#tw iv

[cowboylexapro]

look at my doctors dawg im gonna die

[gaybitch-3000]

im so sorry, artist is https://www.pixiv.net/en/artworks/100182701 and the artist's twt username is @renzzzcore

(thank you to @blu-day for the correction ^^)

[sharpth1ng]

You think billy and stu ever gotten so crazy with each other that they broke each others limbs or got too much blood loss (looking at you stabbing scene) that they would have to call an ambulance for because the sex went that wild

LOL idk about broken limbs, if that’s happened it was like once or twice at the most. But blood loss, 100% Stu has been there many times.

Tbh I think they just end up getting first aid training and keeping some of Stu’s blood type on hand for emergency transfusions 🤣Billy gets really good at doing stitches lmao.

Billy also once got an actual concussion having his head accidentally slammed against the headboard, oops 😬

Incredibly bruised and hickeyed Stu climbing into an ambulance with a slightly dazed Billy medical professionals like: Were you fighting?

Stu: …No.

Billy: (loopy, from IV painmeds, lying on the gurney and laughing) There’s cum in my ass

Update: I drew it cause I’m dumb

[kingtheghast]

"Poor little dhampir..."

(Commission for @jazzyjesse !)

[lambcchop]

[ full on twt ]

commissions open

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippet Thursday: Mistaken Identity

Actually quite long (about 42 pages in my tiny notepad), because it's a full one-shot rather than part of a multi-chapter idea. Although that's not to say I won't add pieces later

The distress beacon had been Sig’s, but the shape lying limply in the dust was most assuredly not Sig. The gathered Wastelanders looked at each other with grim expressions: this felt like a trap.

"Circle around," Damas signed to the driver of the second car, "Check for an ambush. I'll see if it's one of ours."

"Be careful," the woman signed back. A dimple between her brows suggested that under her heavy scarf she was frowning.

"I'm always careful."

Even so, Damas took extra care in approaching the crumpled form, gesturing for Kleiver to follow him in case of attack. He'd assumed that the person -- or corpse, hard to tell at this distance -- would be larger up close. But as he drew near, the figure remained small, and slight. They were dressed like a Havenite from the Slums, wearing stained, threadbare layers of clothing. A filthy scarf and dismally battered goggles half covered matted green hair; they didn't seem to have any more protection from the sun than that. Foolish Havenite.

Two small animals lay beside the stranger, breathing shallowly. Pets? That seemed an unusual step for Haven, letting an exile take anything important to them.

Damas glanced at the stranger, but kept his attention focused on the ground, looking for Sig’s beacon. It didn't take long to find, considering it lay beside the stranger's hand. Damas picked up the beacon and turned it over in his hand. There were no obvious signs of tampering. No blood or scorching or anything else to indicate that the beacon had been taken by force.

"How did you get this?" Damas murmured, not really expecting an answer. Whoever this was, they were barely alive.

"Er...lordship?"

It was not like Kleiver to sound hesitant.

"Do you...know this kid?"

An odd question. Damas looked up with a quizzical expression and found the big Wastelander peering down at the face of the figure. Kid?

The king pivoted on his heels to get a better look at their find.

Sunken cheeks. Dark circles under large eyes. A pitiful patch of stubble that might’ve been a first attempt at a beard on an otherwise startlingly smooth face. Precursors, he was a kid, wasn't he? He could've been anywhere from sixteen to nineteen -- in his state, it was hard to tell.

"Scrawny thing, isn't he?" Damas remarked. He took hold of an iron ring strapped to the boy's chest and tried to shake off a nagging sense of familiarity in the boy's features. "A channeler, maybe? We could use one of those. Honestly, I'm impressed that he's still breathing."

He glanced up. "What makes you think I'd know who the whelp is?"

Kleiver looked back at him with an unusually uncomfortable expression. He gestured awkwardly to the boy's face.

"Well he's...I mean- well look at 'im! 'S just weird, is all."

"What's weird?" Damas scoffed and hoisted the boy up by the iron ring.

The boy's head fell back and for just a moment, something around his neck glittered in the fading sunlight. With a curse, Damas dropped him as if he'd been burned. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled back a step, swearing under his breath.

"What fresh hell is this?" he demanded.

That was where Phobos found him after completing her perimeter check: staring in horror down at a much younger version of his own face.

Phobos crossed the space between their vehicles to touch his shoulder.

"Damas?"

"I...who is this?"

"Damas." Phobos shook him gently. "Hey. Hey. Are you just going to leave him lying there?"

The king blinked and inhaled sharply as he seemed to come to. "Right," he muttered, "...right. Pho, take my staff."

"What? Oop-!" Phobos hastily grabbed at the staff Damas all but dropped. "What the-!"

In a daze, Damas knelt and slipped an arm under the boy’s shoulders.

"Gods. He really is scrawny."

He shook his head and hoisted the boy up.

"Kleiver, get the car started. And someone grab those animals!"

Phobos's eyes flicked from Damas to the half-dead castaway, and narrowed.

"Damas...who is that?"

Her husband turned to face her, a disturbed shock stamped clearly on his face.

"I don't know," he said grimly, "but he's wearing a Maridius amulet."

■■■■■■■■■■

The Rift Rider idled, ready to take Samos and the child back in time. Ready to begin the cycle of pain all over again. Jak bit his lip and folded his younger self's fingers back over the proffered amulet.

