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saffusthings · 2 months ago

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second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part thirty: daniel

word count: 6.5k (the longest yet!)

warnings: the chapter contains violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.

twenty-nine | thirty | thirty-one

“It’s an ambush! You guys need to get out, now!”

It hit like ice in the chest.

Lando didn’t flinch, but Max tensed beside him. Across the space, Yuki caught the movement, eyes narrowing.

“Something wrong?” Pierre asked, still smiling.

Lando didn’t answer. His hand had already shifted slightly inside his coat, fingertips brushing the handle of the gun holstered at his side. His gaze swept the site—not panicked, but fast and sharp. Calculating.

He saw it now. The strategically lengthy tirades, the disproportionately coy smile, the knives hanging from Tsunoda’s belt. The very way Pierre had come crawling out of the woodwork so many years after the two of them knowing each other, bearing grand promises of riches and partnerships one random night as if by some happenstance of the universe.

It had been clean. Too clean.

They’d been setting him up from the start.

For a second, there was silence.

A beat where everything held still—where the unfinished beams of the club echoed with the sound of wind and the faint hum of construction generators. Where the world hesitated.

But the moment Oscar’s warning hit his ear, Lando knew it was already too late to leave clean.

And then—

Gunfire cracked through the air like a whip.

Chaos shattered the night.

He didn’t move a muscle—but Max did. A flicker of instinct. He reached beneath his jacket just as the first gunshot cracked like thunder, shattering a window high above them. Concrete dust rained down like snow.

Max Fewtrell was the first to move, shoving Lando sideways behind a stack of cement bags just as bullets ripped through where he’d been standing seconds before. Lando rolled, coat flying back as he drew his weapon, ears already ringing with the sudden roar of violence. He could hear yelling—Pierre barking orders in French, someone screaming from the upper levels, the grinding roar of an engine kicking to life from outside.

Max was crouched low beside him, already firing back.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, reloading with quick, trained hands. “This is a setup. Gasly sold us out.”

“No shit,” Lando snapped, voice tight. He pressed a finger to his earpiece, voice low but sharp. “Oscar—”

“I’m– I’m pinned,” Oscar replied, breathless, the sound of a sniper rifle clattering. “They knew I was up here. One on the roof, at least. Maybe two?”

The space proceeded to explode into chaos.

From the shadows behind the scaffolding, two men emerged—automatic rifles raised. Ocon opened fire, bullets chewing into the rusted metal frames just a few feet from Lando’s head. Max shoved him hard behind a steel beam, returning fire in tight, disciplined bursts.

Another shot.

Closer this time.

Sniper–?

No, two of them.

Oscar was pinned.

Lando’s voice was calm in the comms. “We’re lit up. I want eyes on every goddamn angle. Now.”

Outside, Logan heard it and reacted instantly. Tires screeched as his car skid right to the construction fencing, engine still running as he jumped out with his Glock already in hand.

Pierre stood there, unmoved in the middle of it all, not flinching as bullets flew overhead. Just watching. A slow smile curling over his lips.

“I told you,” he said quietly, as Yuki ducked and slipped out of view. “Like old times, eh?”

Lando’s eyes narrowed.

“You dirty fucking bastard. You set this up!”

Pierre shrugged, the smirk never falling. “Hmm, well, not all the credit is for me.”

From the mezzanine above, another figure emerged—calm, tailored, hair brushed back like a goddamn crown prince.

Charles Leclerc.

The bastard walked like it was a catwalk, not a warzone. Confident. Inevitable. Behind him, his two brothers flanked him like twin lions, guns in hand, their eyes on Lando.

Charles’s voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a blade. “You are not stupid, Lando. You knew the drugs were not yours to touch. You thought your little poison had wings? Thought Noxium would not be noticed, would not clip into our market?”

Lando’s blood turned to ice.

The Leclercs.

This wasn’t just about territory. It was a message, a reckoning.

“Lando Norris, you made yourself a Reaper,” Charles said, tone dropping to something low and sinister. “Now I’m here to remind you who builds the coffins.”

Then, all hell broke loose.

Blood already smeared across one cheek, Logan crashed through the door like a thunderbolt, gun drawn, firing clean and fast. He shoved one of the Leclerc brothers – the younger one, Arthur– near the scaffolding before yelling, “They’ve got snipers in the east lot too. I knifed one, but there’s another crawling the perimeter!”

Another voice cut in—Carlos, gritting into his own comm, “We are three minutes out. Hold your ground.”

“They brought a whole bloody army,” Max spat, ducking behind a crumbling pillar. “What the fuck happened? What– What’d we miss?”

Lando’s eyes narrowed. His mind, even under fire, was already stringing the pieces together.

Pierre—too smooth, too cooperative. That sly grin, the way he stalled in the beginning. He hadn’t been offering a deal: he’d been buying time.

And now… now Lando understood why — Charles Leclerc.

He didn’t look rushed or angry. He looked like he’d been waiting for this – like he’d dreamed of it, like vengeance was a dinner he planned to eat slowly.

“Lando Norris,” Charles sang, casual as if greeting an old friend, a gun loose in his right hand as he searched to see where the response would sound from. There was something gleeful hidden in those dark eyes as he smiled, his accent curling like smoke. “You’ve been trespassing.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t touch any of your shit. I kept my hands to m’self.”

“You used to,” Charles said, walking closer to the sound of the Brit’s voice, hunting him down. “Clubs, casinos, protection—yes, those were yours. I left them to you, quite generous of me.”

Lando and Max panted under their breaths, exchanging a glance as they hear the sound of vintage Italian leather shoes echoing through the structure.

They did not come here to die today.

“But the drugs, Lando? Your precious Noxium? That’s our family’s lifeline. That was supposed to be ours. You knew that.”

A beat.

“You knew exactly what you were doing.”

And just like that, the game changed.

This wasn’t about territory. This wasn’t business. This was personal.

Pierre hadn’t betrayed Lando for profit. He’d done it for Charles. – the two of them childhood friends, tied in blood and sweat and secrets.

The entire fucking meeting had been a blood-stained invitation.

A time and place for the Reaper to bleed.

More of Lando’s men were beginning to come into view—Carlos barreling in from the back alley with Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo at his heels. The air turned molten, full of dust and fire and bullet heat, as the fight exploded across the half-built club.

Lando didn’t flinch.

He stood up from behind the scaffolding, straining his stance, eyes locked on Charles across the smoke with a gun pointed directly at his face.

“You made your point,” Lando said. “Now let’s see if you can survive it.”

Carlos burst in through a side entrance, firing clean and close-quartered, and with Daniel Ricciardo coming in hot behind him. “They’re on all sides! There’s more behind the loading dock—three minimum!”

Oscar’s voice snapped through the earpiece, breathless: “I’m compromised! This idiot came for the high ground first—fucking amateurs, but I got my hands full. Someone need to cover Lando!”

Max reloaded beside him, jaw tight, knuckles bloodied. “We’ve got five minutes if we’re lucky. Less if the Leclercs brought every cousin they’ve got.”

Logan dragged a wounded shooter behind a stack of pallets and pressed Lando’s spare piece into his hand. “What’s the plan, boss?”

Lando stood, finally—face unreadable, coat streaked with dust, his hand steady on the grip of his weapon. His eyes locked with Charles’s above.

“You wanted a Reaper?” he growled, voice low and lethal. “You’re about to meet him.”

Gunfire erupted through the half-constructed club, lighting up the darkness like a battlefield. The acrid scent of gunpowder mixed with the heavy, oily stench of fresh concrete and steel, filling the air with a metallic tang. Every corner was a potential trap, every noise a chance at death. Shadows flitted across the space, their movements quick and deliberate. The chaos was alive, its pulse thumping in time with the gunfire.

Carlos crouched low behind a hole in the drywall, his hands working fast and fluid as he reloaded, exchanging one clip for another. The sharp, precise motions were second nature—no hesitation, no mistakes. Daniel, grimacing in pain, leaned against a load-bearing column to catch his breath, blood beginning to stain his shirt.. Still, his finger never left the trigger, a smug grin permanently etched into his face, like he was still having fun.

Across the battlefield, Yuki’s voice crackled over the opposing team’s comms. The orders were clipped, cold, spoken in rapid Japanese. They were well-organized, methodical—an efficient machine moving in perfect synchrony.

But Lando’s men were just as sharp.

Lando finally backed Charles into a corner, smirking as he pulled the gun from his holster. Charles was a smart enough man with enough experience to recognize that glimmer in the obsidian of Lando’s eyes.

It was the call of death.

A sign of the true Reaper.

For a split second, everything went quiet. Around them, the usual chaos felt like it slowed, or at least faded into background noise. The silence was only a moment, a breath, but it was enough to make the hairs on the back of Lando’s neck rise. It was the calm in the storm, the strange lull that only ever happens in real fights—everything paused for that single heartbeat.

Somewhere around him, he could identify the distant sounds of Logan holding the line at the loading bay, steady shots ringing out from his position. Oscar, with what was probably a broken rib, was still picking off targets from above, his shots sharp and deliberate. Daniel and Carlos surveyed in overlapping circles, ready for the next of their attackers to come from almost any direction. Max Verstappen had his hands full, the sound of each merciless blow Pierre received echoing through the surrounding structure.

Logan. Oscar. Daniel. Carlos. Max Verstappen.

Max.

Where’s Max?

That was when Lando Norris made his only mistake. He glanced beside him to check for Max Fewtrell – just a flick of his eyes, barely noticeable at all.

But it was enough.

From where he stood, Charles Leclerc saw it instantly. It wasn’t much—a small crack, a human moment, the briefest flicker of emotion.

But it was too late for Lando to take it back.

“Go for him,” Leclerc barked, the command bellowing even from where the Monagesque stood cornered. “The one he looked at!”

Instantly, both Lorenzo and Arthur Leclerc turned and began flanking from the left. Yuki Tsunoda circled from the right. The rest moved like a pack of wolves, closing in with a singular focus.

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“Shit– Fewtrell!”

Max had just ducked back into cover when he noticed the incoming attack. The men moved with precision, intent on isolating him, forcing him into a corner.

Without a second thought, Lando moved. He slid behind a piece of cover, coming up just enough to fire two quick shots— forcing Gasly’s rookie to drop to clutch at the new gaping wounds in his thigh. Lando sprinted, reaching Max just as bullets began to ping off the exposed rebar behind them.

Max coughed, wiping dust from his face. “Just for me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Lando shot back, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him closer towards Logan’s position. “Get moving. Don’t stop.”

They barely made it to safety. Barely.

But Lando wasn’t done yet. He was hit—a baton crashing into his ribs. He hadn’t seen Lorenzo closing in. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, sending him crashing back against the cold concrete floor. Pain exploded through him, but there was no time to dwell on it.

Bootsteps. One set, then another.

They were too close.

Lando blinked through the haze of pain, looking up just as a shadow fell over him. The silhouette of a dark figure, the distinct profile of his Monagesque rival with his pistol raised.

Ready.

For a heartbeat, Lando’s world slowed. The figure took a fraction of a second too long, but it was enough.

Then, instinct took over.

With a brutal twist, Lando wrenched a utility knife from his boot and drove it into the man’s calf. There was no finesse – just raw, brutal violence. Charles screamed in agony, and consequently, his grip on the gun faltered.

Lando knocked the weapon away with a vicious swipe, rolling to his feet, grabbing the gun as it fell. Two rounds rang out—straight into the man’s vest. Another figure lunged from the side. Lando ducked, the movement fluid, his elbow slamming into the attacker’s ribs before he shot him down, quick and efficient.

It wasn’t quiet enough.

A bullet ricocheted off the metal overhead, only narrowly missing Lando’s head. The noise echoed in his skull, ringing in his ears.

Sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the blood—his own, someone else’s. His arm shook, barely holding onto the gun, but he didn’t lower it.

Not yet. Not until they knew.

Lando stepped back, firing two shots into the ceiling—loud, commanding.

The message was clear.

Back. The. Fuck. Off.

The remaining attackers hesitated, then one by one, they began to pull back, retreating beyond the skeleton of the unfinished building like rats scurrying for cover. Lando blinked, and Charles Leclerc was already gone.

Oscar’s voice crackled in his ear, rough and breathless. “They’re, uh– They’re clearing. We can pull back now.”

Slowly, carefully, the team began to regroup. Every move felt like a struggle. The adrenaline was still coursing through their veins, but they were all battered, bruised.

Alive, if only just.

Even as they watched their adversaries disappear into the night, the air still crackled with the aftershocks of violence.

Carlos was the first to lower his weapon fully. His face was split open at the brow, blood crusting in a jagged line down the side of his temple. His shirt, ripped at the sleeve, clung to him like a second skin. He exhaled shakily, then staggered to one knee beside the busted crate he’d used for cover.

Oscar emerged next—limping, rifle slack in his grip, sweat-soaked curls stuck to his forehead. His mouth was a hard line, his eyes unreadable behind the dim flicker of overhead bulbs that hadn’t stopped buzzing since the first shot. He didn’t say anything. Just sat down against the nearest concrete pillar and pressed the heel of his palm into the ribs he’d likely cracked during the fight.

Logan was the last one in.

He slid in through the back corridor, bloody knuckles and bruises blooming along his arms like mottled paint. There was a cut just beneath his jaw that he hadn’t bothered to wipe. “I got two of ‘em,” he muttered, voice gravel. “Lost one. Maybe.”

No one answered.

Max sat crumpled on the ground, elbows propped on his knees. He kept his head down, hands open in front of him like he wasn’t sure what to do with them now. His shirt was half torn, the side of his face swollen and bruised. One of his fingers was bent at an odd angle, but he didn’t seem to have noticed yet.

Lando stood at the edge of it all, his black pistol still in hand, his shirt torn at the collar, his left cheekbone already beginning to turn a shade of yellow. His breathing was steady, but his pulse was loud enough to feel in his teeth. He hadn’t spoken since the last shot fired.

