#the first was about being slowly irradiated to death and the second was about watching human beings slowly ground up by machinery

[crimeronan]

i woke up after horrible nightmares earlier and could walk without limping and was like "sweet! i'm cured!" then after eating food and being awake for like a half hour i couldn't keep my eyes open and accidentally fell asleep for another 7 hours and had more horrible nightmares. my first 19 hour painsleep binge in a while. recovery is not linear sometimes this happens two steps forward one step back etc etc etc but. Girl.

[yaimlight]

Prologue

The theory of how the world would finally come to an end has been the subject of heated discussion for many years, centuries even. Some believed that it would end in war, countries growing too greedy, too hateful and turning on one another until all that remained was an irradiated wasteland, rendered inhabitable by man’s own foolishness. Others believed that it would come when the sun finally died, exploding across the solar system and taking every planet with it. Then there were the ones who were convinced it would be a zombie apocalypse, a government experiment gone horribly wrong that would finally wipe humanity as it was known off the face of the planet. They were all wrong of course but it’s always nice to remember the hack theories of the past, they never fail to make people laugh.

The truth is a little more heartbreaking but to be expected. We, humanity that is, destroyed it. What with our chemicals and pollution, our lack of understanding or the ability to care for the world we were slowly poisoning. Not to mention the small case of over population, millions of people draining the earth’s resources without questioning what would happen when they ran out. We stood by and watched as we forced the world to its knees and then delivered a swift kick between the legs just for good measure.

By 2047 it had gotten so bad that we had little choice but to leave, abandoning our home planet and looking to the stars for refuge. One thousand great ships were built, arks designed to sustain the life of its crew and cargo for thirty years. It took almost forty years but eventually they were all ready, each one standing proud and waiting to carry the human race onward.

Governments promised that no person would be left behind, no living soul damned to the poisonous wasteland that was now earth. It wasn’t till centuries latter when someone finally managed to get inside the archives that the truth was brought to light. The old, sick and frail. The young and weak. The poor and uneducated. They were all left behind, abandoned, screaming and begging for some form of salvation but it never came. No one looked back, no one even felt any guilt over leaving their fellow man behind. In their desperation for survival they lost their humanity and some would say they never got it back.

The human race spread out across the stars, each ark heading in a different direction to search out a new planet to call their own amounts the vast black of space, each ship going further than any human had dared to go before. Eventually, when the ships numbers had dwindled down by almost half and with their supplies almost gone, one was found.

This planet, this new home was smaller than earth but had the same sort of atmosphere and climate. It had one sun, still relatively young and two moons, one of which was always visible in the sky no matter what time of day or night it was. It was a shimmering beacon of hope in the bleak endlessness of space, a chance for humanity to be reborn and was named according.

As was agreed a message of success was sent out into the stars but no other ark answered and after many years of failed attempts the search for the others was abandoned, the worst assumed. Great minds were lost, loved ones vanishing into the empty void of space but as the old earth saying goes; when one door closes another opens.and with the door to the past firmly shut the way forward opened up, humanity free to flourish once more.

It took no time at all for man to make their home amongst the sweeping landscapes of lush forests and crystal blue seas, learning from our forefathers mistakes. Great buildings like no one had seen before were constructed, great towers of metal and glass reaching up into the clear sky’s and glistening in the bright sun.

Technology advanced in a way that had only once existed insolence fiction but was now a reality. Cars that needed no road filled the sky’s, moving silently through the clouds like birds. Computer screens became a thing of the past, forgotten in favour of interactive holographic images and the computers themselves now so small they fit in the palm of your hand. Robotics advanced so much that most people would never know that the pretty girl that smiled at them every morning when they picked up their coffee was an Android, a swirling grinding mass of electronics and gears hidden behind soft skin and gentle eyes.

People were equals, religion forgotten in exchange for having faith in ourselves. People learnt to work together, to truly appreciate their fellow man and it was glorious. Humanity grew into a loving and peaceful race, the seemingly perfect society where no one man was better than the other, where no religion or opinion decided a nation. And so Renatus was born. The new earth. The second chance.

Centuries passed and soon the story of old earth became nothing more than a silly story to tell children at night, reminding them of the consequences of ignorance and greed. Not only on people but also the planet that had sustained our race for so long. But like the saying goes history had a bad habit of repeating itself and as it turns out perfect doesn’t last, if it was even there to start with.

Like our forefathers we found ourselves on the brink of war, a few men’s greed becoming more important than the well-being of the many. The once proud nation split down the middle, decided by their opinions and their own sense of entitlement. Friend turned on friend, father’s against sons and mother’s against their daughter’s. Family meant nothing now, everything that was becoming irrelevant in the harsh and all consuming reach of war.

The once peaceful streets ran red with the blood of the innocent and the guilty, the clear blue sky’s filled with the violent screams of battle and the pained cries of the bereaved, thousands of people were massacred in the space of a few days, burned in their homes to just cut down in the streets. Darkness consumed the world, shattering the souls of those who survived the first Great War but even amongst the darkest of times the shinning light of hope can still be found, gleaming like gold and calling those who were still willing to fight for their freedom to arms, to make a stand for what was right.

The Children of Renatus, or the COR as they were known as, swept through the cities liberating prisoners of war and bringing much needed aid to the people left in poverty, forced from their homes and left to fight for their survival on the streets. With every attack on the Senate, the Children of Renatus’s numbers swelled more and more, people finally daring to stand up against the tyrants that now ruled over the world and for a while it worked. It seemed like the COR were winning, beating back the Senate until they were on the cusp of winning but good things never do last.

Betrayed by their own leader who had been consumed by greed the location of their headquarters was given up. The COR were almost wiped out in the span of a few hours, taken by surprise and and unable to get the upper hand to defend themselves. Hundreds of men and women were slaughtered and those that were unlucky enough to survive were taken prisoner, a fate all knew was worse than death. Their screams could be heard throughout the Iustitia Praetorium as they were tortured to within an inch of their lives for information on those few who had slipped through the Senates grasp. Once they were broken, no longer the masters of their own. Ines they were publicly executed, a reminder to all that the Senate was all powerful and would always win. Resistance was futile and a,, that nonsense that went with it.

The remaining members of the COR slipped into hiding, scattering into the wind but slowly the Senate found the, eradicating them from existence. Eventually only one stronghold remained, hidden deep within the mountains of Spero. That one last small glimpse of light in the dark.

By order of the High Senate an army’s worth of men were dispatched, moving silently in the shadows of night, their intended target unaware of the hell that was about to rain down upon them. Death’s cold gaze watched them, waiting to strike and claim the souls that foolishly tried to outrun him. They hadn’t stood a chance.

I am a Child of Renatus and this is the story of how I died.

[kidneys4karev]

Jolex depression fic pls

My first jolex prompt... and my first jolex fic. I had so much fun writing this?

Talk me Down

TW - depression, past abuse

That night she dreams in shades of blue. It's the lone coloured wall from her room in the facility, far nicer than the hospital's inpatient rooms. Temporary holds didn't need pretty walls and childrens stickers, or the soft toys Jo pinched between her hands to avoid the alternative of the target being her own arms. Temporary holds were just it- temporary, which couldn't be said for the facility, where the walls were blue or yellow or pink and abstract paintings started to move if you stared at them for too long. Where people were stuck, and Jo was stuck.

But the facility was supposed to make people better, and for the most part, it had. Her meds had evened out, the ones she'd take in the morning with a blue gatorade for the energy that sleeping five hours couldn't get her. Therapy helped too, as little as she wanted to admit it- Jo wasn't exactly the kind of person to ask for or even allude to needing help. She hadn't needed people before, and God, it had taken a lot of deprogramming to remind her that now she had a whole damn village.

She was getting better. Back at work, holding steady, Jo was getting better.

And yet when she wakes up from her dreams of faded blue walls and abstract paintings, Jo knows that it's back. 

There's a heaviness set deep in her bones, an aching that irradiating from everywhere and nowhere. It's a vice, her own ribcage a weapon turned against her, tightening around her lungs until she's suffocated slowly. Her own husband would later find her blue in bed if she couldn't draw in proper breaths, but Jo knows that's not the case, because the way she's drowning is nothing she can touch or stop or fix in the safety of the OR in her dark blue scrubs. It's a mental battle with physical symptoms and God, Jo's tired of it.

Really, Jo's just tired.

Her alarm rings throughout the loft, invasive and far too loud, each beep ringing in her ears. She lets it go on anyway, despite how grating the noise is to hear. 

One Minute. Two minutes. Three minutes.

No one comes to turn it off, so she concludes that Alex's out, at the store, getting coffee, sorting something out. Knowing him and Meredith, one of them's probably having some sort of crisis over an early bottle of tequila. Either she's having boyfriend troubles and called him, or he's having issues and called her. He probably had issues with her- maybe already knows what kind of day it is. What kind of week it is.

When the beeping becomes more unbearable than the act of moving to turn it off, she rolls over and shuts it down.

Hazily, she thinks the time reads 5:30.

-

This time she dreams in indigo, a darker colour than the facility walls, rather the blue that landed her there in the first place. Paul's face lurks in the shadows, and she's there too with her arms painted violet and blue and a nasty shade of yellow. Most of that time she's blocked out, violent memories stored at the back of her mind where she won't have to face them until her next therapy session. Still, that's years of moments she's been robbed of, negative ones or not- it's her life and her trauma and her brain denied her the right to see it.

Still, she remembers fragments last night. The murky in between where he'd take her out for dinner and grip her too tightly when she'd laugh at another man's jokes. It's moments like those, peaceful on the surface, threatening underneath, that are usually lost on her. It's the safety she felt buying her first ever house at 34 Cherry Lane, and the fear she felt the first night he turned her home into a crime scene.

She wakes from the indigo to Alex coming home, the usually faulty lock clicking behind him. He's seen her still in bed and she knows it, despite her closed eyes and quiet prayers that he'll leave her alone.

But, unfortunately, in Jo's current opinion, Alex is a far better husband than that.

She can hear his footsteps slowly make their way over to her, stopping a few feet from the bed.

"Jo, it's nearly 7. C'mon." His voice is calm and steady, but Jo knows him far better than that to believe it. He's hoping she'll reply, a muttered 'five more minutes' or at least a pillow shucked at his face. He can only hope for that, laziness and sleepiness and mild irritation, because Alex knows what the alternative is.

She hums under her breath instead, something she hoped would somehow translate to 'leave me alone'. Judging by the silence, the abrupt halting of footsteps and all, Jo assumes that Alex got the message. He's seen this far too many times not to recognise it for what it is.

"Alright. You need anything?" Again, he's trying to sound casual, but it's all a poorly built facade. Alex worries, always has, always will, and it's evident by the sharp intake of breath. Despite that, she can't even bring herself to reply- luckily, her husband seemed to catch on.

"You want to talk about it?" He asks. Again, Jo doesn't respond.

"Do you want me to stay?"

Nothing.

He exhales slowly, likely nods to himself, knowing him, but she can't exactly confirm with her eyes closed. It doesn't matter anyway- she can't think about her husband's feelings without a pang of guilt, and she really can't deal with that on top of the fog.

“I’ll see you later. Call me if you need anything,” he adds, though he must know by now that it’s futile. She won't call and they both know it, but who would Alex be if he didn't try, right?

“I love you?” She knows what he’s doing, trying to provoke a response, but to her it sounded more like a question than a statement. Like he was asking if he loved her, doubting it at any sign of distress. Jo didn’t blame him- she wasn’t so fond of herself either.

It's only when the door clicks shut, cool breeze reaching Jo from the briefly open front door, that she distantly wishes she'd just spoken to him. About the facility walls and the paintings and the new memories of indigo and violet and unstable houses, but she didn't and she won't, no matter how much she knows it'll make things feel better. She doesn't tell Alex because the horrors of 34 Cherry Lane died with Paul, and Jo thinks that secrets are best kept behind blue lips.

-

He comes home early.

Time passes both agonisingly slowly and all at once in a state like hers, where the hours seem to drag on endlessly one moment, and yet the time between Alex leaving and returning seems painfully short. Disorientated, it isn’t until she sees the time that she realises he’s only been at the hospital for 13 hours, and that despite the occasional stumble to the bathroom, she’s been asleep for that long too.

Whatever- she closes her eyes and tries to fall back into her slumber, made impossible by the sound of Alex crashing about in the kitchen. Whatever he was doing, Jo didn’t know, nor care, just willing him to shut up or leave or cease to exist for a fleeting moment, just enough to return to somewhere where she doesn’t have to feel for a while.

She pulls the pillow over her ear and shoves her head into the mattress to block it out.

For the most part, it worked, though it was unclear whether the sound was properly muffled or just that Alex got the message. She didn’t know how much time had passed, but almost as quickly as she’d fallen asleep, her husband was shaking her awake again.

“You need to drink something,” he said, his voice soft, as it had been that morning. “You haven’t eaten or drank anything today, and you need your meds. C’mon.” His tone, though gentle, clearly left no room for arguments, one hand holding out a couple, small pills, the other with a plastic cup clutched in it. She exhaled slowly, propping herself up on an elbow, taking the pills from him. She washes them down with the milkshake, mildly dazed, nearly dropping the cup in the process. It’s good, something chocolatey, and it tastes damn better than the crap the hospital cafeteria offered. Still, she only drinks half of what Alex required, pushing it and him away simultaneously.

“How’re you feeling?” He asked, clearly concerned.

Jo answered him by passing out.

-

He takes four days off of work, and though she didn’t ask him to, she knew there wasn’t any room for discussion. Part of her was glad for the company, relieved that she wouldn’t be as alone in that apartment as she felt, had someone to ground her, but mostly she was pissed off. His presence was testing her patience, despite knowing he meant well, only wanted to keep her safe and make sure that she was okay, so instead of snapping at him, she opted to ignore him. She fell into a routine in those days- wake up, stumble to the bathroom,  take her meds, drink half a milkshake, sleep, repeat. He was stressed, she was tired, but it worked nonetheless.

When he has to go back to work, he sends Link, and God, she resents him for that even more. Link’s her best friend, but he doesn’t get this like Alex does, hasn’t seen her like this before. He tries his best, bless, makes stupid little comments about the TV or himself or Amelia or Alex, tries to make her smile, usually to no avail. Still, she lets him be, puts him through uncomfortably long silences that he no doubt hates more than she does, and likely scares him half to death when he finally goes home. Alex is at a loss and she knows it, but she can’t bring herself to care.

On day eight, Alex makes her crappy box macaroni, the stuff she practically lived on in highschool, still enjoyed far too much to be healthy. She manages the entire box, spread out over two sittings, making him reheat it the second time, and could’ve sworn that she’s never seen him look so happy over two dollar macaroni. The next day, she eats that and crappy takeout for dinner, watching old cartoons on the couch. On day ten, she doesn’t do any of it.

On day eleven, she watches Upstream Color on her TV just to have something to watch. She doesn’t half understand it, doubts she would on any other day, let alone one where her brain struggles to catch up to her feelings. Despite the confusion, she finds it pretty, albeit a little pointless- arctic blue seeps into her dreams, the colour of the hospital sheets that night her kidney nearly ruptures. It was starting to seem that everytime Jo closed her eyes, she was back there, replaying one horrific night after the other, with her husband- her good husband, the one who would never lay a hand on her, she had to remind herself- unable to do more than watch helplessly. Despite that, she wakes on the couch to Alex’s indigo blanket draped over her and can’t help but crack the tiniest of smiles.

-

It takes one week, four days and twelve hours for Jo to recover enough to have a conversation with him. By this time, their blue, bruised eyes have faded slightly, back to their surgeon-standard tiredness. Alex, though worried, has learned to stop watching her all night, and Jo’s slept so much that she’s not quite sure she can physically sleep anymore.

That night she theaters between her world and his, curled up on the couch with her black and white cartoons looped on the TV. This time there’s no vodka in her system, and her laughter’s not wild enough to convince her best friend she’s manic or broken or lost, but it’s enough to draw him from the bed to the couch.

He’s looking down at her, wrapping in the indigo blanket she’d claimed as her own somewhere along the way. It was his, originally, something she’d clutched and wrapped around her for months now, insisting it was nicer than anything she owned, acting like it wasn’t the way it smelled just like him. Sometimes when he was away, or on long, drawn-out shifts, she’d wrap it around her shoulders and pretend like it was him, or on the nights where she missed him dearly, but couldn’t stand to accept his arms.

Tonight, it was just a comfort, something she’d just picked up out of habit. Come to think of it, she was pretty sure that Alex had left it on the couch for her, considering that definitely wasn’t where it had been that morning.

She glanced up at him, knowing he was hesitant to sit down, to bother her before she was ready, wondering whether to push her or leave her alone. She made the call, patting the couch beside her, moving over to make room for him to sit down. Instantly, she moved to the side, leaning against him until her head was on his lap, his hands finding their way to her hair. Slowly, without prompting, he started to braid her hair- she had no idea where that idea had come from, but it wasn’t as though she was going to stop him. It felt nice, despite that fact that her hair was probably gross and greasy from her severe lack of showers.

“You feeling any better?” He asked eventually, breaking their comfortable silence. He’d been itching to ask her, and she couldn’t exactly fault him for it, despite how much it irritated her. She hummed in response, eyes still trained on the TV.

“Yeah,” she breathed. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was smiling, brown, blue-circled eyes lighting up at the simple prospect of his wife getting better. 

“That’s good,” he replied, trying to sound encouraging. That too irritated the crap out of her, but God, she wasn’t going to ruin the mood now- ruin his mood.

They lapsed into another silence, and despite that resolution, she couldn’t help but overthink. Should she be apologising? Her therapist has explicitly told her not to, that it was out of her control, something she couldn’t help and shouldn’t be held accountable for, but Jo wasn’t so sure about that. When delivering bad news, surgeons still apologised, were still held to a fault for not being about to save the life of whoever’s care they were charged with. This was still a drain on Alex’s life, whether it was down to her or not (which part of her was still convinced it was).

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, eyes fixed straight ahead, scared to look behind her and make eye contact, “I know you didn’t sign up for this.”

“Jo, this is exactly what I signed up for,” he insisted, his hair-braiding coming to an abrupt halt. “You said this might happen again, we knew that. I knew that. But when I married you, I made a vow. In sickness and in health. That hasn’t changed, Jo. It won’t change.”

She turned her head, eyes meeting with his. God, it was so obvious how tired he was, despite the improvement in sleep. Tired mentally, just like her- maybe not the way she was, but that didn’t change that fact that she’d been a shell of a person these past few days, and that had to have taken some sort of toll on him. However, she could also tell how Goddamn sincere he was- he meant every word he was saying, and that had never been more clear to her.

“For better or for worse,” she added quietly, the corners of her mouth turning up into the slightest of smiles. That set Alex off, who’s face morphed instantly from a frown to the brightest of grins. If Jo didn’t know any better, she’d have thought he’d received some sort of promotion, rather than a stupid smile, but of course, that didn’t matter to him. A victory was a victory, no matter how big or small it was.

“I love you,” he said, his voice soft in a way she knew was reserved for her and her alone. Even when they were just friends, best friends, the way he spoke and acted around her was always different than with everyone else, in a way that made her feel loved rather than lied to or singled out. For the first time a man knew how to love her, and how to show her that he loved her.

“I love you too,” she whispered.

[centarscommunity]

NIGHTMARE BEFORE DAWN

5

The Exo Hunter jolted awake and drew her knife from under her pillow. If her body had a heartbeat, it would be pounding. Her ghost sprung into readiness beside her

The Warlock in her bedroll on the other side of the yurt was already sitting up, wide eyed with reasonable amounts of fear and confusion. The hunter frantically looked around the room before locking eyes with her teammate, her metal body heaving rapidly with panicked, programmed breathing motions.

“Was it the tower again?” The warlock whispered softly. It wasn’t the first time she’d been woken by the Hunter’s Nightmares. The wind of the frozen moon outside hummed against the canvas of their shelter, making more than enough noise to keep the quiet at bay.

“HUH?!? WHAT?” The Hunter looked around and gradually came to realize that she had been dreaming. “Uhmmm. Yeah. I died. A Lot. There’s just… so many of them. I can’t ever win. I just can’t… get there….” She trailed off mid-sentence and fell back onto her bedroll, knife still in hand, her vocal modulator resumed snoring as it had been doing for the past few hours. Her Ghost, now fully awake, groaned and flew over to the warlock.

“I am so sorry, I don’t know what’s got into her recently. All Exos have nightmares about the tower but not every single night for a week. You deserve more sleep than you’re getting.”

“Oh it’s alright. She’s my friend. If my being here makes her feel safe enough to fall back asleep, then it’s just fine with me. I know she’d do the same for us.” She gestured out the airlocked entrance of the shelter towards the windy night air.

The warlock was a gentle one. Brilliant, devastatingly chaotic, and utterly unconquerable when she wanted to be. She was an invaluable member of the fireteam and though she begrudgingly acted as a healer in most raids, she took solace in the fact that she could lord her considerably lower death count over her friends because of it.

“Makes me wonder if opening the Crypt had anything to do with it.” The Ghost pondered. Her gilded shell orbited her core slowly as she spoke. “There were tons of creepy cryo-tanks with dead exo bodies all over the place while we were there. It would be traumatic for me if I had, you know, a soul. Not really sure what I’m made of to be honest.”

“Probably best not to think about it too much.” The Warlock responded. “Take care of your hunter for now. I’m going to check on the big guy. Can’t sleep anyway.”

---

Outside the wind was bitter. The night sky was a deep rich blue color like that of wet azurite. Auroras snaked though the irradiated air and danced in fantastic patterns, shimmering like abalone. The Titan sat on a ball of snow he had rolled up himself and stared out at the frozen plain.

“A bit cold, eh?” the Warlock hummed through her insulated armor as she walked towards him.

“It’s manageable.” The Titan didn’t move as he responded. “Why are you awake? It’s not your shift for watch yet.”

“She had another one.” The Warlock exhaled with disappointment. “I think it’s been getting worse for her. I don’t know how to help.”

She stood next to the titan now. His armor bore a fine coating of frost from sitting out in the cold which gave his normally dingy plating an uncanny smoothness and sparkle. “I think it was the Crypt. What do you think?”

“I think you’re right.” He responded simply.

A moment passed in silence before the Warlock replied, “…. And?”

“What?”

“That’s all? Nothing to add? ‘I think you’re right’?” She harassed. “This isn’t like you. You’re a quiet person but you’re not curt and so easily agreeable like this. What’s up?”

“The Stasis. I think it’s affected me.” He said matter-of-factly.

“It’s affected all of us, Titan.” Her tone shifted to a more concerned one.

The Titan was unmoved. His body nearly rigid as he spoke, “I don’t feel the need to disagree. Simply to act. To not consider old grievance. The Perfect Stillness must be tempering my Celestial Flames.”

“Are you still with the Light?”

“… I am just calm.” The right-side sensory lights on his helmet blinked slowly and deliberately, the left side flickered and followed suit.

“Calm.” The Warlock said to herself. “I’m calm too. But I know where I stand.” Her resolve was visible to the titan even if he wasn’t looking at her.

“How do you know? All I feel is balance. All I feel is stillness. Who is right in this fight? What is ‘right’ and ‘wrong’? The Traveler? The Winnower? Creation is purposeless without endings and destruction is meaningless without things to destroy. One creates life, the other ends it.” The Titan had turned to face his comrade by now, no anger or confusion was present in his voice. “They are halves of the same coin, Warlock. I feel as though I am the metal that binds the two.”

The Warlock sighed and looked out at the tundra. After a long pause she spoke, “Our fight isn’t about right and wrong.” She took a deep breath. “Our fight is about the choice.”

The Titan’s head cocked slightly. “Explain.”

“It’s Equity.” She said with the enthusiasm of a professor. “We are those that toss the coin, not the coin itself. Tell me, do you feel the universe is balanced right now?’

“No, it is not balanced.”

“How do you know?”

“… I … I don’t know..” His stoicism finally showing signs of cracking.