"No, buddy, you keep it," he said gently. "Try...try to remember something about your family this time. Maybe remember me."

The tiny boy pouted, then threw his arms around Jak’s neck. "Za?" He whispered in Jak’s ear, the closest he'd ever come to saying his name.

Jak closed his eyes and hugged the kid tightly. Precursors knew he wouldn't get a lot of hugs in Sandover. "No, buddy. Za can't go with you this time. You have to be really brave for me, okay? There's...there's a kid on the other side of that gate who really really needs a friend. Can you look out for him for me?"

Sniffling, the little boy let go and nodded. "Brave like you," he signed. Then, rubbing his eyes, he sat back down in the craft.

Jak took a slow breath, then looked to the younger Samos. Doubtless this version of the sage was going to withhold just as much information as the older one. Jak didn't trust him to warn Mar about Errol. And he'd be blasted if he let that swine get his hands on the amulet in any timeline.

"You know, I didn't have the amulet when I got back to the present," he said casually. "I think you locked it up for safekeeping right before we fixed the Rift Gate, but I never saw where in the house you put it."

Samos took the bait too easily. "Oof! Yes, I suppose it would be bad for the kid to meet the Baron with that thing on. Thanks for the heads-up."

All too soon, they were gone. And not long after, so was Jak, headed for Dead Town. It had been a selfish ploy, a bid to give himself some semblance of a connection to his past. He couldn't remember having the amulet yet -- but he'd had trouble remembering a lot of his early years ever since the experiments began. "Traumatic amnesia", Daxter called it.

But if the amulet was there, if his ploy had worked, then maybe he'd get something back.

It took him an hour to sift through all the debris in the old hut, even with Daxter's help. The ravages of time hadn't left many places for treasure to remain undiscovered in. But just when Jak was beginning to fear that someone had found it decades before, his hand brushed over a brick in the old planter circles that lacked the same grout as the others.

Leave it to Samos to hide such an important artifact under a giant, vicious, carnivorous plant. Had he fed it to the thing?! The amulet was down where the roots had once been!

Still, Jak could admit to a sense of relief that washed over him once the amulet was in his hand. Clearly he'd changed the past at least enough to have an emotional connection to the pendant. He tucked it into his tunic, resolving to put it on a chain the first chance he got. He wasn't going to let anyone take it from him again.

■■■■■■■■■■

The last thing Jak remembered was collapsing beside a boulder, desperately trying to stay conscious only to fail seconds later. He could hear a voice -- not Daxter or Pecker -- nearby, and as he focused on that, other sensations began to filter in.

Softness beneath him.

The smell of eco med-gel.

An itch in the crook of his elbow.

A sticky dryness in his mouth, like cotton.

And something off about his skin. He couldn't put his finger on it, but his skin felt different somehow. Cleaner? No, that didn't make any sense. Why would it be clean?

It took a monumental effort to open his eyes, and he regretted it immediately. Light stabbed into his retinas pitilessly, and Jak let out an involuntary grunt of discomfort. In response, a shadow fell over his face, shielding him from the unforgiving glare. First a blur, then a shape, a face slowly swam into focus.

"Ah, you're back with us! Thank the Precursors, that was a close one, eh?"

Jak blinked up in confusion as his brain slowly processed the presence of one of the most beautiful women he could ever remember seeing. Not that he could remember seeing that many women in his life. Her skintone was so deep that the light framing her glanced off her cheekbones in little flashes of garnet and amethyst. Coils of hair spread out behind her head in an artful halo, providing most of the blessed shade across Jak's face. He squinted up at her for a long moment, trying to determine whether he was hallucinating in the desert.

"....'m I dead?" Jak croaked, then winced at the dry soreness in his throat.

The angelic stranger laughed in surprise. "Dead? No, quite the opposite, kid. Although you got pretty close."

"Where am I?" Jak tried to sit up, and something tugged at his elbow.

Instantly, he froze. He knew the shape of a needle.

Bile crawled up his throat, and his heart thundered in his ears as he forced himself to turn his head and look.

A bag of clear fluid hung from a stand beside a cot he'd been laid on. Descending from the bag, a long tube fed the fluid through a needle secured to his arm with bandages. A high whine escaped him, and the room seemed to spin.

"Whoa whoa whoa- kid, kiddo, look at me."

The mysterious woman suddenly took his face in her hands -- rough hands. A warrior's hands.

"Ssshh, hey, you're okay. You're okay, chico. It's just saline, that's all."

"W- what-?"

"Saline. It's a...kinda like a saltwater solution you give to people suffering dehydration."

One of the calloused hands cupped the back of his head, rubbing a thumb comfortingly over stubble.

Stubble?

Jak's breathing quickened and the room spun faster.

"What-!" he gasped, and his breaths began to squeak. "What did you do to me?!"

"Hey now, breathe. Breathe." The woman began to sway back and forth where she sat, dragging him along with the rocking motion.

"Inhale with me, yeah? In and out, in and out. I've got you."

"M- my h- my h- hair-!" Jak squeaked.

The woman clicked her tongue. "Oh, ohhh, you can feel that, huh? Yeah, you were overheated. The mats in your hair were just doing damage to you, longterm. The doctors didn't have any time to waste, so they shaved it out to cool you off."