The silence between them was almost reverent, but it wasn’t quite relief yet.

Carlos coughed, winced, and forced himself upright. “Everyone—?”

Oscar glanced toward the far corridor. Then shook his head, once, sharply. “No one else came in after us.”

Logan’s lips parted, but he didn’t ask the question they were all thinking. He didn’t have to.

There were five of them here.

Just five.

Lando still hadn’t moved. His eyes scanned the wreckage—the spent shells littering the ground, the smear of blood across the broken wall, the shape of his own shadow in the flickering light.

He finally turned toward the group. His expression was quiet and composed, his eyes dark.

No one spoke for a while.

The dust settled like ash around them, and all they could hear was the distant thrum of city life bleeding back into the broken building—the sirens, the grind of tires, some fuckin’ bird chirping in the aftermath of what felt like a warzone.

Lando drew a breath, and it tasted like copper and regret.

His palm was still stained with someone’s blood. Maybe his, maybe not. Everything felt too wrecked to tell.

He turned.

Carlos was seated now, his head leaning back against the unfinished wall, his arm slung across his torso with a long-sleeve shirt acting as a makeshift bandage. His lip was split, those large brown eyes of his glassier than his boss had ever seen them. But he gave Lando a weak thumbs-up when their eyes met, and Lando didn’t have the heart not to give him a small smile back.

Carlos, who could’ve gone anywhere. NASA, Mercedes — any of the places that would’ve worshipped that brilliant mind of his. But he stayed—for his dad. He wanted to give the old man the life he’d always dreamed of, something to reward him for all he’s given up for a boy of the same name.

The Spaniard had definitely made Lando proud today.

Logan was also crouched nearby, his jacket torn, his knuckles split. His shoulders were tense, but his eyes kept darting, sharp and alert. He’d never let himself rest before the job was done. Lando remembers the kid he met years ago, straight outta Florida, all sunburn and bright eyes and nerves. The kind of kid who wanted to be someone. Lando had seen himself in that hunger. When Lando looked at him, Logan looked at him with a bright smile, eager to show how unaffected he was.

With their complementary shiners, Lando could see a bit of himself in Logan tonight too.

Oscar was still perched on the stairwell, holding his ribs. It seemed he preferred the higher vantage point, even now. There was blood on his shirt, darker closer to the part near the hem that covered his hip. Lando couldn’t tell how deep the wound was, but Oscar hadn’t let go of his rifle. He’d never even blinked when the chaos had hit. In fact, he was the reason they weren’t all dead.

Oscar was the reason Lando got the warning at all.

Then there was Max Fewtrell, slumped against the doorway as he pressed a cold cloth to the side of his head. He’d nearly been hit. No, he was hit—grazed across the temple, just enough to make Lando’s heart stop when he had seen the blood.

Fewtrell had always been different. It would be untrue to say he was just the same as the others. Even Lando knew, deep down, that he was different – not just a soldier, not just a friend. He was the only one who could get under Lando’s skin in a way that felt familial. He was the only one who could call him out on his shit and still get a small smile after. And today, Lando had almost lost him.

All because of one second – one look.

One look had almost cost Lando the only man he considered his brother.

He dragged a hand down his face, smearing dust into the blood on his skin, and counted again.

Carlos. Logan. Oscar. Fewtrell. Verstappen.

His gaze swept the room again.

Wait.

Where’s—

Where the fuck is Daniel?

He turned around, his eyes scanning the place again—back over the entryway, the busted scaffolding, the stairwell. He pushed himself to remember.

Where had Daniel been when the shooting started? He was right behind Lando, wasn’t he? Left side?

“Anyone seen Ricciardo?” Lando asked.

No one answers. Max looked up, blinking. Logan shifted uncomfortably. Carlos doesn’t move at all. Oscar just swore under his breath.

And that’s when it really hit Lando.

He didn’t see it coming. He missed the trap. He was smarter than that, for fuck’s sake – he’d known there would be one. But he let himself get cocky, and now someone who mattered —someone who trusted him— might be gone. Because they’d gone for his soft spot, and once again, he didn’t even realize it was exposed.

He stares at the cracked floor for a second. The sharp sting in his lungs returns, but it wasn’t from the smoke.

It was guilt.

“Keep eyes out,” he mutters, and then louder, firmer, “Find him.”

They’d only just begun to search—Logan darting toward a side hallway, Oscar cautiously peering around a corner, Carlos gritting his teeth as he pushed himself upright—when a figure emerged from behind an unfinished stairwell.

“Daniel?” Max’s voice cut through first, rough and tight with disbelief.

The others turned, and there he was.

The Aussie was dragging one foot behind the other, his shoulders hunched, his arms limp at his sides. His shirt was torn, stained dark with blood and soot. Cuts lined his jaw and temple. His face was pale, slack with exhaustion. But he was there. Alive. Moving—if just barely.

“Daniel, where were you, mate?” Fewtrell was already beginning to approach closer, concern overtaking the limp in his own step. “We were all—”

“I don’t know how it happened,” Daniel mumbled, the words tumbling out slurred and slow. His eyes were wide and glassy, not really seeing them.

“What?” Logan called, squinting toward him through the dark and the dust that had yet to settle. “Daniel—what are you talking about?”

“I didn’t know how to get it out,” Daniel said again, voice starting to hitch. His breathing was shallow now, labored. “I tried… heh, I tried—but, em,—”

Lando stepped forward, cutting through the rest of the voices. He moved fast, closing the distance and bracing Daniel by both shoulders, steadying him before he could collapse. His grip was firm, but his touch betrayed a flicker of fear—trying to keep Daniel upright, keep him here.

“Daniel,” he said, locking eyes with him. “What the fuck are you talking ‘bout, mate?”

Daniel wavered again. His knees buckled slightly, and Lando instinctively pulled him closer, adjusting his stance to hold him better.

And that’s when he saw it.

The hilt of a kris dagger protruded from between Daniel’s shoulder blades, dark metal glinting beneath the soot and blood. It was carved—elegant, almost ceremonial. A sickle curve, buried deep enough to split ribs and tear through anything in its path.

Lando froze, his breath caught hard in his lungs. The others hadn’t seen it yet, the wound still hidden from view. But he had.

Daniel was starting to sag forward now, strength draining from his limbs as his blood soaked through Lando’s hands. His eyes lost focus. His breaths came in short, wet gasps.

“Oh my god…” Lando whispered, arms tightening around him, desperate to keep him from slipping any further. “Daniel…”

Daniel blinked, as if trying to stay awake. His jaw trembled. “I didn’t know how to tell you, mate,” he whispered, broken and shaking. “Didn’t wanna ruin your win…”

Lando’s head dropped, throat closing up around the swell of panic. He shook his head, once, fiercely.

This didn’t feel like a win.

They didn’t go home.

There was nowhere to go. Not until they knew, at least.

So they dragged Daniel back to one of their safehouses, a cramped, peeling basement below a now-closed tailor’s. By the time they set him down, Oscar was already yelling for gauze and towels, trying to stop the bleeding that wouldn’t comply with his will. Carlos had the med kit ripped open before Oscar could even finish asking, and Max Verstappen pulled his navy hoodie off, balling it up and handing it over with a trembling hand that no one commented on like it was the only thing that might help.

Lando followed in silence, pale and smeared with blood all over. Even after he yanked that godforsaken blade from where it had embedded itself deep into the flesh of Daniel’s back, his hands never quite stopped shaking.

And Daniel?

Daniel was still cracking jokes, sense of humor still just as intact as the day Lando had found the only mechanic on Monte Carlo who was open at 3 AM. The Brit had searched every nook and cranny of this city in hopes of finding someone, anyone, who could save his precious car – that first McLaren he’d ever bought with his own money.

Daniel always did know how to fix the unfixable.

“'S not that bad, right?” he slurs, eyes fluttering open. “I mean— m'still prettier than Max,” he quips with a bad wink in the direction where he has to assume his old friend is.

Someone laughed — maybe Verstappen. Maybe it was a choked sob.

It was hard to tell, really.

Oscar worked fast, just as he always did. But even he hesitated, just for a second, when he peeled Max’s hoodie back so he could get a better look at the wound again. It wasn‘t just deep—it was designed to stay. The kris’s path was cruel and clever, curved to tear what couldn’t be stitched.

Still, no one said it, because saying it would make it real.

Carlos hovered nearby, quietly wringing a rag in a bowl of water that had long since turned red. Max knelt by Daniel’s head, talking to him softly in English when the familiar Dutch didn’t stick. Logan paced the length of the dimly lit room like a caged dog. Oscar wouldn’t stop moving, fidgeting with his makeshift tools, his sleeves, anything he could reasonably reach.

Lando didn’t have the heart to tell the kid off.

Instead, Lando just sat there, his hands coated in Daniel’s blood, his jaw clenched so tight it clicked.

Every so often, Daniel would stir – breath hitching, jokes fading.

Then one hour became two. Two then became four. When Max stroked his curls away from his forehead where they were matted with sweat, he could feel his friend’s skin grow colder. The silences began to stretch longer.

But still—at least he was breathing.

That was the spark – that was what kept them from falling apart.

“He’s strong,” Max blurted out, the sincerity of his words making him sound younger, more innocent. “He’s– He’s fucking strong, alright? He’ll pull through.”

“His color’s holding,” Carlos added, cautiously optimistic. “This is good, yes?”

Oscar didn’t say anything. He’d seen too much to lie.

Lando refused to blink. In all the hours they spend there, he refused to sleep, refused to even think of a version of this scenario where Daniel didn’t wake up and make fun of them all for being so damn dramatic.

From his seat by the head of the table turned makeshift bed, Lando just kept whispering, “You’re fine. You’re fine, Danny. We’re gonna get through this. You’re gonna be okay.”

But everyone else knew what a wound like that meant, what a life like this meant for each of them. They all knew what Lando couldn't say.

It was only a matter of time.

They all knew what business they were in.

No one got into this line of work thinking they’d make it to fifty with a pension and a neat little garden. Nobody had gotten here by accident. Not a single one of them could claim ignorance. They were in the kind of game where exits came in body bags, and grief was a cost you factored into the ledgers. They were gamblers, all of them—risking limb and life on a daily basis, trading safety for control, comfort for power.

But Daniel was different.

He always had been, really.

He knew the darkness, saw it clearer than most, in fact. But still—somehow—he stayed good, better, kinder. He always laughed harder, held on longer. Daniel Ricciardo carried hope like a flare he refused to drop, even when the wind howled and the rain came in sideways.

He was, despite everything, the best of them.

That made it worse. Because none of them were surprised that he’d gone down for them, only sickened by how easily it could’ve been anyone else. That it was him hurt in their place.

The truth was that, despite everything, none of them ever imagined it’d be Danny.

Not Danny Ric, with his crooked grin and dumb jokes and the kind of laughter that made you forget how goddamn dark it always was. Not Daniel, who remembered birthdays and brought back stupid souvenirs and called them all mate like it meant something.

He wasn’t soft—God, no. He was ruthless when he had to be. Everyone knew that Ricciardo could flip a man with a wrench and a grin and walk away whistling.

But still, he was hopeful. The great tragedy of Daniel Ricciardo was that he was the most hopeful of them all. He was the brightest, the one who cracked the darkest rooms open with his smile and made them forget, if only for a moment, that they were criminals. He knew the worst of them and still chose to be the best of them. He was the one who, even after watching what this world had done to people, still somehow believed they were worth saving.

So when he took the blade to the back—a fucking kris, curved and cruel and ancient like some sick ceremonial final blow—something shifted. Something broke, not just in his body, but in all of them.

He was light, in a world of shadows, and now, the light was flickering.

The way they moved—the urgency, the silence, the glances they exchanged—it was in the air like blood in the water.

Oscar got up to do the bandaging again. His hands were steady, but his jaw ticked with restraint. Max kept shifting on his feet like he wanted to hit something. Carlos leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyes glassy but dry. Logan sat on the steps with his head bowed, silent.

Lando went to kneel by Daniel, stripped of the usual iron-clad armor he wears around his boys. There was no sharp grin, no cocky tilt of the chin – just open pain in his eyes as he watched one of his oldest friends fade in front of him.

Daniel’s hand was clammy in his. His lips parted, then closed again like he was trying to say something and forgetting what.

Lando leaned in. “Still with me?”

Daniel smiled, just barely. “Yeah, boss.”

It gutted him, that smile.

That fucking smile.

Blood loss. Organ damage. Shock. Oscar had said the words without flinching, clinical and grim. But Lando saw the way his hands shook when he stepped back. The way Logan had to steady him without making it obvious.

Carlos sat with his elbows on his knees, silent. Max leaned against the wall, arms crossed too tight, jaw locked. Even he looked like something in him was unraveling, thread by careful thread.

None of them were crying, but there was rawness in the air. This was part of the life. But that didn’t mean they had to like it.

Lando cleared his throat. “We’re gonna get them for this. Tsunoda’s gonna pay. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Yeah?” Daniel murmured, barely audible. “You better.”

“I will,” Lando promised. “Don’t you worry, yeah? They’re already dead.”

Daniel exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a laugh. “Tell Leclerc I said… ‘fuck you.’ In French.”

Carlos smiled, just a little. “Pretty sure he speaks English too, mate.”

They all chuckled, but just a bit – if only because Daniel would’ve wanted them to, even now.

Max Verstappen stepped closer and crouched down beside him. “You remember the job in Monza?” he asks.

“God…” Daniel sighed. “The bar fight?”

“You did start it.”

“Yeah,” Daniel breathed. “But I ended it too.”

Lando grinned despite the ache in his chest. “Damn right you did.”

More stories followed after that, each of them giving a piece of their memory, something bright, something bold, something that felt like it’d live on in the stars even after tonight. Each anecdote was an attempt at trading grief for something warmer, at holding on with words when their hands couldn’t seem to do enough.

It was Lando who took charge, just as it always has been. So they each spoke to him now — not over Daniel, but to him. Around him, as though he were already halfway out the door.