“Balance isn’t about equality. Justice isn’t about similarity. Light and Dark aren’t about black and white.” Her speech gained in momentum. “Balance and calm come from Equity. We don’t use a hammer to swat a fly and we don’t use paper to put out fires. All things in the universe require different levels of attention, different levels of ‘justice’ to create or destroy them to the POINT of balance.” Her smile showed beneath her knit scarf. “Stasis is demanding. And right now, it is demanding your sense of emotion and purpose.”

“You’re saying I’m sick?” The Titan puzzled

“I’m saying that your sense of what ‘balance’ is, is wholly inaccurate. Let me put it this way.” The Warlock cast a bolt of glistening blue crystal at the snow before them, the structure was both jagged and perfectly fractaline.

“I’ve created with darkness.” She took a small bow, eliciting a chuckle from the Titan. “Watch as I destroy with light” She cast a small jet of solar fire at the crystal, which promptly bounced off and left the structure unharmed. “What’s this?!? It didn’t work!?” Her voice sputtered rich with satire. “bUt WhY?!?”

The Titan laughed. Her acting was terrible, but it didn’t matter to him.

“It didn’t work because it wasn’t about using a destructive force to nullify a creative one.” A few seconds later the crystal collapsed on itself into increasingly smaller and smaller shards until its memory had all but vanished from the snow. “It vanished on its own. Time was the only destructive factor, not light. Darkness created and neutrality destroyed. You still with me?”

“I think so. Equity in both sides. They’re not dependent on each other and they’re both capable of either role.” The Titan stood now, his back straight and he brushed some of the frost off him.

“You’re getting it.” The Warlock put an arm around the Titan. “Our job is to protect the people that cannot protect themselves, who cannot choose which side of the coin they see, and to apply creation OR destruction where it’s needed to keep those people safe. The Darkness seeks to destroy EVERYTHING. That’s not balance, that’s not equitable, that’s not half of one coin, that’s seeking to swallow the other side of the coin.”

“I see.” The Titan turned back to the arctic horizon before them. “Your insight is invaluable and I’m glad to have you here with me.”

“Focus on protecting those who need it. Leave the pondering for the Praxic nerds. Don’t let the Stasis consume you, it’s just another form of energy.” The Warlock turned towards the horizon as well. Sol began to ever so gently shift the hue of the night sky to a lighter blue as dawn approached.

“Focus on the sunrise.” The Warlock gestured forward. “And then go inside and warm up. I’ll cover the rest of your shift.”

“Thank you, my friend.” The Titan’s voice sounded warmer.

They stood and watched the sun rise slowly over the edge of the infinite ice. The Auroras faded as the atmosphere shifted through pastels of blue to rich green, to pink, and finally to white. It was beautiful.

[ckret2]

Hand In Chelicera

Fandom: Transformers IDW, post-Requiem of the Wreckers Pairing: Prowl/Tarantulas Characters: Tarantulas, Prowl, brief appearances by Springer and Pharma Words: 4500 Summary: Tarantulas, on the verge of death, requests to be left in his lab in the past to die. He doesn’t expect to find Prowl there. He expects Prowl to save his life even less. And now—waking up on a hospital bed with Prowl, here, sitting beside him—he’s beginning to consider that maybe his plan to win Prowl back used the wrong strategy. Notes: I’ve owed @fiveboos this fic since TFCon last October. Never let it be said I don’t keep my promises. Eventually. Warnings: Remember how Tarantulas looks at the end of Requiem? He still looks like that.

###

"One—" Tarantulas grasped pleadingly at Springer's arm. "One last request. I don't—want to—die, here."

Springer nodded, optics warm and focused on Tarantulas, giving him his full attention. He was so good, such a good person, and Tarantulas had made him. "Where?"

"M-my lab," he said. "On Cybertron. Where—where you were born." He smiled, and only felt half his face move. "After my last visit, but... before Thunderwing. I'll g-give you the date and coordinates." He'd lived in his lab; it was fitting for him to die there, to be entombed until Cybertron was reborn.

Springer nodded. "Okay," he said. "Your lab."

###

The pain increased as Springer worked out the controls and put in Tarantulas's coordinates, until it was dazzling in how excruciating it was; and then it faded, rapidly, to nothing. And that was more alarming. "I—h-haven't got much—"

"I know," Springer said grimly. Tarantulas could hear the time machine powering up, and the shadows on the ceiling above him shifted in the light of the portal. "Okay, got it. Let's go."

Tarantulas felt Springer's arms under his shoulders and legs. "N-no..." He pushed weakly against Springer's chest. "My lab, is—irradiated. And, c-corrosive gasses. If you come through— I don't want to h-harm you."

Springer paused; Tarantulas's one working optic kept focusing and unfocusing on his face, and the optic band over it periodically flickered out. "Okay. I'll carry you as far as the gate. Then what, you want me to throw you through?" He smiled.

Tarantulas laughed; it wasn't a full cackle, but it was enough to rattle something in his chest that shouldn't be rattling. "Set me on the floor. I can—manage a few feet myself."

"All right." He settled Tarantulas sitting upright, leaning against the frame of the portal. It hurt far more than laying down—he could feel the weight of his remaining spider legs pulling down on his back, ripping at already-damaged armor and struts in his blasted shoulder—but it would make it easier to get through the portal.

"Goodbye—S-Springer. Ostaros."

"Goodbye, Mesothulas. And... thank you."

Tarantulas smiled at Springer—or tried to, with his face shattered and half his mandibles missing—and for a moment, he was tempted to stay here, spend his remaining seconds with his creation.

But somehow he didn't want to force Springer to watch his maker die. And so, laboriously, he turned toward the portal, and dragged himself through with one arm and the awkward help of four spider legs.

The portal turned off.

Wounds already stinging from radiation, Tarantulas collapsed to the floor of his old abandoned lab and waited to die.

###

Except, the second he collapsed, a very close, very familiar voice said, "What the hell?!"

Tarantulas forced his fading optic band back on. There was someone in his lab. His abandoned lab, millennia after his own final visit to it. His vision swam, trying to focus on the hulking figure next to him—and then all at once it was crystal clear: a mech covered head to foot in the Autobots' preferred anti-rad armor. It was impossible to see who was inside it. But Tarantulas knew. He'd heard his voice. He'd know his voice anywhere.

"Pr—" he wheezed. "Pr—o—"

Prowl stepped back, slinging a gun off his back that, even with the added bulk of his anti-rad armor, looked ill-suited in his hands. "What the hell are you? How did you get in here?" He sounded angry, the same way millennia in the future he would sound angry to be trapped in Tarantulas's web, angry to be manhandled and blackmailed and bargained with; and only now did Tarantulas realize that the anger was actually fear.

Tarantulas realized with a jolt that Prowl had no way to recognize him. This was so long ago, Prowl undoubtedly still thought Mesothulas consigned to the Noisemaze. He hadn't seen Tarantulas's new body—or a natural tarantula, for that matter—hell, for all Tarantulas knew, Prowl had never seen an organic in the flesh before. And now here was a massive technorganic in front of him, mangled so badly he was probably hard to identify even as bipedal, who had tumbled out of a mysterious glowing portal in an abandoned radioactive lab—

"It's m-me," he wheezed. "Don't shoot, P-Prowl, please—I can'tzz h-harm..." He hacked up a mouthful of green energon, rapidly congealing. "Please."

The last time Prowl had seen him, he'd tried to murder him, and surely nothing about Tarantulas's appearance looked less worthy of being murdered now; and yet, Prowl lowered his gun. "...Mesothulas?"

"Zzyes. I'm... s-zztso sorry to... die in front of you, like this—" He laughed, coughed, and choked at the same time. "It's n-not what I zzzt wanted... you to..."

Prowl took a step toward Tarantulas, knees bending like he wanted to kneel next to him; but then he stopped, and backed up. And without a word, he turned and ran away from him. Sprinting at top speed, fighting against the clunky suit to move as fast as possible.

Tarantulas tried to call to him to stay—please, Prowl, don't leave him again—but all that came out was a dispirited, staticky hiss. Tarantulas's optic froze a moment, and when it rebooted, Prowl was gone.

Well, he'd come here to die alone, hadn't he? But it was worse now. Merely being alone was far different from contemplating the Prowl-shaped void in his life. He wished Prowl hadn't been here. He hated Prowl for being here.

He stared dully down the path Prowl had taken away from him, and listened as his systems shut down one by one.

And then there was Prowl, sprinting back for Tarantulas as fast as he'd left.

Tarantulas's spark surged joyously; he felt himself die a little faster. "Przzkl... Y-you came b..."

Prowl shoved him roughly onto his back, ripped Tarantulas's chest open wider—the metal screamed—and shoved a rusty, clawed weapon into the gap. Tarantulas tried to grab Prowl's wrist, but couldn't lift his arm. Why? Why?

Tarantulas dimly recognized the weapon as his own prototype spark extractor.

He felt his soul sucked inside-out.

Then nothing.

###

The first thing Tarantulas was aware of was the bright lights on the ceiling above him.

No. No, that wasn't the ceiling.

That was a face.

It was grinning at him.

It wasn't Overlord's face, and Overlord's was the only face he expected to be within five miles of him. Where was he? What was going on? He'd been dying, hadn't he?

Tarantulas stared at the face, blearily, as it swam into focus. And then croaked, "Primus?"

"Close!" the face said. "Pharma. And I am delighted to meet you, Mesothulas. I've got so many questions to ask about your body."

Tarantulas stared in fuzzy befuddlement at Pharma. "Ah?"

"I want to know all about where you got it and how it works," Pharma said. "It's so unusual, I was barely able to patch you up! Me! And the flesh that's grafted onto the surface—it's ingenious. Disgusting, but ingenious. Who made it? I'm convinced someone did make it—Prowl thinks you were somehow mutated in, oh, some parallel dimension, he wouldn't explain it, kept saying 'classified information'—"

It took longer than it should have for Tarantulas to register the name. And then he bolted up—or tried to. He was still missing half his arms and spider legs, apparently, and ended up instead sort of sliding sideways. "Prowl!"

"Pharma," the mech over him corrected.

"No! Where's— Where's Prowl? He was with me, where did he..."

"Ah." Pharma pointed across Tarantulas's berth. "On your blind side."

Tarantulas's head whipped around ("Careful," Pharma scolded), and there Prowl was. Sitting there, looking at Tarantulas, as though that was a perfectly natural place for him to be. By Tarantulas's side. On a chair. Looking at him. By his side.

Tarantulas stared at him.

Prowl looked away.

"Spark rpm kicked up," Pharma muttered. "I told you you'd make him anxious, Prowl. Out the door, I won't have you disturbing my patient."

"No!" Tarantulas cried, twisting to give Pharma a pleading look. "No, please, let—let him stay. I want to talk to him."

Pharma stared at Tarantulas. "I did plug your brain module back in right, didn't I?"

"Pharma," Prowl said crossly. "I told you I'd need an opportunity to debrief Mesothulas once he was conscious and stable. Is he medically stable to your satisfaction?"

Pharma sighed, and circled around to Prowl's side of the berth, so he could lean in and... Tarantulas presumed he was examining his wounds, although he was still blind on that side. He could see the edge of a hole still gaping on the left side of his chest, but couldn't quite bend his neck enough to see how much of him was still missing.

"Welds still holding," Pharma said. "For now. If you absolutely must interrogate him immediately..."

"Welds," Tarantulas said dumbly, as if it had only just occurred to him that he must have had some repairs done to him in order for him not to be dead. "How—how am I still—? I was dying. How in the world—"

"Prowl hauled you in with your frame already going gray and your spark preserved in the most jury-rigged excuse for a spark extractor I've ever seen," Pharma said. "Your spark decayed slowly enough in the extractor that I was able to repair enough damage to your body to get your spark home and reignite it."

Tarantulas's gaze jerked back to Prowl, who was looking somewhere past him. He'd saved Tarantulas's life. He'd saved Tarantulas's life? He'd snapped to save him the moment he recognized the damage he was in, the moment he recognized who he was. He'd run to save him.

And with a spark extractor, of all things! Tarantulas breathed, "Ingenious."

"Yes, I know," Pharma said smugly.

Prowl glanced up at Pharma. "If you don't mind..."

"Yes, yes, I'll get out of your way." Pharma fixed Tarantulas with a sharp look. "Don't let him force you to do anything strenuous."

"Don't worry, doctor. I'm not going to do anything more strenuous than talk."

"Talk with Prowl," Pharma said pointedly. Looking at Prowl, he said, like it was a threat, "I'm going to be monitoring his vitals remotely."

Prowl nodded. "Of course."

Pharma gave Tarantulas one last critical look, then turned to leave the room. The door swung shut behind him. His footsteps disappeared down the hall. Tarantulas simply looked at Prowl, reveling in the knowledge that he was here, at Tarantulas's sick bed; and Prowl looked back at him. For several seconds, they were silent.

Then they both started talking at once.

"How did you get out of the Noisemaze?!"

"What were you doing in my lab?!"

"What did the maze do to you?!"

"Why did you save my life?!"

"I'm sorry."

"Where in the universe did you take— Wait. What?"

Prowl couldn't look at Tarantulas. He looked down at his hands, laced in front of him, elbows on his knees.

"Repeat that," Tarantulas commanded.

"I asked you a question first," Prowl said. "And, as you pointed out, I saved your life. Answer my questions first."

"Saved it?! You tried to end my life," Tarantulas snapped. Prowl half-shrugged, grimaced, and tilted his head, as though to say, fair point. "Answer to me, Prowl. Repeat what you just said. I want to hear it clearly."

Prowl frowned. "I'm not—"

"Say it!"

Prowl flinched. For most people, flinching was a sharp cringe back, submissive and avoidant. Prowl's flinch made his expression harden and his back straighten.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For locking you in an experimental torture prison without a trial and leaving you there to die."

"And?"

"'And'?"

"And 'I'm sorry for kidnapping'...?"

"Oh. I wouldn't call it a kidnapping. He was incapable of any autonomous activity, much less of taking care of himself. If I hadn't taken him along—"

"Prowl."

Prowl huffed. "All right. From the perspective of, say, the beginning of the day, it’s understandable that my actions might have been construable as a kidnapping; and on those grounds, I apologize for the perceived—“

“Prowl."

He fell silent for a moment. Then looked down again. "I'm sorry for kidnapping Ostaros."

"Sorry," Tarantulas muttered. "Sorry. Everything I went through—everything you put me through—and all you have to say is sorry."

"Sincere question," Prowl said. "Is there anything else I could say that would help you?"

And there wasn't. So Tarantulas said nothing.

In truth, it was a marvel he had even gotten that much out of Prowl. He certainly hadn't gotten that from Prowl in the future, millions of years later, when he descended upon him with the evidence of what Prowl had turned him into—what he'd turned himself into for Prowl. What was the difference? Had Prowl lost his remorse over Mesothulas in the intervening millennia? Had Tarantulas been fortunate to jump into the past at one of Prowl's periodic dips into higher morality?

No—Tarantulas doubted it. Something else had to be different. What had changed—or would change, as the case may be—between this meeting and the one in which Tarantulas had kidnapped Prowl?

... Well. "Kidnapping Prowl" was a rather large detail, wasn't it. Kidnapping him and blackmailing them. In retrospect, Tarantulas supposed that would rather keep Prowl out of any sort of reconciliatory, remorseful state of mind, wouldn't it.

Is that all it would have took? God—did he waste all that time, all those years preparing the perfect trap to dazzle and intimidate Prowl, when all along, all he had to do to receive an apology was—was—was nothing? Just turn up? Just show up with a hole blown through his spark and collapse at his feet?

It burned to think that he had—that he'd wasted all of that, for nothing.

And for a moment, he wanted to make Prowl burn too. Just a little. "I'm surprised you bothered to save me," he snipped. "When you could have far more easily just left me to die—and ensure that your little secret about you-know-where would no longer have anyone left who could spill it."

He'd expected—he'd hoped—that Prowl would look scared, or hurt, or guilty. Prowl looked none of those things. What he didn't expect was for Prowl to look confused. Was he more callous than even Tarantulas had thought? To have forgotten Carpessa? To have forgotten which secret he'd thrown Tarantulas into hell to keep?

Then something clicked on. "You think I locked you up as a—as a cover-up? To keep a secret? You weren't going to tell, you didn't have anybody to tell." (It was so true that Tarantulas couldn't even be offended.) "That's—all these years, that's what you've believed?"

Tarantulas stared at him. "... Well, I did."

"That wasn't my objective," Prowl said hotly. "I was—" He paused; and there was the guilt and shame that Tarantulas had hoped to see. Now that he had it, he wasn't so sure he wanted it after all. "I—my objective was to... to remove the thing that... caused me to make decisions like that."

Tarantulas gaped at him. "You tried to kill me because you thought I was a bad influence?" He laughed harshly, angrily. It hurt to laugh, pained the parts of him that were missing. Prowl didn't look at him. "Why would—Why not kill me again, then? If my presence is so very terrible for your decision-making capabilities? Why did you save me this time."

"Because—you weren't what was causing me to do the wrong thing." Prowl's already guilty face twisted further, into something that looked uncomfortably close to self-loathing. Somewhere in Prowl's mind must have been self-reproaches compounded upon self-reproaches: the knowledge of the crimes he'd committed—and the knowledge that he'd martyred Mesothulas for those crimes, for no reason.

Tarantulas could have told Prowl that Tarantulas was never the one making Prowl's decisions. No one had ever guided Prowl's decisions except for himself. He was too stubborn, too proud, too beautifully distant and independent. Hearing Prowl admit it, Tarantulas should have wanted to gloat. It was what he'd always wanted to hear Prowl confess: that regardless of whatever high ideals he tried to serve, his stabs at performing morality were a sham; that he could be just as wicked as Tarantulas; that he was just as wicked. Tarantulas was never the one who dragged Prowl off his pedestal of moral purity and down into the dirt: no, they had each inspired the other to dig. Tarantulas should get to gloat over this.

Instead—to his surprise—he found his anger toward Prowl softening in empathy.

Since he'd started lurking in Ostaros's—Springer's—life, Tarantulas had found himself aching inside, like acid softly eating him from the spark out, whenever he thought on all the little things he'd done to help make the world Springer lived in worse—and all the much larger things he might do yet. It was one of the reasons that, even though he'd agreed, eagerly, to collaborate with Overlord, he'd decided that they would only dissect the specimen with a time machine: any incisions they made to the past could be effortlessly sewn back shut once they'd made their observations. Springer wouldn't have to suffer for the changes Tarantulas made. Tarantulas had changed; he thought he understood what guilt felt like, now. And now he couldn't mock Prowl for feeling it. Of course he felt vile for having done little things to help make the world a little worse. He understood.

Maybe, he'd considered, guilt wasn't the weakness he'd thought it as, but a warning sign—a signpost to help guide you away from doing something you ought not do again. A defense against stupidity.

Tarantulas was beginning to fear he had been very stupid.

It was no wonder Prowl hat shot him down when he'd tried to offer the power to conquer the galaxy.

"I'm—for what it's worth," Tarantulas said, "I'm no longer interested in—trying to talk you into doing things you'd rather not. Or, trying to convince you that you want to do something you don't think you do." Was that true? Tarantulas didn't know; but he thought Prowl would probably like for it to be true.

He didn't look like he liked it. Bitterly, he said, "I don't need your help to make decisions I don't want to." And then sat up straighter, smoothed his face from guilty to professionally neutral, visibly changing the topic. "I don't know how you got out of the Noisemaze. But, whatever your trick was—I'm—glad that you did."

Tarantulas perked up. "Oh? Did you miss me?"

"Do I have to have missed you to be glad you didn't die?"

That wasn't a no. "Did you miss me?"

Prowl harrumphed. "I wouldn't say that."

Tarantulas tilted his head toward him, smiling. The gesture hurt. "What would you say?"

"That..." Prowl tipped his head back, looking up at the ceiling, choosing his words carefully. "That—I have—been unsuccessful in finding an inventor to collaborate with who has—been as... responsive to my requests as you were. Do not mistake me, the Autobots have a plethora of scientists, engineers, and inventors more than competent enough to meet any requests I make—but they don't tend to innovate on my proposals the way you did. That's all."

Which was clearly, blatantly intended as a brush-off. I didn't miss you; all I missed was the things you made for me. But Tarantulas's spark spun faster anyway; his spark monitor undoubtedly would indicate an increase in the rpm again. Millennia in the future, Tarantulas would say to Prowl, I miss the way that you inspired me; and here, now, millennia in the past, Prowl had said to Tarantulas, I miss the way that you were inspired by me. The statements made a Möbius strip out of their mutual longing, each infinitely flowing into and looping back around to each other. Each the muse to the other.

And with that realization, he wondered, suddenly, what this strange new Prowl that paralleled Tarantulas's words and didn't cringe away from him would do if Tarantulas touched him. If Tarantulas reached out, took his hand, or cupped his face and pulled him in...

He tried to roll onto his side to stretch his one functioning arm toward Prowl; but doing so rolled him onto the wounded ruin of his shoulder and chest, and he curled in on himself, hissing in pain.

"Mesothulas!" Prowl's hands were on him, on his chest and shoulder, pushing him to roll flat on his back. "Don't do that." Prowl was standing to lean over Tarantulas, frowning down at him—annoyed or worried? It must be worried. Please, let him be worried. "Haven't you seen how bad your wounds are?"

In wonder, Tarantulas said, "You're touching me."

Prowl paused. "Of course I am." As if there were anything "of course" about this.

"Tell me again," Tarantulas said, "that you didn't miss me."

Prowl didn't. He looked away, lifting his hands off of Tarantulas's body. Tarantulas grabbed the wrist of the hand leaving his chest and pulled it back into place. Prowl didn't try to withdraw again.

"I missed you, Prowl."

"I can't imagine why."

"Can't you?" Tarantulas ran the fang at the tip of his chelicera-thumb in the gap between Prowl's wrist and hand.

Tarantulas wasn't sure whether Prowl shivered or shuddered. "That—whatever is protruding from your armor—"

"It's called setae."

"Does it—spread? Is it contagious?"

Tarantulas chuckled wheezily, at the same time as he found himself wondering whether Prowl, this Prowl, this younger Prowl had yet to set foot on an alien world and see organics for himself. "It is wholly contained to my own body, never fear."

"We can remove it while you're here getting all your other repairs."

"No, no." Tarantulas started to shake his head and immediately regretted it. "It's supposed to be there. I'm keeping it."

"Why? What's—What is it for?"

They were drifting frustratingly far from their original topic, and just when Tarantulas felt he was on the verge of persuading Prowl to admit something—something Tarantulas hadn't thought was there—something he so desperately needed to have confirmed. "If you don't like how it feels, then touch me somewhere else." He let go of Prowl's wrist, allowing him to withdraw completely if he wanted to. He felt like he was taking a deadly risk—but he'd already tried to force Prowl into choosing him, and see how that had all fallen apart. See how he'd said I want you, I want us, and Prowl had said you're asking if I'm frightened to face the repercussions of my terrible judgment: no. What he needed now was to see whether Prowl would choose him if he was free to make the choice, free of fear and blackmail and hostages and kidnapping.

For a moment, Tarantulas was terrified he wouldn't. Prowl bristled at the dare, pulling his hand back quickly; but then leaned back in, and closer, and cupped Tarantulas's face in his hand. His fingers fit perfectly in the corrugated grooves of Tarantulas's cheek. Tarantulas felt light enough to float.

"I shouldn't be doing this," Prowl said. Tarantulas had never heard him speak so softly before. "You're so injured."

"I'd be even more gravely injured if you pulled away from me now."

"Difficult to imagine. I can see your exposed brain module."

"Then I'm glad you get to see my best assets."

Tarantulas could have sworn that Prowl's face almost shifted, like he wanted to smile. "Stop that." He bent closer to Tarantulas, optics dimming—Tarantulas's vents hitched—Prowl's lips ghosted softly over the tips of Tarantulas's outstretched mandibles—

Footsteps pounded down the hallway. "I don't know what kind of torture you normally put your agents through, Prowl. But as long as this one is my patient, I will not stand idly by while his spark RPMs give off readings better suited to pulsars than to—" Pharma opened the door, took one step in, immediately backpedaled, and slammed the door.