She continued to cradle his face with her other hand, offering him a full, apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry we couldn't get your okay, chico. But...I mean, you wouldn't wake up! Not even your orange friend could get a response. He gave us the go-ahead."

For the first time since waking, Jak felt something like relief. "D- Daxter?"

"Mm. The mouthy one? Yes."

"Where-?"

The woman pulled back and turned away for a moment. Jak wondered why he felt minutely disappointed by that. He wasn't that touch-starved, was he? When she turned back, she held a cup and pitcher in her hands. The sight of the water trickling from one container to the other made Jak's throat ache all the fiercer.

"Here. Slow sips now, little bird. Don't make yourself sick like your friend did." The woman settled back into her seat at the edge of the cot. She made a vague gesture with the hand not holding the pitcher.

"At least he made a quick recovery. My husband took him back up to our place. When you're cleared by the doctors, we'll take you to him."

Jak gulped down the water, ignoring his visitor's protests. It was cool, although not cold, but even that was like heaven on his irritated throat. Droplets leaked from the corner of his mouth, and the IV tugged painfully as he reached up to catch them. He didn't think he could afford to waste even one drop.

"Hey hey!" The woman reached for the cup, and Jak jerked back out of reach.

"Not so fast, chico, you'll make yourself sick!"

Jak growled softly behind the rim of the cup and hitched up his shoulders. If this lady wanted to take the water away, she'd be in for a fight.

"Whoa!" The woman raised her brows. "Calm down. The water isn't going anywhere, I promise."

"I don't know you," Jak retorted, "How do I know you keep promises?"

Now the woman began to look a little annoyed.

"Fair enough," she begrudgingly allowed. "Considering the state we found you in, am I to assume that if I take that cup you'll bite me or something?"

"I might," answered Jak coolly.

Something bittersweet passed over the woman's face and lingered there at the corners of her mouth as she forced a smile.

"Well that wouldn't be very nice of you, but I can't say it wouldn't fit with every other kid in Spargus."

Jak lowered the cup slowly. "Spargus?" he asked, tilting his head, "What's that?"

"It's home," she answered. "The city of the forgotten and the betrayed -- and the hunter."

Jak raised the cup again and muttered darkly, "Well that's ironically appropriate."

"Let's start over, huh?"

The woman leaned back and carded a hand through her teased-out coils.

"My name is Phobos. I was with the convoy that found you and your friends in the Strider Range."

"...oh."

Jak grimaced. This woman had rescued him, hadn't she?

"I'm, um. I'm Jak."

Embarrassed, he gestured to the cup, the IV, and looked away. "What do I owe you? I don't...I don't have any money."

Phobos shook her head. "It's fine, chico- er, Jak. When people come to Spargus, those who have life debts pay it back by contributing to the overall survival of their new home and neighbors, depending on how old they are when they arrive."

"How old they are?" Jak fiddled with his now empty cup awkwardly. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Phobos gave him an amused glance. "Uh...kids are kids? This isn't Haven, hey? We don't even let people take the citizen applicant training course until we know they're eighteen or older."

She scooted closer and held up the pitcher. "Cup."

"Huh? Oh-"

Jak tilted the cup toward her but didn't let go. He watched her refill it and puzzled over the idea of a city in good enough shape that kids didn't have to work. Maybe there weren't metalheads out here.

"So...do you people normally pick up half-dead people and bring them home?"

"As long as they aren't half dead because they tried to kill us, yeah," Phobos said with a careless shrug. "Strength and survival: it's the two things Wastelanders respect the most. So when we find somebody in the badlands who isn't a dried out corpse, we know we've got the makings of a tough little survivor."

Surviving was, by necessity, Jak’s best skill. But considering the kind of jobs he got when people knew that, and how it had turned out last time, Jak decided not to advertise that fact. It already nagged at him that someone had seen his scars, and the bruises from the arrest, and every other injury he'd gained in the name of helping a city that hated him. Spargus wouldn't get the same freebies.

Eventually, Phobos stood up and put the pitcher back on a low counter that extended out of sight behind a curtain. She dusted off her yellow tunic and stretched her back with a soft grunt.

"Alright. I guess somebody ought to tell Damas you're awake and talking," she said, more to herself than to Jak.

Before Jak could ask who Damas was supposed to be, something careful and calculated slipped into Phobos's voice.

"So...just you and the critters, huh? Your parents know where you are?"

Hands tightened into claws around the wooden cup.

"I never had parents," Jak growled.

One more thing to "thank" Haven for, apparently.

"Ah." Phobos's eyes widened in an oddly dismayed expression. "Sorry, I..."

"Why?"

Jak's eyes narrowed at her.

"Literally no one has ever asked if I even had parents before you. You're fishing for something. What do you want?"

Then it hit him: if the woman had seen his scars, she had seen his amulet as well. Was that what she was getting at? Probing to see if any other ill-fated Heirs of Mar existed?

"Uh..." Phobos puffed out her cheeks and blew the air out. "It's...complicated. I'm gonna let Damas take this one."

"Who's Damas?" Jak demanded.

Phobos made another odd grimace and lifted a radio from the countertop.

"Hey, Damas, the kid's awake," she said, ignoring Jak's question.

A raspy voice crackled through the speaker.

"He is? Has he said anything yet?"

"Well, he threatened to bite me," Phobos joked before growing serious. "Take it easy when you come down, he's pretty worked up. Bring the orange guy if you can."