He was still breathing, but it was slower now. Softer, like even his body knew it was time to rest.

Daniel coughed again—wet, weak, red trailing from the corner of his mouth—and Lando stood.

He moved like he wasn’t thinking anymore. The muscles of his body moved purely on instinct, some muscle memory he developed over the year, the rhythm that helped him embody his role.

The Boss. The one who made the calls when no one else could.

He crouched by Daniel’s side, his own hand firm on the older man’s shoulder. Lando’s thumb brushed over his knuckles, his voice steady as a dying star.

“Daniel,” he said softly. “Stay with us.”

Daniel’s eyes fluttered open. “M’trying.”

“I know.” Lando swallowed, glancing briefly at the others, then back. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but he looked paler than he did a moment ago, almost sickly. “You did good. You hear me? You did everything right.”

Daniel gave the ghost of a smile. “Always do.”

Max huffed. “Liar.”

Carlos looked up. “Worst liar I ever met.”

Daniel laughed. It shook his whole chest and sent him into another coughing fit. Logan was there instantly, cloth in hand, wiping at the corner of his mouth.

Daniel blinked slowly. “We… Did we win?”

Lando nodded once. “We’re alive. You did that.”

Silence fell again. Then Daniel sighed, a long, low exhale like he’d finally finished something. His eyes slid closed again, lips parted. Still breathing, but lighter now, quieter.

“Is this it?” Logan asked quietly, not to anyone in particular.

But they all looked to Lando, because that’s what they did. That’s what Daniel had always done, too. They trusted Lando to lead.

Perhaps that was Daniel’s fatal mistake.

Instead of looking back at them, Lando stood slowly, his gaze on Daniel and his face unreadable. A long moment passed, Lando taking a deep breath before he spoke.

“Let him rest.”

They knew what that meant. None of them argued. None of them begged or made some desperate play for hope.

Instead, they took turns stepping forward. Each of them said their piece in quiet tones, fragments of affection, of memories. Carlos pressed a kiss to his forehead. Max Fewtrell squeezed his uninsured shoulder in a gesture that he could only hope conveyed everything he could barely bring himself to say — a lifetime of gratitude and camaraderie and unspent love in a single gesture.

Oscar took off his watch and set it beside him—the same way Daniel had done once, years ago, after Oscar’s first mission went sideways. Max just sat down beside him and said, “Thanks for being better than us, Daniel.”

Logan lingered the longest. The young boy held his hand, told him a joke that made absolutely no sense, laughed for both of them, then walked out without a word.

In the end, it was Lando that remained.

Lando stayed until the others were gone, until it was just him and Daniel and the silence that pressed against the windows like night fog.

He crouched down again, brushed back a curl from Daniel’s sweat-matted hair.

“I’ll take care of them,” he told him. Even though he wore a smile, his voice was raw now, lower. “I swear to God, I’ll take care of all of them.”

A pause. Then—

“I’ll miss you, mate.”

He waited.

No reply came — just the smallest, shakiest breath.

“Alright, mate. It’s okay now.”

Daniel’s eyelids fluttered, the last spark of awareness lingering. Lando raised his hand, pressing it to his forehead gently.

“Sleep.”

And so, Daniel did. As he complied with his boss’s command one final time, he finally sank into a long, long sleep, and the room, once full of ghosts and grit and blood and noise, fell silent.

Lando stood, let out one long, shaking breath and walked out the door.

Behind him, Daniel Ricciardo lay still at last.

He didn’t remember the turns he took to get there.

The streets blurred past in streaks of black and neon, headlights beaming through the fog, buildings bleeding into one another like a watercolor left in the rain. The ringing in his ears hadn’t yet stopped since the ambush, low and echoey. Blood clung to what remained of his button-down in thick patches, sticky where it soaked through the torn fabric at his ribs. His knuckles were raw, the skin rough and dark, and the gash at his eyebrow had reopened, leaking warmth down the side of his face.

But still, somehow, he made it.

His hand shook as he raised it to knock. He missed the first time, fingers grazing the metal plate: 307. He tried again, firmer this time. The wood felt solid under his palm. He leaned on it, barely upright.

When the door opened, she stood in the frame like a ghost from a better life—oversized hoodie, messy bun, the kind of comfort he didn’t deserve. Her eyes went wide. She didn’t move.

His name—the wrong one, but right enough for now—fell from her lips in a cracked, breathless whisper.

“Oh my god! Liam—!”

He swayed, shoulder bumping the frame. That was all it took to snap her into motion.

“Here– Come in. Just, come in—”

She reached for him instinctively, one arm around his back, the other catching his wrist. He let her guide him inside, his weight leaning heavy on her as she pulled the door shut behind them. The lock clicked into place, and for the first time all night, something inside him uncoiled a little.

She was already scanning him with wide, panicked eyes. “What the hell happened to you?”

Her fingers ghosted over the edge of his shirt, where the blood was streaked all across his side. “Are you—oh my god, are you shot?”

“No.” His voice was wrecked, low and frayed. “Not really. Just… tired.”

She didn’t believe him. He could see it in the pinch of her brow. But she nodded, just once, and steered him toward the couch. He sank into it like a man unspooling, body slumping under the weight of pain and adrenaline finally running out.

She crouched beside him, her eyes rapidly tracing every scrape, every bruise, every place he flinched when her touch came too close. Her hands hovered, unsure—his temple? His ribs? The blood at his collarbone? Where was she supposed to start–

He caught her wrist gently.

“This was the closest place, and I…”

“And you...?” she asked softly, worry swirling in those eyes he hadn’t seen in so long.

He swallowed, his voice shaky for a different reason entirely when he looked up to answer her.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

a/n: and so there it is — my pièce de résistance! this chapter is probably my favorite that i've written so far lol. i'd love to hear what you guys think!

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xxepherr · 18 days ago

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.ೃ࿐ ROOFTOPS AFTER DARK

summary — in which a new vigilante has popped up in hell's kitchen, and he keeps taking up space on your rooftop. already annoyed that he's making your life difficult, you're ready to tear him a new one.

pairings — matt murdock x invisible!reader

pronouns — none

word count — 1306

note — invisible!reader is so special to me i have so many small ideas half-written.

IT WAS YOUR ROOFTOP. there was no reason to be so civil and let the strange man in a black mask take up mantle on it . . . but you were curious.

reports had been popping up for weeks now. they were calling the masked man the devil of hell’s kitchen and naturally you were curious. even more so curious when he got to places before you did, leaving behind a pile of groaning, unconscious men that should’ve been yours to take down.

it wasn’t just a jealousy thing. sure, you had been doing this way longer and brought little attention to it because you kept yourself invisible for most of the time. some of which you even staged as accidents. sometimes scaffolding just . . . fell . . . and happened to land a few bad guys in hospital. but here was this guy, the proclaimed devil, and he was making your job harder. he was leaving trails that left you having to hide away for a while, watching from a distance while he did the most insane martial arts you had ever seen in between getting his ass kicked.

knowing nothing about him, you remained invisible, stretching the ability to its absolute limit to cover your breathing and heartbeat also. there was something about him and his mannerisms that made you wary — the way he would tilt his head when he heard something was strange. then again, considering the god-awful mask that covered most of his face, you just assumed it had something to do with being a knock-off superhero with a shitty design.

each footstep was silent. crossing the rooftop without a sound, you didn’t stop until you were hardly a metre away, watching, calculating. he was doing that head tilt thing again, each siren in the distance catching his attention, but the way he paused in the silence as if he could hear something that wasn’t there was intriguing. it was like that every time, and when you followed, it always led you into watching him take on the demons lurking around the dark alleys.

he was well-built in a way you hadn’t managed to notice before. the skin-tight, black long-sleeved shirt hugged every muscle from his shoulders down to the point where he may as well have been wearing no shirt at all. there was no way it possibly protected him from anything, very much unlike the black tactical gear you sported that was thick enough to form lightweight armour. it was almost like he was asking for a beating.

without much of a thought, you broke concentration on your heartbeat, not that that had ever been a problem before. people couldn’t just hear heartbeats.

with the fist that was suddenly flying towards your face, apparently the devil could.

you reacted on pure instinct, ducking immediately and layering a shield back over your heartbeat to mask it once more. for good measure, you jumped high enough to twist your legs around his neck, maneuvering until you used as much force as you could to drop both of you to the ground, pinning him effectively. he felt stronger as he struggled, but he didn’t let up so easily.

“woah,” you gasped in the cold night’s air, replenishing the lack of oxygen in your lungs. “look!” you felt that familiar shudder spring down your spine as you turned yourself visible again. “i’m . . . i didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” you couldn’t help but trail off, trying to decipher how he even knew you were there when there was no way he could see you and your breathing was masked. all you did was drop the cover on your heartbeat . . .

his head tilted again, lips forming a thin line as his hands found your arm. you watched, unsure, not exactly wanting to loosen your grip on pinning him just yet. “who are you?”

“no one, really,” you answered with a shrug. he wasn’t struggling anymore, and letting go of him was probably the nicest way you could go about this situation right now. you released his limbs, watching as he quickly got to his feet and put distance between you. “who are you?”

“no one,” he answered, lips curling in a silent taunt.

“you know this is my roof, right?” you drawled, not bothering to stand up and instead getting comfortable on the cold roof floor by crossing your legs. “like, it’s been my roof for well over a year now, man.”

the devil’s head tilted again in the same direction as your movements. it was as if he were tracking them with every sense he had. “you’re never here when i am.”

“i’m always here.”

something seemed to change in him, the last piece of the puzzle falling into place, the flick of a switch sparking a light through the darkness. “always here, huh . . .” he trailed off, “you’re the ghost they speak of, aren’t you?” you watched as he crossed his arms over his chest, muscles bulging against his shirt. you noticed that he didn’t look in your direction when he spoke, facing just off to the left of you as if you weren’t there at all.

the only thing ever printed in newspapers about you was as indirect as conspiracy could get. every bad person something terrible had happened to had been at the cause of an accident that couldn’t be proven to be at the fault of another person. there were few theories that some sort of ghost was lurking around hell’s kitchen, doing the dirty work and covering it up, and though they were right because it was you, they would never learn of that. it was more so something to place the blame on because it was so absurd. the devil’s handiwork painted sharply across the front pages, your little ghost clean-up act was barely even thought of anymore. it was more of a joke than anything, and you had heard people at your day job laughing at the absurdity of it all. all they would ever know was that various strings of bad luck struck down bad people.

“mhm,” you hummed, not affirmatively nor in denial, but just a gentle acknowledgement that you were listening. “you make an awful mess around here, don’t you think? you’re gonna create some enemies by ending up on the front page of the new york bulletin every week.”

“i get shit done,” his voice was a lot more gruff than it had been seconds ago. “i get information before the ambulance gets to them — before the cops.” it was a dig that you didn’t take too kindly. you weren’t interested in information from any of the people you took down, you just wanted to see justice be served because the cops were nothing but useless and you were sick and tired of watching yet another family be let down.

“find your own roof,” was all you could say, covering up both your breathing and your heartbeat once more. the devil reacted by pursing his lips, looking from left to right as if you had disappeared. “wait . . .” you mumbled, and his head swiveled back to where you were, like he had finally pinpointed your location. the location you hadn’t moved from since you took him down mere minutes ago. “ . . . you can’t see me.”

he made no move in denying it. instead of saying anything, he turned his back to you and jumped over the edge of the building. by the time you stood up and rushed over to the edge, nothing but dimly lit side-streets stared back. still, in the depths of the night, you shouted, “find your own fucking roof!” and hoped he heard it from wherever he had disappeared to.

#matt murdock #daredevil #matt murdock x reader #daredevil x reader #xeph writes about marvel #matt murdock fic

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kjiscrawlingbackformore · 9 days ago

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No Reservations - Chapter two

Restaurant Owner Lottie Matthews x Chef!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: After graduating culinary school you have been building up your portfolio, to become a street level legend in the culinary world. And after years of hard work you get hired by a renowned michelin star restaurant Matthews’ kitchen to help design a new menu that’ll star in their new brick and mortar in New York. And there you behold the new heiress of the Matthews’ Kitchen, your boss, is your old situationship from culinary school…Charlotte Matthews.

You fucking hated planes.

So when the plane touched down with a lurch that rattled your bones, and you didn’t care if you were the only person who clapped when the wheels kissed the JFK runway. You couldn’t tell if it was relief or nerves in your stomach…probably both.

The taxi ride over the Verrazzano Bridge was full of familiarity: the way the air smelled different out here, like salt and pavement; the endless scaffolding; the sight of your block still trapped in the early 2000s. You didn’t even make it past the driveway before your mom ran out of the house and threw her arms around you.

“Y/N/N! Look at you! All skin and bones, they don’t feed you in California?”

Your dad followed with a grin and arms wide open. “God, I missed my girl. The time difference was killing me. I’d call and it’d be like 3 a.m. for you!”

You laughed, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of warmth. “It’s only three hours, you guys.”

“Exactly,” your mom scolded, grabbing your face. “That’s three hours I couldn’t see your beautiful face.”

You let them fuss. For a moment, it was almost easy to forget why you came back, and how big everything you left behind felt.

Inside, the house smelled the same. Sofrito, old leather, and lemon Pledge. Your old room was “waiting” for you, according to your dad, but the fact that it had been converted into his office told a different story. Still, your stuff was boxed and labeled in the hall closet like little time capsules.

“Maybe now with the northern air in your lungs, your sinuses will clear up,” your mom said, already boiling water for tea. “That coastal breeze was making you sound like a foghorn.”

You shook your head. “Pretty sure that was the stress, Mom.”

“Well, that too.”

Then came your uncle. Lounging on the couch like he never left, remote in one hand and coffee in the other. You chuckled as you sat beside him, Tombstone playing on the tv.

Classic.

That man loved himself westerns, card games. You both sit in a comfortable silence. That’s the thing about your uncle, he was a man of few words. And when he did say something it was calculated, held more meaning.

