#sliver handling systems

[karikarasuno]

part five | part six | part seven

you indeed did not fuck the next time you and law were together. but it does feel like death is sitting patiently and wickedly at your doorstep. the room you wake up in is dark. thank god. because any sliver of light makes your head throb and your stomach churn.

mistakes were made last night, for sure. you blame luffy for the shots. the little shit doesn't even drink, but at some point you were downing tequila in an absurdly foolish attempt to keep up with zoro and sanji. it was dumb. but luffy liked to instigate the two of them and somehow everyone was always roped into the mess. consequences be damned.

you remember inviting law out with you. he had just gotten off from work, but you caught him unlocking his front door as you stepped out to walk chopper. excitement shot through your veins at the sight of him. you could probably overdose on that man if it was possible.

"you work tomorrow?" you call out from your lawn. he looks over at you and smiles. you feel it all the way in your toes.

"no," he says, propping his arm against his now open door.

"on call?" you make sure to ask, remembering vividly the mishap from before.

"nope," he answers, his smile stretching into something devilish and you nearly faint. god, how you want this man.

"good, we're going out tonight," you say, not offering because he would be joining you even if you had to drag him out the house yourself.

"where to? if i may ask."

"drinks with my friends." you keep it vague on purpose because your crew could get a bit rowdy sometimes and you don't want to scare him off.

"seems a bit forward, don't you think?" you know he's joking. poking fun at whatever relationship this is that you two share.

"i almost met your family pants less, i think going out with my friends is okay," you laugh, tugging chopper back to your side when he tries to chase a duck.

"what time should i come over to get you?" it's thoughtful. reminiscent of a date. he would be the type to pick you up. maybe even open the car door for you. and the question while innocent in nature sends a thrill of something arousing down your spine. the bar for men really is in hell if this is what turns you on.

"i'll be ready by 7." he was ringing your doorbell by 6:58pm.

"someone's eager." after that the night shuffles through your head in disorganized memories. like a film reel, but some squares are black and others are just so fucking blurry.

you remember introducing law to your friends. everyone was friendly. nami and sanji grilled him in this weird good cop, bad cop schtick they randomly decided to do. but it was more bad cop, annoying cop if you were being honest.

you remember flirting with him in a booth a couple drinks in. the bar was dark so you two were pretty secluded, thankfully. you don't think you could handle your friends witnessing how willing you were to throw yourself at him.

but after that, there's nothing. you don't remember getting home and when you try hard enough a sharp pain shoots through your temple and you groan miserably into the pillow.

"someone's finally awake," law's voice pierces through the pleasant silence and dread washes over you like a bucket full of ice cold water. what the hell is he doing here? you lift the blanket over your head to hide how horribly you know you look. attempting to save yourself from further embarrassment.

"what're you doing in my room?" your words are jumbled together and you're surprised he even understands you.

"this is my room, silly," he responds with a chuckle you can barely hear over the instant surge of alert mortification that floods your nervous system.

"no it's not," you argue, hoping and praying this is just some prank he's pulling since you were the one who started this whole breaking and entering scheme.

"look around, sweetheart," he says, suddenly much closer than he was before. you peek out over the top of the comforter. four-poster bed, heather gray black out curtains, and law. he's standing above you with a prescription bottle in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. black ribbed tank top hugging his torso and a pair of sweats hanging low on his waist.

you decide that you now hate him. why the fuck does he always look so good? it's just unfair at this point.

"why am i in your room?" your voice is rough from sleep and your throat is sore from how dry it is. even blinking hurts.

"i tried to take you home last night, but you refused to give me your house keys," he explains and you cannot believe you got that drunk. you're never drinking tequila again. "you said it would be more fun if we had a slumber party."

"oh lord," you complain, rubbing your temples with your thumb and pointer finger.

"take this," law says, and you hear the pills in the bottle rattle around as he pours a few in his hand. you hold out your open palm, refusing to look at him out of sheer defiance. really you're trying to save face.

you sit up when he hands you the open water bottle and even that action is a struggle. you're going to kill your friends the next time you see them. not that this is totally their fault. still you needed to spread the blame in the hopes that you can yell at them if law decides he never wants to speak with you again.

you chug down half of the water in a few large gulps. you're so dehydrated it's physically painful. a few drops of water drip onto your shirt and you absentmindedly swipe at them until it hits you that the shirt you have on isn't yours.

"law?" you question, you gaze finally sliding over to him. he hums in acknowledgement. "who's shirt is this?"

"mine," he gives you a small, sympathetic smile.

"why am i wearing it?"

"funny story actually," his smile grows less sympathetic and more... tickled. you hate him. you really really do. "i had to wrestle it onto you when you decided it was a good idea to strip down to your underwear."

"i did not." mortification is an understatement. humiliation is nowhere near severe enough to describe the feeling that's now burning through you.

"mhm, you said sleepovers are more fun naked," he laughs lightly. you're glad someone finds this situation humorous. because you’re about to dig a hole in your backyard and bury yourself in it.

"don't make that face," law pinches your nose between the knuckles of his fore and middle finger. it's annoying how cute he is because your face immediately un-scrunches from the gesture. "i thought it was adorable."

"me in the nicest lingerie i own is adorable to you?" you argue, irritated that you wasted your matching set on a night that law didn't even get to take it off you.

"no, the lingerie was very sexy," he leans in towards you, his thumb pressing into your brow bone to relieve some of the pressure that was there from your raging headache. your stomach flips at his words, even more agitated at how awful you feel when you should be climbing him. "you're just an energetic drunk and its entertaining. you're also really handsy."

you lean into his massaging fingers that are now kneading at your temples. you don't even want to answer him out of pure misery.

"i wish i could remember how handsy i got," you grumble, mopey and disappointed. you hear a light chuckle from him as his fingers travel to the soft spot behind your ears. law's hands are so perfect you're forgetting how bad you feel.

"nothing too scandalous. perfectly pg-13." he starts massaging your neck and a sigh of reprieve falls from your lips. bless him and his long fingers and his strong hands. actually you don't hate him anymore. you hate yourself for ruining the perfect opportunity to roll around for hours in these very sheets with him. fuck it all to hell, starting today you're gonna be sober.

"oh!" you just now remember your dog. on top of being a lousy drunk, you're also a horrible mother. "i gotta walk chopper!"

you wiggle away from his magical fingers reluctantly, yanking the comforter back to jump out of bed. you don't make it far though. law's hand finds you bare thigh to keep you in place.

"he's in the lanai. i got him when i woke up this morning when i realized you weren't waking up any time soon." he covers you back up with the blanket, tucking you in. "i stole your keys from your purse."

"and you fed him?" on top of law being a magician, he's also a saint. you think about proposing then and there.

"and," he pushes you so that you're laying down again, "i fed him."

"i think i'm gonna marry you," you say out loud, and completely on accident. but without his hands on you the headache has returned full force and the pain doesn't give you the time to regret it.

"go back to sleep," he scoffs throwing the blanket over your head. "you'll feel better when you wake up."

****

you wake up who knows how long later to the sound of nami's voice. but that can't be right because you're at law's house. still in his bed. and still in his shirt-- that thought makes you giddy. it is nami, though, you’d recognize her voice anywhere.

“thanks for taking care of her. we definitely over did it last night,” she says, her voice carrying a slight note of apology. which is unlike her.

“it’s really no problem. once she was in bed she knocked out.” you can’t believe nami is even here. your headache is thankfully gone only to be replaced with anxiety in your chest. “and thanks for the dinner. how much was it? i’ve got some cash.”

“no no! you don’t have to do that!” nami declines and you can almost imagine her hands waving in front of her in that way she does when she gets nervous. law really does have that effect. “that’s her favorite hangover food. just the right amount of grease.”

“you’re gonna clog her arteries,” law says and you hear the crinkling of a bag and you assume he’s looking through it. he’s such a dork.

“oh with you around i’d worry less about her arteries and more about-” she catches herself. you’re ready to smack her but she’s right. your arteries are perfectly fine.

law just laughs though. and you feel guilty for eavesdropping when you should announce that you’re awake. but you’re nosy and actually very comfy nestled in all of law’s bedding. so you’re hesitant to get up.

“you know,” nami starts, pausing for a brief moment. “well…”

“what is it?” law asks. you’re nervous. your pulse is picking up the pace and you can feel it thump in your throat.

“she really likes you,” she says quickly. next time you see her you’re definitely going to slap her. not that you hid it very well. but as a best friend there’s certain rules to abide by. telling the man you’re sort of sleeping with that you have feelings for him is definitely breaking one of those rules. “at first i thought it was some rebound after kid and i was rooting for her because you’re tall and successful and hot so of course i approved.”

something’s wrong with her. she must have lost her mind.

“but you should hear the way she talks about you. it’s kinda gross if i’m being honest.”

“i’m not sure how i should take that,” law’s voice is a funky mixture of confusion and amusement.

“i’m just saying if this is some fling to you save her the heartbreak. the break up was hard and seeing her like that made me contemplate murder, but she’s much more forgiving than i am.”

the silence that follows has you clamming up. you’re terrified because you don’t want him to end things. you don’t care about the repercussions. you just love spending time with him. kissing him. teasing him. law just makes it all so easy. and you refuse to give it up.

“that’s not something you have to worry about. as much as i appreciate the threat,” he pauses when nami releases a breathy laugh, “i have no intentions of hurting her. i... really like her too."

your heart soars. it flies right out of your chest. assuming his feelings were reciprocated is one thing. but knowing it-- that's an entirely different sensation. it's tingly, bubbly, fuzzy. you almost kick your feet and squeal.

you have to contain yourself when you hear nami leave the house. you have to contain yourself further when you hear law's steps approach the bedroom. you don't want to give away the fact that you've been awake the last few minutes. and that you overheard a conversation that you probably shouldn't have. you don't regret it though. especially not when law's hand finds your shoulder and gently shakes you.

"hey, you," he whispers, leaning over so that you can feel his breath fan over your cheek. "nami was nice enough to bring over some food for you, so why don't you wake up and eat something?"

you turn around, blearily looking up at him. he's smiling softly above you. his face is relaxed, his eyes are fond. and unfortunately while your heart flies, you feel yourself beginning to fall for him. it's overwhelming.

you reach out to him, your fingers fisting in his tank top and you pull him towards you harshly. he isn't expecting it. so he falls on top of you with an umph of surprise.

"you need to eat," he says as he tries to escape your grip, but it's fruitless. you won't let go. you wrap yourself around him until he lying beside you. and he's laughing at your clinginess. you feel his laugh rumble against your body and you nuzzle your face into his neck. refusing to release him even when he tries to force space between you.

"come on," he urges with a hand on your waist, rubbing gentle circles into your side. "you've been lazying in my bed all day. i'm sure you're hungry."

"just five more minutes," you plead. "stay with me like this for five more minutes, please."

his whole body finally relaxes next to you. both of his arms, strong and thick and secure, cradle you to him. he kisses the top of your head. the world fades into nothingness because in that moment law becomes everything to you.

"ok," he agrees, "but i'm only giving you five."

part eight

[maryymaruu]

I present to you, the Iterator oc number two, the child that refused to be named, now having many, hah! _(:3 」∠)_

While I adore the true name I finally scrambled for him, and couldn't resist disclosing it, for lore reasons it'd be best to address him with his title;

Sentinel Of The Unforgiven, [SOTU] or just The Sentinel.

This one's novel is even longer, so for those who don't have the patience, the trivia board on the ref is a pretty good TLDR! ^^);

This guy needs to have quite a few more clarifications made first, as I'm stepping quite further away from the canon here, and even more into fanfiction/AU territory.

Some background;

[We're talking about one and the same group Three Signals (TS) is included in. They are neighbours of Sliver Of Straw, far away from in-game locations.]

- This group exists in a very mountainous area, and from the very beginning, the Benefactors decided it's more efficient to use their already existing underground tunnels (from drilling for Void Fluid) as a transportation modus; turned into an underground train system for Iterator construction process. That system runs quite far into the group, connecting Iterators like roots, with SOTU at the near center (first one built in the area).

- Due to some harsh weather conditions and poor decisions the city was equipped with "wind-breaking" walls, giving a quite claustrophobic effect. Citizens began feeling discomfort there even before resource problems.

- Once the resource demand problem became eminent, the citizens expressed lack of care or attachment to the city and/or the Iterator. It was agreed upon to simply use the underground trains to relocate to now already standing, various newer cities.

- The justice system is... blurry at best. This post is getting too long already so I'll fully explain it another time; for now it's only important to know SOTU is not the one judging the criminals, he merely holds them up to the verdict.

- The notion of "a stay in SOTU's city feels like a punishment in itself" became wide spread amongst the Benefactors. In face of necessity it evolved into an effort to make it a reality; SOTU was repurposed into a prison facility. Instead of upgrading him to be able to be more habitable, they completed the claustrophobic city with taller sealed walls and gates, and a new set of laws/taboos for the Iterator to obey. Making for a secure, depressing, fully automated trap box.

Now more about the Sentinel himself...

SOTU has always been a rather reserved personality that struggled to express emotion or weakness. There was a specific idea he had to live up to, (be it conditioned into him or self-imposed) of someone competent, serious and strong. Giving off a strict, cold and unapproachable first impression. The Group Senior that believes he has to carry the woes of the world on his shoulders alone and never break, in order to be a good example.

However, despite poorly expressing it, SOTU does deeply care about his people and about his peers. And always tried his best to be someone they can relay on, without directly admitting it though. Like a grumpy old man, would chew one out for making a mistake first, and then help them out of trouble, without sparing any effort.

Would never admit it, but feels quite hurt by how easily his citizens decided to abandon him, and resents them for what he's been turned into. He really tried to take care of everyone. He doesn't enjoy what his city has become, he doesn't enjoy being feared. Secretly wished it was a lot more like something that of TS's city... full of life, bonded and happy, but is unable to let go of the false idea what a Senior should be like, denying himself vulnerability to even express that.

The reformatting into a prison only worsened this problem. The new, additional programming discouraged acts of compassion or affection. (So that he doesn't pity the prisoners)

Despite best efforts, his group did not integrate very well. His ways of handling things left much to be desired, some labeling him a tyrant no one can ever reason with. Some just simply disliked him too much to ever relay on his advice. Communicating within the group was difficult, hence why eventually many stopped bothering and kept to themselves, or to smaller private cliques.

The repressed emotional impulses did catch up to him eventually, allowing for small acts of disobedience against the law.

Didn't stop SOTU from feeling it though. And feeling he sure did....

Those efforts were too little too late, inadequate to prevent the conflicts escalating into hostility. Once an arrest warrant was cast from the Benefactors above, there was nothing he could do. And once the poorly integrated group got a taste of connection against a "common enemy" it was over.

Delays, stalling, omitted reports, "errors", "lost" data, "unreceived" broadcasts... All in efforts to keep the prisoner numbers low, and make the stay of those present shorter and more bearable. Ignoring all reports about what was going on in TS's city in particular- hoping to at least protect something SOTU could never be.

(More to come)

TS got hurt, and the lively community on top was broken up. It is unclear who is responsible for the malware attack idea, nor who exactly deployed it, but SOTU feels fully responsible regardless. He wallows in ever growing guilt and regret since.

[rikudaa]

₊ ⊹ ᶻz !! The Ones Who Weren’t There !! ␥ Part 2

[BatFam x Alien Stage] x Reader | <<< You are here!! >>>

✮ WARNING!! Contains Themes Of Violent Death, Grief, Psychological Trauma, Body Horror, Emotional Breakdown, Survivor’s Guilt

Again, this is part two for the earlier post SO READ THE FIRST PART FIRST, UP YOU GO🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The low murmur of keyboards and coffee machines faded into static the moment the newsroom screen flared to life.

Dick, now just another name on an HR payroll in Blüdhaven’s safer corners at day—was elbow-deep in quarterly reports when his coworker’s voice slithered through the haze of workday monotony.

“God, Gotham’s a cesspool. Did you see the news? Gala turned massacre. Whole damn city’s cursed—wait, isn’t that your sibling?”

The air collapsed.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Like rebooting a jammed system. His pen dropped, clattering loudly against the laminate desk, but it sounded like it came from underwater. A dull echo. The noise of a world beginning to warp.

He turned to the TV.

The news chyron bled across the bottom of the screen:

“BREAKING: Unidentified Body Found After Gotham Gala Massacre. Brain Removed.”

His eyes snagged on the footage.

A stretcher.

A body under a black tarp.

Boots. Flashbulbs. Officers shouting.

Plastic gloves smeared with something dark and glistening.

“That can’t be—no. No. No, no, no—”

Not you.

Not you.

His chair screeched as he stumbled to his feet. He was shaking and didn’t even know it. The room swayed. His vision tunneled. Somewhere behind his ribs, a war began—a fight between every breath he couldn’t take and every scream he wouldn’t let loose.

The screen cut to a slow replay: the tarp lifting. A gasp from the bystanders. The gloved hand reached into the body bag—just for a second. A sliver of exposed jaw. Pale skin. Bloodless. Too bloodless.

The top of the skull—

Gone.

A void where a mind should be.

And Dick’s mind broke open with it.

He gasped—violently—as if the TV had just punched air out of his lungs. His hands gripped the sides of the desk. The wood under his fingers warped, melted into the phantom feeling of a gala wineglass. The memory struck like lightning: your laugh under chandeliers, the rustle of your formal wear, the way you’d said, “Bruce is impossible, but he backed out. I’m handling the gala instead—wish me luck, Dickie.”

The memory shattered into blood.

He staggered backward. A chair toppled. Someone called his name but it didn’t reach him.

“They got it wrong. The press—always fast, always messy. It’s a mistake. It’s a mistake. That’s not you. That’s not you, that’s not–”

But it was the coat.

The color.

The cufflink—his cufflink, one he’d gifted you last winter, gold and black and one of a kind.

And that’s when the spiral began.

It wasn’t just horror. It was a fracture.

Denial wasn’t a wall—it was a flood, tearing through every cell in his body.

He couldn’t breathe. His chest caved in on itself. His vision pixelated. He clawed at his tie like it was a noose, a foreign object choking him.

“They’re wrong. You’re alive. You’re probably pissed Bruce bailed on the gala and now you’re hiding somewhere, sipping scotch, sulking over bad press. You always hated the spotlight—this is a prank. A test. Maybe Jason’s idea of a sick joke. Or Scarecrow—maybe this is a fear toxin flashback. Yes. Yes. That’s all it is.”

You weren’t-

…missing a brain.

His heartbeat thundered so loud he didn’t notice he was crying until a drop fell onto the back of his hand.

He was halfway out the office before anyone could stop him, breath ragged, lips moving to a name he didn’t dare say aloud.

Not yet.

Not until he could prove the universe wrong.

Because if that body was you–

If your eyes would never open again–

If someone had reached into your skull and stolen the part that made you you–

He wasn’t just going to mourn.

He was going to burn Gotham to the ground to find the monster that did it.

──── ୨୧ ────

Jason had been close.

The sensor tripped—a flicker of red on his gauntlet HUD. Hidden panic clenched his gut, but he was already on the bike. Already tearing through Gotham’s streets like a bullet ripped from the barrel. He’d always told you to keep it low profile, but you insisted on finishing Bruce’s gala.

Always trying to hold the damn family together, even when it splintered.

He was close.

But never fast enough.

When he got there, Crime Alley was already swarming. Flashing red and blue strobed across the soot-stained brick, casting monstrous shadows down the corridor of Gotham’s most cursed street. It looked like a wound split open in the city’s ribs. Blood-slick asphalt. Sirens howling like eulogies.

He ditched the bike two blocks away.

Walked the rest of the distance like a man descending into his own grave.

Jason didn’t blink. Didn’t ask permission.

He walked past two rookie cops. Shaking. Crying. One vomiting against the side of the ambulance, hands braced on his knees, the other whispering frantically into his wrist mic, “It’s like a butcher shop… Jesus Christ…”

He stepped inside.

And the smell hit first.

Iron. Burnt ozone. Copper. And something rotted.

The crime scene was centered under the crooked old lamppost—half-lit, the bulb flickering like it couldn’t decide if it should expose or mercy-dim what lay beneath.

He saw drag marks. Two trails. Long. Panicked.

Someone had fought here. Desperately.

The sidewalk bore impact cracks, as if something—or someone—had been slammed into it, again and again.

The blood trail was wide.

Wide and dark and too much.

The stench nearly took him to his knees.

He didn’t throw up.

Didn’t breathe.

He just moved, slow, controlled, rage tightening in every joint, his gun already drawn because this wasn’t a rescue anymore. This was a fucking hunt.

Then he saw it. The ping zone. Right at the mouth of the alley.

Your last stand.

Your watch was there–the screen cracked, but the signal light was still blinking—pathetically, like it didn’t understand it had failed.

“No.”

His voice rasped, caught between fury and a breaking sob he would never admit to.

“You were supposed to ping me. You did. I came. I was here—I WAS FUCKING HERE.”

