nutshell: Motivations are kind of all over the place, middling-to-low-sized force, newtypes uncommon but mostly-stable (one exception) and very effective, massive mobile suit variety but quality’s also all over the place.

Conclusion

So yeah, I find each revival of Zeon different enough that I can consider them separately to each other - yeah, there’s crossover, but their attitudes change each time - the only thing that stays the same is the aesthetic and who they’re fighting against.

But why are Zeon so often the antagonist?

Out-of-universe, because they sell. But you already knew that so let’s talk about possible In-universe reasons:

Old Equipment - The Principality was *huge*. Masses of equipment, enlisted men and yes, mobile suits. We see several individuals that are able to survive on the Scrap alone - Kelly Layzner, Judau Ashta, even the AEUG utilize a Gelgoog at one point. There’s a lot of material out there, and its a hot commodity post war and the Earth Federation will be in a hurry to rebuild - they don’t have the resources to track down every case of assault rifles or damaged-but-not-irreparable mobile suit. The South Seas alliance in Gundam Thunderbolt is one such organisation, but there will be a lot of Zeon Remnants who are still functional.

Loss of Leadership, not force - Aguille Delaz personally blames the “weak political leadership” (IE Kycillia) for the loss in the One Year War, but we can extrapolate that further. The Battle for A Baoa Qu saw pretty much all the remaining Zabi High Command due within hours of each other - Gihren kills Degwin, Kycillia kills Gihren, Char kills Kycillia. These are three massive losses to the war effort in very short spaces of time. Gihren’s betrayal of Degwin would’ve been very costly for him even if Kycillia hadn’t taken revenge there and then. He deprived himself of both the Solar Ray and the Fleet that Degwin was part of. The fact he took out Revil as well merely would’ve made it an even loss - if it wasn’t for the Solar Ray being rendered unusable into the bargain. Kycilia’s revenge killing of Gihren deprives A Baoa Qu of forces as the commanders loyal to Gihren flee the scene - Delaz among them - weakening the defence overall. Finally, Kycilia is killed as she is attempting to flee to Granada, where she planned to continue the war. This leaves a great many well-armed forces at large, since their strength wasn’t spent at A Baoa Qu - forces that Axis Zeon will draw on. All it really takes to galvanise these remnants is a charismatic individual, something which isn’t exactly in sort supply in the Universal Century.

Corollary to the above - Unclear loss - A Baoa Qu was absolute chaos, so the precise mechanics of “why Zeon lost” might be difficult for the average soldier to grasp - particularly one lacking in reliable non-federation communication sources. It would be easy to look at the mess of A Baoa Qu, then look at the equipment beside you and think “Yeah, we could’ve won. Yeah, we might still win”.

Unchanged Status Quo - Zeon launched the One Year War, at least officially, in the name of Independence. The Earth Federation was governing the colonies poorly, and class inequality was high. This does not change, if anything, it gets worse, as groups like the Titans see the OYW and Operation Stardust as Carte Blanche to utterly suppress the space colonies, and carry out War Crimes at least equal to Zeon’s. A failed war might at least spark some change to prevent another one, but if anything conditions for spacenoids only get worse, so resistance groups would see an upturn in numbers.

Corollary to the Above - Spacenoid Independence doesn’t stop with the war - The Independence of the Space Colonies is still a hot-button issue which the Federation has reason to suppress. So any ex-Zeon soldiers that folded back into civilian life may get involved with Colonial Independence movements. Or, any colonial independence movement that finds the Federation isn’t listening to them might seek a way to *make* them listen - and might find Zeon Remnant Groups sympathetic to their cause.

Little oversight - Before the formation of the Titans, the Earth Federation government believed Zeon to be removed as a threat - small pirate groups, but nothing major. Operation Stardust changed all this, yes, but before that Zeon remnant groups could operate largely unopposed, especially in areas with lower federation presence.

Total Societal Upheavel - Half of the population of the Universal Century died in the One Week Battle. Side 4 Moore was completely destroyed. There’s going to be some serious societal reconstruction after that no matter how you look at it. (Sidebar - Polygamy is mentioned as being a lot more common in Gundam Thunderbolt after the OYW, due to the massive gender disparity - you could also read this as Universal Century also being supportive of Lesbians). It’s not necessarily a driving force behind Zeon Remnant groups, but it’s worth remembering.

Military Experience - The big one, in my opinion. You have a lot of individuals with military experience after the war, including Guerilla warfare. This includes all the forces that had to adapt to new environments, like fighting in space, in colonies or on earth. There’s also a massive postwar economic depression. That’s not going to breed contentment towards a weak government, especially one that wasn’t doing a good job before the war.

In a nutshell, Zeon has the experience, materials and drive necessary to continue being a problem after the One Year War, and the Earth Federation Government doesn’t have the institutional will to stop them until Operation Stardust, which leads to the creation of the Titans, which really don’t help the situation.

Feel free to mention anything I’ve missed!

[vincess-princess]

in darkness shall you be reborn

Chapter 17

Word count: 3741 Warnings: slightly nsfw A/N: the worst of school is over so have a celebratory update

It’s been three days and Nikki still hadn’t gotten back to him.

It was good, of course. Vince’s knees grew a scab and itched violently, and he could barely hold back from scratching on it, knowing it would nullify all the healing process. The shoulder injury, thankfully, seemed to heal well: the inflammation around it almost went away.

Vince wished Nikki just did it already. He jumped at any steps behind the galley door, whenever he was on deck he avoided looking in Nikki’s direction, and every time Vince had to hand the captain his plate everything froze in him. Waiting was worse than just going through it: a couple hours were not even close to days of anxiety so strong his hands were constantly trembling, threatening to drop whatever he was holding.

The bout of shame in Mick went away as quickly as it came. He was just as cold and sardonic, and no amount of appeasement could get through to him. The atmosphere in the galley quickly became unbearable: Mick only spoke to bark out orders and scold Vince for smallest mistakes. Whatever Vince did, it was never good enough. He lost the only person on board who treated him with a shred of kindness, and now, despite the hot breezes and scorching sun of the Atlantic ocean, he was constantly shivering. Axl pretended they didn’t know each other, Izzy was constantly in sick bay, Slash could only tell him a couple of words during meals, and even Tommy barely spared Vince a look and scarcely any sleazy remarks. Everyone on the ship seemed too busy to pay him any attention, but fragments of conversations Vince caught he couldn’t piece together. The only thing he knew was that something was coming.

Then, one day, Tommy came to the galley.

“Mick. We need you in the cabin.”

“Oh.” Mick rose from his bed, where he was lazily stringing his guitar while Vince slaved over the pile of dishes. “Already?”

“Yeah.”

“What – already?” Vince couldn’t help but ask. He felt like a conspiracy was unfolding around him.

“None of your business, doll. You keep on with the dishes.”

Of course. What other answer could he get?

“After you’re done with dishes, peel potatoes. At least fifteen. And don’t cut off half of it with the skin!” Mick ordered.

“Yessir,” Vince sighed.

Alright. They want to keep secrets from him? Well, good luck with that.

He waited a bit after Mick and Tommy were gone, splashing the water in the bucket especially loudly, and then creeped across the galley to the door. He waited by it a bit, putting his ear to the keyhole, but didn’t hear anything. Then he carefully pressed on the doorknob.

It stopped halfway down. Locked! They locked him in! Bastards!

Maybe, Vince had to admit when he disappointedly returned to the dishes, they have learned more about his character than he wanted them to. He should be more discreet.

From the galley he could only hear splashing of the waves. Then a vibration went through the ship, and the constant movement that could be felt even inside it ceased. Have they arrived somewhere? Was that why they locked him in – didn’t want him to escape?

But Vince behaved well in Port Royal. And hadn’t given any reason to doubt his submission since then. That meant they still didn’t trust him enough. That he needed to act better, pretend harder. But he was already at his limit. The next stage would be fawning for Nikki, and he couldn’t imagine that even in his worst nightmares.

Dismay washed over him. Whatever he did, it was never enough.

He could hear the pirates on deck yelling something, dropping heavy things and running around. His curiosity was burning him from the inside. Potatoes also refused to cooperate, which only added insult to injury.

Then everything went quiet. Not the average quiet. Even the waves seemed to calm down, the ship almost still in the water. Like the world was listening to something Vince couldn’t hear. And it was driving him nuts.

It lasted fairly long – Vince peeled all the potatoes, even sliced them out of boredom. He returned to the door in a futile attempt to hear anything. Then his gaze fell on the knife he was holding in his hand. Hm, the tip was pretty thin…

He was so consumed with trying to push the tip of the knife through the lock he only heard voices when they were right behind the door. He staggered back and landed right on his behind, knife in hand.

That’s how Mick and Tommy found him.

“Oh, someone’s been trying to get out?” Tommy grinned unpleasantly and turned to Mick. “Looks like we’ll have to secure him better the next time.”

“Yeah,” Mick said, looking at Vince from under half-closed eyelids. “Looks like I was too hasty to trust him with a knife, too.”

He stretched out a hand, and Vince obediently handed him the knife. He couldn’t justify his actions in any way, really, so he didn’t even try.

“Make sure he doesn’t leave the galley, Mick,” Tommy continued as if Vince wasn’t there. “I’ll get you some… tools for that.”

“I will.”

Tommy left, leaving behind more questions than answers. Bitterness filled Vince’s chest. What did he do that warranted such a punishment? Last three days he’d been on his best behavior. While Mick didn’t seem to soften towards him in a slightest and scolded him for every little mistake, even those were getting less frequent. Vince didn’t touch the weapons, didn’t talk rude to anyone and did what he was told. What was it then?

“What are you punishing me for?” he asked, hurt and anger mixing inside him.

Mick looked at him gloomily.

“Existing,” he said then and turned away, and no further questioning managed to get something else out of him. It was as if Vince was talking to a wall. Eventually he gave up trying, being left alone with his thoughts.

Not allowed on deck. No feeling the sun’s hot rays on his face and warm breezes on his skin. Was it for long? Was it connected to the strange occurrence of today? And what “tool” were they talking about?

He had his dinner all alone in the galley that day. On the one hand, he didn’t have to avoid Nikki’s gazes again. On the other, he couldn’t even exchange a couple words with anyone. Not that he had a lot of friends on the Shout, but Slash and Duff were rather friendly towards him, Axl too when they were alone, Tommy’s jokes were sometimes funny and even Izzy nodded to him those rare times he left his cave. The only person remaining in the galley was Mick, and he didn’t seem too eager to take mercy on Vince. It was like cohabitating in an extremely tiny space with a very angry hedgehog. And even he was absent now, handing out portions on deck. Upon his return, Vince knew, he’d have to wash a damn lot of dishes.

When Mick returned and placed a tall pile of plates on the counter, Vince decided to try again.

“Mick,” he said carefully, “please, tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing that concerns you.” Mick cut off.

“If it didn’t concern me, you wouldn’t lock me up in the galley.”

“Alright, I’ll phrase is differently.” Mick rolled his eyes. “Nothing that we consider you fit to learn about.”

“So it does concern me,” Vince concluded. Judging by the shift in Mick’s expression, he was right. Unfortunately, the shift was from mildly irritated to outright angry.

Mick stretched out his hand and, before Vince realized what he was about to do, grabbed him by the hair and dragged closer. Was he Nikki, Vince would have been prepared to such a sudden violent outburst. But that was Mick.

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, punk,” he hissed in Vince’s ear. “There are things that slaves don’t need to know. Remember, curiosity killed the cat.” And he pushed Vince away so hard he staggered back and crashed into the wall.

Mick turned around and stormed out of the galley, leaving Vince alone again. He slid down the wall onto the floor.

The hair yank didn’t hurt much, but Vince would prefer Nikki beating him up half-dead. Maybe Mick wasn’t so different from other pirates after all.

Mick returned very late: Vince had already done all the work and laid down to sleep, wrapping himself in a ragged blanket. When Mick came through the door, Vince pretended he was asleep. Mick lingered in the door - a typical chill that his gaze always caused ran down Vince’s spine - and sneaked to his bed. After some tossing and turning he went quiet.

No, all that fuss was definitely about Vince. Or about something the pirates really didn’t want him to know. Which meant he absolutely had to find out what it was.

Next morning the ship set sail again and swayed on the waves as usual. Mick locked him in the galley again during breakfast, this time taking the knife with him. At this point Vince was so sick of small spaces that the walls seemed to close in on him. But no amount of fiddling with the lock yielded any results. Maybe the locks on the door of the galley were made sturdier on purpose, to keep the pirates away from the alcohol stash?

Mick returned with a load of dishes and orders. He left the galley door unlocked when he was inside, but Vince didn’t dare to take even a smallest extra step towards the door. It might seem Mick wasn’t watching him, but that was only an illusion.

After what seemed like eternity but was likely just a couple hours Axl walked into the galley.

“Hey, Mick,” he said, not sparing Vince a single glance, “the captain wants a mug of beer.”

