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sarcastich · 3 years

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Crown Made Of Barbwire

Everyone got their wings, sooner or later.

Feathers of every color, size, variation.

They start as two little bumps on your back, itching like a growing tooth, around the same time you hit puberty. A bit earlier for girls, a bit later for boys. They grow over the course of your teenage years, and stop once all their feathers have reached their full size.

Some people could fly with their wings, some couldn’t. Most people’s wings were two meters on each side when they were outstretched.

Peter’s wings had only taken two years to grow fully, and were beautiful, pure-white angel wings.

He’d never seen anyone with wings like his. All the other white wings were more like snow owls, speckled with browns and grays, or had underlying colors that gave the top feathers a tint.

He couldn’t quite fly with them, but they were perfect for gliding. He’d scale the tallest buildings in his area, and get a running jump off of them, plummeting for a moment before he got pulled up and flew around the neighborhood until his wings got tired. Of course, you couldn’t just fly anywhere whenever you wanted to. You needed permits, licenses, there were laws to uphold. Most people preferred staying on the ground, anyway.

But not everyone got to keep their feathered wings.

Peter had always heard stories of the burnt ones.

His aunt used it as a reason for him to be good, or when his friends were yelling about seeing criminals they’d allegedly seen out ‘n about.

“-Eat your greens or your wings will burn right off, Pete”

“-I’m telling you, man! His wings were all black and torn up, I’m not kidding!”

They were the result of corruption, evil, immorality, and sin. Once soft feathers scorched, charred, and turned into soot. They blackened and burned away, turning into a shadow of their past wonder, skeletal and black.

Peter had never imagined that one day he’d be standing at the Four Seasons, shooting photos for The Bugle, trying to get a good shot of the Tony Stark.

Peter was among the crowd of journalists and other photographers, rapidly clicking away, aiming his camera lens at Stark. Reporters were yelling out questions, waving wired microphones and recorders over the barrier between them and the walkway Tony Stark was walking down.

There was something about his wings that set them apart from a normal burnt set. Most CEOs, businessmen or just rich, successful, famous people had burnt wings.

But Tony Stark’s weren’t just burnt.

They had horns cascading from the tips to the forearms. The burning away of the pure white feathers had revealed bat-like structures. Stark had no idea why, or how. That was just how they were. Or so he’d told the public.

Peter’s breath caught in his throat when Stark focused on him, looking into his camera and flashing a well-practiced smile. Peter fumbled for a moment before he looked through the viewfinder and took several photos.

And again, he’d never imagined that he’d get a personal request for a photoshoot, by the Tony Stark.

He packed his camera bag with shaky hands, taking extra drives and lenses.

His boss had pulled him aside earlier that morning, and told him that Stark had reached out and asked for Mr. Parker to be the one present and in charge of the interview’s photos. Peter, of course, had accepted in a second. He’d be an idiot to decline. Tony Stark’s picture on his portfolio? What kind of artist would he be if he said no?

Peter stepped out of the glass lobby of The Bugle offices half an hour later and looked up from his phone, his camera bag slung over his shoulder. He was wearing a deep red sweater over a white collared shirt, the front tucked into his soft beige dress pants. He hoped his outfit wasn’t too casual for the occasion, but he didn’t really have time to change anyway.

Just as he looked away from the screen, a sleek black car pulled up in front of him. The driver’s window rolled down.

“Peter Parker?” the driver, a roundish man, asked.

“Y-yeah- yes!”

The man jerked his head towards the back seat door.

“Get in, kid.”

Peter did as told, nervously sliding into the car, barely moving when he sat on the leather seat, hugging his bag.

“Wh- Where’re we going-?” His voice came out a lot squeakier than he’d meant for it to.

“Stark Industries Tower, where else?”

Almost an hour later, the car stopped in front of the blue, glass building. The driver got out and opened Peter’s door. He hadn’t moved since he’d gotten in.

Getting out of the car and almost forgetting his bag, he mumbled, most of his attention drawn by the tall tower.

“Thank you- uh, mister- um-”

“Hogan. Happy Hogan.”

“Yes! Thanks!”

With a nod, he closed the car door and got back in, driving off. Peter took a deep breath, held his bag properly again and started towards the building.

After a short chat with one of the three receptionists, he was led to an elevator a bit farther away from the general area of the entry. He and a shorter woman entered the lift. Judging from her formal attire, Peter guessed she was an assistant. Her wings were far smaller than his own, made up of light blue feathers with streaks of royal blue. He kept his own wings contracted to offer her enough room in the small space.

“Friday, take us to the penthouse, and please let Mr. Stark know that Mr. Parker will be arriving shortly.”

Peter looked at her, confused until a soft tone went off and the elevator started its ascent.

She smiled at him before he let out a soft “Oh-” and averted his gaze.

With another soft tone, the lift stopped and she gestured for him to step out.

“Thanks-”, he started to say, but the elevator door was already closing behind him.

The elevator had opened to something like a living room area. Two sleek, white sofas were facing the rounded glass walls, with an ornate sculpture between them that looked like five giant bowls stacked on top of each other. Everything Peter could see was modern and minimal, with a white-gray aesthetic throughout the penthouse.

He looked around nervously, holding on to his bag by the shorter strap.

“Mr. Parker, welcome.”

Peter gasped and turned around with a jump, startled.

“M-Mr. Stark! Y-yes, hi, I’m Peter Parker, I-I’m here for the Bugle interview shoot?” He inwardly cringed at how he sounded, stuttering, his voice a lot higher than it usually was, clutching his bag for dear life.

Stark smirked at him. “I know, kid, calm down.” He gestured towards the sofas. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Peter stuttered out a thank you, and sat down at the far end of one. He kept his wings close to his body, feeling like he was taking up too much space, still hugging his bag to his chest. He looked up shyly, taking Stark in properly. His wings were relaxed as he walked to the sofa facing Peter, sitting down comfortably.

“Are you afraid of me, Mr. Parker?”

“N-No sir. I mean, you’ve obviously done s-some- uh-.. Not so great things- but uhm- You’re an icon, people admire you-”

“Would you like anything to drink?” Stark cut him off, motioning to the minibar that had very literally risen from the ground.

Peter stuttered out, “Oh- N-No, thank you, I can’t drink on the job-”

Stark poured himself two fingers of whiskey in a lowball glass, without ice, and gently pushed down the top of the minibar, and it reclined back into the floor, looking like another dark grey ceramic tile.

He took a sip, eyes trained on Peter.

Peter cleared his throat, relaxing a bit. “So, where d’you think would be best for the uhm- the shots-?”

They talked about light placement, the conversation somehow dragging over to technology and science, Peter engaging a lot more, and forgetting his nervousness eventually.

After about an hour, they got up, Peter set up his camera, and took his photos.

A behind-shot of Tony Stark with his hands tucked into his pants pockets, wings stretched out behind him. A side profile, while buttoning his suit, and various other shots.

Peter was on his knees, getting a photo of one of Tony Stark’s iconic shades on a small table, the city line stretching out behind it.

Stark had excused himself to take a call, and told Peter to take photos of anything that he wanted. Peter didn’t hear him step back into the room, too focused on trying to set his camera’s shutter speed. Stark quietly took long strides to him, stepping in front of the table.

“Oh, Mr. Stark-! I just wanted to take a shot of the glasses, they’re-”

He stammered into silence as Mr. Stark softly ran the back of his finger along his cheek. He held it under Peter’s chin, tilting his head up. Peter was blushing furiously, but couldn't make himself look away.

“Let me see your wings, angel.”

Three months later, Peter’s life had changed drastically.

He was decked out in the latest designer clothes, a skinny white Etro strap top to match his wings, baby blue Dolce & Gabbana shaded glasses perched on this nose, sitting by a marbled kitchen counter, a Valentino white leather clutch bag resting on it, and inspecting his manicured nails.

A man in an obsidian black suit entered the room, buttoning his jacket and running a hand through his hair, smirking.

“Ready, angel?”

Peter looked up, a cheeky smile on his lips. Wings fluttering, he slid off his high stool and made his way to him. He straightened Tony’s tie and pecked his nose.

“Yes, daddy.”

He leaned away, but Tony let out a growl, grabbing Peter by his waist and pulling him flush against his body.

Peter gasped, “You’ll ruin my outfit!”

“Angel, I bought it.”

Peter pouted, “Well yeah, but you gave it to me”

“I’ll buy you a new one, you spoilt brat.”

Peter giggled and cupped Tony’s face, looking into his eyes and leaning into his touch. “Y’know I love you, Tones.”

They kissed softly, Tony not letting go of his vice grip on Peter’s waist.

“Tony, we’re gonna be late... I want you to check the set up one last time-”

“Angel, I had you set things up. I trust you.”

Earlier that day, Peter had gone to the hotel’s restaurant on the top floor, under a different name and reservation. He’d checked the entire place for wires, mics, or anything that could put them in any sort of bad situation. He checked exit points, weak spots, and all the cameras. He’d been thorough.

He had taped a Glock 9 mm handgun underneath their side of the table, checking repeatedly to make sure it was fully loaded and had its safety off.

Peter grumbled a bit, before letting go of Tony, dramatically sighing, rolling his eyes and picking up his handbag from the counter.

“Well, we should get going anyway.”

Tony shot him a wolfish grin before grabbing his wrist and pulling him back.

“You missed something, i mio angelo.”

He tilted his head to the counter, a navy blue felt box sitting on it now. Peter was surprised. He knew it was a jewelry box, but he hadn’t asked for anything, and even though Tony loved showering him with gifts, there was usually some silly occasion he used as an excuse for it.

He curiously looked at the box, wondering what it was. Something beautiful, no doubt.

“Go on then, Angel, it’s yours.”

Peter stepped back up to the counter and set down his bag on the nearest stool. He pulled the box closer to himself before glancing at Tony, who was smirking at him, arms crossed against his chest.

He slowly opened it, keeping his eyes on Tony until the lid was completely vertical.

His eyes flicked down to the box, and he took in a sharp gasp, hands flying to cover his mouth. “Tony, you didn’t!”

Tony’s smirk grew into a full grin again as Peter rushed around the counter to kiss him, cradling the box in his arms, even though he could easily just hold it in one hand.

“Of course I did, mia carissimo.”

Tony took the box from Peter’s hands, setting it down on the counter. He pulled out the choker he’d gotten for his princess, with Round Brilliant cut, D rate diamonds in the center of Cushion cut diamonds arranged like figure eights.

Peter lightly grazed his own neck with his fingertips, already feeling the weight on his neck, even though he hadn’t touched the jewels yet. Tony held up the necklace.

“May I have the honor?”

Peter silently turned his back to Tony, holding his head high. Tony pressed a kiss to the back of Peter’s bare neck and gently ran his hand through Peter’s feathers, making him shudder before placing the necklace on his neck and fastening the tiny clasp. It didn’t have a chain at the end, it had a specific size. Peter’s size.

Half an hour later, Tony held the passenger door of his Audi R8 Spyder open and led Peter out, Peter giving him his hand like a princess, to the entry of the hotel. There was no swarming press, just the coming and going of guests of the hotel.

Handing his keys over to a valet, Tony pressed a kiss to the back of Peter’s hand.

“Relax, angel.”

They walked into the lobby hand in hand, people stopping to stare at them every few feet. Even if they didn’t know who Tony Stark was, they’d stop to look at the man with the bat wings and the boy who looked like an angel.

They didn’t stop at the reception, they walked straight to the private elevator that led to the restaurant, Tony’s security detail already armed and ready at the top. Once they got there and had been patted down and checked for weapons by Osborn’s security, Tony walked them over to their table.

It overlooked the city skyline, winking lights dotting the land underneath them. He pulled out a chair for Peter, getting a soft smile in return. Sitting in the chair next to him, he held his hand again. Peter shot him a worried look.

Peter kept his voice low, “I thought you said he’d be here on time?”

“Princess, he’s only five minutes late. His detail’s here, he’ll be here, too.”

Peter toyed with the table’s centerpiece while they waited. After about ten minutes, Tony abruptly got up, rebuttoning his suit.

“C’mon bambino, we’re leaving.”

Before Peter could get up, there was a short yell and a loud muffled thump from the elevator.

The glass wall beside their table shattered, rapid shots taking out most of the security team. Tony yanked Peter down by his suit collar, looking out at the building in front to try and see the snipes. The elevator doors ominously opened, a man in black armour stepping out. His wings were plated with metal.

It all happened in the span of two seconds.

He shot the remaining guards before training his gun on Tony. Before he could get a word out, Peter pulled the gun he’d hidden earlier. In an instant, he cocked it and aimed for the man’s head.

The assassin had been a split second too late in aiming at Peter.

Peter fired.

The shooter fell to the floor, dead.

Peter dropped the gun, falling to his knees, a sudden hiss sounding behind him.

His wings had burst into flames.

He yelled out, pain blooming in his wings and along his back. Tears sprung from his eyes and ran down his face, ash falling around him, smoke rising behind him as Tony rushed to his knees beside him, holding him as he cried into Tony’s shoulder, his agonized screams muffled.

In the matter of minutes, his angelic wings were gone.

#starker #starker fic #starker moodboard #wings au #hope yall like it #gonna go cry now #reposting bc im a bit of an idiot

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seafleece · 4 years

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caduceus is not a particularly strong person.

that’s fine, it’s not his job, they’ve got yasha for that, yasha and jester and herself and even fjord, a little, now she and his new mom are getting him in something resembling shape.

caduceus is not very strong, but he carries fjord below decks anyway.

fuck, she’s never seen him like this.

there was a hint of it, maybe, before— his lip did this funny downward curl when he was talking to colton and she thought oh, this must be the one he was talking about.

now, though, his eyebrows are so low over his eyes she can barely see them. it feels weird, to compare caduceus to a horse, but, like, that’s what she keeps thinking of looking at him, like when their horses were angry and their ears went flat back against their heads.

she knows he’s tired, too, but he picks fjord up— not like he weighs nothing, no, like he’s the heaviest thing in the world— and just staggers under him down to the dining room, not letting beau help at all.

he lays fjord out on the table and it rattles the whole frame of it. everyone crowds in at the top of the stairs for a moment until beau waves, dazed, and they come down to circle around him.

caduceus takes a second, breathes like a bellows, like that big fucking bull, and then leans over fjord, careful as anything.

jester presses up against her side, tail sliding cold and slick against her lower back. “i healed orly,” she whispers, mouth and eyes loose and wet with the same damp disbelief. “are you okay?”

“no,” she says back, and doesn’t look down at jester. jester leans against her a little harder until she wraps an arm around her shoulders. “but caduceus is worse.”

and he is, bent over fjord so close their foreheads are almost touching. he keeps moving hair away from fjord’s face, keeps darting his eyes from fjord’s closed ones to the awful color of the burst blood under the skin of his temple from when he’d fallen, to the even awful-er tear in him, from the bottom of his collarbone and down, through ribs, through, well. everything underneath ribs.

he’s not bleeding too much anymore, but it still soaks the table under him.

probably won’t be eating in here again for awhile, she thinks, and kicks herself for it in her mind’s eye.

“jester,” caduceus finally says, and sweet ioun, he sounds awful, all raspy and wheezing. like a broken person, like—

like someone who’d just carried fjord down a flight of stairs even though his just-revived sister could bend him like a reed the second she got the chance.

“diamond.”

“oh! oh, yeah—“ and jester peels away from her, for a moment, starts rooting through her bag.

she’s bloody, too, beau takes the second to notice— slick and bloody almost up to her elbows, probably from orly. they haven’t looked this bad since they had to fight yasha, too, she thinks.

she risks a glance over at yasha, in that moment, while jester’s digging around for the diamonds, and there’s a look on her face.

they’re all a little frenzied-looking, right now, afraid and staticky, all over, having to just watch caduceus do this with his lips curled into a scowl like they’ve never seen and his ears flat against the sides of his head. yasha, though, she looks terrified, terrified like when she’d stabbed right through beau and into the stone floor of the chantry, terrified like when she’d gone to heal beau and beau had flinched and she’d flinched back.

guilt, she thinks, and she hates that she recognizes it on yasha.

yasha meets her gaze after a moment, eyes swallowed up in that cavernous sort of dread, and then she blinks. later, beau thinks, and it passes between them like one of caleb’s messages before jester’s bloody hands re-emerge from the haversack and she looks away.

jester looks between the two diamonds clutched in her fists for a moment before handing the larger one up to caduceus.

caduceus has always been dangerously polite. she doesn’t remember when caduceus stopped calling caleb mister caleb, mostly because she doesn’t even know if he did.

anyway, he doesn’t say thank you.

she doesn’t think jester takes it too hard.

finally, caduceus looks up at all of them. trying to seem like he’s regained his composure, she thinks, but his hands are still shaking where he’s holding the diamond to fjord’s chest.

“this will take a while,” he says. “you all should get some rest.”

—

she waits in the doorway of her and jester’s room until yasha comes by.

“hey.”

“oh,” yasha says, looking her over. “beau. yes.”

“wanna come in? jester’s washing up right now.”

“yes.”

they sit a little ways apart on the edge of the bed. it’s pretty big, as beds she’s shared with jester go, bigger than most inns, almost as big as their shoved-together beds in the xhorhaus.

they always crowd together, anyway, she thinks. yasha could probably even fit on it, with both her and jester, if they asked her to stay with them.

“so,” she says, instead. “what’s wrong?”

yasha laughs a little. “you mean, apart from the very big wrong thing?”

“yeah.” she’s deflecting. beau lets her.

“ah.” her fingers dig rivets into the sheets. “i had a dream.”

this sets her on edge. “yeah? like you used to?”

“yes.”

“you don’t think it, uh, had anything to do with—“

“no.”

“oh. okay, uh—“ she doesn’t know how to do this. jester just tells her if she has a funny dream, just rolls on top of her so she can look right in beau’s face, so they’re sharing breath. “what happened?”

“i flew.”

and, fuckin’. that’s new.

“shit, really?”

“yes. i think— i think that’s what i was about to do, before.”

“before.”

yasha looks at her, then, and beau can see she’s crying. silent tears track down her face, bleed somewhere in her lap. “i wasn’t sure i would ever be able to, after that.”

“do you, uh, do you think you could again? or was it just a dream thing?”

“i don’t know,” yasha whispers, and looks away. “i was going to try, when i woke up. but then.”

“oh.”

“i should have,” she says, and the furrows yasha’s dug into the bedsheets deepen, almost to tears. “i could have helped.”

“no, hey, you couldn’t have known—“ she reaches out to put one hand over yasha’s. she doesn’t flinch, but it feels like she does, somehow.

“i did, though. i saw them. my wings, with feathers. i remember how it felt.”

yasha looks at her again, eyes dark with that same weight. “i was scared, if— if i opened them again, and they didn’t have feathers, still, i don’t know what i would have done.”

“oh,” beau says, because she doesn’t have anything else to say to that.

she thinks of something, though, watching yasha’s hands slowly loosen again. “do you want me to check?”

“what?”

“i just meant, uh—“ and she can feel the cold flush creeping up her neck. “you could close your eyes when you open them, so you don’t have to see right away.”

“oh.”

yasha’s quiet for a long moment.

“never mind, it’s, it was—“

“yes.”

“what?”

she finally looks back into yasha’s face.

��i want you to look.”