He crouched beside the watch, blood squelching under his boots. One gloved hand hovered over it—shaking.

There was no body.

Only pieces.

Pieces.

Not enough to say for certain. Not enough to kill hope.

But the blood told him the truth anyway. The kind of blood loss no one walks away from.

And the skull–God, your skull.

Or what was left of one.

The top of the cranium was gone—scooped out like a jack-o’-lantern.

Blood seeped around it, pooling under where the brain should have been.

But there was nothing.

Nothing inside.

They didn’t just kill you.

They desecrated you.

This wasn’t a crime.

It was a statement.

Jason’s throat closed around a scream he didn’t let out. Not here. Not in front of these bastards who’d arrived too late. Not in front of the blinking camera feeds. Not where someone might see the Jason Todd on his knees, shaking like a child and staring at a broken watch like it was a headstone.

“I should’ve been faster.”

The guilt gnawed instantly.

He thought of Dick—what this would do to him.

Of Bruce—how he’d fold it into another stoic silence.

Of himself—and how he wouldn’t survive this. Not again. Not you.

You were his tether. The one person who still called him “Jay” like it didn’t taste like ash. The one who gave him shit about overkill, but still patched his wounds when he came back bloodied.

Now there was nothing.

No you.

No face to hold onto. No soft body to bury.

Just the red blinking light.

And blood.

So much blood.

Jason stood slowly. Every movement hurt.

He holstered the gun. But not the rage.

“I’m gonna find them,” he whispered.

“I’m gonna find whoever did this. I’m gonna look them in the eye. And I’m gonna carve their fucking names into the devil’s guest list.”

Behind him, the lamplight flickered once, then went out completely.

Because someone had taken his tether to humanity—

And now?

He had nothing left to lose.

──── ୨୧ ────

Wayne Manor had gone silent for the night.

No operatic soundtrack echoing from the study. No clink of decanter glass. Just the whisper of firelight crackling in the hearth, and the rustle of papers as Bruce Wayne read through an intelligence report that had been sitting unopened for three days.

He hadn’t attended the gala.

You did.

And instead…

His phone rang.

The line that never rang unless it was bad.

Worse than bad.

Bruce froze.

His hand hovered over the encrypted comm.

Then it rang again.

He picked up.

“Wayne.”

The voice on the other end was tight. Measured.

GCPD.

“We… Mr. Wayne, we need you to come to Crime Alley.”

He didn’t respond at first. Didn’t move.

“There’s been… an incident. We believe your legal signature may be required to identify… remains. It’s your ward. We found credentials. We—please, sir.”

Bruce said nothing.

He hung up.

He didn’t throw the phone. Didn’t scream.

Just stood.

Rigid. Straight-backed. Like a soldier receiving orders from a war he thought was long over.

Crime Alley had never changed.

Still dark. Still narrow. Still reeking of old tragedy and new ones waiting to happen.

The Batmobile didn’t come. Bruce Wayne arrived alone, in a nondescript black town car. His coat sharp. Face pale. Movements exact.

He walked through the barricade tape, not even looking at the officers who parted for him like water.

Some recognized him. Some averted their eyes.

Most said nothing.

One detective—a younger man, freckles, eyes red from crying—met him halfway.

“Mr. Wayne. Sir. This way.”

He was led past the alley’s mouth, to where the cleanup hadn’t even started yet.

Jason’s silhouette stood off to the side. Still. Bleeding at the knuckles. Blood that wasn’t his. Or maybe it was.

His mask was off. Eyes vacant. Rage burned out into the kind of grief that could kill gods.

Bruce looked down.

There was a metal cart draped in a white sheet.

There was the watch—your watch—bagged beside it, cracked but blinking.

And there was a clipboard.

The words “LEGAL GUARDIAN / IDENTIFYING RELATIVE” printed at the top.

Bruce reached for the clipboard. His hand trembled once. Just once.

He forced it still.

The sheet was lifted.

And for a moment, time stopped.

Not because of gore. Bruce had seen worse.

Not because of the horror—though it was there, oh God, it was there.

But because there was nothing behind your eyes.

Because there were no eyes.

No skullcap. No brain. Just a hollow cavity.

A mind stolen.

A child erased.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t cry.

He just stared.

Long enough for the fire behind his eyes to ignite.

Then—

He signed.

B. WAYNE

Block letters. Neat. Final. The same way he signed every mission log, every will, every authorization for body disposal from the League.

But this was different.

This was you.

And paper wasn’t enough.

Jason approached slowly. Quiet. Like even breathing wrong might crack the world further.

“I was late,” he rasped.

Bruce didn’t answer.

“I came as fast as I could, but—”

“I know,” Bruce said. A voice carved from stone.

He looked at the remnants of your watch.

“I should’ve gone myself. It should’ve been me. Not you.”

Jason turned his face away, fists curling again.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

Bruce’s eyes sharpened. Cold. Focused.

“We bury what’s left.”

He looked toward the blood stains drying under the lamppost where his life had once changed.

Then back to yours.

“Then we hunt.”

He didn’t speak the entire ride back to the manor.

Didn’t change.

Didn’t sit.

He stood in the center of the library, coat still soaked from alley rain, the silence heavy like a shroud.

The clock ticked.

4:29 a.m.

He reached for the secure comm device on the desk. His fingers trembled, just slightly.

He called her.

Selina answered after the first ring, her voice still velvet with sleep.

“Bruce? That you?”

Silence.

Then—

“You’re calling late, or early—I guess depending on what disaster you’re cleaning up. What’s wrong?”

More silence.

She sat up. He could hear it—the creak of silk sheets, the shift in her breath.

“Bruce. Say it.”

He stared at the floor.

Where you once sat with a cup of tea and tired jokes about how the manor was too quiet without Damian’s brooding and Dick’s bad coffee.

I should have gone.

It should’ve been me.

He exhaled through his nose. A single sound. Broken.

Then finally, he spoke.

Low. Guttural. Final.

“It’s Y/N.”

Selina didn’t respond right away. But he knew her silence. It wasn’t confusion—it was comprehension. The kind of silence that comes only when the floor drops out from under you.

“How bad?” she whispered.

He closed his eyes.

“No body.”

“…”

“Just blood. Pieces. Skull damage. Brain’s gone. They took it. Left the rest.”

Another silence. This one hurt more.

“Bruce. I’m coming over.”

He didn’t stop her.

Didn’t say “No” or “Don’t.” Didn’t do anything but drop the comm back onto the desk like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He stood there alone.

The man who taught Gotham to fear the dark now stood powerless against the shadow it had stolen.

He could handle blood.

He could handle death.

But this?

This was void.

And Bruce Wayne had no contingency plan for grief shaped like a missing mind.

──── ୨୧ ────

The sun rose without permission.

Across Gotham, the city exhaled into its usual chaos—sirens, taxis, coffee cups, the sleepy grind of another morning that didn’t yet know someone was gone.

But at 9:06 a.m., Tim Drake did.

He was half-dressed in his dorm room, one hand mid-reach for his tablet, when he noticed the missed calls stacked on his phone screen like a silent scream:

4:52 a.m. – Bruce (4 calls)

4:56 a.m. – Alfred (1 voicemail)

5:03 a.m. – Jason (text: “Answer your damn phone.”)

5:08 a.m. – Unknown GCPD number

He hit play.

“Master Timothy… it’s Alfred. I… I’m sorry. There’s been an incident. It’s Y/N. They were found in Crime Alley last night. We need you at the manor. You were one of the last to see them—please come home.”

He stopped breathing.

Memory rushed in like a flood he wasn’t ready for.

Last night.

You stood just outside the gala entrance, eyes tired but warm. You tugged Damian’s tie loose and made some dry comment about him learning fashion from Bruce. Tim had laughed, and you’d grinned at both of them. Just for a second. That grin.

“Go,” you said. “I’ve got this. I need to head back to my dorm anyway—last gala dance of the season, right?”

So casual. So safe.

He and Damian had taken that as their cue to leave.

And now?

Now Alfred was telling him you never made it home.

•

9:29 a.m. | Gotham Academy Grounds

Damian had only just arrived.

His ride had dropped him off near the Academy gate, and he was heading toward the east wing when he noticed something… wrong.

His communicator buzzed in his coat pocket.

Then buzzed again.

Then again.

He scowled, annoyed at the interruption. Until he saw the message.

“Come home. It’s Y/N.” — Alfred

He froze.

Right there in the middle of the walkway. Students brushed past him, laughing, shouting, alive.

His mind played back your parting words—“I need to head to my dorm anyway.”

He had nodded at the time, smug and satisfied that you’d handled the gala despite Bruce flaking.

But now…

Something in him fractured.

He turned on his heel and began walking back toward the school’s gates without a word.

10:04 a.m. | The Batcave

The manor was too quiet.

Tim entered through the upper floor and instinctively followed the hum of tech down the hidden elevator shaft, down into the heartbeat of the house.

The Batcave lights glowed cold and clinical.

Bruce stood in front of the main console, cowl discarded but armor still on—shoulders heavy, jaw locked.

Jason leaned against a table to the side, helmet in hand, eyes bloodshot.

Alfred sat stiffly on a chair nearby, hands folded, a glass of untouched tea beside him.

When Tim stepped off the platform, no one said anything.

They didn’t need to.

“It’s real,” Tim whispered.

Bruce only nodded once.

Tim’s knees buckled.

He gripped the nearest workbench to stay upright, blinking fast, vision swimming. His backpack slipped off his shoulder with a thud. He didn’t bother picking it up.

Then—

Footsteps.

Rapid. Sharp.

Damian.

He stormed off the elevator like it had offended him.

“What the hell happened.”

His voice cracked halfway through, though he tried to bury it under rage.

Jason moved to intercept, but Bruce raised a hand. Let the kid come.

Damian stopped in front of the console. Saw the footage playing in silent loop.

Crime Alley. Blood. The blinking watch. The dragged smear of a body that wasn’t whole.

His jaw clenched. Fists balled.

“We left. They told us they had to go back to their dorm. We didn’t argue. We left.”

No one responded.

The silence was a verdict.

Damian shook his head—hard, as if trying to rattle the truth loose from his brain.

“No body?” he asked quietly.

Alfred answered, voice gravel-rough.

“Only fragments. Part of the skull. The brain… was removed.”

Tim turned away, a hand over his mouth. He was shaking.

Damian just stood there.

Still.

Staring at the watch on the display.

Your watch.

Still blinking red.

“They were fine. They were laughing. They were—whole.”

He looked at Bruce.

“Why weren’t you there?”

It came out like a blade.

Jason inhaled sharply, but again, Bruce said nothing.

Damian turned away, but not fast enough to hide the wet sheen in his eyes.

“We were the last to see them,” Tim whispered, hoarse. “Do you know what that means?”

No one had to say it.

They all knew.

It meant the memory of your smile would be the last one they’d ever have.

It meant your voice would live in their heads like a ghost.

It meant they had let you walk alone into the dark.

And now all they had left was blood, silence, and a blinking watch that wouldn’t stop calling for help.

──── ୨୧ ────

It was the day after.

The news hadn’t broken publicly yet—not fully. Gotham’s media machine was still running on speculation and half-formed headlines.

“Violent Crime in Crime Alley — Sources Say ‘High-Profile’ Victim.”

“Massive Blood Loss, No Body, GCPD Investigating Ritual Angle.”

But at 10:46 a.m., the truth hit the rest of them.

And it hit hard.

Steph was in the middle of a coffee run when she saw the Bat-signal flare faintly across the WayneComm emergency line.

“Wayne Manor. Cave. Now.”

She rolled her eyes. No context. Typical Bat-style.

Still, something gnawed at her gut.

She balanced her tray of coffees all the way to the manor, boots crunching on gravel with every confident step, humming some dumb pop song under her breath. Just another meeting, she thought. Maybe a mission brief. Maybe B had finally figured out who was sneaking cookies from Alfred’s tin.

Then she walked into the cave.

The air was ice.

Bruce stood still by the monitor. Jason wouldn’t look up. Tim was seated, face buried in his hands. Damian was statue-still beside the watch console, fists clenched so tight his gloves creaked. Alfred stood near the elevator, red-eyed.

And in the corner, a large display screen—

Crime Alley. Blood. Markers.

The Watch. Still blinking. Still searching.

Steph blinked.

Then blinked again.

A step back. Then forward.

“Wait. Where’s—where’s Y/N?”

The silence answered.

And just beside the elevator—

Selina Kyle.

Black coat. Red lips. Arms crossed, but jaw clenched like she was chewing glass.

She hadn’t said much since arriving. Just showed up after Bruce’s call like a shadow at the door.

She didn’t need directions. She knew where the pain lived.

Everyone noticed her.

No one said anything.

But the thought hung in the room.

Why were you there and not Y/N?

You were supposed to host the gala because Bruce pulled out. You were supposed to make the appearance, smile, keep up the illusion of a still-standing family name.

Selina should’ve been with you.

Should’ve escorted. Should’ve backed you up. Should’ve noticed something.

But no one asked.

Not out loud.

Because grief in this family wore too many masks.

The tray of coffee hit the floor.

And then she was on her knees beside it, sobbing into her gloved hands like it would bring you back.

•

Duke had a sense for things—light, shadows, the moods that lived between words.

When he arrived at the manor, the stillness gave him his answer before anyone said it aloud.

He walked into the cave, scanned the faces, and his chest seized.

“What happened.”

No one lied.

Not even Bruce.

They told him the truth.

Crime Alley. No witnesses. No camera footage. Too much blood to survive. No body.

“The brain was removed.”

That last detail—

That’s when his hands trembled.

Not because of gore. He’d seen worse.

But because you weren’t just another sibling. You were present. You listened. You made time for his questions about identity, legacy, shadows, and light.

You had a mind that made space for others.

And now someone had stolen it.

He didn’t cry.

He sat down, quietly, and started flipping through surveillance feeds, timestamps, power outages.

“If they left nothing,” he whispered, “that means they wanted it that way. That’s a pattern. We’ll find it.”

Grief would come later.

For now, he’d find the gap in the light.

•

Cass knew.

She’d felt it hours ago.

The ping. That cold, sharp, too-late red light.

She’d checked the location instantly, heart already racing before the data finished loading.

Crime Alley.

She knew you’d been at the gala. Knew you weren’t supposed to be there.

Knew something was wrong the second it flared.

She called the comm line.

Then another.

Then tried again.

But she was already too far—in Hub City, two hours out even with the fastest route.

She had screamed once—short and sharp—and launched into motion, already suiting up, already on the bike.

But by the time she got the second update, it wasn’t a rescue anymore.

It was a cleanup.

The guilt wrapped itself around her ribs like wire. Still hadn’t let go.

She crouched now by the dimmed display, one gloved hand still resting where the last signal pulsed.

Steph sat beside her, quiet now, eyes raw.

“If I had just—if I didn’t leave…”

Cass didn’t answer.

Didn’t say you told them to go.

Didn’t say you were proud of them.

Didn’t say you joked about dorms and deadlines.

Instead, she stood up. Movements stiff. Precise.

Walked straight past the console to Selina, and stood in front of her like a statue built from everything unspoken.

Selina met her gaze.

No flinch.

No apology.

Just mirrored pain, just as sharp.

Cass didn’t say why weren’t you there.

She didn’t have to.

Her body said it.

Selina didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Just clenched her jaw harder and nodded, like yes—she knew she should’ve been there.

She always knew.

Bruce stepped forward, voice low.

“We’ll find them.”

No one questioned who. Everyone knew.

This wasn’t a mugging. It wasn’t random. This was surgical.

A brain stolen. A body desecrated. A message sent.

“This wasn’t about opportunity. This was targeted. Someone knew Y/N would be alone. Someone waited for the right moment.”

“And someone,” Jason said, voice shaking, “knew how to get past us all.”

Steph looked up. “You think they’ve done it before?”

Bruce nodded once. “Or… this is only the first.”

Cass moved back to the center of the cave.

Her voice—quiet, but firm—cut through the room:

“No more delays.”

“We hunt now.”

──── ୨୧ ────

You wake with a gasp.

Air floods your lungs like water after drowning—sharp, cold, wrong.

Your body arches against the grass beneath you—soft, too soft. The light above is too bright, and it doesn’t feel like sunlight.

You slam a hand against your forehead as pain lances through your skull. Blinding. Like something hot was carved into the inside of your brain and then scraped out.

You can’t breathe for a second.

You squeeze your eyes shut and see red behind your lids.

Panic flares in your chest. You remember—nothing.

A color. A sound. A shape, maybe. A scream—

Then it’s gone.

Your fingers brush something cold and metallic around your neck.

A collar.

You blink. A red dot flickers at the center—glowing. Watching.

You barely have time to register it when you hear the voice.

Soft. Familiar. Somewhere to your left.

“What’s wrong, Y/N?”

You turn.

Your vision blurs at the edges.

Someone’s sitting beside you—legs crossed, concern etched on their face. Familiar. Maybe. But your head is too full of fog and static to name them.

They tilt their head at you.

Your heartbeat’s still trying to climb out of your ribs.

You don’t answer at first. The words feel far away.

But something else answers for you. Something instinctual. Buried.

You shake yours. Lightheaded.

You force a breath.

“Nothing, Mizi.”

The red light on the collar pulses once.

And you smile.

But the pain behind your eyes doesn’t fade.

<<< You are here!! >>> •Note: GUESS WHO’S HERE

And again grief time, more reactions lol, I combined Steph, Cass and Duke parts together (and cut out Babs–) but it seems too rushed but well, it’s too long and make my literally phone lagging. And this is my inspiration if you feel familiar, word count is 7k for both parts what the helly!!

Tagging: @lizzyzzn, @whaaaaaaaaat111, @hai-there-how-are-you, @1abi, @dreamzaremyrealityy, @bugsfruits, @alishii, @ememgl, @cssammyyarts, @kaeyasrose, @cebrospudipudi, @cupid73

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.

[stereotypical-day]

stranger danger - the salesman/recruiter (Squid Game) x female reader - part 3

𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙎𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙭 𝙁𝙚𝙢!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: 𝙖𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚, 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚? 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙪𝙥?

𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝙶𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙶𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚂𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚃𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗? 𝚅𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝙰𝚐𝚎 𝙶𝚊𝚙(𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛) 𝙺𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙿𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚔(𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚝) 𝙳𝚘𝚖!𝚂𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚗. 𝙽𝚘 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝(𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜?). 𝙷𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙰𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚎. 𝙿𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝙸𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝙽𝚘𝚗-𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜��𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛. 𝙵𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙿𝚜𝚢𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝙰𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚎. 𝙳𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎. 𝙾𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕.

Part 1 Part 2

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 5,020

He found himself in his office again, picking up a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the blood on his lip.  

What a bold girl she was, to bite him like that. The audacity amused him. A small smirk curled his lips as he wiped away the last trace of blood, letting the handkerchief drop onto the desk.  

With a sigh, he reached for his phone on the table and dialed.  

“It’s done. The distractions have been dealt with, and the work is complete.”, he said with a tone that sounded crisp and professional.  

“What about the girl?”, the heavily distorted voice from the other line spoke. 

“I’m handling it”, he replied shortly.  

“You know the protocol. Eliminate her.”  

“She might prove valuable”, he said after a short pause, “she has information – on the organization and Gi-hun’s plans.”  

“And? You know your job.”  

“I’ll take care of her.”  

“That’s on you.”, the voice on the other line snapped, “If you’re compromised, you’re done. I don’t need to remind you what’s at stake.”  

“Understood.” The line went dead, leaving only hollow beeping of an ended call.  

He slipped the phone into his pocket and sat back in his office chair, lost in thought. This had to be delivered perfectly, no slips whatsoever, if he wanted to keep her alive.  

But of course, if she imposes herself as a threat to his position, or his life, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. No second chances.  

That thought didn’t trouble him at all. In fact, it thrilled him. A lot of work was ahead of him, but he loved it. The balance between the risk and control. She was a complication, yes, but also a challenge. And he loved the challenge.  

How long will he be able to keep her alive?  

______________________________________________________________

She woke up with a headache, unsure whether the pain came from the hit on her head or crying herself to sleep. The events of last night slowly came back to her. Her desperate attempts to gain some sense of control over the situation. What was she trying to do really? Kissing him and biting in attempt to what? Hurt him? Distract him?  

It was a stupid move anyway, and she couldn’t help herself with the feelings of shame washing over her. The fact that she was still wearing only a towel didn’t help her feel better at all.    Time passed, but he still didn’t come. How long would she be stuck in this room? The only small comfort was the attached bathroom. At least she had running water, though she had no idea if it was safe to drink. She drank it anyway. 

But no food. No clothes.  

She had tried opening the window earlier, hoping for some kind of escape route, but the sight outside crushed any sliver of hope. Guards patrolled the area, cameras covered every corner, and the security system seemed tight. Basically, there was no way she could sneak out and escape. 

With a heavy sigh, she retreated to the bed, her body tense with frustration. She felt like an animal in a cage, her mind circling the same desperate thoughts over and over. 