Prowl jerked back, and when his lips left Tarantulas's face it felt like being paralyzed with a rush of icy wind. For a moment, there was silence.

"I'll check in on Mesothulas later," Pharma said through the closed door. His footsteps hurriedly vanished down the hall.

Tarantulas gave Prowl the best pleading look he could with half a visor and a broken optic. Prowl shook his head, and sank back into his seat. "You're injured," he said, yet again. "I shouldn't risk exacerbating it."

"I won't always be injured," Tarantulas said hopefully. "Then...? Or, when that day comes, will this be—just another mistake you've made with me?"

Tarantulas tried his best to keep the question gentle. Prowl winced anyway. "I hope not. But I don't know," he said. "I'm tired of making mistakes. It's going to keep happening, I know, that's life, but—I don't want you to be one again."

"What do you want me to be to you, then?"

Tarantulas was disappointed but he supposed he wasn't surprised when Prowl didn't answer.

"We can figure that out," Tarantulas offered. "Together, with time." Prowl at least nodded in agreement to that—oh, the relief. Tarantulas was getting a second chance. This one he wouldn't squander. He'd do anything Prowl asked, make anything Prowl wanted—that was all Tarantulas had desired in the first place, after all. He had knowledge of technologies that wouldn't exist for millions of years—he could become their inventor, dazzle Prowl with designs he'd never dreamed of. He had just enough knowledge of the war that he could steer Prowl away from the actions Tarantulas knew he would regret, oh, how grateful Prowl would be to Tarantulas for that—imagine! Tarantulas playing the part of Prowl's conscience! And soon enough the war would end—

The very fuel in Tarantulas's lines froze.

The war would end. And then the other Tarantulas would storm in, brimming with blackmail and greed.

He was out there already, no doubt. At this point in history he'd already escaped the Noisemaze, begun his long pilgrimage across the universe to learn from the luminaries of science. How long was it yet until he turned his attentions back to Prowl? If Tarantulas went through with his plan to provide Prowl with the wonders of the future, how long until his younger self deduced that Prowl had adopted a new pet scientist, and became fiercely jealous?

"Prowl—" Tarantulas reached for him, chelicera weakly pointed toward Prowl's hands. By now, Tarantulas had no idea whether or not to expect Prowl to take it.

But he did. Prowl scooted to the edge of his seat, and took Tarantulas's hand in both of his. He even ran his thumb, lightly, over the back of his chelicera, as though studying the way his setae bent under the pressure and then snapped back into place.

He'd deal with his younger self. Perhaps he'd teach him how to make a time machine of his own, and let him shunt himself off to another branch timeline where he could claim a Prowl for his own. But he'd kill him if he had to. He could do that. He was sure he could.

Tarantulas squeezed Prowl's hands, looked in his optics, and said, softly, "I'm not going to lose you again. I refuse to lose you again."

The look Prowl gave Tarantulas said that he was thinking the same words.

###

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[bibliotechnician]

climax

Versus Dresden

Sorry this took so long; I initially had plans to write THE WHOLE THING OUT but decided last minute to cut it in half.If you want more, tell me.

~INSPIRATION~ X X

She can see it from the rise, a ruin on a crumbling riverbank. Volk was born here, back when it was lush and busy. She barely remembers those days, snippets of its glory only in dreams and fuzzy memories.

The city is a husk now, a few towers still standing proud against the sky and the gleam of the university across the Elbe all that remains intact. The castles and state buildings and churches gloriously shining in old pictures barely remain. It has taken twenty years, but she is here. Here, where the nightmares originate and penetrate her headspace.

Dresden. 

The name is a curse, those in Berlin and Leipzig and the countryside are afraid to even think about it, much less utter its name. They’re probably afraid that acknowledging it in any way will give it power, like an old angry god. Looking at it after hearing the sirens wail for herself a few days prior from Leipzig, the last spit of civilization in the area, she can understand the fear and paranoia that permeate the minds of mortals.

She has listened to the stories and read the reports of events that transpired here, kept meticulously by those in Berlin. No one lives here, not anymore. The crater created by the rogue warhead that decimated the entire population is visible from her position, the devastation from it fanning in all directions and telling the story better than any oral or written history. She balances out her arsenal across her body, changes the filter on her mask, and begins her way into the valley.

The trek from her vantage toward the mass tomb below is slow and calculated. Her guides have long since split ways from her, afraid of how the city will react to their presence. The crumbling walls of what used to be suburbs have scribbled and painted warnings in a multitude of colors and mediums about what to expect. 

Warnings about the voices, the visions. Warnings that don’t make sense now, but she is sure will make sense later. 

They end not too far into the city, denoting an invisible barrier where the world outside of it simply ceases to exist. A bubble where no sound penetrates, startling when she realizes she can’t hear the dosimeter at her waist clicking incessantly as it has since she entered the outskirts. The silence is oppressive, a pressure on her inner ears that incites tinnitus and roots a familiar paranoia in her head. It pushes in on her and she can almost see the ribbed walls of the tunnels she grew up knowing. Feels the familiar anxiety of being enclosed, trapped.

Given all she has heard and read of Dresden and its condition, is it playing off her fears? Something to subdue her, maybe, make her weak or more susceptible.

Susceptible to what…

She uses that hyper-vigilance of hers, acquired over her long stint in the Russian State Library, to concentrate on something other than the claustrophobic weight starting to push in from the unnatural stillness. Though she holds her faithful Tikhar at the ready and scans every avenue and every side street and every alleyway, she notes with further apprehension that there is nothing. Not even vermin mutants scurrying for cover from an intruder in their territory. That is worrisome, the thought that not even something as common as Lurkers and rats have taken residence here causing her lips to draw thin.

She looks down the crumbling road she has been following, unable to see any other living thing. The only thing left among the unsettling waves of decaying asphalt are the bodies of unfortunate Stalkers who have come before her. It seems Dresden has not yet had her fill of blood.

The toe of one of her boots nudges an arm and she kneels beside the body it’s attached to, inspecting it for a cause of death. From one angle, it looks like this one simply keeled over in the middle of the street, their equipment rusting and neglected. Certainly not killed by another opportunistic human being and without any sign of animal attack she can see. 

She pulls the body toward her, repositioning it to find the cause of death, and falters as soon as the front comes into view. The clothing and protective suit have been burned and melted in patterns vaguely resembling human hands, the skin beneath charred to the point it smears blackened grease over her gloved fingers.

She leaves it and rises again quickly, looking around slowly once more and straining every sense she can into trying to read the city. Once more, all she is met with is uneasy silence. Her metaphoric hackles raise as she steps over the dead Stalker and continues on, her hands gripping the pneumatic rifle a little bit tighter to calm her creeping nerves.

She is careful to check her entire field of vision, certain that something must live here. Something humanoid, something that apparently likes fire. She walks a little bit faster down the road, aiming for what constitutes as downtown. Usually the heart of any city, she is almost sure that she will find something there, waiting for her.

After all, though Volk remembers little of it, Dresden flows in her veins like her lifeblood. It has been calling to her and others like her, she is sure of that now.

Nothing manifests, save for an eerie feeling of eyes watching. Not from one location, but from everywhere. She looks all around her to prove that there is no one and nothing there. At least not in a tangible form. It’s likely the city itself is watching her progress, and the thought unsettles her a little more. 

A flash stops her as she comes to a broken intersection, poles knocked askew adding to the surreality of the scene that comes and goes. So brief, and yet so provocative. She can still see the image burned quickly into her eyes, hear the murmur of the sudden onslaught of sound, smell the tang of life on the air. It’s gone the next instant. Though she was sure it was there a second ago, she is also aware that it wasn’t there at all.

A memory, maybe. A replay of something that might have been there once, but isn’t anymore.

The history that lies buried in the city is revived by the prospect of one of its own among it. A facade flickering into life, perhaps as a welcome. Maybe a threat. So early in the journey makes it hard to say just yet.

She walks passed the intersection, slowly making her way deeper into the city. A change makes her pause, scuffling to a stop in the middle of the street. It’s subtle, and it takes a moment for her to pinpoint what it is. There is a faint breeze swirling over the ground, centered on her lower legs and tugging the looser portions of her pant legs. 

It isn’t so much that the wind is blowing that makes her increasingly unsettled. Wind is nothing new, even to an irradiated world. There is an ebb and pull to this one, however, not unlike something is breathing. She ignores the fight-or-flight that ignites in her chest, causing her own breath to flutter behind the respirator. It’s a learned reflex to ignore such an instinct, probably a stupid one. But every instance she has ignored it saved her rather than been her end, so a small measure of stupidity is a good thing, she reasons.

The world shifts again. The vision is a little longer than the first flash, enough she can read the small rectangular plates on the cars zooming passed her, ignoring the bumps and dips in asphalt that has been liquefied and hardened in waves. They stay long enough for the feeling of their wakes to overtake her body, a shiver of pressure changes; to hear the rumble of their engines and the creak of their shocks; to smell the acrid exhaust pouring from them. The buildings around them shimmer, an illusion of towering structures in their glory days, ghostly silhouettes of people walking the sidewalks as though nothing changed.

But things have changed, and the memory is incomplete.

The glass in the car and building windows is a bit too dark, hiding figures and shapes from view. The features on faces and bodies of citizens going about their days are blurred and indistinct. There is something there, something that might have given the figures identity long ago, but it is muddled and destroyed now. These people are all Dresden, she knows. These are no longer real, they are only recollections to be learned from.

It drifts away again, rolling from behind her and leaving only ruin. A reminder that the city had life once, or maybe a warning that it still does on some level of existence. The latter is more frightening to her. A dead city, she can handle, but one that refuses as a whole to stay dead is a terrifying prospect. It makes it unpredictable. 

She tries to argue the point that she is used to unpredictability. She conquered the unconquerable in Moscow, the Russian State Library, and more importantly, found a way to predict the supposedly unpredictable inhabitants inside. That is a feat in and of itself and of that accomplishment, she is proud. But an animal or one person is a much different idea of unpredictable than an entire city. One consciousness is not so much a hurdle against the collective of hundreds of thousands of identities all playing at once.

Dresden is just that type of unpredictable that scares her rather than makes her crave the challenge. Even if it seems calm and welcoming now, the underlying predatory nature she keeps seeing poke through its facade tells her that this is a beast with its eyes -hundreds of thousands of pairs of eyes- watching her every move. She is far out of her league here, left hoping that her birthright keeps her safe long enough to see this through.

The embankments built along the riverside are crumbling with age, falling into the dark caustic depths of the Elbe and in some places taking the road with it as well. Entire chunks of land have disappeared into the churning cauldron of the river that slices the city in two, and even through the filter of the mask, she can smell it as she comes to it, avoiding the raw edges of earth as much as possible. With no support, her weight could be enough to send her falling in with chunks of road and wall. 

Bending carefully over the edge where the wall is most stable, the water below is thick and foamy. A sludge more than a liquid colored dark green beneath an oily black. It looks almost still at first glances, but if she stares at it long enough, the ribbons of color in it are clearly flowing. 

She pointedly ignores the yawning crater across the river from her, the source of death and destruction, though she notices her Geiger clicking again through the muddled haze hanging over the city’s interim. A warning there is little safety here. A ripple catches her attention around the center of the Elbe, a raised series of humps rising from the depths to distract her from the abyss on the other side. At least there is something still alive here…

She knows she probably should feel something for the city, she should feel a tug at her heartstrings for seeing her native home like this. But truth be told, she feels nothing. 

Was it too long ago that she can’t remember it? She was four years young and in Moscow when the world came to its end, ushered into the depths of the metro system there instead of living here to apparently be blown to pieces or melted or to die barely a year later in excruciating pain. She remembers so little of Dresden, save snippets in dreams and in the faces of the night terrors that have gripped her as long as she can remember. She simply can’t dredge anything up for the doomed city she is greeted with.

She takes a step back in time to hear a mechanical sound issue from a pole behind her. It stutters at first like someone clearing their throat before whirring to life. An unmistakable cry from the melted metal amplifiers at the top of it, warbled and wobbling but still a sound that will forever haunt her nightmares. The wail of an emergency siren is hard to forget, no matter how long ago you heard it in full practice. Drills can never prepare someone for an actual emergency, and for her, she will always see the flood of panicked people and the tall buildings of Moscow framed by the blinding light of missile trails. 

That is all Volk can see now, even though she stands in the dead city of Dresden, with the entire city flickering around her with unspoken histories in time with the network of sirens crying around her. They echo off the crumbled walls and sticky waters of the river, reverberate against the supports of the defunct bridges. Around and around and around the sound goes, around and around and around the memories fly, like someone has turned on a projector and is clicking repeatedly through the slides at a pace too rapid to read what’s on each one, a patchwork of everything trying to occupy one space at once, and it drowns out even her rememberings of the end of the world.

Firestorms and mourning and rebuilding and life and firestorms and rebuilding and mourning and life. Over and over again, she has to close her eyes against it, pulling her hands from the Tikhar to rest against her head to block it out. There is a wild cacophony of sight and sound, assailing her so fast that it blocks out and overwhelms the attempts to keep up with any of her other senses.

She hunkers down as though making herself smaller might save her from the onslaught, hearing as the siren begins to wind down. Hearing as the sounds of the city’s memories start to discern themselves to fit their places in time better. Hearing as the last replay settles on the firestorm that first leveled the city to the ground, long before she was born.

The shrieking jolts her from her poor attempt to block the world out and the sight that meets her is one she knows she won’t forget. The drone of airplane engines, the crack of explosions. Shouting and screaming and crying, the flickering shadows of people running for cover either in buildings still standing or futilely trying to find a shelter. 

It lingers longer than the other visions, but it has good reason to. Such an event would leave a scar on a city. Despite her indifference to this place, the experience leaves a sort of ache in her chest.

It takes a moment after the city settles back to normal for her to realize the sobbing still persists. Changing her filter out takes all of a second before she turns around with a shuffle of her boots on the ebbed asphalt, a clack of her equipment punctuating the movement.

Hunkered in the doorway of a building not far from her is a silhouette. Something faint and barely recognizable against the backdrop of the space behind it. Some part of her brain tries to tell her that it’s a human shape, grasping for something familiar in an unfamiliar landscape such as this. The rest of it tells her that it’s wrong. She’s not sure how, simply that it is.

Cautiously, she makes her way toward it, leaving the crumbling bank of the Elbe and paying especial mind to the empty doors and windows of the ruins still standing. If this thing lives here, there could be more of them. She doesn’t like surprises much in uneasy territory, especially cities like this, and works to avoid them while still maintaining full visual of the thing in the door ahead. So far, so good…

As soon as she comes close enough to it, it stops crying and looks up at her like a startled child caught doing something wrong. The motion stops her as well, met with an elongated head and stick-like body, a pair of bright white circles where eyes should be taking up most of its face. It’s vaguely humanoid, though completely colored an unremarkable charcoal grey, save the eyes. No distinguishable features, just a stick figure like those drawn by children across concrete walls. It doesn’t feel inherently malevolent, but she still doesn’t know what to make of it and she grips the Tikhar and tenses just in case. She’s encountered nothing like this, in Moscow or even in her journey here.

She tries talking to it, but before she can croak out any words, it turns and darts into the yawning abyss of the doorway it sits in. Probably its nest.

Volk doesn’t follow it. Following something you don’t know is stupid, and there is only a margin of stupidity she allows herself to experience and use to her advantage. Although it feels friendly enough, if scared, she knows nothing about this thing. For all she knows, it could use this tactic to lure prey into a hive of its brethren and any overly-trusting Stalker is torn apart.

However, self-preservation is not the same as curiosity, and she can’t help but bend slightly to look into the building. She can barely make out the humanoid bounding up a flight of broken stairs a short ways in. The walls seem unnaturally black, a loud shuffle of movement reaching her ears as pinpricks of white light appear across them facing toward her. 

No. Those are not lights, and the realization of it causes her to move away slowly and turn to leave, feeling her hackles raise instinctively toward the presence of possibly hundreds of the creatures all knowing she is there. Though their collective intent is unknown, she doesn’t want to stick around to find out.

The impression of being watched grows almost tenfold after she discovers the hive and careful glances into other buildings proves that the one she found is not the only one. Curious white orbs appear from doors and windows, offering vortexes of them into cloudy depths beyond ruined walls. These things are everywhere, she concludes. While they seem to be harmless and more fascinated by her presence now, that wonderment could turn into something more sinister. 

A glance over her shoulder as she walks down the center of the riverside roads eases her fear of being followed or hunted by them; despite the eyes peering at her, they seem reticent to leave their hovels and the streets remain clear of them. She doesn’t have to fear these things it seems, numerous as they are, but it occurs to her that they might be a prey species. And where there is prey, there are usually predators. What big nasty thing is waiting for her? Her grip tightens on her pneumatic rifle and her awareness sharpens just a bit more. She can only hope she catches it before it catches her.

She passes one bridge, missing its center supports and therefore an entire section of it to the stew-y waters of the river. The base foundations of the missing columns stick out like eerie sentinels, memorials to a monumental effort that stood the test of time for centuries. A second bridge further down the road is in much the same condition as the first, entire sections washed away while other supports poke like spires from the mire, parts of the rugged path on top crumbling away as she walks steadily passed it. 

The city has been quiet since the siren, she notes as she approaches a third bridge, scrambling up the embankment to the road leading to it to get a better look at it. This one is mostly intact, enough someone with sure feet could navigate it across the river fairly easily. The wind whistles over the pavement, still ebbing like breath. It seems to tug more fervently at her now, pulling her toward the bridge. Or maybe that’s her paranoia talking, it’s hard to tell here.

Something feels off about the bridge the more she looks at it and she feeds into the flight of the reaction this time to turn around and move away from it. As soon as she turns her back on it, the city reacts. A whoosh of air is pulled around from behind her and blown back in the direction of the bridge. It’s accompanied by the hellish blare of what can only be every functional siren within city limits firing at once, a continuous single note that deafens her and throws her off balance, knocked off her feet by the wind. She rolls awkwardly across the broken road toward the bridge a few times, a tangle of flailing limbs and equipment, her hands trying to find purchase in the cracks beneath her amid the confusion, when it stops abruptly.

Her ears are ringing, an odd sensation in a place where foreign noise is already dampened. Her head is rattled, staying on the ground long enough to regain her bearings before pushing herself to stand. She stumbles once before finally rising upright, looking toward the bridge again. The blast has pushed her closer to it than she thought it did, almost onto it. The toes of her boots barely touch the edge of the threshold. This was a statement, a demand, an order.

Dresden wants her to go to the bridge.

Volk furrows her brow and draws her lips thin behind the respirator as she imagines what is waiting there. Is it on the other side of the river? Will the bridge collapse underfoot halfway across and let her be swallowed by the soupy river below?

“Maybe there’s a troll.” she mutters to herself, cutting the returned silence like a dull knife. 

Her voice sounds different, like she’s speaking through a heavy blanket. But the audible joke helps ease some of the tension of the unknown ahead. She takes a deep breath and lets it give her the courage to take a step onto the bridge.

Reality shifts as soon as she puts her foot down, a flickering return to the passive visions that greeted her, a modern world before the warhead hit. Even though she knows it’s not real and can’t hurt her, she still moves out of the way of a truck barreling down the road toward her. The facade is so solid, she swears she feels the rush of air as it passes her harmlessly and the rumble in the road below, breathing in the caustic exhaust even through the mask. 

She reminds herself these are just ghosts, no matter how real they appear to be. Still, she steels herself against the onslaught of oncoming traffic in this dream, feeling something of a shiver she can’t quite describe every time one passes through her. If it weren’t that she can still feel the unstable true bridge beneath her, she would move to the side or middle to lessen the discomfort of staring fake death in the face.

Placing every foot carefully to test the way the ground shifts is slow, but she is able to avoid pits and soft spots hidden by the memory. This is the longest she has experienced one; even the firestorm didn’t last this long. It gives her a chance to stop at one point to look around and admire the city in its glory days. 

It does more than just show her what it used to be. It awakens a nostalgia from the glittering towers of the city center to the cold mountain water of the Elbe, dark and cunning in its apparent calmness. There is something here, in this moment, that manages to pull at some long-lost memory of her own, a flash of watching the river zoom away, leaving one bank behind to pull at the opposite. 

A child’s laughter, echoing as though far away, a woman talking in sweet melodic tones and the smooth deeper ones of a man, both familiar to her. Nothing said is coherent but the skyline and knowing the whole world was out there…

The cold indifference melts slowly away to be replaced with an aching longing trying to bubble from her chest upward. The horror stories of the city swallowing and devouring blood for sport cannot change the feeling that this hellscape of a city is still ingrained in her bones and is in part the reason for her very existence. 

It cannot change the fact that standing here, ignoring the replay of traffic and the busyness of people, she is home.She is meant to be here.

“Ah. You have returned to me.”

It takes a moment for her to translate the words spoken to her. She has spent so long with Russians speaking Russian that her native German doesn’t immediately click. The voice is also incredibly strange, the sound of many voices overlapping and merging and layered. But it isn’t just human voices she is hearing. The syllables and annunciations are made up by all manner of just noise, albeit giving it an overall monotonous buzz. The voices in the layers made up of the memory of sounds of a bustling living city. The cars zooming passed, the low chatter of people on the streets, the lapping waves of the Elbe against the embankment walls and bridge supports below.

She turns slowly to view the newcomer and is greeted with a sight as strange as the voice it uses. Existing at the center of the bridge at halfway across is the shape of a human. Not a solid being, but more like someone cut out the shape of a generic human being from the fabric of space-time itself. In the frame of its silhouette is the world opposite the memory that envelopes this pocket of space Volk stands in, the real world of crumbling structures and clicking dosimeters. 

There is something else about a quarter of the way up the bridge from the other side, something clearly quadrupedal, large, and stocky in build. Any distinguishing features are hidden by the writhing curtain of white-hot electricity that covers it head to toe to tail. Its hulking form stomping up the road methodically is menacing at best.

“Do not mind The Collider, Blood of My Blood. It is only here to guide you.” the human silhouette tells her, though it doesn’t move in any definitive expressions she can read. The voice isn’t helping read its mood, either. “Welcome home.”

[randomwordsandstormydays]

The One Where Garrett Loses His Husband

Have another snippet from one on my OC’s lives: Garrett Thomas. This writing is about exactly what the title says, you get to see how Garrett, a Brotherhood Knight, loses his husband Andrew.

TW: character death

The transformation starts slowly, and at first Garrett just thinks that his husband is sick. The fatigue and sore throat can be explained away easy enough using that assumption, and his worry is satiated. When Andrew’s hair begins to thin and then fall out, they worry it’s radiation poisoning, and Garrett secretly steals a few radaways from Dr. Cade’s medical supplies. No amount of medicine seems to help, however, and Andrew makes a joke that he’s just getting old.

It’s only when helping his husband change one night that he realizes exactly what’s happening.

There’s a patch of skin starting from Andrew’s lower back that snakes its way across his left side before coming to rest right below his shoulder blade. It’s dry and patchy, a deep reddish purple in color, and feels like leather to the touch.

Andrew is turning into a ghoul.

In the back of his mind, Garrett always knew that this was a possibility. His husband works down in the kitchen, working with raw food and wasteland creatures, that put out rads at higher than recommended levels. Every time they cook anything Andrew is exposed to radiated and mutated meat and contaminated, irradiated water. People that work on Andrew’s team and in his section are more likely than others to experience the adverse effects of long term exposure to radiation. Garrett always just assumed he’d get rad poisoning… not this.

“Babe, what’s wrong?” Garrett realizes that he’s frozen, fingers still hovering over the edge of his husband’s skin. He’s not sure what to do, does he tell him? Does he keep it a secret? Brotherhood protocol states that he must report this development to his superior officer, but this is Andrew, the man who saved him from himself, the love of his life. Could he really just turn him in? He pictures Andrew being taken away from the compound, dragged into some dirty alley, shot, killed, body left for the scavvers.