“uh— okay, i—“

“give me a moment.”

yasha stands up, then, and beau’s hands drop from above them listlessly atop the sheets. she takes a deep breath, so deep it almost looks like it lifts her up.

“okay.”

she closes her eyes, and then they’re just sort of. there.

“oh, fuck.”

she’s seen yasha’s wings before. has been close enough that they’ve scared her, even, in a fight, once or twice. they’re fuckin’ cool— skeletal and black, they match the name, match the whole vibe yasha has going on.

except, well. maybe yasha doesn’t want to match the name.

beau’s seen bird skeletons, before, in the archives— she knew yasha’s wings weren’t, like, bats or demons or something. they were bare, underneath all the black smoke, just bare. no long spindly pinions.

she’s got feathers now, though. just for the record. big, snowy-looking off-white ones.

she always thought, you know, yasha would have the wings of something cruel, something big and meant for the wicked winds above mountains, meant for folding for a dive at dizzying speed, towards prey.

but beau’s seen bird wings, before. and wouldn’t you know it, her wings look for all the world like a swan’s.

—

“beau?”

she sounds so nervous.

“yeah.”

“um—“

“they’re there.”

—

yasha spends a long time just looking at herself in the mirror on the back of the door, turning around and around, long enough that she’s still there when jester comes in, face crumpled in the way beau knows to mean that she just wants to curl into beau and stay there for a long time, and her eyes go so wide beau wonders if there might be a white to them, after all.

and, well, jester’s braver than her. always has been, always will be.

“i— they’re so pretty, yasha, oh my gods— can i touch them?”

yasha’s even paler than her wings, pale like bone in the sun, like caleb’s fancy paper before he scribbles all over it. she flushes pink, washed-out pink like early spring flowers, like how cad’s hair is getting now he dyes it less, and nods.

down the hall, caduceus is still bent over fjord, working the life back into him. in half an hour or so, he’ll come around groggily and call them all back, and they’ll all crush fjord between them and he’ll wheeze, still covered in blood but alive, thank the gods, alive, but for now jester just runs her hands along the soft slope of yasha’s wings and beau thinks that she has never seen anything this sacred, before.

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radreactions · 4 years

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First off love your blog. Your so much fun to read, and your reactions are great. So in the truest spirit of Fo4, how about the companions reacting to Fo4 glitches? Gonna let YOU surprise us with what glitches they are.

Damn this was fun! I even added a few pics of my own experiences 😂 Enjoy!

Ada -

She stops and turns, gazing at the young man enjoying his dinner on a floating plate, sitting backwards in his chair with a table right behind him. She glances up at Sole, the little light on her processor unit blinking rapidly overtime as she tried to make sense of such an impossible scene. "Hey George," Sole greets overly casually, as if nothing was wrong it the world. "Good food?" The physics defying man looks up with a grin. "Oh the best! Molly just got in a new shipment of bloatfly, it's the best I've ever had!" Sole glances to Ada, that little light rapidly picking up in speed as George places down his now floating knife. "Good to know, thanks Geroge." They walk off but Ada remains still, staring uncomprehendingly at the poor man who just wanted to enjoy his dinner. He didn't know a series of "!Error!" messages were flickering throughout Ada's HUD.

Cait - "Ohh THAT is the creepiest goddamn shite I have ever seen." She mumbles, clutching her shotgun tightly as she watches the bones of a long forgotten corpse jump and rattle around on the ground. "What'd ya do ta it?" She demands, casting Sole an accusing look, a single skeletal leg fluttering up between them before dropping back down again. "I don't know," They replied, face pale. "I stepped over it and my boot must have caught on something." Suddenly the whole thing lurched upwards almost to the roof, causing the both of them to yelp and jump back, before it calmly floated to the ground where it finally lay still. "Fer fuck's sake, I thought goin' clean was supposed ta stop me from seein' shite like this."

Codsworth - "Oh heavens!" He gasps upon seeing the settler pumping water. If he had a chest, he'd place a hand over it. As it was, his pincer was clutched dramatically to his hull as all three of his optic units focused themselves on the headless settler who just made as if to wipe sweat from their nonexistent brow. He turns to Sole then, shocked and more than a little disturbed. "Sir/mum, are my optical units malfunctioning or are they suffering a severe case of a headache?"

Curie - "Oh! Mon Dieu! I seem to be...structurally compromised!" She gasps, pushing with all her little body's might against the ground she had suddenly fallen through. The concrete was at her waist and despite how hard or fast she kicked her legs - seemingly underhindered by soil that was alarmingly nonexistent below the surface - she just couldn't get herself up. Sole tried pulling, as did Dogmeat, but alas to no avail. "This will pass, yes?" Sole's noncommittal shrug certainly didn't alleviate her worry. But hey, on the bright side, she decided to study this rare phenomenon of intangibility while it lasts.

Danse - He could feel it burrowing around under his feet. He could hear it squealing and hissing, hungry for his blood. His eyes tracked it's movements through the sights of his weapon, finger halfway depressing the trigger in preparation for when it finally makes it's move. A silent, breathless moment later and suddenly it burst through the ground in a raucous explosion of soil and rock and fury....only to sail right over his head and up into the sky. He watched, shocked, as the radscorpion hissed and clicked it's pincers metres in the air above the treeline, it's tail whipping about in a frenzy as it sailed away into the distance, never to be seen again. "Danse?" Sole called, emerging from behind the Red Rocket and startling him. "Did you get it?" He lowered his weapon and scratched his head, still trying to come to terms with the fact that he ACTUALLY saw that. "It...got away?" Sole gave him a questioning look but didn't press the matter further. Even hours later he was still thinking about it, brow pinched in confusion, bewildered mind wondering where the heck the thing ended up. What if it was still out there? Looking for him? Waiting for the perfect moment to strike? He shudders.

Deacon -

"Umm. Sole? Uh, a little help? Gravity is...well...I think I must have broke it. In related news, guess who's looking fabulous?" *tilts shades, gives a wink* "That's right, it's me!"

Dogmeat - He bounds ahead of Sole, panting excitedly because Sanctuary and all his friends are just over the rise and he's got a new collar on and wow, doesn't he look fancy! Just as he turns his head to check on his companion, he see's them disappear. Immediately, he stops in his tracks and tilts his head in confusion. That's a new trick. Is that normal for humans? He knew they were a little weird but...how did Sole DO that? And where did they go? He looks left, he looks right, he sniffs around for a bit and still can't find them. Where...? Suddenly he hears them screaming and there, falling from nowhere above him, they tumble from the clouds shouting words that would normally cause his tail to hide between his legs. He winces when they hit and trots over to give them a questioning lick. "Fucking Todd fucking Howard. Mister 'it just works'. Yeah right you sonofa-" Suddenly they're gone again and he hears "Are you fucking kidding me?!" shouted once more from above. He sits down and sighs. This could go on for a while.

Gage - "Now how in the...?" He shields his eyes as he gazes up towards the roof of the dilapidated pre-war home where a caravan's Brahmin stood, chewing calmly on a peice of yellow straw. "That ain't the weirdest shit I've ever seen, but it's up there." He grimaces as the thing lifts it's tail and shits through the rafters, a grin spreading across Gage's lips when he hears cries of disgust from the occupants within. He looks to the Overboss and lifts a mischievous brow. "Wanna make their day even worse? My caps satchel is feeling a little...light."

Hancock -

"Whoa! What the hell is this? And why the hell didn't I get an invitation?" He turns to Sole and waggles an eyebrow, already removing his trenchcoat. "You gonna join in or do you like watchin'?"

MacCready - He couldn't stop it. He just COULD NOT stop it. "Seriously, I'm freaking the fu-heck out here, Sole!" he yelled, paddling for his life in thin air. He was walking fine one moment, then suddenly his body developed a mind of it's own. He's swimming. On land. And he can't FUCKING stop it. Sole, laughing, kept backing up a few steps of which MacCready couldn't help but following with a big kick of his legs and a stroke with his arms. "Help me out here, for fu-argh-God's sake!" Sole just kept laughing and backing up, resolutely deciding for him that he's gonna kick their ass as soon as this humiliating ordeal is over.

Maxson - He stared in horror as Paladin Danse approached him, all words seemingly lost in the face of this...this...ABOMINATION. Gone was the power armour, despite the clunk of each of Danse's steps, and in it's place was freakishly elongated limbs that Danse didn't even seem to notice. "What the hell?" He demanded. "Where is your designated power armour, soldier?" In the past he had wondered if Danse was one of those soldiers who took to liking their armour way too much, but this? This was...certainly unprecedented. "I'm wearing it, Elder." Danse replied, a questioning furrow on his brow. "What are my orders, Sir?" Shaking his head, Maxson gave them and immediately reached for a bottle of bourbon once Danse's freakishly long back was turned. He was pretty sure, as Danse made his way through the Prydwen, that he heard suprised screams followed by gunshots.

Nick Valentine - He watches disbelievingly as Sole shoots down another raider. "Nick, are you gonna help or are you just gonna stand there and look pretty all day?" They shout, promptly reloading the clip in their gun. Their UPSIDE DOWN gun, that they seemingly still operate as if it were the right way up. Their left hand was grasping nothing but thin air but still looked as though there was something clutched in their hand. He could see the trigger being pulled, but their finger was miles above it. "Uh...sure...sure." he replies, still watching as Sole aims through the upside down weapon, literally through the stock, and still manages to hit their target. "You just...have a little something on your piece there." They look at him before looking down at their upside down gun, giving a sheepish grin as they wipe away a bit of congealed blood. "Thanks, Nick." They promptly go back shooting and he watches, noticing the muzzle flash appearing at least thirty centimetres above the actual barrel. "I need a hard reboot." He mutters.

Old Longfellow - He squints into the sky, watching in half amusement as the mudcrab drops from thin air and splats on the ground only meters away from him. "Well," he grumbles, his white eyebrows lifting a little as he turns to look at Sole. "That's new."

Piper Wright -

"Umm. Blue? You're seeing what I'm seeing...right?" She timidly shuffles closer to the giant pink behind of what she can only assume is a Brahmin and stares at the way it is seemingly stuck THROUGH the solid concrete wall. "Is...is it still alive??" Suddenly it moos and she jumps back in shock, clutching Sole's arm as if for dear life. "I can't tell if that came from the front or the back, but either way...what the heck do we DO with it?"

Strong - The sound he made was almost defeaning in the dark and stuffy subway station. It was also creepy. VERY fucking creepy. Sole has never heard a sound like that before and they desperately hope, as Strong remains doubled over laughing, that they'll never have to hear it again. On the ground, where they've just killed a lowly ghoul, it's corpse was spinning like a beyblade and was apparently the most hilarious thing Strong has ever seen. "Are you done yet?" They ask impatiently, but get nothing but another roll of creepy ass laughter that finally prompts them to move on into the darkness without him. At least ghouls were a lot less scarier than...whatever THAT was.

Preston Garvey - He and Sole were gazing out over the ocean just after successfully winning back the castle from the queen mirelurk, her corpse being promptly dissected by the Minutemen in the courtyard behind them. "Wow. Not that long ago, I never would've thought we could-" He cuts off because just as Sole turned to look at him, the ocean suddenly became a flurescent green rectangle stretching endlessly before him. "What the hell?!" He sputtered, eyes going wide. Sole turned back and the ocean promptly reappeared. "What?" they asked, turning to look questioningly at him. Again, the ocean flickered and the almost blindingly bright green glared up at him. "The ocean!" He exclaimed, pointing. Again, they turned and again, the deep blue of the ocean reappeared. "Preston, this can't be the first time you're seeing the ocean." They turned back to him and he had to squint from the brightness of the most hideous colour green he's ever seen. He shook his head, breathed a sigh, and decided that he'd help cut up that monstrosity after all. At least that thing was meant to be green.

X6-88 - "Sir/ma'am, you seem to have displaced your ammunition cartridge." He states calmly, gesturing to Sole's left hand where one seems to be lodged through their palm, an end sticking out of both sides. It looks painful and he silently commends them for their handling of it. "What do you mean?" They ask, lifting up the hand in question. "I have it right here." He frowns, noticing that their fingers are clutched around air roughly the shape of the cartridge. "Are you feeling alright, X6?" He doesn't know what to say to that, or when they go to place the damn thing in their satchel and it magically floats through their fingers. Literally THROUGH their fingers. For the next couple of hours on the road, he runs a self diagnostic and feels like screaming when it comes up normal.

161 notes · View notes

imagine-darksiders · 4 years

Note

Would make a short of Strife rescuing a tiny human? Please ?

Short?

Hi guys, so I was writing this reply when it suddenly occurred to me that I’ve been neglecting you and I owe you, at the very least, a 6000+ word, Strife centric Christmas present. So although it’s isn’t a Christmassy piece per se, it all I have at the moment.

Thank you so much for being patient with me. XXXX

—

The photograph stands on a tiny, pink dresser, its edges cut back just enough so that it fits inside a silver frame, out of which peer three humans, their grinning faces never changing as they keep a quiet vigil of the bedroom and its otherworldly visitor, who – in turn – finds his sharp gaze frequently returning to the little, paper snapshot.

A pair of eyes, golden and glowing in the lightless bedroom, screw themselves shut tightly for a moment as their owner heaves a sigh and tries not think about what had happened to the trio of humans. He especially refuses to dwell on the youngest; the little boy in overalls and wellington boots who rides happily on his father’s shoulders in the photo, but who also so, so closely resembles the tiny, emaciated corpse twisted up in a wardrobe nearby.

These are the moments during supply runs that Strife hates the most – where he stumbles across the sad, broken remains of humans, all whilst he rummages through their homes and helps himself to what was once theirs with his only consolation being the humans back at the maker tree, who would survive just a little longer thanks to his pilfering.

If he thought too hard about it, he would be troubled, and the horseman could not afford that. Best to put it from his mind and move on, as he always has. As experience has taught him.

Peeling his eyes open again, Strife turns his back on the photograph and continues stuffing a dishevelled, cuddly pony into one of the leather pouches that hangs from his side.

’Just the essentials,’ he reminds himself before every supply run. ’Food, water and ammunition being top priority.’

But then, Ulthane had brought that kid to the tree and she’d cried all night, asking where her caretakers were and complaining how she couldn’t possibly sleep without a ‘Mister Bear’ and…

The horseman strokes a finger over the toy’s stringy mane before he withdraws his hand and fastens the pack up again, safely sealing it inside.

’In this instance’, he reasons, ’a soft toy is an essential.’

Besides, he’s already gathered plenty of food for today at least, and if he doesn’t get back soon, Ulthane and the other humans will start to worry where he is.

“Where Jones is,” he corrects himself aloud with a bitter frown.

He’s beyond the point of believing they’d care about Strife the horseman in the same manner they care about his human disguise.

Casting one last, solemn glance at the corner wardrobe, Strife once more finds himself fighting to put the humans’ fate from his mind.

It was so much easier when he thought – as many other species still do – that humanity was little more than a savage society with no ambition beyond killing and consuming to survive. Then, he actually met the little species and found everything he thought he knew about them to be a lie. His eyes had been opened, and he’d been left sadder, but wiser.

Humans had been treated like dirt for so many centuries.

And he hadn’t really cared.

Deciding that he’s spent more than enough time among ghosts, Strife steps back over the bedroom’s threshold.

Moving towards a set of rickety stairs, he reaches out to place a hand on the banister when he suddenly freezes in his tracks, his keen senses honing in on a sound coming from somewhere further down the landing.

A scuffle, then a snort followed by the scrabble of claws on a hard surface.

For several moments, the horseman remains at a standstill as he listens with rapt attention to the pants and growls he’d pin to a Goreclaw, if he had to take a wild guess.

The damn thing sounds as though it’s stuck. That, or it’s looking for something. Either way, it will be sufficiently distracted and chances are likely it doesn’t even know a horseman is in the vicinity.

Mercy’s grip sticks invitingly up from within its holster and Strife runs a thumb over the smooth surface, thinking.

He could just leave. It is only one demon after all.

But then…

The horseman’s mind drifts back to the little body in the wardrobe and his jaw immediately sets.

No way in Hell is he about to let that thing get at it. Dead or not, a kid doesn’t deserve to be reduced to marrow by a hell-dog. Strife could spare him that, at the very least.

Shaking his head and wondering when he’d become so sentimental, he draws his pistol and steps back onto the landing. Following the sounds of guttural snarls, he stalks through the crumbling apartment until he comes upon a broken doorway, torn off its hinges at some point by a hand greater than a human’s. Strife halts just shy of the entrance and presses his back up against the wall before inching his head around the corner, golden eyes narrowed dangerously as he scans the room beyond.

Far be it from him to err on the side of caution but he is curious to know what the demon is up to. His earlier assumption had been spot on. It’s a Goreclaw alright, currently in the midst of trying to shove its long talons underneath a chest-of-drawers, teeth snapping and drool flying from its snout.

“What the Hell are you doing?” he wonders quietly, observing while it retracts its foreleg and presses its nose up to the slim gap beneath the furniture.

He’s only ever seen the dogs get this excited when they’re on the trail of prey.

For a split second, the horseman’s blood runs cold at the thought of a human being trapped under there, though he soon shakes that notion off. No matter how tiny, there isn’t a human alive that could stuff themselves underneath there. Not with barely two inches of space between floor and wood.

Through the window, he’s distantly aware that the sun is no longer shining through a gap in the curtains, having sunk well below a building on the opposite side of the street, heralding the swift approach of night.

Aware that he’s burning daylight, and desperate to put a bullet in something, Strife obnoxiously clears his throat, rounds the corner and aims a cocksure grin at the startled demon when it whirls about to face him.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says cheerfully, “Just wanted to stop by and tell you, there’s something on your face.”

A roar of outrage shatters the relative peace as the demon crouches, ready to pounce. It barely manages to plant its hind legs however, before a bullet tears out of Mercy’s chamber and buries itself directly in the Goreclaw’s skull.

“Ope, never mind, I got it,” Strife gloats, a smirk lifting his lips. The demon crumples to the ground, gurgling and twitching for a moment until it eventually lays still, dead on the floral print carpet. “Huh…I was hoping that’d be a little more satisfying.”

With his grim duty taken care of, the horseman turns on his heel to leave. However something nags at the back of his mind and he stops mid-stride, a frown pulling at his brows.

Just what had that demon been so desperate to get at?

Beneath his helm, Strife chews pensively on his lip, turning back to face the unassuming chest of drawers. After a moment’s deliberation, he gives in to curiosity, a newfound trait he wholly blames on the humans he’s been sharing a tree with for the past several weeks. Every one of them has a penchant for sticking their noses into strange situations, and it seems their behaviour has rubbed off on the horseman somewhat.

An obnoxious huff escapes Strife as he grabs each side of the dresser and picks it up effortlessly, as if it weighed no more than a feather and moves it aside to peer down at the dustless rectangle that had been left in its wake. It isn’t long before his sharp gaze lands on something out of the ordinary, a patch of colour in the otherwise murky grey.

“What the?…” Dumping the chest of drawers down to his right, the horseman squats to get a better look at what appears at first glance to be just another child’s toy.

“All that fuss for a doll?” he wonders aloud, reaching slowly down with a finger to prod at it.

Just then, before he can utter anything further, he almost jumps out of his skin as the ‘doll’ springs to life.

Rather, it suddenly leaps to its feet and darts sideways, gunning straight along the wall’s skirting with two, little legs pumping along like a steam engine.