By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, she heard the faint sounds of footsteps in the hallway followed by the sound of the keys jingling in the lock.  

Her stomach twisted, not just with hunger but with a mix of anticipation and dread. When the door finally swung open, he appeared, carrying two paper bags. He tossed them carelessly onto the bed, barely sparing her a glance. 

“Get dressed”, he said flatly. No greeting, no explanation.  

His appearance was sharp and composed. He was dressed in another immaculate suit, almost identical to the one he’d worn the day before. 

She quickly rummaged through the bags, pulling out a few pairs of fancy, expensive-looking bras and matching panties. The other bag contained simple t-shirts, sweatpants in neutral colors—gray, white, black—and a few pairs of basic white socks. 

She glanced at the tags. Every single item was her size.  

“What is this?”, she asked, holding up a pair of lacy panties and a matching bra.  

“Underwear. I wasn’t sure what you’d prefer, so I picked what I found... suitable”, he replied casually, his tone almost bored.  

The underwear came in shades of red, black, and soft baby pink, with only one pair in white. All of it looked ridiculously expensive—delicate lace, silk trims, but surely nothing that she would ever wear on everyday basis. 

“How do you know my size?”, she stared at him in disbelief.  

“I checked your clothes,” he said, his tone clipped. “Now stop wasting time and get dressed,” he added, his patience clearly thinning. Then, with a sly smirk creeping onto his face, he asked, “Or would you rather stay as you are?” 

Her face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and frustration as she snatched up the clothes and headed to the bathroom. 

The new outfit was unexpectedly comfortable. She had to admit that he had good taste, even if the whole situation was far from normal. After changing, she stepped out of the bathroom with a towel in hand. 

“Good,” he said, giving her a quick glance before turning toward the door. “Now, we have a few things to discuss. Follow me.” 

He walked out of the bedroom without another word, and she hesitated before following up behind him. 

The light in the dining room was slightly brighter than in the other parts of the apartment.  

“Sit here”, he motioned to the chair in front of him and she obeyed silently, pulling it out with a loud creak before sitting down.  

He walked around the table, putting his hands on the back of the chair across from her and leaned slightly forward. 

“Do you have any idea what you got yourself into?”, he asked, staring straight into her eyes. 

She fidgeted slightly on the chair, averting her eyes from his piercing gaze down to the table. No response.  

“Look at me,” he demanded, his tone hardening. “And answer my question.” 

Her eyes snapped back to his, the tension in the air almost suffocating. “I don’t understand the question,” she admitted. 

“You don’t understand the question”, he repeated, almost to himself as he hummed under his breath. 

His lips curled into a mocking smirk. “Do you understand that you’re supposed to be dead, sweetheart?” His hands tightened on the back of the chair, knuckles whitening. 

“I do”, she was bold to reply.  

“Good”, he said, straightening up and pacing slowly in front of the table. “Then you know how generous I’ve been to keep you alive.” He paused, glancing off into the distance as if lost in thought. “I don’t know why I did, you’re practically useless.” 

Her jaw clenched at his words, but she stayed silent as his pacing stopped. His tone softened, almost contemplative. 

“But there’s something about you”, he continued, “A potential” 

He stepped closer, stopping directly in front of her. Leaning down, his voice dropped to a whisper. 

“With the right...”, he paused, “guidance, you could be so much more. I can see it in your eyes” 

His fingers gently tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. She jerked her head away from his touch, her anger flaring up as she glared at him with a furrowed brows. 

“What do you want from me?”, her voice trembling slightly in the mix of anger and fear. 

“Me?”, he laughed, “I don’t want anything from you.” His smirk returned, sharp and cruel. “I’m giving you a chance. An opportunity, if you will. A new start.”  

He leaned closer, his voice softening to something almost seductive. “Call it whatever you like.” 

“Opportunity? In what exactly? Being held hostage?”, she glared at him.  

He took out her phone from his pocket and she extended her hand towards it hopefully, only for him to pull it back beyond her reach.  

“Say goodbye to your phone. I hope I don’t need to explain why you can’t have it around here.” 

“Please”, she begged, “at least tell my parents I’m alive.” 

“It’s better for them to think you’re dead.”  

She started crying when he smashed her phone in pieces. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, the weight of everything pressing down on her chest as she sobbed before him. 

Kneeling down on the floor, she picked her phone up desperately, attempting to turn it on, but the display was shattered completely.   

He walked to the kitchen casually, returning with two plates of steak and fried potatoes, with a salad on the side.  

Gently, he placed the plate in front of her while she was standing there, holding her broken phone in her hands, small sobs escaping her lips.  

“Eat.”, he said simply, gesturing to the food in front of her.  

She lifted her head at him, her eyes blazing with fury. Without thinking, she grabbed the edge of the plate and flipped it over, the contents ending up on the floor with a loud sound of shattering porcelain. 

Silence.  

His eyebrows lifted in surprise for a fleeting second.  

“I think I overestimated you.”, he stated after a moment, his eyes locking on the mess. “After everything, you still seem unable to grasp the rules of this arrangement. Go ahead - starve.” 

He sat down in the chair across from her, observing her with a calm expression on his face. 

Her chest heaved with anger, hands clenching into fists, but she said nothing. 

“There is one more thing I wanted to address before I get to more technical stuff”, he reached up to brush his thumb over his split lip, before he shifted his gaze onto her eyes and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table.  

“Whatever that little stunt was last night – kissing me, biting, bruising, thinking you could throw me off my game”, he tilted his head slightly before continuing, “it won’t happen again. I don’t particularly care for theatrics, but if you’re so eager to play rough, I’m more than capable returning the favor.”, he smiled slightly.  

His voice stayed calm, but slightly strained showing hints of frustration despite him keeping his composure. 

“Consider that your first and only warning.”  

She looked up at him for a split second, her face heating up under his intense gaze and blunt words. Shame mixed with the remnants of her earlier rage, pressing on her chest. 

He leaned back again, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the table as his eyes shifted on the spilled food and pieces of broken porcelain on the floor. 

“And as for tonight”, he continued, his tone cold and flat, “throwing food away like a petulant child won’t get you any points either.”, he paused again, his gaze piercing through her avoidant one. 

“It’s almost endearing, really – how you think these little outbursts might rattle me. But here’s the thing: you’re only hurting yourself, sweetheart. Keep wasting food, and I will happily let you go hungry. Maybe hunger will do what my words can’t and teach you some discipline.” 

His gaze darkened, smirk fading as he leaned back further into his chair. She swallowed hard, her previous bravery fading under the weight of his words. Utter embarrassment creeped up her spine, shame burning in her cheeks as she sat back down in the chair across from him. 

The silence dragged on, her heart pounding in her ears as his words replayed in her mind. She felt small and insignificant – like a foolish child being scolded by someone far more in control. 

"Nothing to say?" he finally broke the silence, his voice cutting through her thoughts like a knife. "Or have you finally realized how ridiculous you looked?" 

She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. The words were stuck in her throat choking her, finally realizing how helpless she was. Tears threatened to spill again when her mind kept convincing her that he is right. There was nothing she could do in this moment, and right now she denied herself the only chance to have a meal today.  

“Alright then”, he said, his tone sharp, “since you decided to ruin the nice dinner I planned for us, let’s get to the point.” 

He stood, leaving the room briefly before returning with a laminated sheet of paper, tossing it onto the table in front of her. 

“This”, he tapped his index fingers on the sheet in front of her, “is your schedule. You will follow it every day. No exceptions.” 

His finger circled the air lazily as he gestured toward the staff lingering around the house.  

 “When I’m busy, they’ll ensure you stay on track. When I’m available, I’ll handle it myself. Personally.” 

She hesitated, then picked up the sheet, her movements slow and cautious, eyes scanning the contents. 

6:00 AM – Wake up 

7:00AM Breakfast 

7:30AM Piano lessons 

9:30AM Dancing lessons 

12:00AM Lunch 

1:00PM Martial arts 

3:30-4:00PM Break 

4:00-5:00PM Gym 

5:00-7:00PM Game training 

7:00 PM Dinner 

Free time – 1 hour 

10:00 PM – Sleep 

Her stomach churned as she read through it. The schedule seemed very strict and tight. What the hell was this? 

She cleared her throat, her voice barely steady. “Piano and dancing lessons?”  

“Yes,”, he was quick to reply, “You need a bit of culture, sweetheart. The piano was my personal preference. And as for the dancing lessons,” his eyes narrowed slightly, “you’ll need them to learn how to move with grace—something you’re currently lacking.” 

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, and she shifted her gaze down to the paper, without a word. 

“And martial arts?”, her voice cracked at the question, as her hands trembled slightly.  

“You need to know how to fight. Especially self-defense,” he said bluntly, his tone laced with condescension. “Every attempt you’ve made so far has been—how should I put it? —pathetic.” 

She gave a soft hum in response but couldn’t stop the question lingering in her mind: Why teach her self-defense when he clearly intended to keep her captive—or worse kill her? Why bother anyway?  

“Any more questions?”, he asked, after a moment of silence.  

“Um, yes,” she said, her voice firmer now, though her composure still wavered. “What is ‘game training’?” 

His lips curved upwards in a faint smile, that didn’t quite reach his eyes.  

“Nothing special. We’re going to play some games.” 

Shiver ran down her spine at his words. She was already familiar what kind of games he liked to play, and the consequences of losing.  

“What kind of games?”, she pushed further, her voice strained in fear.  

He shrugged. “The kind I see fit for the day. I won’t spoil the fun by telling you everything upfront.”, the evil smirk grew on his face.  

She gulped, her foot tapping nervously against the floor, as she nodded.  

“And… what’s the reason for all of this?” she asked after a long pause, placing the sheet back on the table, her gaze lifting hesitantly to meet his. 

His expression shifted, and for a moment, he almost looked amused. “I believe I already explained that to you, sweetheart. I’m giving you an opportunity. A chance to be better—prettier, stronger, smarter, more graceful. Disciplined.” 

“There are countless ways you can improve yourself. And I’m offering you something most people would kill for.” 

She felt a pit in her stomach as his words sank in. The way he spoke made it clear that he really believed he was doing her some kind of favor.  

Her stomach growled loudly, her hand covering it instinctively as she glanced to the spilled food on the floor. He was right. He was so right. The action she took was impulsive, acting out on her emotions in the moment, while he kept calm and calculated, holding all the strings in control.  

Now she’s doomed to spend the night without dinner, and she couldn’t even remember the last time she ate. Was it yesterday morning?  

“If you don’t have any more questions, I would kindly ask you to go back to your room.”, he suddenly spoke again, picking up the utensils from the table and cutting up his steak in slow precise movements.  

She didn’t have anything to say anymore, as she was so hungry that it made her mind foggy. 

Slowly, she rose from her chair, her movements stiff and hesitant, holding a schedule tightly in her hands. Her stomach growled painfully again that it almost made the words spill out of her mouth.  

I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have done that… Please forgive me, i’m starving… Can I just have something small…  

But she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. She didn’t want to beg. 

“Goodnight”, she murmured instead, her voice barely audible. The words came out sounding almost like a question as if she hoped he might stop her, might give her another chance. 

But he didn’t. 

She turned toward the door, slowly and hesitantly, her hand hovering over the handle a moment too long. She could feel his gaze on her, the weight of it making her skin crawl.  

Finally, she pushed the door open and left without another word.  

As soon as she reached her bedroom, she allowed the tears too spill while she sank into the bed. 

The thought that he wasn’t entirely wrong made her feel even more trapped, her resentment only growing. Her mind raced with a swirl of emotions that were impossible to untangle and categorize.  

Well, at least she had clothes now. Small steps, right? But it was hard to stay positive when you’re being starved to death. Tomorrow will be better, she hoped as she sniffled back a sob threatening to escape her lips. 

She even hated herself for crying, for giving in to the weakness, but she couldn’t stop. She felt so small and powerless, and so damn hungry. 

The sound of the door opening made her freeze, wiping her tears away in hasty movements before turning her head into the pillow and away from the door. 

“Well, isn’t this pitiful little sight?”, he stood at the door leaning against the doorframe before moving inside the room.  

“Are we sulking already? That didn’t take long.” His tone was full of condescension as he walked up the side of her bed. “ Let me guess… tears of regret?”  

She gripped the blanket beneath her harder, her jaw clenching as she bit down on her lower lip stopping herself from saying something that could only make her situation worse. Was that even possible?  

He chuckled softly, clearly enjoying himself. “Oh come on-“ 

“I’m not crying”, she cut into his word, her voice hoarse and unconvincing. 

“Oh really?”, his tone was mockingly surprised. “Then what is this?”, he motioned to the wet patch on the pillow next to her face. “You’ve been crying so much, you’ve got your pillow all wet. How adorable.”  

You motherfucker. 

“What do you want?”, she finally turned around to glare at him.  

He straightened up, clearly unfazed by her outburst. 

“I’m here to lock you in for the night. Can’t have you sneaking off to rummage through the kitchen, can I?”, he smirked pulling a key from his pocket and twirling it between his fingers. 

“But I thought I’d check in first. Make sure you’re settling in nicely.” 

“Well I am. So you can leave now.”, she snapped, her voice cracking slightly despite all of her efforts to sound firm.  

He tilted his head watching her with infuriatingly amused expression. 

Her throat burned with the effort of holding back another sob, but she refused to give him that satisfaction.  

Instead, she turned away again burying her face into the pillow. 

“Well”, he said after a moment, “maybe tomorrow will be better for you. Or maybe not. Either way, I’ll enjoy watching. Goodnight, sweetheart.”  

He turned on his heel and locked the door behind him. And as soon as he did, she let her sobs out again, pulling a blanket over her in attempt to comfort herself. The sleep didn’t come easy that night.  

She jumped startled from her sleep  when the door slammed open. Before she could fully register what was happening, he was already at the side of her bed. He ripped a blanket from her curled frame in one swift motion. Cold morning air bit into her skin.  

“Get up.” 

She squinted, bright light hitting her pupils when he yanked the curtains open, revealing the steel-gray dawn of Seoul’s skyline. Her head still throbbed, eyelids heavy from crying. 

“I said get up”, he repeated turning towards her. “You have five minutes to be in the dining room” 

She stumbled out of the bed and towards the bathroom, splashing icy water on her face. When she emerged, he was already gone. With a quick movement, she pulled on sweatpants and t-shirt he bought for her and made her way to the dining room. 

The smell of scrambled eggs and toast made her stomach cramp. She was so hungry that her hands were shaking. He’d laid out two plates at the kitchen table, just like last night, his own untouched as he looked at something on his phone.  

She collapsed into the chair, picking up the fork, eager to put any food into her system. She didn’t even care about her own dignity anymore, she just needed to eat. 

“Slow down.”, he glanced at her for a moment but didn’t look up.  

She ignored him, shoveling eggs into her mouth, barely chewing. Her toast vanished in three bites.  

His hand reached out gripping her wrist. “You eat like a feral dog. Slow down.”  

“I’m hungry.” She hissed, trying to yank her hand away from him, but his grip only tightened.  

In one fluid motion, he slid the plate out of her reach. 

“I said, slow down. I don’t want to see you throw up all over yourself, sweetheart.”  

She nodded, and reached for the plate when he only pulled it further away from her reach.  

“Then ask properly. Besides, I never told you you’re allowed to eat.”  

Oh shit. 

With all the hunger and weakness she felt, she completely forgot how all of this works. Would he deny her food now? Again?  

She almost cried from frustration, while his expression gave away nothing besides cold amusement.  

“Please”, she barely gritted through her teeth, her hands curling up into fists.  

“Not good enough.” 

Her jaw trembled. “Please… let me finish.”  

He tilted his head. “Who are you asking?”  

The humiliation burned hotter than her hunger. “Please… sir”, her words barely a whisper.  

“Louder.”  

“Please, sir… let me finish”, she spoke up, staring straight into his eyes. Tears welled into hers as she tried to contain herself from acting out.  

He pushed her plate back, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Good girl.”  

She wanted to throw up, hating how her body stilled under his approval. The remaining of her food tasted bitter, as she struggled to swallow the rest of it. Keeping her eyes on the plate, she managed to finish it, before pushing the empty plate away from her.  

He inspected her in silence, casually sipping on his coffee.  

“You have a busy day ahead of you, sweetheart.”, he broke the silence, “I have to leave for work now, but your piano instructor will be here any minute.” He said glancing at his watch.  

“Piano instructor?” 

“Yes”, he replied, “and dancing instructor and martial arts instructor. I went out of my way to have them arranged for you, so I’d advise you to avoid slacking.”  

He rose from his chair, taking his suitcase and turned towards the door.  

“And sweetheart”, he paused at the doorway glancing back at her. 

“Try to behave. If you bite the piano teacher like you bit me”, he paused tapping on his bruised lip, “I’ll have your teeth removed. Understood?” 

Then the door clicked shut behind him.  

If I bite the piano teacher? What? 

His words echoed in her mind. Why the hell she would bite her piano teacher? She chuckled lightly to herself. Or was he referring to the kiss? The memory of the desperate, chaotic kiss and the split-second clash of teeth and rage, flashed her thoughts. 

I’ll have your teeth removed. 

She scoffed under her breath, pushing away from the table. Like hell you will. 

Not long after, her questions were partly answered when the piano instructor appeared inside of the apartment.  

“Good morning. I’m Minsoo, your piano instructor.”  

The man in front of her was young, early 30s at most, with a carefully neutral expression. She would lie if she said he wasn’t good looking. He carried a leather satchel and wore a crisp button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His eyes flickered to her face, then away polite, detached. 

“Good morning”, she replied quietly.  

“Let’s begin.”, he gestured to the grand piano in the corner.  

She hesitated a bit before she nodded, sitting next to Minsoo at the piano.  

“Start with C major”, he flipped open the sheet of scales, “Slowly please.”  

Her fingers hovered awkwardly over the piano keys, unsure what C major even is, embarrassment painting her neck in hot pink.  

“Um...” 

“You know where the C major is, don't you?”, Minsoo cut into her attempt to speak, raising his eyebrow at her.  

“No.”, she whispered, barely audible. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration.  

“Okay. Then we must start with the basics. Middle C”, he played the note firmly looking up at her, “This is your anchor. White key, just left of the two black keys. See?”  

She tentatively pressed the key, the sound matching his.  

“It’s like an alphabet with a piano. Seven letters are repeating, A to G, then it starts again.” He explained casually.  

“Now, I want you to play C to C, all the white keys.”, he motioned to the piano keyboard.  

Her fingers were awkward as she pressed all the white keys, one by one, her rhythm coming out weird and stumbling.  

“Good. But-”, Minsoo pushed her fingers away from the keyboard, taking over, “these are not typewriter keys. Flow.”, he demonstrated as he played the keys in order, the sounds coming out fluid. “Just like water.”  

The piano lessons went by fast, as she focused to memorize the keys, her fingers clumsy on the keyboard. Minsoo kept repeating the words: Again. Again. Again.  

He sure knew how to pick the right instructors. Strict and firm.  

Her dancing lessons followed up shortly after the piano teacher left. A woman, in what it seemed to be her late thirties appeared before her, her movements graceful and measured while she smiled, introducing herself as Ms. Kim.  

The room they trained in was made up of all mirrors and polished floors, reflecting every angle. She felt exposed as Ms. Kim walked behind her, placing a hand on her hunched back forcing her to stand straight.  

“Feet parallel. Shoulders back. Chin up.”, she orders, her voice strict and commanding.  

Y/n tried her best to straighten her back, appearing awkward and clumsy while Ms. Kim set up a camera on the tripod in the corner.  

“Before we learn how to move with grace, you must learn how to stand with grace. “, she moved around her, inspecting her posture in the mirrors around them.  

“Your spine needs to elongate, as if you’re being pulled up by an invisible string from the top of your head.”, she demonstrated.  

“Grace comes from presence. Presence comes from control.” 

By the time the lesson ended, she was exhausted. Her muscles aching from trying to hold herself properly and trying to keep up with Ms. Kim’s expectations.  

When she made her way back to the dining room, the lunch was already at the table, waiting for her.  

You couldn't even call it just lunch; it was a full course meal. A glass of freshly squeezed orange juice sat right next to the plate. The first course was a bowl of creamy tomato soup, and the main dish – roasted chicken breast, tender and golden, served alongside a bed of wild rice and steamed asparagus spears with a light butter glaze. 

For the desert, a small fruit tart sat in the corner of the table, topped with arrangement of fresh berries.  

She took her time, the satisfaction of good quality food filling all her senses. At least the food here was bomb.  

After lunch, there was no time to waste. As soon as she finished the last bite of her fruit tart, the staff member appeared to escort her to the next part of her schedule. She followed him down a quiet hallway until they arrived at a spacious training room.  

How big is this place?  

In the center of the room, waiting, was her martial arts instructor. He looked young, maybe even her age, but his glance was sharp and serious. He wore a simple black training uniform, and the moment she stepped inside, he gave her a curt nod. 

“I’m Hyun,” he said simply, his tone clipped and direct. “Bow.” 