No. The answer is no.

“Nothing, love,” he punctuates his words with a gentle kiss to his husband’s shoulder, prays that his voice is steady, “I just forget how handsome you are sometimes.” It’s not technically a lie, but the words taste bitter on his tongue anyways.

He must not be shaking enough for his husband to notice because that gets him a laugh. Andrew spins in his embrace and loops his arms around his neck. “How can you say that when I look like this now?” The question is asked with humor, but Garrett can read sadness behind his eyes.

He leans down and kisses Andrew, feels something inside his chest shift when his husband sighs into his mouth, realizes that it’s his heart. When he pulls back the doubt is gone, replaced by adoration. “I don’t care if all your hair falls out and never comes back. You’ll always be handsome to me.” Garrett loves the blush that slides across Andrew’s face, it always happens when he gives a genuine compliment, or bares his honest feelings.

“I love you, you know? Forever and always.” Andrew mutters against his lips as he leans in for another kiss.

“I love you, too.” Garrett refuses to think about how long their forever will be.

It’s two weeks later when Andrew learns the truth.

Garrett is just coming off of his shift in the belly of the Brotherhood’s newest technological feat: The Prydwen. He’s tired, sore, and hungry, but all of that fades when he opens the door to his and Andrew’s room and find his husband sitting on the edge of their bed, head in his hands. All is silent in the room except for two things: the low hum of the machinery that can be heard all over the compound, and his husband’s hiccuping cries.

He doesn’t think, just drops his goggles onto the floor and drops down next to Andrew, sliding into the space between his legs and lifting his head with his hands. “Andrew, what’s wrong?” There are tear tracks down both of his cheeks and his eyes are red and puffy, clearly he’s been crying for a while. Twice Andrew goes to speak, but nothing comes out but another sob. Garrett turns his body so that he can hold him tighter before running a hand up and down Andrew’s back, trying to soothe him with the gentle touch. He has no idea how long he kneels there, holding his husband and trying to think of some way to help, but it’s long enough that his back cracks and his knees ache when Andrew finally pulls back.

There’s no eye contact between them when he gets an answer, even though Garrett tries to catch his husband’s eye. “It’ll be easier to show you.”

Garrett rises from the floor and takes a step back, giving Andrew room to maneuver. Wordlessly he watches as Andrew lifts up his shirt, exposing his upper body. Garrett’s mouth goes dry as his husband turns, showing off his back. The patch of ghoulified skin has spread, now spanning the entire bottom half of Andrew’s back, half of his left side, and stops at the very base of his neck. The sight sends dread through his entire body, did Andrew figure this out on his own, or did someone else spot it?

It’s only when the shirt falls back into place and Andrew turns around that he realizes that he never responded. Something in his face must give away that he knew because the devastation on Andrew’s face turns into scrutiny and confusion.

“Did you… did you already know?”

After a moment of hesitation, he nods his head, once, quick. Anger sparks behind Andrew’s eyes and he stalks forward until he’s right in front of Garrett.

“Why the hell would you keep this from me?” His voice is tainted with venom and Garrett can feel it begin to poison him from the inside out. Andrew has never spoken to him like that before, full of anger, hate, betrayal, and pain. He knows the only way to explain himself is with the truth.

“Because I was scared.” His voice cracks on the final word and Garrett lets out a shuddering breath. “I was terrified that if I told you that you’d want to turn yourself in, that somehow they’d find out,” tears prick at his eyes but he doesn’t move to stop them as they begin to slide down his face, “that they’d take you away and I’d never see you again.”

He reaches up to grasp at Andrew’s face, needing to feel him. “I know I should have told you, I shouldn’t have let you find out alone,” Andrew no longer looks half a second away from shooting him, more like he’s a breath away from collapsing instead, “but I wanted to live in denial a little longer, pretend that you were going to be okay.”

Andrew collapses into his chest and immediately Garrett raises his hand to hold him. They’re both quiet for a very long time, no words are spoken as the reality of their situation swirls in the air around them, squeezing at Garrett’s lungs. He takes a deep breath, trying to fight the panic that is creeping across his throat, tightening against his skin. He needs to stay calm, if not for himself then for Andrew. At least one of them needs to keep a level head, and he can’t expect the man who’s turning into a ghoul to hold that responsibility.

The silence breaks, cracks in half with two words, spoken against Garrett’s chest and muffled by his shirt. “What now?”

“I don’t know.” He answers honestly. “Our choices aren’t great.”

There aren’t many options before them, each one less appealing than the previous. They could run away, try and fall in with the people of the Capitol, and spend the rest of their lives on the run from the Brotherhood. They could keep Andrew’s condition a secret, run the risk of getting caught, both of them executed or, even worse, Garrett could be banished while Andrew is killed. Or, they could go to their leadership, beg to be released from duty, pray that they’ll let Andrew leave, and that they’ll let Garrett go with him. None of these appeal to the couple.

One look at his husband’s face and Garrett can tell that Andrew doesn’t want to make this decision. Anything he does potentially puts them both in danger and he would never make a decision that would put Garrett in harm’s way. So, he makes the choice for Andrew.

“We’ll keep it a secret, for now. Until I can get a feel for what Paladin Fenris might do or say.” He pulls back so he can make eye contact. “I won’t say anything to him if I think he might try to take you away. I’m not leaving you to go through this alone.” He leans down to press their foreheads together. “I’m with you until the end.”

Their end, their forever, comes sooner than either expected.

Garrett is working on fixing a leaky compressor, when Paladin Fenris approaches him. “Knight Thomas, your presence is requested. You are to report to Paladin Hopson at once.” Once he responds in the affirmative his leader turns and makes his exit. He’s gone quick enough that he doesn’t see the way Garrett’s hands begin to shake or the way his breathing picks up. Paladin Hopson is in charge of Andrew. Garrett can only hope that it’s not his worst nightmare comes to life, although he wouldn’t be surprised.

As he walks, he notices that his legs feel both like rubber and steal at the same time. Both like they can’t support his weight and like, they themselves, weigh hundreds of pounds. He’s not walking in the proper rhythm, his cadence is off, but no one makes mention of it as he walks down the docking line and towards the Vertibird that is waiting for him. His arms shake as he lifts himself into the belly of the bird and he can’t bring himself to make eye contact with the Scribe who’s flying him down when she asks if he’s okay. Something comes out of his mouth, but the muttering statement he gives her isn’t heard by himself, so he can’t be positive he actually spoke.

It feels like he’s being marched to his own execution, but he knows it’s worse. It’s Andrew’s. He’s received no confirmation that he’s being taken down because of the ghoulification process, but there’s no other reason for the secrecy, the direct order, or the other Knight that follows him down, pistol cocked and ready to fire. One wrong move and he’ll be a puddle of goo.

Garrett finds himself praying that someone will attack them, distract everyone for long enough that he can find Andrew and escape, even though no one in the Capital would be stupid enough to attack a Brotherhod compound. No such thing happens, and far too quickly the Vertibird lands, and he’s escorted off.

People watch him as he walks by, their faces filled with different emotions: sadness, fear, anger, disgust, sympathy. That alone is confirmation enough for him, they know why he’s here. They know why a Knight who spent his entire career in the bottom of different ships and planes would be outside, down on the ground, walking slowly. Word spreads quickly through the Brotherhood that has been chosen to break off to go to the Commonwealth, so he’s not surprised that everyone knows and that everyone can’t stop looking.

He follows the other Kight, Henderson he thinks, to one of the very last buildings in Brotherhood territory. Every step he takes feels like a betrayal to his husband. He should be fighting back, he should attempt to overpower his escort, steal his weapon, storm into the building, take out all the guards waiting, and rescue Andrew. But he’s not that fast, he’s not that good with a weapon, and he’s more likely to get them both killed than do any good. Still, his heart pounds as his body floods with adrenaline and goosebumps pop up across his skin as his anxiety increases.

His breakfast threatens to make an appearance as he enters the metal structure. The sounds of his footsteps ring loudly in his ear, and he slows both an attempt to lower the sound and delay the inevitable. The other Knight doesn’t let him pause, instead he’s shoved through a nondescript door and into a room.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust and when they do he goes to step forward. Andrew is tied to a chair, bleeding from his lower lip, eyes trained on the floor. Before he can move even one step Knight Henderson grips him by the arm. The power armor digs into his flesh, forcing a small cry of pain out of him. The sound must alert Andrew to his presence because the man looks up, fear is written all over his face and it takes everything in Garrett to keep himself from fighting back and rushing to Andrew’s side.

Everyone in the room is watching him, looking for his response. He goes for ignorance. “What the hell is going on here. Why is my husband tied to a fucking chair?”

At that Andrew’s eyes light up. “I told you he didn’t know. I kept it a secret from everyone.”

And just like that Garrett feels the floor slip out from under his feet. They know. It wasn’t like he didn’t suspect the reasoning behind his appearance, but now he’s got confirmation, and it makes him sick. However, Andrew is looking at him like his play is the right one, which means he has to keep playing along.

“What don’t I know, what secret?” He asks it to Andrew, playing the part of a confused husband, but he glances up to the others in the room, a Paladin, and an officer of Elder Maxon’s table. Garrett glances back down. “Andrew, what didn’t you tell me?”

“Knight Thomas, Scribe Thomas has begun the transformation into a ghoul.” Garrett knows that they’re looking for his reaction, so he plays the part.

He takes a step back, eyes wide in shock, like the news physically hurts him, and raises a hand over his chest. “What?” The word comes out strangled as he attempts to lace it with the same fear he felt the first day he discovered the ghoulified skin creeping across his husband’s back. Then, he switches tactics, he lets his hands ball into fist, channeling the anger that he has at the whole situation. “No that’s not possible,” his gaze drops to meet his husband’s eye, “Andrew tell me that’s not true.”

Instead of responding Andrew drops his head down to his chest and refuses to look at him. The Paladin speaks for him.

“Unfortunately, it is true. However,” he glances at the officer who nods once, “your reaction seems genuine. While it is unfortunate that you had to find out this way, the Brotherhood has strict rules in regards to ghouls.”

“He’s not a ghoul.” Garrett argues. “Not… not yet at least.”

He thinks he might see sympathy flash for a moment across the Paladin’s face. “While we understand your hesitation, your loyalties are still in question, Knight. You have two options. Perform your duties as the Brotherhood directs, or be charged with treason.”

At that Andrew’s head snaps up, panic floating over his features. “No, no, he didn’t know. You can’t honestly expect him to-”

“Quiet, abomination!” The officer’s voice is commanding, and leaves no room for argument. The man steps forward, producing a 10mm pistol from his side holster and holding towards him. “Knight Thomas, make your decision.”

Garrett can feel tears welling up behind his eyes, threatening to spill down. He refuses to let them fall, he has to stay strong, he can’t let them see weakness, he can’t let Andrew see him falter.

Still, he doesn’t know what to do. He never expected the Brotherhood to make him execute his own husband. How is he supposed to do that? There’s no way, he’ll refuse and take the courts-martial. But even if he does that Andrew will still die, by his hand or another’s Andrew won’t be making it out of this room. One look at his husband’s face and he can read the answer there. Better to die at the hands of the one you know, understanding that they do it out of love and compassion, rather than put down by someone who sees you as little more than a dog.

He takes the gun.

“Don’t I get to say goodbye?” It’s Garrett’s last protest, his only request.

“No.”

Andrew’s face is full of understanding, he nods once, a silent ‘it’s okay, go ahead’. Never before has a weapon felt this heavy in Garrett’s hands. Then again, he’s never had to shoot someone he cared about before. The room is silent as he steps forward and raises the pistol.

“I love you. I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Neither one of them feels embarrassment at the conversation, too busy reassuring the other.

Andrew closes his eyes.

Gunfire rings in Garrett’s ears for days after, filling the silence where Andrew’s voice would normally be.

- - -

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[blackinnon-paradise]

Nothing To Lose - Chapter Two

A/N: Well, well, well... Look who’s here after 375 years. I must have no shame. All I can say is: I am so sorry for taking this long to write this chapter. Can you forgive me? Also... I hope you all enjoy this one, because I had so much fun writing it!! Which means... Angst ahead, proceed with caution! Anywaaay. Hope you all enjoy it and please, please, please, tell me what you think. I’m dying to know your thoughts on this chapter. Love you all!!

Marlene heard soft snores coming from the living room the moment she walked in the apartment. She had had a very long day, her feet were killing her, it was extremely hot and, to top it off, she had a migraine. All that contributed to the evident roll of eyes she gave when she saw Sirius fast asleep on the couch, his left arm draped over his eyes while his right one hanged midair.

Seeing him there, so careless and peaceful made something churn inside of her; it wasn't because she thought he was being too lazy when she was out there working. They had compromised that he was going to stay home for as long as he wanted, but he was going to have responsibilities as well. She knew he was doing pretty much all he could, but Sirius had never been exactly good at tasks that involved cleaning and cooking. There were days he would forget to the simplest thing, like sweeping the floor or taking out the trash. It wasn't anything that big, but it, eventually, caused some havoc around the house.

That was why Marlene, despite her pounding head, decided to slam the door closed, the wood hitting the frame forcefully as its hinges shook precariously, doing their best to hold the door in place.  

Sirius awoke with a jolt, his heart rocketing inside of him as his hand curled into nothing, his body jumping out of the couch as he took a dueling stance, completely unarmed and looking like he couldn’t see anything in front of him.

“Good to know that you’re completely ready to fight if it was needed, Black,” the snarky comment was, indeed, made to make him feel worse and understand that he was being careless. They were living different times now; The war was getting fiercer and they weren’t just school teenagers anymore.

Sirius looked around, trying to understand what was happening in his living room, his eyes trying to focus on the girl in front of him as he did his best to push away the clouded vision he had forced upon himself as he jumped out of the couch. He didn’t understand at least half of her words and the fact that she had said them ironically went way over his head.

“What?” he mumbled, still confused and dazed.

“Your wand,” Marlene rolled her eyes dropping everything she was carrying on the ground. She didn’t have time to think about it now. “Where is it?” she questioned.

The man scoffed. Of course his wand was where it was supposed to be. In his right hand as he stood there, ready to battle whoever had the audacity of breaking into their home and as he pointed that out, she took a long hard look at him and shook her head. For someone who managed to harbor a werewolf best friend and become an illegal Animagus, Sirius sure was dumb when he didn’t put his mind into it.

And then, with a flick of her own wand, the piece of wood that surely belonged to the Black man made its way to her hand, a snug look on her face as she hit the object on his chest, waiting for him to grab it before she walked away, her head throbbing once more.

Finally snapping out of his sleepy state, Sirius looked down to see his wand in his hands, remembering he had put it aside before washing the dishes and scolded himself. Marlene was right, he was a bit untrustworthy when it came to leaving things around. If it hadn’t been her there, who knew what could have happened to him.

Slowly, he made his way towards her, his steps softer than they were as he sensed something was going on. Usually, she arrived home in a good mood. Tired, pissed off and wanting to forget about everything, yes, but never in a bad humor and walking away from him without at least saying a hi and clearly not after having waking him up like that.

He found her in their room, her back turned to him as she got rid of all the clothes she was wearing that day, her lacy underwear presenting itself to him, the image making him chuckle slightly; it was amusing how she decided to wear the most set of sexy lingerie while wearing her most decent clothes. It had been a few years since he discovered that every piece of underwear that she owned was along that line of work. She had gone on and on about how she did that for herself and not for others and how confident those made her feel and he clearly couldn’t contradict her. She was the most confident woman he had ever met and that was one of the reasons that made him fall for her so desperately.

Sirius watched as Marlene stretched her back, her lean, long legs straining as she did so. It was a ritual she always did when she got home, as if being sat all day made all her muscles sore and tense. She stood on the tip of her toes, her arms reaching up as her fingers intertwined themselves, cracking a bit at the pressure applied by the blonde. Her whole body shook as she went back to her natural position, her head shaking from one side to the other, her eyes closed while Sirius watched to all of that transfixed. She made the most innocent things capture his attention, as if his brain could only pay attention to her.

“What now, Black?” she hissed, her frame still facing away from him as she, slowly, made her way to the bed, ready to call it a day and wait for the next morning and the chaotic day that was ahead of her.

He crossed his arms and kept staring at her, his eyes constantly following her movements as she unmade the bed and lied under the covers, her hair splaying over the pillow as she reached for the lamp by her bedside table.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked, his footsteps finally making his way into the room.

The roll of her eyes didn’t go amiss to him. He was sure she had had an awful day and he was going to let her have her well deserved rest, but he needed to make sure she knew what she was going to miss just in case. He didn’t want her to be mad at him for not remembering her of their meeting that night.

“I’m not in the mood today,” she huffed, understanding his question completely wrong. “I had a busy day, I have a migraine right now and all I want to do is sleep in the complete darkness, ok?”

“Ok,” he smiled, his body already beside hers in the bed. She hadn’t even felt when he sat down, too absorbed in her own pain. “But I meant the Order meeting,” he concluded.

Marlene looked at him confused for a few seconds before it dawned on her: it was already the day of their next meeting and she had totally forgotten about it. Somewhere along that horrible week, she had completely lost track of time and failed to realize that it was already almost the weekend.

Groaning at the hammering pain in her head as she threw the covers aside, the blonde girl sat up, her feet hanging from the side of the bed, her eyes lost in the void in front of her as she contemplated her options. She could pretend she didn’t know about it or she could suck up and attend the meeting, hearing Dumbledore go on and on about pointless missions while her head screamed at her. But before she could take a decision, however, Sirius was already over her, slightly pushing her back down in bed, his touch soft and careful, doing his best to make her comfortable.

“You should rest,” he said with a stern look. “I can see you’re nowhere near able to attend this meeting, so you should just stay, ok?”

She wanted to protest, say that he was out of his mind and that it was her responsibility to be there despite anything, but the pointed look he gave her shut her up. She knew he was right and she was in no condition of making it out of the house without wanting to kill anyone. She could barely hear her own voice without wanting to die. Instead, she nodded and snuggled into the pillows feeling Sirius tuck her in and kiss her forehead fondly, a small smile on his lips as he did so.

“I’m gonna get you a potion to your migraine,” he winked, chuckling at the fact that he had nailed what she needed without her saying anything. “And then you’ll sleep and I’m gonna go, ok?”

Sirius watched as Marlene nodded, hissing afterwards at her poor decision, probably hating herself for doing such action as the pain irradiated in her skull as he walked away from their room, slowly closing the door after himself smiling at the almost sleeping girl.

She was learning the hard way how it was to be a grown up and, whenever he could, he would try to ease things up for her.

The meeting didn’t have anything different from the other times, except that Dumbledore shared two pieces of information with them regarding the next meeting: there were two possible sites the Death Eaters would be meeting at, but only one of them was the true location. He didn’t know which one and the only way of knowing, for sure, was sending two people there to keep an eye on the activities to make sure nothing was happening.

Naturally, this put everyone on the edge of their sits, wondering who would be going and what they would be doing. Dumbledore took a deep breath before announcing the names for the two missions, each one of them happening in a day along that same week.

“I know I’m asking too much of you with this, but I’m confident that we’ve got the best witches and wizards here, sitting in this room, and I’m 100% sure nothing could go wrong if you trust each other and do not act recklessly,” he added, a small look towards Sirius. It wasn’t a secret to anyone the young Black was a rebel, even when it came to fighting the resistance. “So, for the first night, I’m pairing Lily with Sirius.”

James was the first one to let out a complaint, but was immediately shut by the ginger, who turned to him with a smile on her face as she held his hand, calming him down.

“And for the second one, it’s James and Marlene,” Dumbledore completed. “I’m well aware of how good the four of you work together and how much you’re used to the ones I paired you with, trusting them completely and that’s why I did it.” A new silence loomed over the room, all eyes still looking at Dumbledore, waiting for him to give the final recommendations. “Lily and Sirius, your mission is this night. As soon as you leave, you’re to go to the location I determined you to and keep an eye out for anything. You find a hidden place and stay there. Do not leave it under any circumstance, ok?”

The both of them nodded, their eyes meeting briefly before sighing deeply; they knew they were going to have a long night…

… But maybe they didn’t know it was going to be that long.

Sirius looked around the empty street, no sign of movements in either side of it, the scarce light coming from the nearby street lamp was barely enough to see ten meters ahead of them. There were no clouds in the sky that night, but there was no moon also, something both of them enjoyed. It meant there wouldn’t have the threat of the werewolves upon them.

More than half of the night had been spent sitting on the sideways, eyes dancing around the whole extension of the place that was supposed to be swarming with Death Eaters, but nothing but the silence and the void had found them. It didn’t mean Sirius and Lily were any less reckless. They still kept extra watch to everything, their ears perked up at the slight change in the sound of the wind, their wands ready to fight if they had to, their muscles tense as they waited for anything to happen.

Lily was the first one to break the silence that night. She had been staring at a fixed point for far too long, her eyes not focusing anymore, something that seemed pretty risky when you’re on a mission for the Order of the Phoenix. She knew what she was signing up for when she accepted entering the group, she knew there were going to be long nights of being awake and staring at the nothingness, she knew there were nights that she was going to be running for her life and nights she would be fighting for it, but she didn’t regret it. Looking back, she knew she had made the right choice, the choice to fight for a better future for her, her friends and her future family. And there was no going back now.

“It’s been strangely calm,” she mumbled, her hands tangling before she cracked her fingers with ease, her back following right after. She had been standing in the same position for far too long and her muscles were completely sore.

“I know,” Sirius sighed, his eyes still trained on his side of the street, his breath no more than a hushed sound in the middle of the night. “That’s what worries me.”

Lily looked at the man beside her for the first time that night, watching as his eyes danced around the darkness in front of him and she wondered if he could see anything better than her due to his Animagus self. She didn’t know how it worked exactly, she didn’t know if he was supposed to inherit any trace of the animal he became, but it seemed like his senses were far better than hers.

The wind shifted, blowing against Sirius’ face as he continued to stare straight ahead, not a change in his behavior as he watched whatever it was that kept his attention. Lily thought, with a small smile, how much they both had changed over the course of a few months. Not long ago, they were just teenagers running around Hogwarts and, in Sirius’ case, causing havoc and earning detentions left and right. The carefree expression on his face was still there, though far more hidden in the times he needed. It was fascinating seeing him going from the charming, joking young man she knew to this serious, hard-work man, that held a look like he had seen far too much in this world. And maybe he had, she thought with a grimace. He had seen a lot more than any of them, having lived with his family for longer than she had wanted him to. The lines in his expression showed exactly what kind of horrors he had seen, had endured and tried to fight, she just wished it hadn’t taken a lot from him.

“Why?” she forced herself to say, her hands now running up and down her arms in a feeble attempt of keeping the cold away.

“It means nothing’s going to happen today,” he shook his head, his eyes finally landing on his friend. “And that something might happen when it’s James and Marls’ day to keep watch.”

The shadow that took over his eyes made Lily’s breath hitch. She hadn’t thought about it and from the way he had said it, she was sure something was going to happen. Dumbledore always had the best informations, something always happened in one of the days he set the missions, they only had been lucky enough to be set on days that nothing happened.

With a tight knot in her throat, Lily sighed deeply, her eyes closing for a brief second before she returned her gaze to her side of the street.

“Maybe I should come in James’ place,” she mentioned without a thought, her voice nothing but a whisper, causing Sirius to actually doubt she had said anything at all, but the worry printed in her eyes made him halt his actions and turn to her like what she had said was completely crazy. “What?”

“You know he’s not going to allow it, right?”

“He’s really worried about everything, Sirius,” Lily admitted, her shoulders dropping for the first time since he had seen her that night. “He’s worried about something happening to me, because of my blood status, he’s worried about his parents, he’s worried about you, Remus, Peter, Marlene and Dorcas, he’s worried we’re never actually going to find anything out, he’s worried Voldemort will only keep getting stronger,” she let out in one breath, her eyes pleading with him. “He’s just so worried about everything, so overwhelmed with everything and I don’t think sending him in a mission where something is supposed to happen is the best thing right now.”