"Understood. Anything else I should know?"

"Yeah," Phobos sighed. "He doesn't know who we are, where we are, or how he got here. I don't think you're going to get any answers out of him."

"......oh."

The guy she called Damas sounded strangely...emotional.

"Er...alright. I'll...I'll see what I can do when I get there."

Jak glowered at Phobos's back. He hated when people talked about him like he wasn't there.

Out of habit, he reached for his collar to run his fingers over his amulet. That always helped him slow down when his thoughts were racing too fast. His fingers brushed against loose linen; the tunic he was wearing were not the one he'd had on the last time he was awake. Jak's stomach felt like it was plummeting from a precipice as he finally looked down at his body. Someone had dressed him in loose, lightweight clothing. There was no sign of his own clothing.

Or his amulet.

Fighting down feelings of violation and revulsion, Jak gripped the thin sheets in hands like claws.

"Where are my clothes?" he snarled, "What did you do?"

Phobos didn't look overly concerned, which only agitated Jak more.

"They're being checked for trackers or other bugs," she said with a shrug. "Haven's been trying to find our city for years. Can't be too careful. Look on the bright side: it's probably the first time they've ever been washed."

She leaned over the cot, and Jak jerked away.

"Don't touch me!"

There wasn't much room to retreat on the small bed, but Jak tried anyway.

"Who stole my amulet?"

"Hey, calm down," Phobos raised a placating hand, but dropped it quickly when Jak flinched. "Nobody stole it."

"Don't lie to me!"

Jak was over the verge of panic now. He was alone, powerless, right back to being poked and prodded like a doll. Like a lab rat.

"What do you want?!"

Grimacing, Phobos stepped back and grabbed her radio again.

"Hey Damas? Hurry it up, will ya?"

"I'm en route."

"Good. Because he just noticed the absence of a Certain Something and he is losing it right now."

"Rot. Okay, just- rot! Try to keep him calm, I'm bringing it, okay?"

The man's voice rose and fell oddly. It almost sounded like he was running.

Phobos ran a hand through her hair and puffed out her cheeks. This was not going as well as they'd hoped. Could've been worse, she acknowledged, but this kid's reactions were giving her a bad feeling. The scars, the reaction to the IV and having been given new clothing without his knowledge, it all painted a pretty grim picture.

"Damas is bringing your amulet down," she said in what she hoped was a soothing tone. (How did one talk to agitated teenagers?! Why weren't they as easy to calm as toddlers?) "He'll explain everything, chico, I promise. Just...stay here a minute, okay?"

Jak warily watched the woman walk through the curtain, listening and counting her footsteps. By the sound of it, he was in the back of a narrow building. There was someone else up there, wherever Phobos had gone, but they rustled around opening drawers instead of speaking. If there were guards, Jak couldn't hear them. He hoped there were none. In his current state, he doubted he'd be able to fight them off.

A door slid open with the sound of a chime, and Jak stiffened as a heavier tread entered the building.

"About time!" he heard Phobos greet the person, "He's all yours."

"Allegedly," the voice from the radio answered.

"Mmhm. You're cute when you're in denial. Better get back there before the poor kid has a heart attack."

When the curtains parted, Jak was in the act of climbing off the cot to look for something -- anything -- to defend himself with. He froze, locking eyes with a weathered Wastelander covered in scars and armor. He looked like the kind of guy Sig would run with. Jak stared at the man and wondered if this was the guy who allegedly had his amulet. Were those piercings on his skull?! Despite himself, Jak wondered how the man slept without ripping whatever he used for a pillow.

"Easy, young one," the man murmured, holding out his hands as if approaching a skittish animal. "Easy. You're in no danger."

"Usually when people tell me that, they're lying," Jak retorted. He backed up, silently cursing his shaky legs, until his back touched the wall and the IV tugged painfully at his arm. "Where's Daxter? What do you people want with us?"

The armored man lowered himself to sit on the end of the cot and folded his hands in front of him. "Your friend is perfectly safe," he soothed, "Well, unless he tries to use the water wheel as a carnival ride, I suppose. But he doesn't really seem the type to do that kind of thing."

"You didn't answer my other question," Jak said pointedly. "What do you want?"

"Answers," the man -- Damas, probably -- replied steadily, "Just answers."

"Like what?" Jak edged closer to the IV, trying to relieve the horrific sensation of the needle.

Then his visitor reached into a cloth pouch at his belt and drew out a familiar shape.

"What can you tell me about this?" he asked, holding up the amulet.

Forgetting the needle, Jak lunged for the pendant. Pain lanced through his elbow for an instant, hot and dull, and he pulled up short. He'd learned long ago not to rip needles out. There would just be more if he did.

"Whoa!" Damas dropped the amulet on the sheets and reached out as if to steady Jak. "Slow down, boy, you're going to hurt yourself! You shouldn't even be standing right now!"

Jak, unfortunately, agreed. But he locked his knees and kept his eyes on Phobos's friend, just as he had on Phobos.

"Give it back," he rasped, holding out a demanding hand.

Damas frowned thoughtfully. He picked up the chain and considered it for a few seconds before dropping it into Jak's outstretched hand.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

With time-travel being too unbelievable an explanation even to those closest to Jak, he settled for the most open-ended version of the truth he could manage.

"Ancient ruins," he muttered.