She hesitated for a second before mirroring the quick bow he gave her. His gaze stayed on her, unflinching. This lesson was the most difficult so far. She learned how to stand, guard and punch.  

Teacher Hyun made her repeat the pattern over and over again, perfecting it, until her muscles ached and she was drenched in sweat. When they were finally done, she picked herself up and made her way towards the bathroom. Warm water felt soothing against her skin, calming her and almost lulling her to sleep.  

After she was finished with her shower, she glanced at her bed. She still had half an hour of “break time”.  

A nap wouldn’t hurt anyone, right?  

Her body felt fatigued as she sat on the bed staring at the pillow.  

Just a bit.  

She will wake up before he comes home. It’s going to be fine. 

Oh, what the hell. 

She leaned down on the pillow, pulling a blanket over herself. It was so comfortable, and she barely slept last night.  

30 minutes. Just 30 minutes.   Taglist: @dilfismz @yourpointbreak @putrescentpoet @riri53 @xxxcyx @marihoneywk @laurasenchantment @eviesmoon @riri53 @chrisstyle @trentknd

[betweenstorms]

Chapter 6/2 of Skin Of Thunder The Ship of Theseus (previous chapter) (next chapter) (all SOT chapters) (masterlist) Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!Reader

“The gods once whispered that to change was to survive, but what of the price? If you lose yourself piece by piece, at what point do you cease to be the one who began the journey?”

You worked like the devil was on your heels.

For days now, Ghost watched you.

Your fingers never stopped moving. Your eyes, tired but sharp, combed through data like you were looking for God buried in the fine print. You chewed your gum less, sipped your coffee cold, wore your clothes wrinkled from long nights and early mornings. You stopped adjusting your bloody pen holder. You started dressing in greys, navy blues and forest greens mixing with caramel browns and velvet noirs, something more uniform, something more restrained. You were trying to disappear into the work.

As if that would make it easier to be near him.

As if that could erase the memory of how you looked at him in the snowfall, your pretty eyes soft and steady, as if the world itself paused for just a breath in your gaze. As if it could erase the warmth of your lovely voice as you shared a story from your childhood, a tale that wove itself into the quiet night, threading your past with a tenderness he never thought he deserved. As if it could silence the reassurance in your words, the quiet promise that, despite everything he feared, you weren't going anywhere—

—no matter how much he resembled the man he hated most.

And it annoyed the ever-loving fuck out of him.

There was something bleeding out the seams of you.

That need. That drive. That old, familiar hunger Ghost knew too fucking well—the desire to matter. To prove something. To claw your way out of the periphery and into the heart of the mission, where the lines between clarity and consequence went soft and red. He watched it unfold in real bloody time. You didn’t belong there, not really, but fuck if you weren’t starting to fit into the cracks of it. Like moss growing between broken pavement. Quiet. Relentless. Somehow alive in a place built for the dead.

And you weren’t subtle about it.

Not like before.

“I—I think I’ve found a lead,” you muttered during a morning meeting, voice quiet but sure, maybe a bit hoarse, as if you'd held it in for hours. “Something’s off in the supply manifests tied to Site Bravo. Same trail of requisition codes as the drop Shepherd covered up in August. Different name. Same ghost print.”

Not maybe. Not sorry to interrupt.

Just that.

Ghost had felt Johnny look at him.

A glance. Blue to brown. A signal passed between brothers, a conversation spoken entirely in silence. He knew what Soap was thinking—knew it down to the fucking marrow, because it echoed his own unease like a bell tolling at the back of his skull.

A question.

How much do we give her?

And Ghost, for all his damned instincts, hadn’t answered.

Because he didn’t know. What could they really share with you? How far could they let you go before the edge turned from paper to blade? You were meant to file leave reports. Handle contracts. Chase down requisition forms. You were meant to be safe, for fuck’s sake. Instead, you were tracing the fault lines in a system that had already burned them once. All because of Laswell and the damn faith she placed in you, like a weighty crown you never asked for, yet somehow bore upon your shoulders with a silent, unyielding force.

Laswell didn’t blink when you’d said that.

She’d nodded, lips pursed in that tight little way of hers that meant she already knew. She’d known before you even said it, probably. You were confirming her suspicion. Making her job easier.

She seemed almost proud.

Price’s fingers tapped once against the table.

“Show me,” the Captain said.

And that was it.

The gates creaked open.

You’d earned a sliver of space on the game board now. A voice among wolves. And Ghost couldn’t bloody stomach it. Not because you were incapable. Not because you weren’t clever. You were too clever. Too quick with patterns. Too good at slipping past red tape and excuses, unravelling men with nothing but a well-timed silence.

“…same trail of flagged shipments. Bypassed Bravo through a dummy requisition. Followed it back to a private account connected to Shepherd’s former logistics branch. It’s buried, but it’s there, I promise. I just… need more time. To figure this out, I mean.”

Ghost exhaled slowly through his nose.

You were laying out the recon like it was fucking doctrine, like you’d been born doing this. And he knew, shit, Ghost knew it was never about how you dressed. Not anymore.

It wasn’t in your perfume or your ribbon or the way your fingertips skimmed the edge of the table as you spoke. It wasn’t about your bloody memories, nor the fire that burned in your chest, nor the unwavering determination that drove you to believe in the greater good, that you could help others. No, it was the way you combed through line items like they were sniper reports. The way you annotated briefings like you were prepping for a trial by fire.

Ghost had seen that hunger before.

He’d worn it once.

Maybe he was wrong about you. Again.

Because it showed. Your military blood. It was in the way you held yourself like you were always waiting for a hit that wouldn’t come. But still, you carried your softness like armour. As if kindness could bloody save you. As if the careful way you spoke, the way you looked at men who didn’t fucking deserve it, would make you immune to the rot curling beneath the surface of this world. Like if you stayed warm, stayed light, stayed just one fucking shade brighter than the sickening grey walls and black ops and brown dossiers, then maybe you wouldn’t turn into what they were.

And yet there you were.

Elbows on the table, nails chipped, hair tied back in some loose bun you clearly didn’t have time to fix. And there he was, sat opposite you, watching you slowly turn into something sharper than before.

Something he’d have to mourn.

Of course, he didn’t bloody show it.

No, he let the silence drag, heavy as a noose around his neck, as Price looked you up and down. Ghost could hear Soap shifting, restless as always, while Gaz exhaled, long and low, like he’d been holding it since you’d opened your mouth. They were waiting—for permission, for guidance, for their captain’s word.

“Good work, Dizzy one,” Price finally said, eyes narrowing in that quiet, calculating way of his. “Get it done, but keep it quiet. Anythin’ comes up, you bring it straight to me. Clear?”

You nodded quickly, exhaling a tight breath, relief washing across your face.

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

The meeting broke soon after, chairs scraping, bodies moving with muted urgency. Johnny nudged Kyle, murmuring something about grabbing a cuppa before heading down to training. Laswell gathered her files, exchanged a brief glance with Price, and disappeared back down the corridor like a shadow herself. But you lingered, arranging papers carefully, meticulously. Like you didn’t trust your hands to keep still if they weren’t full.

Price passed by, giving you a brief nod that looked suspiciously like approval. You returned it, quiet and steady, like you’d practiced this. Ghost knew you had. He’d watched you in his peripheral, muttering words under your breath like prayers, rehearsing lines you’d later speak to the Captain. Ghost knew exactly how far you were prepared to go.

The answer? Further than you fucking should.

You were drifting into the deep end, and you didn’t flinch anymore. Ghost could feel it—a slow churn, a sick weight in the pit of his gut that hadn’t left since the day you stopped asking permission to speak. It wasn’t pride. Not really. And it sure as hell wasn’t worry in the clean, palatable way people talk about concern.

No, what Ghost felt was grief, dressed up in fatigue.

You didn’t understand what it cost—to be trusted in this circle. To just walk into that meeting room and not be dismissed. You’d asked for a seat at the table, and now you had it. But tables like these? They were altars. And sooner or later, they demanded sacrifice. You’d bleed for it. And that was the tragedy of it. He could see it, clear as bullet glass.

And it wasn’t heroic.

Wasn’t admirable.

He could see it vividly, the day he’d stand at your funeral, staring blankly at your parents for the first fucking time, a meeting that should have been under different skies, under different circumstances. He could feel the weight of it, the cold weight of soil falling on top of you before he could prove himself worthy. He had always known that it would end this way, as if some cruel curse clung to him—every damn soul that dared to draw near would be swallowed whole by death, leaving him with nothing but the weight of their absence.

It didn’t help that you’d started opening up again. That you talked to him more. Smiled more. Joked more. Made grieving you even harder. And the worst part? You were doing it for him. For them. For all the wrong reasons.

You were standing so close now.

Always too close.

In hallways, in briefings, in the cantina, laughing with Johnny about some bollocks he'd said, throwing your head back with a brightness that made Ghost’s lungs seize. Gaz would chime in, cool as you like, and you’d lean toward him, but your eyes, those pretty eyes would flick to Ghost. Always. And fuck, he’d pretend not to see. Pretend not to notice the way your body angled slightly his way. Pretend your fingers didn’t brush his gloves when you handed him reports now. That you didn’t wait just a second too long before pulling away.

Bloody hell, it was easier when you kept your distance.

When you looked through him like he wasn’t there, like he was just the outline of something dreadful. When you didn’t speak to him unless prompted. When your lovely smile belonged to everyone but him. That made sense. That was how things should’ve stayed.

It was on a frosty night, a few days after Christmas when he caught you slipping again.

The base was half-dead by the time Ghost got back from the gym. Quiet in that eerie, echoing way that only these corridors managed after dark. Fluorescents buzzed low overhead, casting everything in that sterile, unforgiving light. Cold bit through the reinforced walls like it was trying to gnaw through bone, and the sky outside had gone black as coal, stars veiled behind low, grim clouds. When Ghost opened the door of his office, black hoodie clinging damp to the muscles in his arms, chest still rising and falling from the aftershock of exertion, he found you exactly where he didn’t want you—right there, in his space, haunting the silence like you belonged in it. Still in there, long past oh-twenty-hundred, light from your monitor bleeding pale across your cheeks, fingers typing slow, methodical.

“Still here,” he muttered, more accusation than observation.

You didn’t jump. Didn’t startle like you used to.

Just hummed low in your throat, barely turning.

“Didn’t realise it was past curfew,” you murmured, your voice warm but frayed at the edges, like a record played too many times. “Thought you liked it when I was working.”

Ghost huffed. “Like it better when you go home in time.”

You paused at that.

Like you were measuring something in the silence between his words and the huff that hadn’t quite landed as casual. Your hand hovered over the mouse for a second longer, then dropped to your lap. You turned in your chair slowly, the wheels squeaking slightly beneath you, the only sound in the room besides the hum of the radiator kicking out weak heat.

“I—I just don’t like going home when it’s this quiet.”

He blinked. The words hung there, a fragile confession drifting like a weather report.

Clear skies. No one’s waiting.

Ghost stared down at the floor, at the scuffed linoleum beneath his boots. Thought about all the nights he’d sat right there, staring at nothing. Letting the silence fill his ears like water. He hated this—hated that you could say things like that with your voice so calm, hated that you were still here at all. He should’ve told you to leave.

He should’ve told you to run.

Instead, he sat down. Watching you. Letting you stay. Again.

“Place’ll still be here in the mornin’. Shepherd’s fuck-ups aren’t goin’ anywhere. Neither’s this fuckin’ orchid you keep babyin’.”

You cracked a smile, just a twitch of your lips. The orchid sat on your desk, a single flower still clinging to life like it didn’t know when to quit. Like you.

“I think it’s really dying.”

“So are we all,” Ghost deadpanned.

You snorted. “Charming.”

“Get paid to shoot problems, not talk ‘em to death.”

You arched an eyebrow, playing along without even realising it, eyes crinkled at the corners. “Yeah, but still. Could’ve at least lied and said it’s got a chance.”

Ghost gave a hum. “Wouldn’t wanna fill your head with false hope, love.”

He leaned back, stretching his legs out under the desk, boots knocking lightly against the side of your chair. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift away. You were getting bolder again, and it made his stomach twist. But not with fear, no. With dread. Because it meant you had lowered your guard again, left yourself vulnerable again, and in doing so, you’d made the greatest mistake a soul like yours could make with someone like him.

You had trusted him again.

Ghost dragged a hand over his face, the rough material of his mask brushing against his palm, grounding him with its familiar weight. His gaze locked with yours, steady and unyielding. You watched him from beneath the veil of your lashes, leaning forward. There was something in your cheeks, a subtle flush that he couldn't quite place. Was it the play of light? Or perhaps the deceit of his own mind, bending reality into something softer, more fragile?

Then, you moved—

—just the slightest shift, yet it felt like the whole fucking world had tipped on its axis.

It was bloody madness, how you could bewitch him with nothing but the weight of your gaze, a silent spell that tangled his thoughts and bound his heart without a single word spoken.

And for a fleeting moment, he was transported back to the smoking area, the world outside lost in a soft blanket of thick snow and stillness. There, it was just the two of you, wrapped in the quiet of the night, hoping foolishly that everything between you was still intact, that he might, just fucking might, prove himself worthy of the trust you had placed in him.

You extended your leg, slow and deliberate, inch by bloody inch, ankle brushing first against his boot, then the hard line of his calf, mapping the contours of his skin, all the while holding his gaze as if daring him to look away. Ghost felt a shiver travel beneath his flesh, a feverish crawl that made his eyelids droop against the weight of it. He pulled his legs back, a reflex more than a choice, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the weight of your presence.

“You’re doin’ too much.”

Ghost spoke before his mind could catch up.

The words rolled out like stones, each one heavier than the last, scrambling to keep pace with the storm inside him. And the sight of your blush deepening only fueled the fire in him, a rising tide of frustration that made his chest tighten even further.

What in the hell were you thinking?

Your spell lifted in an instant, his mind snapping back into sharp focus. And there it was—a high ranking officer, a lieutenant, and an HR assistant, sitting too close, speaking too freely, the lines of propriety blurred and tangled in the space between them.

What the fuck was he thinking?

But even as the realization tore through him, he couldn’t speak it, couldn’t let the truth rise to his lips. No. No, no, no. He didn’t fucking want to. He just wanted you gone—gone from his office, gone from his life, gone from his goddamn heart. Now.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Ghost refused to entertain your childish theatrics, to give them the weight of his attention. It was beneath him, beneath everything he had carefully built in the quiet of his own thoughts. He let your antics dissolve into the air, untouched, unacknowledged. Instead he found another outlet, another thing to pour the bitterness, a task to occupy his mind, anything to keep the storm from breaking free. “Always doin’ too damn much. Stayin’ late. Pickin’ up extra. Crawlin’ through shit that’d make a proper analyst fuckin’ piss himself. You keep this up and Laswell’ll start expectin’ it.”

You blinked. “But… that’s the point. To help.”

His voice dropped. “You tryin’ to impress her? Or him?”

Your breath hitched. “What—?”

“Price. Your dad. Or me? Doesn’t fuckin’ matter, right?”

The moment the words left his mouth, Ghost knew he’d cocked it up.

Properly, spectacularly fucked it.

And it should’ve stopped there. Should’ve died quiet on your tongue like so many other little mercies between you.

You froze like a rabbit caught in a crosshair, staring at him as if he'd slapped you clean across the face. Fury and embarrassment tangled on your burning cheeks, turning you blotchy with the effort of holding yourself together. Ghost watched you straighten your shoulders, watched you tuck your hands under your thighs like you needed to keep yourself from shaking. Your mouth opened, closed, then pressed into a thin, bloodless line, like you were forcing it all back down before it could spill out and make a fool of you both.

Ghost wished, for once in his sorry, sodden life, that he'd kept his gob shut. But no. Bloody hell, true to form, he’d gone for the fucking throat when he felt cornered. Cut you deep, quick and messy, like every instinct screamed at him to do when he got too close to anything good.

That was what he was trained for, wasn’t it?

Strike first. Strike deep.

“You think that’s what this is about?” you asked, voice trembling, but not from fear. Hell no, it was anger. Humiliation. “Trying to impress you? Or my dad?”

He should’ve let you have the last word.

Your voice cracked halfway through, splitting open something raw and ugly between you. But Ghost wasn’t built for mercy. Not when the blood was up. Not when his skin still burned from where your ankle brushed his calf like a damn match striking flint. So he doubled down. Because he was a bastard like that. Because somewhere deep inside, he still thought if he cut you hard enough, sharp enough, you’d finally stop trying to reach him.

Finally see him for what he really was.

His goddamn father reincarnated.

“Don’t matter what I think,” Ghost leaned back, toned arms folded over his chest like he was settling in for a fight he had no business winning, boots planted wide on the scuffed linoleum. “Matters what you’re doin’. And you’re makin’ a bloody fool of yourself. You’re not Task Force. You’re admin. Paperwork. Spare fuckin’ parts.”

You jerked back like he’d cracked you across the mouth.

A terrible, awful silence bloomed between you. Your face crumpled, just slightly, not enough for anyone else to notice. But he saw it. Of course he fucking did. He knew every inch of you by now, could read the little tremors behind your bravado like bullet wounds on a body.

“You—” your voice cracked low in your throat, “You have no right to bring my dad into this,” you said, each word sharper than the last, cutting your own throat to get them out. “Not when—not when you’ve been—”

You stopped, chest heaving, trying to stuff the rest of it back down.

But it was too late.

It was already spilling over, ugly and hot and furious.

“You wanna talk about fools?” you hissed, and your eyes—fuck, your beautiful eyes—they were blazing, not with hurt anymore. No, it was rage. Full, blistering rage. “Really? When you’ve been asking questions behind my back. Snooping through my file like some sad little coward. And for what? To remind yourself you’re still the big bad wolf? So tell me, Lieutenant,” you sneered—no warmth, no gentleness, just the title like a blade between your teeth. “If I’m a spare part, what does that make you, then?”

Ghost swallowed hard, throat burning behind the mask.

“What’s the real reason, then?” He mocked mercilessly, ignoring your question completely. “Why you’re trippin’ over yourself for a bit of attention you’ll never fuckin’ need on paper.”

Your hands balled into fists on your thighs, nails biting into the skin through the thin fabric of your trousers. You stared him down across the small divide, eyes wide and furious, chest rising and falling like you were holding back the urge to lunge at him.

Or worse.

Cry.

Ghost could see it—he could feel it even—the way your whole body vibrated with anger, hurt laced so deep into the marrow of it that it made him feel sick, made him feel ashamed even as his mouth kept moving, digging the hole deeper.

“You think you’re the first?” he said, low and cruel, the words coming out too fast, too raw. “Think you’re the first bloody rookie to come sniffin’ ‘round, wantin’ a pat on the goddamn head? Some little nod from the big scary men, yeah? Some fuckin’ validation?”

The words echoed in the tiny office, bouncing off the grey walls like ricochets.

He wanted to take them back.

God, he wanted to claw them out of the air, shove them back into his throat, choke on them.

But it was too late.

You were already moving, standing so fast that your chair clattered backwards and scraped a painful squeal across the floor.

“Fuck you, Ghost.”

You sucked in a shaky breath, shoulders trembling like you were physically holding yourself together with nothing but sheer bloody will.

“You know what’s pathetic? That for all your talk,” you said, voice rising, “for all your snide little comments—you wanted it too.”

Ghost went absolutely still, rigid as death.

Your voice was a blade cutting too close to bone, each word sharp enough to carve out truths he’d long buried. The anger rolling off you filled the office, stifling and suffocating, pressing him back into the same fucking corner he’d spent his whole life fighting out of.

He stared at you, heart hammering behind his ribs, the ache radiating outward like shrapnel embedding itself deeper into his chest.

“Soap told me,” you spat, venom dripping from every word. “Yeah, he told me everything. About how you watch me. About how you keep me at arm’s length, pretend you don’t give a shit, when really you’re just too scared to admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That you want me.”

Ghost’s fists tightened, knuckles bone-white beneath his gloves.

He felt exposed, stripped raw by the light of your wrath, every carefully constructed defence crumbling around him. The fury inside him flared like a magnesium burn, white, hot and all consuming, because he knew you were right. But pride was a damn beast, stubborn and ugly, and Ghost couldn’t let it go, couldn’t let your accusations land without fighting back.

“Careful,” he warned, voice dangerously soft.

That low rumble of thunder before the storm breaks.

“Yeah?” you shot back, stepping closer, chin raised defiantly. “Then tell me why you pulled away just now, huh? Tell me why you flinch every time I get close? You’re such a bloody hypocrite, you know that?”

Ghost felt his jaw clench so hard he thought it might shatter.

He wanted to snap, to tell you to shut your bloody mouth before you said something neither of you could take back. But you were relentless, the fire inside you consuming every ounce of hesitation and shyness, burning through your usual gentleness until all that remained was pure, raw hurt.