“Pour him one,” Mick ordered to Vince. Vince hurried to do the task. He tried to catch Axl’s gaze, but the ginger pointedly stared above his head. Warm beer foamed in the mug.

“I’m needed on deck,” Axl said suddenly. “Send the boy over with the beer.”

And he shot Vince a quick glance.

Mick narrowed his eyes. “If you’re so busy, why’d he send you then?”

“I was the closest,” Axl said calmly. “But the wind’s changing, I gotta be up there. Don’t have time to be a delivery guy, sorry.”

“I’ll do it then.” Mick rose from the bed. Axl’s lower lip twitched.

Then he smiled wide. “You’re even less of a delivery guy than me, Mick. Save yourself the trouble. We’ve got a perfect man for the job right here.”

“The slave ain’t leaving the galley,” Mick cut off, approached and grabbed the mug.

Axl frowned. “Why? Did he do something?”

“Yeah.” Every inch of Mick’s face signaled that he didn’t want the conversation to continue, and Axl seemingly decided not to tempt fate anymore.

“As you wish.” He shrugged and headed to the door after Mick, but in the second when the cook disappeared behind it turned back to Vince. His face was saying: “I tried.”

Well, at least someone noticed his absence, Vince thought bitterly. The lock behind Axl clicked. For God’s sake, Mick would be absent just for a couple minutes! What harm would Vince be able to cause in that time that demanded locking him in?

By lunch he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Mick.” Vince lowered a plate on the table with an audible bang to attract his attention. Mick raised his gaze, surprised.

“Huh?”

“If I don’t use the head right now, I’m gonna take a shit right in your favorite pot.”

Up until now he made do with an empty bottle of rum he found behind the counter, but this time it wouldn’t work.

Vince watched Mick’s face go through a series of expression, from confused to annoyed.

“Damn it. I haven’t considered that,” he muttered.

“You should. The clock is ticking.” Vince usually didn’t talk to Mick like that, but it was an emergency.

“But you can’t-“ Mick paused, thinking. “What if I just- no, he’d contaminate the food,” he murmured to himself. Of course, he wouldn’t let Vince do it right in his beloved galley. Even if it wasn’t in his favorite pot.

“Mick. I can’t hold it much longer,” he said. It was almost true. He wanted to check something – to see how long Mick would hesitate. What was more important to him – his precious galley or the secret they were trying to keep from Vince?

The galley won, as Vince expected.

“Fine.” Mick rose from his bed. “I’m going with you. No lingering. And-“ he bent over his chest and pulled out a bandana, “come here.”

When his hands again touched Vince’s hair, he flinched. But Mick just gathered stray strands together, tucked his hair behind his back under the fabric of his shirt and tied the bandana over Vince’s head. “Now that’s better.”

“Why’d you-“ Vince reached for the bandana, but Mick slapped his hand away.

“No talking. No looking around. There and back. And if the captain sees us… you’ll have it bad. Not me. You.”

“As always,” Vince grumbled, following Mick to the door. Curiosity tormented him almost as bad as his physical desires.

But the deck looked as usual. The pirates were working and quietly chatting, the sails fluttered in the wind, the waves gently parted in front of the Shout. Neither Tommy nor Nikki were on deck, and Mick seemed relieved as much as Vince was. Maybe they were having sex in the captain’s cabin right now, he thought. Well, good luck to them.

“Go, go, go,” Mick hissed, dragging Vince to the head. There he stood in front of him, depriving him of the smallest shred of privacy, for the whole process. Not that it bothered Vince much at this point, but that was something he expected from any pirate but Mick. He seemed… more civil than the rest. Well, had seemed.

“Quicker!” Mick barked, looking around anxiously. Vince didn’t have to be told twice: he was already doing his best. Mick barely gave him time to pull up his pants, grasped him by the arm and dragged back to the hatch.

Before he pushed Vince in, Vince turned his head to catch the last breath of fresh air and noticed a silhouette on the horizon.

Another ship.

***

Another night passed. Vince tried to play the bowel movements card again in the evening, but this time Mick was adamant. You keep on shitting like a horse, he said, I’ll just stop feeding you. Vince didn’t ask anymore.

He had a solitary breakfast in the galley again. Well, it could barely be called that. Mick took the porridge with him, leaving Vince with a stale crust of bread and a thin piece of cheese. But Vince had already learned to appreciate the smallest things. It was better than nothing, after all, and it sated his growling stomach for a while.

He wondered how long he would be kept a prisoner of the galley. At this point he wasn’t even scared of being summoned by Nikki anymore. It would be a change of scenery, at least, and he might be able to learn something about the ship on the horizon. Vince was pretty sure it wasn’t an illusion or hallucination: as many reasons as he had to distrust his own judgement, he still trusted his eyes.

The lock clicked. Vince raised his eyes, expecting Mick to barge in with a pile of plates, but it wasn’t him.

It was Nikki.

Vince’s throat went dry. He shouldn’t have thought about him so carelessly. Fate struck back immediately.

Now that the captain was again in front of him, Vince remembered every detail, every word; they went foggy in his memory over these days, and now he wasn’t sure he’d still prefer Nikki to the imprisonment in the galley. Apparently, though, he got both.

And… a chain with a cuff and a lock in Nikki’s hands. Was that for Vince?

“Vinnie.” Nikki sent him a toothy smile. “Idling again, you spoiled brat?”

“Sir.” Vince bowed his head, avoiding looking at the captain. “Mick hasn’t left any orders.”

“When he comes back, I’ll make sure to fix that,” Nikki promised, coming up to the counter. Vince, who was sitting on his bed, tensed up. Nikki looked much fresher than the last time Vince saw him, but there was a strange sharpness in his movements, very much unlike his usual lazy manner. Like he was vigilant for something.

“You won’t have to, he does that just fine himself.”

“Judging by your audacity, not enough.” Nikki carefully lay the chain on the counter, straightened it, moved the cuff slightly and tilted his head, enjoying the view. Vince knew this whole performance was for him. Now there was no doubt who the chain was intended for.

What did I do to deserve this, a bitter thought once again crossed his mind. Did he not satisfy Nikki enough? But it was Nikki who hadn’t summoned him all these days. Was Vince supposed to take the lead? No way in hell.

Nikki moved so close to him his boots were inches from Vince’s face. Vince shrank his head into his shoulders, expecting a kick. But Nikki got down on his knees and was now at face level with him. Vince didn’t feel much safer, though.

“Nice bandana,” he said. Vince had decided not to take it off because it really helped get his hair out of the way when cooking, but now he regretted it. What if Nikki guessed Mick once let him out of the galley? “Where’d you get it?”

“Mick gave it to me. To keep hair out of the eyes.”

Well, it was fifty percent true. Could be worse.

“Good. I’m tired of pulling blonde hair out of my soup.” Nikki reached out his hand and cupped Vince’s jaw, almost gently. A chill ran down Vince’s spine. “We haven’t seen each other in a while. Did you miss me?”

Oh, the question with no right answers. So Vince said nothing.

“Well?” Nikki’s grip on his chin tightened.

“You know the answer,” Vince murmured. He expected a violent reaction, but Nikki just smiled.

“I do.” He stood up and signed to Vince to do the same. Vince mustered up his courage. He had to learn what was going on, and nobody knew that better than Nikki.

“Sir,” he began, “what did I do wrong?”

“You?” Nikki said thoughtfully. “Do you want it in alphabetical order or by date?”

“What did I do wrong to deserve this?” Vince clarified. His stomach cramped from anxiety. “I haven’t seen the light of day for three days, and I have no idea why. If that’s a punishment, then it’s not very effective if I don’t know what I’m being punished for.”

“That’s the point.” Nikki grinned. “You should very carefully consider everything you did and make your own conclusions. You ain’t got a governess anymore: you gotta think on your own.”

He was evading answers like an eel in a pond evades capture. So Vince decided to try another tactics.

“Sir,” he said as piteously as he could, “please. I just want to not have to piss into a bottle. Please tell me how I can fix my mistakes.”

Nikki grinned again, and Vince didn’t like that grin at all.

Then he was bent face down over the counter, right next to the chain, cheek pressing into cool wood, a knee between his thighs. Nikki wrung his arm up behind his back so that any movement caused Vince pain, and he could do nothing else but stay still and listen to Nikki’s heavy breathing that warmed the skin of his neck. That was the only way it was going to go, he mused unexpectedly calmly. Finally Nikki came to collect the debt.

“The view is very nice from up here,” Nikki purred. His warm hand slid into Vince’s pants and squeezed his buttock. Vince inhaled sharply. “You know what would make it nicer, though?”

Vince felt fingers untying the bandana on his head. Then the fabric wrapped around his throat. Nikki slowly pulled up the ends of it until Vince’s arm pressed into his chest, then planted a wet kiss under Vince’s ear.

“You scream or cry – I’ll shove this rag into your mouth,” Nikki whispered into his ear. “I want you to be quiet and docile and take everything I do to you like a good boy. You do that – you’ll go back on deck. Agreed?”

“What, right here?” Vince whispered back.

“Yeah, why not? Not like you’re cooking anything anyway.”

“But Mick won’t-“

The door opened. There he stood, his guardian angel: Mick himself. Very, very pissed guardian angel.

“He’s here!” he threw to someone behind his shoulder. When Mick stepped forward, Vince recognized Tommy.

“What the hell, Sixx!” he said indignantly. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

“I’m kinda busy here,” Nikki replied, displeased. “Can’t a man get some rest?”

“Right now? You’re nuts, dude.” Tommy crossed his arms on his chest. “Hetfield was looking for you. Wanted to go over the plan one more time.”

“We’ve done it like a hundred times already,” Nikki said through his teeth but released Vince. The bandana fell to the floor, and Vince dropped on his knees and crawled away, back to his bed, grabbing it on his way. Who the hell was Hetfield? And what plan were they talking about?

“You two are such killjoys,” Nikki grumbled. Then he turned to Vince and, seeing him crouch on his blanket, smiled.

They headed to the door, but then Nikki stopped, as if he remembered something.

“Oh yeah. I forgot.” He returned to the counter and picked up the chain, shattering Vince’s hopes that he’d forget. “Your hand.”

Vince didn’t move. It didn’t have any effect of Nikki, though. He bent down to him, grabbed him by the left arm and dragged to the wooden post in the middle of the galley. Vince didn’t resist. What was the point?

Nikki chained him to it and stepped back, smiling. Vince gave him a sullen look.

He, Mick and Tommy turned around and left, leaving Vince with more questions than answers and rage bubbling inside his chest.

[gamma-mesarthim]

whaaat i forgot to post them

[atypicalshele]

I've seen people post their versions of their player character from Pokémon Reborn and decided to join in! I haven't finished it yet, but I wanted to show off Mar anyways. I made little changes to differ them from Decibel, if it wasn't obvious lol

Mar tends to not emote not that, if at all. They were pretty sheltered as a child, so they lack social skills. This makes them not bother with any type of conversation. Why should they when they don't know how?

But, that isn't to say they don't care. They prefer action over words. So, they'll perform acts of service to those they care genuinely about.

Eventually, they start emoting being around their friends/rivals, but their expressions are still rather subdued.

The earring is only in the right ear and was a gift from a friend in their old town/city.

[wolpromptaday]

#FFXIV #WOLpromptAday

May 1, 2025

-

Song prompt, “Die with a smile”

Who would cause your WOL “die with a smile”? Who has such a positive impact on them that they would give it all to see them survive?

What would make them take actions on the same level or more as the Crystal Exarch did to save us? Who would make them throw everything else away, including their life as the Hydaelyn’s chosen.

Was this someone on their mind after the events of Ultima Thule, before the Scions return to Sharlyan? What lengths would they go to just to make sure they survive?

https://youtu.be/zgaCZOQCpp8?si=XCJfArz3OHErM4Zr

( @grieverworship )

[robinsnest2111]

old scribbles based on @arnold-layne s pirate au I never shared beyond dms, time to fix that 🏴‍☠️

[miamipalms]

bane with surprise which you can find in my furaffinity or telegram channel 😳

artwork for event in the dota 2 ask reborn

[lopmon1234]

[trinitybloodbr]

Trinity Blood - Reborn on the Mars Volume I - A Estrela do Lamento ----------------- ⚠️ ESSA OBRA EM HIPÓTESE ALGUMA É DE MINHA AUTORIA. TRADUÇÃO REALIZADA DE FÃ PARA FÃS. NÃO REPUBLIQUE OU POSTE EM OUTRAS PLATAFORMAS SEM AUTORIZAÇÃO. SE CASO POSSÍVEL, DÊ SUPORTE AOS AUTORES E ARTISTAS COMPRANDO AS OBRAS ORIGINAIS. ⚠️ -----------------

Não sabe por onde começar? Confira o Roteiro de Leitura (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧!!!

Capítulo 4: A Estrela do Lamento

Ⅶ

— Você o matou?