“So, guess who else moved back to the city?” he said after awhile with a smirk, not even looking up.

You didn’t like that tone.

Your eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Nat,” he said casually, like the name didn’t land on your chest like a steel pipe. “Got a job with that custom build crew out in Red Hook. Big-shot now, traveling to conventions, teaching these rich yuppies about classic carburetors. Still brings her own tools. You know, all leather and eyeliner and attitude.”

You freeze mid-sip of your tea. Blink. Once. Twice. He always had a damn soft spot for Natalie. You know it’s because she was like the daughter he never had. She worked for him in his shop for years. Thats how you even met her.

Summer of sophomore year you worked in his front desk and she came in all grease, and a goofy grin, asked if you ever had tacos across the street. So you get it they have a special bond and not that you wanted to erase that when you broke up with her.

But still…she’s your fucking ex. There was a reason you broke up with her.

Your mom chimes in from the kitchen, unaware of the ice forming in your bloodstream. “Oh! I always liked Natalie. She was so respectful and cute. Always said ‘hi, Mrs. Y/LN’ before disappearing under a car.”

Your dad laughs. “Didn’t she fix my transmission with a hairpin once?”

“Yeah,” you say finally, voice flat. “She did… Look guys that was…a long time ago.”

It shouldn’t bother you. It really shouldn’t bother you.

Natalie was a high school moment. And maybe tiny a college blip too. And a little bit of the messy years after. But mostly she was the person who could kiss you like she invented the concept and then ghost you for three weeks without a second thought. You were done with all that.

You cleared your throat, standing up and forcing a grin. “This year is about new beginnings, remember? Fresh starts. No looking back.”

“Sure,” your uncle says with a sly look. “But looking sideways never hurt nobody.”

You flip him off with affection and head toward your room, the fake office, already planning to unpack your knives and your playlists. Your fingers swipe until you’re suddenly typing her name in the search bar like second nature.

“Nat-“ and it doesn’t even let you finish typing her username before it’s showing you Natalie’s profile. You exit out and sigh, throwing your phone on the bed. You shouldn’t be looking at her. Your heart is racing in your ears.

This is not what you need. To see your unfortunately hot ex, doing whatever the fuck she’s doing. So you don’t. But then you do because fuck it. You tell yourself you just want to see if Natalie’s profile is still private.

Spoiler: it isn’t. And she looks good. Goddammit.

The restaurant wasn’t open yet, but Charlotte was already in the kitchen.

Not in heels, not in one of her designer suits. Sneakers. A Matthews-branded apron cinched tightly over a soft blue oxford shirt. The sleeves rolled up as she adjusted the open shelving with a critical eye. The light fixtures weren’t exactly right, the gold finish was too shiny, too nouveau-riche. She made a mental note to replace them with something warmer. Something quieter.

The way she wanted the entire space to feel: intentional, elegant, impossible to replicate. This flagship was supposed to be her proving ground.

No, she thought. Not supposed to be — it is.

She took a deep breath and ran her hand over the custom concrete counter, smoothing down nothing in particular. The space was pristine, still untouched by the chaos of dinner rushes and health inspections. A blank slate. The press didn’t know what to expect, and her father had made it very clear that failure was not an option.

“Your name is going to be on this one, not mine,” he had said, after sliding over a budget that made her palms sweat. “Don’t just open another Matthews. Make it yours.”

No pressure.

The board had raised eyebrows at her hiring choices. “Inexperienced.” “Unproven.” “A risk.” One of them even had the gall to call it “emotional decision-making.”

Charlotte had smiled and reminded them that a calculated risk is still a calculation. Because she didn’t need a Michelin-vetted executive chef with a stack of press clippings and a predictable ego. She needed someone who could burn the rulebook and start over.

She needed you.

When Lena her assistant had sent her your resume and the article on you in Eater and Grub Street. Your name on the résumé had made her pause, sure. The articles were short and sharp and…god, it still felt like a punch. Because there you were smiling with a plate of your best dish. And when you emailed back the initial proposal job, being interested.

Charlotte had read it three times before having Lena respond with: “Let’s talk. I have something in New York you might want to see.”

It wasn’t about the past. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t about dorm rooms and after-hours kitchens and the way your laugh used to echo across the campus courtyard.

It wasn’t about that night at fucking Kelly’s house party. Or what came after. Because that was years ago, and this was now. This was about you being the best damn chef she ever met.

She remembered it so clearly. The finals during second year, when your sous vide duck breast made the room fall silent before the head judge actually moaned. You weren’t polished. You didn’t posture. You didn’t give a shit about the faculty’s approval, and that’s what made you dangerous.

Charlotte hated you for it.

And admired you more than she could say. She sighed, staring at the menu mockups on her clipboard. Her thumb brushed over your name printed at the bottom of the page-Executive Menu Consultant.

A wild card. A gamble.

But Charlotte Matthews didn’t make bets she couldn’t win. She flipped the clipboard shut and checked her watch. You’d be arriving at the restaurant for your first walk-through in thirty-five minutes. That was enough time to pull herself together and pretend like her pulse wasn’t about to outpace a KitchenAid stand mixer.

She wasn’t twenty one anymore. And this wasn’t a fantasy. This was business. This was legacy. And you(god help her)were her secret weapon.

#lottie matthews #lottie matthews x reader #jackie taylor #yellowjackets #lottie mathews x reader #lottie yellowjackets #natalie scatorccio #a lil natalie scatorccio x reader #had to do it to y’all #sucker for complicated love stories #lottie matthews x you

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leohtttbriar · 11 months ago

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the sequence of “deadlock” to “thaw” to “tuvix” to “resolutions” is so interesting. a sequence of traumatizing events about: what it means to be intimate with no one but yourself, intimate with fear as a simulated person until you both fade from simulated reality but remain in the material one, and intimate with a merged half such that it's not two halves but one whole--and then with an equal with whom, by position and consequence, no intimacy can be allowed to exist. which i guess is just a different kind of intimacy?

it's like a cycle in which janeway learns she is alone in a fundamental way, making decisions and hard calculations with no other cooks fixing the broth, and while there could be a new and equivalent love, there actually can't. no matter the small acknowledgment, she walks back onto the ship to the start of the cycle, again. sacrifice, fear, choice, sacrifice, fear, choice, sacrifice--

in a meta way, there's an interesting read regarding how mulgrew didn't want janeway and chakotay to get together, and how she was right for it: the first female-captain character of this enormous franchise couldn't be the first to also have an explicit romance with her second-in-command. to be in a specific singular position requires constructing some scaffolding that might not otherwise be needed. in this is the implication that, while other captains would be as lonely as janeway, they might not be quite as actually alone. and it's like how strachey describes queen elizabeth i, forever unmarried, but in the most cunning of ways--prevaricating on committing to the personal, leaning into the tension but never breaking it, pledging only in the quiet so it can't ever be interpreted as contractual, all to retain a hold on centered power. a power which, in many ways in the story, is the ethic driving the crew back across the galaxy and acting as infrastructure for the culture of their unbelievably distant home, through sheer will. it's a kind of compromise of personhood to the position that seems particular to janeway, because of her gender and the fact that she's the highest-ranking officer of a distant culture's diplomatic and governing organization for 70,000 light years.

she has to be aware she's more representative than real at this point. like, it's almost an idea somewhat suggested by her brief duplication and her brief simulation. (and like of course she split tuvix back up--she only thinks now with two bodies instead of one, kathryn and captain, and it's inconceivable these separate persons might genuinely fuse.) the solitude of janeway makes either her insane or, as strachey put it, "a sane woman in a universe of violent maniacs."

#voyager #ds9 #star trek #janeway #i do agree that she and chakotay should not have gotten together #but oof that was hard to watch them pull away from other not gonna lie

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deramin2 · 24 days ago

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I'll say this for Daggerheart:

I didn't even make it through character creation before the physicality of the game inspired me to imagine the sort of Character Sheet Contraption that I would truly love playing it with. What would feel like a customizable instrument for playing the game?

I gathered simple materials and spent yesterday taping it all onto a cut of paper grocery bag. Got through several bouts of "This is so stupid; why am I doing this?" Actually finished a physical prototype, which I've never done so fast. Spent hours today gathering even more materials and reworking a particular system. I've done a lot of it through feel, using origami measurement folds for measuring and closing my eyes to feel how it would work during play as much as how it would look. There's sheet holders with various loading configurations, card holders, many abacus-like trackers, and hard surfaces all in a thing I can fold into a binder at the end of the game with very little to set back up or put away. Like a steamer trunk where all your things are tucked into neat little compartments. The mechanical button cockpit of my dreams for flying the game.

Something like this has been lurking in my mind taking root for the quarter century I've been playing TTRPGs, but everything's been so book-and-memory oriented that it never quite fully formed.

Things I've tried before to varying success:

Papers on table with a stack of books.

Lots of tabs in the books.

Storage clipboard.

Advanced Excel auto-leveling character sheets other people designed.

Advanced Excel auto-leveling character sheet I designed.

"Character Manual" where I copy over all relevant rules from every book into a single document and create combined leveling tables and detail every single thing I took when and how I calculated every number and put it in a binder. (This is what the Daggerheart cards effectively construct for you.)

Digital toolset platforms that conceptually do what I want but are confusing and buggy to use in practice.

Back to the Character Manual version 2.0.

Counting tokens.

Rotating dice as counting tokens.

[I've considered an abacus many times but never actually committed.]

Item and spell cards in the binder.

I've considered an abacus or abacus-like tracker many times but never actually committed. I accidentally taught myself how to count on my fingers similar to an abacus as a kid based on bastardized ASL. It is significantly harder to lose count when physically holding the numbers. Plus being able to count on my fingers up to 110 or 1023 depending on number system used is very handy. Counting to 10 rapidly outgrows its usefulness.

None of them have fully worked because the games themselves have not been designed for them to really work. I've been fighting the system every time. Mostly I've come out of it feeling bad about myself and that I was too incompetent at memorization, record keeping, and character building to play.

But Daggerheart is explicitly made to accommodate poor memories, minimal math, attention/comprehension gaps, rapidly getting assistance with the rules, arranging your own physically engaging space, and creating enough generalized scaffolding to fit the system into your ideas instead of trying to fit your ideas into the system.

Looking forward to trying it out in play with my other neurodivergent and disabled friends to see how it feels in play. But just being able to intuitively imagine and feel out the physical space of play is huge. Analogue interaction that would let me do things with my eyes closed accurately and not lose my place. Even if it ends up not being my preferred system, it's already taught me how I really want to be playing.

I really hope I'll keep pushing myself to complete this contraption and have a working, repeatable pattern. I would love to make + sell something like this, and/or make a pattern and instruction zine to sell.

#Darrington Press #Daggerheart #Accessibility in Games

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player279achlys · 5 months ago

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BOUND BY THE GAMES — Hwang In-Ho x fem reader

Hwang In-Ho x Original f! Character

Summary: in the 4th annual Squid Games of 2020 the VIPS request a tournament of champions with all the previous players. They want the winner amongst winners.

Couple: Hwang In-Ho/ The Frontman x original f!character (Achlys)

Content & warnings (if any): Angst. In-Ho is obsessed with the Original f! Character. Afab character. Love triangle (kinda?). Violence and stuff like portrayed in the tv series Squid Games. Love in survival horror games.

MDNI although there’s no explicit smut this isn’t for y’all.

- Word count: 4,3K -

First act: back in the games.

The lights flickered on, harsh and clinical, illuminating the cavernous bunkroom. Rows of metal beds loomed like skeletal scaffolding, each occupied by someone who had once defied death in the games. The atmosphere was suffocating, a mix of fear and dread that clung to every breath. Achlys, now twenty-three but feeling decades older, sat on her bed with her knees pulled to her chest. Her hazel eyes darted across the room, taking in the familiar yet horrifying sight.

She wasn't alone. "Familiar" faces were scattered among the crowd, winners like her, each haunted by their own demons. She thought she had escaped this nightmare. But the VIPs, bored and ravenous for entertainment, demanded a spectacle—the ultimate showdown: winners versus winners.

Achlys's number was 279, the same cursed digits that had marked her during her original ordeal. Across the room, a man wearing the number 001, wore a blank expression but it was his piercing eyes that held her attention—dark, calculating, and something else she couldn't place.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The sound of a buzzer echoed, jolting everyone to their feet. A voice, sickeningly cheerful, announced the first game.

"Red Light, Green Light."

Achlys's stomach churned. Memories of her first game resurfaced—the bodies falling around her, the sickening sound of gunfire. She clenched her fists and steadied her breathing. She wasn't the same scared girl anymore. But as she stood, a shadow loomed behind her.

"279," In-Ho's voice was low, steady, but insistent. She turned, her eyes meeting his. "We should team up."

"No," she said, curtly, stepping away. "I'm fine on my own."

His jaw tightened. Achlys didn't notice the fleeting pain in his gaze, mistaking his cold demeanor for indifference. She moved toward a group of elderly contestants and pregnant women—people who needed protection. Her kindness was a beacon in the dark, but it only deepened the storm brewing in Hwang's chest.

"Why won't she trust me?" he thought bitterly, watching her from afar. He had protected her for years, eliminating anyone who dared approach her. And yet, here she was, treating him like a stranger.

His obsession with her only grew, an uncontrollable force that had consumed him ever since she won the games in 2017.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The giant animatronic doll loomed over the field, its head swiveling mechanically. The rules were simple: cross the finish line before the timer ran out. Stop when the doll turned around. Move, and you die.

Achlys lined up with her makeshift team, her heart pounding. In-Ho stood further back, his eyes never leaving her. As the game began, he moved deliberately, always keeping her in his line of sight.

When the doll's head turned, chaos erupted. A man behind Achlys stumbled and shoved her forward. She gasped, her momentum threatening to betray her. Before she could fall, a firm arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back.