The chain slipped down around his neck, and he visibly relaxed once the familiar weight rested against his collarbone.

Damas made an interested sound and folded his arms. "Ruins, eh? How did you find it?"

Evasively, Jak shrugged. "I just...knew where to look."

"And does this happen to you often? "Knowing" things?"

Hm. He might’ve been a little too open-ended there. Jak braced his back against the wall and begrudgingly clarified.

"I'm not a seer. It's just with eco stuff."

Damas nodded. "Ah! I understand. So what made you decide to keep such an odd little trinket?"

He wasn't being very subtle. Jak could do blunt too.

"It's mine. That's it. And I know what you're trying to do."

A hint of tension lined Damas’s neck and shoulders as he tried to play casual.

"Oh? And what am I trying to do, young one?"

Jak curled his lip at the man. "You're trying to get me to say I'm an Heir of Mar, probably so you can get some of his artifacts. What, do you want the Precursor Stone too? Well you're too late."

Any semblance of relaxation dropped from Damas like a cloak. He straightened, and the air filled with an undercurrent of warning. It was almost like eco -- enough that Jak wondered if the man could channel.

"Explain that, please."

It didn't sound like a request.

"What, exactly, do you know about the Precursor Stone?"

Jak gripped his amulet for calm.

"Not a myth," he said shortly, "Not meant to be used as a weapon, and not a rock."

He lifted his chin and met Damas’s hard eyes.

"I opened it. It can't be used anymore."

"Opened?!" Damas recoiled slightly. "You've touched the Stone?"

Suspicion colored his voice, but strangely he didn't seem to be getting hostile.

"Where did you find it?"

Agitated, Jak snapped, "In a tomb designed by some sadistic obstacle-course lover obsessed with "manhood", guarded by a bunch of loudmouth Oracles. Be glad you missed it."

He wondered if he was just setting himself up for problems later. If the Wastelanders knew he could speak to Oracles and traverse ruins, they'd probably make him pay off the medical care by finding artifacts for them. Story of his life.

But Damas looked shaken by the statement, not shrewd. He seemed almost to pale, and drew a hand over his face to rest over his mouth. His eyes bored into Jak's with an unsettling intensity.

"The amulet truly belongs to you, then," he finally acknowledged, in little more than a croak. His fingers pressed into his jaw hard enough that Jak wondered if the man would have fingerprints there later.

"How...how old are you, boy?"

What did that have to do with anything? Annoyed, Jak shrugged.

"Like I know? Fifteen, sixteen, what's it matter?"

"You don't...you don't know?" Damas looked even more shaken. "No one told you your own birthdate?"

Jak didn't want to talk about this. He finally slumped to sit at the head of the cot and crossed his arms sullenly.

"Y'know what, that's none of your business. Where's Daxter? I'm not saying anything else until I see him."

"I can arrange that."

Damas stood and absentmindedly picked up the wooden cup.

"You should er...try to sleep some. Heat exhaustion will leave you weak for a good several days-"

"Are you Damas?" Jak interrupted suddenly, as Phobos's attempted reassurances came to mind.

Damas turned. "Yes?"

He looked like he almost expected something else to follow.

Jak pulled his knees to his chest and rested folded arms on top of them. "The lady who was in here said you'd explain what you people wanted from me. And why you took my amulet."

The Wastelander looked, Jak thought, rather like he had just swallowed a bee. He made a few awkward hand motions -- some of it almost looked like signs -- and tugged on a tuft of hair at his chin.

"Ah...that is..."

He picked up the pitcher and splashed water into the cup clumsily. He was unsettled.

"The crest of Mar has...connotations. Doubtless you've learned by now, but when people see it they form...expectations."

Damas cleared his throat and handed the cup over to Jak.

"I removed it from you before the monks could see it and develop those expectations. I...wanted you to be able to focus on healing without the distraction of history zealots."

Well, that was marginally better than Jak had been imagining. He didn't exactly trust that the man was telling the truth, but at least he hadn't tried to sell it or something. Jak acknowledged his visitor's words with a curt nod and sipped at the water slowly. Idly, he wondered if his general age fit this city's "too young for serious work" bracket or not. After Haven, he honestly didn't know whether he hoped so or not.

Damas was staring at him. It was subtle, but intense, and Jak could feel his eyes. It made his brain itch, and he felt the urge to squirm uncomfortably.

"Are you in any pain?" Damas asked suddenly, apparently in response to the squirming.

"I don't like being stared at," Jak answered gruffly.

"...ah." Damas cringed and looked away. "Apologies. You just...look very familiar. I was trying to place whether I might have met you or someone you were related to in the past."

"Not unless you were in Haven before Praxis took over," Jak grumbled bitterly, "Or you took a tour of his prison labs in the last two years."

You're talking too much, Jak. Wait for Daxter. Why are you volunteering this information?

Well. He knew. He was scared and disoriented and angry, and he wanted to shock someone. Anyone. It was the dark eco talking.

"The labs?!" Damas dropped the pitcher with a crash. A terrible look flooded his face. "Did...was your whole family there?"

"Rot! Why are you guys so obsessed with information about my parents?" Jak was getting tired of repeating himself. "You know as much as I do! Even the freakin Oracles wouldn't tell me what the amulet meant until I got to the Tomb!"

From the front of the building, the third person finally called out.