“You push me away,” you continued, voice rising, trembling now, “then draw me back in whenever it suits you. You lead me on, Simon—”

“I never fuckin’ led you—”

“Oh, you didn’t?” you scoffed, cutting him off, eyes narrowing. “So—so all those moments, all the times you’ve let your guard down and made me feel like I—shit, that I actually mattered, those meant nothing, did they? Just games for you? Just—just another way to hurt someone who’s stupid enough to care about you?”

Ghost felt something in his chest crack wide open, sharp and jagged, spilling poison into his veins. He was fighting against the urge to lash out, to wound as deeply as he felt wounded. But the truth of your words was undeniable, brutal and unforgiving, pinning him in place.

“Never asked you to fuckin’ care,” he ground out, voice low and harsh, each syllable scraping against his throat like sandpaper. “Never asked you for a goddamn thing.”

“You didn’t have to!” You nearly screamed, fists clenched, shaking visibly now. “That’s the worst part. You didn’t bloody have to, Simon. But—but the second I get too close, you push me away like I’m the enemy. You treat me like I’m a threat!”

“Because you are!”

The silence that followed his words was a repulsive thing, a bloody tombstone pressed into the air between them, suffocating the space where words should’ve lived. It lingered, thick and heavy, like the scent of saltwater and decay, like the ship of Theseus—just a vessel, once whole and now fragmented, every piece replaced until it was no longer itself. And each word he’d spoken, every bitter breath he’d exhaled, was another part of him torn away, replaced by something unrecognizable, something fragile.

Ghost felt something deep inside him writhe.

He was sick with disgust at what he’d done, yet strangely, he didn’t take it back. He couldn’t. Because you were the storm that threatened the still waters he had created. You were a threat to the numbness that kept him tethered to this world, the hollow comfort of pretending. You were the tidal wave, eroding the shore of his carefully constructed nihilism, a flood that tore at the walls he had built so desperately to protect the darker truths buried deep within him.

And so, in that silence, he sat as a man torn.

Your voice was softer when it found its way back as if the words themselves were weary and fragile things that had lost their strength along the way. The words were broken, like a bird's winged flight on a night too dark to reach safety.

“You—you think you’re protecting me, don’t you? From… yourself.”

Ghost didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to.

Your laugh was bitter, hollow, cracking around the edges.

“God, you really are a selfish coward, aren’t you? You think your pain, your trauma or—or whatever this is, gives you the right, the fucking right to hurt me?” you nearly sobbed, voice shaking now, the anger bleeding away into something far more devastating. “You think it’s an excuse to treat me like shit whenever you’re scared?”

His jaw tightened painfully, the muscles twitching beneath his mask.

Ghost wanted to deny it, to lash out, to break something, anything, just to silence the crushing weight of your voice. But he couldn’t. You had stripped him down, peeled away the layers he’d built over the years, exposing the rawness beneath. Every scar, every broken part of him laid bare before you. Your words wound themselves around his throat like a tightening noose, choking the air from his lungs, drowning him in the weight of their truth. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, trapped in the suffocating grip of his own shame.

“You know the worst part? I still don’t hate you. Even after all this, I still don’t hate you, Simon. And that—that’s what hurts the most.”

You turned abruptly, snatching your coat off the back of the chair, grabbing your bag, your movements sharp and jerky. Ghost watched you silently, rooted in place, heart hammering painfully, fists clenched so tightly he thought his bones might crush themselves.

You paused at the door, your back to him. “I don’t know who hurt you so badly that you think this is the only way to protect yourself. But you’re wrong. And I hope one day you see that.”

The door slammed shut behind you, its reverberation cutting through the stillness like the final stroke of a hammer on a fragile frame, sealing away all that had once been.

Ghost sat at the heart of his own ruin, a ship torn apart by his own hands, every piece of what he once was slowly slipping into the depths of a sea he could no longer navigate.

He exhaled shakily, the rough breath tearing through his chest like an unwelcome confession. Beneath the mask, his eyes felt dry, staring into the void that he had created, the weight of his own actions pulling him down. Slowly, painfully, as if the weight of what he had just done had stolen the very strength from his limbs. His elbows rested on his knees, the tension in his body tight, drawn, like a ship adrift with no course to follow. His head bowed low, as if he could hide from the truth, the brokenness of it all—the way he had become something he never wanted to be.

Was this really him? Was this who he was now, a hollowed-out vessel, endlessly rebuilt but never whole? Because the man he had become, in pieces and fragments, was no longer the man who had walked into this room.

But this time, he could not rebuild himself like he did countless times in the past.

Not without you.

Not without the very thing that had torn him apart.

“The ship of Theseus sails on, but does it still carry the soul of its creator?” Skin of Thunder Chapters

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter 2

Series Masterlist

Full A/N below- please read previous A/N if you're just getting acquainted with the story! A bit of development for this slow burn, but I will be posting several chapters today that will bring us all the way up to things getting exciting!

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August 22, 2022- Findel, Luxembourg

The wheels hit the tarmac with a heavy thunk, the sudden shift in gravity making you instinctively press back into your seat as the plane slows down, rolling toward the gate. Your muscles are stiff, sore from the awful angles you contorted yourself into for the past twelve hours, but there’s no time to dwell on it. You barely hear the pilot’s announcement, barely register the sound of seatbelts clicking open around you, the shuffle of passengers stretching, retrieving bags, making groggy conversation.

You just breathe, long and steady, pressing your palm into your thigh to ground yourself.

It’s real now.

The last twelve hours have been a blur of data, race footage, and mind-numbing technical documents. You’d thrown yourself into studying, devouring every detail about Spa, about the AlphaTauri AT03, about anything that might give you a sliver of an advantage. At some point, exhaustion had forced you under, and you’d managed to sleep- not well, and not for long, but enough to keep yourself from completely burning out before you even landed. You don’t know if it’s enough, but it doesn’t matter. The only thing that does is the fact that you’re here.

You pull your duffel from the overhead compartment, the strap biting into your shoulder as you shuffle down the narrow aisle, down the jet bridge, through the airport corridors. The Luxembourg terminal is sleek, modern- glass walls, clean lines, an unbothered hush to the early-morning crowd. It’s almost enough to make you feel like this is just another trip, another airport, another connection to some middle-of-nowhere racetrack.

Almost.

You exhale slowly, shoulders still tight from the flight, standing just a little too upright at baggage claim as the conveyor belt lurches to life with a mechanical groan. Around you, the other passengers shuffle forward in loose, disjointed clusters- bleary-eyed and half-present, tugging their carry-ons behind them, faces lit by the glow of phone screens. You barely notice them. Your focus is locked on the mouth of the belt, waiting for the first bag to appear.

The seconds stretch, and you can feel the flicker of unease curling in your stomach, the kind of unease that only comes when you’ve placed your entire fate in the hands of an airline’s baggage system. It would be inconvenient- spectacularly inconvenient- if your gear didn’t make it. Not just your clothes or your toiletries, but your helmet, your gloves, your boots- everything. The tools you need to do the only thing that matters this weekend.

You can handle a lot- jet lag, exhaustion, even the gnawing anxiety clawing at the edges of your composure- but showing up to the most important race of your life with nothing? That’s not a setback you have time to recover from.

Then, finally- there.

Your race bag drops onto the belt with a dull thud, and it’s impossible to miss. It’s enormous, practically the size of a small coffin, its navy fabric scuffed and faded from being tossed in and out of transporters, cargo holds, and garages across America. You muscle it off the belt, the weight familiar, grounding.

You sling your duffel over your shoulder, grip the handle of your race bag, and start toward the exit. No hesitation, no adjusting straps or rolling out sore shoulders- not yet. Every second counts. Every person standing around re-packing their duty-free bags or stretching out the stiffness from the flight is another body you can get in front of in the customs line. You can adjust in line.

The weight of your bags pulls at your arms as you weave through the terminal, stepping around half-asleep travelers and families trying to wrangle children, past the slow-moving group of businessmen already back on their phones as if they never left the ground. The overhead announcements blur together, voices in multiple languages calling out baggage claim numbers, security reminders, gate changes. None of it matters. The only thing that matters is putting one foot in front of the other, getting through this final checkpoint between you and some fresh-fucking-air.

Customs.

You slip into line, shifting your duffel to your other shoulder, adjusting your grip on your race bag. It’s moving, at least- steady, slow, but moving. You take the opportunity to pull out your passport, flipping it open, rolling your shoulders back as you force yourself to breathe.

The line inches forward. A woman ahead of you fumbles with her boarding pass, patting down her coat for something lost in a pocket. A man argues softly with an officer over the contents of his declaration form. The customs agents work through their endless queue of travelers with the same disinterested efficiency you’d expect.

When it’s your turn, you step forward, placing your passport on the counter. The officer barely glances at you at first, flipping it open, running his eyes over the photo page before thumbing through for an empty page. He’s got plenty of options- there aren’t many stamps. A handful from trips to Mexico, a couple from the occasional race in Canada. But there- right near the middle of the booklet, pressed between the folds of your life before now- is Japan.

The ink is slightly faded, but the memory is sharp.

A feeder series race under Puerta Performance. One of the biggest, most competitive wins of your junior career. A stream of races where everything clicked, where you’d finally felt like you belonged in the conversation. You had flown in alone, carried your own damn bags, worked on your own damn car- elbow to elbow with the one real mechanic the team had, and then, somehow, you had won.

It had been your first real, international win. And it had done nothing for you.

The officer glances up, his face still unreadable. "Business or pleasure?"

"Business," you answer automatically.

He nods, flipping back to the front, glancing from your photo to your face, making sure they match.

"And how long will your visit be?"

You hesitate- because you don’t actually know. "A week," you say, because it’s less likely to have you corralled in a plexiglass room than saying as long as they’ll let me stay.

The officer hums, pressing the stamp to the page with a firm thunk, sliding your passport back toward you. "Welcome to the EU."

You don’t waste another second.

Snatching the passport off the counter, you tuck it away and haul your bags back into motion. You’ll check the taxi company on your way- just move. Get outside, get in the car, point your feet somewhere closer to the track and figure out the rest as you go.

Snatching the passport off the counter, you tuck it away and haul your bags back into motion. You’ll check the taxi company on your way- just move. Get outside, get in the car, point your feet somewhere closer to the track and figure out the rest as you go.

The wheels of your race bag clatter against the sleek tile floor as you push forward, dodging clusters of travelers, sidestepping a family stopped dead in the middle of the walkway, their kids wrestling over a stuffed animal. Someone’s wheeling a cart stacked with oversized luggage ahead of you, moving at a crawl, and you veer around them, your steps sharp, determined, relentless.

You're not rushed, not in the way that people sprinting to catch a flight are, but you're moving, too fast for someone who technically doesn't even have anywhere to be yet. But you do. The track. The garage. The sim. Work.

Your mind is running just as fast as your feet, the hum of the airport, the PA announcements, the scattered conversations in a dozen different languages all blurring together into static behind the sheer force of what comes next.

Four days.

Four days until FP1.

Four days to go from a long shot to something real.

Four days until you’re sitting in a Formula 1 car, in an actual race weekend, on one of the most legendary circuits in the world.

Your brain jumps tracks, recalibrating, running through everything you’ve learned, everything you still need to absorb. The AT03’s handling characteristics- where it struggles, where it thrives. The high-degradation nature of Spa’s tarmac. The elevation changes. The brutal forces through Eau Rouge and Raidillon. The moments in Yuki and Pierre’s footage where the car fought them, where the rear stepped out just enough to need a correction, where the chassis didn’t quite stick the way a Red Bull would- where it wouldn’t tolerate the lines of a more aggressive driver.

The air outside is going to be crisp, maybe damp, but you barely register the thought. You’re too busy calculating, adjusting, trying to fit yourself into the space you haven’t even stepped into yet. The exit is just ahead. You can see the doors, the hazy gray of the early morning sky beyond them, the promise of movement, of getting out.

Then- 

"Miss LeChriste?"

The voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, smooth, precise. Not quite questioning, not quite commanding. It’s the tone of someone who already knows they have the right person. You blink, your mind needing an extra half-second to pull itself out of the high-speed loop it’s been running. You turn toward the sound. A man stands on the curb closest to the exit, holding a sign with your name on it.

Oh.

Your momentum stutters, feet slowing as your brain processes what you’re looking at. 

You’d expected a taxi. Maybe some impersonal email from a logistics coordinator telling you to grab a rental from the airport desk, something with a budget cap and a manual transmission. 

That’s what you’re used to- IndyCar, where teams cut costs at every possible turn, where travel arrangements were a patchwork of last-minute flights, hotel points, and the cheapest rental car they could justify expensing. Or, if you were really lucky, maybe one of the mechanics would swing by and pick you up in their own car, some beat-up old diesel with empty energy drink cans rattling around in the backseat, the heater stuck on max, a roll of duct tape on the dashboard because you never know.You’d piled into the passenger seat of sun-bleached hatchbacks, squeezed between spare parts and duffel bags, making small talk while rolling toward whatever motel your team had justified that weekend.

But this?

This man is wearing a suit. A pressed, properly fitted chauffeur’s suit, complete with a hat, standing in front of a sleek black car that definitely isn’t some bottom-tier economy rental.

"Uh, yeah. That’s me."

The driver nods once, crisp and efficient. "Right this way, Miss."

Miss.

You almost snort. Nobody calls you Miss anything. You barely get your name half the time.

You hesitate for the briefest second before stepping forward, gripping your race bag a little tighter. It’s ridiculous, but you feel out of place already, being ushered toward a private driver like you’re someone important.

There’s something about the way he says it that reminds you- this is Formula 1. This isn’t Indy, where you might be scrounging for a last-minute rental, squeezing into whatever compact car they gave you at the desk, hoping the hotel is decent enough to have a working coffee machine in the morning.

No.

This is Red Bull money. This is the first, quiet luxury of an operation that is so far beyond where you’ve been that you barely know how to process it. The kind of money where they send a driver- a chauffeur- to meet you at the airport before you’ve even turned a wheel for them.

The part that you’re really stuck on? This isn’t the top of Formula 1. This isn’t a private jet, a five-star concierge service, the kind of excess reserved for world champions. This is the bottom of the rung treatment. This is standard. This is what they do for anyone under their umbrella. This is expected.

The thought buzzes through you as you follow him toward the car, your feet moving before your brain has even finished catching up. The air outside is crisp, damp from last night’s rain, and the sky is the washed-out gray of early morning. The exhaustion is there, creeping at the edges of your mind, but it doesn’t matter. You’re still running on adrenaline, on the sheer force of need, but none of that really registers because- 

What the fuck is this?

This isn’t your world.

The driver reaches for your race bag, and for a moment, your immediate instinct is to pull it back, to haul it into the car yourself, because that’s what you’ve always done. You carry your own gear. You load your own luggage. You do it yourself, because no one else is going to do it for you.

But his hands are already on it, lifting it into the trunk with the ease of someone who expects to be doing this. Like it’s normal. Like it’s his job.

You exhale through your nose, shaking off the instinct to tell him you’ve got it. Instead, you climb into the backseat, sinking into the plush leather, the scent of clean upholstery hitting you as the door shuts with a quiet thunk.

Outside, the sky is gray, a thick European morning pressing against the glass as the driver pulls away from the curb, the urban sprawl of Luxemborg slipping into something quieter, something greener. You know, logically, that the scenery outside is incredible- lush countryside rolling into the Ardennes, sweeping hills, dense forests- but you don’t spare it a second glance. You don’t have the time for it.

You haven’t looked out the window once.

Instead, your mind is still on the flight, still running through every second of the last twelve hours, every bit of information you devoured somewhere over the Atlantic.

Spa.

You’d watched every inch of Spa.

Every braking point, every apex, every trick of the circuit that separated the competent from the champions. The Red Bull driver portal had given you access to all the film you could ask for- every onboard lap, every telemetry breakdown, every millisecond of data available. You’d watched the best of it, the ones who had conquered this place.

Max, Checo- their onboard film from this very track last year. The big boys. The cleanest, fastest lines that Spa had to offer. The best-case scenario. The way Max bullied his way through the wet, the way Sergio managed his tires on a track that could go from soaked to bone-dry in minutes. They were aggressive, clinical, perfect.

Yuki and Pierre’s onboards- this season, especially.  A different perspective. Your perspective. The same car you’d be driving. The AT03 wasn’t the RB18, not by a long shot. It lacked the raw dominance, the brutal efficiency, but it was the best AlphaTauri had managed in years. You studied how it moved, where it suffered, where it thrived. The way Pierre fought understeer through S-turns. The way Yuki handled the tricky mid-sector when the tires started to go. The places where they struggled, where you might struggle.

You absorbed it all.

You should be intimidated. You should be honored, overwhelmed by the fact that in just four days, you’ll be on the same track as the real legends, racing on one of the most historic circuits in the world.

But you don’t have time for intimidation.

You don’t have time to sit here and marvel at the fact that you’re about to put a Formula 1 car through Eau Rouge, that you’re about to barrel down the Kemmel Straight at 300 kilometers an hour.

You have four days. Four days to be good enough to make someone, anyone, just… notice. 

You shift in the backseat, adjusting your posture, rolling your shoulders back to shake out the stiffness. You’d finally shucked off your race suit after landing, stripping out of it in an airport bathroom, standing at the sink and taking a long, long look at yourself in the mirror before forcing yourself into something that wouldn’t get you laughed out of the boardroom when you arrived at the track. A fitted jacket, dark jeans, your best attempt at looking like you belonged.

The racesuit had been a reminder, a necessary weight of shame on the flight. But now? Now, you needed to look like someone they’d take seriously. There’s no room for shame, no room for weakness where you’re going.

You take a breath, steadying yourself as you glance down at your phone, skimming through the notes you made mid-flight.

Tire degradation. DRS zones. Elevation change data. Sector time comparisons.

The car isn’t even close to the track yet, and still, your brain is there.

The driver barely says a word, but you can feel his occasional glances in the rearview mirror, maybe wondering what exactly he’s transporting. Maybe wondering if the girl sitting stiffly in his backseat, scrolling through race data at seven in the morning, is actually human.

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August 22, 2022- Spa-Francorchamps Circuit, Belgium

The paddock is in pieces when you arrive, barely recognizable as the polished, high-functioning heart of a Grand Prix weekend. Temporary flooring is being laid down. Trucks are still reversing into position. Forklifts beep relentlessly as they maneuver crates full of equipment and spare parts into the skeletons of hospitality units. Crew members are swarming everywhere, setting up gantries, rigging screens, connecting endless tangles of cables that will power the broadcast feeds and telemetry systems by the time Friday rolls around.

You weave through it all, your race bag rattling behind you on uneven asphalt, escorted by an AlphaTauri staffer who barely introduces himself -Ignacio?- before setting off at a brisk pace. You don’t mind. The chaos feels oddly comforting- this kind of frantic, half-formed scene is something you know well. Setup days at Indy weren’t so different, at least in terms of sheer logistical madness.

What’s different is the scale.

Even in its unfinished state, this place radiates money. The equipment, the infrastructure, the sheer size of it all- everything is dialed up to a level you’ve never touched before. You pass Red Bull’s hospitality build, where scaffolding and tarps still cover half the façade, and for a split second, you think maybe that’s where you’re headed.

It’s not.

You’re led into the actual racetrack offices instead- concrete hallways and plain glass doors, a far cry from the polished luxury the public sees when the paddock is camera-ready. This is the backstage, the practical side of the circus, where decisions happen before anyone ever hears an engine fire up.

Your escort leaves you at the door of a conference room, gesturing for you to go in. You smooth your jacket, square your shoulders, and step inside.

They’re all waiting. You register them, of course, briefly as they all look up.. A set of suits that look like they may have slept even less than you in the last twenty-four hours, two bright eyed, pleasant looking professionals decked out in team kits. But they’re not who earn your attention first. It’s not Mattia Spini that gets it, either. It’s not even Franz Tost- to most, you’d be crazy not to defer to him first- he is the man that this entire opportunity rides on, after all. 

But that’s not the truth. Not entirely. Because the Godfather is here. 

Helmut Marko.

He’s not seated at the table with the others. Instead, he stands off to the side, leaning against the windowsill like he’s still trying to decide if this meeting is even worth the energy of taking a proper seat. His arms are crossed, head tilted slightly, expression settled somewhere between bored and mildly inconvenienced. He looks at you the way a banker looks at a loan applicant with no credit history- no malice, no warmth, just a quiet, clinical assessment of risk versus reward. It’s not dismissive, but it’s not encouraging, either. It’s the exact amount of respect you’ve earned from him so far, which is to say- none. Not yet.

It’s not a surprise. If anything, you’d expected worse.

Helmut Marko isn’t just some team advisor who drops in for the important meetings. He’s the architect of the entire Red Bull driver development program- the gatekeeper of every seat that exists within this brand. Every junior driver with a Red Bull patch on their chest lives under his thumb, or the thumb of someone who does. He decides who gets opportunities, who gets second chances, and who gets left to rot in feeder series obscurity.