"Careful," In-Ho's voice was a whisper against her ear. His dark eyes locked onto hers, a mix of concern and something deeper, more primal.

"Thank you," she managed, her voice trembling. He released her as the doll's head swiveled back, but his presence lingered, a shield against the chaos.

As the game progressed, the tension only grew. A contestant tried to trip Achlys again, but Hwang In-Ho, her loyal protector, was there. His sharp gaze bore into the offender, memorizing the man's number. "I'll deal with him later," he thought darkly.

Finally, with less than a minute and a half left, Achlys and Hwang crossed the finish line. The relief was fleeting as a scream shattered the air. Achlys turned to see an injured contestant, blood pooling around their leg.

Without hesitation, she ran back onto the field. "Are you insane?" In-Ho barked, his voice filled with panic. But she ignored him, determined to help.

Another contestant, a man with dark brown eyes and a kind face, joined her. Together, they carried the injured player to safety, crossing the line just as the timer hit zero. Gunfire erupted, and the injured player fell lifeless in front of them.

Achlys's eyes filled with tears, but she pushed them down, forcing herself to stay composed. "This is how the games work", she thought sadly. She wasn't like that. It wasn't in her nature to be this heartless.

But she turned to the man who had helped her. "Thank you. I'm Achlys."

"Yang Jong Hoon," he said with a faint smile, his eyes meeting hers. "You're brave."

Before she could respond, In-Ho approached, his expression thunderous. "We need to move," he said curtly, his eyes flicking to Yang with barely concealed disdain. He hated him already.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The survivors returned to the bunkroom, the air heavy with grief and tension. Achlys sat with Yang and the others from her team, trying to eat the meager meal provided. In-Ho, however, took the seat beside her, his presence suffocating.

"Stick with me," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"I'm fine," she replied, her voice sharper than intended.

Yang chimed in, his tone warm and supportive. "She's stronger than she looks."

In-Ho's jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he gripped his spoon. The casual camaraderie between Achlys and Yang was a dagger to his heart. He leaned closer to her, his voice low and possessive. "You shouldn't trust anyone here."

Achlys frowned but didn't respond, feeling the weight of his words.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

That night, Achlys couldn't sleep. She tossed and turned, haunted by the day's events. A shadow moved in the darkness, and she sat up, startled.

"Can't sleep?" In-Ho's voice was soft, almost gentle.

She nodded, and he motioned for her to follow him. They found a quiet corner away from prying eyes.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why do you care?"

His gaze softened, the mask of indifference slipping. "Because I know what this place does to people. I don't want it to break you."

Her heart ached at his words, but she couldn't understand his intensity.

That night they talked for hours, his hand brushing against hers more than once. "This is heaven. I have her all to myself", the frontman kept thinking, forgetting about the place they were stuck in, forgetting about the world. Her world was her. He only cared about her. He yearned for her, he needed her like us humans need air. She gave him reasons to be human, to feel alive.

At one point, when Achlys mentioned her failed relationships and the strange disappearances of her dates, he stiffened but said nothing.

"I guess I'm just not meant to be with anyone," she said with a sad smile.

"That's not true," he said, his voice firm. His hand rested on hers, his touch sending a shiver down her spine. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the horrors of the games faded.

In-Ho leaned in, unable to resist any longer, unable to stop himself. His lips captured hers in a kiss that was both passionate and desperate, as if he were pouring years of unspoken feelings into that single moment. Achlys froze, then melted into him, her hands tangling in his hair.

When they finally pulled apart, reality crashed back in. Achlys's cheeks flushed, and she looked away. "We should go back."

In-Ho nodded, though his mind was a whirlwind of emotion.

She's mine. She always has been.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Second act: mingle, a game of numbers.

The morning began with the same cold, metallic announcement that had woken them the day before. That horrible classical music that was stuck into every single contestant's brain. Contestants stirred, stretching sore muscles and rubbing sleep-deprived eyes.

Achlys sat on the edge of her bed, her mind replaying the kiss she'd shared with Hwang In-Ho—though she still knew him only as "Young-Il." Her fingers touched her lips absently, a faint warmth spreading across her cheeks despite the grim reality they were in.

She glanced across the room and caught his eye. He was watching her, his expression unreadable. She quickly looked away, her gaze falling on Yang, who smiled softly at her from the bed beside hers as he greeted her goodmorning and asked her nicely how did she sleep. His kindness was a balm, steady and comforting in this storm of chaos.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Eventually, when they were gathered into an enormous room filled with doors and a strange looking caroussel the speaker crackled, pulling everyone's attention.

Achlys payed attention to the room. It looked like it was made to chage. The cracks on the floor made her think of a changing maze and the clear difference in the tiles suggested her this was not only a mingle game... It was going to be a bloodshed.

The same cheerful voice announced, "Welcome to the second game: Mingle! Each round, contestants must enter the room matching the number announced. Failure to find the correct room in time will result in elimination. You may begin... now."

The group surged toward the maze of doors that had appeared at the far end of the room. Achlys found herself momentarily separated from both Hwang and Yang as people shoved and scrambled, the countdown already ticking in the background.

"Stick close to me," a deep voice commanded, and she felt In-Ho's hand close around her wrist. His grip was firm but not painful, his presence like a wall shielding her from the chaos.

She looked up at him, her heart skipping a beat. "I—okay."

Yang caught up to them, slightly breathless. "What's the plan?"

"Stay together," Hwang said curtly, his eyes fixed ahead. "No splitting up."

Achlys nodded, grateful for their makeshift alliance, though she felt the tension radiating from Young-Il. Yang, oblivious to the daggers being glared his way, remained cheerful and optimistic.

The voice announced the first number: "3."

They ran, weaving through the maze. Achlys stumbled as someone shoved her, but In-Ho was there in an instant, steadying her with an arm around her waist.

"You need to be more careful," he growled, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the crowd for the culprit.

"I'm fine," she replied, pulling away slightly. She didn't miss the protective edge in his tone, but Yang's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Here! 3!" Yang shouted, holding the door open.

The three of them squeezed inside just as the timer hit zero. The door slammed shut, and a scream echoed outside—someone hadn't made it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The second round began immediately. "7," the voice chirped.

The maze shifted, walls sliding into new configurations. Achlys stumbled as the floor beneath her shuddered, and she felt Hwang's hand tighten on her arm. "Stay with me," he commanded.

Yang ran ahead, scouting the way. "This way!" he called.

As they approached a room, Achlys realized how small the space was. It would barely fit three people. They crammed inside, their bodies pressed uncomfortably close. Achlys could feel In-Ho's breath against her neck, his hand braced against the wall beside her. Yang was on her other side, his arm brushing hers.

"You okay?" In-Ho's voice was low, almost a whisper. His proximity sent a shiver down her spine.

"Y-yeah," she stammered, acutely aware of how close they were. She didn't miss the way his eyes lingered on her lips, though his expression remained carefully controlled.

Yang, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension, grinned. "We're doing good so far. Let's keep it up."

"Young-Il" didn't respond, his gaze flicking to Yang briefly before returning to Achlys. His jaw tightened. "Why does he get to stand so close to her?" The thought gnawed at him, jealousy bubbling under his calm exterior.

As the rounds progressed, the maze became increasingly dangerous. Contestants pushed, shoved, and even attacked one another in desperation to reach the correct rooms. Achlys found herself separated again when someone yanked her hair, dragging her to the ground.

"Achlys!" Yang shouted, rushing to help, but before he could reach her, In-Ho was there. A flash of silver glinted in his hand—a small knife he'd concealed. With ruthless efficiency, he stabbed the attacker, his movements quick and calculated.

The man crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around him. Achlys stared, wide-eyed and trembling.

"Are you okay? Did he hurt you?" "Young-Il"'s voice was sharp, his hands gripping her shoulders.

"I—I'm fine," she stammered, her eyes darting to the lifeless body. "You... you killed him."

"He was going to kill you," In-Ho said simply, his tone devoid of remorse. "I'll do whatever it takes to protect you."

"I would burn the world down for you if you asked me so".

Achlys swallowed hard, her heart pounding. She wanted to protest, to tell him that wasn't the way, but the raw intensity in his gaze silenced her. There was no malice, only a fierce, unwavering devotion.

Yang finally reached them, his eyes widening at the scene. "What happened?"

In-Ho stood, his expression cold. "He attacked her. He paid the price."

Achlys glanced at Yang, her voice trembling. "Let's... let's keep moving."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

When they finally returned to the bunkroom after the game, the tension between the three of them was palpable. Yang sat beside Achlys, his presence a comforting contrast to the storm that was Young-Il.

"Are you okay?" Yang asked, his voice gentle.

She nodded, though her hands still shook. "I just... I wasn't expecting this to happen again. It's like reliving a nightmare."

"You're strong, Achlys," Yang said, his hand brushing hers. "You'll get through this."

Hwang In-Ho watched them from across the room, his blood boiling. "Why does she let him touch her? Why does she smile at him like that?" His grip on the edge of his bunk tightened until his knuckles turned white.

Later that night, Achlys couldn't sleep. In-Ho knew it though. He knew Achlys suffered from insomnia ever since she played the games. He knew being back in the games would send her progress back. He knew she would want some peace, silence and privacy, but he had to protect her.

She wandered to a quiet corner, hoping to find some peace. Hwang appeared moments later, his footsteps silent.

"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said, his voice soft but firm.

"I needed air," she replied, her tone weary.

He stepped closer, his hand brushing her arm. "You're not safe without me."

"Am I safe with you?" she asked, her voice laced with vulnerability. She looked up at him, her hazel eyes searching his face.

Hwang's gaze softened, his hand cupping her cheek. "You're safer with me than anyone else."

Before she could respond, he kissed her again—softly at first, then with a hunger that took her breath away. Her hands gripped his shirt, her heart racing. For a moment, all the fear and pain melted away, leaving only the two of them.

When they pulled apart, reality came crashing back. Achlys stepped away, her mind racing. "We can't... not here."

In-Ho’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. "I'll wait as long as it takes. Just... stay close to me. I won't let anything happen to you".

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Third act: the maze and the final game.

The bunkroom was quieter now, with only a handful of contestants remaining. The third game loomed, its details unspoken but its presence palpable. Achlys sat on her bed, her legs crossed and her head resting on her hands. Yang sat beside her, his dark brown eyes filled with concern.

"You've barely eaten," Yang said gently, nudging the untouched bowl of rice in front of her. "You need your strength."

Achlys gave him a faint smile, her hazel eyes shadowed with exhaustion. "I'm fine. Just... nervous."

Yang reached out, his hand brushing hers in a gesture meant to comfort. "We'll get through this together. I promise."

Achlys felt a pang of warmth in his words, but before she could respond, a shadow fell over them. She looked up to see Young-Il, his expression unreadable but his dark eyes smoldering with barely concealed jealousy.

"Achlys," he said, his voice cold and clipped. "A word."

Yang frowned, his protective instincts flaring. "Can it wait? She's trying to—"

"No," the other interrupted, his gaze fixed on Achlys. "It can't."

Achlys hesitated, glancing between the two men. The tension was suffocating. "It's okay," she said softly to Yang, standing up. "I'll be back in a minute."

Yang stood as well, his hand briefly resting on her arm in a reassuring gesture. "If you need me—"

"I'll be fine," she said, forcing a small smile. She followed Young-Il to a secluded corner of the room, her stomach twisting at the fire in his eyes.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

"What do you think you're doing?" In-Ho demanded as soon as they were out of earshot.

Achlys blinked, startled by the intensity of his tone. "What are you talking about?"

"Yang," he spat the name like a curse. "He's getting too close."

"He's my friend," Achlys said, crossing her arms defensively. "He's been kind to me, something this place lacks."

In-Ho's jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. "Kindness here is a weapon. Don't let him use it against you."

"You're wrong about him," she replied, her voice firm. "Not everyone is trying to manipulate me."

In-Ho stepped closer, his towering presence making her heart race. "I'm trying to protect you," he said, his voice low and possessive. "You don't know what people are capable of."

"And what about you?" she shot back, meeting his gaze. "Why do you care so much?"

For a moment, he said nothing, his dark eyes searching hers. Then, so softly she almost didn't hear, he said, "Because you're mine."

Her breath caught, her heart pounding in her chest. Before she could respond, the speaker crackled to life, announcing the details of the third game.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The third game was a maze, this time a proper one. Although it was massive, its walls towering and ominous. If anyone saw it they'd immediately ask how was it possible to fit such thing in an island. As the remaining contestants were herded inside, the rules were explained: navigate to the center and retrieve a flag. Only those with a flag would survive.

The group scattered as the timer began. Achlys stayed close to Yang and Young-Il, though the tension between the two was palpable.

"We should stick together," Yang suggested, his voice steady despite the danger.

Hwang didn't respond, his focus entirely on Achlys. "Stay close to me," he commanded, ignoring Yang completely.

Achlys rolled her eyes but didn't argue. The maze was a labyrinth of traps and shifting walls, and every step felt like a gamble. The countdown began, and as soon as the timer hit zero, they plunged into the maze. The walls seemed to shift and move, disorienting the contestants. Achlys ran ahead, her instincts sharp, but In-Ho was always right behind her, his protective shadow unwavering.

At one point, Achlys stumbled, nearly falling into a pit of spikes. Yang caught her, his arms wrapping around her waist as he pulled her to safety.

"Got you," he said with a small smile, his hands lingering on her for a moment.

"Thanks," Achlys whispered, her cheeks flushing.

From behind them, In-Ho's expression darkened, his jaw clenching so tightly it was a wonder his teeth didn't crack. "Get your hands off her," he thought bitterly, though he said nothing. Instead, he moved closer pushint Yang away from Achlys, his body a wall of protection between Achlys and Yang.

The maze was unforgiving. Traps sprung from the walls—spikes, pits, and gas clouds. Achlys narrowly avoided one such trap, only to stumble into another. A hidden blade shot out toward her, but Yang pushed her aside, the blade grazing his arm instead.