— ..........

A noviça perguntou, temerosa, mas o padre não respondeu nada. As sinistras extensões que antes se projetavam de suas costas já haviam desaparecido sem deixar vestígios. Até a cor de seus olhos havia voltado ao habitual tom límpido de um lago invernal.

— Padre... quem realmente você...?

— Mais do que a mim, Esther-san...

Como se nada tivesse acontecido, Abel guardou seus óculos redondos no bolso e lançou um olhar para Esther, incentivando-a a continuar.

— Peço que, por favor, cuide daquilo.

Dentro do holograma, a contagem regressiva ainda continuava. No alto do céu, uma terceira aurora começava a tremular. Esther ainda parecia querer dizer algo, mas, após um aceno, correu em direção ao teclado.

Após vê-la partir, Abel voltou a baixar os olhos para seus pés. O braço direito do nobre, que jazia na lama ensanguentada, estava ausente a partir do ombro, e um profundo corte podia ser visto em seu abdômen. No entanto, ele ainda era um Methuselah — a criatura mais poderosa da Terra.

— ...Por que não me mata?

A voz estava rouca, mas surpreendentemente clara, quando Gyula perguntou ao padre, autor daquela cenário violento.

— Matar-me deveria ser o trabalho de Vossa Excelência... ou será que está apenas se divertindo em me torturar?

— Minha missão é destruir a sua 'Estrela do Lamento', não tirar a sua vida, Marquês da Hungria. Além disso, não tenho o hábito de torturar pessoas por diversão.

— Pessoa?

Nos olhos de Gyula, que olhou de volta para Abel, brilhou uma luz curiosa.

A ele... Este homem está chamando a ele — um vampiro — de "pessoa"?

— Sim, pessoa... Esther-san, como está aí?

— Sim... Agora terminei de digitar. Se fosse uma máquina de escrever, eu teria prática por ajudar a Reverenda várias vezes digitando, mas é a primeira vez que mexo com uma inteligência eletrônica.

Com movimentos inexperientes, Esther terminou de digitar no teclado e parecia estar verificando a tela mais uma vez.

‘Nós renovaremos o mundo através do fogo’ — ‘Igne Natura Renovatur Integra’ ── Após confirmar que a sequência de palavras desconhecidas estava digitada, uma a uma, sem um único erro, pressionou o botão de entrada.

— Isso deve estar certo... Eh!?

Olhando para a tela com satisfação, as sobrancelhas de Esther subitamente se franziram.

A contagem regressiva ainda continuava.

— Que estranho...

Ela pressionou o botão de entrada várias vezes, mas a tela não mudou. A esta altura, já deveria estar acontecendo a explosão da "Estrela do Lamento" nos céus. E ainda assim, por que apenas a contagem continuava avançando?

— O que é isso...!?

— O que aconteceu?

O padre, que estava ao lado de Esther, que se afligia sozinha, espiou a tela. Suas sobrancelhas logo se tornaram sombrias.

— Isso é estranho... Você inseriu corretamente o código?

— Sim. Exatamente como Dietrich disse...

〈Olá, Esther...〉

Foi nesse momento que a tela subitamente mudou.

A tela operacional da inteligência eletrônica, antes apenas funcional e sem graça, agora exibia um belo, porém malicioso, sorriso.

〈O fato de estar vendo esta imagem significa que você acabou inserindo o código exatamente como eu disse, não é?〉

— Di... Dietrich!

Esther se levantou instintivamente e gritou.

— O-o que você pensa que está fazendo!?

— Esther-san, acalme-se... Isto não é uma transmissão ao vivo. É um arquivo de vídeo gravado dentro da inteligência elétrica.

Com uma expressão séria, Abel fez uma observação. Como se confirmando suas palavras, o jovem na imagem continuava a falar sem reagir à voz de Esther.

〈Esther, preciso pedir desculpas a você por algo. Sobre o comando que você inseriu há pouco... aquilo não era um código de autodestruição... Na verdade, era um código de alteração de alvo.〉

— !?

O tom era tão descontraído quanto se estivesse se desculpando por faltar a um encontro, mas o conteúdo era mais do que suficiente para fazer o rosto de Esther mudar de cor de forma vívida.

〈Mas não se preocupe. Agora, István, onde você está, está seguro. O alvo foi alterado para Bizâncio... Ah, será que você conhece Bizâncio? A capital do ‘Império’, um verdadeiro covil daqueles vampiros que você tanto odeia.〉

— !

Certamente, os valores de coordenadas especificados na tela haviam mudado completamente em relação aos de antes. Para Esther, uma leiga no assunto, aqueles números eram indecifráveis. No entanto, se aquilo realmente estivesse apontando para o ‘Império’...

〈Se a capital imperial for atacada, eles certamente não ficarão em silêncio. Humanos e vampiros entrarão na guerra final... E então, Esther? Como se sente por ter puxado o gatilho final?〉

— ...V-Você é o pior!

Esther sabia que o que via era apenas uma gravação, mas não conseguiu conter as palavras que cuspiu.

— Até o último momento!

〈Depois de ter sido enganada tantas vezes, você ainda acredita no que eu digo? Você é mesmo ingênua. Bom, esse seu lado doce... eu até gostava bastante dele. Então, até mais, Esther. Espero que nos encontremos de novo algum dia.〉

Mesmo depois que a figura do jovem desapareceu com um riso contido, Esther continuou a encarar a tela. No entanto, foi apenas quando uma mão ensanguentada se estendeu em direção ao teclado ao seu lado que ela voltou a si, assustada.

— Padre!

— Esther-san, por favor, afaste-se.

Silenciosamente, ele afastou a garota para o lado. Quem agora estava diante do teclado era Abel. Com o rosto inclinado para baixo, seus olhos refletiam a luz da tela, brilhando em um tom azul.

— É inútil, Padre Nightroad... A inteligência eletrônica da ‘Estrela do Lamento’ é especial. Se o que Dietrich disse for verdade, então é a mais antiga sobrevivente do ‘Armagedom’. Nem mesmo Vossa Excelência poderá...

— ..........

Abel não respondeu a arfante respiração de Gyula. Apenas, em silêncio, passou os olhos pelos inúmeros números que apareciam na tela. Então, pousou as mãos sobre o teclado e começou a mover os dedos suavemente para cima e para baixo. No início, devagar, mas pouco a pouco, seus movimentos se tornaram mais rápidos.

— Er...bem, padre...?

Ao seu lado, Esther arregalou os olhos. Seus dedos se moviam com a precisão vívida de um pianista diante de um teclado. Mas inserir comandos em uma inteligência elétrica era uma tarefa extremamente difícil, exigindo um programador especializado, vasto conhecimento e um nível meticuloso de atenção. Definitivamente, não era algo que um amador pudesse fazer.

— P-padre, se você simplesmente digitar qualquer coisa ao acaso...

— Silêncio.

Com uma voz gélida, como se ele próprio tivesse se fundido à inteligência elétrica, Abel cortou Esther e continuou a digitar. Enquanto isso, a contagem regressiva persistia. O som das teclas competia com os números que diminuíam implacavelmente na tela.

〈Tempo até o disparo: 40 segundos restantes. 39, 38, 37...〉

Logo após o início da contagem regressiva pela voz mecânica, as mãos do padre, que se moviam sobre o painel de controle, pararam. Como se o espírito que o possuía tivesse se dissipado, ele ergueu o rosto pálido. Sem dar atenção a Esther, que o observava ansiosa, contorcendo-se de nervosismo, Abel murmurou com uma voz fria.

— Entrada de voz no programa de gerenciamento. Solicito a transição para o modo de administrador do sistema.

〈… 〉

Num instante, a voz que anunciava a contagem regressiva cessou. Não, não foi apenas a voz. Até mesmo os números que mudavam freneticamente na tela pararam por um breve momento. Era como se um cão, ao ouvir a voz de seu dono supostamente falecido, tivesse erguido o rosto com um sobressalto.

〈……Entendido.〉

O que se ouviu em seguida não foi mais a voz robótica e neutra de antes, mas sim uma voz feminina suave. Ela começou a falar em um tom respeitoso, semelhante ao de um vassalo leal respondendo ao seu senhor.

〈A partir de agora, a transição para o modo de administrador do sistema será feita via entrada de voz. Adicionalmente, as tarefas em andamento continuarão em paralelo. Restam trinta segundos. Vinte e nove. Vinte e oito. Vinte e sete...〉

— Distribuir a fonte com prioridade máxima para os comandos de emergência dentro do sistema. Congelar todas as tarefas operacionais gerais.

〈O arquivo de comando foi destruído pelo administrador do sistema. Consulte o endereço R200055 para obter a causa do erro──〉

— Não é necessário.

Era como se uma pessoa desconhecida estivesse conversando com Deus ou com o Diabo em uma língua estranha. Dando um pequeno estalo de língua diante dos olhos atônitos de Esther, Abel recitou rapidamente outro encantamento.

— Quantos comandos de congelamento do sistema estão disponíveis? Não temos tempo. Não precisa exibir os endereços.

〈Entendido. Iniciando busca... Concluído. Há apenas um que atende às condições da pergunta.〉

— Qual?

〈Código de autodestruição, baseado no regulamento de proteção 3090.〉

— .....

Os lábios de Abel pararam de se mover. Como se estivesse se desculpando por algo, seu olhar se voltou para Gyula, que ainda jazia no chão. No entanto, isso durou menos de um segundo.

— Código de autodestruição, insira. Com base no Regulamento de Proteção 3090, inicie a autodestruição.

〈A inserção do código requer a apresentação de um passe de qualificação classe especial A ou superior. Por favor, apresente a senha do administrador.〉

— A senha do administrador é...

Respirando fundo, o padre recitou mais uma vez um encantamento.

— Comandante da Força Aérea e Espacial das Nações Unidas, Abel Nightroad. Departamento de Segurança da Divisão de Gerenciamento do Projeto Red Mars. Código de Registro UNASF 94-8-666-02ak.

〈Senha confirmada〉

A inteligência elétrica artificial respondeu respeitosamente, como sempre.

〈A partir de agora, este sistema será autodestruído com base na Regulamentação de Proteção 3090. Além disso, juntamente com a autodestruição do sistema, todos os satélites de transmissão de energia da órbita 7782 serão descartados. Obrigado por utilizar nossos serviços.〉

— .......

A voz, que até então falava de maneira impassível, de repente silenciou. No mesmo instante, os números exibidos na tela começaram a desaparecer um a um.

Olhando fixamente para a tela, que aos poucos ia escurecendo, o que estaria pensando? O padre soltou um profundo suspiro e, então, ergueu o olhar para além da janela, murmurando para ninguém em particular.

— Por todo esse tempo, obrigado pelo seu trabalho...

Ao olhar para cima, via-se uma noite de lua brilhante. A "primeira lua", que acompanhava esta estrela desde o seu nascimento, surgia no céu oriental. Por outro lado, a "segunda lua" — com sua forma tão grotesca que parecia ter sido criada por um demônio brincalhão — brilhava de maneira disforme, sendo chamada de "a lua dos vampiros". Como o olho de um deus vigiando os mortais, sua presença funesta continuava a pairar num ponto fixo do céu do sul.

E então, ali perto, uma grande estrela, que brilhava intensamente sobrepujando todas as outras, pôde ser vista apagando-se silenciosamente enquanto cintilava...

— ...O-O que aconteceu?

Com uma voz que parecia prestes a desmoronar, Esther gemeu. Com seu nível de conhecimento, era difícil demais compreender o que acabara de acontecer diante de seus olhos. Mas uma coisa era certa: algo completamente extraordinário havia ocorrido.

— O que aconteceu? E a 'Estrela'?

— A 'Estrela' já não existe mais.

A resposta à dúvida da garota veio de uma voz vinda do chão.

— A 'Estrela' já não está em lugar algum... Tudo acabou. Não, talvez seja melhor dizer que tudo foi encerrado.

Gyula olhava para Esther com olhos de certa forma gentis, mas então desviou o olhar para o padre, que permanecia em silêncio.

— Como esperado, Vossa Excelência é exatamente a pessoa que eu imaginei, Padre Nightroad...

— .....

O vampiro ferido tentou dizer algo, mas Abel balançou a cabeça gentilmente. Se aquilo significava para ele não dizer mais nada ou se era por preocupação com seus ferimentos, não se sabia. Mas Gyula, como se tivesse compreendido, acenou profundamente e, com uma expressão tranquila, mudou de assunto.

— A propósito, será que poderá ouvir um pedido meu, Padre Nightroad?

Mesmo tendo seu braço decepado e carregando um profundo corte no abdômen, a vitalidade dos Methuselah não privou Gyula de sua voz. Apesar de rouca, suas palavras eram claras, e o vampiro ferido as teceu com precisão.

— Se for enviado a Roma, serei morto. Se é para morrer de qualquer forma, não quero ser morto pelos Juízes da Inquisição de Roma... Não poderia conceder a chance de vingança por meio desta irmã?