And if you’re not his, if you didn’t come up through his system- if you weren’t plucked from karting at age 12 and molded in the image of what Helmut Marko believes a Red Bull driver should be- you’re already starting with a strike against you.

You’re twenty-two. By Helmut’s standards, that’s practically geriatric for a driver who still needs to prove themselves. Most of his prospects would have either succeeded or washed out entirely by your age. They would have either earned a seat, or been shuffled off to sports cars, endurance racing, somewhere that didn’t matter to him anymore.

But you’re here.

And that’s the part that matters.

Because Helmut Marko doesn’t suffer charity cases. He doesn’t tolerate time-wasters. The fact that you’re standing in this room at all means that, somewhere along the line, something about you caught his attention. Maybe it was your handful of substitute drives this season and last. Maybe it was something Christian Horner said. Maybe it was sheer desperation on AlphaTauri’s part to find anyone who could possibly hold the line in Yuki’s absence.

It doesn’t matter why.

All that matters is that Helmut Marko allowed this meeting to happen. He doesn’t have to like you. He doesn’t have to be impressed. He just has to leave the door open exactly this much. It’s your job to kick it the rest of the way in.

You move like you belong here. Like this is normal- being thrown into a meeting with a room full of people who hold your future in their hands. Like you weren’t on the other side of the world less than twenty-four hours ago, driving a shitbox for a team that treated you like nothing.

The first few minutes are pure formalities. Introductions, pleasantries, nods exchanged. You shake hands with everyone, making sure your grip is firm, your eye contact direct. You sit where they gesture, hands folded in front of you, posture perfect. Professional, measured. No jokes, no awkwardness, no nerves.

Franz Tost sits at the head of the table, his posture composed but his expression unreadable. Franz starts with the basics- introductions, a brief overview of what they’re hoping to achieve this weekend. You keep your tone perfectly professional, measured, micromanaging every aspect of yourself to project exactly what they need to see. Capable. Likable. Smart enough to understand the stakes. Hungry enough to take whatever they give you. You ask exactly the right questions at exactly the right moments- about the car, about expectations, about media requirements, about everything that will determine whether or not you make it to the weekend.

To his left is Mattia Spini, the man who will be your race engineer this weekend- if you earn the car. He’s quiet, thumbing through the small stack RedBull’s assembled that you can assume is all your career -your life’s work- mounts to, on paper.

The legal team- the two suits- sit with carefully neutral expressions. When they slide over a stack of documents that might as well be a brick, and you pick up the pen without hesitation, signing where they point, asking the occasional smart, concise question to show you’re paying attention.

Media relations is here too- the kitted-out pair you had noted before. You nod along to their every ask, perfectly agreeable. You’ll do every interview they want, every promo shot, every press availability. You don’t care. You’ll stand in front of cameras all day if that’s what it takes to earn the seat.

"I’m happy to do whatever the team needs."

It’s not a lie. It’s not even an exaggeration. You will do anything.

And then, it’s your turn. You pull your own packet from your bag- a meticulously prepared file containing every piece of critical data they could possibly need about you. The Holy Bible. This is your life’s work- not the measly six or seven pages they had scraped together and set in front of each seat before you arrived. Mattia takes the folder without much thought at first, flipping it open with the kind of casual disinterest of someone who has sat through way too many meetings just like this one. But the second his eyes land on the first page, the shift is almost imperceptible- almost.

You see it, though.

It’s in the way his fingers slow against the edge of the paper, in the way his posture changes just slightly. His gaze sharpens, scanning the structured layout, taking in the color-coded tabs along the side, the neatly labeled sections that break everything down into digestible, categorized data points.

His brow creases just slightly, his fingers smoothing over the paper as he scans the biometric data. Stress tests, reaction times, endurance tracking. He turns another page, and another. Height, weight, exact body measurements for suit fittings, seating position requirements. Flip. Car history, setup preferences, personal notes on what has worked for you and what hasn’t. Flip. On-track strengths, biggest flaws, areas you’ve personally identified as weaknesses and your own methods of mitigating them.

You keep your expression even, but you know exactly what’s happening here.

Mattia is a data guy. That’s how he got this job in the first place. Numbers, telemetry, analysis- it’s what he does. He’s used to drivers walking in with an opinion on how a car should feel, sure, but not with this. 

Because this? This is what he does. This is his job. Synthesize the data, break it down, make it digestible, work on it with the driver. Not the other way around. And that’s interesting.

Tost glances at him briefly, but Mattia doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge the way the room has subtly shifted. He keeps flipping through, fingers moving slightly faster now, like he’s searching for something, like he needs to confirm that this is actually what he thinks it is.

“Did Dale Coyne’s engineers put this together for you?” Mattia’s voice is casual, but the surprise isn’t hidden. It bleeds through the edges, slipping into the slight lift of his brow, the way his fingers hesitate for half a second before flipping to the next page.

You almost laugh- almost. Because the idea of those half-competent, half-bored bastards at Dale Coyne assembling something this polished, this comprehensive? It’s ridiculous. Those men wouldn’t waste the paper to print you a fucking data readout, much less do you the courtesy of organizing your career data into something usable. And if they had? It wouldn’t look like this. It wouldn’t be color-coded within an inch of its life, wouldn’t have cross-references or a table of contents, wouldn’t read like a military dossier written by someone who knows exactly how much weight every ounce of detail could carry.

“No,” you say smoothly, keeping your face as neutral as your tone. “I keep all my data myself.”

There’s a reaction. A small one, but you catch it- Mattia’s head tips just slightly, the folder resting heavier in his hands now, no longer just a pile of papers but a point of interest. His fingers tighten against the edge, not out of irritation but out of concentration. It’s the look of a man who’s just found something unexpected in a sea of the predictable.

You know this moment. You know it.

Because your mother, Marissa LeChriste, made sure you could recognize this kind of moment before you could even spell leverage.

Marissa is a masterclass in influence- not the shallow kind you see on social media, but the real thing. The art of making herself seem indispensable to a room full of men who hadn’t planned on respecting her, let alone considering her. She can read a person like a teleprompter, knows exactly how to shift her tone, adjust her posture, time her smiles. Knows the exact point where charm turns into control, when friendliness becomes power.

You grew up watching her do it- absorbing every glance, every pause, every moment where she turned skepticism into loyalty. Your first major sponsorship? It wasn’t talent alone that landed you that. It was Marissa, walking into meeting after meeting armed with laminated proposals, strategic data points, and a smile so warm it was damn near a weapon.

And God help the poor bastards who said no- because Marissa never walked out of a room without leaving at least one person regretting it.

So when Mattia’s posture shifts- when his fingers curl just a little tighter around the folder- you see it for exactly what it is.

This isn’t a foot in the door. You’re not stupid enough to believe that. You’re a long way from safe, a long way from in. But this? This is a crack. The smallest sliver of daylight peeking through a door that should have stayed sealed shut. And if there’s one thing Marissa LeChriste taught you, it’s that a crack is more than enough.

Because a crack can become a gap. A gap can become a doorway. And a doorway, with enough pressure, with enough carefully applied force, can be shoved wide open until the whole goddamn wall collapses.

You can work with a crack.

It’s quiet- the way the room adjusts around you, your bible, your life laid out on the table. A glance exchanged between Franz and Mattia, a note scribbled down by one of the legal guys, a slight shift in how the media reps hold themselves, sitting forward like maybe- just maybe- you could be someone worth building a campaign around, if even just for a weekend. They’re not sold, not yet. But they’re considering it. You can feel the air change, like the whole meeting tilts half a degree in your favor.

Helmut doesn’t react.

He hasn’t so much as blinked in your direction, not since you sat down. But you can feel him watching, the same way a snake watches something small and scurrying across the ground, waiting to decide if it’s prey or just scenery.

That’s fine.

That’s good enough for now.

Because here’s the truth: the business side of this? It’s not hard for you. It never has been. You know how to smile at the right people, how to dress the right way, how to be charming without being threatening, how to crack a joke that makes people want to root for you instead of against you. It’s all manipulation, but not the ugly kind -  it’s survival. And you are fucking excellent at survival.

But none of that -  none of the paperwork you just signed, none of the polite nods from Franz, none of the cautious optimism radiating off Mattia -  none of it matters unless you can back it up where it counts.

On the track.

You can dazzle them in the boardroom all you want, but this sport isn’t won in a goddamn boardroom. It’s won with lap times. With split-second reactions. With the brutal, intimate understanding of what a car needs, what it can take, what it’s asking for through every bump and twitch of the wheel. If you can’t master that, everything else -  the marketing, the PR games, the networking -  it’s all just performance art. A nice, neat obituary for a career that never got off the ground.

You won’t be that driver. So you ask for one thing. Not money. Not special treatment. Not even extra setup time with the car -  because you know that will get you about as far as asking for a unicorn. You ask for the only thing that will actually make a difference.

“A dedicated sim rig,” you say, voice level, hands folded on the table like you’re asking for something as ordinary as a cup of coffee. “Set to car specs. Six hours of uninterrupted drive time every day until Friday.”

Mattia blinks, caught slightly off guard by how quickly you’ve shifted from polite first impressions to cold, practical demands.

You keep going. “I don’t care when. Middle of the night, middle of the day. I’ll work around the press obligations, the strategy meetings, the media work -  all of it. But I need six hours. Preferably eight, if you can swing it.”

The room goes quiet.

Not hostile, not disapproving -  just quiet.

Because you know what they’re thinking. They’ve had rookies before, juniors promoted too soon, kids drunk on their own hype. They’ve seen the swagger, the bravado, the ones who show up convinced that talent is enough, that instinct will save them.

But that’s not you.

You don’t believe in talent like it’s some divine gift. You believe in work. In attrition. In being the last one standing when everyone else has burned themselves out. You believe in cramming yourself so full of knowledge that instinct becomes irrelevant-  you won’t need instinct, because you’ll already know.

You don’t have the luxury of leaning back on raw talent. You never did. You came up scrapping for every seat, scraping every inch of track time you could get, making your own damn data because no one else was willing to care enough to collect it for you. And now?

Now you’re at war.

Not with Mattia, not with Franz, not with Liam or Pierre or even Max-fucking-Verstappen.

You’re at war with yourself.

With the version of you that lived in the Dale Coyne pit, who ate shit and smiled politely and took every ounce of disrespect because you thought it was the only way to keep your career breathing. With the part of you that still remembers your parents taking out a mortgage on a paid off house just to buy you a seat at that team. With the younger version of you that believed you could make it in this sport if you were just good enough.

There is no "good enough" here. There’s only ruthless.

And if it means you work yourself into the fucking ground for the next four days, so be it. If it means you sleep three hours a night and run on caffeine and adrenaline, fine. If it means you fake your way through every press conference, smiling so wide your cheeks cramp, then collapse in a heap of exhaustion afterward, you’ll do it. Because there’s no going back. You will burn yourself to the ground before you let this opportunity slip.

Mattia glances toward Franz, some unspoken communication passing between them, and then he nods. “Done.” You’re certain it’s not a concession. You’re certain it’s not a favor. You’re certain it’s a test.

You’re certain they want to see if you’ll actually do it. If you’ll show up to that sim rig at some ungodly hour and run laps until your eyes blur, until the seat bruises your back, until the muscle memory starts to override the fear gnawing at the edges of your composure.

They want to see how badly you want this.

They have no idea. They have no idea that you will work every single person sitting here under the table. They have no idea you won’t stop until you’ve outworked every strategist, engineer, pit crew member practicing tracking the tire with his gun. That you’ll outwork the race marshalls, the officials, the fucking janitor sweeping the crusty, smushed french fries from the grandstand floorboards come Sunday night.

“Thank you,” you say. They have no fucking idea.

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Hey guys! Happy season kickoff! Apologies for being gone for so long, I've spent the last few weeks editing and re-writing like a madman as I wanted to be able to bulk publish at least to where the story starts to get more involved with Max, which meant I had to hold back the earlier chapters. So, enjoy the next few posts, we will settle into a more regular updating schedule soon. I promise we are getting to the meat soon- but I want to really nail this exposition, fully flesh out the characters and their relationships with others because it makes everything hit SO much harder when we get to where we're going. Just lean into the ride, it will be fun :).

Working on getting a series master list up for easy navigation. As always, your response and interaction are a huge part of how I stay motivated to do what I do, thank you to everyone who followed, reblogged, or commented on the introductory chapter! I read every single one and so appreciated!

[writtenbyshama]

Memory Theatre (Sylus x Reader)

Synopsis: Y/n is a protocore researcher who is looking for answers about how an aether core got lodged into her heart and why is it messing with her brain. In the midst of this elaborate maze of dead ends and false answers, she encounters a man who seems to be very interested in her and is willing to find ways of providing her with the answers she's seeking.

Author's note: Y/n is not a hunter; she is a Master's student (not based on myself at all) and a part time protocore researcher at the Association. No changes to Sylus, although there may be situations in the story where he might be a little out of character. Mentions of the other LADS men, but they are not the love interests here.

Chapter 4: Illegal Met-Gala

A sheathed blade rasped against my thigh while I manoeuvred my motorcycle through the neon lit streets of the N109 zone.

The bike was probably not a good idea, considering that I was wearing a long gown with heels, but it was essential in case I needed to made a quick escape. Jenna’s informant had obtained the address of the auction venue after threatening two people and beating up a third; and the GPS system of my bike was leading me right into the devil’s lair, miles away from Linkon.

It was quiet here, the streets cold and empty. This area was once a hub for technological advancements and advanced protocore research. The Chronorift Catastrophe had razed it to the ground, and it was abandoned and forgotten into being a place for the black market and underground deals. It was a general area for gang-fights between rival factions until Onichynus swept into them all and made them submit. 

Under Onichynus, the N109 Zone became a shadowy predator waiting to strike at the right moment, biding its time to get its claws right on your jugular. Even the sunlight was dim here during the day, and it was so dangerous that the government could do absolutely nothing but watch. Only fools or the extraordinarily brave ventured here, and I was still undecided as to which one I was right now. 

I parked the bike in an empty parking lot a block away from the warehouse where the auction would be hosted. I climbed off the bike and secured the helmet to the handle. The harsh streetlights eclipsed almost everything except a couple of stars and sliver of moon in the night sky. A steady breeze was blowing, eliciting goosebumps on my skin underneath the silk shawl over my shoulders. I stood there for a moment, taking in the atmosphere. Shuttered storefronts and spray painted billboards. A crushed paper cup bumped into my pencil heels. The air smelled slightly of fossil fuel.

Looking at myself in the handlebar mirror, I retouched the lipstick and adjusted my hair before fixing a golden mask over my eyes. I looked like someone from the ancient stories: phantom of the opera, female version. Checking once if the weapons were strapped on to my limbs properly, I left the parking lot. 

Ten minutes to reach the warehouse. The entrance was just a normal metal door which opened into a hallway that echoed my steps. Beyond that was another door that led into a small cubical foyer with two burly looking bouncers and wooden coat racks. They scanned my invitation card and ticked my name (an alias) off on a list. Nodding at me, they opened the carved wooden doors and I stepped into a fantasy land that was the complete opposite of the abandoned hallway I had just entered through.

I stood there for a moment, taking it all in as the ornate doors closed behind me. 

I was standing on a large circular balcony that ringed the actual hall sunk into the depths below, accessible via a wide rose-coloured marble staircase. The ceiling was so high above my head that it virtually disappeared into darkness. Shiny bronze link-chains hung from above, balancing enormous candlelit chandeliers at the balcony level. The entire space was lit with candles, giving the atmosphere an intimate feel. 

Instead of directly going down, I walked to the railing and leaned against it to observe. There were about two hundred people in total, even though there was room for a thousand more. Some of them were at the balcony, taking in the sights while the rest were downstairs. The guests were in formal attire and clad in numerous masks, while the waiters and waitresses weaved through in white outfits, holding silver trays filled to the brim with food and drink. 

The sunken hall below was bisected in the middle with an enormous table that held everything from whole roasted pigs stuffed with apples to desserts that looked like mini rainbows on a plate. There was no stage, no auctioneer to announce the items for the auction and no loud bidders trying to one up each other. The only sound was music from an unseen live orchestra and hushed, almost whispered conversations. The perimeter of the hall below was lined with display cases and few people were clustered around each of them. This was no ordinary auction.

A waitress approached me with a tray. “Refreshments, miss?”

One half of the tray held multi-hued drinks and the rest were appetisers of some sort, pierced with burgundy toothpicks. I selected a drink that literally looked like melted gold, and took a minute to decide on the food. “Is there anything vegetarian here?”

She kindly pointed to the vegetarian ones and I selected a mushroom stuffed with gold-veined cheese to pair with the drink. “Thanks.”

She smiled at me and floated to the other guests. 

I took a sip of the melted gold— it tasted like fermented golden apples, very delicious. The mushroom and cheese tasted amazing and made my tongue happy. 

When I was hunting for information about Onichynus, another informant had told me that whatever project the leader of the group put his hands on, he worked on it until it was so perfect that all human beings were dazzled at the mere sight. 

He was right. This—the auction, the food, the atmosphere, it was nothing short of absolutely divine. 

I basked in that moment for a while longer, secretly eavesdropping on a conversation happening nearby while my eyes roved over the guests below. I wanted to try and see if I could spot the Onichynus leader. I looked for anyone who was turning heads and receiving head nods or bows of respect. But so far, no one matched that criteria. 

The heated discussion next to me came to a conclusion as I finished the drink in my hand. It was not professional to drink on the job, but I wasn’t a lightweight and it was that alcoholic to begin with. 

Just as I was preparing to head down the stairs to the hall below, two masked men slinked by and appeared at my flanks, subtly trapping me at the railing.

🗡️🐦‍⬛🗡️

Follow me at _writtenbyshama on Instagram for more. Happy reading!

Part 1: Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

[cr4yolaas]

blue spring — downward spiral

prev: too silly | masterlist | next: guilt

note: there's more written content after the messages :)

he doesn’t see her for a while.

the seat to his right remains empty, devoid of the presence he had grown so accustomed to. it feels wrong. it is wrong. and yet, he isn’t sure if it’s right to do anything about it; he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to interfere.

he thinks of the exam and the oddity in her last messages to him. he shouldn’t pry, he thinks, because he fears making things worse. he thinks of the next time he’ll see her. he thinks of the girl holding the two-headed lamb.

it’s funny, how easily she had altered the balance of his life. maybe if he hadn’t made the impulsive decision to ask her for her help in the café, his head wouldn’t be spinning so rapidly at her absence. maybe if he hadn’t picked the seat beside her (without any real reason) at the start of the year, he wouldn’t be so disturbed. he wouldn’t be so lost.

two days remain until the exam. it's one that kageyama would usually dread, but he admits that with her assistance, whatever doubt he would usually have is dispelled. however, now that she’s gone, a sliver of that doubt creeps it way back into his system.

his mind crawls back to the night in the art studio, and he wonders if he'd find her there again should he go and look. it wouldn't be improbable, he reasons. so, before he can rationalize his decision, his feet follow the path to the studio as soon as class ends.

the door is closed, this time, and it only serves to increase his anxiety and concern. there's too much chatter around him to listen for remnants of her presence. his hand hovers over the handle, and for a moment, he considers the consequences. he ponders whether or not she would display disdain at his unprompted arrival, and whether or not she'd stop working under his watch, just as she did several nights ago. he tries to conjure up an idea of how she'd react. nothing comes to mind.

a can of soda — one he grabbed on his way — weighs heavy in his other hand, the condensation mixing with his sweat. something tells him he shouldn't go in. maybe it's the pounding in his chest, or the thumping in his head, or the salty droplets collecting all over his skin. something is amiss. his body recognizes it before his mind does, and when it all connects, he turns away from the door.

even still, something nags at him.

kageyama feels cramped, despite there only being two other people in the car. yachi sits in the passenger seat while yamaguchi sits at the wheel, leaving him alone in the back row. he still isn't sure why they asked him to come along, but his worry overpowers his confusion.

"kageyama," yachi calls from the front, her voice soft and gentle. her head turns around to face him. "what do you really think of yn?"

he's silent for a moment, her question catching him off-guard. it feels like a test. his words are picked out carefully in his head.

"i think she's really nice. i like being around her, but..." he pauses, his eyes drifting away to the campus, which inches closer and closer. "i wish she would take care of herself more."

there's a resounding hum from the pair, and they don't ask anything else. he’s slightly relieved.

the group arrives at the studio, and the perspiration and anxiety and doubt return to kageyama all at once, in a blistering, crashing wave. the coffee in his hands nearly collapses at his full-body reaction, but he does his best to maintain his outward stoicism. yamaguchi is the one to swing open the door.

she's standing in the center of the room, her easel fitted to her height and the canvas entirely different than the one kageyama had familiarized himself with. the same old lamp serves as the only source of light in the room, and it shines upon the painting of the girl and her two-headed lamb, which has been ungraciously cast aside against the wall. when he finally gets to see what she's painting, something in his heart hurts. he can't describe the scene, but something about it is saddening. his worry only increases tenfold.

the call of her name from her friends doesn't do much to pull her out of her trance. he's too scared to make an effort himself. slowly, the two approach their beloved roommate, and kageyama follows behind, although apprehensively.