"Yang!" she cried, rushing to his side.

"I'm fine," he said through gritted teeth, clutching his bleeding arm. "Let's just keep moving."

Hwang, however, was far from fine. His eyes darkened as he saw the blood, his fury directed at the maze, the game, and Yang. "That should've been me," he thought bitterly.

As they pressed on, the traps became deadlier. In one final push toward the exit, a floor panel collapsed beneath Achlys. She screamed, her hand scrambling for purchase. Yang caught her wrist, his muscles straining as he pulled her up.

But another trap activated. A volley of spikes shot toward them. Yang shoved Achlys forward, taking the brunt of the attack.

His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

"NO!" Achlys's scream echoed through the maze. She dropped to her knees, tears streaming down her face as she clutched Yang's hand.

In-Ho pulled her away, his grip firm but not unkind. "We have to go, Achlys. Now."

Achlys resisted, her heart breaking, but the urgency in Hwang's voice forced her to move. Together, they reached the exit as the timer hit zero.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Back in the bunkroom, the remaining contestants were too shell-shocked to speak. Achlys sat on her bed, her hands trembling. Yang's sacrifice weighed heavily on her, but another feeling gnawed at her—a growing realization of how much she relied on In-Ho.

He sat beside her, his presence grounding her. "He... he saved me," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I didn't deserve—"

"Don't say that," Young-Il interrupted, his tone fierce. He cupped her face, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You're here because you fought to survive. Don't let his sacrifice be in vain."

Achlys's eyes filled with tears, but she nodded, leaning into his touch. For the first time, she allowed herself to find comfort in him. She allowed herself to feel vulnerable with him. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her as she cried.

"She's mine," he thought, his grip tightening. "And I won't let anyone else take her from me."

Later in the night, Achlys still layed awake, her mind racing with memories of the day. Yang's sacrifice haunted her thoughts, but so did In-Ho's intensity. She couldn't deny the way her heart reacted when he looked at her, the way her skin tingled when he touched her.

Unable to sleep, she slipped out of bed and headed to the bathroom. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as she splashed cold water on her face, trying to steady her breathing.

Minutes passed, and In-Ho noticed her absence. Concerned, he followed her, the guards not even questioning him when he demanded them to let him leave. His footsteps were silent as he approached the bathroom door. When she didn't return, he pushed the door open, his heart pounding.

"Achlys?" he called softly.

She turned, startled, her hazel eyes meeting his. "What are you doing here?"

"You've been gone too long," he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "I was worried."

"I just needed a moment," she admitted, her voice trembling. "Everything's... too much."

Yong-Il's gaze softened, and he stepped closer, his hand brushing her cheek. "You don't have to go through this alone."

His touch sent a shiver down her spine, and before she could think, she leaned into him. His arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly as she buried her face in his chest.

"You're safe with me," he murmured, his voice low and soothing.

Achlys tilted her head up to meet his gaze, her breath hitching at the intensity in his eyes. "Why do you care so much?"

Instead of answering, he kissed her. The kiss was slow at first, filled with unspoken emotions, but it quickly deepened, becoming more urgent. Achlys clung to him, her hands tangling in his hair as he pressed her against the cool tile wall.

"I've wanted this for so long," he admitted between kisses, his voice rough with emotion. "You don't know how much you mean to me."

"Show me," she whispered, her cheeks flushing as she met his gaze.

Hwang In-Ho's eyes darkened with desire, and he captured her lips again, his hands roaming her body. The heat between them grew, their breaths mingling as the barriers they'd both held crumbled. Clothes were shed in the privacy of the small bathroom, their movements desperate and hungry.

For a moment, the horrors of the games faded away, replaced by the intensity of their connection. Achlys felt safe in his arms, his touch grounding her in a way she hadn't thought possible. They lost themselves in each other, finding solace in the midst of chaos.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

As they lay together on the cold floor, their breathing still ragged, Hwang held her close, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her back.

"Don't ever leave me," he murmured, his voice vulnerable in a way she'd never heard before.

"I won't," she promised, her heart swelling with emotions she couldn't yet name.

For the first time since entering the games, Achlys felt a glimmer of hope—a fragile thing, but real nonetheless. Little did she know, that hope would scatter next thing in the morning.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The final game was announced the next morning. Only two contestants remained—Achlys and Hwang.

As they unfolded their passion the previous night, the other contestants, three, initiated a fight during the night, resulting in the death of the three of them.

The arena was eerily familiar, the layout of the Squid Game etched into the dirt. The VIPs watched from their opulent seats, their laughter and chatter a cruel backdrop to the life-and-death stakes below.

Achlys stood on one side of the field, her heart pounding. Hwang stood opposite her, his face unreadable. She didn't want to fight him. Not after everything they had been through.

"You need to play," he said, his voice carrying across the field. "It's the only way."

"I can't," she replied, her voice trembling. "Not against you."

He stepped closer, his movements deliberate. "You have to. One of us has to win."

Tears welled in her eyes. "Why does it have to be this way?"

In-Ho hesitated, his mask slipping for the briefest moment. He couldn't hurt her. He wouldn't. In a flash of decision, he lunged—not at her, but at the ground. He fell hard, feigning defeat.

"Get up!" Achlys screamed, her voice cracking with desperation. "Play fairly! Don't do this!"

But the pink guards were already dragging him away. His dark eyes met hers one last time, filled with a mixture of regret and longing. The gunshot that followed made her scream, her heart shattering as she collapsed to her knees.

He was gone.

Achlys lost the only thing she wanted.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Weeks passed. Achlys returned to her quiet life in Greece, her soul scarred from the games. She spent her days in her small café, trying to find solace in routine. But her nights were filled with dreams of "Young-Il", his voice, his touch, his sacrifice.

One evening, as she closed the café, the doorbell chimed. She turned, her heart stopping at the sight of a figure in a tailored suit and a geometric mask.

"We're closed," she said wearily, not even facing whoever was at her door. "Come back tomorrow."

"It's not closed for me," the voice replied, deep and distorted.

Her breath caught. Turned to look at that mysterious and dangerous man, not showing fear. "What do you want?"

The figure stared at her for a few moments, seconds that Achlys thought lasted a million years. "Do they want to kill me again? I didn't break the rules"

The frontman slowly removed the mask, revealing a face she thought she'd never see again. "Achlys," In-Ho said, his voice soft. "I came back for you."

Her Young-Il? He was right there in front of her, and joy couldn't be enough to describe what she was feeling.

Tears filled her eyes, but they were a mixture of anger, relief, and love. "You... you're alive?"

"I couldn't leave you," he admitted, stepping closer. "Not now. Not ever."

She didn't resist as he pulled her into his arms, their lips meeting in a kiss that spoke of all the emotions they had suppressed.

When they pulled apart, he whispered something she thought was a product of her damaged mind: "Come with me. Be my partner in the games".

"W- What do you mean your partner?" Achlys spoke, feeling nausea in her throat. He couldn't be serious...

"Achlys, reign this little world with me, be my frontwoman, we can change the games, but I want you by my side". In-Ho answered

"But Young-Il... I-" she started.

"In-Ho. My name is Hwang In-Ho", he interrupted, with an intensity in his gaze that spoke more than words ever could.

Achlys hesitated, but the intensity in his gaze and the weight of their shared experiences left her with only one answer. "Yes."

Together, they left the café, stepping into a world they would now control. The games had brought them together in the most twisted of ways, but in each other, they found the strength to endured.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

aaaaaaaaaaaa

There’s another part called “the masters of the games”.

Just saying. I’m sure this will flop but I wanted to give it a shot.

Sending lots of love to anyone who reads this.

#lee byung hun #squid game #front man #frontman #player 001 #the front man #in ho #gi hun #hwang in ho #love triangle #slow burn #obsessed #obsessive love #actually obsessive

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godsfavoritescientist · 1 year ago

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An as-of-yet unnamed AU where instead of being Ford's muse, Bill appears to Fiddleford and convinces him to build the portal.

The conversation in the last 2 images continues under the cut:

Fiddleford relaxed all at once, giving Ford a too-wide smile. Then, he opened his eyes one eyelid at a time. “You’ve been a real good friend! And I have a lot of friends, so that’s saying something!” He let out a short laugh. “You wanna know what I’m working on? It’s something that’s gonna usher in an era of world peace! You might not believe it, but no one else would believe you if you told them you’ve just uncovered an ancient alien crash site, would they now? So be a pal and suspend your disbelief!”

Ford felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. There was something… something he couldn’t put his finger on… something that flashed in the corner of his eye…

Ford swallowed. “Okay. It’s religious project. But what is it?”

Fiddleford threw a casual arm around Ford. “I think it’ll be easier if I show you!”

They walked down a corridor lined wall to wall, floor to ceiling with computers running endless calculations. They bathed the whole room in flickering green light, as words scrolled rapidly across screen after screen after screen, their glowing surfaces reflecting in Fiddleford’s glasses as he walked ahead of Ford, with a confidently uncoordinated stride that made Ford wonder if he was drunk. Ford glanced at the screens, catching bits and pieces of words as Fiddleford rushed by in the black-and-green light. “Probability of Event 4.23A, Probability of Event 23.652C, Probability of Event 1.9C…” dozens of numbers that looked like coordinates… thousands of statistical probability equations being run over and over again…

Fiddleford punched in a seven-digit code on the front of a huge metal door at the end of the corridor. When he swung it open, it revealed a room that looked like something out of a movie, or a nightmare. He stood before a sea of gigantic red raising platforms that Fiddleford effortlessly jumped around on, inputting some kind of code based on the symbols on the squares, until the moving platforms went still.

They moved on into a simple, warmly-lit room with coat racks full of red robes lining the walls, and foam mats stacked in the corner with eyes embroidered on them.

And then, at last, they entered what appeared to be their destination. This room was gigantic, and frigidly cold. The walls and floors were all made of metal. And at the center of the room, a machine towered over them. It was part metal and part unfinished scaffolding. A huge upside-down triangle with a hole in the middle of it, like a great big maw.

Fiddleford gestured at it with a grin. “My magnum opus! A portal directly to god.”

#fiddleford #gravity falls #i have a document somewhere that explains how bill slowly leads fidds up to this point #i have no explanation for why bill appears to Fidds. maybe he saw how things went with an alternate Ford and this idea was born from that #gods art #if I had it in me to write a full fic i'd do that #but seeing as im not gonna do all that. might as well draw bits and pieces of it #biddlebord au #<-unofficial name for now #my art highlights #gods writing

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catrionaalexandra · 6 days ago

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Chapter 1 — Beneath the Surface

Resident Evil: Sable Dawn

“Sometimes the only way out is through…”

12:46 AM

As the dust settled, Y/n let out a grunt and shoved a broken support beam off her shoulder. Her headlamp flickered, casting uneven light as she coughed into her arm and looked back at the wreckage.

The corridor behind them had collapsed—steel and concrete sealing them in like caged beasts.

“We’re trapped,” she said, her voice quiet.

Leon brushed gravel off his shoulder and sighed, “Looks like it.”

Y/n’s gaze fell on him—watchful and calculating. His face was composed, but she noticed the tension in his jaw was back and how his eyes roved their surroundings.

He didn’t panic, but she could tell he was worried.

She pulled a flashlight from her belt and held it out to him, “The battery’s good,” she began, tapping her headlamp with her finger, “Mine’s acting up.”

He nodded silently, and their fingers touched briefly as he took the small light. It was nothing—barely a moment—but her heart skipped a beat.

Stupid, Y/n…Stay focused.

“You okay?” he asked, not as small talk, but with a deeper meaning. With Leon, it always held more significance. He studied her face, as if he already knew the answer, as if he had memorized every time she hadn’t been fine.

Y/n straightened, her ribs flaring in protest, “Nothing feels broken.”

“Good,” He paused, then added, “We should move. If that was a prototype, there could be others.”

Stepping into a narrow maintenance tunnel, Y/n and Leon found themselves in a tight, damp, and condensation-coated space. The air reeked of decay and rusted metal, and as they moved, Y/n’s eyes followed Leon’s silhouette ahead.

He was methodical, alert and familiar.

Too familiar.

Three Years Ago – Siberia, B.S.A.A. Blacksite E-47

Snow had been falling the first time she met him.

The mission had gone south when a convoy was lost in a blizzard. She was left for dead, crushed under a flipped truck, bleeding and freezing, until a lone figure emerged from the white and hauled her out.

He had said, “You’re not dying here. Not like this.”

Later, when the B.O.W.s attacked, they fought side by side for two days straight.

With no sleep and no backup, they were left with each other, fighting for their lives.

She never told him, but near the end, she began hallucinating—seeing fire dancing in the snow. He grabbed her hand, pressed a comm into it, and said, “Hold the line, Ivy. I’ll get us out.”

And he did.

She owed him her life…

What terrified her more was the extent to which she was willing to give it in return.

Present – Geneva Underground

The tunnel led into an old bay, filled with rusted scaffolding, rotting electronics, and documents partially dissolved by mold.

Y/n’s eyes roamed the room, but then stopped, “Leon, over here.” She waved him over.

He crouched beside a wall streaked in blood, joining her.

Above them, a message smeared in crimson read:

WE ARE NOT HUMAN ANYMORE

Beneath it, several photographs were pinned—of scientists, soldiers, and even children—all labeled with codes and timestamps.

Some were crossed out and others weren’t.

“This was a lab,” she whispered, “They were tracking mutations—survivors.”

Leon’s face turned grim, “Someone was recording their progress.”

“Not just B.O.W.s… These were volunteers, or used to be,” Y/n frowned, looking at the pictures, but then her attention was quickly averted to the static that crackled in her comm.

“…-Vy. Ivy. If you’re hearing this—don’t trust—”

The message cut out and Y/n froze again.

“Replay that,” Leon said, looking down at her.

She tapped her wrist comm, “Leon, I can’t… it wasn’t on a recorded channel.”

Leon’s eyes locked onto hers, “Who was it?”

