#Killing her/Poisoning her was a solid plan in order to fight for peace | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

writersrealmbts · 4 years

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Con Amore: Part 16/Finale

Bulletproof Melody Sequel

Description: Con Amore– A directive to a musician to perform a selected passage of a composition tenderly, with affectionate emotion, or in a loving manner; an instruction to the player of an instrument meaning ‘with love’ or ‘lovingly’. Three years with all seven of your loves, three years of relative peace. But now everything is threatened as darkness surges from the horizon.

Originally Posted: 06/02/2020

Tags: Superheroes, Ot7

4,026 words

A/N: And here it is, the end of this series.

“Did you really think you stand against me?! Fight the Conservatory?” The dean sneered down at the boys, who were restrained by some students. “You and this half-baked plan?”

The Temple fighters were also restrained.

You hummed softly to stay under the radar, slipping through the crowd unnoticed.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t see this coming? It was so obvious a child could see it. And look at what it has gotten you. You never stood a chance, and now you’ll pay in blood. I should start with the weakest link, shouldn’t I?” Her eyes became reptilian, and it was obvious she was trying to shift.

But you didn’t let her.

She hissed. “What did you do?”

You smirked as the boys just looked at her blankly, not understanding.

“Kill them!” She ordered with a snarl.

None of the students moved.

“What are you doing! Kill them!”

“As if I would allow that to happen,” You finally said from right behind her, finding extreme satisfaction in the way she jumped.

And even more satisfaction from the tinge of fear in her eyes.

You smirked slightly. “Hello again. Did you miss me? I didn’t miss you. Them, yes. Very much.”

“But…you left to have a baby?”

“Me? With a baby? Sounds questionable to me,” You replied with a smirk and a shrug. You casually walked down to the boys, tugging the soldier-students away from your loves. “At ease.”

The puppets relaxed, moving to stand at-ease.

The boys got up, blinking at you in surprise with smiles slowly spreading across their faces.

“Miss me boys?” You asked, then spun on your heel to face Ryoko with a smile. “Now, I suggest you surrender.”

“What did you do to me?”

“Oh, right. That. So, you figured out that I’m a former student, but what you failed to put together was that I’m a former student who has her powers, and remembers my time at the school. I think that should scare you just a bit. Because, also, I tend to find trouble. Ask them, where there’s any sort of trouble, there’s me in the thick of it.” You walked past her casually, taking the weapon her second-in-command was holding. “Thank you, you were making me nervous.”

He just watched you in utter confusion.

“You see, they may have been obvious in their intentions to fight you, but I’ve been preparing this for much longer. The timing was finally right to execute the plan. Granted, it wasn’t in my plan for these guys to come up with such a half-baked plan but they were trying to fight on two fronts,” You explained a little, back among the student-soldiers, who parted for you. “Nadya! That armor really brings out your eyes, you should have one of your robes in that color.”

“This isn’t some sort of reunion—” Ryoko snapped.

You turned back to her. “Oh, I know. I’m about to crush you, like a grape in a winepress. This isn’t a reunion, it’s the last battle to end the war. The last hurrah before you’re forced to surrender. Because you will surrender.”

“What did you do to me?!” She said, more desperate.

“I made you into my puppet,” You answered simply. “Just as you’ve continued the legacy of using the students as puppets. Mindless drones, to live or die as you see fit. You were the perfect candidate. My perfect pawn to rise to the top, so that I can tear the whole tower down from its foundation.”

“I am nobodies puppet!”

“Sure, sure, if we’re talking about nobody in the Odysseus sense.” You looked her up and down, then shrugged. “But you’re not that scary of a cyclops, and I’m not stealing a golden fleece. So, perhaps a better analogy or simile or whatever would be the Trojan horse. You’re the horse.”

“How?”

You evaluated her. “Well, first of all, you should never have tried to tell people that Hummingbird and I are the same people. That was very naughty, sly.”

She looked away.

“How they mixed all three of us together—myself, Athena, and Hummingbird—that was truly inspired. I mean, they almost convinced me, but Athena was pretty indignant. Doesn’t like it when people waste her time.”

“And Hummingbird?”

“Well, we’ve worked together now and then. If you remember, I used to be pretty reclusive. I was kind of acting as a point-person for her. Middle man. She gave me that amulet, the one I gave you, remember?”

She ripped off the amulet like it was poisonous, tossing it away from herself.

You scooped it up, pocketing it. “Thanks. Though, that’s not how I’m controlling you. Do you fear them?”

“Them?”

“The students,” You clarified. “If they were no longer your puppets, would you fear them?”

Her face made it clear that she did, though she was in the middle of saying she wasn’t.

“I said that I knew the right songs to tear this place down,” You murmured. “Have you ever seen Pinocchio?”

Laguz grinned.

“You know, the song he sings. They used it for that super-hero movie, ‘I’ve got no strings, to hold me down,’” You started, then laughed a little. “But you know, that’s not the best part of the song.”

“What is?” Nadya asked helpfully.

“‘I've got no strings, so I have fun, I'm not tied up to anyone, they've got strings, but you can see, there are no strings on me,” You turned toward the students, putting everything into it, using the melody to break the hypnosis, knowing you’d have to improvise that last few lines, “‘You have no strings’, your minds are free, there are no strings on thee.”

It was probably the most dangerous plan you’d ever implemented.

But you were still humming a peace-keeping melody under your breath to keep them from causing a mob.

Her second in command blinked, then looked around, before his eyes widened and he stared up at her in horror.

You hummed another song, gesturing for Nadya’s knights to restrain Ryoko as you approached Nadya, handing over a charm. “That should keep her detained for you.”

“Objections to the Temple taking the building?” Nadya asked, looking to the boys as well.

Tiwaz shook his head. “As long as we can continue monitoring the situation.”

She nodded. “Of course. How long will the calming melody work?”

“Two hours? Give or take twenty minutes depending on their response to leaving the long-term hypnosis.” You turned to watch them carry the former dean away. “I’d keep her location secret from them, though. And your healers will be extra busy.”

“I think we can handle it. You should get those guys out of here, they’ve been working non-stop for the past three days.”

Your gaze snapped to her. “They what?”

She shrugged.

“No wonder that plan was so half-baked, idiots.” You huffed. “Thanks for looking after them.”

“Thank you for looking after my acolytes. Are they still my acolytes?”

You shook your head. “Not as such. They want to still work with you, but also independently. I figured I would talk them into helping my boys out a bit, get their feet wet and then both of us could look out for them and make sure that they didn’t get themselves killed.”

She nodded. “Sounds like a solid plan. How have you been?”