— Eh?

A garota, que até então estava caída no chão como se estivesse atordoada, estremeceu e ergueu o rosto. Sem entender o que lhe havia sido dito, olhava alternadamente para Abel e Gyula. Observando seu rosto manchado de sangue, Gyula acrescentou em um tom tranquilo.

— Eu tirei dela as pessoas que lhe eram preciosas... Ela tem o direito de se vingar. Isso é justo. Muito justo. E eu tenho a obrigação de morrer por suas mãos.

— ........

O que ele estava tentando dizer...? Abel abriu e fechou a boca duas ou três vezes, como se quisesse falar algo. Mas, no fim, calou-se sem dizer uma única palavra. Em vez disso, o que pegou do chão foi seu antigo revólver.

— Esther-san, aqui, pegue isto.

Trocando o carregador por um novo, o padre engatilhou o revólver e colocou a arma nas mãos da noviça.

— O que está carregado dentro são balas de prata... Se atirar no coração ou no cérebro, poderá matá-lo instantaneamente.

— .......

Como se estivesse perplexa com o peso metálico que de repente surgiu em suas mãos, Esther olhou para a arma. Com os olhos arregalados, alternou o olhar entre o rosto do vampiro, que jazia na lama ensanguentada, e a arma em suas mãos.

— ...Me desculpe.

Deitado no chão, Gyula pediu desculpas à garota com serenidade.

— A minha vingança foi justa. Não deixarei que ninguém diga que foi um erro. Mas também é verdade que tirei de você aqueles que eram preciosos... Você tem o direito de se vingar.

— E-eu...

O que ela realmente queria fazer?

Sentindo ao mesmo tempo o calor da mão do padre sobre sua própria mão trêmula e a frieza do aço, Esther se questionou.

A Reverenda que lhe criou quando eu era órfã, os muitos companheiros partisans e todas as pessoas da cidade...

Todos foram mortos por esse cara.

Não havia como não querer matá-lo. Ela mesma não era Deus nem um anjo. Assim como sabia amar, também sabia odiar.

Porém... Esther percebeu que o homem à sua frente também era assim.                       

— Eu te odeio. Quero vingar a Reverenda e todos os outros ── isso é verdade. Mas...

Após hesitar, a garota sussurrou com uma voz quase inaudível.

— Mas... acho que atirar em você seria um erro.

Ela balançou a cabeça para Gyula, que a olhava com estranheza, e então ergueu os olhos para o padre, com um olhar, como o de uma criança perdida de seu caminho.

— Deve ser porque eu sou tola, então não entendo muito bem. Não entendo, mas, de qualquer forma, isso está errado... Padre, eu sou estranha?

— ...Não, nem um pouco.

Com um sorriso que parecia contemplar toda a bondade deste mundo, o padre balançou a cabeça. Mantendo aquele sorriso que penetrava a alma, dirigiu-se a Gyula, que permanecia em silêncio, como se quisesse dizer algo.

— O ódio não gera nada... Não, bem, até eu me sinto envergonhado de dizer isso, mas parece que é assim que as coisas são, Gyula-san. Bom, sendo assim, desista de fazê-la puxar o gatilho... Agora, parece que a cidade também está ficando mais calma.

Na cidade visível a partir do terraço, de tempos em tempos, clarões que pareciam explosões ou disparos de armas de fogo cintilavam. No entanto, o desfecho já começava a se desenhar. Ainda estava longe de se poder dizer que a calma havia sido restaurada, mas a ordem, de certa forma, parecia estar retornando pouco a pouco.

Naquele exato momento, voltando-se para a nova silhueta que acabara de entrar no salão, Abel levantou levemente a mão.

— Ah! Olá, Tres-kun. Terminou por aí?

— Positive. 97% das forças da Guarda Militar estacionadas na cidade foram subjugadas.

O Padre Tres Iqus – o Executor Enviado, conhecido como 'Gunslinger' – manteve sua voz tão carente de entonação como sempre, mas sua resposta foi mecanicamente precisa.

— Depois que o Quartel-General foi destruído, a maioria perdeu a vontade de lutar e começou a se render. Com a participação da população civil ao lado dos partisans, os combates em si progrediram sem grandes problemas. Atualmente, 'Iron Maiden' está cooperando com os partisans para erradicar os inimigos remanescentes. A operação deve ser concluída antes da chegada do exército do Vaticano.

— Isso é um alívio.

Embora um número considerável de sacrifícios tenha sido feito, o combate urbano foi evitado de alguma forma. Além disso, devido à posição perante os países vizinhos, o Vaticano precisava demonstrar generosidade em relação a István após a ocupação. A reconstrução provavelmente avançaria em ritmo acelerado, e o fornecimento de alimentos também seria garantido. Diversas medidas seriam tomadas para garantir que os cidadãos exaustos pudessem sobreviver ao inverno com segurança.

Abel voltou a olhar para o terraço mais uma vez. Talvez os partisans já tenham alcançado o palácio, pois vozes trocando gritos podiam ser ouvidas ao longe, levadas pelo vento.

— Então, vamos nos retirar também? O resto deixamos para os partisans...

— ...Vocês, desgraçados, são os únicos que eu nunca vou deixar escapar, seus padres de merda!

Além do terraço, uma enorme sombra erguida no pátio rugiu.

O uniforme militar azul-escuro que cobria seu imenso corpo estava irreconhecível, sujo de sangue e lama. No entanto, a expressão feroz, com presas expostas como as de um peixe carnívoro, não deixava dúvidas para ninguém ali — era Radco’n. Ele deveria estar sob a custódia dos partisans após sua derrota, mas como diabos conseguiu escapar? Seu corpo, coberto de sangue, parecia um milagre ainda estar vivo.

No entanto, como um cadáver ambulante movido pelo ódio e por uma obsessão insana, o gigante ensanguentado permanecia firmemente plantado no meio do pátio. E em suas mãos, ele empunhava uma besta que lhes era familiar.

— Morraaa!

Diante da situação repentina, evitar o ataque era impossível. Apontada para Esther, que estava paralisada, o gatilho de sua própria besta foi puxado pelo gigante junto com um rugido feroz.

Naquele instante, sem sequer olhar para trás, a M13 de Tres foi sacada e rugiu sobre seu ombro. O gigante, atingido com precisão entre os olhos por um projétil de 13mm de alta potência que atravessou seu bulbo raquidiano, foi arremessado para trás, espalhando massa encefálica pela parte de trás de sua cabeça.

Porém, a flecha disparada...

— Ma-Marquês da Hungria!

Esther soltou um grito quase como um lamento. Diante dela, uma sombra sem o braço direito erguia-se como uma parede. Cravada em seu peito estava uma flecha grossa, cujo eixo havia sido impregnado com uma solução de nitrato de prata.

— ......

Com um fedor anormal de carne derretida, Gyula deu um passo lento para trás antes de desabar novamente no chão. Quando Esther, ajoelhando-se por reflexo, o ergueu nos braços, ele já havia começado a sofrer pequenas convulsões.

— Por quê? Por que me protegeu!?

— Q-quem sabe... por quê, hein...?

Uma flecha grossa embebida em nitrato de prata atravessando o coração — nem mesmo a vitalidade dos Methuselah poderia suportar isso. Gyula, forçando a voz em meio a um gorgolejo de sangue espumoso, já tinha um véu branco começando a cobrir seus olhos.

— Eu deveria odiar vocês... Mas por que fui proteger um terran... e ainda por cima, uma noviça...?

— Não fale mais nada!

Esther reprimiu apressadamente o vampiro, que esboçava um sorriso amargo. No entanto, mesmo tentando detê-lo, ela não fazia ideia do que deveria fazer. Olhou para os dois padres em busca de ajuda, mas um permaneceu impassível, enquanto o outro apenas sacudiu a cabeça, desorientado.

— Onde foi que eu errei...? Por que eu...?

Com olhos que já deveriam não mais enxergar, Gyula olhou para Esther e sussurrou. Seu rosto já não mostrava sinais de dor. Pelo contrário, sua expressão pálida parecia até serena.

— Eu só queria ver o seu rosto feliz, Maria... Como foi que chegamos a esse ponto...?

— .......

Esther percebeu que, nos olhos já cegos do homem, o que se refletia era algum outro lugar que não aquele. E que as palavras que ele dizia não eram dirigidas a ela, mas a alguém mais.

— ...Obrigada, querido.

De maneira surpreendente, não sentia aversão.

Quando percebeu, já havia encostado sua própria bochecha na bochecha ensanguentada que abraçava e, com doçura, Esther sussurrou:

— Obrigada... Mas já é o suficiente. De verdade, muito obrigada.

— ......

Por fim, parecia que Gyula sorriu.

Ela teve a impressão de que seus lábios se moveram levemente, mas talvez fosse apenas sua imaginação. As pálpebras, que se fecharam suavemente, esconderam seus olhos cinzentos — e então, nunca mais se abriram.

— ...Senhor, por favor, conceda paz a esta alma.

Por que estava chorando? — Enquanto se perguntava isso, achando estranho que as lágrimas quentes que caíam de seus olhos molhassem tanto sua própria face quanto a do homem morto, Esther fez o sinal da cruz pelo falecido, apenas pelo falecido.

— Que ele possa se reencontrar com sua pessoa amada e que a misericórdia o guie... Amém.

<< Anterior - Índice R.O.M. I - Próximo>>

Roteiro de Leitura (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧!

Créditos da tradução:

Lutie (◕‿◕✿)

[jadarnr]

TRINITY BLOOD

REBORN ON THE MARS

(Storia: Sunao Yoshida // Illustrazioni: Thores Shibamoto)

Vol. 1 - La Stella di Lacrime

IL BANCHETTO DELLE TENEBRE

CAPITOLO DUE

Traduzione italiana di jadarnr basata sui volumi inglesi editi da Tokyopop

Sentitevi liberi di condividere, ma fatelo per piacere mantenendo i credits e il link al post originale 🙏

Grazie a @trinitybloodbr per il contributo alla revisione sul testo originale giapponese ✨

Sotto le lampade che oscillavano nel soffitto, uomini e donne vestiti con abiti tradizionali colorati ballavano senza sosta. Le veloci piroette, che potevano dare le vertigini, erano passi unici della danza folcloristica della regione.

I volti degli uomini, che accompagnavano il ritmo con fischi e battiti di mani al suono vivace e rustico della ghironda e della fisarmonica, erano rossi come il fuoco. Tra risate e prese in giro, si passavano bottiglie dei migliori liquori, mentre le botti di vino venivano aperte una dopo l'altra. Essendo una cantina scavata nel seminterrato della più grande taverna della città, c'era abbondanza di bevande e di cibo.

Ma non c'erano solo bevande e cibo. Una semplice stampante rotativa, pile di volantini appena stampati e strumenti di produzione di uso incerto erano sparsi ovunque, occupando ogni angolo. Accanto a un tornio meccanico c'era una mitragliatrice artigianale.

- Bene bene… Vi definite Partigiani, quindi pensavo che viveste da qualche parte in mezzo alle montagne. Non avrei mai immaginato che aveste un nascondiglio così grande proprio nel centro della città

- È proprio perché siamo in mezzo alla città che non possiamo essere trovati. Come si dice: 'Se vuoi nascondere un albero, nascondilo in una foresta'... Ecco, prenda, Padre

Una tazza fumante fu consegnata al sacerdote, che emise un sospiro ammirato mentre osservava da fuori il cerchio della danza. Dopo aver ricevuto con cura il latte caldo pieno di zucchero, Abel ringraziò la ragazza che gli sedeva accanto.

- Ah, grazie mille, signorina Esther... Huum! È delizioso

- Sono contenta. Visto che hai detto che non volevi bere altro alcol, ho chiesto in cucina di farvelo preparare velocemente

Guardando il prete felice, con la bocca tutta sporca di bianco, la suora dai capelli rossi sorrise soddisfatta. Quando sorrideva, gli angoli degli occhi si abbassavano, facendola sembrare più giovane dei suoi diciassette anni. Da quel sorriso spensierato, nessuno avrebbe potuto capire la sua vera identità di Csillag, una pericolosa criminale ricercata dalle autorità come leader di un gruppo terroristico. Persino Abel, che era stato salvato da lei solo poche ore prima, vedendo il suo sorriso ingenuo, cominciò a chiedersi se non fosse solo uno scherzo.

- Cosa c'è, padre?

- Ah!

Abel si accorse che stava fissando il volto di lei senza rendersene conto, e riportò frettolosamente la sua mente alla realtà. Gli occhi di lapislazzuli della ragazza lo fissavano con un'espressione di curiosità.

- Ho qualcosa sulla faccia?

- Ah, no, niente... non è niente...

Scuotendo la testa così energicamente che si poteva quasi sentirne il rumore, Abel si schiarì in fretta la gola con un colpo di tosse discreto. Cambiando la sua espressione per sembrare il più serio possibile, cambiò argomento.