“Hey! Woah there!” Caught off guard, Strife doesn’t think before he shoots out a hand towards the fleeing creature.

It can’t quite skid to a halt in time to keep from colliding with the horseman’s gauntleted palm that abruptly slams to the ground in front of it, and with a soft ‘plink,’ the human-shaped thing collides with his hand and falls back onto its rump so jarringly, Strife can’t suppress a wince. “Oooh, sorry about that,” he says, wasting no time in pinching his thumb and forefinger against the collar of a thin, brown shirt and plucking it up off the floor. “Now, what do we have here?”

Dangling his prize in front of his silver helm, he squints, head tipping to one side so he can get a good look at what he’s caught.

He very nearly drops it again when he realises what he’s peering at.

It’s a human. A boy, to be precise, and a fairly young one at that, clothed in nothing more than a ratty shirt and a pair of equally dishevelled shorts that hang low on his waist, too baggy to fit on his near skeletal form. They’ve even been tied in place by a strip of green twine.

Hanging limply from the horseman’s grasp, the little human tries to work his shirt loose, twisting this way and that but impeded by violent trembles that wrack his body. Realising that thrashing is doing him no good, he opts to reach up with miniature fists and attempt to tear the shirt free, tiny grunts leaving even tinier lips.

“You’re a human!” Strife blurts out, eyes flashing interestedly.

At the sound of his booming voice, the boy flinches and cries out, abandoning his prospects of escape in favour of clamping both arms over his head and curling in on himself, a meagre method of protection against his titanic captor.

Standing back up to his full height, the horseman continues to study his handful whilst planting his free hand on a cocked hip. “Well damn me, I didn’t think human kids could get this small,” he murmurs. Suddenly, his ears perk up at the sound of a diminutive squeak that emanates from the boy currently hanging from his fingers. ”What was that, kid?”

Shivering, his arms still shielding his head, the tiny boy swallows and raises his voice loud enough to be heard. “I-I ain’t a human!” he claims shrilly. Then, after a small pause, he adds, “And I ain’t no kid neither!”

“Not a human, huh? Well, you sure look like one.” Strife chuffs and raises a claw-tipped finger, prodding the boy in his stomach and eliciting a squawk of indignation. “Sure sound like one too…Kind of on the skinny side though, aren’t you?”

His words cause the boy to turn rigid and his arms peel back slightly to give Strife a view of ebony hair and wide, brown eyes. “What…what’s that s'posed to mean!?” he whimpers, “You’re not gonna…you’re not gonna eat me, are you!?”

“Mmm, haven’t decided yet,” the horseman playfully responds, tapping his chin in mock thought. “Doesn’t look like you’ve got much meat on you…Then again, I am pretty hungry.”

Behind his mask, he grins, though the expression promptly blinks out of existence when he notices a wetness has gathered on the boy’s cheeks.

“Uh oh.” That wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d been sure human kids loved jokes! Hell, Ulthane had playfully threatened to eat some of the younglings back at the tree and they’d all thought it was a great game, even laughed their heads off when he made a slow swipe at them with one of his meaty paws.

“Oh, hey, no – I – Ah, damnit.” Like a flipped switch, Strife’s tone loses its teasing lilt and slips to something gentler. “Hey, ease off the waterworks, okay, pint-size? I was kidding.” Borderline desperate, the horseman lowers his catch into a sturdy palm and lets go of his shirt, even smoothing down the back of it with the pad of a careful finger for good measure although as he does, he becomes aware of just how prominently the boy’s spine protrudes. Human anatomy varies, sure, but that doesn’t feel right.

Jerking away from the encroaching finger, the ‘not’ human swipes furiously at his eyes, smearing tears across reddened cheeks. In spite of the horseman’s reassurance, he doesn’t appear convinced, eyeing the palm beneath him with about as much trust as he’d give a hungry snake, half expecting it to spring to life and squeeze the soul out of him. Truthfully, he hasn’t seen much of the world, even before monsters fell out of the sky, but he knows enough to tell that this metal-clad behemoth is most assuredly not human.

Human eyes don’t glow like liquid gold.

In the meantime, Strife gives himself a mental kick for making the child cry.

“So, uh,” he clears his throat awkwardly, “You… got a name, kid?”

“What do you care?” the boy sniffs, all pretence of bravery made redundant by his trembling, “You’re just gonna drop me or – or squash me or something.”

Drawing his head back, the horseman frowns. “C'mon, you’re like – what? - three inches tall? Be kind of a dick move for me to hurt someone smaller than my thumb.”

Cautious surprise flickers across the youngster’s face and he swipes the back of a wrist under his nose, chin lifting to shoot a suspicious squint at his captor. “But…but ain’t you one of them demons?”

Strife bristles despite his best efforts. “Do I look like a demon to you?”

Ducking his head, the boy gulps but still balls his hands into fists and squeezes out, “Well, I dunno… You big'uns all look alike from down here.” He risks a mistrustful glare at Strife’s luminous eyes. “Like monsters.”

Apparently the Horseman has been spending too much time around humans because that sent an unpleasant pang bolting through his chest.

“Yeah, well…Speaking from experience, not everyone who’s bigger than you is a monster, kid,” he murmurs gently.

The boy blinks, caught off guard by the sober tone of voice he hadn’t expected to hear from this gargantuan, metal man. All his life, he’d had drummed into his head the mantra that if a big one caught him, they’d more than likely kill him. And those that didn’t would shove him in a jar or underneath a microscope - that last one had happened to his great, great grandfather. Or so he has been lead to believe.

And yet so far, there’s no jar, no microscope, and although he knows it’s far too early to be letting his guard down, the longer he goes without becoming a sticky mess under the heel of a boot, the more his nerves relax the strangle-hold they have on his heart.

Outside, the city grows steadily darker and with the absence of sunlight, a chill seeps its way through the broken window.

Drawing up his knees and hugging them to his chest, the boy falls victim to an involuntary shudder.

“Cold?”

The suddenness of the giant’s voice reverberating overhead causes him to jump and snatch his gaze up from where it had wandered down to his shoeless feet. On impulse, he blurts out a stubborn, “No,” and clenches his jaw shut again to stop it from quaking.

Strife raises an eyebrow and though his skepticism is hidden under a helm, it manages to saturate his voice. “Uh huh. I can see you shivering, kid.” Slowly, his fingers creep a few centimetres closer to the boy.

“I told you, I’m not a kid,” his handful mutters, “I’m nearly eleven.”

A snort of laughter bursts out of Strife before he can catch it, earning himself an icy glare. “Now, I’m no expert,” he chuckles, bouncing his hand slightly, much to his passenger’s horror, “But I’d’ve said eleven was well in the range of what a ‘kid’ oughtta be.”

“Kids can’t take care of themselves,” the boy explains, agitated, “I can.”

Strife draws his head back in mock surprise. “Oh hoh! Can you now? S'that why I found you seconds away from becoming a demon’s snack?”

Huffing, the boy averts his gaze from the dazzling yellow eyes overhead and mumbles, “I’d have been fine.”

“Whatever you say, half-pint.” The corners of Strife’s lips tilt up as he inspects the boy’s grumpy pout. “You know, you’re pretty feisty for such a little guy. Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to go picking fights with demons a hundred times your size?”

Despite his far larger stature, the horseman can pinpoint the exact moment he’d said the wrong thing. The word 'parents’ has barely slipped off his tongue before the boy’s eyes suddenly clamp shut and his back goes rigid against Strife’s fingers. Understanding dawns at once and the horseman’s eyes lose some of that preternatural glow as he exhales softly through his nose. “Oh….Your folks’re not in the picture anymore, huh?”

Face now pressed into his knees, the boy shakes his head.

“Was it a demon?”

This time, Strife receives a slow nod, confirming his suspicions.

Blowing out a puff of hot air, he scratches at his neck and offers, “Damn. I’m…. sorry, kid.”

What else could he possibly say?

“…Hamish.”

Strife blinks, lifting the youngling closer to his eyes and peering down at him. “What’d you say?” he murmurs, giving the boy a gentle nudge with his thumb in the hopes of coaxing the words out again.

Luckily, he’s rewarded when his passenger finally looks up at him with a pair of drooping, brown eyes, their edges tinged red. “My name,” he tries, louder this time, “It’s not kid. It’s Hamish.”

The metal mask does little to conceal its wearer’s pleased grin.

“Hamish, huh?” He decides not to make a fuss about the tears rolling down the kid’s cheeks. “S'good to meet you. Name’s Strife.”

Confusion sweeps across Hamish’s features and he carefully extracts himself from his knees, scrubbing away the fresh teardrops. “Strife?” He hesitates for a moment to scrunch up his nose even further, and the horseman can’t help but notice that when he does, he bears an uncanny resemblance to Yarin after the humans tried explaining the concept of a computer to him. Strife’s grin widens of its own accord at the fond memory whilst its wearer waits patiently for Hamish to finish scrutinising him.

Eventually, the boy appears to come to some sort of conclusion as he huffs and rubs tiredly at one of his eyes, though Strife suspects it has more to do with not wanting to meet the horseman’s gaze when he says matter-of-factly, “That’s a weird name.”

Glad that his little acquaintance has at least stopped crying, Strife feigns offence. “It’s a Nephilim name,” he explains, “and - for the record - how do you know I don’t think Hamish is a weird name?”

The boy gulps, apparently mistaking the giant’s playful banter for real displeasure, after all, he had just insulted an unstoppable behemoth’s name. Eager to move the conversation along, he stammers out, “U-Uh, what’s a…a nephilim?”

The horseman, making note of Hamish’s renewed trembling, softens his tone. “A Nephilim is…It’s, uh…” Something stops him mid-sentence. Is he really about to tell this kid about the Nephilim? A brutal race of bloodthirsty, world-conquering titans? Of which Strife himself was a member? The horseman clamps his mouth shut. What if explaining who the Nephilim were prompts Hamish to start asking questions? Creator forbid the boy discover that the man holding him in his palm was one of four responsible for the total eradication of their own species.

With a hard blink, Strife focuses back on Hamish and notices the boy’s eyes are nervously darting all over his mask. The suffocating spell of silence had lasted longer than the horseman intended. Thinking quickly, he stumbles over an answer that he hopes will satisfy the boy. “It’s…Well, s'just what I am.”

Perhaps it’s only because Hamish has spent his entire life keeping his existence a secret, but the giant’s vague response doesn’t bother him half as much as it ought to. He gets it. The man probably doesn’t want anyone knowing about his existence. Hamish finds the feeling is mutual.

So, instead of calling Strife out on his blatant avoidance, the boy simply offers him a nod and says, “I knew you weren’t human.”

“Ha, only when I need to be,” the horseman chimes secretively, and before Hamish can ponder what he means by that, he’s unexpectedly bounced up into the air, letting out a startled yelp before he lands in the centre of the giant palm again.

“Anyway,” Strife begins, shooting a cursory glance out the window and wincing upon finding it utterly obscured by the ink of night, “There’ll be plenty of time to get to know each other once I get you to safety.”

Hamish’s fingers twitch against the tough gauntlet, a trickling cold slipping into his stomach. “Wait, what?”

“Well, today’s your lucky day, kid!” Strife puffs out his chest and jabs it with a thumb, proudly declaring, “I am gonna take you someplace safe.” Pausing for a moment to let that sink in, he watches the boy’s eyes grow wide, feeling a sense of accomplishment at seeing what he imagines can only be excitement, so he carries on, “It’s warm, away from demons, there’s lots of humans and enough food to last you a lifetime.” He stresses his point by poking Hamish’s belly with a careful fingertip. “By the looks of things, you could use a good meal. So, what do you say? How’s that sound?”

The boy remains silent for several seconds as he processes what he’s being told.

Then, to the horseman’s shock, rather than elation or relief, he’s met with a face full of horror and before he can ask what’s wrong, the boy leaps unsteadily to his feet and bellows, “NO!” at the top of his lungs.

Taken aback, Strife snaps his other hand up to close Hamish in a loose fist when it looks as though he’s about to jump off the horseman’s palm. “Hey! Easy there! What’s the matter?”

Hamish begins pounding ardently on the fingers holding him hostage, kicking his legs to no avail. This hulking stranger wants to take him away from his family home – the place he’s lived and loved and known his whole life - and dump him with a bunch of humans? Not a chance. “Let me go!” he cries, terrified at the prospect of being uprooted, “I’m not going with you!”

Baffled, the horseman tips his head to one side and frowns at the ferocity behind each blow on his metal gauntlet. “Stop that, you’re gonna hurt yourself!” He reaches up and catches one of the boy’s arms, holding it gingerly between two fingers. “Why don’t you want to come with me?”

“Because! This is – It’s my home!” Hamish all but sobs, pushing furiously at Strife’s metal thumb.

“Kid, this is gonna be your tomb if you stay here much longer,” the horseman tries to reason, “I mean, look at you, if a demon doesn’t get you, something else will. You’re skin and bone.”

“I’d rather take my chances out here than be surrounded by humans!” Hamish gives a final heave before collapsing over the enormous thumb, with one arm still held above his head, caught in a firm but gentle grip.

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Strife almost laughs aloud at the thought of the humans at the tree hurting anyone. Three of them had actually cried after they discovered a dead bird outside the entrance. But even still, he has to put the boy’s mind at ease. At last relinquishing his hold on the skeletal arm, he sighs, “Listen, kid. Nobody’ll hurt you, okay? They’re good people. Besides – no offence – but I think they’ve got more important things to focus on than antagonising you.”

Unfortunately, Hamish either isn’t listening, or he just doesn’t care.

Glancing up at the giant, fresh tears streaming in a never-ending torrent down his face, he puts on the bravest voice he can muster and yells, “I’m staying here!”

“No, you’re coming with me.”

“No, I’m not! You can’t make me!”

Golden eyes flash brightly at the challenge. “Oh, you don’t think so?” Strife smirks, and without warning, begins to lower Hamish towards one of the pouches on his belt.

As soon as he spots where he’s headed, the boy’s struggling becomes increasingly wild. “No, no, no!”

“Sorry, kid,” the horseman murmurs, steeling his heart against the frightened wailing, “M'not leaving you here.” Using his free hand, Strife fumbles with the pouch’s leather strap and is just about to get it open when Hamish suddenly cries out, “Wait, wait! Just – I’ll go with you, okay? Just stop!”

The horseman pauses, considering the boy for a moment before lifting him back up to his helm. “What’s up? You claustrophobic or something?”

Little fingers dig imploringly into the gaps of Strife’s gauntlet as Hamish shakes his head. “No, I – I just…If you have to take me, then….at least let me get my things first.”

“Your things?” he echoes, squinting down at the kid and noting, with some semblance of relief, that he’s no longer putting up a fight. “Where are they?”

Shrinking underneath the giant’s dazzling stare, Hamish swallows noisily but manages to raise a shaking finger and points it over his shoulder. “In the walls.”

Puzzled, Strife glances to where he’s indicating. “You….lived in the walls?” He sees Hamish nod from the corner of his eye.

“There’s an, um…like a little crack in the skirting board, over there.”

Once again, the horseman follows a tiny finger as it points down to the bottom of the wall, where there is indeed a hole, just large enough to grant entry to a mouse, or perhaps someone else who stands just a few inches off the ground.

For several seconds, Strife deliberates the situation, his gaze flicking between the dark window, the hole and Hamish until eventually, he blows out a huff and shakes his head, turning back towards the doorway and lowering the boy to his hip once again. “Sorry, kid, but whatever it is, it can’t be that -”

“There’s something in there that belonged to mum and dad!”

Strife’s steps falter and he squeezes his eyes shut with a sigh.

Sensing his captor’s hesitation, Hamish prods, “Please? I don’t want to leave without it! It’s all I have left of my family…”

Family. The word plucks insistently at Strife’s heartstrings and he briefly laments the younger, colder version of himself that wouldn’t have flinched if he’d heard it. For some time, the horseman wrestles with himself, teeth grinding together until at last, he lets out a groan and stomps over to the hole in the wall. “Alright, fine.” Pausing to lift the boy up to his mask again, he levels a stern glare at him and adds, “But you gotta be in and out of there in one minute, okay?”

Hamish’s face brightens and he squirms restlessly as Strife lowers himself onto one knee and places his hand on the ground.. “O-okay, mister!”

Barely even waiting for the appendage to stop moving, Hamish all but dives off as soon as the fingers uncurl themselves, landing on the ground and haring for the wall, but before he can get too far, he finds himself jerked to a halt when the waistband of his trousers is pinched between two, enormous fingertips. Craning his head back, he stares anxiously at the horseman, flinching when a gruff voice booms, “I mean it, kid. In and out.”

“I-I got it!” Hamish replies hurriedly, desperate to put some distance between himself and the metal giant.

After giving him one last, calculating look, Strife finally relents, letting the boy go and leaning back to watch him scurry into the wall as fast as his little legs can carry him. Snorting softly, the horseman eases back onto his haunches, content for the time being to wait for his discovery to reemerge. “And here I thought I’d seen everything,” he muses.

——-

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Strife, a similar thought is occurring to Hamish as he races through the intricate maze of tunnels his ancestors had dug out of the house’s stone foundations. Spiderwebs threaten to catch the boy’s flimsy shirt and hold him back, but a lifetime of memorising every twisting, dust-choked tunnel meant that Hamish could navigate his way through each obstacle without even having to slow down. In almost no time, he’s scaled up the wall’s interior and burst through the tiny, wooden door that leads to his family home.

Slightly winded, Hamish takes a moment to collect himself, peering about at the candlelit kitchen and trying to decide where best to hide because he has no intention of going back to the clutches of that giant. To do so would be in complete violation of everything his family had ever taught him, and if he could do nothing else, at least Hamish could carry their lessons with him. Perhaps his mother would even be proud of him for tricking the giant into letting him go free, had she still been alive. Pressing his lips together, Hamish slumps heavily against the doorframe and exhales roughly through his nose, determined not to cry again.

All of a sudden, his whole world shudders as a thunderous boom hits the wall beside him, threatening to knock him off his feet. Crying out, Hamish drops instinctively to his knees whilst two more booms follow the first, one after the other, rocking the entire foundations of his home and raining dust down into his already grubby hair. Fear of being crushed by falling debris compels him to move, so he crawls across the still shivering room, every now and again having to doge pots and pans that are flung from their hooks on the ceiling until he gets close enough to the kitchen table to throw himself underneath it.

Then, as soon as they’d begun, the booms stop and everything grows silent, save for the clinking of a cup that rolls across the ground before coming to a stop just beside Hamish’s hiding spot.

“Hey, kid! You get the stuff yet?” Strife’s muffled voice calls from outside.

To his irritation, the horseman sounds entirely oblivious to the abject terror he’d just put him through – is still putting him through. Unaware that he’s balled his hands into fists, Hamish aims a harsh scowl at the wall, behind which the voice had come from and, in as brave a tone as he can summon, yells, “GO AWAY!”

There’s a pregnant pause, a heavy stillness that hangs in the air like a lead weight over his head and Hamish is just beginning to wonder if Strife had actually obliged him, when the horseman’s voice cuts through the brick again, considerably softer this time. “You know I can’t do that, little man.”

The boy scoffs aloud. “Yes, you can,” he retorts, “You just have to turn around and leave.”

“Hamish.” The pointed use of his name isn’t lost on the boy. “I am trying to look after you. Now would you come back out here so I can actually do that?”