“Cabin fever. It’s a shame that I didn’t get to participate in fighting. Well, other than the two guards I encountered on the fifteenth floor in the western wing. They might need some healing.”

Nadya looked to the girl beside. “Dispatch a unit to the fifteenth floor of the western wing. You better get them out of here before they start volunteering to help.”

You nodded, shaking her hand and then turning toward your boys.

They were waiting for you.

You smiled and walked up, picking up the pace for the last few steps to Jungkook to add some force to your punch to his gut.

He grunted, and you could hear his breath come out from the force.

You turned to deliver a blow to each of the other boys, most of them now wary and only receiving punches to their arms—except for Namjoon who received a nice hard slap to the face.

“Why?!” Jimin asked, rubbing his arm.

“You mean besides that half-baked mess of a plan that almost got you killed?! Because I just heard that you guys haven’t stopped working for the past three days, you idiots! How many times am I going to have to beat it into you that rest is important?!” You shoved the nearest one toward the door you summoned. “It’s like you want to get killed. We sleep before battle, we eat real meals, we take care of ourselves so that we can do our jobs better and not end up on our knees with guns pointed at us and hoping that—” You slammed the door behind your sheepish boys, “—our girlfriend is going to show up in time to save our hides, again! I mean, if I was five minutes later you all would be dead.”

“We had a contingency plan,” Namjoon said, taking your hand.

You huffed, not pulling your hand away, but still moving briskly to the next door and opening it. “Contingency plans. Those are always so reliable.”

They passed through, but then effectively stopped you—Taehyung hugging you tightly from behind, Jimin getting his arms around you next, and soon you were at the center of a group hug with your sweaty lovers.

“We’ve missed you so much,” Yoongi said, and you could hear the effort he had to take to not swear when he said it. He only was touching you by the hand, but he gripped that hand like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Jungkook had managed to get closer to you than Yoongi, and he was pressing soft kisses to your temple.

You could feel Hoseok’s vines wrapping around your ankles affectionately.

“The baby?” Seokjin asked, his voice just above a whisper.

“Perfectly fine and healthy.” You rested against whichever one was holding you up more. “I missed you all more than you can imagine.”

Namjoon’s hand stroked your hair. “It must have been so hard, baby.”

You nodded, leaning into his touch. “But it’s over now. So, come on. I want to get out of the cold and it’s time for you to meet our little one.”

They broke away with nods and murmurs of excitement, though there was also a tinge of sadness at having missed so much already.

You gave each of them a kiss, because you didn’t get to earlier, then led the way to the house while still holding hands with Hoseok and Yoongi.

The safe house was definitely a little worse for wear after a few attacks by the oasis group a few months ago, but there wasn’t much work that could be done to the exterior in the winter, and none of it caused any issues with heating or leaks, so you weren’t too worried about it.

You hummed a little, which would warn the boys that you were returning. You could sense that they were at peace at that moment, and you could sense that the baby was asleep.

Sensing you, Soobin hummed as well, to establish a line of communication, asking if you wanted them out of the house for a while.

You glanced at your loves, then asked if he and the other boys in the house would mind.

You could sense amusement from them, and you saw the snow rise and shift to clear the path you were on—a clear sign from Yeonjun.

“Whoa,” Taehyung breathed, checking the snow out as you all came up to the front door of the house.

You entered the house, helping them strip off their gear after simply shucking off your coat and shoes, leading them into the living room and sitting them down before going into the nursery.

Hoseok saw you first, standing and staring at the bundle in your arms.

The others fell silent, watching you as you brought the baby in.

You nodded for him to sit again, waiting for him to be ready for you to pass the baby off to him before doing so. “Hobi, this is our daughter, Mishil.”

Hoseok held her carefully, looking down at her with trepidation and love.

“It’s a girl?” Jimin breathed.

“We have a daughter?” Namjoon said, sounding pretty emotional.

“She’s so tiny,” Jungkook said, sounding like he was tearing up.

You carefully placed Hoseok’s hands so that he was holding her a little better, more easily. “She was born a little early, but she’s strong and healthy.”

Yoongi had slid closer, and hesitantly touched Mishil’s head, then a little more certainly, stroking her hair. “Her hair is so soft.”

“Look at her little hands!” Taehyung gushed from Hobi’s other side.

“She’s perfect,” Hoseok said lowly, voice thick. “She’s absolutely perfect. Just like her mom.”

Warmth flooded your heart.

“More than perfect, better than perfect,” Taehyung expanded. “What’s better than perfect? What’s a word for that?”

“There is no word for that,” Namjoon answered, hovering but not getting closer.

Jimin and Jungkook quickly pressed in though, effectively forcing you back as they all gushed over the baby.

Jin’s arms wrapped around your waist, and he pressed kisses along the curve of your neck and shoulder. “You did so well, y/n. I know how hard it was while you were with us, I can’t imagine what you’ve been through without us.”

You melted into his embrace. Finally, you could relax and let them take care of you and your precious daughter.

One by one, all of the boys held their daughter.

Jungkook was in tears.

Namjoon looked petrified, holding her so delicately and checking every two seconds that he was doing it correctly and that he wasn’t going break her.

Jimin had turned into a dog in his excitement after having held her, and was now resting his furry muzzle on Seokjin’s leg as the oldest held Mishil.

“Where are the younger boys?” Taehyung asked after you were holding her again, having fed her and changed her diaper.

“They’re outside, I just told Soobin to head back. Now, ground rules, no sexual stuff in front of the boys. They know my true identity. I’m helping them train as a team, so be nice. Also, possibly not all of you fighting for me? We’ll have plenty of time once we’re back to our normal life for that. I’m going to set them up here, just while they’re training.”

Namjoon nodded. “We could help train them. That way they could help us out, maybe take a shift so we can have a night off so that we can have nights together.”

“So we can raise her,” Seokjin whispered. “Better than my parents. Better than Jimin’s parents. She’s going to be so very loved.”

Jimin leaned against Seokjin, letting the oldest pet him. He was still in dog form, gaze following Mishil.

“Y/n-noona?” Yeonjun called tentatively.

“Living room,” You called softly.

The five boys came in after stripping off their winter gear, noses and cheeks red from the cold, but they looked like they had been playing in the snow—eyes bright and sparkly, still the breathy laughter present in most of them.

“Thank you for taking care of her,” You said, smiling at them.

They were grinning proudly.

“She’s the best baby,” Beomgyu said decidedly. “And you weren’t gone that long. I wouldn’t let them mess up in that short time period.”

“We’re not that bad,” Yeonjun pouted.