- A proposito, sorella Esther. È vero che siete voi il leader di questo gruppo di partigiani? Il Fronte di Liberazione Umana di István, così lo chiamate? Siete voi a guidarli e a coinvolgerli in attività antigovernative in città?

- Sì, beh, è così. Ma dire che sono il leader mi sembra un po' esagerato, non crede?

Come cercando le parole giuste, Esther inclinò leggermente la testa.

- In realtà, quello che faccio è solo coordinare i vari membri. Dei rifornimenti e della raccolta fondi, per lo più donazioni da parte dei cittadini, si occupa il proprietario di questa taverna, il signor Ignatz. La pianificazione delle operazioni sul campo è compito di Dietrich... Dietrich, puoi venire qui un momento?

Un giovane, che stava chiacchierando animatamente con alcuni compagni, rispose alla voce della suora e le si avvicinò.

- Cosa c'è, Esther...? Oh, Padre Nightroad, a proposito, mi dispiace per prima

La mano bianca, che scostava i capelli castano-rossicci, si protese verso il sacerdote in un gesto amichevole di stretta di mano.

- È stata una notte difficile, vero? Sono Dietrich von Lohengrin. Piacere di conoscerla

- Ah, piacere di conoscerla

Abel allungò frettolosamente la mano al giovane, che si sedette tra loro, accanto a Ester.

Era spaventosamente bello. Dal nome sembrava essere uno straniero, probabilmente uno studente di scambio proveniente da qualche regione germanica. Anche un uomo l'avrebbe trovato attraente, guardando quel viso sottile ed elegante. Involontariamente anche Abel nel guardarlo cambiò espressione, poi tentò di tornare subito serio, ma...

- C’è qualcosa che non va, padre?

Esther si piegò verso di lui con un'espressione preoccupata, pensando se portargli una coperta calda.

- Allora, Ester, hai messo al corrente Padre Nightroad di tutto quanto?

- Proprio ora... Immagino che ora anche lui se ne sia reso conto, ma sono loro, i vampiri, a controllare questa città. Un'antica famiglia conosciuta come Casa dei Marchesi d'Ungheria

Esther pronunciò quella parola - vampiri - al volume più basso possibile. Sotto la lampada che oscillava dal soffitto, il volto della suora mostrò una leggera espressione di paura.

- Ufficialmente, István sarebbe una città libera. Tuttavia, per centinaia di anni, questo luogo è stato sotto il loro dominio. Fabbriche, banche, fattorie, tutte le strutture più importanti appartengono a loro, e il parlamento della città è solo una facciata. E la Polizia Militare? Sono solo i loro cani da guardia

- E gli abitanti della città sono il loro cibo

Si inserì Dietrich in modo provocatorio, senza sorridere.

- Anche lei ha visto la situazione in città, vero, Padre? Le condizioni di vita di tutti hanno raggiunto il limite. Il Marchese d'Ungheria impone pesanti tasse alla città e investe tutto in armamenti militari. Chi non riesce a pagare le tasse viene portato via dalla Polizia Militare e mandato in prigione. Nessuno è mai tornato da lì...

- Ma aspettate un attimo. Non siete anche voi responsabili del degrado della città? Distruggete le strutture pubbliche, rubate i rifornimenti, uccidete le persone...

- Gli unici luoghi che attacchiamo sono le strutture della Polizia Militare!

Forse offesa da quell'affermazione incauta, la voce di Esther si era leggermente alzata.

- Abbiamo salvato le persone mandate in prigione, ci siamo ripresi il cibo confiscato con la forza dalla Polizia Militare... E' vero, in quei frangenti finiamo per combattere contro di loro. Accade che qualcuno muoia. Ma se non lo facciamo...

- Esther...

Dietrich posò delicatamente la mano sulla spalla della ragazza, con la voce bassa. Lo sguardo che rivolse ad Abel divenne ancora più duro, come se lo stesse rimproverando.

- Padre, voi ci chiamate assassini, ma che altro possiamo fare se non combattere? Rimanere in silenzio e lasciarci trasformare in cibo da loro? Anche la Chiesa ha abbandonato questa città... Stando così le cose, l'unico modo che ci resta è sporcarci le mani di sangue, no?

- Abbandonati dalla Chiesa? E cosa sta facendo la Reverenda Madre? Se c'è così tanta attività di vampiri, dovrebbero segnalarla a Roma e chiedere l'avvio di una crociata...

- Lei non sa nulla, Padre

Come se si lamentasse della sua ignoranza, Dietrich scosse la testa.

- Sa perché i vampiri sono riusciti a dominare questa città per centinaia di anni? Sa cosa si trova oltre i Carpazi, a est di questa città?

- Capisco, si tratta dell'Impero... giusto...?

Come se si vergognasse della propria avventatezza, Abel chinò il capo.

L'Impero - ufficialmente conosciuto come Impero della Vera Umanità o Tara Metuselah. Quello Stato era una grande nazione situata a est di Istvan. Il suo territorio si estendeva dall'est dei Carpazi alla costa del Mar Nero, in altre parole occupava quasi l'intera metà orientale della zona abitabile dell'umanità in quell'epoca. La sua capacità tecnologica, con una ricca potenza nazionale che utilizzava numerose tecnologie perdute, si diceva potesse rivaleggiare persino con il Vaticano, che era il leader della società umana.

Tuttavia, nonostante fosse una grande nazione, tutto ciò che riguardava quel Paese era avvolto da un profondo mistero, compresa l'esistenza dell'Imperatrice al vertice del governo, o quello che pensavano gli innumerevoli nobili del paese. E non era un caso, perché l'Impero della Vera Umanità era l'ultimo e più grande stato di una specie non umana sulla Terra, in altre parole, il paese fondato da loro, e tutti i nobili, senza eccezione, compresa l'Imperatrice, erano vampiri.

- Questa città è la zona di transizione tra la Chiesa cattolica romana, il Vaticano a ovest e l'Impero a est. Il confine tra il mondo umano e quello dei vampiri. Se il Vaticano dovesse intervenire, potrebbe sfociare in una guerra totale tra umani e vampiri. Per questo motivo, Roma è estremamente cauta nei confronti di questa città, come se fosse un punto sensibile. A tutti gli effetti, si potrebbe dire che gli abitanti della città siano stati abbandonati

- Ma anche se siamo abbandonati dal Vaticano, tutti noi siamo nati qui su questa terra e qui moriremo... Per proteggere noi stessi e coloro che amiamo, non abbiamo altra scelta che combattere

La voce di Esther, che continuò le parole di Dietrich, era carica di incrollabile determinazione. Nei suoi occhi azzurro-dorati, Abel sentì di scorgere il motivo per cui aveva conquistato la lealtà dei partigiani.

- In realtà, ad oggi abbiamo causato solo un po' di scompiglio all'interno del loro territorio. Ma anche una cosa del genere è una grande vittoria per noi. Con questo, anche gli abitanti della città devono aver capito che non sono invincibili. Un giorno, sicuramente...

- Ma è un peccato che non siamo riusciti a distruggere la 'Stella di Lacrime'. Avrei voluto davvero poter fare qualcosa al riguardo

- La Stella di... come ha detto?

- La 'Stella di Lacrime'... è l'asso nella manica del Marchese d'Ungheria

Sentendo la domanda di Abel, posta in tono un po' imbarazzato, Dietrich si rivolse a lui con l'espressione di un insegnante paziente.

- Secondo le leggende, si tratta di una tecnologia perduta risalente a prima dell'Armageddon e si dice che sia una delle potenti armi che hanno causato l'Armageddon stesso

- Ha causato l'Armageddon? Che tipo di arma è? Una grande arma da fuoco o qualcosa del genere?

- Purtroppo non ne sono certo. Si dice che sia un potere in grado di far scendere grandi fiamme dal cielo o di provocare enormi terremoti, tra le altre teorie. Ma si suppone che solo il Duca d'Ungheria possa controllarlo

- Ah, capisco. È piuttosto spaventoso, vero...? Hm? Aspettate un attimo. Se esiste davvero qualcosa di così pericoloso, perché il Marchese d'Ungheria non lo usa? Se attaccasse subito Roma, il Vaticano non sarebbe più un problema, no?

- Si dice che l'arma sia stata distrutta in battaglia molto tempo fa... Ma recentemente si è diffusa la voce che il Marchese d'Ungheria la stia restaurando. La nostra rete di informazioni ha anche raccolto notizie secondo cui egli sta acquistando macchine da altri Paesi a prezzi molto alti, anche se il loro utilizzo rimane sconosciuto

- E dopo averle spiegato tutto questo, Padre, le chiedo di prendere una decisione personale

Con un discreto colpo di tosse, Esther interruppe il discorso di Dietrich. Cambiando la sua espressione, fissò il sacerdote, che sembrava si stesse sentendo male a pensare a ciò che aveva appena sentito.

- Finché resterete in questa città, non potrete sfuggire al Marchese d'Ungheria. Soprattutto dopo quello che è successo stanotte... Per la vostra sicurezza, vi chiediamo di restare con noi d'ora in poi. Va bene?

- Ah... Va bene, se non può essere diversamente… Dopo quello che è successo, non posso più tornare in chiesa... Ah... Questo significa che dovrò passare il resto della mia vita al vostro seguito, è così?

- Eh? Oh, no. Essere al nostro seguito per tutta la vita sarebbe solo un intralcio...

- O Signore, la mia vita sembra essere in un vicolo cieco... Ah, ho finito il latte. Mi scusi, posso averne ancora?

- Oh sì, faccia come se fosse a casa sua. La cucina è in cima alle scale

Mentre guardava le spalle del prete che usciva dalla sala piagnucolando, Dietrich sussurrò sottovoce:

- Questo prete, è davvero a posto? Non è che finirà solo per essere un grosso peso?

- In ogni caso non possiamo semplicemente abbandonarlo, non credi? In effetti non sembra poter essere molto utile... ma per ora mi prenderò io cura di lui. Non preoccuparti

- Ma, ecco...

Dietrich cercò di insistere per controbattere qualcosa, ma vedendo l'espressione di Esther sembrò rendersi conto dell'inutilità di qualsiasi altro consiglio. Fece anche un sorriso un po' ironico e scrollò delicatamente le spalle.

- Beh, è proprio questo tuo lato generoso che mi piace molto

- Ah! Perché sono così sfortunato?

Mentre riscaldava il latte nella cucina deserta, il prete brontolava in continuazione. Si stava avvicinando l'alba e il cielo oltre la finestra cominciava a colorarsi di azzurro. Era stata certamente una lunga notte. Sembrava essere durata quaranta o cinquanta ore.

- Pensavo che finalmente avrei potuto rilassarmi un po' in campagna, ma è solo primo giorno qui e già è successo tutto questo. Anche se avessi diversi corpi, non basterebbero... Ah, Signore, la mia vita è così difficile

<Non è sempre difficile, Padre Abel?>

All'improvviso, una voce femminile gentile rise dolcemente vicino al suo orecchio. Ma... da dove era venuta? Nella grande cucina non c'era nessuno, a parte Abel. Tuttavia, egli non sembrò particolarmente sorpreso e si limitò a toccare leggermente l'auricolare - un comunicatore in-ear - nel suo orecchio

- Buonasera, sorella Kate... o dovrei dire buongiorno? Quando siete arrivati?

<Siamo appena arrivati. Ho ricevuto il rapporto di Gunslinger. Sembra che presto ci sarà un'operazione su larga scala della Polizia Militare... Proprio in questo momento i veicoli blindati si stanno muovendo nell'area. Ecco, ecco! Non è un carro armato quello che sta passando?>

Eppure ciò che si vedeva della città dalla finestra della taverna consisteva solo in file di tetti bassi ed edifici economici, senza strade in vista. Dov'era la proprietaria di quella voce e cosa stava guardando?

<Beh, dopo i disordini di poco fa non sorprende che la Polizia cittadina sia così agitata... Sembra che anche Gunslinger sarà molto impegnato. Che disdetta>

- Allora, sorella Kate, cosa ha riferito Gunslinger? Qual è l'obiettivo dell'operazione?

<Non si sa ancora. Tuttavia, sembra che la sorveglianza delle chiese della città sarà intensificata>

Nella città di István c'era solo una chiesa.

- Hmm. Quindi finalmente intendono iniziare a fare pressione

<Caterina sembra considerare preferibile far rientrare tutte le persone appartenenti al clero. Tuttavia, se Roma agisce apertamente ora, potrebbe finire per provocare l'avversario>

- Se è così, l'unica opzione è quella di fuggire dalla città in segreto... Sarà difficile

<Dovrete tenervi pronti>

Mentre rimescolava la pentola che cominciava a bollire, Abel sembrava riflettere su qualcosa. Poi annuì come se avesse preso una decisione.