The voice sounds closer now, as though Strife is speaking directly next to the wall outside his hiding spot and Hamish realises too late what a stupid move it had been to shout and give away his position. So, with lips pursed and arms crossed, he offers the horseman a stubborn silence. A full minute passes before he hears a low sigh from the other side of the wall.

He expects Strife to continue banging on the wall until the sound becomes so annoying, it drives him out. He expects the horseman to at least pretend to leave, then snatch him up again the second he steps from the mouse hole. What Hamish doesn’t expect, however, is for the wall of his kitchen to suddenly explode inwards.

A cacophony of sound beats on his eardrums and in a desperate bid to avoid being deafened, Hamish throws his arms over his head and presses himself into the floor, his scream swallowed by chunks of plaster and brick showering down all around him. When the dust settles, he still doesn’t move, not even when silence is all he can hear aside from the blood pounding through his eardrum.

Then, movement. Not from Hamish, but from the gaping hole that has appeared in the brick and cement, exposing his kitchen – his home – to the world outside. Choking on the fear that weighs down on him as surely as the ceiling above, Hamish raises his head and peeks out between trembling arms to see a colossal fist slowly dislodge itself from the tight confines of his kitchen wall, fragments of which tumble down around it, plinking off metallic plating and leaving a coat of dust in their wake. With a final tug, the fist breaks free, retreating enough so that what little light is left can spill through the gap and illuminate the hovel. As Hamish watches, too rigid with anxiety to move his limbs, a familiar pair of luminous, yellow eyes loom out of the dust and peer inside, swiftly finding him cowered underneath the kitchen table. Their gazes lock and they stare at one another, the boy’s eyes widening as a direct contrast to Strife’s, which narrow at the sight of him.

“You know, I don’t appreciate being lied to,” the horseman grumbles before adding curtly, “I thought we had a deal?”

Pinned helplessly beneath that glare, Hamish attempts to shuffle backwards further under the table, though his limbs have locked up and refuse to cooperate with his intentions. However, his mouth hasn’t suffered the same petrification. “I-I don’t make deals with giants!” The words tumble out before he can catch them. “I’m not going, so just!- Just leave me alone!” As he speaks, he continues to shimmy away until he emerges from beneath the table, all the while his every move is followed intently by an unwavering, yellow gaze.

An entrance to one of the many tunnels his family had built into the walls is just to Hamish’s left – shrouded in darkness and invitingly safe. If he could just reach it, he’d be able to disappear into the brickwork.

Taking a fairly solid guess on the boy’s next course of action, Strife growls out a warning steeped in thinly veiled concern. “Come on, kid. Don’t make me do this.”

With the deliberate slowness of one who doesn’t wish to provoke a predator, Hamish gets to his feet and in utter silence, they stare each other down, one defiant and the other dejected.

Then, the horseman eyes squeeze shut just for the briefest of instances, as if in pain.

It’s all the opening Hamish needs.

Like a rabbit with a fox at his heels, he bolts sideways in a mad dash for the tunnel entrance, his mind fixated on one thing only: Escape.

Although he’d always been the youngest family member, he could boast an impressive swiftness, outpacing even his mother and father as they raced through the apartment in playful capers.

His father had once said that Hamish’s speed would keep him safe.

His father was wrong.

The enclosed doorframe comes within reach and another round of adrenaline fizzes across his brain at the the tantalising prospect of freedom, so close it puts a hopeful smile on his face. He would not be made to leave his home. Fingers grasp the wooden edge of the door and Hamish readies to propel himself those last, precious few feet through the gap. He’s so focused on where he’s going, he doesn’t notice the rush air that whizzes past him, nor that it’s soon followed by a large, ominous shape sliding past his body in the darkness and curling into his path. However, he does notice when he slams against a solid wall of metal and leather - a wall that begins to gently scoop him backwards, away from the door, away from the safety of the apartment’s labyrinthian tunnels and straight towards a home-wrecking giant.

“No!” he shrieks like a banshee as strong fingers fasten around his midsection, ensuring him that this time, there will be no escape. The horseman will not be duped again. All too soon, Hamish finds himself dangling back in front of that avian mask and shying away from the palpable disappointment radiating from beneath it.

“Okay,” the low, unimpressed voice chimes, “I can tell there’re gonna be some trust issues between us.” Before continuing, Strife holds an admonishing finger up right in front of the boy’s face. “But you need to understand that you can’t just run off like that, kid! What if you’d gotten hurt?”

Reflecting on what he’d said, the horseman has to suppress a shudder. ’Shit, I’m starting to sound like Death.’

“What do you care if I get hurt!?” the boy challenges, “You’re the one who’s kidnapping me!”

Bridling at the accusation, Strife sets his jaw and snaps, “You got duskwings in your belfry, kid? I’m trying to protect you!”

“I don’t need you protecting me! I was doing just fine on my own!” Hamish bellows, balling his hands into fists and throwing them wildly in the direction of Strife’s mask, more as a show of defiance than anything else. He’s borderline hysterical now, barely sucking down enough air to keep himself conscious during the throes of panic.

Meanwhile, the horseman watches his display, taking in the boy’s skinny frame, the shorts that barely cling to his narrow hips, the dark bags hanging under his eyes and the grime covering his skin and clothes. “No,” he says with an air of finality, “You weren’t.”

There’s no further opportunity for Hamish to retort because he’s promptly swept in a downwards arch towards the horseman’s pouches once again. No amount of pleading, thrashing or crying garners a reaction out of the stone-faced giant who has turned a deaf ear to his tiny captive. Only when he lifts the flap of his frontmost pocket and lowers Hamish inside does he speak, simply to say, “This is for your own good.”

The boy’s backside touches something soft and fuzzy and he balks, inadvertently grasping at the fingers that unfurl from around him, as though they would pull him out of the very prison they’d slipped him into. The last thing he sees before his world is plunged into darkness is a now familiar pair of amber eyes gleaming down at him and pulling a whimper off his lips.

—

Strife expels a hot breath as he fastens the clasp on his pouch and finally allows himself an indulgent second to relax. Then, giving the bottom of the pouch a few, gentle pats, he turns once more towards the pitch black hallway, smirking when a minuscule foot kicks against his palm.

#darksiders #darksiders 3 #Strife #giant/tiny #g/t #angst #demon #borrower au #micro/macro #fluff #uiahi

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0idril0 · 5 years

Text

Caged 2

Ok y’all this is a 3000 word monster that is a little different from the feel of the first installment. It has a lot of worldbuilding. I understand if it’s not what people wanted to see, but let me know in the comments! I’m always open to feedback.

Thanks @whumpywhumper and @wwayward-vagabond for beta reading for me! oh and a PSA, whumpywhumper has an OC named Emric as well, I forgot him when I was writing, so if she ever posts about him know she had the name first but was gracious enough to let me use the name.

These people showed some interest @voidwhump @inpainandsuffering @imagination1reality0 @genesissane @whumpitywhumpwhump @castielamigos @whumping-every-day @kyra-plays Let me know if you want to be tagged in future installments

Supernatural Protection and Criminal Analysis

Anoria’s caracal form glided on silent paws into the ornate foyer, disgusted. So, this is what smuggling gets you. The foyer glimmered, gold and silver reflected light from a giant crystal chandelier onto polished wooden floors.

As she and Emric approached a set of double doors they joined least 15 people waiting to enter. Anoria felt a snarl crease her face as the inventoried them. The woman in front of her had heels that probably cost more than her rent.

Emric played with her leash as he spoke with the doorman, handing over his coat and jacket with their gilded invitation.

“Ah, Mister Roland Moore, Master Murdoch has you on the list.” The doorman gestured at the double doors beside him, pulling open the heavy door like it was weightless.

What they walked into... it made her sick.

“Fuck...” Emric stared for a moment, wide eyed, and she lashed her tail in agreement. An orchestra started in the corner, couples dancing on a large dance floor, rings of elegant couches fanning through the rest of the great hall. There were supernaturals and exotics with every group.

They were illegal to own, supposed to be free according to the World Conservation Acts from 1945. But illegal trade still thrived.

“Alright, here we go...” Emric’s soft voice was barely audible before he clicked his tongue at her and moved forward, eyes scanning the room surreptitiously.

They meandered, walking past what amounted to exhibits. An aquarium took up one of the largest walls. Mercreatures floated listlessly as children pressed their sticky faces against the glass. A few rapped at the aquarium wall when the creatures’ hollow eyes didn’t register them.

“Why won’t it move?!” Whining, one of the children struck the glass, trying to make a golden tailed humanoid move from where she had curled under a rock.

What appeared to be the mother snatched his hand, whispering venomously. “Will, so help me, if you get us kicked out of here after everything I’ve done to get here....”

She watched as they traveled to a different wall, this one taken up by ornamental bird cages. Her eyes fixated on one of them as they passed, the small, rapidly moving figures igniting the portion of her brain she tried to suppress in her caracal form.

Dragonflies. Their leathery bodies held aloft by mimic butterfly wings, the largest no more than palm sized.

Hundred of cages hung from the wall, each with a different type of tiny creature. She swiped at Emric’s leg, and pawed at the lowest cage.

“Fucking hell, Anoria.” Hissing, Emric shook his leg and leaned down the adjust her collar. “I see them. There’s more on the back wall, higher order, but I think those are stuffed.”

She hissed as she took in the last wall, horrified. A stuffed elf sat tucked into a hollow tree, and the twisting branches held a posed thunderbird and the shifted form of a werewolf.

Emric stood, eyes trained on a particular group. “There’s our target.”

He prowled towards the group of high profile guests subtly, putting an arrogant saunter in his step as he walked. It was the saunter that had sold him for the op, but the fact that was tall and well proportioned didn’t hurt.

One of their targets spotted him as he walked, eyeing him like a predator. Her hand rested on the three tailed fox in her lap, fingers caressing the jewel encrusted collar possessively. Emric gave her a sultry smile, slowing as he pretended he’d been walking past the group. “Well.... this party just got more interesting, here I thought I would be bored.”

The redhead smirked from where she sat, holding a champagne flute out to Emric, an obvious request for him to refill it. “Oh, the party hasn’t even begun, darling.”

Emric smiled his most inviting smile as he handed her a fresh glass from the table in front of them, settling close enough that his thigh brushed against her emerald gown.

“And who might you be?” His voice held the edge of a tease to it, he knew who she was, Ingrid Reed. Best friends with the host of the party, and known to be free with her affection.

The woman bit her lip, leaning until her chest brushed his arm as she purred huskily. “You, you, can call me Ms. Reed. If you’re good though, I’ll let you call me Mistress.”

Anoria jumped up onto the cushions beside Emric, settling her paws onto his leg as he smiled at the woman. “Well, that sounds promising.”

They flirted lightly until a hush fell over the room, followed by low muttering, groups of people turning towards a figure entering from doors leading further into the mansion.

He walked placidly behind his Master, staying behind him and to the left. The exact distance his master had taught him to be.

The silver collar and shackle on his ankle tinkled as he moved, and Master had attached what he’d called jesses to his wrists. He felt safer with them on. The silver inlaid leather kept his hands in front of him, fingers strapped together so they couldn’t move. The soft leather was thin and supple, a barely felt weight he was grateful for. It made sure he couldn’t hurt anyone with his claws. Because Master didn’t want to punish him.

The smell of food made his stomach rumble before they made it to the door of the large room his master held his gatherings in. Saliva pooled in his mouth, and he swallowed, wiping a shoulder at the cage attached to his face in an attempt to stop himself from drooling.

Master stopped him before they entered the great hall, grimacing in disgust at the drool dripping around the metal bit. He trembled as the tug at his collar made him come closer. Master unfastened the muzzle, gripping his hair tightly, as he wiped at his face with a square cloth to remove the traces of venom tinged saliva.

When he was done, the hand released his hair, resting on the back of his neck, thumb stroking his pulse. Crooning, he let his eyes close, sinking into the light fog his Master’s touch brought. “Here we are, lovely. Remember what I told you.”

The muzzle slipped back between his teeth, and he didn’t fight it this time. The gentle ministrations turned to his wings, Master’s broad hand smoothing a stray feather before gripping one of the crooked bones tightly. The fog receded minutely as his chest tightened, remembering Master breaking the bones repeatedly when he was small. Reminding him that Master was taking care of him now, he didn’t need to fly, he needed to stay with him. “Behave for me.”

He forced his wings to relax, straightening his spine and allowing his wings to unfurl to show the blue and black feathers, just like Master liked. The painful grip loosened, and a happy hum from the man had his tail uncurling from where it had wrapped around his calf.

The relief was shattered as the door opened, Master pulling him forward into a mass of humans.

The room was a storm of movement, his predator brain overwhelmed with the input. He zeroed in on a few of the smaller, brightly colored pets, stumbling as his eyes flickered between the groups in front of him.

He felt his already fast heartbeat accelerate as he followed his Master, worried the man would be angry at his lack of grace. Master had other pets to bring, if he decided to go get a different one then he wouldn’t be fed. A wave of dizziness passed over him as they grew close to a circle of humans, all seated on padded perches, their pets at their feet or in their laps as they lounged to eat.

The group of humans perked up as they approached, presenting for his master. His Master’s shoulders relaxed, a small smirk taking over his face as he took an empty seat.

A familiar red haired human hummed as Master sat, caressing the ears of a hollow-eyed, white fox. “There you are, Lachlan, I was beginning to wonder if you were coming to your own party.”

Master plucked a bubbling drink from the low table in front of him, pulling his collar so he knelt in front of the padded perch, within stroking distance. “And miss seeing you, dear? Never.”

Anoria dug her claws into Emric’s thigh, trying to get him to focus as Lachlan Murdoch took a seat. But she felt herself staring as well.

A Harpy. An obviously male Harpy.

They hadn’t gotten any intel on the target’s captives, recon was why they were here. But, Harpies as a species were rare, and reclusive. Even photos were rare, and that was for females.

The avian walked stiffly, his talons working hard to not score the floor, the leathery pads of his fore-toes barely touching the polished wood. His broad shoulders were scarred and bruised, muscles bunched and twitching as his wings brushed against stray chairs.

She let some of her instinct take over, assessing the other predator for danger. What she saw made her hurt instead. Patchy wings flared as he knelt, revealing crooked bones and malnourished muscles that shook with strain.

Male harpies were supposed to be extremely dangerous, but he looked so small, so young. The Harpy looked at the man holding his leash worshipfully, eyes glazed and heavy, skeletal wrists bound in what amounted to tight leather mittens.

Worse was the muzzle strapped to his face, metal bit behind his fangs, forcing him to bare his teeth in a snarl that showed the inch long incisors. Like Lachlan was trying to make him seem more dangerous than he obviously was.

“Well well well, who have you found, Ingrid?” Lachlan’s voice was oily, and she could feel Emric tense beside her as he took the brunt of the scrutiny from the newcomer.

Ingrid smiled, dragging a nail across Emric’s chin. “Oh love, we hadn’t gotten that far yet. We were distracted by other matters.”

Emric smiled back, licking his lip as he turned from Ingrid’s eyes to meet the hosts. “Roland Moore, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister—?”

“Oh, this is a party, Roland, please, call me Lachlan.” The man held out a broad hand, and she heard Emric suppress a wince when it clamped around his own.

“I remember sending you an invitation, your work in exotics has certainly made an impression on the customers I work with. I do hope you’re enjoying yourself.” A smirk spread across his face as he assess Emric.

“I’d say we were enjoying ourselves immensely, love, before you interrupted.” Ingrid was glaring fondly at her friend, hand resting lightly on Emrics forearm. Anoria felt her hackles start to rise, and she stopped herself from biting the hand resting too close to her.

Grinning, Lachlan rolled his eyes. “Please dear, you’ll have plenty of time later, let me socialize with my guests. I was going to ask Roland about his pet.”

Turning from the redhead, he studied the caracal closely, making her skin prickle uneasily, it felt like he looked through her. “It seems you brought something of your own to this celebration of the strange.” Lachlan moved forward to stroke her fur, and she hissed, swiping at his hand. The man laughed, pulling the hand back to settle on the harpy’s head. The harpy leaned into the touch, trilling softly. “Still feisty isn’t it? Is it a new acquisition?”

Chuckling, Emric carded a hand through the fur on her ears. “She’s just got a spirit I can’t seem to tame, she’s particular. You don’t have that problem?”

Ingrid settled into the couch with a huff, muttering about hobbies, as Lachlan smiled broadly at Emric.

Gripping the harpy’s hair tightly, Lachlan pulled on the tangled hair until his head was tilted back, wings fluttering fitfully. “You just need the right touch, the right motivation, and you can get them to do anything. I have a few new acquisitions I could teach you with, if you want?”

Nausea clawed at her stomach, and she felt Emric stiffen beside her, arm deceptively loose where it rested along the couch behind Ingrid. “Why don’t you tell me about the process and then we can schedule a time? I’d love to watch you work.”

It was exactly the invitation they had needed.

Master’s hand retracted, and he shivered as it left, the room suddenly too close, too loud. He churred, letting his heavy eyes open as the human’s hand fell to the wing closest to him.

“First you need to understand the creature you’re training, what motivates them as a species. It’s easier if you start young, of course, my pretty boy here was hardly more than a hatchling when we found him.” Master’s hand sank into his feathers, gripping the bone tightly as he stood, pulling the crooked wing until it was fully stretched. He cried quietly as the position pulled on the tendon, unused to it being fully flared. His harsh panting stopped after a moment, the sharp pain fading to an ache.

The human that Master had been talking to grimaced as his eyes roamed over his wing, how far Master had to stretch to make it fully extend. “Those look painful, did you find him like that?”

“Found him screeching on the forest floor. Poor thing’s wings were broken. We think its flock abandoned it to die, especially since harpy’s tend to guard their males closely.” He remembered differently, but it didn’t matter. Master was right, Master took care of him now.

Master continued the story he told many of the other humans, stroking his feathers reverently, teasing the feathers apart as he did his best to hold the wing out with weak muscles. As the wing was released, he groaned around the metal bit, pulling the shaking appendage back to his back.

“Of course, we tried to rehabilitate him, but unfortunately, his wings were just beyond repair. So we trained him, which wasn’t easy mind you. Harpy’s are predators first, and built like it.” Master sat, slowly trailing his fingers down his arm, massaging his wrist lightly before unbuckling one of his hands, splaying his fingers and rubbing at the talons.

“We think they climb using their talons, and they hunt big game according to the corpses we found, but we weren’t able to get any footage of them actually hunting.” He shivered as Master turned his hand, massaging his palm, making his fingers curl to show his talons more effectively. He sank into the touch, leaning his head against his Master’s arm.

“But, if you didn’t get footage, how are you sure it’s them? I’m sure there’s other large predators in their forest.” The other human leaned forward, and the collared cat startled him as it leapt from the humans lap to the floor in front of him, hissing.

He hissed back, barely raising his head as the other human male tensed, half-rising before Master gestured for him to sit down. His Master gripped his neck tightly, forcing his head back to where it had rested against him. “Settle down, lovely, you were doing so well.” He trilled, rubbing his face against his Master apologetically.

“Anyway, that’s the fascinating thing, some of the game had been killed by impact, like with eagles, but others had venom in their systems.” Buckling his hand back into the jess, Master stroked his hair, murmuring praise as he fiddled with the straps of his muzzle. “Good boy, being so good....”