“I did the best thing and let Soobin-hyung, Beomgyu-hyung, and Yeonjun-hyung take care of her,” Hueningkai said, obviously joking just a little.

Taehyun shook his head. “He got the bottles ready. I stayed away. Especially after last time,” He said, looking slightly traumatized.

“Yeah, probably a good idea,” You agreed, getting them all mugs of hot chocolate. “Took me and Soobin to block that from your mind.”

Soobin was quietly looking at all of your loves until he spotted Mishil in Jin’s arms, then he nodded slightly. “So…the school?”

“Control of the building has been handed over to the temple. They’re going to rehabilitate the students and alter the school into something better.”

Yeonjun nodded. “But…we’re still going to watch it? Just in case the temple…?”

You nodded. “Safeguard, mostly. But we will also ensure that it does not fall into a path of evil again.”

“We’re all safe?” Taehyun asked.

“We’re all safe,” Namjoon confirmed this time, voice strong and confident again. “And we can’t thank you boys enough for protecting these two.”

“You did well,” Yoongi added, a little more quietly, but still in a praising tone. “Y/n told us that you’re forming your own team?”

Soobin nodded. “We work well together.”

“Cute!” Taehyung gushed in whisper. “Can we keep them?”

“They’re not pets,” You told him. “And I already told you we’re keeping them. We’re going to continue training, they’re going to continue living here until they feel ready to venture out and then you boys ,when you agree, are going to help them get their feet a little more wet.”

“Oh? We are, are we?” Namjoon countered, a laugh in his voice.

You nodded. “Yup. Because otherwise I’ll rain hell down upon all of you.”

“How would you do that?” He asked, folding his arms.

“Please don’t wake the baby,” Soobin begged, already covering his ears.

Namjoon’s face went slack and he backed up a few steps. “Right, okay, sounds good. Great even. I was just teasing. We already agreed to helping you and them, and all of that. Please don’t wake her, I am not ready for that.”

You sputtered into giggles. “I wasn’t going to wake the baby. I like my sleep.”

Everyone relaxed, quite noticeably.

You rolled your eyes, then froze as she started fussing. “Then again, she might wake herself up.”

“What do I do?” Jin asked, looking to you desperately. “Jungkook wasn’t this small when we started taking care of him!”

You snorted as Jungkook hissed protests, slipping over between Hoseok and Jin to carefully take her. “You boys have a lot to learn. Did you not read any of the books I left?”

“Four times,” Yoongi said, but still looked apprehensive. “But I think I only registered all of the information once.”

You sighed and shook your head as she started fussing more. “Well, I hope you’re ready for the crash-course of parenting.”

Beomgyu looked worried. “I’ll be on standby, just in case.”

“Appreciated,” You said, looking over all of your boys before getting up with her. “Come on. Lesson one, preparing a bottle.”

——

“Alright, now open your eyes!” Taehyung said excitedly.

You did, smiling immediately. It was perfect. Magical, even. It reminded you of their first base, with elements of all of them in it, but tempered with you and much softer. More feminine.

A perfect nursery for their princess.

“It’s perfect,” You told them, bringing her over to the bassinet and laying her down in it. “You did a great job.”

Jimin giggled and wrapped around you.

The others sort of crowded in to look at her.

“She’s gonna hate us,” Yoongi said softly, so affectionately.

“Why would she hate us?” Hoseok asked, sounding worried.

“Because we’re never going to let any guy within a hundred yards of her,” Namjoon answered.

“So, we really can’t teach her songs like we would other kids?” Jungkook asked.

“Not unless you want to potentially kill us or her on accident. Trust me, my parents didn’t even realize some of the songs that would be bad.” You leaned back against Jimin.

“So what can we sing?” Jin asked.

“ABC’s.”

Taehyung huffed. “What about—”

“Sshhh. She’s sleeping,” You whispered. “Let’s worry about that when she’s old enough to actually sing. Right now, she’s our perfect little baby. Enjoy it.”

They were quiet for a while.

“Can I teach her how to knock a guy out?” Jungkook asked.

“No!” Hoseok protested at the same time you replied, “Of course.”

Hoseok looked at you in horror.

You shrugged. “She’ll need to protect herself, Hobi. She’s an archivist. We’re a dying breed, you know.”

Jin wrapped his arms around Hoseok. “She’s right. Eventually we’re going to be busy and someone will come for her and we’re going to make her the gentlest and yet fiercest fighter this world has ever seen. Like you, Hobi.”

“I thought you were describing y/n,” Yoongi said, frowning. “She’s going to be just like y/n, but maybe with less running headfirst into danger.”

“Um, you realize that it’s sort of in the job description of Archivist to run head-first into danger?”

“Shush, let us dream,” Jungkook scolded softly. “About no danger, and blissful happiness.”

You were quiet for a while, listening to the birds outside. “There is another option.”

They glanced at you, and then led the way out of the nursery, carefully closing the door to let your daughter sleep in peace while you all retired to the living room. The guys had carefully searched and found this house for the nine of you, it was fairly dilapidated when they bought it, but they had been working so hard to fix it up well for you and Mishil. The younger guys had been working hard to help as well, especially when it came to missions and such. It wasn’t completely renovated yet, but it was fixed enough that you could live there safely with Mishil.

“What other option is there?” Jin asked carefully after stopping Namjoon from asking.

“We could never teach her about artifacts and the archives,” You said, looking at your hands. “It’s not…it’s not an easy road to walk. There are secrets, lies, danger, and so much…isolation. It could end with me.”

They were silent.

“No,” Jimin said firmly. “Never. Not that.”

“But—”

“No, y/n. Look, I know…I was really harsh on you back when we are at the school. I shouldn’t have supposed that you could tell us everything. Some things are better left unsaid. But there were so many times when we realized things would have been so much worse if you hadn’t been out here gathering artifacts. If you hadn’t taught Taehyung what you did, we would have all died before we even got to fighting the school. We were following a lead, and it led us to a museum basement. There was an artifact that…it brought out the worst in us. Taehyungie had some of your silk with him, and he managed to get the artifact away from us and teleport it somewhere safe.”

You looked at Taehyung, worried. “Where?”

“Oh, it’s sort of in Antarctica….” He looked like he had completely forgotten about it.

You nodded. “We’ll go get it later.”

“Anyway, if you hadn’t been doing your job and having Taehyung help you with it, we could have died. Your job is so important, even more so now that we have a daughter,” Jimin continued, voice soft. He met your gaze. “We can’t let your job end. We just have to find new ways of making your job, her future job, easier.”

“We don’t want you to change,” Hoseok told you, kissing your forehead. “Even if you make us worry.”

“Oh, and you guys don’t make me worry?”