- Non c'è alternativa. Dovremo chiedere l'aiuto dei membri del gruppo dei Partigiani per organizzare il tutto in qualche modo. Se il rapporto di Gunslinger è corretto, sono una squadra estremamente abile

<Padre Abel, a proposito di questi Partigiani...>

La voce, che fino a quel momento era stata di tono leggero, divenne improvvisamente cupa.

<A dire la verità c'è un problema. Poco prima del loro attacco... c'è stata uno strano movimento da parte della Polizia Militare. Sembra che quasi tutte le armi e le munizioni conservate nell'armeria siano state rimosse. La coincidenza è piuttosto... opportuna, non credete?>

- ...Pensi che siano trapelate informazioni dalla parte dei Partigiani?

<Probabilmente sì. La prego di fare molta attenzione. Mi farò sentire di nuovo. Per il momento continui ad aspettare qui>

- Capito... Fate attenzione anche voi, Iron Maiden

Dopo aver toccato nuovo l'auricolare e aver chiuso la conversazione con la persona che non poteva vedersi, Abel continuò a rimescolare nella pentola con un'espressione pensierosa. Era il momento di parlare un po' con Esther.

[lovelyzzzz777]

AstroRevelations Vol. IX – The 8th House Mystique 🦂🖤

(the place where your soul dies and is reborn, again and again)

🔮 Sun in 8th house – You don’t just exist, you transform. Your identity is tied to intensity, secrets, and emotional depth. People sense your magnetism before they even know your name.

🌙 Moon in 8th house – You feel in layers. Emotional safety isn’t given, it’s earned. Your intuition is razor sharp, and your moods are tidal waves under a calm surface.

🧠 Mercury in 8th house – Your words can expose, seduce, or destroy. You think in codes, speak in double meanings, and crave deep, taboo conversations.

💋 Venus in 8th house – Love isn’t casual here. You attract obsessive energies, and relationships change you forever. There’s something irresistible and dangerous about your charm.

🔥 Mars in 8th house – You move with intensity. Sexual energy runs deep, and your desires are often hidden, powerful, and consuming. You don’t start wars—but you finish them.

📈 Jupiter in 8th house – Growth comes through loss, depth, and surrender. You’re expansive when you allow yourself to transform. Others may gift you wealth or wisdom.

🪨 Saturn in 8th house – Trust doesn’t come easy. Life may have taught you to protect what’s most vulnerable. But your power lies in your resilience and ability to rebuild from the ruins.

🌌 Uranus in 8th house – You change suddenly, emotionally and spiritually. Craving freedom but attracting intensity, your relationships can be electric, unstable, unforgettable.

🧿 Neptune in 8th house – You merge with others on a soul level. Psychic bonds, illusions in love, and a mystic pull toward what can’t be explained. Watch your boundaries.

☠️ Pluto in 8th house – This is home for Pluto. Death, power, sex, rebirth—this is your native language. You’re a living transformation. Others project their shadows onto you, but you were born to carry them.

🖤 8th house placements aren’t “easy”—but they’re alchemical. You’re not here for the surface. You’re here to rise from ashes, and turn pain into gold.

[milawritess]

what cannot be said will be wept – gojo satoru

pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader synopsis: following the events from wherever you go, that's where i'll follow, the reader becomes incredibly sick. Satoru drowns in his guilt and reader struggles to grapple with the loss of her cursed technique. tags/warnings: angst, fem!reader, swearing, depression, guilt, dark thoughts, loss of identity, loss of powers, descriptions of gore/horror, tragedy, mentions of blood, breakdowns, reader is sick, Satoru doing everything he can to keep you afloat word count: 3.3k next entry: ii series mlist

The first few nights were unbearable. You made it—you survived, but you weren’t the same. Not even close. You were a fragmented, splintered hallow. You were nothing but a ghost haunting your own body. The weight of your fragility sat heavily in the corners of your home, creeping into the space where laughter once lived.

At night, you’d become so still, so quiet of breath, that Satoru would have to put his finger under your nose to see if you were still with him. There were nights when your heart betrayed you, skipping several beats or stilling altogether, long enough to drive him to the edges of panic. 

Baby, baby, wake up, Satoru would whisper in dread. It was only when you groaned that he sucked in a breath, drawing in the air his lungs were burning for. 

What? You would murmur, confused and disoriented. He’d suddenly pull you close, resting his head between your breasts as he listened to the only rhythm that brought him solace. 

Satoru found himself waking you up often. Soft kisses graced your face—your eyes, cheeks, and brushes against your lips. Other nights, he’d shake you awake in fear and trepidation. Your heart was too weak. The second sleep found you, it began to give. 

He could hear it, see it. 

Sleep was lost on him. He couldn’t risk it—could grapple with the chances of waking to find you—his entire world gone. You had come back to him, yet, for weeks, you straddled the line between being alive and moving to a place he couldn’t reach or follow. 

He couldn’t grasp, couldn’t fathom that even now, he was on the verge of losing you. 

“There are just some things I can’t heal,” Shoko told him one night. She arrived at his estate after he called her in a panic. You were cold as ice, and you struggled to draw breath. “There’s scarring in her frontal lobe… and there’s other damage that looks like it’s been there for a while. Maybe if I had caught this sooner-“

The damage was too great. He knew that’s what Shoko really wanted to say. 

There was so much more he needed to say to you, so much more he needed to make up for. 

Some nights, he grew bitter. You couldn't leave him—you wouldn’t dare. Not after everything you’ve been through together, not after loving him and making him feel love's perfect ache; not after you stripped him bare as you deprived him of pride and all resolve, rendering him down to nothing but a man on his knees, worshiping at the gates of your light. 

You undo him so wholly and completely. 

This wasn’t fair. Even with the powers most gods craved, he couldn’t protect you from this. What good was all this power if he couldn’t keep you? The best parts of you, the dark and wretched—all of it, everything—belonged to him. He loved the darkest shades of you, the brightest, and every color in between. 

When you were consumed in an unholy flame, one only he could ever reach beyond, he was housed by your warmth—reborn into something more glorious than the last. 

When had you fallen so cold? 

You had ascended onto him like nightfall, only to ignite and burn his world to ash. Yet, you sparked something within him in the echo of oblivion—a fire born of devotion was marred to his heart. 

He wasn’t going to let you off that easy. Death wouldn’t be enough for you to escape him. 

”You don’t get to leave me,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “You’re not going anywhere. Not from me.” 

It was a rare moment of wakefulness. Your eyes flutter open, a dopey smile gracing your lips. You say his name. “Satoru,” you murmur. ”what are you talking about?”

He brushes the hair from your neck, kissing your cold skin. “I’m talking about you, sweets,” he moves up, kissing your cheek. “I need you to get better. We’re not out of the woods yet.”

You take in a long, shuddering breath. You couldn’t deny what you said now when you felt it in your bones. “I won’t leave,” you promise him gently, breathing slowly as sleep tugs at the corners of your consciousness. “Where else would I go?”

He takes time off from work shortly after. Well, he more or less just stopped going to work. He kept your condition close like a secret. Outside of the kids, Principal Yaga, and Nanami, no one knew what happened to you, and he would keep it that way. He didn’t need the higher-ups catching wind of this. 

It was just a precaution, his way of protecting you when you couldn’t protect yourself. You had enemies just as much as he did. He thinks he’d break the world in two if they ever touched you. 

However, Gojo couldn’t just wait and do nothing. He had to keep you comfortable, keep you warm. After cranking up the central heat and lighting a fire, he noticed you responded positively. It was far from comfortable for him, but it wasn’t about him, even if, most nights, sweat beaded on his chest and forehead. It was about your recovery and giving your body what it desperately needed. Heat. A heat, he fears, even as he eases you into a tub of the hottest water he could get from the faucet in his master bathroom, wasn’t enough. 

However, this was a start in the right direction. Your eyes fluttered open as your body sank into the steaming water. “This is nice,” you utter. “Really nice…”

“Hm, good,” Satoru says, grabbing the shampoo bottle. “Glad to be of service.”

You hum pleasantly as he starts massaging shampoo into your hair. “How many days has it been, Satoru?”

“Not sure what you mean, sweets.”

“Satoru,” you sigh softly. “How many days since the incident?” 

He pauses for a moment before his fingers continue rubbing the suds into your hair. “Fifteen days.”

“And yet, I don’t have a lick of cursed energy…”

“Hey, easy there,” he wipes the subs that threaten to fall into your eyes with his hands before grabbing your face and pinching your cheeks together. Just as you were about to swat him away, he kissed the pout off your face with one long smooch. “Take it easy, grumpypants. You’re still recovering.”

“Yeah, but for how long,” you mumble. “It’s never taken me this long to recover my cursed energy before. I just– I don’t feel the same.” Satoru takes a deep breath, watching as you stare down at the water, your fingers mindlessly fiddling with the necklace around your neck. “You shouldn’t have to be taking care of me like this or taking time off from work. They need you, the kids need you–”

“You need me,” he gently corrects. “The kids are fine, and Nanami has been covering for me.”

“Yeah, but–”

“You act like this isn’t something you’d do for me if I needed you.”

You look at him, eyes misting over. You reach for him, your arms wrapping around his neck. He didn’t care if he got wet as he held you, his hands rubbing softly at your damp back. “I really love you,” you tell him, burying your head into his neck. “I really do. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, silly girl. I’m here. I’m with you.”

-

Weeks pass, and things only seem to get worse. 

You could hear their whispers, see their pitiful glances, and see how they all tiptoed around you. It made you furious. It wasn’t a loud, fiery rage that once fueled you. It was quiet and insidious—burning cold and cutting deeper than any wound you’ve experienced. You hated their pity, their careful steps, and how they looked at you as if you were a ghost. 

You had once been a force that could not be ignored or buried away—a wild inferno in a world that always tried to snuff out the smallest of embers. Your power was born of defiance, a testimony of your will, even vengeance. 

You weren’t always good. At times, you think Satoru forgets that. 

Yet, against all odds, every attempt to diminish and erase you from the annals of time, you remained unbridled, unbroken. You bore no titles and came from no golden lineage; it was your strength alone that helped you carve your place in the world and carve your name into the sun. You were powerful. Unforgiving. You weren’t something to be protected and admired; you were destruction, born of dark weather and chaos.

And yet, you fell. 

A part of you wonders if this was the price to be paid for your transgressions—a quiet, unrelenting suffering that hollowed you out from the inside. It was almost poetic in it's cruelty, as if the weight of your sins could only be balanced by the weight in your chest.

Your flames, once roaring and defiant, sputtered and dwindled. For a while, you believed it was exhaustion, but you knew, deep in your bones, you weren’t the same. At first, you told yourself that you had endured far worse. You strappled the line of death more times than you could count. Sometimes, it was fury that had you crawling from your grave. Others, it was vengeance fueled by the fire meant to burn the pyre of your enemies and all those who wronged you.  

But, your fire hadn’t just dimmed and weakened. It was gone. The power, once flowing through your veins like lava and liquid gold, was replaced by a cold and suffocating emptiness. Even if the taste of ash lingered and the scent of black smoke permeated your nostrils, you weren’t the same. 

You were only six when your cursed technique appeared. You’re incapable of remembering what led to such depravity, such evil, or maybe you couldn’t bring yourself to remember why the people of your village tried killing you. You didn’t remember much of your childhood, but you remember those laughs that still haunted you in your dreams—the same laughs you heard as you were thrown into a ditch your small hands and feet couldn’t have hoped to crawl out of. 

They doused you in rum and lit a match. When the fire ignited, you were left to burn into nothingness. You remembered the feeling of each nerve ending igniting, the excruciating pain that consumed you. You remembered how your scream became a soundless cry as your vocal cords were scorched. You remembered the smell of your burning hair and flesh, the way flames licked at your eyeballs until you were blind. You remembered the end coming suddenly, but not quick enough. You remembered crying for a mother you couldn’t remember, a father that never protected you. 

Then, you remembered how suddenly the word came back. The flames became nothing but a gentle sting. Your flesh mended, and when you drew breath, a black smoke filtered into your lungs, giving you strength. You could taste the ash, and the blood in your veins began to boil. You were born again amongst the flames that once brought you so much agony. You ruled them—fire incarnate: destructive, yet devastatingly alive. 

You hadn’t just lost your technique. You were stripped away of everything you had ever been. Perhaps what stung the most was how the world kept spilling. You were a woman of no renown, no legacy to speak of. And now, you had no fire to prove you had ever been worth anything at all. 

You wonder—had you ever been as strong as you truly thought? Or were you a flame burning on borrowed time, destined to extinguish into nothing? 

You wanted to be forgotten. You wanted to disappear, to return to your flames. You had once despised them; you thought they cursed you with the wickedness they were born from. But, even so, it had been yours. Even if the world always thought you were more of a monster than a sorcerer, perhaps one more terrifying than the curses conjured from the worst parts of mankind, they were yours. And yet, you were lost without them.