Sirius looked at the ginger by his side, the way her chest heaved in anticipation, the way her hands were running through her hair as she tried to control the trembling that had washed over her body and, mostly important, he saw the look of pure despair she held in her eyes, like she was on the point of losing everything.

“Hey,” Sirius said in a gentle tone, his hands carefully reaching for her arms, trying to convey as much comfort in the touch as he could. “Hey, Lily, look at me,” he begged, his breath calm and paced, showing her how he was sure everything was going to be ok, even though he felt like being sick on the inside. “I know it’s been hard on us, on James especially with everything that’s happening with his parents. I don’t want anything to happen to them either. Fuck,” he breathed out. “They’re like my parents and Merlin knows how much I want them to make it through this life. But maybe you’re looking at it with a very pessimistic eye. We don’t know if anything’s going to happen in the next mission. For all we know, something might happen in the next few minutes and we won’t have to worry about James and Marlene having to show up next time.” He took her hands in his, holding them tightly. “Trust me, if anything, they’re going to have as much as an easy time as we did so far, ok?”

It’s always better said than done. As predicted, nothing happened to Sirius and Lily, nothing happened around them, no one showed up and no information was taken from that, which only meant that James and Marlene were supposed to take the post two days later.

From the very beginning, nothing went right: the crackle of Death Eaters Apparating and Disapparating forced the both of them to stay hidden, away from everything, making it almost impossible to hear anything of what they were saying. They could see all of them walking in and out of the farthest house in the street, a black wooden door with golden knobs marking their meeting point.

It was very nerve-wracking, to say the least, see all this movement and not be able to do anything. They had to see if there was any point they could get in to see what was happening, they had to get closer to hear anything they were saying, but they couldn’t. The amount of masked wizards made it impossible to move without being seen and Marlene was hating every single moment of it.

She hated being so close to them and yet so far with nothing to do but stare at them and wonder what they were talking about, what they were planning. She hated being useless and, mostly important, she hated said masked people and what they were doing to everyone who thought differently from them.

“We gotta do something,” she whispered-yelled at James, her blood pumping in adrenaline, her leg bumping up and down, trying to get rid off of it somehow.

“We can’t,” he countered back, his right hand grasping the wand tightly, his left hand ready to grab Marlene in case she decided to act stupidly and run to the encounter of the Death Eaters.

“We can’t just stay here, James,” she shook her head. “What if they’re sharing a really important information? We’re going to lose it because we were too scared to move.”

“They won’t be doing it in the middle of the street, Marls,” he tried to reason with her. “That would be really stupid and for as much as I’d like to think that they’re all idiots, they’re not. They’re extremely clever wizards, ok? They would not do something reckless and so shouldn’t we. Remember what Dumbledore said: do not act in the spur of the moment.”

But Marlene McKinnon was never one to follow orders. She would listen to them, acknowledge them, but she wouldn’t comply. She had lived in a house full of rules and had been told what to do, what to wear and how to act. Once she had grown up, she had decided that no one else was going to tell her how to live her life and if it meant risking it in order of the greater good, she would do it.

However, Marlene knew she couldn’t make James follow her and she knew he was only trying to make both of them safe and go back home unharmed, but she couldn’t keep glued to the ground as he was, she just had to wait for the right moment to act.

It happened a few minutes after their conversation, when what seemed like the last Death Eater finally left the house they had been in, the masked face not looking around before setting their feet in the pavement, completely unaware to the meticulous looks from James and Marlene not far from them.

In a blink of an eye, before James could do anything to stop it, Marlene was already out of her hiding spot, her feet hitting the pavement soundlessly as she followed the masked man walking ahead, her wand at ready and held tightly in her hands, her eyes never looking back as she expected her friend to scold her and tell her to get back, but she wouldn’t and if James knew her as much as she knew him, he knew it as well.

The walk didn’t last much, she thought stopping after turning the corner of the street a couple hundred meters away from James, the Death Eater taking a left and walking right into an alleyway before disappearing into the darkness.

She pondered if she should follow him, her heart hammering against her ribcage as she took a few tentative steps towards the opening the man disappeared into. She was alone and probably would be for the rest of the night. James wouldn’t see where she walked into and would roam around trying to find her, but it was a risk she was willing to take at the moment.

With a sigh, she started moving again, her ears paying attention to every little sound that surrounded her, her eyes scanning the new street carefully before she turned left and entered the dark alleyway, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the knew lighting.

But it was already too late, she thought with a heavy heart. She had walked right into the lions’ den - or snakes’, she cringed bitterly. Standing there, right in front of her, were three masked people, their faces all turned to her as she felt her eyes widen in horror. A few more steps were heard from behind her and, for a single moment, she thought it could be James running to her, but that would be just too perfect: three more Death Eaters showed up behind her, their wands excitingly pointed at her back, a wicked smile hidden behind their masks.

She only had time to raise her wand and cast a protective spell before jets of light hit her.

Sirius couldn’t shut his eyes for a moment that night, his mind too preoccupied with thoughts of something happening to either Marlene or James. He couldn’t bear the possibility of not having any of them in his life, both of them being too important. James was like his brother, the one who held him together when he felt like falling apart. Marlene was… Marlene was the only one who totally understand him, the only one who could make his life turn upside down, the only one who could make him settle down. He loved her with all his heart, mind, body and soul and there wasn’t a single moment when he wasn’t worried about her.

So, to have her gone for so long was affecting him in ways that he never knew possible. He had long forgotten the comfort of his bed, the space seeming too wide without his girlfriend sharing it with him, and the tiles between the living room and the kitchen were probably worn out from the continuous walking around he was doing, his hair messy and greasy from running his hands through it.

It was almost 5 am when he heard a crackle from the living room, his feet hitting the floor rather forcefully, not caring if the downstairs neighbor was going to send him a noise complaint for it, leading his troubled mind to the center of what was happening in his own apartment.

Sirius felt like his heart had dropped out of his chest, his body turned icy cold and his legs almost couldn’t hold his weight anymore. His eyes were widened in shock, his breath caught in the back of his throat and all his movements had stopped. James was standing there, unharmed, his wand in his pocket as he held onto a very unconscious Marlene McKinnon, her blonde hair splayed behind her as her body hung limply in the young Potter’s arm.

It felt like years before Sirius could move again, his trembling hands reaching out for the girl in his best friend’s arms fearfully. He needed to know what had happened to her, but he was too scared to ask, too scared to know the truth.

“She’s alive,” James said with a heavy sigh, taking a few steps towards the couch and setting the girl down gently before turning to his alarmed friend. “She followed a Death Eater and ended up in a trap. I tried to get to her before she could be hit by anything, but it was too late.” he shook his head, his right hand grasping Sirius’ shoulder. “She put up a fight and managed to escape, but not unharmed. I found her nearly conscious and brought her straight here. She’s gonna live, Pads, don’t worry.”

But worry was something Sirius was already doing. He shouldn’t have let her go, he should’ve asked her to stay so he could go in her place, he should’ve known she was going to pull something like that, he should’ve known she was going to get hurt, he should’ve followed her, he should’ve been there for her. His mind was racing with thoughts of ‘what ifs’, making him dizzy and nauseous. He couldn’t believe his girlfriend had been attacked and he wasn’t there to protect her.

As he walked over to the girl, Sirius couldn’t stop staring at her face, a few deep cuts and blood staining her beautiful face and a few more down her body. It had been his fault.

“Don’t blame yourself, Pads,” James said from behind him, knowing exactly what his friend was thinking. “If you have to blame anyone, blame them. It’s their fault this war is happening.”

Sirius let out a struggled breath, a few tears fighting to escape his eyes, but he choked it down. It wasn’t the place nor the time. He had to be strong and take care of Marlene, so he just shook his head and nodded at James, a small, pained smile reaching his features.

“Thanks, Prongs,” he said truthfully. “Thank you for bring her back home.”

That night, Sirius learned that the war was more real than he first thought. He learned that everything could happen in a blink of an eye. That night, as he stayed up watching over his girlfriend, he couldn’t take her eyes off of her for a second, he couldn’t keep himself from touching her gently so she couldn’t feel any pain. That night, he promised himself there was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect her. That night, he promised he would never let anything happen to her. Ever again.

NTL Tag: @disbestiles, @siriuslovesmarlene

[doomedandstoned]

Rise of the Wizard Union!

Part I: Seek & Ye Shall Find

By Billy Goate

Ceremonial Smoke by Wizard Union

After The Great Wizard Fight had scattered what was left of our clan to the four corners of this God-forsaken orb, it was believed that the Great Hoary Ones of Olde had all but disappeared from the land. Yet, in the progress of time, rumors passed by me -- whispers at first, faint as baby's breath, but slowly they crescendoed into a wyvern's roar. The Wizards were back, one traveler said feverishly before collapsing. His last words: "They have gone underground. Look to the barren wasteland of Michigan." Impossible, I muttered, as this region was long thought to be uninhabitable, cooked to a crisp after the nukes had done their worst.

Having heard good enough of these annoying anecdotes, my apprentice and I ventured forward into the vast unknown to find out whether this congress of baked mages was one of myth or of mischief. With cloak, staff, and Geiger counter in hand, we set out for the Forbidden Zone. As we crossed its borders, we begin to pick up on the trail of blunts and faint wi-fi signals. We did cross paths with Wild Savages and broke bread with Bubak, Blue Snaggletooth, and the Bison Machine. We did ride the Cavalcade to the dank steps of the Temple Of The Fuzz Witch, where we were compelled to partake in the bizarre Stone Ritual.

This unlikely fellowship with barbarian hordes led us ever closer to the fabled irradiated thaumaturges. It was said that after the blast, they had become both one and many and that these diviners could, through their strange alchemy, compel rocks to roll until they were transformed into an altogether different substance, something the smiths were wont to call "heavy metal." An enchanted guild had become responsible for crafting this heavy metal. They called themselves the WIZARD UNION.

Notes stealthily changed hands, leading us to close associates of this Wizard Union, both present and past. With care, I crossed the Laserbeams Of Boredom, walked over the husked remains of Lizerrd and Lord Centipede, followed the scent of Bladder and Verminous Scum. Nearer, still nearer, until my companion and I chanced upon the Wizard Union's lair.

There, my eyes could scarce believe, lay the very manuals of the Wizard Union containing the secrets of their magick. I tore eagerly through them, from 'Smoking Coffins' (2014) to 'Phantom Fury' (2016), finally partaking of the 'Ceremonial Smoke' (2017) itself. My eager apprentice could bear it no more and excitedly ventured forth into the cavernous dwelling of the Wizard Union in hopes of speaking with them. Meanwhile, I sent word to the skies by way of my trusty raven, declaring with a shriek: "Our brothers yet live in the frigid armpit of America!"

Art by Unexpected Spector

Part II: Knock & The Door Shall Be Opened

Interview by Shawn Gibson

Today, we're visiting with Samir Asfahani of the band Wizard Union from the Ann Arbor, Michigan area. Samir, maybe start by telling us who all is in Wizard Union and the album you just released, 'Ceremonial Smoke.'

Sure, sure. We have me on guitar and main vocals, Aaron (or "A Ron" as we like to call him) on bass and backup vocals, and there's Larry on drums. Though A Ron didn't record vocals on this particular record, we had special contribution from sound engineer JC and his girlfriend Lindsay, who recorded the special effects you hear in the album's title track.

You guys have a really good stoner-sludge sound -- vocals are harsh as hell.

Yeah, even though I run the Super Dank Metal Jams blog and my co-writer, Brandon, covers a lot of the doom and stoner stuff, I've kind of stuck with the sludge and now into more grindcore and death metal stuff. In Wizard Union's last album, Phantom Fury, we were experimenting more with hardcore-punk type vocals, and then things progressed from there. I approached the guys and said, "Hey, would you mind if I did it this way, to add something new to the mix? I'm not saying we need to tweak anything else at the moment, but this is kind of what I'm into." They said, "Yeah, go for it!" Anything to make us a little different or even just to be a little weird is good.

It's certainly refreshing for the genre, whether it's straight-up doom or some death, black, grind, or sludge combo. Really heavy, crazy shit turns me on! Go for different, go for unique, because far too many bands sound the same.

I don't really fault bands for that, though. When we started out, we definitely were just like, "Let's play slow and heavy music. This is the stuff we know and like." From there, we spent a lot of time exploring whatever we happened to be into at the time. I dropped the idea of having more of a collective, which is kind of developing into its own record label now. We're going to be dropping a lot of stuff that encompasses side projects, not being anything Wizard Union-related.

Going back to not faulting bands, you start out with what you like. It might be knocking off like, Electric Wizard, Sleep, or Sabbath. I think from there, you're there three or four albums in, you kind of have to make a choice and ask yourself if that's what you want to be, just a knock off band or do your own thing and find your own sound. We're still exploring that. Our last jam on Sunday, we were playing what sounded more along the lines of "Give Me That Amulet, You Witch!" I don't know if in the future we're going to have a regular release, then a companion release with more stuff like that to follow it up. You get two different sides of Wizard Union there, so we'll see!

I've been digging a lot of Konvent, Cavurn, and Spectral Voice, so it's awesome to hear what you've been doing with those Wizard Union vocals.

Yeah, I really like the death doom lately, definitely more old school sound, not anything super technical. On top of that, I'm not a technical player. I don't know too many bands that mix the death, doom, and sludge thing. That's something I wanted to explore more. There's definitely more bands out there that mix grind and sludge, I've been digging more of that. That's probably where many of my side projects will go once they've picked up steam.

Yeah, I'm really into Dragged Into Sunlight, Clinging To The Trees Of A Forest Fire, bands that like to blend grind and sludge, playing heavy and fast.

I don't think we'll get there with Wizard Union. I have Verminous Scum, a project with Clay, the drummer from Mutalatred out of Toledo. So there's a lot of blasts on that coming up, whenever we get our first recording mixed. It's a little like if Wizard Union had blast beats; it still has that core sound to it. That's what I've posted lately on my blog.

You've been involved in the heavy scene around Ann Arbor for a while now, haven't you?

We've been playing shows with bands from the Ann Arbor/Ypsilanti area. Ypsilanti, for people who aren't familiar with the area, is the next city over from Ann Arbor and that's where Eastern Michigan University is. It's kind of like a shared area almost. Because of Ann Arbor being gentrified, you're seeing the price of things going up and a lot of people are moving out of Ann Arbor to buy houses in Ypsilanti, especially artists. We usually play in Ypsi. I actually used to be in a band called Lord Centipede. We put out a vinyl called Centipede Up Your Ass. It's a kind of doom-tinged stoner-hardcore-thrash album, came out in 2012 or 2013. After we broke up, it just kind of sat there. I decided I wanted to do something with it, put it out again -- it will be up for download as soon as it's done mixing. Now the drummer is in a new band we've just booked a show with, called Bubak.

Cool!

Then there's Temple Of The Fuzz Witch, a Detroit band we're playing with, as well. There's Wild Savages, not really a doom band but they've got that stoner vibe, as does Bison Machine. There's Stone Ritual, those guys are pretty good. Cavalcade is a band out of Lansing we liked playing with recently. There's Blind Haven, who play the Toledo area -- they're really good. There’s Hung From The Rising Sun out of Northern Ohio. Those guys also play in the noise rock band Wax. I don't want to miss anybody on this. I know some people will get upset if I do! (laughs) Anybody we played with, if I didn't mention you, you're awesome!

Phantom Fury by Wizard Union

So you edit Super Dank Metal Jams and you’ve organized the Burnout Society Film Club, as well?

I started the Burnout Society Film Club on a suggestion from Joe Eldridge from Shade Beast Records. We were talking about cult films and he said, "Oh, yeah! Somebody should start a group about this." I was like, "Shit, I'll do it right now!" I immediately thought of a random name that had the initials "B.S." so Burnout Society was born and it's actually becoming more of a real life thing, not just something on the internet. It's turned into a local group in Ann Arbor. We have movie nights and just chat about film.

Nice!

We screen movies and it's usually themed. The first movie night was The Wild Life (1984) with Chris Penn, Sean Penn's brother, and Eric Stoltz. It was kind of made by the people who made Fast Times At Ridgemont High (1982). The theme of the night was films that are still stuck on VHS. That was a film that was obscure; a lot of people didn't know about it. Then we watched another film, Dudes (1987) , that hasn't made it to DVD or Blu-ray. For whatever reason, they’re kind of like obscure, even though they're good movies, so I thought it'd be a cool first movie night. The second event we held was holiday themed: we had Black Christmas (1974) and The Star Wars Holiday Special (1978).

Star Wars holiday Special that was a rare thing.

We had a bootleg copy we were watching and it had the original commercials that aired, which were probably more entertaining than the Star Wars Holiday Special itself! (laughs) The next one I think is going to be Bigfoot themed. We're also going to do an actual screening at a bar for a film that's been passed on to us that we'd like to show people. We'd like to do public screenings for DIY filmmakers whenever possible.

We are all into the cult movies -- weird, strange movies. I've always been into 'em. I think it really took off when I was working at a Hollywood Video in high school.

Lucky!

Yeah! You got three movie rentals at a time. I'd just grab whatever I could find. It didn't take long before I started getting into Troma movies.

Lloyd Kaufman! Man's a fucking genius.

Have you ever met him?

Not yet, I bet that's wild.

I've met him three times.

So what's Lloyd Kaufman like?

He's really weird. He's really eccentric. He was really cool, too. Around the time that I met him the first time, he was showing Citizen Toxie (2000) in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I volunteered to be Toxie at those events. (laughs) Have a friend who volunteered to be the Noxious Offender from Citizen Toxie, but we hadn't seen the movie yet, so we had no idea what we're getting into. Lloyd gave me a screener copy and was like, "Here, just watch it before you come out or whatever." I remember my friend and I were at my parents’ house watching it until 3 am, just laughing. My parents woke up screaming at us, "Be quiet!" (laughs)

That's awesome! I got started with The Toxic Avenger (1984). I'd get my grandma to take me to the video store and I could rent anything, she didn't check. We got back home and I started to play it around 8 pm. My grandma walked in on the locker room scene with topless women. "Nope, nope, nope!" she said. I was like, "Goddammit!" So I waited until midnight or so, snuck out of bed, and watched the rest of the movie.

Shame on you! (laughs)

Then I rented that Class of Nuke 'Em High (1986) , Sgt. Kabukiman N.Y.P.D. (1990) , and other Troma flicks.

I feel you on watching The Toxic Avenger while you're young. I was a product of the times, when they were pushing R rated movies onto kids by making them cartoons. There was a Rambo cartoon, as well as a Robocop, Toxic Crusader, and Police Academy cartoon. The original Police Academy, remember, was rated R.

Right.

I recall being three or four years old and watching the Rambo cartoon and just begging my mom, "I know there's a movie based off of this -- you've got to let me see it!" I remember how devastated I was when I brought it to her at the video store and she was like, "No, you can’t get that, it's rated R!" It was the same thing with The Toxic Avenger. I was like, "This was a movie? Oh my god, I've got to see it now!" So then, a couple years later, I go and find it -- same thing. One night I was able to persuade my mom to let me watch The Toxic Avenger: Part II (1989). That finally happened and then I realized somehow it was connected to Class of Nuke 'Em High, just like looking at the covers. It wasn't until years later that I realized what Troma even was. They used to have those marathons on the USA Network.

I remember them well!

I know they had the Up All Night series, where they'd play all the movies -- Nuke 'Em High 1, 2, 3, and what not. They did a Toxic Avenger marathon during the day -- it was the weirdest thing. I don't know of any other time where this happened, it was a rare moment for USA, sometime in the mid-'90s, so I got to watch all three back-to-back.

Smoking Coffins by Wizard Union

What's a damned good book you've read lately?

See, the thing is I only read non-fiction.

Me, too.

Last fictional book I read was Ready Player One (2011). As far as fiction goes, I would recommend that totally. Anybody who wants to go see the movie, Spielberg is directing it. The premise takes place in a dystopian future, where everyone's doing this virtual reality thing. It’s not unlike Facebook, if Facebook was VR. Every bit of information comes to you in VR format -- movies, stuff like that. Everybody’s creating avatars for themselves to portray TV and film stars. That'll be cool translated on the screen. From what I've seen of the trailer, unfortunately, it's not going to be as literal as the book. The fact is it's being put out by Warner Brothers and Amblin. I think whatever properties those two production companies own is probably what you're more likely to see on screen. There are plenty of obscure references made in the book, though. It's a very entertaining read. As far as non-fiction, I recommend The Disaster Artist (2013).

Cool. I've seen the trailers for the movie. I didn't know it was a book as well.

Yeah, that's what it's based on. I do most of my "reading" through Audible. It's one thing I've learned, to be more productive, is actually listen to audiobooks if you can versus wondering, "When am I going to have time to read, anymore?" I got an Audible account and started doing books that way. I get through two books in like a month. I don't feel bad about it, I still read what I need to -- blogs, articles, and stuff like that. The one physical book I'm reading at the moment is The Tao Of Bill Murray (2016), which I got my wife. That's a really entertaining book.

I bet. I love Bill Murray!

Trying to think of one more book -- a random one -- it's All Your Worth: The Ultimate Lifetime Money Plan (2005) from Elizabeth Warren and her daughter, Amelia. I'd recommend that to anyone who's having financial issues or trying to figure out how to get their financial troubles back together. I think after going through that book I was like, "If she ran for president, I'd 100% vote for her." She could get this country back on track. (laughs) If she's able to get the middle class to figure out their finances there has to be a way. She's got a plan! (laughs)

I’m not too confident in the one we have in office now. I don't think he's made it so great again. I don't think it was great in the first place. Just my opinion.

Well, I'm not going to go into that, just for starting a comment thread about who's on whose side. I'm sure that readers can figure out where we align politically. I feel like when Cheeto came into office, there were a lot of people who felt like this'll make music great again or whatever. It'll make people angry again. I haven't really noticed much of that. (laughs) There's always been angry music; there's always been politically charged music. Whatever gets you motivated to create, go for it, you know? That's one thing I want to encourage people, that's what I push myself to do. Everything I do is to create, to keep going and make more whatever it is and not to question yourself or hold yourself back. That's why I do the blogs. Burnout Film Society is going to starting a blog soon, with reviews for movies.

Cool.

The members of Burnout Film Society are all people that, as far as I know, haven't written for a blog before. I want to show people that you don't have to write for something. If you love something, if you have a passion for it, obviously you know what to say.

It exudes!

That's what it was for me when I wrote Dank Metal Jams. I thought, "If I were in a band, I'd want someone to write a review for me." Not that I'm doing these guys a favor, but I truly want the people to listen to their music! I'm going to write what I think about an album and just put it out there. Hopefully, I can get some other people on board that feel the same and agree, "Yeah you're right!" That's the only reason I have the blog around. It gives me something to do, while constantly introducing me to new music. It keeps me open to new ideas and fuels my creativity, especially when it comes to song writing. "Oh I can do it this way, I didn't even think about that way, or I can mix this with that."

What’s in the crystal ball for Wizard Union this year?

We've been around, this is going to be our sixth year now, and we're still kicking! We know we're not quitting anytime soon and we've got more ideas we want to put out there. I have another kind of stoner side-project I'm working on that doesn't have a name yet. It's me and Aaron, the bass player. Actually, we switched it up -- I'm doing bass and he's doing guitar. Then we have a local drummer who is in a one-man band called Laserbeams Of Boredom. We're working on that and finish recording in early spring. We still haven't settled on a name for that one, either. I don't want to drop any names or suggestions yet before it happens. I don't know if it will be out by the end of this year or the beginning of next year, but it's definitely something we're working on right now.

Samir, thanks a lot!

Oh yeah, thank you!

Follow The Band.

Get Their Music.

[ladygloucester]

A common enemy - The confrontation

Previously...

Never heard before sounds reverberated in her ears. The agony screams, the gaelic slang, but above all, the steel. The clashing of the swords, the noise the blade made when it entered the flesh, the crash of life and death on the dirt. It was frenetic. The overwhelming fear, the uncertainty of the nearest future, the smell of demise burdening her nose. All her senses were sharpened and, at the same time, her mind was completely blocked faced with all the stimuli that flooded her.