His heart swelled at the praise, warmth settling around him like a blanket as the metal bit slid from between his teeth, a large hand squeezing the back of his neck.

“When we found him we were able to make the link between the venom and the harpies we’d been seeing.” He shuddered as Master squeezed his neck, forcing his head to go lax and tilt backwards. The fingers rubbed circles into the muscles, pushing against the venom glands in his neck, stimulating them. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he whined as fingers forced their way in between his parted lips. Hooking on his teeth before shoving his jaw down.

“The venom acts as a potent paralytic, and they seem to gain pleasure from injecting the venom into their kill.” Master’s fingers pushed on the gland in his neck again, turning the fingers in his mouth to press against the roof of his mouth, hitting the venom glands behind his fangs. He clenched his eyes shut, jaw clenching as his tongue pressed against his Master’s salty fingers.

He moaned, breathing raggedly as he fought the urge to bite down, tears streaming down his face from the conflicting signals in his brain. Master dragged the pads of his fingers across his tongue slowly as he retracted them from his mouth, breath hitching as his tail curled around his thigh.

A childlike sob made his chest spasm as he caught his breath, the head rush from having the venom glands stimulated without true relief making him dizzy. He peeled his eyes opened, Master’s hand the only thing keeping him upright as he tried to regain his balance.

“That’s fascinating, I’ve never seen anything like him, do you mind if I—?” The smaller male held a hand forward, showing his empty palm. The lights pierced his eyes as he tried to focus on the human’s hand, taking in every movement at once.

“Please, be my guest.”

The large cat hissed as her master approached him, and he hiccuped clenching his teeth around his reflexive response. His wings flared as the man’s hand touched his wing, preparing for pain.

He’s going to pull, he’s going to pull on his feathers to make sure he isn’t fake, and he’ll stick his fingers in his mouth, he’ll poke at his eyes to play with his clear lid for flying, and his touch is going to hurt, it’s going to bruise and he’s going to bleed.

He didn’t realize he was screeching until Master struck him. Pain exploded in his face and wings as he crumpled to the ground, blood dripping to the floor. Master’s thunderous face appeared above him, wrath written in every line of his body. He keened, curling into the smallest ball he could manage.

“Well, it seems to me, Roland, that we may have found the acquisition you can learn on. How’s Thursday sound?”

He didn’t hear the reply as Master’s servants drug him away.

#avian whumpee #whump #my ocs #creepy whumper #wings #noncon elements #muzzle #venom #undercover #the plot thickens #shapeshifter

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who-gave-atlas-a-pencil · 5 years

Text

follow the blackbird home

Summary: A pit inside a pit inside a cave, a handful of skeletons, a little bit of hope, and a conversation.

Read on AO3 for notes.

@shwarmi (Tagging as requested - thank you for the lovely comment!)

By the time they’re all done getting their asses summarily kicked by occult forces taking up residence inside a cave, Clayton’s got two bullets loaded in each gun, a matched set of bloody knuckles, and a scowl carved into his face so hard he thinks it might become permanent.

They’ve been on the trail of this last clue they’d found for three days now. Three days of wandering through the desert and plains, fighting off weird snakes and weirder spirits and though it has truly only been three days, it feels much longer than that. If Clayton never sees another fucking ghost in his entire fucking life, it’ll still be too soon. “Whatever happened to the dead finding rest in the Lord, Mason?” he grumbles, loading another round to replace the ones he’d just expended. “These fuckers don’t look to me like they’re resting.”

“What explanation there may be in heaven or earth, I’ve not yet found it,” Matthew replies from across the cave where he’s helping Bella stand. “Are you alright, Miss Whitlock? That was quite a blow you took a moment ago.”

“I’m rattled, but I’ll make it,” she says, steadying herself on a wall before brushing off his hands. “How are you faring, Reverend?”

“I’m rattled, but I’ll make it,” he echoes, a faint smile chasing across his face. There’s blood seeped across the shoulder of his duster, but he seems to be ignoring it for now. Clayton almost snorts. It’s a fair bit of progress, shrugging off a rock slash when not even a week ago he’d been limping all day from being bucked off a horse.

Almost like he can hear his thoughts, Matthew glances toward Clayton with a look that falls somewhere south of stern. Before he can say anything, Aly pipes up from where he’s been exploring further to the back of the cave they’re stuck in. “Hey, Reverend, Coffin, ladies! Got somethin’ back here!”

Thoroughly regretting the day he’d been delirious enough to admit to his moniker in front of Aloysius, Clayton follows the lantern light back to where the other man is standing by a hole in the ground and squinting at its contents. “This better not be any more of them snake creatures,” Clayton mutters.

Aloysius snorts. “Think I’d be standin’ this close if it was? I may be crazy, but it ain’t that kind of crazy. Look.” He holds the lantern higher and gestures.

Clayton moves beside him, peering down. It’s another pit full of corpses, because apparently nobody in this godforsaken desert believes in throwing dirt over a body to finish burying it. “They’re bones, Aly. Nothin’ new about that.”

“Oh really, it’s bones? You don’t say.” Aloysius elbows him hard in the ribs, pointing again. “Look again.”

Clayton scowls and squints. Tattered scraps of clothing cling to the bones in the pit – a woman’s fancy dress, a pinstriped vest, one single boot with rotting leather soles – but that’s not what catches his eye. The lighting shifts and glints off a rusted metal edge deep beneath the bodies, half covered in dirt. “Is that a box?”

“Looks like one to me. Maybe our dearly departed friends here were buryin’ something before they got buried themselves.”

The others approach from behind. Matthew stands behind Clayton and looks over his shoulder, then mutters a soft oath. “God rest their souls.”

“If God didn’t, I think we just might’ve,” Clayton says, glancing back at Matthew. “Four bodies. Four ghosts. I don’t reckon that’s a coincidence.”

“What powers would have possessed them to render such a return, though?” Arabella is leaning on Miriam, who has a hand around her waist. For being ladies of such fine standing, they’re both looking mighty tired. “Most of the dearly departed don’t come back to exact vengeance on those who visit their grave.”

“Not much of a grave, Miss Whitlock,” Clayton says. “More like a hole in the ground.” He turns around and finds himself face to face with Matthew, nearly bumping into his chest. He pulls the rope from the side of his pack and holds it out, instinctive. “Anchor me?”

“Always,” Matthew says, and grabs the rope with both hands.

Not five minutes later, Clayton’s feeling more than a slight sense of déjà vu as he swings himself down the fifteen foot drop into the pit, wondering all the way what the hell would prompt someone to dig a hole this deep and where the displaced dirt got off to. He’s careful dismounting at the bottom, mindful of the skulls and bodies beneath him. They’re probably past the point of caring, but the dead are due a little respect.

“You see anything down there, Mister Sharpe?” Miriam’s head pokes over the top of the pit, just barely.

“Nothing I didn’t see up there. Gimme a minute. Aly, hold that lantern a bit higher, I can’t see shit.” Breathing in the faint rot that surrounds the bodies, Clayton watches the light shift and makes his way toward the metal edge in the dirt when he sees it glint again. He moves aside the skeletal remains of the man laying inconveniently atop it, then frowns. “What the hell?”

“Clayton?” Matthew’s voice is laced just barely with a hint of concern. “Is everything alright down there?”

“Yeah,” he calls back. “Yeah, everything’s fine. But this ain’t a box, it’s a door of some kind.”

There’s a sudden burst of conversation from up top, everyone talking all at once. Clayton ignores them, kicking at the dirt around the metal slab in the floor until he reveals the full of it. It’s about three feet square and hinged on one side, a heavy and rusted padlock keeping it closed tight. Clayton contemplates it for a moment, looks at his gun, then looks up at the top of the pit. “Miriam, Matthew. One of you toss me your gun.”

“That doesn’t seem safe to me,” Matthew says nervously.

Fogg sighs. “Come on, gimme the rope. I got you.” He braces himself, and a moment later there’s a second person in the pit with Clayton, broad shoulders taking up a good amount of the narrow space.

Matthew hands over the shotgun, looking nervously between the padlock and the weapon now in Clayton’s hands. “You don’t mean to shoot that, do you? It’ll be rather loud in such a small space.”

“It’d also end up like as not with a bunch of holes in both our legs from the shrapnel,” Clayton remarks drily, then starts to slam the stock of the shotgun into the lock. After a few solid blows, the metal gives with a groan and the lock falls uselessly away. Clayton takes a step back and holds out an arm. “You want the honours, Father?”

“Not particularly,” Matthew admits, but opens the door anyway, slow and cautious as he can with the amount of rust collecting around the hinges. It looks like a heavy son of a bitch, but the preacher makes opening the door look easy, if not entirely effortless. Clayton looks inside, and all he sees is a rope ladder descending into more shadows. Matthew makes a face and sighs. “That’s not reassuring.”

Clayton scoffs. “That’s puttin’ it mildly.”

“What’s down there?” It’s Bella this time, sounding worried. “All we can see is a pit and then another pit.”

“That’s all we can see too,” Clayton says, biting back a sigh. “I’m going down. Keep an eye out up here. Best to be ready for anything.” He turns to Matthew. “Give me your lantern, would you?”

“That seems unnecessary, given that I’m joining you in this pit.” Clayton frowns, but he’s met with another cheerful if slightly worried smile. “You can hardly expect me to let you go alone. There’s no telling what manner of foul creature might be down there.”

Probably nothing fouler than I can outrun, Clayton thinks, but keeps it to himself. He doesn’t fancy being joined in another ominous pit of doom by someone with the Reverend’s reputation for kindness, but he fancies going into it alone even less. Two sets of eyes are better than one, and if there’s anything he’s learned this past week of working with the other man, it’s that he’s known mules that are less stubborn. He holds out his hand anyway. “Fine, but give me the lantern anyway. I’m goin’ first.”

With a few more slightly panicked well-wishes from the top of the pit, they descend. For how old and rickety the ladder feels, it holds Clayton’s weight surprisingly well through the twenty or so feet he spends climbing down it. He reaches the bottom and Matthew starts down from the top as Clayton turns around, the lantern held high to illuminate just what they’ve gotten themselves into now.

The first thing he sees is a body, or what’s left of one. It’s been rotting a while by the smell of it, and its guts are splattered half across the floor like shriveled, gory worms, its head twisted around so far the neck is tearing. Whatever did the body in, it did the job thoroughly. Behind him, Matthew gags and makes the sign of the cross in the air.

For as little thought as he gives to religion, Clayton can’t help but feel the same instinct rise up in his guts. Whatever did this, it’s a hell of a way to die. “Let’s hope we’re not about to go out in the same way,” he says, “or the others might get it in their heads to come down and check.”

“I certainly hope they’d have more sense,” Matthew murmurs, and Clayton pretends he doesn’t hear the note of uncertainty in his voice. It’s a strange arrangement that they’ve come to, the people at the top of the pit and the pair of them in the depths of it. They look out for each other, all of them. It makes things complicated, when so many of the situations they keep finding themselves in end with them feeling torn between saving their own skin and saving each other.

They explore in silence for a time, periodically reporting their progress to the three upstairs as they pick their way through the chamber. It’s almost entirely empty, with the obvious exception of the body in the middle of the floor. The only thing they find other than empty bottles and rats is a single book, thick and covered with dust and written entirely in some foreign tongue or another.

When he shows it to Matthew, the Reverend’s brow creases for a moment before he brightens. “It’s Latin,” he says. “I can translate this. It will take a minute, of course, but I can do it.” He flips the book over in his hands a few times, frowning. “It’s strange that it shouldn’t have a title.”

“It’s strange that it’s written in Latin. Think it might be this dead gentleman’s journal.”

“Or his last will,” Matthew suggests.

“That’d certainly be convenient, given the circumstances.” Clayton shrugs off the admonishing look Matthew gives him and, leaving the light with him, walks back over to the ladder, looking up through the gloom to where he can still just make out the others up top.

Aly’s taken to sitting at the edge of the pit, his legs dangling over the side. “Found anythin’ interesting yet down there?”

“Not since you asked two minutes ago, no.”

“Goddamn,” Aloysius swears, scratching the back of his head. “That place completely empty or are you just hard to impress? Maybe I oughta ask the Reverend instead. He finds good shit everywhere. Hey, Reverend!” He cups his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound, and the result is an entire cave ringing with the echo.

When he’s done plugging his ears, Clayton fixes Aloysius with a stern glare that has absolutely no effect on the other man’s grin. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all. Do you?”

“Gentlemen, would you please stop pretending you hate each other for five minutes?” Bella interrupts, loud enough for Clayton to hear even far below. “This presentation is giving me a headache.”

“It’s probably not the only thing makin’ your head hurt, Miss Whitlock,” Aloysius points out, not unkindly. “That was a mighty hit you took not too long ago.”

Whatever response Arabella gives, Clayton doesn’t hear it. At that moment, a hand falls on his shoulder, and he spins around ready to deck someone before he realises it’s just the Reverend come up behind him, and not the reanimated corpse of whoever came down here last. Matthew puts up both hands in a show of innocence, briefly terrified. “Hold your fire, it’s only me.”

“I can see that now,” Clayton mutters, relaxing. “What is it?”

“Good news,” Matthew replies. “We were right.”

“Well, that’s a shocker if I’ve ever heard one. Right about what?”

“This is the dead person’s journal, and I believe it is the key to understanding what’s going on in this town beyond our current, ah- primitive understanding of it.” It’s a mighty polite way of saying that they know fuck-all about any of this weird shit, but Clayton waits for Matthew to continue instead of commenting. “Look at this.”

Clayton blinks at the journal, the line he’s being shown in it. “Matthew, it’s still in Latin.”

“Yes, of course. Foolish of me. What I meant to say is, this line is referencing gold, a great wealth of it. And this here, it speaks of riches and the protection of them through means not of this earth. There’s symbols too, though that’s more Miss Whitlock’s area of expertise than mine, but the important part is-“

“All this weird shit’s been happening because somebody was protectin’ their gold stash,” Clayton finishes. He blinks and shakes his head, the Dealer’s words echoing in his head. This land is poisoned by greed. “I’ll be damned.”

“I doubt that greatly,” Matthew retorts almost offhandedly, snapping the book closed. He grabs Clayton’s elbow with a feverish excitement that doesn’t belong in a dark pit like this. “Don’t you see? These are the answers we’ve been looking for. If Miss Whitlock can decode the meaning of those symbols, we can stop this madness, bring peace back to this place once and for all.”

There is a hopeful light in the Reverend’s eyes, and it’s only now that Clayton realises this is the first time he’s seen it. All those times before, when he’s been preaching and begging for help to rebuild the church, that’s been well-meant speeches. Here, now, he isn’t just crossing his fingers and asking for salvation. He’s looking like he intends to bring it whether the Lord grants it or not.

Hope doesn’t serve anyone too well in these parts. But Clayton’s in too deep to back out now. He clasps the Reverend’s shoulder and squeezes. “ Then it seems we oughta get upstairs to see if she can make sense of those symbols.”

“Right. Of course. After you, then.”

Clayton nods and ascends the ladder, then starts on the rope once he sees Matthew start to climb below him. Aloysius holds the rope steady, but as soon as Clayton gets to the top he takes over anyway as he hears the heavy metal door close once more. “You sure ‘bout this, Mister Coffin?” Aloysius asks. “Reverend’s a big man. I might do better lifting him, or the both of us.”

“I got him,” Clayton says, maybe a bit sharply, and braces himself for the weight. Two minutes later, Matthew’s over the top of the pit and brushing himself off as Aloysius helps him to stand. He shows the book to Arabella, and the two of them are off, discussing translations and the possible meanings of the book.

Clayton watches them for a long moment as he recoils the rope around his forearm, and doesn’t notice he’s frowning until Miriam sidles up beside him. “Why don’t you and me take a walk, Mister Sharpe? This cave is stifling me something dreadful. I could do with some air.”

“Don’t reckon you need my assistance to breathe, Miss Miriam, but I’ll accompany you nonetheless if you want me to.” There doesn’t seem to be any further threat in this area, and with Aloysius enraptured by the conversation between Matthew and Bella, it could be a while before anything else of interest presents itself. All the same, he checks his guns and gives the area one more keen scan before starting off toward the distant mouth of the cave at Miriam’s side.

They keep a leisurely pace, making their way along without much small talk. It’s a few minutes’ walk, but the path is simple, no branches or side tunnels to confuse them. When they step outside, it becomes obvious that they’ve been in there a good while. The sun that had been hanging high overhead when they entered is now dipping low toward the horizon, dyeing the sky a dark, bloody red.

“That’s more like it,” Miriam says, breathing deep. Clayton gives a noncommittal hum and tilts his head back to look at the sky. It’ll be a clear night, if they fancy sleeping outside instead of nestling up in the corpse cave, a notion he certainly favours. He’ll take his chances with the elements over the undead any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Then again, nobody’s asked him.

A minute passes. Two. Clayton says nothing. Miriam brought him out here with a purpose. Now it’s just a matter of waiting until she decides to bring it up.

Just as he’d expected, she starts talking before too much longer. “What do you expect they might find in that journal, Mister Sharpe? Occult symbols and Latin diaries mix uncomfortably with the phenomena we’ve been experiencing.”

There ain’t much that mixes comfortably with what we’ve been experiencing, Clayton doesn’t say. His shoulder twitches in a brief shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. Reverend said something about gold, protectin’ it with ‘means not of this earth’.” A week ago, the phrase would have dripped with sarcastic venom, but now it's too real a possibility for him to mock. “I expect we’ll either find ourselves toe to toe with a demon of the abyss, or we’ll find the gold the poor bastard downstairs was tryin’ so hard to protect.”

“Perhaps you men folk should place bets on which is more likely to happen.”

You couldn’t pay me to make a bet like that these days, Clayton thinks, raising an eyebrow. “Us men folk? Am I to assume you and Miss Whitlock wouldn’t have an interest in participating, then?”

Miriam flashes him a smile, quick and sharp and without any teeth. “Of course not. It’s below our delicate sensibilities.”

Clayton snorts. “All due respect, ma’am, but that delicate sensibilities line would work a far sight better on someone who hadn’t seen you shoot.”

“Maybe so. All the same, never hurts to put on a bit of a show, now does it?”

“I suppose not.”

“I thought so,” Miriam says with a smile, a real one this time. She leans in close and drops her voice low. “Seems to me that you’re familiar with a bit of showmanship yourself, Mister Sharpe.”

There it is, the real reason they’re out there. She wants to know more about him, about the man who’d called him The Coffin. The reveal doesn’t surprise him, but the sudden way it drops into the conversation reminds him of a rattler, coiled up on the sand and ready to strike. “Knew you didn’t ask me out here to talk about the weather,” he says, keeping his face clean of emotion. “Something you’d like to say, Miss Miriam?

“I’d like you to relax yourself, for one thing,” Miriam huffs, sounding slightly offended. “I’m not about to interrogate you. That was an observation, not an accusation.”

“Where I’m from, those two things are mighty similar more often than not.”

“If I wanted to accuse you of something, I’d come out and say it more bluntly. I do have a question, however, one I’d assumed you’d rather not answer in front of the others.”

“And that is?”

“How are you handling all this?” It’s not the question he’s expecting. Clayton jolts and looks over at Miriam, only to find her looking back. There’s a sternness tugging at the corners of her mouth, her typical ferocity carved in her brow, but there’s no hint of unkindness to be found.