“Oh, we definitely do,” Jin answered, smiling. “But you’ve never asked us to change—”

“Actually, she has, usually because we’re overlooking details and she wants us to slow down to take care of ourselves,” Namjoon said.

“Asking us to change and asking us to use common sense are not the same thing,” Yoongi contradicted, laughing.

You shook your head as they all started debating whether asking them to use common sense was asking them to change or not, some for and some against.

Your crazy, chaotic boys.

And you loved them so completely.

They were the melody in your heart.

Previous.

Masterlist. ~ Series Masterpost.

Tagging: @ephemeral-mindset, @alex–awesome–22, @bryvada, @missmoxxiesworld, @knjhe, @i-dont-even-know-fck

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motleymoose · 4 years

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Homecoming Pt. 1: Astray, Ch. 1

Chapter 1

Stranded With Banthas

Fandom: The Mandalorian Characters: The Mandalorian (Din Djarin), Gender-neutral Reader Words: 2.8k+ Warnings: ??? Angst???

Summary:

Stranded on a bantha-filled, Imperial-controlled moon on the outer reaches of the galaxy, I would do anything to get off-world. But even the best-laid plans can go awry, and I have to settle for second-best, a living reminder of my childhood.

Notes:

***1ST CHAPTER HAS BEEN EDITED***

Hello! Thanks for stumbling upon my fic!! A few things before we get started: *I've never really been a fan of Star Wars (until the Mandalorian, that is) *I've only done a basic amount of research (please let me know if the stellar charts don't align or I've completely flub any major parts of the lore!) *If you're here for romance, this is probably not the fic you seek This fic is going to span several parts, so don't be disappointed if the chapter count is short. There is more, I promise! I have two more chapters in this part, plus half a dozen others waiting the wings for their time to shine. That being said, this is all lightly edited and more than likely contains several blaring mistakes I am currently blind to.

Thank you for hanging with me this far. I hope you enjoy it!

Homecoming Masterlist

I was hot, bored and out of credits.

Having been stranded on an Imperial-held outpost, stars away from almost any sort of proper civilization, it wasn’t exactly the worst thing that could’ve happened to me. I could’ve lost my hands or what little possessions I had, even been executed, but instead the captain and crew of the Momentum decided it was a fitting punishment to desert me on a moon positively crawling with Imps and bucketheads.

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t luck that saved me. I was the unluckiest person in the galaxy. Having lost my family to a Rebel airstrike and then been abandoned by my caretaker at a young age, I’d had to fight tooth and claw for survival. I was a mechanic by trade, and a good one at that. My ability to fix things also gave me the knowledge to break them, and coupling that with my disregard to fighting fair, I could be one sticky situation to get rid of.

Not to say the crew hadn’t thought of ways to dispose of me. On more than one occasion, I’d had large, heavy objects barely miss my head as I puttered around below-decks or in the engineering pit. It was more often than I thought average for a mechanic to be almost killed by falling crates and crewmates, and after mentioning it to the captain, everyone agreed it was best if I just left the ship instead of continuing on as their blackthumb.

I’m not sure what exactly brought on their ire. There had been that bunkmate with whom I’d had a tumble or two, but as we both had agreed to part ways as distant friends. I didn’t see her as being a begrudging type, but there was a first for everything, and I wasn’t about to question the crew’s alliance when freedom seemed so close.

Maybe it would have been better to just poison everyone on the ship and abscond with the loot, but I wasn’t a pirate - or, actually, I wasn’t usually a pirate - and murdering everyone just because they pissed me off wasn’t on my list of fun activities.

Playing through the events that led me to the dusty rock I currently resided, I couldn’t help but kick myself for not getting the rest of my pay before being unceremoniously dumped in the dirt and bantha dung. I shifted uncomfortably on my perch of sweet-smelling hay bales in an attempt to not itch. It was impossible, as I had been settled on the bales since mid-afternoon, and there was hay in places I didn’t even want to think about.

I stared at the door of the single cantina, squashed between a rocky outcropping and the ruins of a Rebel-held base. Most of the regulars had found their way in, but I was more interested in the one that stood out from all the rest of the Imp sympathizers and bantha ranchers; a Mandalorian in full, shining beskar had landed in my neck of the woods, and I wanted to find out why.

If he was looking for me, well. I was going to have a hard time explaining the reasons I stole a slave ship from my boss and then let them loose on a newly-colonized moon on the Outer Rim. It wasn’t a good story, and I didn’t come out of it unscathed, but I did the best for those people with the tools I was given and I wouldn’t do anything to change the fact that I gave them freedom.

My boss didn’t look at it that way, and before I knew it, I was on all the wanted lists in the ruled galaxy. Which is why being on a no-named moon, surrounded by bantha pastures, was the least worst thing that could've happened.

Grumbling under my breath, I wriggled further into my little shelter. The sun was setting behind me, and the light cast an eerie rosy glow on the people closing up their shops for the night. The village was small compared to most, and smaller still for the amount of Stormtroopers and Imperial officials lurking about in groups of three or better. They patrolled the streets after dark in a guise of keeping peace and order, but everyone knew that they were planning something. No one knew what it was, but word had spread from neighboring moons that the Imps were flocking to the area. Nowhere was safe from the Empire’s reach, even when they were defeated and in shambles.

Once the sun went down all the way, the humid, oppressive heat would dissipate, leaving behind a damp chill that would last until the next dawn. Pulling a couple of loose flakes of hay on top of me for warmth, I propped my chin in my hands and waited impatiently for the Mandalorian to show himself again.

Near dawn, not long after many of the bantha ranchers had tramped from the warmth of their beds and to the ramshackle collection of barns and sheds out near the landing field - and thus downwind from the most of the community - the Mandalorian made his appearance.

Broad, square and sturdy, the warrior looked the part of the fearsome legends. His beskar was shiny, with barely a dent to be seen. The cloak he wore, although tattered and full of blaster holes, looked well-made, and the weapons he carried - a Westar-34 and an amban rifle - were clean and in good repair. Without a look back, he strode through the quiet thoroughfare and disappeared down an alley.

Well frag.

Other than just to quench my curiosity, what I wanted more than anything was a ride off this Imp haven. The Mandalorian would have a ship that could take me off-moon, and even if I was his quarry, it was better than rotting amongst the bantha kung. Stiffly vaulting from the stack of hay, I shook the kinks from my joints and sped after the Mandalorian.