Time slowed down to a painfully unhurried cadence. When the red dash of curls appeared through the door, her heart skipped a bit in panic, then resumed its beating, fast, runaway. The fear and her instincts kicked in and when the highlander began to come closer, Claire took advantage of his unexpected change of demeanor and threw her foot as hard as he could against his face, hitting him with a loud thud. Then she launched herself through the door, hoping to bypass the highlander and escape, but she miscalculated his strength. With gaelic profanity still ringing in her ears, she felt his arms surrounding roughly her waist and holding her over his shoulder.

“Let me go!! You fool, bloody brute!!“ She screamed while kicking.

“Watch it, meer. Ye might kick me once but next time I will treat ye as I do with my mules.”

But Claire didn’t stop fighting. When they both came out the carriage, her frantic skirmish made her hit her head with the threshold and dizziness took her senses away. Jamie felt her body get calmer, and allowed her to descend in front of him, sliding her against his chest, keeping his arms solidly wrapped around her waist and capturing her own arms under his bond. The men saw him and their faces varied from astonished to disappointed, in a colorful array of sneers, most of them directed at his bloody nose.

“Didna know Randall wore skirts these days,” said Angus causing a general burst of laughter in the middle of the adrenaline rush they all felt.

Dougal, however, didn’t laugh. Not even a sly smile crossing his thin lips. He accommodated his bonnet, and cleaned the blood of his mouth against the sleeve of his shirt. Jamie’s eyes watched his uncle while he slowly strode towards them. He felt the English woman resistance quietly subside, but still was there, dormant, just waiting for the concussion to go away. He made a gesture to Rupert, one of his clansmen, to get some rope and tie her hands, but as he was about get on with it, Dougal pulled out the rope from his hands, threw it to the ground and draw his dagger.

Just as he was unsheathing, Jamie pushed the woman behind him and put himself before her. Without Jamie’s support, she fell to the ground, numb and unaware of the rush of events that had developed in matter of seconds.

“Jamie lad, move. She canna live. She saw us.”

The faces of both men were close. Blue and brown eyes, defying each other. Jamie was one of the tallest man of the clan, but his uncle wasn’t any shorter. Silence overcame the scene, not even the wind dared to blow among the leaves. But where Dougal was impulsive and abrasive, Jamie had colder blood. He knew how to restrain his anger and contemplate honestly what was right and wrong. And killing that woman was wrong.

“We dinna ken who she is. We dinna even ken if she has anything to do wi' Randall.”

The tone of his voice was soft, as always. Low and rich, but there was a firm edge to it. Even though his eyes never left his uncle’s he was well aware of where the dagger was, and how he’d stop it if it came to that. Dougal was waiting for this. For a chance to measure himself against his sister’s bairn. The only one that, if things went sourly, could deprive him of ruling the clan one day. There was more at stake than the life of a wench. It was a clash of powers, of minds, and of different ways of seeing life and justice. After a silence that seemed to last forever, Jamie’s voice quietly filled the moment.

“We maun take her with us and fin’ out who she is. For nou she’s under my protection.”

Placing her under his direct protection was a bold move, and Dougal knew it. The clans law still ruled those hills and meadows, and when a highlander declared in this way, only killing him would deter him from fulfilling his promise. That woman wouldn’t die if Jamie didn’t first, and there was no time for it. Not yet, at least.

When Claire regained some control over her senses, the first thing she felt was the rope, rough and painfully tied around her wrists. Testing its strength, she realized it wasn’t too tight, but enough for it to be undoable. With a sigh leaving her parched lips, she leaned back to rest, only to realize the context of the situation. Between her legs there was a splendid Arab horse, and riding behind her with one arm around her waist and the other holding the reigns, there was a man, and not a little one. The shock was probably tangible in her body, because a familiar low voice spoke almost into her hair and sent chills over her spine.

“It was about time, lass. Thought ye’d sleep till the morn… No, dinna try to,” he warned her while tightening his grip on her. “Ye’d probably fall off the horse, and it’s not a nice way to start off yer day, losing all those pretty teeth.”

“My day already started with an almost decapitated soldier in my carriage. Don’t think it can get any worse,” she barked under her breath while he let out a low, quiet laugh, but stopped shaking the rope. “Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere ye can rest. We all can. ’Tis been a rough night for all of us.”

After a while, the dizziness was completely gone and replaced by a pounding headache. The blow against the threshold must have caused a gash in her temple, where she felt the skin tender and wet. The hours flowed slowly, excruciatingly slow. Her hips began to ache from the riding and even though at first she tried not to, Claire gave up and leaned against her captor. He didn’t seem to mind, as he stood straight on the horse, with the mastery of someone who is accustomed to long journeys on the saddle.

The sun was low when the group decided to stop. To avoid being seen, they had left the road aside and the ride was a test of resilience for everyone. The man who appeared to be in charge restrained his horse and looked around, inspecting the turf.

“Aye, we camp here for the night. Tend to the horses first.”

The redheaded highlander riding behind her got off the horse more gracefully than it was expected for a man of his size, and grabbed her waist to help her down. His hands felt strong, and when she stood on the ground, she could feel the heat irradiating from his body, only inches away from hers. His cinnamon curls stuck to his forehead with a mixture of sweat, blood and drizzle, and obscured his deep blue eyes, who lingered upon her a bit more than it seemed necessary.

He then grabbed her rope and drove her carefully to a tree nearby, helping her sit by the trunk.

“Dinna move or try to run. Ye ken you willna make it far before we get you.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a statement. With her hands tied, the soreness of her body longing for a warm bead and the headache making her feel the blood rushing through her brain, there was no chance she could plot an escape. Let alone fulfill it. She nodded silently and laid back against the wet bark, closing her eyes.

The small camp was instilled with life. Every man knew what he was supposed to do, and while the redheaded was in charge of the horses, others prepared the bonfire and a couple of them left to inspect the vicinity with small bows. The sun was already setting and darkness expanding over the crown of the trees when the man who captured her returned, followed suit by two of the men carrying two small rabbits.

She hadn’t realize how hungry she was until the smell of the stew started to smoke. And then, it all hit her at once, unleashing a wave of fear that shook her to the bone. She was alone in the forest, with outlaws and murderers that had exterminated her whole caravan. As much as she knew, they could kill her in her sleep and they seemed pretty favorable to the idea in her eyes, all together a few feet away from her, whispering in gaelic and looking at her over their shoulders. No masters of discretion, that’s for sure.

“Who d'ye think she is?” Rupert asked, hands on his hips.

“The best way to fin’ out is to ask her.” Jamie grabbed the flask that was being passed along and took a long sip. He looked around and turned to the woman sat by the tree, squatting down in front of her and offering the flask. She refused with a gesture of her tied hands, but Jamie insisted. “'It willna fill your belly, but it will make ye forget you're hungry”. She slowly nodded and grabbed the flask, taking a long sip before returning it.

“Why are you taking me with you?” She inquired with a spark of pride flying in her eyes. Jamie smiled and covered the flask.

“We dinna ken who you are, Sassenach. It would help your situation to throw some light on the subject.”

Her eyes dropped and Jamie could see her mind running wild. Obviously she was going to lie, but at least he was willing to give her the chance to tell the truth.

“We dinna want to hurt you. We can, and some of us are more willing than others,” he added looking slightly over his shoulder, “but you are safe with me. Ye need not be scairt of me. Nor anyone else here, so long as I'm with ye.”

The woman looked him straight in the eye, confused, surprised and still not fully trusting him. It didn’t matter. He had uttered the words and would die, if it came to it, to keep his word.

It was stupid to trust him, that’s for sure. But there was something in his eyes, some sort of… Comfort? Sincerity? She couldn’t put a name to it, but it was warm. And inviting.

“You’re asking me who I am and for all that I know, you’re just a kidnapper and a fugitive.”

A smirk started to appear in his lips and a small chuckle followed it.

“Fair is fair, Sassenach. I’m Jamie.“

“Claire.”

Next…

[itsthesinbin]

Old World Blues

FINALLY wrote the thing for Melinda and Heather. This is just an introductory thing- the two get REALLY lost on the way to Diamond City and end up in Goodneighbor instead.

If I do decide to continue this, it’ll be a while before I post anything else/upload it to other platforms [like my ao3], as I’ll want to write a few chapters out so it isn’t just like... one lonely chapter sitting on ao3/sitting here.

So, after rewriting this about six times, I finally got it down in a way I like. It’s a bit short, but I knew if I dragged it out too much, I’d hate it.

Also the title is inspired from the New Vegas DLC, both because I’ve recently [finally] started getting into New Vegas after having it for like... a year, and the description for “Old World Blues” is something that really hits with these two characters. “It refers to those so obsessed with the past they can't see the present, much less the future, for what it is.” It reminds me of Heather, in particular. So if I do make a fic out of this, it’s definitely keeping the title.

The world was a shithole.

Two hundred years after the bombs dropped wasn’t enough to miraculously fix everything, much to Heather’s disappointment. Instead of hanging out with hot future people, she’s trekking through the possibly-irradiated mud with her mother, her brother’s robot, and a random dog they found. An old bat and measly pistol as her only weapons, and her mother carried a small rifle they picked off of a dead body on the way out of Sanctuary Hills.

The walk through Boston was horrible. Rubble and broken buildings surrounded the streets, making some areas inaccessible. It was also getting way too dark for the group’s liking. Codsworth’s flashlight was already on, and Melinda’s Pip-Boy was shining as bright as it could.

She brought the device up to her eyes, squinting slightly at the light, as she checked the downloaded map. She sighed heavily, making Heather and Codsworth turn to her. Heather let out a whine.

“Don’t tell me…” “Yeah, we’re lost, honey,” Melinda said, making Heather groan like a teenager being scolded. Head-tilt and all. Melinda couldn’t help but snort at the sight- hadn’t seen Heather do that in years.

“I saw some signs pointing to a place called “Goodneighbor”, though. Maybe someone there can lend us a room for the night, and help us out,” Melinda assured, starting to walk to where the signs had pointed. Heather kicked a small rock, huffing, before following.

The four came upon a huge barricade, with a single door leading into, what they assumed was, Goodneighbor. Hesitantly, Melinda knocked, not knowing if that was the correct thing to do. When she got no response, she checked the door. It was unlocked. Slowly, she opened the door, and the small group moved into the city.

Guards, and people, nearby stole glances at them- their dirty vault suits. What the hell were vault dwellers doing in Goodneighbor?

A couple of people just had to find out.

A large man stepped forward, blocking the women’s way. The ghoul leaning against the nearby wall watched carefully, eyeing the way Heather’s fingers gripped her bat defensively.

“Is this your first time in Goodneighbor, ladies,” the man asked, voice holding a hostile tone. “Can’t go walking around here without insurance.” Heather growled, propping the end of her bat on her shoulder.

“Unless it’s “keep-dumb-assholes-away-from-me” insurance- sorry, mom- we’re not interested,” Heather huffed, annoyance and anger too high to be any kind of polite right now. Melinda couldn’t help but snort softly. Finn smirked, clearly amused by the small woman’s sarcasm.

“Now, don’t be like that, sweetheart- I think you’ll like what I have to offer,” he said, voice growing flirty. It made Heather sick.

“You two hand over everything in your pockets, or “accidents” are gonna start happening- big, bloody accidents-” Before he, or Hancock, could make a move, Heather stepped forward, poking the end of her bat at Finn’s chest.

“Listen, buddy, I don’t give a goddamn rat’s ass what you’ll do. We’ve been walking for hours, chased by- by dogs and freaky green shitlords and who knows what else! I’m tired, I’ve been out in the rain, and I don’t want to be threatened by a two-bit criminal who’s too scared to leave a city to become a raider that’ll end up a bloody pile at the end of my BAT,” Heather ranted, drawing attention from others nearby. Finn scowled, reaching down to pull out his weapon.

“Woah, woah, time out,” Hancock yelled, finally able to move over. Melinda grabbed Heather’s arm, pulling her back. Hancock grabbed the back of Finn’s jacket and shirt, choking the man a bit.

“Someone steps through the gate the first time? They’re a guest- lay off the extortion crap, Finn.” “Why d’you care, Hancock? They ain’t ours,” Finn snarled, yanking the mayor’s hand off of his clothes. The ghoul feigned a hurt look, putting his hand on his chest.

“Oof… No love for your mayor? I said let her go,” he said, voice going from joking to serious in an instant. Finn rolled his eyes, hand gripping the grip of his gun.

“You’re going soft, Hancock- letting outsiders walk all over us. One day… there’ll be a new mayor”. Hancock saw that he was trying to pull the pistol out, and put on a more relaxed stance.

“Come on, man, this is me we’re talking about. Let me tell you something,” he said, reaching over to grab Finn’s shoulder. The human let his guard down, allowing Hancock to strike. He pulled out a switchblade, stabbing the man in the chest a few times.

He heard the women gasp, but didn’t look at them for a second. He dropped Finn’s body to the ground, putting the blade away.

“Now, why’d you have to go and say that, huh? Breakin my heart over here,” he mumbled, jabbing the corpse with a foot a bit. “You two alright?”

The look Heather had was definitely comical- eyes bugged out and head drawn back. Melinda just looked ill- arms over her chest, and a hand over her mouth in shock.

“What the FUCK,” Heather shouted suddenly, making her mother jump. “You killed him!” Hancock snorted.

“Got a good set of eyes on you, missy- you’ll fit in fine here”. Before Heather could say anything, Melinda stepped forward. She looked up at Hancock, making him wonder how the fuck these two survived while being so damn short.

“Look, Mister… Hancock, was it?” A nod prompted her to continue. “We… appreciate the help with him, but we really just… need a place to sleep for the night. There wouldn’t happen to be any vacant rooms in town, would there?”

“Hotel Rexford- just follow the alleyway over there,” he said, jabbing his thumb in the right direction. “In fact…” He pulled out a small bag of caps, handing them to the older woman.

“Buy a room on me- least I could do for your less-than-warm welcome,” he said. Melinda, too tired to argue and all too knowledgeable on how light their own pockets were, smiled slightly in gratitude. She pocketed the caps.

“Thank you, mayor”. “Please, just call me Hancock. “Mayor” sounds too stuffy”. Heather snorted from her new spot- poking Finn’s body with her bat.

“Heather-!” “Wanna take a quick whack at it, kid?” Codsworth and Melinda gaped at the mayor, while Heather was seriously considering the offer.

“Heather if you do it you’re grounded”. “I’m twenty five and this place has a new set of rules!” She gave the corpse a hard smack, yelling loudly, and clearly getting some of her pent up rage out.

“Ffffuck you, dead man,” she said, giving the body one last kick, before high-tailing it with Dogmeat down the alley Hancock had pointed out. She wasn’t going far- just right out of sight- but it was enough to make Melinda and Codsworth sigh. Hancock couldn’t help but laugh.

“The kid’ll fit in great around here, lady”. “Melinda… “lady” sounds too stuffy,” she joked, causing Hancock to snicker. “Got it, sister”.

Melinda said her goodbyes to the good mayor, catching up with her daughter. She grabbed Heather by the ear, pinching harshly and pulling.

“What the hell is the matter with you,” Melinda hissed over Heather’s whines. Melinda let go, letting the younger woman rub her ear.

“I wanted to make a statement- look, I won’t do it again”. In front of Melinda, at least. Her mother rubbed her face, too exhausted to argue further. She just started walking towards the hotel, Heather, Codsworth, and Dogmeat trailing behind.

“Alright… we’ll sleep for the night, ask for directions to Diamond City, and use what caps we have to prepare for the trip. Sound good?” “Yeah, mom, sounds like a plan”. The two stared up at the half-standing hotel, an ache settling in their chests- a famous hotel reduced to a level above rubble.

The two walked in, going to the front desk to rent a room.

The world was a shithole. It was full of crime and destruction and sickness and death- even more so than before the bombs dropped. Full of people and cultures and creatures that they didn’t recognize. The whole world was out to get them, it felt like.

“Ugh,” Heather groaned, flopping onto their rented bed. “I wanna sleep for another two hundred years”.

[loubuggins]

BBRae Week 2017 - Marriage

She had to have something old, new, borrowed, and blue. Nobody could give knives as gifts (a strange rule, but he went along with it). She had to have a sugar cube to hide into her glove. They had to be married on a Wednesday and it had to be during the month of June. All these things seemed minor and a bit weird, but Garfield went right along with it.

He never would have taken Raven for the superstitious type. He supposed he should have though, seeing as Raven was all about the supernatural. Come to think of it, maybe that's why she had kept that penny he had given her so long ago? Oh well, he knew now and there would be no forgetting it. Everything had to be perfect. In Raven's mind, the slightest fluke would bring disaster onto the whole marriage. The pressure to keep everything just right was enough to make the changeling question if he should have insisted on a ceremony in the first place. After all, he could have done what Raven had suggested, and just elope the night he proposed. However, his big mouth had persuaded her into a big ceremony and now he was paying the price.

The wedding was only minutes from starting. Guests were piling in, and the sound of piano music played in the background of the murmurs coming from the crowd. Garfield, dressed in his black tux and purple tie, stood at the doorway, greeting his friends and family as they entered the large church. Everything had been done to Raven's specifications, right down to the type of rice that was to be thrown by their guests at the end of the ceremony. For the first time in months, Garfield felt confident that this was going to go well after all.

"Changeling!"

The sound of his name snapped him back into reality. He turned around to meet a set of brown, worried eyes looking back at him. An African-American woman, wearing a long, navy blue dress, came up right behind him.

"I need to borrow you for a second." She ordered as she grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the pair of guests he was having a conversation with. "Please excuse us." The bold young women called back behind her as she continued to drag the groom away from his post. She brought him to another hallway, pretty much deserted besides the occasional passerby. The women led him down to the end of the hallway and they stopped at a door with a sign on it labeled, "Bride's Room."

Garfield yanked his arm back, and growled in a hushed, but irradiated voice. "Have you lost your mind!" He hissed. "You of all people should know how superstitious Rae is! And even I know the one about how the groom isn't supposed to see the bride before the wedding!" As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt a stinging sensation on his cheek and he jumped back with a yelp. "Bee, what the hell?" He whined as he rubbed his now slightly pink cheek.

"Don't you dare talk to me that way Garfield! You're lucky I didn't use my stingers on your ass!" Bee scolded as she wagged her pointer-finger at him like a mother chastising a small child. Garfield's ears drooped slightly and his demeanor seemed to have calmed for the time being.

He let out a sigh. "I'm sorry Bee. I'm just...really stressed right now." He admitted and rubbed his neck in a nervous habit. Bee seemed to have calmed down herself, and looked sympathetically at the poor changeling.

"It's alright, Gar. Now I didn't drag you down here to argue with you. You see, Raven, well, she's not doing so good." The women said with a frown.

"What? Is she okay? Raven!" The green man quickly leaped forward towards the door, and was about to barge through if the women hadn't of grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"Ow! Stop grabbing me!" Garfield growled as he rubbed the spot on his arm that she had yanked.

"Sorry." She said sheepishly. "I just can't have you barging in there all in a tizzy like that. Raven is fine. Well, she's not hurt or anything. And she doesn't even know that I brought you here."

"Well then why am I here?" He asked in patiently.

"Because Raven's got cold feet." She finally admitted. Garfield's face instantly fell into a frown, and she realized she should probably be a little clearer. "Don't worry, Gar! She's not gone or anything! She's just going through what most brides go through right before the big day." She tried to comfort him and offered him a smile. He seemed to relax a little bit, but he still looked upset.

"So... she’s having second thoughts?" He asked, his voice hoarse like he was on the verge of tears.

"Oh gash, I feel like I just kicked a puppy." She thought to herself. "No Garfield, it's not like that. Look, most brides get nervous right before the wedding. I mean, your nervous, right?"

"Terrified." He offered.

"Right, so if you, the guy who wears his heart on his sleeves and craves the spot light, is scared, then how do you think Raven, the shy and reserved empath, feels?"

"Oh no!" Garfield cried out as he ran a hand through his hair. "What have I done?"

"This is getting me know where." The women thought irritably. "These two will be the end of me."

"Okay, listen to me Garfield. Garfield?" She snapped her fingers in front of his face breaking him out of his panic attack.

"Huh? What?"

The women sighed. "Listen to me. Raven is scared, but she won't listen to us. So, I'm going to go in there, get the girls out, and you are going to go in there, man up, and talk some sense into that girl. Got it?"

Garfield slowly nodded his head. "But makes you think I can convince her to do this?" He questioned nervously.

The women smirked. "Because you did it before, when you got her to say yes." With that the women turned and opened the door. She quickly snuck behind the door and shut it with a click. Garfield leaned up on the door, and pressed his ear up to the wood. Thanks to his animal hearing skills, he could make out most of the sounds, even if they were a bit muffled.

"Friend Raven, please stop the crying." The distinctive sound of Starfire's foreign accent pleaded.

"I'm telling you, Raven, it's not even that noticeable." He caught a familiar voice that belonged to Jinx.

"Not noticeable? Crying? What the hell was going on in there?" Garfield thought.

"Alright girls, maybe we should give Raven some time to think." He heard Bumblebee suggest. There were a few protests, but after a brief pause (most likely Bumblebee giving them a death glare), he heard the sound of shuffling feet as the girls headed for the door. Instinctively, Garfield jumped back away from the door and watched as Bumblebee, followed by a group of other bridesmaids exited the room. Some of them eyed Garfield with a compassionate or suspicious glance, before following the Titan's East leader down the hall. The last two to leave were Starfire and Jinx, who he assumed were the ones that tried to stay. Starfire was the first to notice Garfield, and she quickly flew up to him and squeezed the life out of him.

"Oh, Friend Garfield! I hope you and Friend Raven will do the making up, just like you always do!"

Garfield gently pulled the taller women off him. "We're not fighting, Star. Honestly, I have no idea what's going on." He looked at her and Jinx, silently pleading them to at least give him a clue as to what he was dealing with. Starfire looked away, but Jinx met his stare with a smirk.

"Oh, don't worry Beastie. I'm sure you're about to find out all about it." She finished with a creepy laugh as she pulled Starfire with her down the hall. Garfield rolled his eyes at them. So much for thinking Jinx would be helpful.

He hesitated for a moment. If Raven was upset, then Bumblebee was right in that she needed some time to think. He had learned over the years, that it was far easier to get through to the half-demon when she had a clear head. Therefore, he gave her a minute to relax, before he stepped forward and knocked on the door, making his presence known.

"Go away!" She wailed for the other side of the door. Garfield let out a sigh.

"Rae, please, it's me. May I come in?" He asked gently.

"No!" She practically shrieked, causing him to jump a little in surprise. "You can't see me Garfield! How many times do I have to tell you that?"

It was understandable for her to be a little irritated at the shapeshifter. She had told him about a million times that he was not to try and steal so much as a peak of her 24 hours before the wedding.

"Sorry, Rae, but you know I'm no good at following orders. Now may I please come in?" He tried again, to which his efforts were only met with more yelling from the other side of the door.

"I told you, it's bad luck to see the bride before the -"

"Oh, cut the crap Raven!" He yelled back, his voice a little too harsh than he had meant it to be, but it was enough to shut the empath up for a moment. "I don't care about all that superstitious junk! I put up with it at first, because honestly, I thought it was cute that you cared so much about this wedding stuff, but I can't take it anymore! You're in there crying for whatever damn reason that no one will tell be about, and all I want to do is break this door down, give you the most passionate kiss I can muster, then carry you bridal style up to the alter!" When he was done with his rant, he started panting trying catch his breath and calm himself down.

"Feel better?"

The words were soft and anyone, but Garfield probably would not have heard them.

"Yeah." He took a deep breath. "Sorry."

"It's fine. I guess I don't have a patent on mental break downs."

Garfield let out a deep chuckle. "I guess we're both letting this whole wedding stuff get to our heads." The man turned and leaned his back and head against the wooden door. "I'm sorry, Rae." He said.

"Sorry? For what? You haven't done anything wrong, Gar. This is my fault."