You had survived because you had felt the touch of love, came to learn to accept it, and nurtured it with a darkened heart and two hands. Love yanked you back to the surface, yet a bitter and selfish part of you wondered at what cost? 

You wondered if he thought of you differently, if his love was slowly fading along with you, but you were too afraid to look. He had already told you once that you weren’t nearly as strong as you thought. He was right. You were a failure.

You still loved him. You don’t think you could ever stop loving him, but that love became so twisted—tangling with your hurt, your pride, and your inability to forgive everything but yourself.  His kindness became suffocating; his attempts at assurance only ever reminded you of what you lost. Every look of concern or sympathy—real or imagined—was a dagger to the chest. He would leave eventually. He’d grow tired of your ups and downs and how your sweetness could so quickly transform into bitterness.

Even as your strength slowly returned—enough to move without sleep constantly tugging at your consciousness or being teethed to IV drips—the hallowed absence of your cursed energy remained. It had become stagnant, hitting an invisible barrier you couldn’t push or break, no matter how hard you tried.

-

“Baby?” Satoru whispers out for you one night. You don’t respond, but he knows you can hear him. “Can I come in?” 

You make no effort to move or stand. You were frozen, lost in a grief you don’t think you could ever escape. You were on your bathroom floor, heaving over a toilet with a hand pressed to your chest as if it were the only thing keeping it from caving in. He wonders if you still have the ability to sense his presence—if you could sense that he was there waiting for you. 

“Go away,” you told him. You didn’t want him to see you like this, not with blood poring from your nose and dripping from your lips. You were sick. You were scared, angry, and so fucking confused. You didn’t know what was happening to you or how to make it stop it. 

“You know I can’t do that…” 

He wouldn’t leave you—not when you needed him; not when the love remained, even if it was buried under mounds of hurt and pain. It would be the greatest betrayal, even if you begged for it.

However, he wouldn’t push you. So, he lies on the cold wooden floor, his back pressed against the door. Even with five feet between you two, he felt as if you were going somewhere far, somewhere he couldn’t reach. Again.

He goes silent for a moment, searching for the right words that seem so out of reach. He doesn’t think there is anything he could say to make this better, but he could try.

“I used to think for a while that my life had no happy ending,” he says, voice low and steady. “But, then, I met you. Your power drew me in, yeah. But do you know what else did? Those rare smiles. I wanted to be responsible for them—all of them.” Even as you remained silent, there’s no shying away from the emotions his words sturs. There's no escaping him. 

“It was how you demanded a whole room with just your presence. I admired how you loved and hated in equal measure. I loved your wickedness and cunning wit. You dared to challenge the world, and I–” His voice dips lower. It's only to you that he reveals these fragile, intimate parts of himself. “... You made me believe in something more than myself.”

“I’m not the same,” you swallow hard, throat tightening as tears threaten to spill once again. “I’m not… I’m nothing like the woman you met.” 

“Good,” he says simply, voice firm. “Because I don’t need her. I need you. Even when you’re angry and hurting or think you’ve lost everything, I’ll still need you.” 

You turn your head to the door, his words settling over you like a blanket, heavy and warm. Your gaze falls to the floor, finding the faint shadow of him waiting for you. 

“I’ve hated myself for so long for not being able to stop what happened to you. I feel like I failed you—failed you in every way that mattered.” His head falls back, thumping against the door. He loved you. He knew he did because he could feel it in the way his heart ached for you—in the way your pain became his pain. You’re still the woman he admired; you were still the woman he longed for. You’ve never needed power to rule over him, yet he doesn’t know how to make you believe that. All he has is his heart, which he bears to you with two trembling hands. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” 

And finally, as tears gather in your eyes, you realize he wasn’t here because he pitied you. Satoru wasn’t conditional—he didn’t know how to love in halves. You had always felt it, the lingering truths caught between two hearts. But now, he was here, baring it all—leaving no room for doubt or space for denial.

He loves you.

“Your fire isn’t just in your technique—it's in everything you do, angel. It's in the way you look at the world, how you fight for what you believe in, and even the way you love… it used to scare me,” he chuckles gravely. There wasn’t ever a moment, he thinks, that he wasn’t enraptured with you. He can’t recall a time when he hadn't been caught in your obit and seized in the invisible weight of your gravity. 

Your eyes fluttered close, your breath catching as his words settled over you. For the first time in a long while, you feel something other than the crushing burden of loss. You feel him, steady and unwavering. You don’t know if you should cry or let yourself fall into him entirely. 

“Satoru,” you trembled. “What’s happening to me?”

One thing Satoru could never do was lie to you. Not even about this, as his heart nearly fails him. “You're displacing more cursed energy than you’re retaining. It’s making you sick.” 

A shuddering cry slips past your lips. “... Am I dying?”

You hear him move behind the door. His voice, steady but tense, cuts through your panic. “I’m coming in.” 

“No, don’t–”

But it was too late. A locked door wasn’t enough to stop him. The knob crumbles under the force of his grip, a deafening crunch filling the room. Yet, despite the raw display of his strength, he pushes the door open with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. 

You were terrified, your hand pinching harder against your nose that refused to stop dripping blood. It was everywhere—soaking your shirt, trickling down your arm, dripping to the floor, and piling between the cracks of the tiles. You tried to clean it up, but it just wouldn't stop.

His eyes are a bit wide as he takes you in, but he doesn’t reveal much. His expression is unreadable as he drops to his knees. You crawl backward until your back meets the tub. “No, no, no, stop–” but it was futile. 

Blood stains his shirt, his hands, and smears across his cheek as he drags you into his arms. He doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he doesn’t care. 

“Satoru–”

“I don’t care,” he says sharply. His hands cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he presses you to his body. “I don’t care about that. Just… stay still. Breath,” he murmurs. “In and out. That’s all you have to do right now.”

You cry with such an unalloyed and raw pain that robs you of breath. It starts low, guttural, crawling from the deepest parts of you. It carries jagged edges, and swells into a sound so consuming, it drowns out everything else. Shaking, shuddering, choking—you fall apart, gasping for air between waves of anguish.

Satoru loses track of time suspended in the purgatory of your suffering.

“I’m not leaving,” he promises, trembling against you slightly. “And neither are you. I already told you before that you’re stuck with me.”

-

a/n: since my first fic did so well, i decided to make a mini-series depicting readers recovery :) feel free to send requests if you have any. i can either make a small blurb, a headcannon, or even make an entire chapter out of it. also, sorry if there are any typos its getting late lol

on a different note, i sincerely hope you enjoyed this chapter. my goal was to capture the readers suffering and Gojo's guilt, and i truly hope i did it justice. i also added a little bit backstory for the reader! i wanted to add layers and reveal that she's an imperfect character. regardless, i sincerely hope you enjoyed. please let me know your thoughts!! I would love to hear them :)

also, i know the kids weren't in this chapter but don't worry! they'll be around very soon!

lastly, thank you all so much for the overwhelming love and support on my first fic. i'm beyond grateful that so many of you enjoyed my writing. it genuinely means the world to me! your encouragement and kind words warmed my little heart.

as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated <3

[vincess-princess]

in darkness shall you be reborn

Chapter 19

Word count: 3740 Warnings: blood, guts, etc. A/N: let's pretend there hasn't been nearly a month between the chapters. i like to have some writing in reserve when i post, so i usually write a little bit in advance. and writing has been especially hard lately

Vince climbed through the hatch and looked around. Nausea rose up his throat, his breakfast almost spilling out.

The deck was a bloodbath. Bodies were strewn around, missing limbs, heads, guts spilling out. Right by the hatch thin-legged Tom looked at the sky with unseeing eyes, his throat slashed so deep his head and neck were held together by a sliver of skin. An unfamiliar man lay nearby, his arm nearby slashed neatly off his body, still grasping at his saber. A smell of blood and smoke hung in the air.

Well, Vince’s guess about the assault seemed to be correct. And the Shout crew were the ones left standing. Well, some of them. Most were sitting or lying down, Izzy fussing around them like a mother hen. But the majority seemed to be alive – for now, at least.

“Oh, hey Vince!” he heard a familiar voice from behind his back. He turned around and saw Duff. With one hand he was pressing a rag to the deep cut on his forehead, with the other – holding Slash by the shoulders. Slash seemed to be unable to step on his foot and groaned every time Duff made a movement. Duff led him to a crate by the board and unceremoniously dropped him on it. “You made it, man! We saw two Metallicos climbing down the hatch and thought you were done for.”

“Apparently not.” Vince headed towards the two pirates. “What in the fresh hell happened here?”

“Fucking Metallicos. Thought they could fool us, take us by surprise. Well, they are no more.” Slash pursed his lips. “Should’a trained better.”

“No damn privateer has an ounce of honor. Though, what else could we expect from the king’s whores?” Duff continued.

“You were attacked by privateers?” Vince blinked.

“More like heinously betrayed,” Slash grumbled. “I knew from the start there was something fishy here. Metallicos and cooperation? Unheard of. I wonder how the captain even believed them.”

“Yeah, it’s not like we’re short of gold at the moment. But he wanted more, apparently.”

“Wait – cooperated?” Vince tried to clarify.

“Yeah. Hetfield offered Sixx to take over a Dutch ship carrying spices to Americas. Promised a huge profit. We board it, eliminate the crew – the Dutch are poor slaves anyways – and then his men attack us! Of course, once we realised what was happening, they didn’t stand a chance. But they got a few of our boys by surprise.” Duff sighed. “Anyway, we’ve got both Hetfield’s ship and the spices, so I guess we’re winning here.”

Hetfield. That was the man the Baldie and Three Fingers mentioned when they came to the galley. He gave them Vince’s description – and, apparently, told them to search for him on the ship. How did he get to know Vince was here? And more, why did he need him? Could he recognize him on sight? Or maybe the Whartons put out a call for Vince’s rescue together with the description?

A lump formed in Vince’s throat. Those men could have come to save him. His family surely offered a big award for his rescue – Metallicos would absolutely want to cash in on it. And if they were privateers, maybe the Crown itself had a say in the matter. What if Vince’s rescue was one of the reasons they attacked the Shout crew?

And he killed them. Killed them with his own hands. Sure, they were a bit nasty, but that didn’t mean anything, right? A privateer is still a pirate, serving the king or not. And pirates weren’t the most well-bred kind.

“Dude, you alright?” Duff frowned. “You look like you’re gonna drop dead.”

“Yeah,” Vince heard himself saying, “yeah. I just need to sit down. I just need to… sit down.”

On shaky legs he shuffled away from the two friends and lowered himself on the deck. He killed his saviors with his own hands. He killed his own chance at rescue.

The air was filled with moans and yelling, Izzy gave commands somewhere in the distance, pirates hurried by. It was all a background noise to Vince. The thought gnawed at him, consumed him piece by piece. He was doomed to stay on the Shout till the end of his days.

He wasn’t allowed to wallow in his misery for long.

“Oh, here you are!” Tommy came up to him, his now bandaged hand hanging off his chest on a dirty rag. “We need to get rid of all these damn corpses onboard, and you’re among the only ones who’s almost unscathed. Robbin will help you.” He pointed at a grim blonde man with an eye patch crouching before one of the corpses. Vince hadn’t spoken to him before, and Robbin didn’t seem too eager to communicate either.

Vince rolled his eyes. “So I’m not a man enough to fight but a man enough to drag around corpses.”

“We didn’t let you fight not because we think you can’t,” Tommy replied sharply. “We’ve seen you in practice. There’s a different reason.”

“What reason?”

“You’ll get to know it someday. But for now, you’ll have to make do with what you have.”

“Did these privateers want to rescue me?” Vince asked directly. He didn’t doubt Tommy would lie to him, but maybe he could see a clue in the face of the first mate.

But Tommy just grinned wide. “Not everything is about you, princess. These bastards, may they burn in hell, wanted our loot. And now they don’t want anything because dead people don’t need things.”

Vince sighed. Tommy wasn’t as easy to crack as Mick. Or maybe Vince just didn’t know him well enough. “What about corpses of the crew?”

“We’ll bury them with honor, so just drag them to the center of the deck. Izzy will give you some sheets to cover them with. Wait, are you bleeding?”

Vince showed him the gash in his forearm he got from the pirate. It slowly but surely soaked his sleeve in dark-red.

“Oh, that’s nothing. I’ll call Izzy, he’ll patch you up in a moment. I think he’s done with the heaviest cases already. And then – corpses!”

Tommy strolled away. He was energetic and high-strung, as if the battle excitement still hadn’t let him go and he had nowhere to pour it into.

Izzy came with his usual bottle of vodka and a bundle of rags.

“Not as bad as it could be,” he murmured, pouring vodka all over the gash. “I’ve heard you took out two of Hetfield’s bastards all by yourself. Nice work.”

“Thanks.” Vince felt a tinge of pride. News spread fast, apparently.

Izzy dabbed a rag on the edges of the wound, wiped the blood that trickled down Vince’s arm and bandaged the gash.