He blinks, stunned. “Beg your pardon?”

“How are you holding up?” Miriam repeats. “Arabella’s all over the idea of the occult, and Aloysius doesn’t seem inclined to letting any situation dampen his mood. The Reverend has his faith. What are you holding onto in all this mess, Mister Sharpe? What’s stopping you from walking away?”

“Five hundred gold and keeping myself on the green side of the grass seems a solid incentive from where I’m standing,” Clayton says drily. “Mister Swearingen isn’t the type I like to make an enemy of.”

“I expect if you wanted to badly enough, you could get away without that being a concern,” Miriam says, her voice all too knowing. A shiver runs down Clayton’s spine like someone walking over his grave, and not for the first time he finds himself wondering just what the hell kind of tricks it is that Miriam has up her deceptively short sleeves.

“I like havin’ powerful friends,” he says.

“I thought you preferred a life in the shadows,” Miriam counters, and he understands very suddenly that his earlier thought of conversations like snakes was not so wrong after all. In a fight, Miriam shoots to kill. When she talks, she does the same.

He looks away and crosses his arms, feeling entirely too exposed. “What difference does it make? I’m not walkin’ away. What does the rest of it matter to you?”

“It doesn’t. You do.” Clayton stiffens, and Miriam continues. “We’re partners in this enterprise, you and me and all the others. Even if you don’t want to consider us friends, for the time being we’re responsible for each other. You spend a lot of time looking after the others, Mister Sharpe. I think it only fitting that someone be looking out for you.”

“I appreciate the concern, Missus Landisman, but I look out for myself just fine.” He can’t help the slight chill that slips into his tone, the way it flattens out. He’s spent his whole life looking out for himself, doesn’t turn his back on anything if he can help it. He doesn’t mind people saving his neck when they’re in the vicinity and he can return the favour, but the last thing he needs is anyone watching him or his back.

“I know you do. I’ve also seen how you look out for the Reverend.”

“That’s because he’s a fuckin’ idiot.”

“He’s a good man.”

“Same thing,” Clayton snaps, suddenly angry. “He seems to think by solvin’ this mystery he can bring peace on us or something. You believe that? Peace don’t belong in Deadwood or anywhere near it. All he’s gonna do is get himself run out of town with the church on fire behind him, again.”

Miriam watches him with a steady expression. “That was a lot of passion just now out of a man who purports not to care,” she says without any malice, and just like that the fight slides back out of Clayton like it was never there at all.

He leans his head back against the wall of the cave entrance and closes his eyes. Counts backward from ten, slowly, then does it again. He thinks that if this place goes under, it'll take him with it. If this thing they've got going falls through, if they fail, or if they succeed and walk off to different corners of the horizon, he's not sure what he'll do. He’s got his guard up for a reason and somehow these people and their foolish ways have already slipped past it, wormed their way into his brain like parasites. If this fails, if they fail, everything will go down with them, and he never has much liked waiting for the world to fall. He’d rather be the one to make it kneel.

After a long, heavy silence, he tries again. “Caring’s just a word, Miss Miriam,” he says and opens his eyes again to the horizon, the crimson sky. “It won’t save anyone from bad luck. Nothin’ will.”

To his surprise, Miriam steps closer, lays a hand on his shoulder, slow and tentative. “I don’t think you give that heart of yours enough credit, Clayton,” she says, her voice soft. “Caring about someone can do more than you think.”

The moment stretches out for a long while before her hand falls away. The moment it does, Aloysius appears from the tunnel behind them like he’s been waiting for a cue. “Sharpe, Ma’am, you best get back here. The other two made themselves at home with that journal and I think they’re getting somewhere with all this supernatural mumbo jumbo.”

“Is that right?” Miriam turns, smiling like they’ve only been discussing the weather all this time, and loops her arm through Aly’s. “In that case, I think you should lead the way, Mister Fogg. Mister Sharpe, will you be joining us?”

“In a minute,” he says in what he hopes is a normal tone. The pair wander off back into the cave and leave him alone at the mouth of it, frowning out into the horizon like it’s personally done him wrong.

What are you holding onto in all this mess? What’s stopping you from walking away? The questions scrape at the inside of his skull, harsh and grating. Ahead of him, the flat expanse of desert and plains asks no questions, tells no lies. A man could build a life out here, if he tried hard enough. There's supposed to be gold, plenty of it, and hope to spare. To his eyes, the sunset still looks like blood.

Clayton turns around, faces the cave entrance, and walks.

#critical role #undeadwood #fanfiction #reverend matthew mason #clayton sharpe #matthew mason/clayton sharpe #gen fic #m/m #tw: brief descriptions of gore #atlas writes

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itsraiyninmeteors · 4 years

Note

"Wo~uld you like to sha~re this with me, I do n~ot eat much." The offer came from what looked to be a skeleton monster, If not for the soft, Well. Goo, that made up most of his body, Taking the place of legs, Maybe he was a hybrid? who knew. Still he was holding out half of a Bisicle. (@the-judge-of-bones)

Poppy perked up her little head to look up towards the monster. He looked like a skeletal one, like Sans and Papyrus, but seemed more goopy? How does that work? Still, she perked up with a little yip and a swish of her tail, a big old smile growing on her muzzle.

“*I’d love to Mister, thank you!” She grinned with utter glee, carefully taking the other half of the Bisicle into her handpaw. Yummy!

#wishesmusehub #Fluffs and Sunshine||Poppy #answered asks #???||Verses #the-judge-of-bones

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determinationisnotcrash · 5 years

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Gasterblastober Prompt 3: A Moment of Fear

This takes place in my variant of the Blaster AU (in other words, on the Surface one year and a bit after Undertale), shortly after the situation with Wingdings Gaster was resolved.

When dressing up for Halloween with Asriel, Papyrus (in the ‘horned skeleton’ partial Blaster form he’s stuck in) causes the goat to flash back to one of his worse Resets.

In it, a feral GB!Papyrus gives Flowey a cruel and unusual, but entirely deserved death. As such, content warnings apply for extreme violence. And JoJo references.

For Gasterblastober, which is by @gbpack-discord

Papyrus’ House

The horned skeleton let his classmate in, bony tail wagging with excitement in preparation for all the delicious treats they would get. No matter how old they were, they were never too old to go trick-or-treating! Asriel in particular had to make up for six years’ worth of missed treats!

“What are you dressed as, Asriel?”

The self-proclaimed God of Hyperdeath puffed his chest out proudly as he spun around, revealing the Sword of Luck and Pluck attached to the sleeveless blue tank top with shoulder pads to make his slender frame appear bigger. “Jonathan Joestar, of course! I had no idea how to dress, considering, y’know, I’m already a monster. Alphys gave me the suggestion!”

His friend was enthusiastic, but… a bead of sweat slid down Papyrus’ skull. “It’s Halloween, not a cartoon cosplay convention. Why don’t you go in your robes as the God of Hyperdeath?”

Asriel face went so red, if the lights were switched off, Papyrus swore it would illuminate the room. “R-reasons. Anyway, what’re you going as?”

“Glad you asked~ The Great Papyrus is in casual clothes before you now, but soon, you shall be amazed, as he transforms into a bone dragon knight! It’s as radical as it is cost-effective! With my Blaster-like mutations, and everything. All I really needed to design were the armour, helmet, and wings.”

Even after all this time, he still had no idea why he had Blaster-like features now. But horns, paw-like feet, claws, and a tail were unobtrusive enough from his daily life, so there wasn’t really any reason to go investigating. Especially with his final year of high school around the corner.

He ran into his room, disappearing from Asriel’s sight, then returned wearing armour. “The armour is customised Royal Guard armour-” The skeleton turned around, revealing the very mobile wings, “the wings are courtesy of Alphys’ assistance, and most importantly of all…!” Papyrus plonked the helmet he was holding on his head.

At the completed look, Asriel went as still as a statue. A Gasterblaster-like helmet…!? The design brought to mind the lower points of his Resets. Given how awful his Resets past the first few were, that was really saying something. Out of the entire Underground, the most terrifying one of all wasn’t Sans, but…

***

Flowey dodged a rain of sharpened bone attacks, but the moment he thought he avoided it, his enemy made them change course, homing in and piercing through him. “Blugh…!” Blood spewed from his mouth and vines.

This was marginally better than the last hundred times – then, he had been torn apart by claws and fangs outright! This was frustrating! This ‘boss’ wasn’t something he could defeat once ‘triggered’!

He could easily take Papyrus in his ‘base form’ and kill him as easily as an infant, but once he started mutating, it was the end! But there wouldn’t be any achievement unless he killed him as that bone demon creature!

Papyrus’ face had pushed out into a vicious muzzle, filled with razor-sharp teeth. His gloves and boots had been shredded by cruel claws, whereas the remnants of his battle body hung off him. The hellbeast he had become looked like a cross between a skeletal werewolf and a dragon – still vaguely humanoid, but the resemblance to the person he once was ended there.

Flowey had a secret weapon, too: DT he stole from Alphys’ lab. He couldn’t steal the souls from Asgore, but with this…!

A surge of power and pleasure coursed through his body as he grew to enormous size, dwarfing the freshly mutated bone dragon. Green (but otherwise human) hands appeared, forming finger guns. From the ends of the digits, missiles launched out!

Papyrus leaped out of the way and dashed across the walls of New Home on all fours, trying to evade the missiles. But Flowey knew his exact movements – this ‘script’ he had experienced before!

The beast jumped to the Judgement Hall, unintentionally scattering the dust of his older brother. The moment his paws made contact with the floor, the foundation shattered! Barbed vines wrapped around him, constricting him like a vice. A gasp escaped its jaws, as they tightened further.

Flowey brought his face up to where the skeleton was suspended, leaning towards him, his face mere millimetres away from Papyrus’. “I’m the one who’s the Player here. You’re just a stupid NPC.”

Papyrus opened his maw, as if to answer, but then bit down on the flower. Hard. Flowey mentally cursed. Of all the stupid things he forgot to account for! The flower screamed and dropped him to the ground, before falling to the floor himself. Papyrus pinned the flower’s face down with a claw, causing a further screech of pain.

The DT leaked out of him, Papyrus lapping it all up with a blue magic tongue. Drool seeped out of his maw as he hungrily continued to consume the substance, tearing up Flowey’s vines with his free claws to obtain more.

The dragon’s body shuddered and grew as he took in more and more of the substance, the remnants of his battle body all but exploding off as he became more and more draconic.

With his elongating neck, he continued to methodically rip open every last part of Flowey and extract the substance within, dagger-like teeth and claws easily piercing his ‘skin’ as painfully as possible. The turquoise substance his tongue left on the flower burned like acid.

Then, once Papyrus had drawn all he could from the flower… stuffed the soulless creature into his jaws. Slowly, but surely, the jaws started to compress – letting the flower know exactly how he was going to die, and just how excruciating it would be.

Out of every possible timeline he had encountered, and ever would… Flowey had never been more scared in his life. Then and there, the flower learned the true meaning of fear.

***

“ASRIEL!”

The splash of ice-cold water snapped the former prince back to reality.

Papyrus, his helmet removed, laughed in relief. “Thank God…! You were staring into space for ages! I thought I would have to use a 23rd bucket!”

“Haha… sorry, you really were terrifying.” Asriel’s chuckle was nervous, but deep down, he was pleased.

Such a situation no longer had the potential to occur. Resets and anything associated with them were no longer possible. Thanks to their achievements, this world was free from the curse of Determination. No one would treat real people’s lives like a worthless game. Papyrus would stay as Papyrus.

The horned skeleton in question bowed his head in apology. “I’m sorry for frightening you – this costume is clearly too much. I should donate it to a horror house later. But…” He stroked his bifurcated jaw. “What can I go as last-minute…?”

A mischievous smile crossed Asriel’s face. “I have an idea…”

***

“So cool, mister…!”

“Do it again, do it again!”

“As you wish, here we goooo…!” Another twirl of Papyrus’ head, and the top hat went spinning through the air again, drawing a cheer out of the crowd of children who gathered around him. It drew an arc, before landing right where it was earlier. It didn’t have a razor like in the source material, but it was just as fancy and entertaining to use.

ゴゴゴゴゴゴゴゴゴゴゴ

Suddenly, purple projected menacing symbols started hovering around the area – those weren’t illusions created by the atmosphere, they were actually 3D hologram projections! Papyrus and Asriel, turned around, and at the sight, they grinned. Looked like some people had the same idea for costumes…!

Mettaton, RG01, and RG02 were dressed in the fabulous Pillar Men outfits, each of them practically glowing with over-the-top fabulousness. No, wait, they were just literally glowing and sparkling. That was MTT™ bishounen sparkle spray for you!

At any rate, he decided to play along – Papyrus issued a very convincing “KYAAAAAAAAAA! They’ve awakeneeeeed!”

Asriel added onto that, “Even the Great Papyrus is afraid!”

#undertale #gasterblaster au #gasterblastober #gasterblaster papyrus #papyrus #flowey #asriel #my writing

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umbraastaff · 5 years

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Heya, I’m still kinda figuring out Baritz’s personality, so here’s a short fic about him meeting Angus. It’s just very fun and silly.

[For reference, I’m running from the canon-divergent AU of this lyric comic, but it’s not necessary to read. Just know that Barry and Kravitz can fuse.]

Phone A Friend

Angus is not terribly subtle about trying to get ahold of Barry and Kravitz alone. To be fair, though, it is a bit of a tricky task to get them both somewhere in the house without Lup or Taako in the mix as well.

He’s greatly relieved to finally encounter them sitting in the living room, both leaning over some device that Barry reconstructed based on memories of his home dimension.

“And how, exactly, is this like a stone of far speech?”

“I-It lets you talk to people who are far away. Th-the, uh, the only part that’s--the only different thing is th-the ‘stone’ part. I don’t see w-what’s so--Oh, hey, Angus.” Barry looks up as the corner of his eye catches Angus entering the room.

“Hello, sirs! I’m glad I caught you both! I, um, I just wanted to request,” he twiddles his thumbs, feeling suddenly anxious, “i-if it’s not too much to ask, I mean…”

He has Kravitz’s attention too, now, and both reapers wait patiently as he takes a deep breath and finishes the thought. “I’d like to meet the, um. The person you turn into? When you possess each other?”

“Oh, Baritz?” Barry looks over at Kravitz. “I don’t… see why not?”

Kravitz takes a few moments longer to think about it, but he nods. “Certainly we can.”

They both stand up. Barry doesn’t drop the illusion that gives him the appearance of skin, and Kravitz doesn’t revert to skeletal form either, which makes the next part look terribly strange. Barry turns away from Kravitz and gives Angus a wink before tilting back in a sort of trust fall. Instead of catching him, Kravitz just lets him phase right through his body.

And then their forms darken and warp together, melding into a singular form that flickers and sputters with the unsteady energy of magic that is trying to combine. Baritz forms down on one knee, facing the ground. Angus can’t see his face under the hood, but he watches one of Baritz’s hands on the floor, struggling momentarily to reconstruct fake skin over the bones.

Then, Baritz rises, his shadowed face sporting a wide grin. He absolutely towers over Angus, who takes a nervous step back, though he’s smiling back. “Hello! I heard from ourselves that you wanted to meet me,” Baritz says, then furrows his brow. “That makes sense, right?”

“I think so,” Angus says. “Um, hello, sir! I’m Angus…” he falters, predicting the response to that. But before Baritz can say he already knows, Angus continues, “I-I just wanted to say, thanks for also helping save the world? You’re really cool!”

“Aw, that’s my line, mister world’s-greatest-detective!”

Angus’ nervous smile breaks into a grin. “Thanks! I also wanted to meet you because you’re kind of like a mystery!” He pauses to look at the exaggerated facial features glowing from the shadow of Baritz’s hood. “How does your face work?”

Baritz laughs and then reaches down, and Angus suddenly finds himself being lifted up. Then he’s set down, and realizes he’s sitting on Baritz’s lower pair of arms, crossed beneath him and raised up so he’s nearly eye-level with the fusion.

Baritz says, “S’just an illusory shadow! You can touch my face if you want. Or, I mean, you can try!”

Even though he’s pretty sure of what to expect, Angus still reaches out with one hand. He goes for Baritz’s forehead, because that seems like the least intrusive part of his face to bother. The glowing eyes on the surface of the shadow shimmer and warp around his wrist. Angus’ hand meets bone, coming to rest on an impossibly large human skull. “Wow.”

“Weird, right?” Baritz grins as Angus withdraws his hand, returning his eyes to their normal shape. “What else d’you wanna know?”

Angus is more than ready with another question. “Now that you’re fused, does Kravitz understand the phone?”

“You know what a phone is?” Baritz says, and continues without waiting for a response, “Hey, that’s a good question.”

Suddenly his arms shift under Angus, but his upper hands are already at the boy’s sides, preventing him from falling. Baritz isn’t even looking at what he’s doing, distractedly moving towards the couch as he transfers Angus to sit atop one of his upper biceps.

Angus clenches the fabric of the sleeve under him with both hands. Baritz freezes, and the hand of the arm Angus is sitting on curls inwards to grip Angus’ shoulder. “Sorry! Sorry. Didn’t mean to, uh--forgot I’m that tall.”

“Th-that’s okay, sir,” says Angus, shifting one of his hands to place it over top of the one on his shoulder. “I still want to know if you can understand the phone.”

Baritz glances at him. “You want down first?”

“I’m good,” Angus decides. He wants to see Baritz’s interactions with the phone up close.

“Okay,” Baritz shrugs slightly, but Angus feels a hand rest on his back--must be from the arm below him. The fusion slowly sits down on the couch and picks up the phone.

“Let’s see.” He flips it open and starts navigating the interface, pressing the buttons with one left hand, since both his right ones are occupied holding Angus firmly in place. “Well, this is easier than I--than Kravitz thought.” As he clicks the button to open a game full of colorful, weird-shaped blocks, he turns to Angus with a goofy-exasperated look. Angus laughs.

“Well, that solves that! Let’s see if Kravitz retains it outside of fusion, eh?” Baritz says, and Angus feels a weird buzzing not unlike a static shock.

“Um!” Angus says urgently, clutching the fabric harder. “Are you going t-WHOA!”

Baritz seems to realize mid-unfusing that he’s still holding up a child, and Angus gets yanked down, towards Baritz’ lap--or where it was a moment ago--and then the huge hands around him are gone, and he’s sitting on the couch with two human-sized pairs of arms embracing him.

He looks up and realizes that it’s Barry and Kravitz, sitting on either side of him, hugging him from both sides with tightly shut eyes like they’re bracing for an explosion. Dazed, Angus says, “Welcome back, sirs.”

Kravitz and Barry both blink, coming back to themselves, and relax their grips. “Oh my god, Angus, I’m so sorry--”

“M-Me too, jeez, bud, that was--”

“That was great!” Angus laughs. “Don’t do that last bit again, because I’m a flesh boy who can get hurt? But thanks for letting me meet him! That was fun!”

#writes #my writing #balance #baritz #angus mcdonald #angus #mine

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onebadpunchline · 5 years

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The Never Wilting Flower Crown

Asriel was being unusually chipper that day, which was saying something. The monster prince was normally filled with nauseatingly optimistic energy. But today, it was worse than usual. Chara wondered if he had forgotten someone’s birthday or some important monster holiday.

“C’mon Char,” Asriel ushered him along, pulling him by the arm. Chara wiped his eyes, still half asleep.