Garfield shook his head. "No, Rae, its mine. I'm the one that pressured you into the whole wedding thing. You were right, we should have just eloped or something."

His confession was met with silence. Did that mean she agreed with him? Before he could let that thought fester, he heard Raven's soft voice from the other side of the door.

"No Gar, you were right this time. I did want a wedding, I just didn't know it until now. I like having all our friends here, our family. I like going through all the planning and preparing with you. I like dressing up and feeling..."

"And feeling what, Rae?" He practically begged for her to continue.

"Don't laugh."

"I won't laugh." He promised her. He heard her sigh, then continue.

"Feeling like a princess."

This made Garfield's heart melt. He knew Raven better than anyone, but even he could never have guessed that the normally shy, introverted, empath wanted to be in the spotlight for once.

"Oh, Raven." Garfield started. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it's silly!" She nearly shouted this time. "I'm a half-demon! I shouldn't want to feel that way!"

"Raven, listen to me. You are the most beautiful, caring, and loving person I have ever met. There is no one in any universe that I love as much as I love you. If you want this to be the day you play princess, then I'll happily be your prince."

Garfield could have sworn he heard a couple awe’s for down the hall, but he chose to ignore it.

"All I want to do is marry you, Rae. I'd marry you a thousand times if I could. I want to make you my wife, Raven. Just tell me what I have to do, and I’ll do it.

There was a pregnant pause as Garfield waited for his words to sink in for the sorceress. Finally, the door he was leaning on became consumed in black magic and the door swung open. Garfield straighten himself up, then turned and met the gaze of his love. She was sitting in a chair in front of a vanity mirror. She was wearing a long, white gown, featuring a charming sheer bateau neckline detailed with beaded floral lace appliqués. It had gorgeous floral lacing that gently tapered down the soft tulle skirting, creating a light and dreamy look. She also had on matching laced gloves that went up to her elbows and a white comb in her hair. Her hair was up in a bun, with a few strands left hanging down to frame her face.

In other words, she looked breathtaking.

"Wow." Was all the changeling could utter as he stood in the doorway dazed.

A light blush creeped up the women's face and she broke their eye contact. "Well don't just stand there like an idiot."

Her words snapped him out of his daze and they reminded him that the angel sitting in front of him was indeed his Raven. He obeyed her command, and stepped inside the room, the door slamming shut behind him. The women looked down at an object in her hands. He followed her gaze and saw she was fingering with her veil.

Slowly, he walked up to her. When he was close enough to her, he bent down on one knee, and took the veil out of her hands. She didn't protest, just stared sadly as he took the white object out of her hands. Carefully, he opened it up and threw it over her head. The ivory tulle fell like a feather around the women's head and shoulders. He attached it to the comb, then scooted back to take her in full view.

"Every day you manage to look more beautiful than the last, but today I think tops them all." He told her, his voice sincere and filled with love and awe.

She couldn't take it anymore. Suddenly, tears began to run off the women's face. She tried to use her hands to hide her face, but Garfield instead stood up and wrapped her in a loving embrace, which seemed to only make her cry more.

"I don't get it Rae? What's wrong now?" The man questioned as he gently rocked the weeping women in his arms.

"It's...my veil...it ripped." She spoke in between sobs.

Garfield looked at her confused. "But I didn't see a tear?"

She choked back her sobs and leaned back so that he could see her face and veil that covered it. He released her from his hold so that she could use her hands to grab the end of the veil that had been torn.

"See, its ruined. My veil is ruined and now I can't wear it, and if I can't wear it, it won't be able to ward off evil spirits."

Garfield could not help it this time. A loud fit of laughter left his lips and filled the room.

"What's so funny?" Raven asked irritably.

"I'm sorry Rae! It's just...I can't believe you just said that!" Another fit of laughter racked his body.

"I'm serious!" She yelled at him.

"I know!" He laughed even harder. He was laughing so hard that tears were started to come from his eyes this time.

Raven gave him her signature death glare. "You better stop laughing if you know what's good for you." She threatened.

"Okay, okay, I'll stop!" He said as the last of his giggles left his chest. "Wait a minute! Is that what all this was about? Your veil?" He accused.

"Well it was, at first, but then it brought up a lot of pent up emotions that I didn't even realize I was suppressing." She explained.

Garfield gave her a serious stare, which was a bit unnerving to her. Then in one quick motion he reached past her, grabbed a pair of scissors that were sitting on her vanity, then brought them up to his chest. Before she could register what he was doing, he untucked his tie with one hand and used the other to cut off half his tie. The end piece fell softly to the ground and the other piece poked out from his neck.

"There, now we match. Can we please get married now?" He asked with all the innocence in the world. Raven stared blankly at him, then a small smile formed on her face.

She nodded her head. "Let's get married." She said happily as she took his hand and together they walked out of the room. The young couple were too caught up in their own bliss, that they passed right by the group of girls that stood right outside their door.

"How glorious! Friend Changeling and Friend Raven have done the making up again!" Starfire announced happily as she folded her hands and floated slightly off the ground.

"For the tenth time, they weren't fighting!" Jinx hissed at the female alien.

"That was really sweet." Bumblebee said, ignoring the other two women. The group of girls all nodded their agreement.

"Yeah, marriage looks good on those two." Jinx agreed. The group stood there for a moment, admiring the happy couple from down the hall before they watch them exit the hall.

"Oh, the ceremony must be beginning!" Starfire cheered.

"Wait, aren't we supposed to be in it?" Bumblebee asked to know one in particular. The girls all shared a look, before making a dash after the happy couple.

[grima-the-creator-of-all-blog]

The Bible of Grima A Collection of the Tales of Grima

In loving Memory of John Grima

The Table of Contents This book is divided by universes. If there are multiple stories in one universe they will be in the same section, if a storyline takes place in multiple universes they will be lumped together.

Z-137&C-138 Double O Grima Initial G Farewell to Malta Space Grima One Roast Grima Vs. the Dream Team Meme Team God

Universes Z-137 and C-138

Double O Grima By: Timothy Mazzoleni

Pripyat, Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic, December 17th, 1989. 2200 hours: It was -7 degrees Celsius, and John was colder than liquid nitrogen. The cold was biting through his high-tech heated trench coat, a gift from his good friend in Malta. The CIA had sent John on his 60th mission for the agency. This location however, was new. He had been airdropped into Ukraine 3 days ago over the countryside, and using his wits, and his gadgets, he managed to sneak across the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone and into his mission area. John Grimas mission was to disrupt an arms deal with international terrorists. Grima had dealt with terrorists before. But these were different. Grima knew they had weapons that would put him at disadvantage. He would have to use his skills to get around them and destroy whatever they were trying to get out of the country. “I guess I better get some rest before tomorrow morning.” said Grima to himself. He stepped into one of the only seemingly intact apartment of the hundreds of in this building. The apartment was damp and cold, almost like a dead being, grabbing at his life force to keep him in this irradiated wasteland. Paint flaked off the walls like a fresh croissant out of the oven, and as the breeze swept through the room, pieces brushed the ground at his feet. Grima turned on his electric lantern to roll out his sleeping gear. He would be leaving at 0500 in the morning, before the sun came up, to give himself the advantage of being at the target location before his enemies. As he rolled out his sleeping pad, he took off his coat and gear and set them to his side. He began to prepare to mobilize for the next day. December 18th, 1989, 0500 hours: Grima awoke to the sound of footsteps on his level. He quickly gathered his gear and slipped on his trench coat. He slowly pulled his weapon from his coat. He couldn’t afford to take chances, even if he didn't want to kill. This mission banked on his success and he could not fail. He heard the steps getting closer. They sounded quiet. The person knew he was here. He prepared himself for conflict. The steps slowed to silent, and Grima whipped around the corner into the horrified face of a fox. The animal jumped backwards and turned tail, running down the hallway it originally came from. Grima thought “How could that animal survive in such high radiation areas? That poor animal should be dead.” Grima let his thoughts and questions slip, and he walked down the hallway, along the Soviet propaganda and gas mask instructions littered beside the dark path. As he made his way down the stairs, an updraft swept his trench coat to his side like a leaf being pulled from a tree. Grima thought about his snake, Solid. Solid would be getting anxious now, with his presence absent, and he would be longing for his arm. Grima doubled his pace across the courtyard and onto the street. He looked across to the car drop point. There it is. His dream car, and the car he had asked for on this mission. His heart ignited and he sprinted to his new whip. A Toyota AE86 Trueno. The perfect car for drifting in the heart of a power station. He grabbed the key from under the tire and unlocked the door. It was crisp and strangely familiar. He slipped into the seat, and started the brand new engine. It hummed to life and he now knew, he had lost his stealth factor. He loaded his supplies into the hatch and hopped back into the driver's seat. As the car warmed up he felt the seat wrap him like a blanket, and it reminded him of home. He slotted the car into 1st gear and set off to the power station, to finish his mission. December 18th, 1989, 0532 He tached up and down, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, handbrake, to 2nd, hold the slide, regain traction, upshift. He screamed the car through the car's power band and onto the premises of the Chernobyl. The powerstation had detonated in 1986, and had caused the biggest nuclear spill in history. Not only this, but Grima was aware of the risk of terrorists getting ahold of the weapons-grade uranium inside the reactor, and using it for WMDs. Grima slid into the main structure of the power plant, and hopped out of the Trueno. Grima grabbed his pack, slipped his trench coat on, and walked through the reactor 4 control room door. As he walked in, he immediately used his russian skills to read the controls, and reached for the lever to kill the lights. The lights flickered, there was a whirr, and then silence and darkness. The spare generator had been disabled which shut off the last of the lights in the compound. And then he heard them. The thunder of suvs rumbling down the courtyard concrete. The suvs came to stop just outside the main structure. Grima prepared for a fight and prepared his gear and tightened his back pack. He then activated his night vision contact lenses and walked out of the control room.He saw the criminals walk through the main structure opening. He saw the case on a trolley and the second group, assumedly the buyers of the uranium, walked through as well. Grima waited for them to be in position and to give them a false sense of security. The sellers and the buyers gathered around the product, and he pulled out his compact grenade launcher. He aimed and let the safety off, and let the grenade fly. It screamed through the air like a banshee and exploded with a shockwave and he felt the heat burn his facial hair. The men went flying and Grimas geiger counter went haywire. He sprinted out of the control room and down the stairs towards the reactor. The men recovered and began to fire their weapons at the spy. Grima heard the bullets ping off metal pipes and kept running through the power plant. He decided to go with the plan and go to the roof. He sprinted up the stairs, and kicked open the door. He heard Russian yelling behind him but he couldn't make out what they were saying. Probably something about how he was a spy. No matter, he had to keep moving. “STOP!!” someone screamed behind him. “YOU MUST STOP NOW!” Grima kept sprinting, towards the jump point. Bullets began to whiz by him in the night, and then, he felt it. He was hit. He doubled over and tripped over a roof pipe. And he sailed over the edge of the power plant. His life flashed before his eyes, and he saw Solid, sad that he was dead, he saw the Trueno burning, and he knew what he was to do next. “It’s time to retire” said Grima to himself. and he pulled the string on his backpack, deploying the explosive air mattress to land on and save his life. As he slammed onto the ground, he heard the men yelling above him, and he knew to run into the night to fake his death, and retire in Tokyo, to begin a new chapter in his life. Drifting.

Initial G By: Riley Currey

After many years of being in the service, Double O Grima decided to retire along with his Toyota AE86 150 HP. He had named it Vlad The Impaler, his one true love and the machine that will always have his back. You must be wondering what he is going to do with his life, a man that has seen so much that he cannot live a normal life. Alas, he was not going to live any normal life, since he has become the most notorious drifter in all the world and has never lost a race. The name of this champion is “Initial G”, the man who has never been at the beginning of the race or the end. The legend drifts in as soon as the light turns green and destroys all in sight. This night was different, the integrity of Vlad the impaler as a car was in danger -- by them saying it was an old piece of junk. The man who said these harsh words was none other than Salty Stef, a member of the Meme team a gang who were the fastest drifters in the world. These teams have never met because the drifting aura would be too great for any normal group of people. Only the extreme drifters can handle this aura and that was who was here to watch the extreme of the extreme. This night was a dark night, the fog was heavy, and the track as a unforgiving spiral down Mount Hotakadake. This night was nothing for Stef but what was bothering him was that Grima was not there, even though this is a norm. They begun the countdown Stefs’ car seems to glisten in the moonlight the light blue mazda FD with a scary 236 HP it was nicknamed the Doors to Heaven. Zeb the announcer counts down “Five, Four” while this is happening the fog seems to get denser and denser as the numbers get closer to Start. Zeb counts more “three, Two, One” and at that moment vlad the impaler flashes by like lightning and The Door to Heaven is neck to neck with him. They hit the first turn and Stef is able to drift it easily, but Grima is doing it to well it is like he is a god. Luckily this next one leads into a straight away and that is where Doors to Heaven is the best. “Stef is easily 500 meters ahead now, is this the end for Grima” says Zeb, But, in that moment, you hear Grimas tires scream like the car is not willing to give up. “This ten year old car still has some spunk” says Grima coming up on the trench. This is a place on the mountain where the track loops around over a deadly drop but in theory if one was going fast enough they could jump it to get in the lead. This would be impossible in the weather though with the fog no one could even see the other side. Stef was still very far in the lead almost past the trench grima knew he had to do something he had to do it. Vald the impaler's revved to a higher note than anyone though it could at that moment Zeb realized what he was going to do. “ No, he wouldnt that is a death sentence” says Zeb as grima Drifts into position and hits the turn to jump. Then, Grima says to Vlad “ we have had a great run, but give me more power” the car hears him and revs more and more as they drift off the edge. The crowd is silent they could see nothing through the fog, assuming he was dead zeb says “The legend seems to have lost in the most epic attempt to win, he will be remembered. This seems just to be Stef's victory lap.”. As Stef is about to go around the last corner by the trench A shining light appears, it is Grima landing on the track with a perfect drift around the last corner. Stef’s fighting spirit is hurt he desperately tries to get ahead of Grima but it is impossible and Grima drifted into the end of the course then disappearing into the fog. While all this is happening the crowd is chanting “Initial G,Initial G,Initial G,Initial G”. This was a endless chant and it consumed Stef he did not even make it to the finish line. As Zeb helps his team mate out of his car he says “Grima wins yet again, for now”. Then the team vows to defeat Grima no matter what it takes. A few months have gone by and grima has not raced since the day with Stef. The drifting world had seemed too quiet lately it was scaring him. Grima would barely get any sleep anymore, he has been having withdraw symptoms from not racing anyone. He can only sleep in his trusty car Vlad. The day was coming to an end so grima thought to himself “it is time to go to bed”. As he walked over to Vlad something seemed off but he decided not to check it out and got to bed in Vlad. The next day he woke up and there was a Mc.Fonald Milkshake on his windshield. Grima was startled, the milkshake had been talked about in Meme Team lore dating back to the first drift race. The milk shake represented a declaration of war, Grima got out of his car and saw that there was a note inside. This note read “Come race at Mount Everest and win, Or else your beloved Vlad will die”. Grima was very confused his car was right here though, he looks at it and sees that it is not Vlad but just a cheap museum AE86. How could he not have realized it, he was just too tired to see the changes. All his years in the spy service and he had lost his Vlad due to his laziness. He had to make it there, there was only one way to get there with Speed GMO. Speed GMO is a moped Honda NSC50R with 200 Horsepower a real work of art. Only one of these where ever sold because they are so EXTREME and DANGEROUS. Then grima zooms off into the sunset to save Vlad. After a few weeks of travel grima arrives at Mount Everest, Grima is very unkempt his hair seemed to grow twice as long as it was to the point where it had to be put in a man bun. That was not even the worst of it his beard had grown a foot longer. Grima could now be described as someone that is in a biker gang but he drives a moped. This man will not stop for anything until he gets his identity back, Vlad the Impaler. He works way up the mountain hitting all the curves drifting at ungodly speeds, but something was very different about grima his eyes had a fire in them. Grima was almost to the top the road was starting to get icy and he needed to put on his oxygen helmet so he could breath at the speed he was going. Grima Finally reaches the top and sees Vlad with four tire boots on it, This was just too much for him to handle he had to save his only partner. Grima is at last at the finish line where Zeb and Riley have been waiting for weeks, they see him and start their cars. Zeb’s car was a volvo 240 with 200hp Nicknamed “Meme mobile” and next up was Riley’s a Ford explorer 1991 with 175 hp Nicknamed “Big Bertha”. Both these cars are revving at the start, the announcer approaches the one and only David Hasselhoff then says “ This better be a great race, because if it isn’t I would have not gone through the hassle to get here” who seemed unaffected by the intense drifting aura. The countdown starts the engines increase in power as number get to one then Hasselhoff says it “GO”. They our off normally in a drift race there our only two cars but with three there is a huge risk. Riley has the lead already heading up on the 3rd drift but something seems off he hits the drift around the corner. Then he heads to the next on but nobody is behind him, he assumes he took a shortcut and says “haha suckers”. Then he sees the next drift and goes to hit it, then sees that it is a cliff warning. This realisation was too late, then Riley falls to his death but in the wake of it starts a deadly avalanche. Seeing this Grima and Zeb speed up as fast as they can, this race was not for pride anymore it was for life. Zeb and grima our neck and neck about to hit the hardest drift in the world this is called a “Ice Solar Drift”. No one has ever done one of these and lived to tell the tale, they are getting closer and closer to it. At that exact moment Zeb’s meme mobile wheel pops and he is consumed in the white cloud of snow. That was the last that was seen of zeb but a man such as that can never die and will always live in your hearts. This did not matter to grima he had to live to find Vlad in this mess. He hits the Drift it was so fast that it felt like his beard hairs were getting ripped out one by one even through his helmet. Then he sees himself in what seems to be the future he is a space drifter, oh how he longed to be one. Then he hits the finish line riding only on the metal rims of his moped the tires seemed to have melted off and melted all the snow coming at him from the avalanche in his last drift. Hasselhoff say “ oh boy that was worth the hassel” then disappears into the sun set. Grima kicks away his moped and runs to the mountain sized mound of snow and starts digging to find Vlad but he never does. legends say that you can still see him digging in a desperate attempt to find his loving Vlad the Impaler. Also his family members say that he when back to malta to start a new. “The first one sounds way cooler though” says the narrator John Grima.

Farewell to Malta By: Kevin Briggs

The resistance movement was growing quickly, within three weeks the protests had spread from Gozo to the main island. People from all over Malta had begun to take a stand against the highly oppressive Maltese regime. What started as small-scale agricultural strikes and peaceful protests had quickly evolved to riots. It seemed that the entire working class was on their feet and fighting to overthrow Grima regime. The regime tried to regain control of the Maltese citizens by instituting nationwide curfews and martial law but they were only met with armed rebels supported by the Russian Mafia. After the King denied the protesters’ initial demands to resign and face criminal charges, insurgents from every island in Malta stormed the streets of Valletta. Their eyes were set on the former parliament building, now home to the tyrant who had taken hold of the government just over a decade before. Unbeknownst to the insurgents the head of state and public enemy number one, King Grima, had hidden a few blocks away from his palace with the rest of his cabinet in an underground bunker in Valletta. The bunker was constructed from cold clean concrete with four private rooms surrounding a center conference room. All the rooms were lit with yellowed fluorescent lights that flickered anytime you turned on one of the room’s closed circuit computers. The metal framed ripped cushioned furniture felt even more lonesome than the construction itself. The team was sitting around the meeting table in conference room waiting for Grima to stop pacing and sit down at the head of the table.

Struggling to form a plan, the man who had once ruled with an iron fist now looked towards his board of trusted advisors for a way out alive. With the help of a military escort, he might be able to carve his way through the protests to a military submarine stationed in the nearby docks. Luckily for King Grima, he still held most of the military’s allegiance because of his wartime leadership in the War of the Mediterranean in 2048. His tactical mind and guerilla strategies were able to not only win the war but also save thousands of Maltese lives. The trust he earned in the military was now keeping him safe in a military bunker out of the insurgents reach. His only way out probably was going to require the help of the Maltese soldiers. Grima was panicking; he could not stop thinking about what he could have done to maintain the forceful grip on his small home country. After years of controlling Maltese legislation, their country’s justice system, and even all of their citizens access to any form of news and media it was the Russian Mafia’s influence that would lead to the public’s hatred towards him. Lead by infamous Russian drug peddler, Emma Gist, the Mafia sought to gain control of Malta for the Russian government to use as a military base within the Mediterranean. Grima had to stop thinking about the past and focus on keeping himself safe. He reminded himself that he had to be careful when planning his escape because he was almost certain that one of his cabinet members was a puppet of Gist and her Mafia. He had to move quickly before the puppet leaked the whereabouts of their hideout. With the help of his lead strategist Kevin Biggs, one of John’s most trusted advisors and lifelong friend, started to plan his escape using the submarine before the Judas made themselves known. His intelligence updates informed him that the insurgents had breached the outer security of the parliament building, but they only had a couple of hours before they found out that King Grima had already fled. Although his security detail assured him that there was plenty of time to lay low, John had an uncomfortable feeling of utmost urgency so he decided to pull the trigger. Grima assembled a group of his closest staff members and made a plan on how to safely transport him three blocks to the port where the submarine was hidden. The group used one of the bunker’s private rooms to draw up a plan like a football formation. The plan had been formed and they were ready to step foot outside. With bodyguards forming a shape similar to a bird’s V formation they were able to quickly start cutting through the crowd without gathering too much attention. They had made it about half a block before some of the insurgents noticed them. When they rioters caught sight of Grima they got noticeably more agitated, that is when Grima got in some serious trouble. People started throwing glass bottles and bricks taken from pillaged buildings. His escorts did an honorable job intercepting most of the projectiles with their bodies. However, before they got to their safe house a block away from the port some of the bodyguards already fell to the Maltese rebels. Luckily, Grima was able to make it into the safe house without any sustaining any significant injuries. Grima’s cabinet opened the metal door and protected the entrance until they were able to shut and bar the doors to their retired military hideout. They had time to recover and count their losses. Grima looked to his advisors for help; they would have to adapt their plan to deal with some of their cabinet’s losses. At that moment, a metallic object crashed through the window and exploded. Smoke filled the room and sounds coming from all directions. Grima couldn’t see a thing and his eyes burned. He could just hear Kevin shouting for everyone to leave though the underground tunnel. Grima fumbled his way through the safe house tripping his way over objects to the stairwell where Kevin was waiting. From there Kevin, lead him through the tunnel where the rest of his advisors were waiting. After the long way through the tunnel, they were just across the street from the docks of the port. They would just have to make it safely to the sub. Completely ditching any plan or formation John Grima sprinted across the dock to the crew. Against all odds, he made it all the way to the military crew waiting to receive them. They boarded and took their places in launch protocol. The commanders filled the control room and Grima retreated to one of the bunkrooms. The submarine submerged and Grima had officially lost any control he might have left in his homeland; however, for the first time in weeks Grima felt safe. Unfortunately, his false sense of security would lead to his eventual demise. During the commotion in the safe house, Kevin had redirected Grima from the bigger group into a group of Russian Mafia members. Grima was too focused on trying to stay alive that he had not even taken note of the group escorting him. The person who covertly replaced his commanding military personnel, and now was in command of the submarine, was Emma Gist. Under the Russian Mafia’s control the submarine veered west out of the Mediterranean so they could drop off Gist in Russia just north of Finland before they stranded Grima alone in the Arctic.