Following the same route I saw him take, I trailed the warrior to a set of squat, ovoid huts. He’d disappeared inside, and once more I waited impatiently, but this time in the shadows of a woodshed. From time to time, I touched the amulet hanging from the thin silver chain at the base of my throat, reassuring myself the body-warmed pendant was still there. This Mando wasn’t the first one I’d ever laid eyes on, as my caretaker had been of the Way. He had taught me what he could before he left me, a solid, steady protector fleeing into the night. The thought of him still hurt, but it had been years ago, many parsecs in the past, and it was easier to push down and out of the way of more important emotions.

My nerves ticked upwards when I caught sight of the warrior in the window of the foremost hut. Heart fluttering and stomach in my throat, I took slow, smooth steps farther back into the shed until I was pressed up against a mouldering wood pile. I watched, caged and frozen as the Mandalorian stayed in the frame of the opening for a few more minutes. Head spinning, I released a hiss of a sigh and began to take slow, deep breaths to calm myself. I wasn’t going to do myself any favors by passing out before I could find out where the Mando was headed.

As the minutes dragged on, I continued my deep, even breath until the blanket covering the hut opening twitched and the Mandalorian stepped out. I took a few more breaths, biding my time to make sure he had a head start on me. ------ It was a long ambling walk to the outer reaches of the small farming village. My nose was clogged from the stench of moofs, and I’m pretty sure that was bantha droppings and not mud I’d stepped in a while back, but I kept my pace to a casual walk. From the looks of things, the Mandalorian was headed for the shipyard. Not a surprise, but I figured he’d’ve stayed a little longer. Either way, I was going to get a ride on his ship. Eagerness gnawed at my guts and my legs, but rushing would call attention to me, and I didn't really want to be noticed.

At the last set of farm buildings before the vast openness of the docking ports, I paused to watch a group of younglings chase an aired up moof bladder. There was a skirmish, a pile of small wriggling bodies, and then a shriek of triumph as a tiny Trandoshan Ingling held the dusty bladder above its broad scaly head. It hissed a shrill challenge at its companions, and they all fell about the place giggling and scrabbling for the champion.

I smiled at their innocence, watching for a minute longer as the group split into predetermined teams, and the game began again. Pivoting away from the revelry, I dodged between two outbuildings, bantha barns from the smell of them. Looking over my shoulder one last time, I turned to stroll down the empty alley.

That’s when I ran into the Mandalorian. Or, more correctly, his outstretched arm.

The breath knocked out of me, a bruise blooming across my chest, I lay in the dust with the trash and the dung at the feet of the Mandalorian. Staring up dazedly, I gasped painfully and brought a shaky hand up to rub the grime from my face. My other hand palmed the short dagger tucked into the straps of my cuisses. The plan was to stow away on the ship, but plans changed, and getting clotheslined in a dirty alleyway happened to change those plans for the worse.

“I don’t want to have to kill you,” I finally hissed. My chest felt heavy and my breathing was short as I brought the palmed dagger up to my chest, next to the pendant. “But I will if you ever do that again.”

The helmeted head angled sideways and the Mandalorian took me in. “I am ordered by the Guild to bring you in,” he rasped, tossing a puck onto my stomach. A hologram image smiled goofily back at me, all of my identities, crimes and locations printed plainly underneath.

Raising my head up to look at it, I grimaced and fell back into the dirt. “Frag.”

The neat scroll under my beaming hologram face told anyone who knew how to read that I was a notorious pirate who’d stolen a cargo-full of indentured servants from an innocent merchant to sell on the slave market.

Not completely untrue, but just enough so that it made me angry.

“It’s kinda hard to be a pirate of any sort when I don’t even have a ship, much less one full of supposed indentured servants,” I muttered to no one in particular. “I’ll accept the charges of stealing that ship and rescuing the people on it, but I’m drawing a line at ‘pirate’ and ‘slaver’ and ‘innocent merchant’s indentured servants.’ My boss is anything but blameless, and the servants were innocents tricked into slavery. I couldn’t not help them.”

The Mandalorian grunted solemnly and bumped my shoulder with the steel toe of his boot.

“Alright, alright. I’m getting up,” I replied, deftly sliding the tiny dagger into the sleeve of my tunic before holding my hands up and getting to my knees. The law was not on my side, never had been. But there was a small chance I could talk, or fight, my way out of this. I bowed my head, wishing mightily that I knew a little more about hand-to-hand combat. I’m okay with knives, but when I only had a small dagger to start a fight with, even I knew that I was no match for a fully-geared Mando.

I took a bit longer than necessary, slumped on my knees with my head down, silently assessing the situation at hand. More than likely, my two-timing bantha fodder boss Mihcas put out a bounty. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d indicated he’d rather have me dead than alive; I’d freed a bunch of his cargo on a rebel-held moon, completely destroying both of our reputations and saving the lives of a dozen people destined for hard labor on one of the Imperial exo-planets. Half of them had been children, for Force’s sake. It didn’t sit right with me to send a bunch of younglings to their subsequent deaths when their biggest crime was existing. So when I had the chance to make a difference, I took it by the balls and jumped into hyperdrive right across the nose of my boss’s ship. It was reckless, but the scream of rage that came on the radio before I left him behind was priceless.

Any idea I had for escape flew from my head when the Mandalorian picked me up by the neck and shoved me into the mudbrick barn’s wall. My head banged painfully against the reddish yellow stone, and I felt the tiny dagger slip from my sleeve to clatter harmlessly to the ground. The hand crushing my windpipe flexed in irritation, and I found myself lifted off my feet. The newly-risen sun gleamed an angry red off the bounty hunter’s helmet. I couldn’t help but squint as I scrabbled for purchase against the wall, fingertips and knuckles bloodied and raw when I finally brought them around to grasp his wrist.

A blaster appeared suddenly, digging into my ribs, its quiet hum letting me know it was charged and loaded. Not that I could do anything about it. Black spots danced in my vision from the lack of oxygen going to my brain, so it was easy for me to ignore little things like a gun shoved in my belly in favor of more pressing issues. Like not losing consciousness.

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold,” the Mandalorian threatened, fingers tightening around my throat.

Opening my mouth, I tried to form words, but my brain had a difficult time remembering even the most basic tasks. The bounty hunter squeezed his fingers one more time before letting go. I landed on my knees, panting open mouthed. It took a moment for me to regain all the proper motor functions, allowing the oxygen stinging my damaged throat to resaturate my bloodstream and sharpen my addled brain. The Mandalorian stood a few feet away from me, left hand resting on his belt buckle while the other held the blaster at his side. He seemed relaxed under all that armor, but the fingers of his left hand tapped an impatient tattoo on his belt.

Sucking in all the air I could before it went out of style, I closed my eyes and concentrated on steadying my racing heart.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

The Mandalorian cleared his throat.