“All done. You’re good to go.”

“Thanks. A lot of work today, huh?”

Izzy sighed heavily. “Yeah.”

He left. Vince glanced at grim Robbin that he was supposed to dispose of corpses with. He didn’t look one bit friendlier, but Vince surely wasn’t going to do everything alone.

Robbin didn’t answer his greeting, but did follow him to the first corpse. Guts that were spilling out of its stomach dragged on the deck behind it. The corpse sunk with a loud splash, and the water went wine-red in that spot for a second.

Getting the two corpses out of the galley up the hatch was an especially excruciating ordeal. Robbin on the deck pulled them upwards while Vince pushed them up from down below. The Baldie’s guts dripped all over his shirt, and Three Fingers’ boots left a trace on his cheek, and Vince, sweaty and dirty by the end of it, regretted killing them a hundred times over. Should have cut off their arms or something so they could walk out on their own and bleed out on deck.

At some point Vince lost count of how many spilled guts and cracked skulls and cut off limbs he saw that day. By the end of it he got numb and tired enough to not care. He only hoped they wouldn’t make him scrub the deck as well.

There were four corpses of the crew which Vince and Robbin arranged at the center of the deck and covered with white sheets. Soon the sheets were peppered with little red spots, but the corpses weren’t bleeding anymore so it didn’t go beyond that. Vince’s muscles were ringing with exertion and his legs were shaking – all those pirates sure ate too much for his liking.

When they were done, he and Robbin plopped down on the deck in a spot clean of blood to take a breath. For the first time Robbin looked Vince in the eyes and gave him a barely noticeable nod. Vince must have done well in the eyes of the pirate.

Just as he settled to have some rest and watch the sunset, he saw Mick approach him in big strides with a determined expression on his face.

“Here you are!” he said. “I need you in the galley. Dinner isn’t gonna cook itself.”

“Oh, come on,” Vince moaned, hiding his head between his knees. “I just spent two hours dragging corpses around, can I have some rest at least?”

“You’ll have to answer to all the hungry crewmates then. C’mon, c’mon.” Mick pulled on his sleeve. With a groan, Vince rose from the deck, shook off dirt from his irreparably ruined pants and followed Mick.

***

Blood soaked into the wooden floor of the galley, and the floor was cold and wet under Vince’s bare feet. He already dirtied his feet on the deck, so it didn’t bother him much. The blood on his pants and shirt already started to harden and stink, and Vince disposed of the shirt – it was ruined beyond repair anyway. The breeches weren’t much more pleasant to stay in, but he couldn’t walk around the ship naked. He hadn’t fallen so low yet.

“Which one of them broke her?” Mick suddenly asked as he lit up a lamp.

“The one with three fingers.”

“The one whose stomach you cut open?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he suffer? Or did he die quickly?”

“One doesn’t negate the other.”

Mick sighed. “Yeah, that’s true.”

He pulled out a rag, poured some water on it and gave it to Vince.

“Wipe yourself up. I don’t want all that blood to get into the food.”

“Do you, by any chance, have another shirt you don’t need?” Vince asked, wiping blood off his chest. It dried up and stuck to the skin, and he had to rub it hard to get rid of it.

“Nah, kid, you took the last one.”

“But I can’t just walk around like that.”

“You very much can. It’s not like it’s too cold for that, and no one cares about that bony chest of yours.”

“I care.”

“That’s your problem. C’mon, we need to get to work. Hungry pirates after a fight are no good to deal with.”

Mick decided on regular porridge: it was quick and filling and required low effort. Muttering went across the crew when they presented them with a pot of porridge instead of meat, but the hunger prevailed. Soon quiet descended on the deck, and it was even quieter than usual during dinner: no one was eager to make jokes and talk much that day.

Nikki dined on deck with Tommy a bit away from the crew. Vince feared even to look in his direction: what if he triggered the captain with a mere glance? He was extremely enraged at him today in the galley for no reason. Well, Nikki had some reason he thought up, something related to that Hetfield man whose crew they defeated. Did he suspect Vince had something to do with their betrayal? But why? He didn’t even see any of them before those two barged into the galley, let alone speak to them.

As the dinner neared its end, Nikki rose to his feet.

“Friends,” he said loudly, attracting everyone’s attention. “Crewmates. Let us honor our dead.”

He stood over the four corpses Vince and Robbin laid on deck. A speech followed, something along the lines of “we shared our bread, our beer and our battles”, reminding of each of the dead’s merits, recalling fun times together. Vince didn’t listen very closely – he didn’t know any of the dead. Besides, if he thought too much about what Nikki would say over his dead body, his heart would probably burst.

At the end everyone applauded very solemnly, and the corpses were gently descended into the water, with much more care than what Vince and Robbin applied. As everything was done, Nikki wished everyone good night and retired to his cabin, not sparing Vince a single look. It was a relief.

The one to spare more looks than Vince would like to was Tommy this time. Already slightly drunk, he came up to Vince, plopped on the bench next to him and invitingly patted his knee.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

Vince heaved a heavy sigh. He wasn’t as afraid of Tommy as of Nikki, but all his touches and pinches and smiles were not pleasant to say the least. Tommy hadn’t done anything of the sort to Vince yet – but Vince had a feeling it wouldn’t last for long.

“C’mon. Don’t make me wait.” Tommy’s voice hardened.

Vince looked around. Nobody but Mick noticed it, and Mick was assiduously looking away. There wouldn’t be any help from him.

“I haven’t finished my porridge.” Vince pointed at his half-finished plate.

“So?”

Vince bit his lip. Yeah, Tommy probably wouldn’t hit him too hard for disobeying, a smack on the head at worst. But he was also treated Vince pretty well (compared to Nikki, at least), and Vince didn’t want to lose his favor.

So he set down his plate, rose from the bench and walked up to Tommy. His moment of hesitation was cut short as Tommy pulled him onto his knees with his healthy arm. Incredible how much strength there was in those lanky limbs of his.

Vince wriggled on his knees a bit, trying to get more comfortable – if that was possible in such a pose. No one looked in their direction, but it was still only a question of time.

“That’s right, darling, get comfy,” Tommy said in his ear, hugging him with his healthy arm and drawing closer. Blood rushed to Vince’s ears, and he dropped his head, hoping that his hair would shield him from Tommy’s eyes, would help him keep his shame to himself. But Tommy didn’t let him.

“It’s alright,” he said, tucking Vince’s hair behind his ears. “We’re not doing anything, right? Just sitting there enjoying each other’s company.”

“Definitely not me,” Vince murmured, quietly but loud enough for Tommy to hear him – and grin in response.

“That’s the princess I know. Your obedience made me a bit wary.”

He pressed Vince’s head against his chest. For the uninformed they could look like a pair of lovers. Thankfully, the whole ship was informed enough, and the glances they were getting were quickly averted. That didn’t decrease the shame pooling in Vince’s stomach, but at least they didn’t stare openly.

“How you doing?” Tommy continued like there was nothing happening. “Was that, what, the second fight in your life?”

“Yes.”

“Were you scared? I was scared at my second fight. I was barely eighteen, and there were all those grown men brandishing sabers and guns. The smoke, the blood… We fought, we won, and I spent the night puking over the board from sheer stress.”

Well, even seasoned pirates had their first fights, Vince reasoned. He didn’t understand why Tommy was telling him this, though. What was his purpose? Get him all soft and trusting and then break it all – or let Nikki do it – to hurt him even more?

“I’m fine.” More scared of Nikki, he wanted to add but didn’t.

“Yeah, I see how you’re fine. Quiet, suspiciously obedient, and, oh, look at those shaking hands. That’s a fella who is totally fine.” Tommy cupped Vince’s chin and turned his head to face him. Vince looked him in the eyes defiantly – see, I’m not scared, not of you, not of anyone else.

“I have killed before,” he said. “Two of your men, to be clear. And two today. That makes a count of four.”

“That’s a solid count for a non-pirate. I killed only nineteen people, which, at ten years of experience, isn’t much. Nikki’s count is twice as high.”

“Only?!” Vince choked on his own saliva. “And do you mean Nikki killed nearly forty?”

“Well, he says so. He might embellish the number a bit, but I think it’s pretty accurate.”

Forty kills… forty people dead at the hands of the captain. He took lives like he took his morning beer – quickly, easily and ruthlessly. Killing Vince would probably be like snapping fingers to him. It was probably how it all would end. The question was not if, but when.

“You’ve been pirating for ten years?” Vince decided to change the topic. Tommy seemed benevolent enough to share some information. “But you don’t look much over twenty. How old were you when you started?”

“Do I look that young?” Tommy pouted. “I’m twenty-five already. Maybe twenty-six. My parents weren’t sure on an exact date. So… fifteen, I guess?”

“Some crew took you in at fifteen?”

“Me and Nikki, yeah. I was a cabin-boy. Not in the way you are now a cabin-boy, though. Hey!” Vince poked him in his hurt arm, and Tommy jabbed him with his elbow in response. Vince tried to use this momentary hassle to wrestle free, but Tommy’s grip was unyielding. He gave up and continued the conversation.

“And Nikki?”

“He was a bit older, so he qualified as a sailor. Nineteen, maybe?”

“So he’s now twenty-nine.” Vince examined Tommy’s face, looking for a joke, but there was not a sign of it even on Tommy’s eternally-grinning face. He must be serious.

“You sure know how to count.”

“Only twenty-nine, and already a captain of his own ship? How come?”

“Oh, that’s a long story. Let’s just say: a whole lot of blood got spilled.”

Tommy talked about it light-heartedly, but a shiver ran down Vince’s spine. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the details. On the other hand, it was always useful to know who you were dealing with…

“That’s probably because he gets angry often,” he said. “Sometimes without a reason. Like at me today.”

“Today?” Tommy suddenly got very serious. “Oh yeah, he was mighty pissed, and as much as I explained to him that you couldn’t possibly conspire with Metallicos – on account of you having never talked to a single one of them in your life – he still, I think, somewhat believes it. So you be careful around him for the next couple days. Try not to piss him off too much.”

So Nikki thought for some reason that Vince conspired with those enemy pirates of whose existence he learned a couple days ago and hadn’t seen till today? And even Tommy couldn’t convince him otherwise? Great, just great. Nikki didn’t look like a person who would let an emotion subside by itself; he was the one to make it everyone else’s problem. Vince’s problem, in particular.

“It seems me merely breathing already pisses him off,” Vince murmured.

“Well, sometimes you can be rather annoying just standing there with that expression of yours.”

“What expression?” Vince blinked in confusion. He might have let a grimace or two slip through, but usually tried not to let his emotions spill onto the surface. He wasn’t sure if he was successful in it, though.

“Well, that expression. When you pout and look from underneath your lashes. Like you’re all high and mighty and we’re just ants under your feet.” Tommy pinched his cheek. “Get rid of that noble residue, Vinnie, or finding friends on here will be extremely difficult.”

“I’m not doing that! At least, not on purpose!” Vince pushed Tommy’s hand away. In return Tommy grabbed him by the jaw, dug his nails into the skin on Vince’s cheeks and pulled his face very close to his.

“Don’t do that.” His hot breath blew over Vince’s face. “Or I might get angry too. And you wouldn’t like it.”

Yes, Vince had to agree, he wouldn’t like it. If Tommy didn’t lie – and he probably didn’t, seeing how he was defending Vince at the galley – he tried to talk sense into Nikki on Vince’s behalf. With questionable results, but it counted. And Vince didn’t want to lose an – it was hard to admit, but he had to – an ally.

“Sorry,” he said as clearly as Tommy’s hand on his jaw allowed him too. Which was not really clear, but Tommy understood him.

“That’s better. Now, let’s try again.” He pinched Vince’s cheek a second time, now much more painfully. Vince gritted his teeth and said and did nothing.

Tommy was satisfied. “Good boy,” he said. “Now give me a kiss and you can go. On the cheek, don’t worry,” he added, laughing at Vince’s miserable expression.

It didn’t make the situation much better, but Vince wanted to get away way more than he wanted to give the motherfucker a piece of his mind. He quickly gave him a peck on the cheek, his lips burning from the touch to the warm skin, and slid off Tommy’s knees the moment he released his grip. He couldn’t see Tommy watching his retreat, but he knew the asshole was laughing.

“Hey, Vince!” he heard Mick’s voice. “Where you going? We ain’t done here.”

Mick made him gather all the plates from the crewmates and only after that permitted to go to the galley with an additional ordeal of washing the dishes. But Vince was happy to, as long as he was away from all the pirates, and especially Tommy. He wasn’t violent, or cruel, or particularly unpleasant today, but Vince felt sticky all over from all those little touches and small taunts. It took him all his willpower to ignore them, and now he was tired and empty and just wanted to crawl under his blanket.

He did, eventually, after all the dishes and a couple other errands from Mick were done, and passed out of sheer exhaustion the moment his head hit his rolled-up rag that served as his pillow.