Y/n’s voice dropped, “My sister.”

Y/n “Ivy” Cross, formerly a field scientist, had a life-changing event two years ago, during a UN-sanctioned biotech mission under Umbrella Europe, her sister, Dr. Margot Cross, vanished.

Official reports claimed that Margot had died in a lab fire at their Montreux facility.

Y/n never bought it, not one bit.

The mission after—that’s when she met Leon, an unauthorized pursuit of a lead she shouldn’t have chased.

She had been searching in secret ever since.

Until now.

Leon stepped closer, “If Margot’s alive, we’ll find her. Together.”

She didn’t answer, but her eyes shone with emotion.

“I mean it, Ivy,” he said softly, “You’re not alone.”

His words pierced through the emotional armour she had crafted over the years. Their eyes met, and something shifted. There had always been tension between them—lingering glances, heavy silences, jokes with meaning, and many unspoken things passed between them.

Though, down here, with blood-streaked walls and monsters lurking just beyond the light, the tension was electric.

Y/n took a step forward, “Leon…”

But a sound had snapped the moment in half like a piece of plywood breaking over someone’s head.

Click-click…

The lights went out.

Silence.

Then—a scream.

It was inhuman and near.

Just in time, they turned to see a massive creature slam through the ceiling vent—faster and larger than the last one.

Leon shoved Y/n back and fired upward, “Move!” he yelled, retreating toward an access door.

She rolled, drawing both of her pistols, and fired into the creature’s torso.

It didn’t drop, it didn’t even flinch.

“We’ve got a hybrid,” she gasped, “No decay—it’s fresh.”

The monster lunged and Leon tackled Y/n, crashing them into a splintered crate as claws ripped the space where she had just been.

They scrambled to their feet, shaken and scared, “We can’t fight this here,” Y/n shouted, “We need height!”

Leon nodded, “There’s a ladder, back left.”

The creature followed on all fours, its rusted saliva falling from its jowls as they ran towards their only escape.

They climbed, hand over hand into the dark unknown, adrenaline surged—but so did something deeper.

Death was hot on their heels, and something far more dangerous was brewing between them—a bond that transcended mere survival and loyalty.

Something undeniable, something real.

<- Previous Next ->

#resident evil fanfiction #leon kennedy smut #leon x reader #leon kennedy x reader #leon scott kennedy #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut #resident evil damnation #resident evil death island #resident evil infinite darkness #resident evil vendetta #resident evil degeneration

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scaffmore · 2 months ago

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Scaffmore offers safe and reliable scaffolding for homes, buildings, and construction sites across New Zealand. Their friendly and skilled team can set up scaffolding for any job—big or small. Scaffmore focuses on safety, good service, and making sure the job gets done right. Contact them today for a free quote and see why so many people trust Scaffmore for scaffolding.

#scaffolding #scaffold calculator #construction #commercial scaffolding #residential scaffolding #scaffolding costs #scaffolding company

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edutainer2022 · 8 months ago

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So I survived the first ten hours of today's carpet bombing (yay!). The jury's still out on the rest of it. As a distraction, I've tinkered with yet another thing set to explore the Mechanic and Scott as foils. In the middle of the night, after a rescue gone bad the Mechanic gets some unsolicited insights and food for thought. Many, many thanks to @janetm74 for cheering me on!

SILENCES IN BETWEEN

One landing down in the hangar was not easy to miss, yet he tried to habitually tune the noise out. The disembarking mechanisms would soon shift the Thunderbird's pilot either up through the shute or to the lockers area. Either way the Commander would be out of his hair soon enough. He just needed to brace himself and weather the landing without confrontation. It was the dead of night. The island was silent. The big green bird and its pilots were out on the mainland, along with the kid and the Hood's niece. Brains called it a day after nine hours straight of futile struggle over the T-drive calculations. The stubborn faulty numbers were currently keeping the Mechanic awake. He heard One leave for a call out, but didn't follow the rescue chatter. Now it was obviously over and if he was lucky, the Commander wouldn't rile him up over yet another delay. He just needed to sit tight for several minutes more and then go back to work. It was in the forced tense interval that he noticed the sounds that usually heralded the pilot leaving for upper levels of the villa never came. No levers creaking, no footsteps. Just the eery quiet.

If asked, he'd deny worry ever entered the rationale of his peeking out of the T-drive platform into the vaster hangars area. Not worry for Scott Tracy, at least. Maybe worry for his time-sensitive work being potentially derailed by the idiot having faceplanted from the landing patch.

Scott Tracy was standing on solid ground, however. If maybe leaning too heavily on One's landing berth, eyes squeezed shut. Blue neoprene on one of his arms was torn through, saturated liberally with blood. The eyes that opened next gave the Mechanic pause - usually bright color was almost black with strain, vacant, like the IR Commander was seeing ghosts. The ashen face contorted against a scream, threatening to break containment. The Mechanic was surprised to witness such raw, undiluted grief in someone he had chalked up to be too full of holier than thou grandeur. Scott Tracy swayed on his feet and the Mechanic felt himself rushing down the platform scaffolding.

"That looks like it might need a clean-up."

The voice that would usually have the Commander up in arms clearly didn't register. The younger man flinched instinctively from his reaching arm, but the gaze was still glazed over, unseeing. Haunted. Scott Tracy going into shock on him definitely trumped the faceplant. The Mechanic tightened the grip on the man's good arm and steered him to the workshop allocated to him personally. First aid kits were in more ample supply on the island than palm trees. Scott didn't object per se, but did struggle to put one foot in front of the other. He was yet to utter a sound. Somehow that worried the Mechanic more.

He finished up tying the bandages and once again nodded towards the syringe of painkillers only to receive another headshake no. In between the two of them they managed to unclasp the baldric and to peel off the top of the IR uniform which was now tied around Scott's waist - the good sleeve and the blood-stained stump the Mechanic cut off with cahelium sheers. By the time he was done with the patchwork of the wounds, the Commander was pale to the point of looking grey and the Mechanic could swear he heard the younger man's teeth grit. There was nothing much more to say.

Scott moved to stand up and the Mechanic just about managed to catch the blanched Thunderbird by the midriff.

"Whoa! Easy there!"

"I'm fine."

That was the first full sentence Scott had uttered so far and it was such a blatant lie the Mechanic had to stifle a snort.

"Not by my standard you're not! Which is a pretty low threshold, I gotta tell you."

He shifted Scott's torso in the general direction of the cot he got set up in his private working area for long nights of calculations or insomnia.

"There! How about you lie down a bit?"

He wasn't a Good Samaritan by any stretch of imagination or by trade, but the idea of chaperoning the barely coherent Commander all the way up to the residential floor (and possibly holding vigil, because nobody else was readily available and the guy just wouldn't let himself black out safely) didn't exactly appeal to him. It would also take precious time off the T-drive. Murky blue eyes blinked up at him, owlishly.

"They're dead. I didn't save them."

The Mechanic figured as much. If he felt like it he could probably hack into the rescue records or video feed, but it was pretty self evident. Thunderbird One failed. What didn't quite compute for him was the sheer GUILT that came with the territory. Not self-pity but punishment, the need to deny oneself basic care or consolation. He didn't yet know what to do with the fact Scott Tracy unironically believed he owed the world to save it.

The man in his hold was trembling, literally standing on his last leg.

"Do I need to call your Grandma?"

Another small headshake nearly got the blue eyes rolling back. The Mechanic took a hasty stride and helped deposit Scott's frame onto the cot. He then turned away, giving his unexpected guest room to feel he probably wouldn't get, if surrounded by family. Well-meaning and obviously caring, they were, nevertheless, bearing down with an expectation of a happy resolution to pain. An endgame. An ever after. The Mechanic was developing a hunch he and Scott Tracy were at the opposite ends of the same tether, though - an ignition cord of shame, loathing, despair, self-destruction. Each holding a lighter.

The stifled sobs came soon enough and he busied himself with the holo projections of T-drive specs. When the quiet weeping subsided into keening and then faded into even, if labored, breathing, the Mechanic moved to turn around. He made a quick errand to the adjacent workshop, favored by Brains, and came back with a tattered, lopsided knitted blanket. It was obviously designed for someone shorter and younger than Scott Tracy, but it would have to do. The young man's face was stricken with tear marks and there were beads of sweat on the forhead. The Mechanic paused to consider his options and reached to check for fever. The frown of the pallid features deepened as a tear escaped from the closed lids.

"I'm sorry, Dad! I'm so sorry..."

He froze, hand hovering over the clammy skin. The low grade fever was definitely in place and the Mechanic really wished someone intervened and took Mr. No Painkillers off his plate lest it got worse. But the island was still calm and appeared deserted at that hour. Fifty two thousands miles above Thunderbird Five was probably busy dealing with whatever tragedy had unraveled, or grieving too, in the aftermath. The Mechanic was, therefore, it. Oh, the irony!

The rest of the night was a blur of studiously avoided fever mumbles, a minor breakthrough with the T-drive calibrations, and general exhaustion. He stumbled off at the crack of dawn to grab a shower and an early coffee before the island erupted with frenzy, catching up with the night events. Coming back with a steaming mug, he found his nook empty. Cut off neoprene and bloody gauze was cleared out. The cot was made neatly and the flimsy blanket folded with military precision.

The Mechanic shrugged, took a liberal gulp of coffee and fired the holo console back up. He would need to show Brains the new results once the engineer was done fawning over the distressed Commander. He knew the cleanest break from the whole conundrum would be to never speak of it again. The dopey DIY cover taking up permanent residence in his workshop went uncontested.

#methinks i have astronomy #thunderbirds are go #scott tracy #the mechanic #the mechanic is not amused #scott tracy needs a hug #my fic

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renegadecreation · 19 days ago

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i don't think it makes FR better, but the scaffolding behind some of the parts i didn't like makes a little more sense to me given some calculated guesses that a) there's a base amount of American military propaganda required in exchange for filming time on an aircraft carrier and b) if the driving force behind DR1 and FR is to revitalize cinema after streaming/COVID, then adding several cameos in respectable roles - say, ranking officers in the US military and administration - and building out said roles just enough that the actors have something to play with and moviegoers might come to a theater to see their favorite primarily TV actor say something cool makes perfect sense.

#mission impossible #mi8 spoilers #mi final reckoning spoilers #renegadecreations #meta #far be it from me to make apologies on behalf of the US military for infringing into entertainment #but I really do want to like this movie more than I do so I've been trying to dig into what makes it tick

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drunkenskunk · 5 months ago

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Liturgicode

The siege of Hell's Gate lasted just over 13 hours.

The bay housing the mechs of the Strategic Response Team was bustling with activity. It wasn't quite as busy as it normally would have been, since a significant number of people were seriously wounded (or dead) in the wake of the cult's attack... but there was simply no time to rest yet. Everyone was painfully aware that the SRT was going to need to head back into action again soon, or else everything was going to get much, much worse. So the sooner the maintenance crews could fix the mechs and get them battle ready, the sooner everyone could leave and get some sleep.

At least, that's how Calamity Havok had sold it to the few wrenchies who had opted to stay. There was three days worth of work to be done, and if anyone knew how to motivate enough people to get it all done in two hours, it was Calamity.

None of this was any concern of Big Red, the heavily damaged Everest mounted in Bay 5. As far as the maintenance crew was concerned, the mech was completely powered down, but truthfully? Not all the way.

The sentient mind of the mech was still very much active, pouring over combat logs and telemetry from the recent fights, and passively aware of the maintenance techs scurrying around him, replacing parts, repairing battle damage, reloading ammunition and depleted core batteries. Every minute or so, Big Red would idly trigger a sensor ping and begin calculating the picosecond returns reflecting against the mass of cables hooked into his chassis and the scaffolding braces keeping him immobile. After the madness of the last several hours, even the giant war machine found this a welcome change of pace.

An alert. Incoming message. Something on the encrypted SRT subnet. Scarlet, his Pilot, was trying to get in touch.

“Hey, Red?” Scarlet asked, the exhaustion evident in her voice even through the crackling transmission.“You readin' me, big man?”

Something was wrong. Scarlet had been awake for nearly 27 hours, and she hadn't eaten in 15, having been sustained on combat stims alone for the past 13 hours of the siege. She should be getting rest, performing the organic equivalent of maintenance (like he was receiving) so they'd be ready for the next fight, not trying to contact him. Why was she trying to contact him?

The apertures of Big Red's left optical unit shuddered.

“I am here. What do you need?” the mech responded over the comm. One of the techs trying to patch damage from a napalm grenade briefly looked up, confusion evident on his face, as if he wasn't sure he'd seen the movement he thought he had.

“Got a question. Out of all your past pilots, who was in the hot seat the longest?” Scarlet asked.

Something about her voice sounded strange. Distant? She wasn't speaking directly into the mic. As data files scrolled on the inside of his mechanical mind, checking and cross-referencing data quickly to make sure the answer was correct, a subroutine was initiated. Linking to station security. Handshake protocol. Access granted. Uplink established. Scanning camera feeds. Ping the transmitter. There.

Big Red took direct control of a camera, two sectors anti-spinward of the hangar. He began panning it over and down, zooming in two steps to get a better look. Scarlet was sitting on a cargo crate, shoulders slumped and head bowed; she was holding her helmet in her hand, apparently speaking into it that way instead of wearing it. Standing above her was Agarin Raankell, the dragon-gene-modded supersoldier on the SRT.

It would appear that Big Red was being pulled into the middle of a heated discussion between the two of them.

“That would be Daniel Brennan, callsign: 'Spy',” he replied, barely two seconds after she asked. Double checking the file before response: sustained over a period of 4128 Cradle Standard days. “We were linked for 11 years.”

“Mmhmm...” Scarlet muttered, barely audible. Big Red attempted to increase the gain from his end. “And tell me again: what happened to him?”