Right. That.

In a false attempt to stand, I stumbled against the barn wall and fell back to my hands and knees in the dust, landing hard and awkward so’s not to alert him to anything fishy. Like retrieving my knife. It was stealthily tucked into one of the many pockets on the leg of my jumpsuit before I actually tried to stand.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. This hunter had less patience than me, which was saying something. Straightening upright, I pushed off the wall one-handed until I was face-to-face with the bounty hunter. I pasted the most innocent grin on my face I could conjure up at the moment, spreading my hands wide in front of me, palms out to show that I harbored no ill-will or weapons.

“I am not the pirate you seek.” I widened my eyes in what I hoped was a trustful look.

“Hands. Now.”

“I guess you did take my breath away, but don’t you think it’s a little soon to walk out in public together?” I teased humorlessly before complying. Hands out, wrists together, don’t make any sudden moves or relax any muscles. “Would it help if I told you my evil twin made me do it?” Not exactly a lie, since half the things I did were under the influence in one form or the other. “I’m by no means innocent of some of the things you're accusing me of, but more than half of that is made up or exaggerated beyond belief.”

The cuffs were roughly locked into place, and I flexed my hands experimentally. They were tight, but not so much so that I’d lose feeling in my hands later. It’s a small thing to be glad that this bounty hunter showed a little kindness with my bonds.

“Move,” the bounty hunter said, jabbing me in the ribs again with the blaster.

The hot, boiling rage that had built up over the last few weeks bubbled up the back of my wounded throat. I swallowed it loudly. “I don’t know where you want me to go.” Not exactly the truth, but he didn’t need to know that.

Sighing heavily, the Mando put a gloved hand on my shoulder, shoving me none too gently in the direction of the docks.

Cursing my luck, I looked blankly at my original destination. “More than one way to skin a womp-rat, I guess,” I muttered under my breath, and began the uphill trek to a ship that would hopefully make good on its promise to get me the frag out of here.

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immortalpramheda · 4 years

Text

The 100 7x04 ‘Hesperides’

Young Hope was all alone on Skyring after her mother and Octavia were captured. Soon after, Dev, a prisoner from Bardo, was dropped off. At first she was wary of him, but gradually they began to trust each other.

Dev was with her for ten years. We get a beautiful montage of their life together on Skyring. She nurses him back to health after he eats a poisonous berry, he teaches her how to fight. They became a little family and looked out for each other.

As Dev’s Absolution day neared, they came up with a plan to get to Bardo. When the guards come to retrieve him, they’ll attack them, take their suits and go through the Anomaly to Bardo. He draws symbols on her face, which signify which level people are, so she wouldn’t be caught.

When the time came to execute the plan, Hope hesitated. Because of that. Dev got stabbed. As he died, he managed to give her time by blowing up the other guards. This was her one and only chance so she took a suit and headed through the Anomaly.

From what we know previously, she did make it to Bardo but failed in her mission and made a deal with Anders to save her mother by tagging Octavia.

In five minutes they did such a great job of that montage and I really cared for Dev and was crushed when he died. Rest in peace Dev.

Back in the present day, Hope is determined not to make the same mistakes again. They need to get the current prisoner, Orlando, to trust them so she can try again.

They have five years to win him over, but the sooner they earn his trust, the better. Orlando slowly begins to warm up to them. He has a fascination with Hope. He'd spent five years here alone in Hope’s house full of all her stuff and feels protective over her.

They almost earn his trust, but then Gabriel scares him off. Hope decides to pretend she’s drowning and Orlando comes to her rescue. With the terrible acting of concern and relief from Echo and Gabriel, they become allies.

Orlando reveals he’s a ‘Level 12’ Disciple, which is the top level. He was sent here for breaking the Shepard’s (who I assume is their god) fourth law and refusing a day of rest. Despite being sent here, he still believes and doesn’t like them talking down on his beliefs.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that there are 12 levels, same as the Second Dawn cult. And Orlando recited a saying that said the Shepherd saved them from a ‘fire that consumed the Earth’. I definitely think they’re connected somehow.

They spend the next four years training and formulate their plan. This time Hope is determined it will not fail.

Flash forward to the day of his Absolution. Hope and Echo have cut their hair, and he paints the symbols on their faces. He makes them promise not to kill anyone. Just get in, get their friends, and leave.

They have Orlando tied up to lure the guards in to their attack. Everything goes according to plan, until Hope stabs someone who was going to attack Echo. Orlando knew her and is distraught, especially because he’d trusted them and their promise that no one would die.

The other guards are disarmed and knocked out and Gabriel wants to cut Orlando free so he can follow them through. But Echo realises they can’t do that. He’s loyal to the Disciples. They’re his people. Even though he’s their friend, she doesn’t want to risk it.

Echo kills the other guards because she believes when they wake up, Orlando will tell them everything. But that was… a bit extreme. Orlando is powerless to do anything as Echo executes his people which was so cruel. She, thankfully, doesn’t kill him (for a moment I thought she might) and instead gives him a knife to set himself free.

Clearly Hope and Gabriel are not on board with what Echo has just done and don’t feel right about leaving their friend alone for another few years. I really liked Orlando and this was really sad. A huge betrayal which he didn’t deserve after how kind he was to them.

The people in Sanctum, finally, know about Bellamy, Octavia, Echo and Gabriel’s disappearances after one of the bodies of a Disciple is found out near Gabriel’s tent. They examine the suit but cannot figure out how it opens. That body wasn’t the only one of them, another of the Disciples has come to the shield asking for Clarke by name.

The Disciples of a Greater Truth. The leader of this operation, Captain Meredith, says Clarke is the ‘key to winning the last war mankind will ever wage’. He wants to meet her at the tent, unarmed, and Clarke agrees. He says time moves faster where her friends are so she better hurry. So I think time does move faster on Bardo than on Sanctum, but not as fast as Skyring.

Raven is still reeling from the aftermath of the reactor almost melting down and is haunted by what she did to Hatch and the other prisoners. But she now has a task to distract herself, figure out how to open the futuristic suit.

With the help of Jordan, she manages to get the helmet off and working. It uses thought control. That’s what powers it. She puts it on and can see that the Anomaly is a wormhole, connecting six different planets. The also see the information they have on Clarke. They know her as ‘Wanheda’ and believe her to be ‘armed and extremely dangerous’. She is to be renditioned to Bardo.

Clarke meets with Captain Meredith alone as promised, although of course she brought back up - Miller, Gaia and Niylah are watching from the trees. They aim their guns on him when she gives the signal. But he brought back up too, his own invisible guards behind each of them.