Space Grima By: Zebulan Sheridan Robinson

The sun slowly crept around the horizon of the grey planet below, there was complete silence except for a single sound, the weak whirring of a small white 2329 N15san Sakana, with chipped paint and the words “The Hamajang Cicada” in neon purple letters. It's nearly an antique but definitely not in mint condition. The body of the ship curved in the shape of a fish with the solar intakes built into the sides and going down the body to the drift unit which is based at the tail of the ship. When activated the thrusters fan out to look like a fin. The ship gently shifted as the captain stirred from his rest. The room was littered with small snack bags, soda bottles, and wanted posters for a human, a Boanori, and a robot. Above the bunk he was climbing out of there were two more bunks both being occupied by his crew and coated in trash as well. After getting on his feat the captain in his tank top and boxers walks over to the doorless closet pulling up a pair of jeans and strapping them on with a belt of assorted tools and his laser pistol. He throws his bright red Hawaiian shirt on over his tank top and walks up to the front of the ship, strapping himself into the black felt seats of the cockpit and brushing cheeto dust off the console. He has a well trimmed head of black hear with bushy eyebrows and a pair of running shades. This is the tale of John Grima, Jr. space adventurer. With a swift movement of his wrist he released the emergency brake and moved his hand nio;to the shifter and slammed it into drive jacking the ship towards the planet barreling down to the nearest continent which had just begun to have light skate across it from the just rising sun. Moving the secondary shift gear up into third, then fourth, then fifth reaching a comfortable speed for his decent. After passing several layers of smog, smoke, and space trash he placed his other hand on the directional dial and pulled it to the left drifting through the sky and scraping the hull of the ship along the black top of a run down and abandoned Da Vinci. Thorned large flowered tendrils and vines creeped and crawled all over the empty buildings. The surrounding city echoed with the sounds of silence, not a single sound, not even a squirrel could be heard in this desolate wasteland. As he walked down out from the cockpit and through the hull he grabbed a helmet and pulled it over his head. After pushing a sequence of buttons on the side of the glass dome the rubber extended to his neck making an airtight space. He then took a tube from a hook on his belt and attached it to an input near the buttons he had just pressed. A small box containing a fan mounted on his belt began to whirr slowly. As he exited the bottom airlock a constant rustling was audile over the hum of The Hamajang Cicada. As he walked away from the hull he heard someone in the direction of the ship yell out at him “Ay Boss Mann! Whats with all the drifting and skids?! It's not even 9:00 in the Jorani Morning!” With a yawn Mr. Grima responded “Don't worry about it just wait inside and I’ll…” He froze in his placed and turned around to see a member of his crew, a friend, Solid. He was a member of the Boanori race long lanky humanoid creatures with scales and snakelike heads, and he had left the hull without a helmet. Grima started running towards him yelling “Get back inside now.” It was clearly to late, his friend had begun having a coughing fit, by the time Grima had reached him he was blubbering in buzzard tongues. Nothing he said made any sense as John grabbed him and threw him over his shoulder carrying him back into the ship. He rushed him into the common room clearing off the table of doughnut boxes and soda bottles. He then set Solid down where had just cleared and ran into the bunk room. He reached up to the top bunk and hit several buttons on a large metal box, he then stepped back attempting to slow his breathing. He then yelled at the unresponsive box “MT-3RT! Activate right now or I swear to ungalo I will dismantle you and throw you out the airlock over a dying star!” A gentle buzzing of decaying electronics emanated from the top bunk and a tall figure lowered itself from the bunk on two cables attached to the ceiling, and lowered onto a pair of tube feet and began to walk towards Grima rubbing his visual units and stretching. This was the residential robot of The Hamajang Cicada, A barely functioning MT unit. It was tall with a box head and a humanoid structure, more than half of its front facing panel was covered in many buttons. “Sorry GrimaaaaA-aaAAA” the bizarre yelling continued as the captain shook his head looking at the floor. He then entered a sequence of buttons on his front and slammed his side with the palm of his hand. MT’s yelling halted and the servos in its eyes dilated before starting again. “ Sorry about that Captain I still haven't worked out that kink in my software.” Grima turned down the corridor and motioned to MT-3RT to follow him beginning to talk “Nevermind that, I had to make a pitstop at S3-MW and Solid decided to just come out without a helmet.” MT beeped with a slight confusion and asked “What is so bad about that.” Grima turned towards the robot and erupted in frustration “You fool. Unlike you we need oxygen, and the oxygen out there is polluted with a neurotoxin that will make any oxygen breathing life form begin to hallucinate and eventually after extended exposure they will die. That is why it is a big deal!” Grima walked past the table with Solid on it and preceded to motion for MT to keep an eye on him. Grima stepped back out onto the blacktop and began jogging towards room fourteen hopping over vines and briefly checking in all the overgrown rooms to be sure no one else was there. Around room fifteen he heard several booms in the distance and he took his laser pistol, lovingly named SH4NK out from the holster on his belt and held it close to his chest turning around the corner. When he entered room fourteen there was a dankness to the air almost like he was in tropical climate. He walked towards the front of the room approaching a desk with a light blue glow and looked beneath it, his pistol drawn. Underneath the desk was a bright blue glowing succulent, it pulsated with clean pleasant light. When Mr. Grima saw this he exclaimed with relief “Well there that is then.” He took a mug from the top of the desk and scooped the plant into it gently, he then gripped his pistol and strided across the decaying room as he heard several loud energy shifts followed by a series of metallic thuds. One of the flowers on his shirt began to beep and he pressed the flower activating his communication device, MT immediately started screaming “Captain, captain we're not alone! There are five ships from the Milky Way Police Department around the ship, they are demanding us to come out with our hands up. Neither of us have hands! What are we going to do!? Grimaaa-AA-aaaaa” Grima tapped the flower again turning off the channel. He proceeded to run towards the black top connecting the mug to a loop on his belt. From deep in the mist he hear a strong military sounding voice say “John, come out. We know you're here, it's not like anyone else in this quadrant would drive a beat up piece of junk like yours.” continued walking towards where he parked ducking behind cover out of caution. He eventually could see his ship, surrounded by two MWPD space bikes and three hovering patrol cars with eight armed officers all alert. The man continued, “You're a damn fool, ya know I thought you would have been smart enough to avoid this hell hole, apparently not. You and you and your space potato.” Grima ran out from his cover furious firing several shots from SH4NK aiming for the thrusters on the central patrol car. While doing this he screamed at the officers “No one calls my baby a space potato!” When he hit the thruster it exploded with a bright blue energy spinning it towards several officers and one of the other patrol cars, they opened fire the second they saw him and he promptly jumped and rolled attempting to get near one of the patrol bikes. He ran avoiding their shots then grabbing the accelerator on the space bike and throttling it as much as he could aiming it at the men standing near the entrance to his ship. After releasing it he followed its path of destruction eventually hopping back into the bottom airlock being swallowed back into the ship while under fire. He rushed into the common room to check on his crew and found Solid laying on the table with his eyes wide and drooling with MT hurriedly tending to him. Grima walking past them towards the front of the ship announced to them “We got it, now maybe if we can we get out of here.” He proceeded up to the cockpit and strapped himself in turning over the engine as he did so, starting up the engine and pulling the nose straight up and yanking the secondary shift gear straight into eighth gear in an attempt to get away as fast as possible. After piercing the curtain of smog and smoke under the atmosphere it was clear they weren't getting out of this in one piece there was a blockade of five more patrol cars waiting for them. He pulled the emergency brake and pulled on the directional dial with all of his might jacking the ship to the left then swiftly releasing the brake following an orbital path around the planet to aid his speed, at this point all the patrol vehicles were pursuing him. The ship shook and began to slow as they begun being fired upon, MT’s voice began coming through a speaker on the console “Captain they hit the left solar intake, we are losing mobility” Solid’s voice came over the speaker “Aye Greims! I got that toxin out in just a few good ol blood purifications!” The ship shook again, Grima pushed a button to respond on the wheel “Boys, were dealing with the MWPD, they don't send you to some hodunk little jail, they will send us to a prison on the galactic level.” They all fell silent as shots whizzed past them, eventually Solid broke the silence by asking “What are we going to do Grima? Were still slowing down.” Grima opened up a panel next to him with the words “Contingency Plan” printed in bold red letters, he then flipped the first switch with had the words “Fins” under it. A pair of thrusters emerge from the sides and the ship begins speeding up again. Grima moves on the the next two switches called “Drift unit” and “Drift unit booster”, he then moves into tenth gear and begins to outrun the officers but they hit the leftmost fin. Grima slowly activates his microphone and comes on over the speakers “I'm sorry Solid, MT, just remember if your in C block ask for Hermy Wubbz… He will do his best to keep you safe.” Solid began yelling over the speaker, “What are you trying to say!? You better not do what I think you are doing.” Mr. Grima took the mug and poured it into a tube titled “Fuel converter” and then hit the last switch as a single tear rolled down his face. Gaskets steamed and doors closed as MT came on for the last time “Don't do this Captain. Please Griemaaa-aAAA” He turned of the speaker and hit the emergency break jacking the ship sideways and then the cockpit released from the rest of the ship, the end of it erupted with a glowing blue thrust beam as he initiated an interdimensional drift. The space and time around him began to curve, and then the cockpit was gone.

One Roast Grima Vs. the Dream Team Meme Team By: Stefan Kaloper

It was a dark day for the citizens of Sivad, as their superhero John Mema had been defeated by the supervillains of the Dream Team Meme Team. Memas closest friends, Big Sean McCarthy and Cruzerino were mourning the death of their beloved friend and ally when suddenly the dimly lit graveyard shone brightly as a ball of fire seemed to explode out of the clouds above. The two gaped while it descended from the sky, as the object drew closer to impact it became clearer and clearer that it had been man made. The ground erupted as the U.F.O. crashed onto the meadow nearby ripping a long ditch through the once beautiful flowers. The object came to a halt at the edge of the meadow and as the smoke cleared, Cruzerino noticed the shadow of someone or something! “It cannot be!” he exclaimed as Big Sean fell to his knees. Out of the crash stepped a nearly identical lookalike to their just buried friend John Mema. They watched as the man shook his head adjusting his sight to the once again dark cemetery. He walked up to the two of them, “I am John Grima and I am afraid that I have been transported into an alternate dimension through a careless error while flying my spacecraft.” He paused expecting surprise, but the two friends simply stood their silently mouths shut. “Is this normal here?” pondered Grima aloud. Big Sean finally spoke “No but you seem to be your dimensions version of our best friend who died this very day!” he regained his composure, “Perhaps it was simply fate, the universe choosing to not allow two different versions of the same person to exist in the same dimension at the same time? Nevertheless if you are anything like Mema please save us from the Dream Team Meme Team!” “The Dream Team Meme Team?!” exclaimed Grima. “Why how could those bunch of fools pose any threat? I've had my fair share of encounters and victories against them in my own time! Why those rascals would need actual superpowers to pose a threat to anyone!” Cruzerino responded, “well they may have been weak wherever you came from, but in this place the Meme Team are considered the greatest threat to the galaxy!” They consist of a large numbered group, along with formidable division heads and are led by the terrifying Resident Memelord!” “Shhh…” whispered Big Sean, “how could you not already have noticed that the man standing before you is also clearly quite powerful” He pulled out a device which appeared to be a camera and took a picture of Grima. He then handed it to his companion who reacted to the image with shock. “What is it?” asked Grima, now quite worried. “His power level, it’s over 9000!” exclaimed Cruzerino as he began to bow down to Grima. “Please great one, save us from the terrible Meme Team.” Grima noticed how the faces of the two fellows seemed to brighten up, and he began to actually consider helping them out. “Fine then exclaimed Grima!” Lead me to these cretins who I must defeat!” Cruzerino and Big Sean nodded and they led grima to a remarkably familiar looking car. He choose not to comment as he happily entered this dimension's version of his old Toyota AE86 150 HP. The three headed down the road out of the cemetery and towards the large structure far off into the distance… “Grima!” Grima rolled over in his sleep and continued snoring in the back of the car. “Grima, you need to wake up!” Someone shook his arm and Grima got up blinking rapidly. “Waz goin’ on?” he asked still quite sleepy. The car seemed to hit something and the entire frame shook as Grima banged his head on the ceiling. Now wide awake he took a look out of the window realizing that they seemed to be chasing after a white van with the letter “THE MEME MACHINE” sprawled across both sides in sharpie. The group continued chasing after the car as Grima came to the shocking conclusion that it must have some significance to the Meme Team. “Could this be related to the Meme Team?” Grima asked already knowing the answer. “Could it be any more obvious?” responded Big Sean who quickly turned the car around a bend in the road. “That is one of the many supply vans from which the Meme Team bring various objects of importance to their fortress. If we can stop it and throw out the driver we can use it to sneak into the fortress!” Grima thought that sounded pretty smart but wondered however they could stop the van. As they rounded another corner Big Sean slammed on the gas and rammed the van into the rocky mountain face. For a moment the van seemed to stop moving and the group was hopeful that it would be so simple, but the driver seemed to recover as the van slipped by the group and sped off. “We can’t let them get away!” said Cruzerino, “This could be our best chance to get into the fortress.” Cruzerino picked up his phone and seemed to send out a text, “this car just can’t go any faster, I think we need some more help!” As if on queue a shadow appeared over the top of the van, and as Grima looked up he noticed that it was a mustang, “that's FisterMr” said Cruzerino, “We hate each other but he's obsessed with his car and loves racing it against others.” The mustang quickly caught up to the van and the two cars began pushing each other back and forth while driving across the precarious cliff edge. “Watch out!” yelled Grima as the van pushed the mustang halfway of the edge but the car just seemed to keep on going and rammed the van against the other side of the road. The mustang backed off and it seemed as if there would be one final clash to decide the result of this competition. The two cars collided in the center of the road and the mustang flew of the edge while the van flipped over and stopped for good. “Oh no” said Grima “can we save him?” “Not worth it!” said Big Sean, “He was always a jerk about his car anyways, if you ask me it’s like hitting two stones with one bird, or however that goes.” “Two birds with one stone” corrected Cruzerino. “Anyways let’s flip that van back over and use it to sneak into the Meme Teams’ fortress.” And the group did just that. A few hours later they had slipped by the guards and were now prowling around inside of the fortress. They felt they were making good progress towards the center of the fortress when they suddenly heard a strange rattling from the darkness ahead. Out stepped a very weird looking creature with no head and having the appearance of a salt shaker albeit with stick figure arms and legs. As the group stepped forwards the creature noticed them, and they were surprised when it spoke “Who are you?” asked the funky looking salt shaker. “We are here to get vengeance on our slain ally Mema and defeat the Meme Team once and for all!” shouted Cruzerino. The salt shaker trembled and it appeared to the group that it was getting angry, “Go ahead” said Cruzerino “I’ll handle him!” Grima and Sean wished him luck and ran past the overgrown salt shaker which started towards Cruzerino. “Let's do this” and Cruzerino raised his arms as if preparing for battle. However neither struck, as in this dimension there was no such thing as doing battle physically, rather opponents would throw out roasts at each other, but these were no normal insults, each had the power to kill if the recipient reacted badly enough to it. “What are you looking at you stupid looking overgrown salt shaker” said Cruzerino, “I’m gonna rip your whole career apart like the press did to Hillary Clinton!” The salt responded furiously “I’m no ordinary salt shaker! I am salt man created from the massive amount of saltiness people harbor towards one and other.” Salt Man moved towards Cruz “Don't you judge me about my appearance, besides, you look like George Lopez, David Schwimmer and Ray Romano had a terrible threesome resulting in a baby!” This continued on for some time with Salt Man clearly winning out. After a few minutes Cruzerino was on the floor defeated with Salt Man standing over him. “Ha you really thought you could defeat me?” he paused “I too was once powerless, born Stef Currey I had no abilities but was still taken in by the meme Crew who gave me a home and eventually developed these powers for me, and know I am among the greatest in existence!” Salt man laughed a corny villainous laugh but paused when he noticed Cruzerino smiling. “What is it?” he cried. “You've made a fatal mistake Salt Man, by revealing your backstory and true name to me you have left yourself open to the greatest roast of all time!” “And whatever could that be?” responded the salt. “Well…” paused Cruzerino “Steph Curry my ass!” he yelled. Initially Salt-Man appeared unfazed, but he quickly began crying out in terror as his body began breaking apart. “HOW DARE YOU!” he screamed just before his entire body shook violently and exploded. Cruzerino’s relief was short lasted however, as he realized that with Salt Mans death, so to would the massive quantities of saltiness stored within him be released to wreak havoc across the planet. “I shall stop you” cried Cruzerino, and he set the salt ablaze using his lighter. As if it was alive the mass of salt began writhing about in the flames and managed to latch onto Cruzerino before he escaped. Cruzerino cried out as the entire room collapsed with a bang and neither he nor the salt would ever be seen again. Grima and Big Sean turned looked back hearing an explosion, and hoping the best for their companion, hurried towards the central area. After passing through a large archway they appeared in a massive dark room surrounded by candles. Suddenly they noticed a ghostly figure appear in the center of the room, and as they were about to run by it, the spooky thing screeched “I am the Resident Memelord ruler of this place and leader of the Meme Team, what business do you have with me intruders!” “We are here to defeat you and save the planet” said Grima, and the two companions walked towards the Memelord when suddenly a light flickered from the balcony above and Big Sean flung himself in front of Grima just as some sort of blast exploded towards the two. Sean took the full impact and fell to his knees crying out. Grima tried to lift up Sean but realized that his body was changing and stepped back. Out from the darkness of the balcony stepped yet another opponent. “And I am Billiam Bazooka, 2nd in command of the meme team.” “if you thought you would get a fair fight then think again, were villains after all, and we shall use any means to defeat you!” He patted the machine which had fired at Sean affectionately, “This is the Mass Extinction Makeover Event device, codenamed M.E.M.E. and we shall use it to control the world!” “It can turn anything hit into an awful meme and absorb their power” said the Memelord. Big Sean’s body stopped moving lying facedown on the floor. Grima flipped him over and screamed in fear, “The Legend 27? How could you that is a terrible meme!” The two tricksters cackled as Grima set Big Sean down. He sadly put him out of his misery by once again whispering into his ear “The legend 27 is an awful meme.” He then turned towards the memelord who had already began preparing his attack, and said to him “All I see here are stale memes, everything you say is a stale meme, even you are a stale meme!” The apparition screamed and attempted to flee but was stopped by his former henchman Billiam. “What are you doing Billiam?” asked the Memelord. “You went stale long ago, now you're too weak to do anything including represent and lead the Dream Team Meme Team” responded Billiam. “Now I will use the M.E.M.E. device to steal away your power along with his” he pointed to Grima “Then I will be the greatest being in the universe!” Billiam flipped the switch and fried the memelord, he then flipped another switch which seemed to transfer all of the stored up energy from the devices many victims into him. “Now” he gestured towards Grima “Let's do this buddy.” As the final battle started Grima realised that his first few attempts to roast Billiam had seemed to shockingly have little to no effect. On the other hand Billiam continued to strike at Grima’s very soul with each word he said. “You're stronger than I expected” said Grima, “I suppose it’s time to do this for real.” He began to shine bright like a diamond. “Time for my final form” and Grima transformed, he was now wearing a hawaiian t-shirt, flip-flops, shades, and shorts with his hair slicked back. “Well then,” cried Billiam “I thinks its about time to wrap this up.” He seemed to be charging up his final roast. “I would agree” responded Grima who also began preparing his next strike. Suddenly, the two let out their greatest roasts of all time and the area between them began to flash. The sounds of explosions could be heard from miles away as the two fought. There was another flash and the entire room erupted exploding outwards, as the fortress began collapsing upon itself. When the dust had settled not a soul could be seen. An arm reached out of the dust, tightly gripping a maltese flag.

The Immortal By: Isaiah Moore

There was an overwhelming darkness that would petrify any living soul. Not a glint of light nor a perceivable sound. The only sense that could be latched onto was the putrid smell of rot. This was a place that would turn any man against himself and engulf him with fear. Time felt distorted in this place and incomprehensible, minutes felt like hours, and seconds felt like days. A truly horrible place not worthy of the worst of human kind. A man of unknown origin was trapped here, scared, alone, and no memories to distract himself with. All he could do was lay in the darkness and expect the worst outcome. Hope was an unimaginable concept that was found in no corner of the man’s mind. The man felt no love, no elation, and no pleasure, only pain. After what seemed like an eternity of being trapped in this hell in an instant, the darkness was gone. A bright light pierced the man and everything around him. The smell of rot started to fade, and was replaced with the smell of burnt material. The man’s ears were overcome with tinnitus and his head started to ache viciously. As the light started to fade the man could feel sand surrounding him and the heat of a violent sun beating on his body. He laid in the sand physically and mentally exhausted from all the trauma he had just experienced. He tried to fight the urge to close his eyes but the want was too strong and in the end his tiredness overcame him and he fell asleep. When he woke up he was covered in sand and a lone desert snake had nestled into his torn trousers to shelter itself from the heat. The man shook the snake off and stood up with an energetic bolt. He felt clear headed and aware, a feeling he had not remembered experiencing ever. He noticed that his body had undergone intense changes. His arms and legs were bigger and stronger, his vision focused and highly acute any signs of first-degree burns from the desert sun vanished and he had virtually no pain. On his wrist was a watch like device that seemed to be embeddexd into his skin. On it a stopwatch that kept counting up, a date that read 01/15/3156 and a printed name that said “John Grima”. The man wondered about this name decided that it would be a good fit for him since he had nothing else to call himself. Grima walked through the desert aimlessly with no destination in mind, he didn’t know where he was or even why he was walking. He reached into one of his deep pockets and pulled out a Malta flag which he held onto as a token to discovering what he was before he forgot everything. After a day of walking he came across an abandoned destroyed city, large buildings laid beneath the sand destroyed, and in the vast distance the remains of a mega structure could be seen desolate and devastated. A rusty old sign lay on the ground that read “Davis, population 950000”. He thought about what life was like for the residents of the city before it was destroyed, and what could have happened that caused such destruction. In an instant a familiar bright light and a high pitched ringing pierced Grima and he found himself standing in a sprawling city with movement, and sounds coming from every direction. He was surrounded by large structures piercing the sky filled with life and action. In the distance he saw the megastructure, it stretched miles and miles high and was being orbited by thousands of objects he assumed were vehicles of some kind. Grima felt a new feeling he hadn’t remembered, which could only be described as joy. He watched as families of all kinds laughed and played with each other, and beings of all kinds living and enjoying their lives. His joy was shaken when he heard a siren coming from all directions, the families stopped playing and started panicking. He recognized the similar emotions that he was so familiar with in the families, the fear of death, and the struggle for survival. Before he could ask anyone what was happening there was an explosion in the distance, the blasts radius looked four times as large as the megastructure and glowed red. A shockwave blasted through the city knocking over all the buildings in site, and blasting Grima hundreds of feet backward into a building. The building then collapsed trapping Grima under the rubble. After hours of work Grima finally emerged to a fiery hell hole of destruction. What once was a city representing the progress of humankind was now engulfed with flames so hot they burned white. This was a disaster that not even the safest of people could have survived. Grima on the other hand was untouched by the disaster, he walked through the bright flames as if they weren’t there devastated as to what had just happened. He looked down at his watch and the date read 02/12/2602. In this moment, he finally understood what he had become and the sheer power he possessed. He realized that not only was he immortal, but he could bend time and space as if they were another one of his senses. Grima focused all of his energy into going back to moments before the blast. After a bright light and a piercing ringing, he was back in the action. He could even see his prior self looking around in distraught as everyone ran frantically. In that instant he focused even more and everything around him froze. Everything became silent and still. Grima walked around for a long while just observing this silent frightening world, the citizen’s expressions of fear and terror frozen in time. He teleported himself to the blast and saw what looked like a suspended warhead floating above the ground, on it an indistinguishable language he did not recognize. He put his hand on it, looked up into the sky, and focused. An instant later, he and the warhead were above earth. He rested there floating in space looking at the beautiful green planet in awe. He realized in that instant that it was his job to protect humanity, with the amount of things threatening human existence earth needed a protector. He looked deeper into the stars and teleported light years away to safely dispose of the warhead. Then returned to earth, the moment he returned there was a man waiting for him wearing a hooded cape that covered his face, an identical watch was implanted in his wrist, and the stopwatch read 11004 years, 6 months, 3 days. The man said with to him with a voice that sounded modified “You now know what your purpose is, and it is your duty to pursue it with the fullest passion.” In that instant the man disappeared. Grima knew his purpose.