"My lord, if you keep getting him worked up, I'm tossing you out. He's supposed to be resting!"

"I'm working on it, Petros!" Damas retorted sharply.

He closed his eyes and made a visible attempt to calm himself before turning back to Jak.

"Sorry. I know this is confusing. I am...having a difficult time finding the right words to ask the right questions." He made a helpless gesture. "Finding you, practically on my doorstep, with that amulet has upended my understanding of the world and my place in it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jak demanded.

Damas gingerly took a seat at the end of the cot again and, sighing deeply, reached into his pouch again.

"The last time I was in Haven for an extended period of time was about fifteen years ago, at the end of the last major campaign against the metalheads."

He opened his hand, revealing a second amulet of Mar in his palm.

"After Praxis betrayed me- after the hardships our city has faced over the last few years-"

He shook his head with furrowed brow.

"I- I thought I was the only one left. And now here you are, and I have more questions than answers."

Jak blinked, then blinked again.

"Well," he said in a strangled voice, "That makes two of us."

[cloud-ya]

👍

[fallenwhumpee]

Is Traitor getting more parts? I love your writing!!!!

That means a lot <3 Here you go anon!

Traitor

• Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Masterlist •

Warnings: Sickfic, angst, recovery, broken ribs, IV.

Breathing again was a blessing, but their lungs were on fire, as if they were being stabbed over and over again. The cold chattering their bones wasn't helping. Their wish to sit up impossible with how weak they were. Frustration was the only thing that kept then half aware of what was going on, their consciousness slipping when a hand ran through their hair, gentle whispers rocking them back to the sleep.

They winced with a sudden cold on their head, not sure if it brought relief or worsened their chills. They could only whimper as response, their eyes fluttering but refusing to open.

Leader could stand being hurt, being weak. Or being alone, being ignored. They wouldn't care what happened to themselves.

But they couldn't stand their own tears.

They couldn't stand that their heart bleeding out with their tears. They were too used to bottling up their every emotions and releasing them on the enemy. Their anger, hatred, and tiredness would push them. They weren't used to breaking down loudly. They would prefer to stare at the window all night, think and think until they drowned in their own thoughts.

Not cry in Mentor's arms.

The thought felt wrong to Leader in many ways. Leader wouldn't cry, and the mere idea of Mentor showing any kindness to them was as so surreal.

A hand cupped their cheek, and Leader tried opening their eyes again, groaning. The source of the dim light was covered by a silhouette, which took Leader embarrassingly long to recognise.

"Mentor," they gasped, but coughs took over their voice, their ribs screaming them to stop.

Mentor leaned closer, concern etched across their face as they gently shushed Leader. "Easy now," Mentor's voice was soft, an unusual tenderness in their tone. "Don't get up. You need to rest."

Leader wanted to protest, wanted to maintain their facade of strength, but their body rebelled. They could only manage a weak nod, making themselves wonder how they had found the strength to argue with Mentor before.

Mentor reached to their forehead, lifting the cold - probably warm now, going by the frown they tried to hide - cloth. Leader's head throbbed with pain as the cloth left their forehead, and they could feel a dull warmth spreading across their skin.

"Doctor will come soon, but you should eat something before they arrive, or they will chop off my head."

With that, Mentor left, leaving Leader alone with their thoughts. Leader tried to sit up, pain clouding their depressed trail of thoughts they would rather not deal with. But their tries were in vain, and they whimpered as they hit back to the pillows.

"I told you don't get up," Mentor sighed, a tray on their hand. "You'll just harm yourself further."

"Can't eat like this," Leader countered, trying to sit up again. Mentor set the tray to the bedside table, helping them to lean back.

Leader could only muster a weak, half-hearted smile and a strained thank you. The pain and exhaustion had stolen their ability to argue, at least for now.

Mentor put the tray to Leader's lap gently, Leader barely holding back a wince as their knees ached.

Leader's hands trembled, their fingers hurting simply with trying to pick up the spoon. They could only then notice bandages wrapped around their hands, from all way through their wrists to the fingertips. They were too focused on their breathing to realise that they didn't leave that wreckage without getting some of their bones bruised. But they didn't think they had any broken bones— other than their ribs, at least.

It was a slow and clumsy process, their trembling hands causing the spoon to clatter against the plate. The soup was lukewarm, and the taste, although bland, brought some comfort. It had been a while since they'd tasted anything other than the bitterness of defeat and pain.

"You stubborn fool," Mentor muttered, more to themselves than to Leader, before gently setting Leader's hand down and taking the spoon.

"Here," they said softly, "let me help you with that."

Mentor carefully dipped the spoon into the soup, making sure not to spill it, and brought it to Leader's lips.

While Leader hated everything about it, they didn't resist until their stomach clenched, unable to eat more. The warmth eased the scratch on their throat, but it left them exhausted.

Mentor must have picked the signs, taking the tray back to the bedside table and helping them to lay back.

"You're acting strange," Leader coughed, Noticing too late that they had said it out loud.

Mentor paused, their expression shifting briefly before settling into a conflicted look. They didn't immediately respond. Instead, they busied themselves with tidying up the room, their actions conveying an unease that was unusual for them.

"It's just my conscience. I know you don't want it, but... I was wrong. And late to realise that."

After a few moments, Mentor turned to face Leader, their gaze more direct than ever before. "I've pushed you too hard, too often," they confessed, their voice carrying a weight of regret.