"i told you not to come," she mutters under her breath. it's barely audible. "why did you bring him?"

he pretends the question doesn't make his chest ache ever so slightly. yachi is quick to counter with words of care and concern. she's desperate, almost, to end whatever frenzy is occurring before her. somewhere in between it all, there's a plea for her to come home, to give it a break. she's met with resilience.

"you don't understand, yachi, i need to get this done. you're not helping." her grip around the edge of the canvas tightens and loosens, back and forth. as if she's fighting with her own rationality. "please just leave."

from youth, she had yearned to be one of the greats. to have her name recognized in nearly every facet of art and science. she dreamed of awards, of press conferences, of her face plastered on screens. she was always so silent in her desire. and yet, now, it's on full display in the most brutal way she can handle.

there's another argument from yachi, and in response, her volume escalates. her passiveness morphs into anger, raw and scorching hot, and kageyama can only stand and watch. he can only listen to her yelling and the tears that sneak their way between every handful of syllables. the coffee in his hands is now watered down. he doesn't know what to do.

despite all her irritation, yachi maintains her gentle nature. her brows are furrowed as she listens to her friend spill out in front of her, but regardless, all she wants is for her to be at peace. the canvas is long forgotten, and the paints have dried up. it's a sorrowful sight.

eventually, the yelling dissolves into choked sobs and white-hot tears. yamaguchi is the first to envelop her in a hug, and yachi quickly follows after. kageyama plays the role of the bystander, once more. at some point, the door opens, and they're all back inside the car. the ride home is horribly silent.

kageyama thinks back to his answer to yachi's question earlier, about how he wanted her to take care of herself more. he looks to his left and sees her slumped against the window, clearly lost in slumber.

he doesn't know how he feels about her. all he knows is that his head feels light and airy and his chest feels heavy when he's around her. but after tonight, he can solidify one thing for certain — that he wants to see her genuinely happy.

𝜗𝜚 yachi and yams said they were coming to her, but in truth they had no idea where she was LMFAO

𝜗𝜚 yn's self-destructive tendencies are verrryyyy evident here. i am definitely projecting.

𝜗𝜚 kageyama sort of just stood there during yachi and yn's argument. yamaguchi kept trying to interrupt and tone it down but yachi just kept going. she's very much a mom friend

𝜗𝜚 i may or may not make a moodboard for the type of art i envision yn to make ^^

taglist: @mfcherry @eggyrocks @scxrcherr @yuminako @girlkissersco @diorzs @causenessus @kyo-kyo1 @k0z3me @shironagi @lovingvi @bunninio @hisfuture @lilchubbyyy @gsyche

[lilderitter]

Hi Lil! First of all, thank you for coming onto tumblr and sharing all that you have with us. I really appreciate it!

I just wanted to ask if you had anything extra to share about Nia’s storylines in books 2 and 3, since she’s my favorite character in all of the Blades of Light and Shadow series.

Her storyline in book 2 was my favorite in the series, especially with the aspect of coming to accept the “darker” or “shadow” parts of yourself, so to speak. I believe that you said you focused on more of Tyril and Mal as characters, but I would still love to hear whatever you want to share on this, even just your own thoughts or interpretations. Thanks again!

Hello! Thank you so much for asking and usual caveat that I'm no longer at Pixelberry so this isn't official current canon, just what I remember slash where my head was at.

Shadow!Nia is so important to Book 2's themes and the series' themes in general, so I'm so glad that it resonated with you! I adore Nia, and I did do some of the building out on her relationship with the Temple and the Light (particularly the Mother of Grey being her Patron Light and the concept of Patron Lights in general. I grew up around a lot of Jesuits because my dad is a professor at a Jesuit college even though he is a militant atheist, and I'm Italian American, so I've always found the concept of Catholic saints really fascinating). I handled some of the initial stuff on Nia and Raine's conversation before and after Ventra's funeral in Book 2 because we wanted her to be able to participate and talk about her journey in the book without imposing her belief system on Ventra since Orcs aren't Light worshippers, which is why Imtura invites her to participate rather than her just doing it. (Also Imtura asking her to participate is also a bit of foreshadowing for Book 3, where Imtura is trying to decide how she feels about the afterlife now that she's been running around with people who have different beliefs from her.)

Since we were dismantling the Elven Pantheon and the Temple even further than Book 1 did, it did feel important to show that Nia's faith doesn't have to be defined by the corruption the party discovers at the heart of the Elven Pantheon, because everyone's relationship to the divine (or just the concept of the divine) is personal. As the Blades equivalent of a cleric (in the D&D sense), Nia's felt the very real warmth and power the Light can give her, and she's used it to heal, protect, and take care of people, which is what's most important to her. The Temple doesn't get to police that, not ever, just like they don't get to police her negative emotions or moments where she lacks decorum or control.

At its heart, Shadow magic is about giving in to impulse and instinct. There is nothing inherently good or bad about that. It's all about what those impulses are. Nia's been suppressing her negative emotions and beating herself up for so long that when she gives herself even a sliver of permission to let go, all her suppressed emotions come with it, which is how we get her (super badass) Shadow appearance.

Part of what we wanted to explore in Book 2 is the idea that imposing a good/evil dichotomy onto appearance (especially when the "evil" appearance visibly deepens the skintone of a character like Aerin) is a problematic construction, which is party of why Isador and Nyra are there. Isador might veer toward concepts of evil because she prioritizes herself (and to a lesser extent Nyra) over others, but Nyra's "corruption" is in many ways more about her initial guilt for trying to "climb above her station."

Shadow!Nia isn't mean or dismissive because Shadow magic "took over." It's a manifestation of what happens when you punish yourself for your negative and uncharitable thoughts instead of acknowledging that everyone has them to some degree and what matters is how you impact others as a result. Shame can be a necessary and useful tool for when people hurt others, but punishing yourself often ends up just being a way of making a situation where you hurt someone else about how /you/ feel instead of how you can make amends. I honestly can't imagine Nia has intentionally harmed anybody outside of battle before her transformation, but any time she's had the impulse to do so, or to even just say something mean or selfish (or even just assert her own boundaries), she's spiraled about how bad a person she is because that's how she was raised. When she gives herself permission to let go, she assumes it's evil and therefore "looks" evil (once again, within the framework of how she was raised.)

Other Nia thoughts in no particular order:

The awesome little team I worked on at Pixelberry (who also did the Cursed Heart series and had just finished up Wake the Dead when I joined, truly one of my favorite VNs) had some very clear beliefs about genre that tend to go against the mold, especially for fantasy: no chosen ones and no "good" empires. While corrupt officials and deposing a king or religious leader are tried and true tropes, often the solution that's offered at the end is for the MC to take on that position of authority because they are inherently a good person and will do better of course. (Ask the characters in Dune how that turned out, ey?) The thing I adore about Nia is that she is actually that good a person, so she ends up in an almost Joan of Arc position where she's having to speak truth to power while grappling with her own feelings of guilt about not being the "perfect" Light worshipper.

Bear with me, but if you haven't seen Conclave, it is a great place to get a LOT of Nia feels. I won't spoil things, but there is a character Nia would adore, and I think one of the things that Nia has always struggled with is finding the confidence to interpret the texts that she loves so much in her own eyes and through her own sense of right and wrong. That's not something that the Temple really supports, but I know pretty much all the Old God aside from Nifara are so proud of her.

I know some people felt that Nia was underserved in Book 3 in terms of screentime, but if you look over the course of the whole series, she's had a lot of progress and growth in 1 & 2, much like Tyril, so at least for me personally, it felt more fair to give some of that potential screentime to someone like Imtura, who still needed room to process the loss of her mother and what it means about her relationship to her own culture because there wasn't time to do that at the end of Book 2.

Also I know it's controversial but confident and even domme Nia is my fave Nia. I love it when cinnamon rolls come into their power. Long live our true Patron Light, reluctant [Morella equivalent of] Pope Nia Ellarious.

[buriedpentacles]

Umwelt

I've been reading 'An Immense World: How Animal Senses Reveal the Hidden Realms Around Us' by Ed Yong - and he introduced a really interesting word/concept that I hadn't really read about in any of my other ethology studies:

Umwelt /ʊmvɛlt/ noun 1. (in ethology) the world as it is experienced by a particular organism. "the worlds they perceive, their Umwelten, are all different"

As written in An Immense World:

"Earth teems with sights and textures, sounds and vibrations, smells and tastes, electric and magnetic fields. But every animal can only tap into a small fraction of reality's fullness. Each is enclosed within its own unique sensory bubble, perceiving but a tiny sliver of an immense world. There is a wonderful word for this sensory bubble—Umwelt. It was defined and popularized by the Baltic-German zoologist Jakob von Uexküll in 1909. Umwelt comes from the German word for "environment," but Uexküll didn't use it simply to refer to an animal's surroundings. Instead, an Umwelt is specifically the part of those surroundings that an animal can sense and experience—its perceptual world... a multitude of creatures could be standing in the same physical space and have completely different Umwelten."

Obviously I've understood this concept previously, but now there's a nice, neat little word to explain it. It is fascinating for me to consider the different senses and experiences of other animals; all the things I cannot see, or hear, or feel. I am infinitely curious about the ocean's secret melodies, and the colours hidden among the wildflowers, and the strange sensation of a magnetic compass in your brain.

Umwelt goes beyond this: it isn't just "snakes can see heat and birds ultraviolet", Umwelt is also the semiotic world of an individual, it includes everything that is meaningful for the organism. Its flexible - it changes as you experience new things, shifting to adapt around you. In this model, the mind and the world are inseparable, because the mind is what interprets the world. Beyond this, your Umwelt is not just you passively experiencing the world, it's taking in the stimuli and building the world around you - we create our perception, and thus our reality.

Our umwelten is wildly different from a dog's or jellyfish's (different - not better, worst, more or less), we cannot comprehend what they may experience because we are bound by our Umwelten. There are things that we KNOW (or assume) are outside of our Umwelten (like ultraviolet or magnetic fields) but we cannot truly experience them. We may be able to understand them, but we will only be translating these other senses into something we can handle.

Then, I thought of how it might apply to my spirituality and to my magic.

Our Umwelt, our bubble of perception, includes how we perceive magic, and spirits or divinity (insert your preferred terminology), and we are bound by that. No matter whether we "see" or "hear" or just "sense" the magic, our understanding is always constrained by what we can perceive. (This fits neatly into my belief system, where Magic and the Universe appear to us in certain ways so that we can understand them, not because that is how they truly are.)

We each have our own bubble of perception, both for our physical and magical sense. But so must dogs, and jellyfish, and trees and mushrooms and the wind. Spirits and gods have their Umwelten too, though I'm sure they're far beyond my comprehension.

I'm not sure exactly where to take this post, as there's so many wild thoughts going through my mind about this!! But, I wanted to share and discuss the concept! Though I'm not certain how and to what level I will, I do want to integrate this concept into my practice, even if simply by recognising that I cannot understand everything, I am bound by my perception, I am bound by the way my brain builds my world around me.

Please comment, message, whatever - I would love to hear everyone's thoughts on this!

[cozzzynook]

Having thoughts of secretly sparked Bumblebee.

He knew something was up when he kept opting out of his favorite energon even giving away his secret stash of his favorite minerals that tasted overly sweet, his favorite secret indulgence.

His tanks couldn’t handle the thought of the stuff and his smell sensor kept malfunctioning every time he smelled the stuff. He snuck from his room late one night, servos nervously fiddling as he tried to work up the nerve to get some fuel into his systems but he simply just couldn’t bring himself to.

His concerns grew as his tank churned almost all hours of the day purging without fail after each transformation. He was thankful his team was none the wiser since he didn’t like being worried over but he knew something was very wrong when he tried to transform into his alt mode and the world went black.

He was thankful it happened after his patrol when he’d already commed the team letting them know he was going on a long lone drive and he was, truthfully he was.

Until he felt so dizzy his processor was faulting on even remembering his name let alone transforming. He doesn’t remember hitting the ground but he woke to pains wracking his frame and joints all over. His hub indicated he’d been asleep for the past seven hours.

He was in so much shock he almost missed the reason his self diagnostic scans provided him as to why he was in such peculiar shape.

Sparked, his hub read.

Sparked.

Him, bumblebee, sparked.

If he wasn’t having a hard time with his air intakes venting before he did now.

Both time and his intakes stopped all together.

The lack of fuel intake, the intolerance to his favorite meal and snack, the tiredness he felt no matter how deep a recharge. The slight raise to his chassis where his spark laid hidden all made so much sense now even if he had half a mind to try and deny it.

He suddenly was overcome with the necessary energy to scramble into a half sitting position and open his spark chamber. Getting a first hand look at the bright glow of not only his own spark but two tiny sparks that were hugged against both sides of his own.

His servos fell and he couldn’t believe it.

He couldn’t believe nor stop staring at his vulnerable and open spark chamber that not only housed his life but two others.

He was sparked.

Bumblebee was sparked and he was going to become a creator in ayear by Earth’s standard time.

‘I’m going to be a creator..I’m..i’m going to be someones carrier,’ his processor drenched in distraught as his faceplates remained in shock. A stream was threatening to leak from his optics when a thought quite literally slammed his spark chamber shut.

Thudding footsteps, heavy peds, glaring red that were once lulling yellow always besides his long time conjuxed. Those four glowing red optics were a sight he was beyond gifted to behold and the little sliver of a smile and two warm fields accompanying it had him melting just the same as he did the day he saw and felt them.

He wasn’t sure why the two felt the need to see him, to touch him, to give caring and wanting touches to him when they were so perfect for each other and far too different from him.

Thoughts like these rang in his processor more often than he would ever care to admit.

He kept his insecurities and lack of assurance along with the rampant fluctuations of his em field close at spark. He never let the another feel the emotions warring inside him no matter how every bot who knew him claimed he wore his spark on his sleeve.

‘I can’t tell them..not..not about this..they’re conjux with each other. I’m..I’m no one. I’m just a momentary interest to spice things up in the berth.’

‘When the war ends, hopefully at a time we’re alive to see it, things will change and they won’t want me anymore…’

‘I’m just a pleasure bot they would use during our time away from our factions…sure they snuck me on board the Nemesis more often than not..but..they’re conjuxed..’

The flashes of the purple tank mech sitting in his large lab, working on a classified project Bee never bothered to ask about. The scientist sliding an optic over at the communications officer who watched the monitors of not only Earth but other territories commanded under Decepticon reign that again Bee pays no real mind to.

He’s not there to gain information just like the tank of a mech and the slim master spy don’t bother asking him for information nor do they try to gather intel from any data pads Bee brings with him.

He knew deep down both would find it illogical under any other circumstance to not take advantage of the opportunity given and yet neither crossed that boundary just as he never crossed theirs.

Only now Bee feels he’s crossed something much worse than a simple boundary.

He’s played with fire and now he’s burning along the frays as he struggles to intake through his vents no matter how much he presses along his chassis.

He slept with two conjuxed mechs.

Two very dangerous mechs known as the SIC and TIC of the decepticon army.

His dark thoughts reared their ugly heads at the front of his processor glimpsing at all the times he turned his optics from the conjuxs loving displays towards each other. The scientist was not a fan of touch or bots in his personal space neither was the communications officer but for each other they made exception.

So Bee avoided initiating any touch between the two along with allowing them to enter his space freely whenever they so pleased even going along with letting them initiate both interfacing and after face care.

The two knew exactly what the other wanted and Bee was happy to take whatever form of affection they would give him. Whether it be simple cleaning him up around his valve and laying comfortably in the berth to getting comfortable in their arms as they both held him on either side or each other.

Deep down he knew he wasn’t special to the two, he was a passing fling that somehow managed to go on for about an Earth years time. He was young and foolish falling for the quiet and mysterious sparks of a conjux couple but he couldn’t help himself. He figured he could keep the feelings close at spark not letting another soul know how he truly felt about the pair. Not even the science officer nor communications spymaster knew he was in love with them.

And seeing as how they were loyal to each other and the cause and not some young foolish bot who managed to get sparked on accident that was on the opposite side of their faction, he knew he needed to keep it that way.

His friends, comrades and family could never know about the sparks he was carrying. Bee would be put in the stockades or worst, they’d rip out his sparklings and send him to be tortured and have his processor torn to bits for information looking through his memory core and hard drives for any intel he may have given or received during his time with the two decepticons.

It wouldn’t matter if he was telling the truth in never giving up intel to the two nor would all his past acts of fighting for the autobot cause be remembered.

He was a traitor.

A sparked traitor who laid in the berths of two highly dangerous mechs who would offline him and their sparks the moment they discovered his condition and status.

He had to get out of there.

He needed to leave Jasper Nevada and with it his connections to both his friends and faction and the two mechs he grew to love.

He couldn’t transformer into his alt mode at the moment out of fear he would purge and momentarily offline again. So he scrapped his comms to his team, hiding his em field and spark signature before taking one last look in the direction of their base before turning and walking off.

If he were lucky he would make it to the cities edge and head out before his team sent any search parties for him.

He was confident the SIC and TIC wouldn’t be troubled once he didn’t show at their usual meeting spot. If he hadn’t passed out and discovered said reasoning for his strange behavior and symptoms he would’ve been on his way to meet with them.

He didn’t think they would be concerned maybe upset at wasting their time and any fuel energon on coming to meet with him but he’s sure after some time away from him they would move on, forgetting him in favor of time with each other.

Flashes of the two having things go back to normal swallowed his processor whole with every step he took away from the city. Images of the purple tank working in his lab as the spymaster cuddled with Ravage who would often curl in Bee’s lap rubbing along his chassis and tank. Bee didn’t think much of it when the feline cassette started doing it he just hoped it meant she was warming up to him.

Though, none of Soundwaves cassettes actually disliked him as far as he knew, they each cuddled up to him one way or another its just more recently they all started to make an engine rumbling noise that had him falling into recharge. He couldn’t for the life of himself fall into recharge in his own berth but every time Frenzy and Ravage laid on his lap and purred with their engines he was able to fall into recharge.

Neither Shockwave nor Soundwave ever disturbed him when this happened even as the habit grew more and more with frequency. Frenzy and Ravage had a habit now of sticking close to him and preferring being by his side whenever he set foot onto their base or met in their secret spot.

Bee should’ve guessed then that something was wrong but he hadn’t, he couldn’t have known it meant he was carrying since he’s never carried before. He was just glad he could recharge in peace after his steadily piling symptoms were leaving him drained.

‘I hope they don’t miss me too much,’ Bee mused to himself with worrying servos, his pedes hurt the farther he walked and he briefly wondered just how difficult his carrying would become since it was his first. Being a carrier meant having to know all there was to it in case of accidental sparking.

Going through his processor he really should have seen all the clear signs that showed he was with sparklings.

‘They won’t miss me..they were just following basic instincts,’ he reasoned with himself, spark and helm hurting at the thought. ‘It’s a good thing,’ he mused with a churning tank, ‘now I won’t have to worry about them telling the two.’

He felt a chill run down his spinal cord making his servos rub at his middle, the soft surface was still flat but the muscle he’d long sculpted there was gone. Another sign of his carrying clear as day that he hoped neither his team nor the two decepticons noticed. If Ravage and Frenzy could sense the sparklings within him from their more primal instincts it was only a matter of time before the two mechs began to notice.

Bee truly hoped neither cassettes told of his being sparked.

‘Just have to make it out of here,’ he thought to himself, rubbing the spot that housed not only his spark but two more he’d already decided to protect with his.

As he walked out of the city limits that nights and headed for a new destination away from the autobots and decepticons, he missed the warp gate opening to his last known spark location. Two large mechs scanning the area as Frenzy took to the skies with Soundwave following in pursuit and Ravage sniffing out the scent of the little autobot. Taking off with Shockwave following closely, both silent mechs held an air of promise with the intent to permanently offline the bot they believed took their future mate.

-

I love this pairing - all three togethe and the pairing shockwave and soundwave.

Gonna write about shockwave/blitzwing/bumblebee next or just shockbee angst next 👀

[jaggedwolf]

TSCOSI Ficlets #6

Being gay and petty

Arkady is completely fine with this. Liu and Park have played married couple before, and this time Arkady has eyes and ears on the con.

"My wife has always wanted to see an exhibit of the latest fossils imported from Rosalind," scoffed Park. "After I was so long away from the war, I was certain this was the least I could do. But if this museum can't handle-"

"Of course not," rushed a nervous usher, "I'm sure you can find your way inside, no need to worry about our scanner failures at all."

"We really appreciate it," said Violet, voice pitched at least an octave higher than her normal one, which made Arkady's reaction to this even more stupid. She's fine. It's fine. The security camera caught Violet clutching onto Park's arm, craning her head up to shoot him a sweet smile. "We haven't had a night out together in so long, right, Harry?"