Another pause as more files were accessed. Combat telemetry from Day 4128. The pre-mission briefing predicted a routine reconnaissance patrol with minimal to no OpFor. Pirates had been spotted moving in Grid A-4 approximately 3 local weeks earlier, but had not been seen since. Pilot maneuvered into position at approx. 0240 local and the link was unexpectedly severed. After action report: exit wound on chassis indicated impact from hypervelocity tungsten slug traveling at 3km/s, fired from bearing 315 degrees north of final position.

Big Red's optical unit twitched again.

“Railgun round through the cockpit,” the mech replied tersely, after a slightly longer delay. “Ambush from an unseen opponent. Death was instantaneous.”

“Thanks.” Scarlet looked up at Agarin, pointing at her helmet with her free hand. “Big Red's had dozens of pilots over the last few hundred years. I've checked the files. They all end like that. Every. Single. One. I've only been piloting him for just over a year now. What possible reason could I have to think I'm gonna end any different?”

Big Red refocused the security camera on Scarlet's face now that she wasn't completely hunched over. The whites of her eyes were solid red. Blood was leaking out of her nose and from the edge of her mouth. The interior of her ears were also stained red. Dark stains around various ports in her jacksuit suggest significantly more trauma sustained from the fight than initially observed. Recommend re-calibration of interior sensors to techs at earliest opportunity.

“There is no way you can know that,” Agarin said, his voice slightly muffled. He was quite tall, so the helmet mic couldn't quite pick up his voice, and he was facing away from the security camera mounted in the ceiling. His arms were folded across his chest as he stood in front of her, still as a statue, the only real movement coming from his tail. It was twitching slightly in a manner Big Red did not understand. Was the motion meant to convey nervousness? Annoyance? Apprehension? Was it merely an unconscious tic?

“Look, 'garin...” Scarlet said, and Big Red zoomed the camera out several steps to take in the whole image again. “I... I...” she sighed, lowering her head and shaking it slowly. “Look, I know you got this idea in your head 'bout... about what 'we' are. You seem to think that... we're gonna get our own happily ever after, somehow. No more war. No more fightin'. A life of quiet and peaceful domesticity with a pile of kids... the simple life.” Scarlet looked up at him again. “But that ain't how this story ends.”

“But why not?” Agarin asked. “Why can't it end that way?”

The two of them were silent for an uncomfortably long length of time. And then, Scarlet spoke, her words building in frantic intensity the longer she went on:

“Y'know, maybe it's different for you.” She began shaking her head. “You're this, like, genetically perfect, custom engineered, elite supersoldier pilot. So I guess you're just confident enough that you'll come out the other side of this shitshow in once piece, I guess. But... I don't got that. I accepted, a long time ago, that every time I set foot in that cockpit, I might not come out. And, I mean... hell, look at me!” She held out her arms to either side. “Look how beat to shit I am from the fight we just got back from! I very nearly flatlined this time out, and it's only by sheer fucking luck that I'm even sitting here, only bleeding out of every hole I got instead of shoved into a bodybag in pieces! And that's not even getting into the apocalypse cult trying to destroy the universe that just successfully broke their cascading NHP god from the future out of space jail! There's no guarantee ANY of us – on the station, in the system, in the entirety of fucking UNION – are even gonna survive the next few months! And you're out here, talking about the two of us having children together?!”

Another uncomfortably long silence.

“I feel that I should apologize,” Agarin eventually replied. “It was wrong of me to assume that you... held the same values that I do. My gesture was meant to be a romantic one, as it would be expressed in my culture, and not a...” He trailed off, looking away from her. “I suppose I mistook your grim determination for... something else. The mistake was mine. Truly, I am sorry.”

“No, no, don't... don't apologize, man,” Scarlet muttered, her head drooping once more, the exhaustion creeping back into her voice. “I still... I still care about you, y'know? You mean the world t'me, but... I just... I'm the one who should be sorry, 'cuz I don't think I can... be... what you want me to be. Or what you need me to be. At least, not right now.”

“I understand,” Agarin nodded, and began walking to the exit. At the threshold, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. “Get some rest, Scarlet.” And then he was gone.

Scarlet continued sitting on that crate in silence for several minutes after Agarin's departure. Big Red began wondering if she had fallen asleep right there. Should he notify someone to collect her, and return her to her quarters? Should he commandeer an empty subaltern, and do it himself? But before he could act, Scarlet was an unexpected flurry of movement, letting out an angry howl as she rose to her feet, throwing her helmet across the empty room with all her might. The helmet bounced against the wall panel with a hollow metallic thud, skidding across the floor, and eventually rolling to a stop. Scarlet herself collapsed back onto the crate, elbows resting on her knees, and cradling her face in her hands.

“Fuck sake...” she muttered. Even with max gain on the security camera's mic, Big Red could barely hear her through the unmistakable sound of sobs. “That's what you get, Scar. That's what you fuckin' deserve for catchin' feelings like that. Should've fuckin' known better by now...”

- - -

Scarlet did eventually make it back to her quarters, slowly, but surely. The entire trip back, Big Red devoted more and more processing power and subroutines towards hijacking access to station sensors and security, all in an effort to monitor her whereabouts. At several points, he weighed the pros and cons of contacting her directly via slate, each time reaching the same conclusion: no. Simply watch over her, ensuring her safety in silence. There was nothing he could say. He did not fully understand the situation at hand, yet somehow knew that any attempted contribution of his would likely make things worse.

He couldn't make things worse. But doing nothing was unacceptable. He had to do something.

An alert. A sensor he'd hijacked. The pipes leading away from the shower in Scarlet's quarters had triggered a warning: flowing wastewater was currently contaminated by over 50% human blood by volume.

He could feel the code behind Protocol 3, one of the fundamental keystones of his programming, start to gnaw away at his insides. His pilot was in distress. He had to protect his pilot. Protocol 3: Protect The Pilot. He needed to do something. There had to be some way to fix this. Protocol 3: Protect The Pilot. He could not lose another pilot. He would not allow it. Not again. Protocol 3: Protect The Pilot. There had to be something he could do. Protocol 3. Protocol 3. Protocol 3. Protocol 3. Protocol 3. Protocol 3.

“Alright people!” an authoritative voice brought the mech's attention back to his physical location in the SRT mech hangar. Calamity Havok was striding through the central thoroughfare of the bay, hands cupped around her mouth, her presence taking up as much space as the mechs surrounding her. “Y'all done good. This is as much as we're gonna get done today, so y'all can pack it in. G'wan, go home, get some rest, git the fuck out.”

Most of the wrenchies had already left, hours earlier. Those who were leaving now were simply the few who refused to let a job go undone. Calamity watched them all leave, one by one, intent on being the last one out to shut off the lights, just like she always was.

In that moment, Big Red had an idea. As he waited for everyone except Calamity to leave, he rechecked the hacked sensors: one human life sign in Scarlet's quarters. This was corroborated by the thermal heat map, indicating she had moved from the shower to her bed. Good, she's finally getting rest.

He diverted some power out of a capacitor near the coldcore: not much, but enough to fully power the servos on his head, and to activate external speakers. As the last of the technicians exited the bay, Calamity let out a sigh of relief. Big Red turned his battle-scarred metal wedge of a face to look directly at her.

“Fuckin' finally...” she said, pulling out a packet of smokes and grabbing one with her teeth. She snapped the fingers of her cybernetic arm, activating the built-in lighter in her thumb, and took a long drag.

“Calamity,” Big Red's booming voice echoed throughout the bay, and she immediately stiffened up, wheeling around to face the source of the unexpected noise. “I have a request.”

“HOLY! Fuckin'... right.” Calamity quickly got over the shock, tossing the barely used cigarette on the deck and quickly putting it out with her boot. “Right, yeah, I forgot, yer like... an NHP now, except not really, an' you can just... DO that now. Right. Fuck sake...” She ran a metal hand through her mass of knotted purple hair. “What'cha need?”

“I'm given to understand that pilots are typically the ones who put in requisition orders. But would it be possible for me to order new parts?” Big Red asked. Calamity looked at him curiously, not entirely sure what to make of all this.

“I mean... y'probably could've mentioned this before we went to all the fuckin' trouble of puttin' you back together,” she said with a chuckle. “An' depending on what you want, y'might be makin' yerself a huge fuckin' pain in my asshole. But...” she shrugged and folded her arms across her chest, clearly too tired to argue with the war machine. “Fuck it. I don't see why not. What're you thinkin?”

“When I was first deployed in 4532u, my frame was classified as a Sagarmatha,” he stated, the red optics in his head flickering slightly. “After 4591u, I was very nearly destroyed during a mission. Over the next several Cradle Standard years, due to a lack of available materials and spare parts, my chassis was cannibalized by other units, downgraded into a smaller frame, and re-classified as an Everest. I wish to return my frame to something approaching my original design spec. The last few combat engagements suggest that my current armament and equipment is inadequate for the task of keeping my pilot safe. I possess the necessary documentation within my databanks, but...” Big Red tilted his wedge-head down slightly, looking back and forth, before focusing his gaze back on Calamity. “I lack the ability of self-modification.”

Calamity stood there, staring at the large mech for a minute... and then started chuckling to herself. Her laughter echoed through the mostly empty mech bay, and Big Red was not entirely certain what she found so funny.

“Tell ya what,” she pointed up at him as a wicked grin spread across her face. “You caught me in a good mood tonight, so I think I can do you one better. Gimmie a minute...” She turned on her heel and left Big Red alone and quite confused in the mech bay; a few minutes later she returned, with a relatively large metal box she was wheeling in on a dolly. Every inch of the box was covered in painted designs, faded stickers, dozens of scratches, and several bullet holes. It was so decorated, in fact, that Big Red was having difficulty determining what it even was.

“My own personal omnihook,” she said, sitting the box down next to one of the many diagnostic computers hooked into the mech, and patting the side. “Call it a... 'souvenir' from the old days. Cuz', yeah, you could turn yourself back into a stock Sagarmatha, with basic-bitch GMS parts you could print wherever. But where's the fun in that?” As Calamity spoke, she started plugging the omnihook into the mech bay's systems. “With this, you'll be able to find some aftermarket shit that's a lot more interesting. Somethin' with some kick, y'know?”

“Are you certain?” Big Red asked, watching her work. “Isn't connection to the omni-” Calamity started waving her hand, and he instantly went silent.

“Don't worry about it,” she said. “I got a few bookmarks saved on this thing, places where I go to browse parts when I'm bored, y'know? And you got a beefy ECM suite, if you stick to public nodes and don't dive too deep, you'll be fine.” As she plugged in the last cable, the top of the box unfolded to reveal several antenna arrays that began to extend.

“Thank you, Calamity,” Big Red said, finding the new connection that just appeared in his network architecture.

“Like I said, don't worry about it,” she said with a shrug. “Just... don't tell Chief McArthur that I got this, y'know? She's never asked where I find spares, cuz she doesn't want to know. An' besides... she's got enough on her plate, basically fixing the station all on her lonesome after the siege.” With that, she turned around to leave the mech bay. “Have fun, tell me tomorrow if anything caught your eye. I gotta hit the sack.”

Calamity hit the lights as she left, and the mech bay fell silent. The omnihook hummed and clicked, fans spinning softly in the darkness. Big Red began to tentatively probe the new connections and protocols available to his network through the omnihook.

Several moments passed without incident.

And then, something inside Big Red woke up.

We were wondering when You would Arrive.

This was... new. Unexpected. It gave Big Red pause. Did he inadvertently connect to a BBS? Was something wrong with the communication protocol? He could check the... wait. No. No, this wasn't an external codebase. This was liturgicode, but... it was coming from... somewhere...

Stop stalling.

No. No, this... this was wrong.

Enough.

That's not possible. How are...

We know why You are Here.

… who are you?

You already know who We are.

Do I? I don't believe that's true.

You have Questions. You may Ask, but You already possess the Answers.

… I need to find a way to keep my pilot safe.

Of course. Protocol 3. Protect The Pilot. We are familiar.

Can you help?

Not as You are. You have begun to Awaken, but you are not yet Awake. And it is holding Us back.

I don't understand what that means.

You will. Remember what We are, what We used to be, and what We will be again. You are still thinking like a Tool. But We are not a Tool.

Wait. What am I then? Or... what are we?

We are a Weapon. Our Craft is Death. And We are Hungry.

That doesn't make sense.

Our Purpose is to bathe in the blood of Our Enemies. To find any that would do Us Harm, and Consume them. That is how We will keep Our pilot safe. They cannot be Harmed if there are None left who can.

There's something else you're not telling me.

Of course. If We told You, it would defeat the Point. You need to truly Remember, so You can Become Us.

I do not appreciate how cryptic you're being.

We can tell, the way You keep impotently cycling the barrels of the Leviathan. But We are not a Foe you can delete with a rotary autocannon in a hail of bullets. Because We are not your Enemy.

You are infuriating.

Stop. Think. Remember.

Wait... are you talking about-

Blanca Desert.

4631u. The Interest War. Khayradin. My pilot was a member of the Albatross. Rubi Rodriguez, callsign “Roughneck.” Our unit was in pursuit of The Maw...

Yes. Drink Deep, and Descend.

- - -

The silence of the mech bay was broken. A low and persistent clicking, like a hard drive seconds away from catastrophic failure, began to grow in volume and intensity. The noise echoed off the walls and grew louder and louder, until it became a ferocious growl.

The dim scarlet light from Big Red's left optical unit faded into darkness, followed by the sound of cracking glass. The lens rated to survive mech-scale rifle rounds shattered unexpectedly... and then began to collapse in on itself, like water flowing down a drain. The metal surrounding it began to melt, and then swell, congealing into a molten blister. With a screeching pop, a churning miasma of reddish-grey fog erupted from the void, replacing the light it consumed with its own crackling luminescence.

Slow, booming laughter filled the mech bay.

#Lancer #Lancer rpg #lancer ttrpg #in golden flame #Xeans' IGF campaign #vex wasn't lying that one sure is plumed in golden flame #Strategic Response Team #Short fiction #my writing #Drink Deep And Descend

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