“Uh...could this not have waited until noon?”

Asriel gave Chara an are you serious? face, “Dude, it’s almost two in the afternoon.”

“Fine. Change my previous statement to five.”

“Told you that you shouldn’t stay up ‘till three in the morning playing super smash bros.”

“You would have stayed up as well, if you hadn’t fallen asleep right in the middle of the game.” Chara teased, enjoying Asriel’s flustered reaction.

Asriel bleated in indignation. Chara was absolutely thrilled at the chance to tease Asriel for his goat-like habits, but as he opened his mouth, Asriel led them down a different corridor.

Chara raised an eyebrow, “Why are we heading to the gardens?”

“I have a surprise for you!” Asriel declared cheerfully.

“You? A surprise?” Chara was dumbfounded. “You actually managed to keep something secret from me?”

“Yes,” Asriel sounded absurdly proud of himself.

Chara was a little proud as well. Asriel was positively terrible at keeping secrets. He had gotten them into trouble many times with their mother because of his inability to keep their schemes to himself. Perhaps Chara was starting to rub off on him a little.

They made it to the gardens, which was one of Chara’s favorite places in the castle. Every plant imaginable grew there, including some magical ones. The only plant missing were Echo Flowers, which seemed to only be able to grow in Waterfall. The plants grew all over the ground and up the stone columns, almost reaching the open ceiling. Holes from the cavern ceiling above them allowed natural sunlight to shine down on the garden.

The royal gardeners were swarming around the gardens. Chara had learned early on that what he thought were bees were actually small monsters that resembled large bees. He had to apologize for swatting at one during his first visit to the gardens.

One of the royal gardeners bowed at them as they passed. “My princes,” the bee monster buzzed.

Asriel nodded his head in acknowledgment. After a moment, Chara did the same. He was still unused to being called a prince. His official coronation as a prince of monsters was still a few days away. However, that didn’t stop many monsters from already referring to him as their prince.

“So what is this surprise?” Chara asked, trying not to seem too interested.

“Uh-uh,” Asriel shook his head, causing his ears to flop. “I’m not telling you. It’d ruin the surprise.”

Chara pouted. He did not like not knowing things. However, Asriel looked absolutely excited, so Chara supposed he would let him have his moment.

Asriel led him to the back of the gardens, where the head gardener, Apoidea, was watering some buttercups. She was supposedly the mother of all of the bee monsters. She was older than Asgore, having served his father. When she wasn’t hunched over, she stood at over six feet tall. She was human shaped with bee features, with her black and yellow skin, and antennae.

She smiled around her mandibles, “Hello, my little princelings.” Her voice, like the other bee monsters, had an underlying buzzing tone in it.

“Hi, Apoidea.” Asriel greeted, bouncing on the heels of his feet. “Can you bring out the surprise.”

Apoidea frowned, “Princeling, that is supposed be revealed at the human’s coronation.”

“Aha!” Chara exclaimed, pointing at Asriel. “I knew you couldn’t keep anything a secret. You’re trying to spoil it right now.”

Asriel turned beet red. “Do you want to see it or not?”

“Of course,” Chara admitted without an ounce of shame. “I won’t leave it alone now until I know what it is.”

“Please, Apoidea,” Asriel begged, using his puppy dog eyes. “Can’t we just have a peek?”

Apoidea sighed, “I have never been able to resist those eyes. Wait a moment.” She released a series of buzzing noises. Some of the gardeners stopped, and flew off. They returned moments later, carrying what appeared to be a flower crown. They gave it to Apoidea before flying back to their work.

“A flower crown,” Chara raised an eyebrow. “That’s the big surprise? We make when Mom and Dad force us to have family time in the gardens.”

“But this isn’t an ordinary flower crown!” Asriel protested.

“No?” Chara said, doubtful. It sure looked like a flower crown to him.

“The princeling is right,” Apoidea confirmed. “This crown is meant for your coronation.”

That peaked Chara’s interest. This was the crown he was to be given when he officially became a prince? It was made out of his favorite golden flowers. But then he frowned. He had hoped that he would be given a crown that would last, not one that he could only wear for a week at best.

“That’s not even the best part,” Asriel’s excited outburst broke Chara from his melancholic thoughts. “This is a magic crown!”

“Magic?” Chara was still getting used to the fact that magic even existed. It was a complete culture shock to see monsters use it so casually in their everyday lives. Pretty much everything in the Underground involved magic in some way.

“That’s right, my princeling to be,” Apoidea said. “I enchanted it myself. This flower crown shall never wilt. It shall remain as beautiful for all of eternity.”

Chara stared at the crown, his eyes wide.

“It was my idea,” Asriel proclaimed proudly. “Mom and Dad wanted to get you one like mine, but I thought you’d like this better.”

He turned to Asriel, frowning, “But you already gave me a gift.” He pulled out his heart locket from underneath his shirt.

Asriel tilted his head, “Yeah, but I can get you more than one gift, Char. Showing how much you care doesn’t get cut off after one act.”

Chara didn’t have much to say to that. He reached out to touch one of the petals, but Apoidea pulled it back.

“It was only a peek,” She reminded them sternly. “You’ll have to wait until your coronation to actually wear it.”

“Aww,” Asriel whined.

Chara put his hand on the goat boy’s shoulder, “It’s alright Azzy. I don’t mind waiting.”

“So, you were surprised?” He looked so hopeful.

Chara smiled, “Yes, I was. It was a very pleasant surprise.”

Asriel cheered. Inwardly, Chara matched his enthusiasm. He couldn’t wait for his coronation.

Shnk cher, shnk cher, shnk cher.

Frisk groaned, putting the shovel down. “Why am I digging this up again?” She asked the apparition floating beside her.

Chara huffed, “I told you. There is something that I want. Now, keep digging.”

“Keep digging, he says,” Frisk muttered, resuming digging into the flower patch underneath the giant gaping hole above her head. “My name’s Chara, and I’m the boss of everything.”

“I can hear you.” He said, annoyed.

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to be quiet.”

“Just keep digging.”

So she did, grumbling to herself. Chara was always odd, and he hardly ever told her his reasons behind doing things. However, at times like this, his refusal to explain himself infuriated her.

Chunk

Her shovel hit something. She took some of the dirt off of it to reveal the skeletal remains of a hand.

Frisk screamed, scrambling back out of the hole she had made.

“Why am I digging up a skeleton?” She screamed. “Are we freeing some of Sans’ relatives?”

Chara made a disgusted face, “As if we’d do anything for that trash bag. No, this isn’t a monster.”

“Oh, so we’re digging up an actual skeleton,” Frisk said dryly. “That makes it so much better.”

“Find the head.”

“Wha-ARE YOU CRAZY? I’M NOT TOUCHING ITS HEAD! THAT’S CREEPY!” Frisk yelled.

“Oh, for the love of...would you just do it?” Chara snapped. “Or give me control and I’ll do it myself.”

“Oh, uh-uh mister,” Frisk glared at him. “We are not doing that creepy possession thing again. This is my body and I’ll keep it, thank you very much.”

“Then just dig it up.”

“Ugh, fine.” Frisk would rather deal with a dead head than risk Chara trying to wrestle control from her again.

It took some maneuvering, but Frisk managed to brush the dirt off of the skeletal head. It was completely decomposed, leaving nothing but the white of bone behind. Except, the skeleton seemed to have a crown of flowers resting on its head.

“What this?” Frisk picked up the flowers, brushing the dirt off of them. They were pretty golden flowers, and surprisingly in well condition.

“It’s a flower crown,” Chara informed her. “I thought even an idiot like you would have known that.”

“HEY!”

“Let’s go back to the house before anyone notices we left,” Chara said, turning around.

“Wait a minute,” Frisk cried out. “Aren’t you going to tell me who this is or what this was about?”

“No. Now, let’s go.” He floated off.

Frisk groaned in frustration. Why was Chara like this? She climbed out of the whole, tucking the flower crown carefully underneath her arm. She turned back to look at the skeleton.

“Whoever you are, I hope you didn’t suffer,” She prayed quietly. “I hope you’re at peace.”

With that, she took off after Chara.

#undertale #undertale au #chara #male chara #asriel #my sweet baby #magic #somewhat sad ending #frisk #female frisk #oc

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scaryscarecrows · 5 years

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Suspicions

For once, the Creepy Bad Thing at Arkham is not Dr. Crane's fault. This one time.

Harvey gives Jim a Look and hisses, “Why.”

Okay. Jim can’t entirely blame him for not wanting to come. But too bad. It’s not like it’ll be that terrible, anyway. A couple of questions, and they’ll be on their merry way. This isn’t even official or anything, technically.

They stop outside the hospital room in time to hear, “-and I could see her lookin’ about to ask for help, and I…I’m not a good person love, I’m so sorry, I turned ‘round and speedwalked into another aisle.”

Huh?

There’s wheezing and coughing and a rasped, “Don’t make me laugh, Kitty, it really hurts.”

“Sorry…but anyway, that’s why we don’t have ice cream at home.”

O-kay, then. You know what, he doesn’t want to know.

He makes Harvey knock-Harvey’s knocks are scarier, and the look of betrayal is hilarious-and calls, “GCPD, can we ask a few questions?”

“Come in.”

Crane looks tired and washed out but lucid and decidedly annoyed. Jim can’t entirely blame him-Arkham has enough problems without a fire, and Crane has been busy. Last time they met was shortly after a near-breakout, actually, and the place has only taken more patients since then.

But there was that fire-Firefly, funnily enough-and he’s now here for observation. Jim’s hoping the nurses won’t throw them out before they’re through.

“What did you-” Crane interrupts himself with a dry hack. “need. My apologies, I lost my voice.”

“I told you not to call and demand information…” Richardson sighs. Crane jabs a skeletal finger against her forehead and she laughs, swats him off.

“She’s not helping.”

“I suffered Wal-Mart for you! Alone! It was Hell, literal Hell, and that’s the thanks I get? Fine. I’m reading the next few chapters of Doctor Sleep without you.”

Crane turns, if possible, paler.

“Kitty…”

She rolls her eyes and pats his head.

“Relax, love, I wouldn’t. What did you need?”

“Just a couple of questions.” Harvey keeps shooting Jim looks as though it’s his fault they’re here. Which, okay, it kind of is, but Haaaarv Firefly was supposedly sedated how did he get out and set Arkham on fire? How is that not suspicious?

Crane shrugs, thin fingers shredding a tissue in his lap, and turns unblinking eyes to Jim.

“Of course.”

Jim’s not gonna lie, Crane…really, really creeps him out. He doesn’t blink. There’s no family to be found, not even a random cousin. And it’s weird that all it takes to control even the more violent inmates is his turning up. Charitable people would say he’s clearly good at his job, that his presence is calming and means that all will be right with the world.

Jim is not charitable.

“Firefly is responsible?” Crane nods. “How? Wasn’t he sedated?”

Crane visibly counts to ten, patting the shredded tissue into a little mound on the blankets.

“I do not expect you to understand the finer points of psychopharmacology.” he rasps, and now Jim’s pretty sure he’s not blinking on purpose. “I do, however, expect you to understand that it is not ‘insert medicine iiiiin-” He coughs and tries again. “Into patient, receive instantly docile individual’. For the more violent inmates such as Mister Lynns, a sufficient surge of adrenaline may keep them awake-and destructive-for a longer period. Long enough, in this case, to get his hands on some highly volatile materials and nearly burn the place to the ground.”

Hm. He’ll have to look into that.

“There’s no way he might have…I don’t know, not taken anything?”

Richardson snorts.

“We use needles as much as possible to avoid that risk,” she says shortly. “And I assure you that my nurses are competent individuals. Arkham is an underfunded asylum, Detectives. There are dangerous, occasionally…unusual…individuals in it.”

“Accidents will happen,” Crane finishes, and the way he says it is just…Jim’s getting warning sirens. “If you want to ask me aaaaanyth-anything else, I will be spending the next few days at home.”

“With a pen and paper. Stop talking.”

He shrugs and drops his tissue-mound in the trash can.

“Good afternoon, Detectives.”

THE END

#Jonathan Crane #Kitty Richardson #Jim Gordon #Harvey Bullock #takes place while Dr. Crane is still Arkham's director #this wasn't his fault #but he's unsettling and Jim's a suspicious person #can you blame the guy

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themalicealyce · 5 years

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Sarcasm and Puns: Chapter Five

Summary: You're an introverted person, have been all of your life but it wasn't as if you were shy, you were just content to have your only friends be your brother and your roommate. Though when your brother's young daughter makes friends with the human ambassador of monsters you open up to the idea of having a larger group of friends.

Rating: M

The sun hung low in the sky as you pulled up to Toriel's house in the passenger seat of your brother's car. He had drove just outside the bustle of the city and parked in front of what looked like a cozy little suburban cottage with a couple cars already parked around it.

"Nice place." Gabriel commented with an appreciative whistle as he helped Morrigan out of the car.

"Seriously." You agreed but you couldn't feel jealous. You loved your apartment and living in the middle of the busy city.

Your niece, so cute in her red dress, grabbed Gabe's hand trying her best to drag him along the walkway up to the door, excitement glowing in her large eyes while you were sure your own betrayed your fraying nerves instead. Gabriel laughed lazily and indulgently walked with her to the front of the house, leaving you to follow a few steps behind.

"Can I ring the bell?" Morrigan asked with thinly veiled enthusiasm giving Gabriel big, pleading puppy dog eyes as she played with the hem of her dress in nervous excitement.

"Sure thing honey." He smiled sweetly and easily picked her up, lifting her so she could reach the door bell.

Morrigan giggled happily and reached out to press the button, causing noise to erupt from inside the house.

You could hear heavy footsteps running through the house and a couple of loud, yet muffled voices. Gabriel barely had enough time to pull Morrigan back, protectively drawing her flush against his chest, before the door swung open and a towering skeletal creature leaned halfway out of the doorway. He was shorter than Toriel from what you could tell, but still much taller than you or your brother. The creature, a skeleton, stood easily over six foot tall. You had jumped back, shocked at the sudden sight of the intimidating looking skull watching the three of you with rapt interest before trying to calm your rapidly beating heart. The more you thought about it, the monster didn't look threatening really, just eager and you scolded yourself internally for being scared. He was wearing a baggy, hand-knit looking sweater with the words 'COOL DUDE' made up of tiny bones written across it, dress pants, and a pair of ridiculous red boots he didn't really scream grim reaper. It was hard not to react though, he just jump-scared the fuck out of you.

You checked on your niece out of the corner of your eye, but she had quickly gone from covering her face with her small hands and squeaking in surprise from the sudden screaming, to peeking out between her fingers and watching the skeleton cautiously. Gabriel also looked a bit apprehensive, but that was mostly more for his daughter's sake than his own.

"GREETINGS HUMANS AND TINY HUMAN! I AM THE GREAT PAPYRUS!" the skeleton boomed exuberantly, striking a heroic and proud pose. At his full height and volume, he could easily scare a child, but nothing in his tone or body language actually seemed threatening. Looking past him, you noticed Frisk a few steps behind him with a hand covering her mouth looking like she was giggling.

Toriel had quickly appeared at the door next to the skeleton with a small apologetic smile. "Oh dear, I see you've all met Papyrus." she sighed slightly before smiling more genuinely. “I hope he didn’t startle you.” She spoke calmly, smilingly softly at Morrigan in particular. Morrigan shook her head “Nuh uh! I’m not scared!”

Frisk, at Toriel’s side, nodded as if agreeing that no one could find him scary.

"WHY OF COURSE, THE GREAT PAPYRUS ALWAYS MAKES THE BEST FIRST IMPRESSION! I MAY BE VERY INTIMADATING WHEN I WISH, BUT I AM A GENTLEMAN ABOVE ALL ELSE!" He shifted to a different pose, this one less heroic and more dapper. At least you think that was his intent, but it was either his lanky skeletal form or what might have been doubt in his facial expression that lead him to not quite pulling it off. Your niece seemed to get over the monster's loud voice very quickly, instead giggling at his antics. She extended her hand from where she was still hoisted up by her father. "Hiya Mister I'm Morrigan!"

Papyrus looked very relived by her response and took her hand in his much larger one and shook it with a renewed enthusiastic vigor. "Nice to meet you Tiny Human!" his voice still boisterous but he was no longer yelling.

The dark look drained away from your brother's face as he heard Morrigan speaking confidently and happily, once again completely at ease nodding in greeting to Papyrus and Toriel.

You couldn't help but smile at his energy. It reminded you a lot of Vincent. You used to think it would completely drain you coming from anyone else, but you guessed you were making new exceptions tonight. "Hey Toriel." you returned her smile before turning to the skeleton. "I- uh I would shake your hand too but uh..." you let the sentence trail off awkwardly as you shifted with your hands full. Instead, you raised the large cookie platter showing that you were otherwise occupied.

"OH! I see! Well no worries human! I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, shall take that delicious burden for you!" he posed again before taking the tray from your hands and sprinted back in to the house disappearing before you could argue the issue. “Well, uh… ok. Thanks?” You offered, but he was already gone.

Toriel chuckled in a soft, motherly way as she watched the skeleton run past her. She stepped aside allowing the three of you room to enter her house. "Please, do come in."

Gabriel put Morrigan down and she was running as soon as she hit the ground. She speedily made her way into the house and to Frisk, showing off her dress, already rambling on amenably to the nodding mute who dragged her away, a mischievous light in her eyes as she followed after the cookies with your niece in tow.

You stepped just inside the living room after your brother, and closed the door behind your group. You smiled fondly, finding Toriel and Gabe observing the children interact with matching tender expressions. Already calmed from your previous worrying, the cozy family feeling washed over you. You could feel a stupidly happy smile tugging at the corners of your mouth and again for the second time in the past few days you were excited to make new friends. You shoved the thought down and your hands into your pockets now that they were unused and feeling awkward.

Toriel guided you and your brother further inside a moment after they let Frisk lead Morrigan out of the room as she looked intent on showing her around the house. Gabriel and Toriel let them be as they entered the dining room with you following behind, causing you to feel a bit like a lost puppy.

The kitchen door opened, allowing a snippet of a loud conversation to spill out as a chubby, yellow monster backed out with a nervous stammer. She was shorter than either Toriel or Papyrus, by a lot. She was actually short, a bit taller than your roommate and looked kind of like a dinosaur with shimmering pale scales and ridges down her spine. You'd never seen a timid, dress-wearing dinosaur before.

She spun around only to jump with a scared squeak, nearly knocking the glasses off her face. "I-i'm s-sorry... I d-didn't know y-you would be here s-so soon..." her apology trailed off as she wrung her hands together, her eyes trained on the floor.

"Alphys this is the young lady I was telling you about, and her brother Gabriel." Toriel spoke calmly, ignoring the monster's stuttering outburst. "Hey." Gabriel gave his normal lazy mock salute in casual greeting causing Alphys to look up slightly with an attempted smile.

"Hi." you tried to give a placating smile, but it probably came across just as nervous as hers. “Sorry for, uh, startling you?" You jabbed Gabriel in the ribs when he snorted at you. Mocking your awkward attempt at socialization.

“O-oh! Oh no!” She waved her clawed hands frantically. “It’s not y-your fault! I-I��m sorry.” She stuttered and muttered. She buried her blushing face in her hands still muttering quietly to herself.