Leader couldn't respond to that, not understanding how being pushed could be something to apologise. Sure, it made them alone, but before the team, everything was... fine. Leader had been fine as long as they didn't hope to be a part of something.

But their heart couldn't handle seeing Mentor like this.

"Its alright," they whispered, their voice failing them.

"I don't deserve your forgiveness," Mentor looked away.

"Good thing forgiveness is given, not deserved," Leader answered, trying to soften the mood. "Can— can I have some water?"

It was an olive branch.

Mentor nodded, their eyes still filled with an odd mix of emotions. They poured a glass of water and carefully helped Leader take a sip, supporting their head.

"Try to sleep until Doctor comes," Mentor murmured, covering Leader with a thin blanket.

Leader's eyelids grew heavy, and despite the burning ache in their body, exhaustion pulled them into a restless slumber. As they drifted off, the world around them dissolved into a feverish dream.

Time seemed to blur, and before they knew it, Leader's awareness returned in bits and pieces. They felt disoriented, lying in the dimly lit room, their eyes slowly adjusting to the soft glow of a lamp by the bedside.

Somehow, they felt worse than before. They couldn't breathe without wheezing, their ribs aching with the every too deep breath and limbs uncooperative.

As they slowly gained a firmer grip on consciousness, Leader's gaze wandered around the room. That was when they noticed an IV bag hanging on the bedrail, the blanket gone, and a cold cloth on their forehead again. Confusion swept over them, and their eyes followed the line from the bag to the needle in their arm. A brief wave of panic subsided as they remembered they were in Mentor's home.

Outside the ajar door, Mentor and Doctor spoke in hushed tones. Their voices were muffled, but Leader could make our some of it.

"Their fever is quite high," Doctor was saying. "But let it be for the time being. We just have to make sure it doesn't overwhelm them."

Mentor's voice, though hushed, held a note of concern. "How long can we expect this to go on?"

"The fever should become less frequent in a week. But don't worry if it doesnt— pneumonia is a nasty thing to deal with. And at least a month for the broken ribs. I don't want them walking around anytime soon, too. As for the rest of their injuries, the bruising and minor fractures should heal over time, but they'll be weak for a while."

Leader's breaths hitched. A month. The words hung in the air, like a heavy shroud that threatened to suffocate them.

"This should shut up the agency for a while about Leader being a traitor," Doctor continued. "They'll see for themselves the extent of the injuries and how long it'll take for a recovery."

Mentor's response was quiet, thoughtful. "It's not just about the agency," they said, their voice still tinged with worry. "Leader's going to have a difficult time with this. They've never been one to sit still for long, especially when there's work to be done."

"They will give you some challenge. I doubt the kid can hold back their words now. I would give the world to see them roast you," Doctor chuckled.

"Perhaps it is the time I get my mistakes thrown at my face."

A low, raspy noise escaped their dry lips, which soon turned into a muffled cough. It was just loud enough to draw the attention of both Doctor and Mentor, who promptly entered the room.

"You," Doctor began as soon as they helped Leader to sit up and relieve some pressure from their chest, "are the most stubborn patient I've ever had the misfortune to treat."

Leader's eyes met Doctor's, and despite the fatigue and weakness, there was a glimmer of defiance. "You love me," they managed to rasp out, their voice barely above a whisper.

Doctor arched an eyebrow. "Love you? I've been considering running experiments to test the limits of your stubbornness. But yes, I suppose one could call it a strange form of affection, kid."

"Not a kid," Leader returned as usual. Doctor had known then for most of their life, and the older person was their assigned medical officer, making it impossible to avoid conflict.

Doctor smirked, eyeing Mentor, almost pleased. "The only upside if this is that you will get taken care of for once."

"Oh, I will enjoy it," they answered with sarcasm. Exhaustion came once again, souring their mood even more. They closed their eyes, frustrated couldn't even stay awake for an hour straight.

"Looks like the cocktail is working. I had my doubts with you awake now." Doctor eased Leader back into the pillows.

"That's cheating." Leader mumbled as they reached to rip the IV from their shoulder, but their hand was slapped. They whimpered with the pain on their already bruised hands.

"It stays until it finishes," Doctor said firmly.

Leader didn't answer. Instead, they forced themselves to think about the traitor. They didn't know how long passed since the mission or what happened at that.

"Any leads?"

Silence settled until Mentor and Doctor realised what it was about.

"Rumors are circulating, but nothing concrete," Mentor began cautiously. "The agency is in turmoil, trying to piece together what went wrong. The higher-ups are scrambling to identify the mole, but they're keeping things hushed. Most of the raids on Whumper was succes, but the data found its worrying. Your team is cleared, though."

"Good to know," Leader replied, their voice softer. They didn't notice the tension in their muscles eased, eyes closing again.

"But you, kid," Doctor completed Mentor, "need to focus on recovery now. The agency can handle its own troubles for a while."

[brvtvus]

Shoutout to the chronically ill!

You will find your way. Take the tube of your IVs and use them as a weapon against the very people who hurt you.

I’ve been sick since I was 14-15. Ignored by doctors and ultimately have gone through enough major surgeries, it’s affected my heart. But I keep going. I keep going not because I have to but because I choose to. I push back against the very people who have neglected and cursed me into this life just to show that no matter how much abuse I take from those with licenses to experiment on people, I stand strong. Punctured, stitched, poked, prodded.