He says that her people killed five of his guards on the planet Penance (Skyring). Their bodies were found along with a prisoner who spent five years with them. Orlando. He killed himself after they betrayed him and left a suicide note. Rest in peace, Orlando. Honestly, I don’t know if I completely believe that. We didn’t see what happened so I think there’s more to his story.

Clarke has a choice, she can either tell them what they need to know, or the information can be extracted from her via memory capture. That’s most likely what happened to Bellamy and Octavia and how these people know so much about her.

Jordan shows up with a plan. He tells them to duck as bullets fly, hitting each of the eight guards. Raven in the invisible suit. She’s traumatised by killing eight more people just like that, after what had only just happened with the reactor. But there is no time, they need to rescue their friends.

They head down to the Anomaly stone. The helmet shows Raven the codes for the six planets but it only shows symbols, not names. One is offline (surely it’s Earth?) and one is Sanctum, so they have a one in four chance of getting to Penance. They decide to just pick one at random and go with it. Gaia decides to stay back to take care of Madi.

Clarke, Raven, Jordan, Miller and Niylah all head through the Anomaly into the unknown. Just as Gaia begins to leave, an invisible Disciple knocks her out. He powers down the stone and she attacks him but they both get sucked into the Anomaly and are transported to, I assume, Bardo.

Clarke and co end up on Nakara. An ice planet. Not where they needed to go. In order to leave, they need to find the Anomaly stone on this planet and who knows where that could possibly be.

I absolutely loved this episode!! I am so invested in the Anomaly plot and how everything is going to piece together and connect. A really solid episode that was full of so much intrigue! But I’m really hoping we see Bellamy again soon (next episode hopefully!).

#the 100 #the 100 7x04 #hesperides #the 100 season 7 #the 100 recap #the 100 review #t100recap

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chakrababy · 4 years

Text

The Secret

(flashback)

Hinata held her stomach with trembling hands as her breathing echoed through the dark cave. She could also hear the strong claps of thunder outside which made her ears ring. "No…not today." She whispered and struggled to get up of the damp earth. "Not today…"

Not today.

Still breathing heavily, she let a small amount of chakra form on her knees and at the sole of her feet. She lost so much energy that even standing up was a making her body tremble. She smiled a little – shaking her head at the thought that this was not what she was expecting to happen. She was after all- Konoha's Hyuga hime… and the hokage's future wife.

So who would dare ambush her small group of orphanage nuns when they were out to help the poor unregistered civilians living in between the boundaries of Konoha and Suna?

Hinata's heart clenched as she remembered her group that mainly consists of women- and most of them doesn't know anything about fighting. She hoped that they were okay – Hyuga Ko after all was with them when she was separated from the group. Her loyal friend would not let any harm come to those old ladies who had pledged their lives taking care of the sick and poor.

But will Ko be able to defend the group when they were outnumbered? The people who attacked them in the middle of the forest road seemed to be decent fighters. Rouge shinobis perhaps? They came out of nowhere and they were able to hid their chakra very well.

Her group even have white flags raised – a symbol of peace and good will. All villages – enemies or not always respects the white flag of peace. So, an ambush was not expected on their part.

Hence the reason why you put yourself as the bait. Hinata though to herself.

One strong clap of thunder made Hinata flinched and she gripped her middle – she was bleeding… and if her suspicions were correct – she was also poisoned. The moment the blade sliced her skin – she instantly lost control of her chakra which was weakened her terribly.

She could not even use her byakugan to save her life.

Another clap of thunder – and a shadow appeared at the mouth of the cave.

They found her.

Hinata gritted her teeth. Not good… She was weak and bleeding. Not enough chakra to heal or to defend herself.

But then again, she is a ninja. She won't give up until she's cold and dead.

Her right hand left her middle and slowly touched the small leather packet attached on the side of her upper leg. Then she pulled out a kunai.

Then she waited.

The shadow – obviously belonged to a man – moved, taking a few steps inside the huge rock. That was the only signal that Hinata was waiting for. She has to score first if wants to get out of here alive. With the last of her strength, she jumped towards the threatening figure with the kunai intending to kill.

But the shadow disappeared.

Hinata whirled around wildly – looking for the dark figure. No chakra signature… no sound…. She was blinded.

"Ugh." Hinata suddenly gasped as a hand grabbed her wrist. However, her hand with the kunai was still free so she made use of it. Serving a kick which did nothing as it was blocked easily by her unknown opponent- she tried to slash and stab.

Another hand tried to grab her but she was like a wild animal, almost growling in desperation to defend herself.

Suddenly, Hinata was pushed back until her back was on solid rock. One strong hand held her right hand above her head while another one was on her left hand - keeping it securely behind her.

"Don't hurt yourself Hyuga." A cold voice said and Hinata paused dead. She doesn't hear it often but she knew that voice.

A shot of lightning outside the cave provided illumination for a spit second. But that was enough for Hinata to see who the shadow was.

He was wearing a cape – caked with mud. His wet hair covering half his face that was still as handsome as ever. The face which made plenty of women swoon and many great shinobi tremble with fear. It was also the face that hundreds saw for the last time before they died.

It has been years since she saw him – but she knew very well who he was. "S-sasuke ?" His name came out as a question. Hinata could not believe it. How…?

"Hyuga." Sasuke let go of the kunoichi who's chakra signature flickered like that of a dying firefly. This one's wounded for sure. Good thing he found her just in time or else Naruto will have a fit. He could not stand that stupid idiot making a big fuss.

Sasuke knew that the Hyuga princess and the idiot have a little something going on between them. Naruto had to go to the moon in order to rescue this girl from that mad tenseigan user and it will be a mess if the Uzumaki finds out that he did not help her when he was coincidentally around the area she was passing by.

He got to give it to her though, she was able to hid herself very well and gave him a hard time looking for her inside this dark forest.

Hinata felt Sasuke's grip lost their strength around her wrists but his hands still held her firmly. "We…we were ambushed." She let out with her soft voice. "I n-need your help…"

"Hn"

"I need to find Ko and the others."

"Hn." Again was Sasuke's short reply.

Hinata blinked as a hand lifted a few strands of hair away from her face. When she looked up- she was greeted with the Hokage's grinning face. "I like your short hair. Ino did a good job."

She was tending the garden in front of her house and was so focused that she was not able to even hear her husband came in by the wooden gate.

I really need to go back to training. Hinata thought as she dusted her hands. Naruto doesn't assign her to missions anymore so it greatly affected her kunoichi sense. Not to mention she was in her first trimester of pregnancy.

Haruno Sakura said that this time…it's a girl.