Toriel frowned, about to take a step forward to comfort the short, self-deprecating monster. You didn’t see her however because you had already moved closer. Your steps were a bit slow and cautious, not wanting to really set her off any further and a little unsure in your own ability to calm her. You’ve dealt with Vincent’s panic attacks, you could handle this, right?

“Hey, your name is Alphys right? That’s a pretty cool name.” You offered, now standing closer, yet not close enough to crowd her.

She blushed harder into her hands, “R-really? It’s k-kind of nerdy.” She spoke into her hands still, but she said it a loud and clear enough for you to make out.

“Na, it’s much cooler than my name.” You smiled, telling her your own name in a dismissive manner.

“Oh no! D-don’t say that, your name is perfectly fine.” She said taking her head out of her hands and looking up at your face again. She gasped quickly after saying it and launch into a ramble, “I didn’t m-mean that! N-not that your name i-isn’t fine i-t’s just that i-t’s m-more than fine! I-It’s a great name. I’m s-so sorry I d-didn’t mean t-to m-make fun of i-it or anyth-”

You cut her off, she didn’t look like she took a single breath through the entire thing. “No, it’s fine I knew what you meant.” You shrugged. “O-oh, good.” She nodded though she still looked flustered and unconvinced.

Toriel had guided your brother to the table and they took up chairs to continue their chat after seeing that you two were in good hands. They were sharing parenting stories from the sounds of it. You noticed the big open arch that connected the room to the living room and you immediately found yourself drawn to the large bookshelf by the fireplace as soon as you saw it.

Seeing as Toriel seemed occupied you left her to her own devices and walked over to the bookcase as you continued to talk to Alyphs. “This bookshelf is really packed huh?” Your eyes sparkled as you approached it, you loved to read and if you could afford the space in your apartment for a bookcase this ornate you would’ve got on in a minute, rather you owned a library card and only bought books you loved too much to give up.

“You like to read?” The lizard-like monster asked, following timidly behind you.

“Oh yeah.” You agreed easily, nodding as your eyes roamed over the titles of the worn, well-read books.

“What kind of books do you like?” She asked curiously.

You shrugged again, wondered how many facts one really even wanted to know about snails, because really that was a lot of books about snails. “Anything really: sci-fi, fantasy, the occasional non-fiction book when it catches my interest. Anything and everything. I used to be really into manga but I kinda fell out of the scene and I don’t even know what’s good anymore.” You shrugged.

Alphys’s eyes lit up and she looked like she was going to speak up when you heard yelling over the already ruckus clanking coming from the kitchen.

"WOWIE UNDYNE! I DIDN'T KNOW WATER COULD EVEN CATCH FIRE LIKE THAT!" Came Papyrus’s voice from the noisy room.

"I uh... Well... I MEAN OF COURSE PUNK! But... Maybe we should cover that pot?" The equally exuberant voice of, who you could only guess, was Undyne, responded with unshakeable confidence that wilted slightly with concern near the end.

"Yeah, you should really put a lid on it." you mumble to yourself before even thinking about it. Groaning when you heard what you said and silently cursing Vincent’s bad puns for rubbing off on you.

Alphys glanced nervously at the door before looking over to Toriel "Y-you did c-cook before they t-took over the kitchen r-right?" she asked in a hushed voice.

Toriel nodded knowingly, small smirk playing on her snout. Alphys let out a relieved breath, but quickly looked worried again. "D-don't tell her I asked t-that p-please?"

You shot your brother a concerned look. Dinner was starting to sound like a scary experience between the fire and lack of confidence in those in the kitchen. He merely shrugged, seemingly unaffected by the possibility. Toriel was, thankfully, unaware of your silent conversation as she was once again placating a panicky Alphys with a few kind words and a soft smile. The kitchen door burst open as if it was kicked with great force. It flung open so hard you thought it nearly flew off of its hinges. You instinctively stumbled a few steps back, away from the violent action nearly feeling the need to take cover.

The door aggressor turned out to be a tall, smirking monster. Why were so many monsters so tall? Her teeth were sharp, though they were more like a mouthful of fangs. She had miraculous cyan scales, thinner and more pearlescent than Alphys’s matte, thick ones. She also had some sort of fins or gills for ears, poking out from her vibrant red hair which was pulled back in a tight pony tail. She was equal parts beautiful and terrifying as she strode into the room with Papyrus following adoringly at her heels.

From where you stood, which was fairly removed from the dining room due to your early retreat, you saw her lock eyes with your brother and her smirk morphed into a dangerous snarl.

"Hey nerd!" she growled, pointing rather dramatically across the room at your older brother.

"U-un-Undyne?" Alphys stuttered worriedly, taking several short steps towards the blue fish woman, holding her hands out as if trying to subdue her but not really knowing how.

"Oh, hey.” Gabriel nodded in recognition. “What are the odds of seeing you here? How'd those tats heal up?" Gabriel asked easily, apparently unconcerned by her Amazonian appearance and demeanor.

As quickly as she grew fierce, it melted into an enthusiastic smile. "Hell yeah nerd! They’re pretty awesome, check it out!" she slung off her light jacket, tossing it towards Alphys, revealing her black tank top underneath. She moved quickly to Gabriel’s chair, not quite sprinting across the room as it looked more like she closed the distance in a single leap, presenting an arm to him.

Toriel shot a quick warning glare at Undyne for her language, while Alphys scrambled with the coat, and Papyrus looked both confused and excited. You wandered back over to the group, curious. Papyrus apparently had the same idea, peeking at the scene from over your head. Stark black tattoos stood out clearly against Undyne's light blue flesh and wrapped around her upper arm, spanning from her shoulder to her elbow. They looked almost tribal, but they incorporated some symbols that seemed familiar that you couldn’t identify.

"Wow, you did this Gabe?" you gasped at your brother's work, it seemed to match Undyne perfectly, from what little you knew of her, both badass and startlingly beautiful.

"Yeah, she's a real trooper, hardly winced at all under the needle." he praised with a shrug, releasing her arm, seemingly pleased with how it healed and set.

"WHATEVER! YOU COULDN'T HURT ME IF YOU TRIED!" Undyne boasted loudly, her toothy smirk stretching across her face.

Before anything else could be said, Morrigan and Frisk entered the room, again hand in hand. Frisk dropped your niece's hand and tugged on Toriel's dress. When the goat mom looked up, Frisk signed and rubbed her stomach for emphasis.

"Oh yes, of course my child, dinner is just about ready. Do you want to help me set the table?"

#undertale #undertale fanfiction #sans #sansxreader #sans x reader #sans/reader #slow burn #fluff and angst #chapter five

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spookyspaghettisundae · 6 years

Text

Face the Consequences

Dead of night.

Out of breath.

His side hurt. Blood pumped in his ears. Autumn leaves crackled underfoot. A distant shout echoed. A flock of black birds flew away from the skeletal canopy of trees overhead.

Alvin looked over his shoulder but could not see his pursuers. His hand had cramped up from holding on to a small leather pouch. He pressed on through the endless forest, though the pain in his side felt like a knife had been jammed right in there.

Then he found the hut. Some small old lodge made out of logs. A typical cabin in the woods. No light inside. Alvin dashed for the entrance and prayed that it would be unlocked. He had no time to pick the lock.

The hut by itself might turn things around. Tonight had been nothing but bad luck. His pursuers had no dogs, so if he could just hide in this old cabin, he might get away with the burglary.

It just needed to be unlocked.

Right when his footsteps thundered across the patio floorboards to the front door, it swung open. Light inside. In the door stood an old man with a burly gray beard and messy hair. The man wore some red and black plaid flannel and washed out dark blue jeans. He greeted Alvin with a wide, warm smile.

“Whoah there. Y'alright?”

The old man’s voice was voluminous and silky in a way that reminded Alvin of his dad. A scary man with a charming demeanor. His voice also reminded Alvin of someone in particular—he could not figure out who that was, only that it sounded eerily familiar. With his mind racing and his body still in a mode of escape, the question had caught him off guard and left him speechless.

“Ya look like shit, kid. C'mon in, warm yer bones and tell me what’s up,” the old man said. He continued to smile but arched a brow and scanned Alvin’s appearance with a glint of curiosity in his eyes.

The curtains inside were drawn, which explained why Alvin had not seen the glow of dim electric lights from the outside. He peered past the old man into the hut’s cluttered interior. Warm air blew out past the old man.

Alvin seized the moment. He nodded to the old man, feigned the friendliest smile he could, and nodded his head at the table in the cabin.

“Much appreciated, sir,” Alvin said.

The old man stepped inside and welcomed Alvin in with a sweeping gesture.

“Close the door behind ya,” he said to Alvin without turning around. “Name’s Tal, by the by.”

He did not need to tell Alvin twice. The burglar glanced outside and still caught no glimpse of the officers that had chased him into the woods. He closed the door and remained on edge. Alvin’s gaze swept around and took in all the details of the cabin’s insides.

This Tal fellow had a cozy place. A bit stuffed and messy, but Alvin recognized fishing gear, hunting equipment, a rifle, some cleaning supplies. Tal had scattered out all manner of items across simple hardwood furniture and a thin layer of dust and cobwebs had gathered in the darkest corners and on the tallest piles and the room. Alvin spotted two doors to one other room each—probably adjacent bedrooms.

“Here’s where y'introduce yerself to be polite,” Tal said with a raspy chuckle.

Alvin spun around and watched Tal place a banged up kettle on an electric stove.

“Sorry ‘bout that. I’m Al,” the burglar told the old man.

“Al, huh? Tal and Al. Would ya look at that,” he replied with another chuckle. “Can I get ya some tea or coffee, Al?”

“Thanks, I’m good. Just need a break from my jog in the woods.”

The dial on the old little stove squeaked when Tal turned it to maximum heat.

“Jog at this time o’ night, huh?”

After the awkward silence that followed, Tal chuckled again. Just before Tal turned around, Alvin’s brain kicked back in and reached full clarity. Catching his breath and calming down for a few beats had helped. He stuffed the small leather pouch into the back of his pants. No reason to display the item containing all the stolen jewelry and money so Tal could spot it and ask any inconvenient questions.

“All alone in the woods. Y'ain’t afraid o’ the woods? Or the dark?”

Alvin wiped over his lips. He did feel a bit thirsty now that he thought about it. But he had to remain on edge. Maybe this old geezer knew better. Alvin’s eyes darted around as he looked for windows he could quickly exit when the cops arrived and inevitably asked about Tal’s visitor. Two on the front, three on the back of the cabin, heavy felt curtains drawn shut on all of them.

“Nah,” he said. “Ain’t superstitious either, or anything like that, sir.”

Alvin’s next steps took him deeper into the cabin. He walked idly while taking in the mess of objects stuffed everywhere. The owner had stacked a lot of fiction books with tattered spines. Alvin recognized some famous horror author names among them, though he was never much of reader.

Tal sat down on a chair by a large table. The wood creaked under his weight. Now that the fog in Alvin’s mind cleared, he realized that Tal was rather tall and strong-looking for his apparent age. A disassembled shotgun rested on the tabletop, scattered out in separate parts. He nodded at Alvin and asked, “Are ya religious?”

Alvin shrugged. Before he could answer, footsteps thundered on the patio floorboards outside. Then a fist hammered against the door with a sense of urgency.

Tal’s brow furrowed in surprise, but he played it off with another one of his raspy chuckles.

“Busy night,” he said before rising to his feet again.

While he approached the front door, Alvin pressed himself between some of the junk piled up everywhere, slinking towards a window on the back of the cabin. He made sure to make no hectic moves lest he knock anything over or draw other attention to himself.

Tal opened the door and stood there in the exact same fashion as when he had greeted Alvin. He gave the newest arrivals the same smile.

“Evenin’ sir,” said an unfamiliar voice from outside the door.

“Night, ya mean,” Tal said and chuckled again. “How can I help, officers?”

“Are you alone out here, Mister?” His words trailed out as if he expected old Tal to fill in the blank and state his name.

Alvin tried to open the window but found it to be stuck. He dared not exert more force and held his breath, now fighting back the first waves of panic from seizing him. Alvin froze in place like a statue.

“Yup,” Tal replied.

Awkward pause.

“Have you seen or heard anything suspicious outside?”

“Nope,” Tal said in the same clipped tone.

Alvin saw only the side of the old man’s head from where he stood but could tell he was smiling at the cops while he lied to their faces.

Someone outside cleared his throat and then said, “Well then, if you do, give us a call. We’ll be in the area, sir. A fugitive suspect is on the loose. Keep your doors and windows locked just to be safe.”

“Awright. Y'all have a good night.”

Tal softly closed the door and locked it before walking back over to the table. Either he paid no attention to where Alvin now stood, or he did not care. Instead, Tal picked up a covered pot from one of the cluttered smaller tables and placed it on the electric stove next to the kettle. Then another dial squeaked as he turned up the heat of the second coil. Tal poured some steaming hot water from the kettle into a mug.

Alvin’s paralysis crumbled away, and he moved away from the back window, pulling out a chair to sit by the table, opposite of where Tal had seated himself earlier.

With his back turned to Alvin, Tal suddenly asked, “Can’t get ya anything to eat, either?”

Alvin trailed against his teeth with the tip of his tongue and considered asking why Tal had lied to the police. He had grown up in a bad place. He had known bad company. He always believed that if anything was too good to be true, there was something fishy. “No such thing as a free lunch,” he used to say. Alvin began to wonder if Tal was not some kind of crazy serial killer living out in the woods.

“Sure, why not,” Alvin finally said with a shrug.

“I hope ya don’t take no offense, but I’m tired as all hell and gonna turn in for the night, so I gotta pass on being a good host and offerin’ ya good conversation,” Tal said. He drawled a lot while enunciating the last word. “Help yerself to some stew when it’s warmed up, books to read as far as you can see, and that room over yonder is a bit cramped but there’s a cot ya can sleep on there.” Tal covered his mouth as he yawned, but it felt acted out to Alvin.

He knew better than to react in any way to the knot that now formed in his stomach region. Alvin followed Tal’s gestures whenever he pointed to the things he told Alvin about. Then Alvin nodded. He flashed the old man a fake smile. Something Alvin was pretty good at.

“Gotcha. Good night, Tal, and thanks for the hospitality.”

The corners of Tal’s lips twitched. He was on the verge of a more genuine smile or another chuckle, but it never surfaced. The glint in Tal’s eyes was something unusual. Knowing.

Predatory.

Alvin had seen it in the eyes of other crooks. That same look when they were up to something or ready to stab you in the back.

Alvin kept up his feigned smile like a master actor. He thought to himself that he deserved an Oscar for this performance.

Tal disappeared into the room opposite of the bedroom that he had indicated Alvin could sleep in. Alvin got up and took quiet footsteps to the stew as it heated up on the electric stove. He sniffed a few whiffs of it and could not figure out what it was beyond it smelling funny. Best case, the crazy old bastard was a cannibal and had human flesh cooked up in there. Worst case, there was a poison or sleeping drug in there to knock out his guests and murder them in their sleep. Alvin’s imagination went on overdrive with all the horrible scenarios of what this weird geezer might try.

He poured himself a helping into a ceramic bowl from a shelf above the stove and made sure to audibly clink a spoon down into the bowl. Alvin placed it all on the table and looked around while making some noise with the spoon to pretend he was eating.

He chewed on his lip while considering if he could re-assemble the shotgun or use the rifle, but Alvin was nowhere near a marksman nor did he have a clue about guns to begin with. He paced to the guest room and looked inside. It smelled of mold and dust and was even more packed with stacks of books and cardboard boxes and junk than the cabin’s main room. He could not even see a window because all this garbage was stacked all the way up to the ceiling, with the cot crammed up against it.

He snuck over to the front door and tried to open it.

Locked.

And no means of unlocking it without a key. Alvin chewed on his lip again. Then he tried the windows. All stuck—nailed shut. Although the sweat from running had dried, he broke out into a new sweat. A sinking feeling told Alvin that his instincts were right, and this old man was going to try to kill him. He had to tread carefully.

He produced his lock-picking tools from his pocket and knelt down next to the front door, looking over his shoulder to make sure the old man did not exit his bedroom yet. He unraveled the rolled up leather satchel and produced the fine tools from it. While working, he looked over his shoulder time and time again, paranoid about seeing Tal suddenly show up with a fire axe or a chainsaw in hand.

Alvin thought he had almost picked the lock when a sound startled him. The thin metal bar of the torsion wrench snapped and remained lodged in the lock. Alvin swore under his breath and looked back over to Tal’s bedroom door. His fingers scrambled and pried at the piece of metal now stuck inside the lock, but to no avail.

The sound again. Louder. Sounded like metal scraping against metal. Then another, different sound, like fabric tearing. Hairs raised on the back of Alvin’s neck. He fought the chills throughout his body, and he got back up onto his feet. He started looking around for something he could use as a weapon.

He settled on picking up one of the chairs. Best case, he could knock out Tal. Worst case, he could smash a window and run like hell. Better off getting caught by the cops than getting chopped up by some serial killer.

Knowing no other exit, he approached the door to Tal’s room.

A few steps away from the door, the wood of the floorboard groaned under Alvin’s shoe and weight. He froze like a deer in headlights. The mechanism on the door must have been faulty, because the door to Tal’s room opened on its own by a full finger’s width. It allowed Alvin to look through the crack of the ajar door.

At first, he was not sure what he was looking at on the walls of Tal’s room. Or maybe his mind rejected the reality of the sight. So he focused on the first things that made sense.

On a small table, he saw Tal’s clothing, neatly folded up. Next to that, he saw what looked like Tal’s face, neatly folded up like a rubber Halloween mask and resting next to the clothes. Next to that, other faces and outfits. Beyond that, it looked like human body parts hanging from meat hooks on the walls.

He never got a good look at it. Because the door was torn open, and a face that was no face suddenly looked back at him. No eyes, no features. Nothing. Just pale white skin, a hairless bald head. A humanoid body stood there, but its limbs too thin or emaciated and strange to be human.

Alvin screamed and ran.

The chair smashed through a window, and he tumbled straight after it, cutting himself on some shards. His panic gave him wings. He flew through the forest, looking behind him and seeing the thing in the light of the shattered window, looking after him. Then chasing him?

When Alvin regained his senses, he stared into the barrels of guns and blinding flashlights. He raised his hands in surrender to the two cops that had chased him that night.

“Down on the ground,” one of the officers shouted at him.

He had no objections, complied without resistance. They arrested him. Alvin told them of “Tal”, the thing in the cabin. The cops did not believe him. He spent a night in jail. All the way to the mental institution, nobody ever believed him. Of course he rejected every diagnosis. Alvin knew what he had seen.

One day, the door to his room opened and someone stepped inside. A handsome young man in his early twenties. He asked Alvin, “Hey, Al, how’s life been treatin’ ya?”

The same silky voice. It filled him with dread and froze the blood in his veins. Now, though, Alvin understood why the voice sounded so familiar. One of the doctors had played back a recorded statement of Alvin’s that he had made to the police officers—to show him how crazy he had sounded, probably. But it all clicked now.

Alvin heard his own voice. Different than when you hear your own voice in your own head. He was hearing his own voice whenever he heard Tal speak.

“So happy to see you kept your face in good condition,” Tal said.

Now wearing a new face, Tal smiled at him and closed the room’s door behind him.

This time, Alvin had nowhere to run.

—Submitted by Wratts

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