[thegreatflyinggrayson]

Nightlight said something to Tim and Tim ripped out his IV, what is happening?? 😰

[orb-the-watchman]

Some more insight onto/ my random thoughts about the grumpus blood head cannon thing

So I think most of you know about the head cannon of grumpus blood matching the colors of their nose, sense I’ve talked about it and that’s how blood works in my bugsnax comic. I don’t believe I was the first to come up with this head cannon nor did I popularize it, but I’ve been thinking…

So, this is assuming blood type isn’t affected by the color of your blood (which I think would be true, cause it’d probably be impossible to find another grumpus with the same blood type otherwise) but what is blood transfusion like? What is it like to be given blood that isn’t the color of your blood? what would your blood look like after?

Hear me out, what if the color mixes? And if grumpus noses and paw pads match their blood, they change color?

Like this

Does this mean the skin on the nose and paw pads is transparent? I hope not. Would grumpuses use this for aesthetic reasons rather than because they need blood? Possibly, you definitely wouldn’t be able to get it from a hospital. I’m pretty sure grumpuses who donated blood to save someone else’s life would be pretty pissed if they’re blood was given to someone who didn’t need it. Maybe there would be clinics specifically for that instead, where people could donate their blood for the purpose of aesthetics. That seems like an extreme luxury or something. Maybe you’d be given more money depending on your blood color? Like those with primary color blood or black or white would get a pretty penny for donating blood because they’d be the easiest to mix, idk. That’s more theoretical stuff rather than apart of the head cannon…

Anyway then THAT got me thinking…

What about vampires? (Or grumpires, I think that’s the fandom consensus on what grumpus vampires are called.) would vampires be different if blood worked like that? is the grumpus vampire folklore different?

This is what I came up with. The more modern and commercialized version of a grumpire is very similar to stereotypical vampire (grumpire on the left), however the nose color is almost always depicted like a muddy brown or gray color, it’s like the color you get when you mix a shit ton of colors all at once. It’s to give an impression that they’ve consumed a lot of blood from multiple victims. On the other hand, there are more traditional Grumpires (grumpire on the right), the oldest records of a grumpire portray them almost like zombies, they’re reanimated corpses with an unquenchable thirst for blood. The discovery of grumpus blood color mixing was long after this version of a grumpire, so instead all of colors are present all at once.

Consuming blood wouldn’t change your blood color, because you’re not actually adding that blood to your bloodstream, but that’s apart of the fictional aspect of grumpires I guess.

But then, THAT GOT ME THINKING

Is multiple colors of liquids like, scary?? Like if you were a grumpus and saw another grumpus covered and ambiguous stains varying in color would you think “Jesus grumping Christ did you just murder a bunch of people?? Are you going to murder me????”? What if instead of buying buckets of dark red liquid for fake blood you buy buckets of rainbow liquid for Halloween

Would grumpus Halloween be super colorful? I know dark red isn’t like the only Halloween color but like if that’s like spooky to a grumpus, then why wouldn’t Halloween look like pride month? Do grumpus corporations change their social media profile pictures to rainbows not in June to virtue signal, but rather in October to celebrate spooky month??

Anyway this is just a weird barf of my thoughts, this probably isn’t the most coherent nor does everything make the most sense but this is me just throwing my other ideas out into the aether. Do with these what you will

[katkalis-the-fanartist]

A neat thing about homecare IV meds is that it can possibly be these...pressurized orbs! The pressure empties them as opposed to machines, and they're also portable! So overall this is much better a situation than I thought it can be! Also found these medical "orb things" in general to just be super neat and worth sharing about. Also picc lines aren't a horrible option besides staying in the hospital. Much cheaper apparently.

Also apparently your insurance comes into play when deciding which version of iv bag/orb you get according to the nurse that did my lab work today.

[gaybitch-3000]

(1) 羽乃 ぴふわ on X: "おくすり病棟 💜♡💜♡💜♡💜♡💜 #リベル・アドラのないとめあ https://t.co/VKvXIp1Mur" / X (twitter.com)

[littlemoondarling]

is it normal for the IV to hurt this much? Asking for a friend

[serahlink]

//TW for medical talk and pics including IVS

Making a new post about this because we're in desperate need of help and I'm not sure what else to do. My father went into a heart center a state away (it was the closest they could transfer him) about a week ago because he was having breathing issues in his rib, and it turns out he has a pulmonary embolism; an infection in the artery in his lung. We aren't sure what caused it, but they were able to say it hasn't done damage yet thankfully. While he's been away, I've been trying to get commissions or any help to pay for another week but we still need 160$ to be good for another week, and we only have another full day to get it all together. We don't have anywhere to go if we can't stay here and I want my father to have somewhere to come home to.

We also need help with getting the meds he needs so the infection doesn't take over, and we will need help getting an Uber to get him back since we don't have any family or friends that could bring him back. I know it's alot to ask for, I didn't expect them to transfer him so far or for the infection to be anything serious at first. But work has been very slow and we can't do this on our own. I want to at least get a week paid for first.

My commissions are in my pinned post, or if you'd like to donate, I have a tipping function on my twitter which you can find here. Anything at all would mean alot to us in this situation. Reblogs included. Thank you.

[smolldust]

You get no context for these, btw