"Indeed," replied Park, an arm around Violet's shoulder. As the two of them entered the museum, Arkady resisted the urge to edit the Iris's crew roster to saddle Park with more chores.

At the very least, she wasn't going to laugh at his next few jokes, no matter how funny they were, thought Arkady, as she switched her screen over to an overview of the museum's security systems.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

As a gunshot rang out, Krejjh asked, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Arkady grinned, lips slick with blood. Trick question. “Four. But you only have three to a hand, so you’re holding another hand behind this one. Nice tr—” A coughing fit racked through Arkady’s throbbing ribs, and oh, one of them was definitely broken. Liu would be pissed about that. Probably already pissed about the rest of it.

Krejjh’s grip on Arkady’s shoulder tightened. They forced a grin on their face. Seemed pointless. Not like Krejjh did the cons. Krejjh said, “Great guess. Sharpshooter McCabe?”

“Clear. Still no signal on the comms, and I’m out of ammo. I don’t think the next merc will be chased off with an empty gun. Can she stand?”

When Arkady squinted, she made out the hazy outline of McCabe’s lanky figure, behind where Krejjh crouched in front of her. McCabe had their back pressed against the wall next to the open door. Only a sliver of them visible to anyone walking by, their feet in that position Arkady had corrected them on the other day. The other week. 

Arkady shot up to her feet, jerking out of Krejjh’s grasp. She made to take a step forward through the blurred room in front of her, but her right foot gave way as soon as it made contact with the floor. 

“That’s a no,” said Krejjh, voice as breezy as ever as they looped their lower left arm around her waist. They leant down their shoulder and pulled Arkady’s arm across it.

“Sharpshooter McCabe,” said Krejjh, “lead us out of here.”

When Arkady looked up, Krejjh was holding out their gun with one of their right arms. McCabe obeyed with a swiftness of movement that they only seemed capable of with a gun in their hand.

“Are you sure?” McCabe’s hand hovered over Krejjh’s gun. 

Krejjh jerked their head towards Arkady. “I have her. The vanguard is yours.”

“Shit.” McCabe blanched as their eyes swept over Arkady. “We need to get her to the ship.” They glided to the doorway, calling back. “Coast is clear. Let’s go.”

“I’m fine,” said Arkady, as Krejjh supported her limping. She coughed, clutching at her ribs with her free arm. She spat a mouthful of blood as they passed through the doorway.

“Stop talking,” muttered McCabe, taking them further down a dark hallway. Couldn’t make out specifics, and squinting was hurting more and more.

Krejjh didn’t say anything, but Arkady didn’t like their expression as they continued supporting her weight, or the now-empty holster on their right side.

“C’mon, don’t be like the others about this.” Arkady tapped their knuckles against Krejjh’s shoulder. “They weren’t even trying to kill me, just rough me up a bit.”

“That isn’t much better, First Mate Patel.” Krejjh frowned, a movement that brought all four of their eyes further down their face. 

“It is,” said McCabe, darting around a corner to clear it. Stupid risk. No gunshots rang out.

“What?” said Krejjh.

McCabe came back around the corner, gesturing impatiently. “Can you move her faster?” They continued, “It is much better. If they wanted to kill her, she’d have been dead before we got to her.”

“See?” said Arkady, equal parts smug and dizzy.

Krejjh pulled Arkady along harder, a low trill of dissatisfaction warbling in their throat. “Next time we split up the crew, I call dibs on the other three.”

Journalism

Violet pushed her reading glasses up the bridge of her nose, resisting the temptation to sigh. It wasn't the first time she'd squinted at one of Juniper's creations. A crayon drawing from a five year old, a scrawled out report about the state of family dinners from an eight year old, school notes from an eleven year old who needed to be quizzed. More.

Forty years of her younger sister thrusting her work at her and going "Look at it, Vi, look at it!"

The Juniper across her desk scrolled through her tablet in silence. She had a grey streak in her hair, one she sometimes dyed, sometimes didn't. The only betrayal of her perfect composure was the occasional twitch of her pen, or the glances stolen when she thought Violet wasn't looking.

"Seriously?" said Violet.

Juniper's head jerked up.

"The Voice Heard Around The Galaxy," read out Violet from the notebook in her hands. "Isn't that a tad...dramatic?"

"You've lived a dramatic life."

"Lots of people did."

Juniper narrowed her eyes. "You haven't said no."

"I'm really busy these days. The semester started two weeks ago, I've brought on a new-"

"No, none of that, Professor Liu," interrupted Juniper. God did Juniper love annoying her with that title. "If you don't want to do this profile, say so, and I won't bring it up again."

Violet placed the notebook on her desk. "Why do I sense there's a 'but' coming?"

The corner of Juniper's mouth twitched. "But I'd like to know why. I think this could be good. Really good. So many people still don't know the story."

"I guess," said Violet slowly, "I don't understand why your magazine would pick-"

"Me?"

"What? No?" Violet would've laughed, if it weren't for the expression on Juniper's face. Theirs had never been a sentimental sisterhood. They'd grown closer after the Iris, yes, but Violet supposed a sentimental older sister would've had a scrapbook or some other old-fashioned way of collecting all of Juniper's articles and awards over the decades.

Violet had an alert on Juniper's name, read every article, and occasionally messaged her about them. Violet shook her head. "Anyone else wouldn't even make it into my office. You know that."

"Then what don't you understand?"

"Why me?" asked Violet.

Juniper looked as confused as she had when she was nine and Violet had made the mistake of trying to explain imaginary numbers to her. Like Violet had said something incompatible with reality.

"Even if you limited yourself to the crew of the Iris 2," said Violet. "Brian and Krejjh have a story for the ages. Park's done so much work within the government, Sana even more outside of it. McCabe - okay, McCabe would run away screaming from an article about them. So would Arkady, which is a factor here."

At that last comment Juniper raised both her hands in acknowledgement. Violet suspected Juniper had already accounted for that.

"I've been a biology professor," continued Violet. "Why me?"

"Since the restoration, that's all you've been doing? Teaching and research? Either way, it doesn't matter." Juniper leaned forward, tapping her pen on the open notebook. Right on that dramatic title.

"You're correct," said Juniper, "everyone you've mentioned has a great story. But it's your voice on that first report." Her gaze shifted up from the notebook to meet Violet's. "You almost dying. Somehow surviving. The rest of it. That's the story I want to tell. If you'd let me."

"I'll need to think about it. And talk it over," decided Violet.

"Good." Juniper's eyes twinkled. Did she already know which way Violet was leaning? "Hold on to the notebook."

Startled, Violet asked, "Are you sure?"

"It only matters if you say yes." Juniper stood. "And I have a copy."

Of course she did. Violet stood as well, brushing her hair behind her ears, and walked Juniper to the door.

"Oh," said Juniper, a sharp smile on her lips. She nodded towards the direction of Violet's window. "Tell the missus I said hello."

"Please don't call her that at lunch next week."

"No promises," said Juniper, and she was off.

Violet sighed. She looked in the same direction Juniper had as she walked back to her desk. On the windowsill was a potted mint plant, two metal discs hovering above it. One for light. One for water.

She picked up the notebook, her thumb pressed against its spine.

Tonight would be an interesting conversation.

Uniforms

"Look alive, Liu." Ali slammed shut the cab door of the ambulance, back in far less time than his smoke breaks usually took. He gripped the wheel. "New war reject's poking around."

Not another call, then. Violet's nose twitched. She wouldn't have used Ali's name for the injured soldiers who'd recently made up the bulk of new guards around here. It made sense that the IGR would fill roles this way during the war, humanity was tight on manpower as it was. But it wasn't only Ali calling them that. And sometimes even Violet wished that those guards would—she'd have appreciated a little more—she'd hoped for—

Three sharp knocks on the open back doors of the ambulance interrupted Violet's thoughts, followed by a gruff "Inspection."

"Come in," said Violet. Ali may have been the one who drove the ambulance, but when it came to the patient compartment, Violet reigned. (Or as Ali had put it to her one day over lunch: If anything's wrong there, they'll blame you first.) She forced herself to complete the last finishing touches to the gurney before turning around to face the new guard.

Ali had guessed right. Guard's haircut was prototypical military, she certainly had the musculature for it and she looked very comfortable with that holstered gun. The oddity in her balance wasn't from that but from an injury, Violet surmised. The left knee, probably.

The guard coughed. Shit, had Violet been caught staring? 

"Well, we just finished up a call," said Violet. Another mistake. She could hear Ali's wince.

"What kind of call?" asked the guard.

"Heart attack," said Violet. There'd been much worse calls for the guard to ask about. This one had been standard, and she reported as much. Man in his late sixties, wife called the ambulance, he’d died en-route despite all the usual attempts to save him. 

“I see,” said the guard, dark eyes ominously sweeping through the patient compartment. Drug check was next, Violet went over the supplies in her head even though she’d already checked them less than half an hour ago. 

“Well, this all looks good.” The guard awkwardly nodded, turned on her heel and strode off. 

What. Violet stared blankly after her.

More limped off, really. Must have been a bad injury for her to be limping and still get posted as a guard. Or the IGR was really tight on manpower. Or both. Ugh.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” said Ali. “It might bite you.”

“Don’t think that’s how that saying goes,” said Violet, but she let herself sit back on the bench seat to relax. Must have been the guard's very first day on the job. She hadn’t even introduced herself.

Though Violet had caught sight of her nametag on the uniform. Officer Patel. Hm. Never knew which of those guards were repeats and which would get circulated all over the city. 

They could do a lot worse than have Office Patel as the regular guard assigned to them, that was for sure.

Tied To A Chair

“Are you sure about this?” asks Captain Tripathi.

“No.” Park grips the chair arms before forcing his muscles to relax. The lights of the Iris’s mess hall are blindingly bright. A strategy deployed in Zone Z to some effectiveness. He files away a suggestion to leave them on tonight, but he first needs to ensure the captain doesn’t delay this initial step. “But you should be.”

“I don’t-”

“He’s right.” From the captain’s side, Arkady keeps her gun on him as Brian finishes up with his legs. “Jeeter, check that the cables are locked before you move on to his arms.”

“On it.” Brian glances up at Park’s face with an apologetic expression.

Arkady continues, “Either Park’s telling the truth, and some unknown IGR mind-control bullshit is the reason he shot McCabe, or-”

“I’m lying, and a double agent,” finishes Park. “Or triple agent, I suppose.”

Brian starts locking Park’s right arm to the chair. “I really don’t like those options.”

“I don’t think any of us do,” says Captain Tripathi.

Park turns his gaze away from her and the other two. He is conscious of his entire body, and senses no sign that he’s about to attack, but that hardly mattered with McCabe.

He heard the gunshot before he registered his finger pulling the trigger. His single eye sufficed to take in the red streaking across their arm, the guilelessness of McCabe’s eyes even as their body reacted to protect them - they moved on instinct and whipped out their own gun before dropping it from shock.

Their Academy record is well-earned. Park takes a measured breath. “McCabe is a trained agent.”

Captain Tripathi flinches. “That doesn’t make it better, Park. Violet’s confirmed it’s only a graze wound on their arm, but-”

“If they hadn’t moved,” says Park, “my shot would have hit them in the chest.”

Judging from the changing expressions on everyone’s faces, left unspoken but understood is the knowledge that they’re lucky his target wasn’t Brian, Violet or even the captain.

“Shit,” says Arkady. “What the hell did they put in you?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“I know this must bring back painful memories,” says Captain Tripathi, dark eyes searching his, “but if there’s anything at all you can remember, that could be really useful. And give us a better strategy than tying you to a chair.”

“Uh, all done with that by the way,” says Brian, giving the cables a final tug. Arkady holsters her gun.

“With all due respect, Captain, a mind-control chip would have been very memorable.” Park had gotten information on McCabe’s state without directly asking for it, which meant sharing his next concern wouldn’t reflect suspicion back to him. “My arm clearly didn’t point the gun at random, either.”

“So whatever’s in you also has your eyes-uh, eye,” says Arkady. “If you’re telling the truth.”

“And possibly my other senses.”

“That doesn’t make sense, though,” says Brian, “Wouldn’t the IGR have known to intercept us at Telemachus or New Jupiter then, if they can see whatever Park sees, or hear whatever he hears?”

“Maybe the tech’s intermittent,” suggests Arkady, “or has to be within range of a base station.”

“There’s too many unknowns here,” says Captain Tripathi. “Arkady, when Violet’s done with McCabe, I want the two of you to brainstorm how we can find out what’s in Park.”

“Yeah.”

“In the meantime,” Park says, “it’d probably be best to say as little as possible in front of me, until we know more.”

The captain nods. “Is it alright if we step out for a bit to discuss things then? One of us could stay, keep you company.”

“That’s really not necessary.” Between a better chance of figuring out what was wrong with him and the company, he’d pick the former any time. “And…”

“And?” asks the captain.

None of them would suggest it themselves. He doesn’t feel like some absurd super-soldier from the vids. Yet.

He felt no different this morning. If McCabe’s file is accurate, today is the first time McCabe has ever been shot. Their first injury since starting at the Academy. To deprive the IGR of even one more possible source, no matter how small-

”Brian, could you move my eyepatch to my other eye?”

“Dude. Isn’t that like, kind of excessive?”

“Makes sense,” says Arkady. The captain suspiciously says nothing.

“Don’t worry,” says Park, “They didn’t take my eyelid, so it’s not too horrendous under there.”

“Small mercies, huh.” Brian’s fingers fumble with the strap before he figures it out. The eyepatch descends over Park's good eye. “There we go.” Darkness surrounds Park.

No. Words crowd his throat, his tongue, his lips. Don’t leave me alone in the dark again, I’ll tell you anything you want, here is every flaw in every report I’ve ever written, here is every battle I fought in during the war, here is every planet I ever lived on, here is-

“Park?” The captain’s voice rips him back to reality.

He swallows down the words, grateful that he learned long ago how to blank his face on pure instinct. Don’t be a problem. “Yes, I can’t see anything. You can go on, I might even take a nap.”

“Alright,” said the captain, something undecipherable in her tone, “we’ll be back soon.” There’s the sound of what sounds like murmured agreement from Arkady and Brian, or perhaps his other senses are imagining things once more.

It’s not till after he hears the door slide shut that he digs his nails into the chair, arms flexing against the cables trapping them. He isn’t a goddamn child. This isn’t Zone Z. At least a portion of the crew will return within a few hours.

This isn’t Zone Z. He isn’t going to let them break him again.

[candyskiez]

Saw ur also a ???% fan… 👀

Care to share your thoughts around him? Or headcanons if you have them? :D

1. You just noticed? I have NOT been talking enough about him then. I will rectify this immediately. (This is a joke you're good)

2. SO.

These will be scattered. Because I am a very scattered person.

I will flip flop between if I like the disconnect between ???% and Mob better as a plural thing or an allegory .I like both! Both is good! He's so fascinating as an allegory but also he's the most accurate representation of being plural I've ever seen and it's not even canon. So like. Two cakes!

I will always be insane about the manga version of confession arc. Hold on I need to talk about this in detail or I'll actually die.

His fucking. His fucking talk with Mob. "And you were never...never...looking at me." WHAT IF I SCREAM. Literally everything he says to Mob is so interesting and also relatable as shit whether you view it as plural or as an allegory. Both is good. Like you can view him telling Mob he forgot to protect himself and all that shit as like "You only do these good things to ease your own guilt. You don't actually want to be around people. You're selfish. This is who I am. I want to be able to exist without trying to be normal. I want to be able to be seen and not be harmed for it. I am tired of everyone ignoring this part of me because they prefer you. Would they actually do what I've done for them, or are they using me?" Like. Holy shit. It's so so fucking OW especially as an autistic person. But also as a system it's so easy to read him going "You pushed all the memories you didn't want onto me. You let me handle the things you didn't want. You shoved everything onto me, and I took it with stride because I loved you. You let me take all the hard things so you didn't have to face them, because you're a coward. This is my body too. This is my life too. Why don't I get to have that? Why do I have to give it up because you don't want me? They're my family too. You don't get to decide I don't deserve to exist because you hate yourself too much to admit I'm here." Like. Its so easy to read it as him being a protector who is SO fucking resentful of all the shit he's had to deal with, all the memories he has to hold alone, all of the shit he's experienced, and not a sliver of gratitude. Like goddamn does it remind me of my experience being a system. Either way the distance from him and the relationship between him and Mob has been my favorite part of the show since I started watching. And the manga is even more interesting and it's so!!!!!!!!!!!

More confession manga thoughts!! Him saying "Ritsu is my little brother. He was calling me Nii-san." Is so. He said that when Mob asked who he was. He viewed that as a solid part of his identity. RITSU is a massive part of his identity. Does he view Mob as not Ritsu's brother then? Does he feel like he was cheated out of his own family? I wouldn't be surprised nor would I blame him for feeling like that.

And even more confession arc shit. Hi. Thinks about how ???% in the anime at least had to steel himself before raising his hand at Reigen. He hates him but he still cares about him. He hates him but that guy raised him as much as his parents did. Clawing at the walls.

Actually y'know what I haven't talked about my thoughts on Reigen and ???% with anyone but the friend that I watched the show with and that is a tragedy that will not stand. ???% hates Reigen so so much but also cares SO much about him. Thinks about he passed out the second Reigen told him his parents were fine, and contrast that to him saying that he can't listen to Reigen in confession. He knows that if he listens to Reigen he'll believe him and that fucking terrifies him. He'll follow after Reigen because he means the world to him, because that man raised him, because he just wants him to be proud of him so fucking badly. He'll go back to being miserable and trapped, and everyone will go back to pretending he doesn't exist. He's terrified of Reigen, I think, because he knows Reigen is a good liar. Reigen can make him believe things. And he doesn't like that. He doesn't like how gullible he actually is. That's why he doesn't trust anyone- he's gullible enough to believe anything, so he has to distrust ANYTHING, no matter how much sense it makes, because he knows he can't trust his own judgement. He's been tricked before. He'll be tricked again. Don't trust anyone. Don't trust anything you see. This is another thing that works with either autism or plurality. The autism trauma of being lied to and deceived as "jokes" constantly turning you into a trust issue riddled mess that doesn't trust your own judgement or view of people, or a traumatized protector who FORMED to help you deal with people taking advantage of you and now distrusts everyone you love because "it happened before, it'll happen again, i wont let it happen." Or both!

God. I just LOVE ???% y'all don't understand. He's everything to me. Please god read the manga. I don't know if the translation I read was completely accurate, but I love the manga and anime both so so much. ???% is my favorite character as anyone who knows me can tell you and I will never shut up about him. My GUY

[jaggededges123]

coffee's fiab fic roundup

not by violence (but by oft falling)

vaderwan, anh canon divergence

10,366 words, T rating, chose not to use archive warnings

major tags: time loops, whump, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, fix-it, this is a slowburn for vader and the fastest turnaround in the west for obi-wan

The Force felt heavy with promise the moment Vader woke, as if whispering in his ear that he would achieve his utter victory that day—striking down the rebellion that had plagued his Master for years. He drained himself from his tank, donned his suit with the help of his medical droids, took a mere brief moment to acclimate to the heaviness of being in it, and then made his way to the bridge to discuss the capture of the escaped rebels with Grand Moff Tarkin. Only… Vader stopped in his tracks the moment he stepped through the door, staring out the viewport with a slight hitch in his respirator as his failing lungs tried to draw in excess air. Outside of that window, there was a perfect view of Alderaan, blue-green with cloud systems swirling peacefully in its atmosphere. Vader couldn’t—how was it that Alderaan still existed? He had watched it be blown into slivers of asteroids not even one full day ago. It made no sense whatsoever. Or, Darth Vader kills Obi-Wan Kenobi on the Death Star, but the Force says “no.”

just to be quiet with you

obikin, canon divergent post war

3,459 words, G rating, no archive warnings apply

major tags: pre-slash, romantic tension, Anakin Skywalker doesn't fall to the dark side, wingman Padmé Amidala, oblivious Obi-Wan Kenobi, there was only one bed

“Senator Amidala—” Padmé interrupted him with a simple gesture he’d seen her use a hundred times on holos of the peace talks as they’d gone on. “Please, Obi-Wan. Call me Padmé, we’ve been friends long enough.” “Padmé.” Obi-Wan smiled wanly. “Of course, Anakin and I are very grateful for your accommodations. You’ve been a consummate host—” “It’s my pleasure, genuinely.” “—but I’ve noticed a very slight issue I was hoping you could help me resolve. There… there appears to be only one bed for both Anakin and me.”

Handled

eighthcest, Formula 1 AU

2,060 words, E rating, chose not to use archive warnings (ambiguous silas octakiseron age)

major tags: F1 AU, incest, bathroom sex, blowjobs, PWP

Your young uncle did not win his race—and this is a problem for you, specifically, Colum Asht. As the official—and unofficial, and any place in between those two—handler of Silas Octakiseron, any time he does not win a Grand Prix it becomes your problem very quickly.