"Naruto." She also let out a smile. "I thought you were planning on eating lunch with Shikamaru and Temari today." Her husband has this meeting with the representatives of Suna and it was scheduled to happen on lunch time. "Did you finish early?"

"The Suna ambassadors are coming in a little late. They sent me a message half an hour ago. Shikamaru decided to just wait for them so we can all eat together."

"I see."

Naruto looked around their private compound. The area was suspiciously quiet. "Where is Boruto?"

"He went with Iruka-sensei. Sensei came by to bring us some of the sweet potato cakes he bought from a trader and there was no getting Boruto away from him. Sensei will bring him back later."

Naruto laughed, combing his short blonde hair with his fingers wrapped in white bandages. Iruka was more doting than Hiashi Hyuga when it comes to Boruto – and that is saying something. "I see."

"Let's go inside? I made tea earlier. I will reheat it for you." Hinata said, dropping whatever she was doing. "We can also taste the cakes together."

"Yes please." Naruto grinned again, his eyes forming a straight line. He can't be thankful enough that he was able to go home to this beautiful woman he calls his wife. She gave him a son…and another child soon.

She gave him a family he can go home to every night.

"Hina…remember that old guy we used to buy tickets for the …" Naruto paused and whirled around, blue eyes flickering side to side as if looking for something. Hinata noticed her husband's unexpected pause and frowned.

"What's the matter?" Hinata asked.

"That…chakra." Naruto said with a weird expression. That was just a very light flicker but he knows who it belongs to.

"Naruto…"

The Uzumaki smiled. "Go in Hina. Prepare the tea and cakes. I think we have a visitor."

"V-visitor?"

Naruto patted her wife's head and gently nudged her to the direction of the house. "I'll be right back okay? I love you."

Hinata was still frowning when Naruto disappeared right in front of her with a flicker. With a sigh, she slowly moved herself to the house. What can she do? her husband is the Hokage and is always busy nowadays.

Sasuke was sitting on the ground, his back plastered on a tree trunk when Naruto found him. It has been eight months when they last saw each other and that encounter was very brief.

He came back to Konoha to check on Sarada – as Sakura sent him a message that their only daughter was sick.

"Oy Sasuke." Naruto's face was angry, his white cape dangling behind him. "You missed your daughter's birthday last month you stupid newt."

"Hn." Sasuke replied with his signature grunt.

It was Sarada's birthday but Sakura got it all covered. He doesn't want to spoil the party with his presence. He may be in good terms with the Hokage and with the other Konoha Eleven but some still feared him.

Or hate him.

"You just arrived?" Naruto asked, removing his Hokage hat and sat beside Sasuke. They were in an open field. It used to be a training ground for the academy students but Naruto closed it in order to grow the plants and trees back again. A lot of trees died because it was used as the student's target with their paper bombs and kunai- intentionally or not.

Not it was just a peaceful place and people don't usually pass or stay at the area.

"Yes." Sasuke responded and closed his eyes. It was a rough trip and he was tired.

"And as usual you did not go to Sakura-chan right away. You have a wife and a daughter you know." Naruto said, feeling bad for his other best friend. Sakura deserves a little more from this dark-haired idiot.

But Sakura knew what she is getting herself into. Naruto thought silently.

"I'll leave the report on your table tomorrow." Sasuke said, eyes still closed. "Shikamaru

"Okay. Don't leave me the same one paragraph shit you always send me."

The Hokage's remark made Sasuke smirk. "Because you can't read idiot."

"You're the one who is stupid you little piece of –'' Naruto stopped midway his curse and lightened up, remembering something important. "Hey… Hinata is pregnant again. This time Sakura said it's a girl."

Sasuke's eyes slowly opened, or at least the one that was not hidden behind his black hair.

Hinata.

"I'm so happy so congratulate me." Naruto continued to lighten up, grinning from ear to ear. "I'm going to have another kid teme!"

"Hn."

(flashback)

Sasuke looked at the pale face of the woman in front of him. Her long dark hair being pulled back by the wind. Some strands though, was sticking to her face because of the tears that kept falling from her pupiless, pearlescent eyes.

"Why did you follow me here?" He asked coldly, although a part of him was dying to hold her close. "They will think that I kidnapped you."

"Sasuke…" Hinata clenched her fists. "You can't just go like that."

"No. It is you who can't just go like that." Sasuke corrected the woman. "Remember who you are hime. And remember who I am."

Hinata was desperate. She doesn't know what to do. All she knew was that if she let Uchiha Sasuke out of her sight today…she won't see him again. She knew he will get out of his way to hid himself from her.

If only she could turn back time. She would have preferred not to meet the Uchiha on that cave two years ago.

Then she wouldn't have to be in this situation.

She would be happily preparing for her wedding with Uzumaki Naruto – the love of her life even when she was a kid.

But…now…

Sasuke's face was stoic. "Go back Hinata."

"Sasuke…"

"You have nothing here." Sasuke was still acting stone-cold but he meant what he said. There was nothing for the Hyuga if she chose this path with him, only regret. The life that he was now taking was not fit for the Hyuga princess.

Hinata deserved so much more…

And after everything that Naruto did for him. He can't betray that Uzumaki again. He will die first before doing so.

Hinata bowed her head low. "Sasuke… I don't know what to do." The words that came out were just a whisper. It was the truth. She was lost…extremely lost.

She doesn't want to hurt Naruto or Sakura. Her father…everyone. "Why is it that I can't stop myself and just let you go?"

Sasuke took the step towards the Hyuga. Every step he took felt like being stabbed in the gut. And with every step towards her – is one step away from Hinata forever. When he reached the sobbing woman, he touched her cheek to wipe the hot tears streaming down her face.

"You don't deserve someone like me Hinata."

"Sasuke…we are in a dead end, aren't we?" Hinata whispered again, still not looking up.

A hand found her chin and slowly lifted her head up. The sun had just set and the shadows that framed Sasuke's face made him looked more emotionless. But on the moment that their eyes met – Hinata saw the sadness on them - echoing her own.

"Sasuke…"

"I'll always watch over you Hyuga." Sasuke said as he looked straight into her eyes, his left obsidian eye slowly turning red. "So be sure to live happy…that way, you can make me happy even without knowing it."

Hinata let a sob escaped her body, knowing what was going to happen next.

"I …love you…Sasuke."

"Let's eat at my house." Naruto said, pulling away Sasuke from his thought.

"I can't." Sasuke replied.

"Why?"

"I have to see Sarada."

Naruto nodded. "Yes. You do that Sasuke. Be a good father damn you."

#sasuhina fanfic #naruto fanfiction #hinatasasuke

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mwjumbledwords · 4 years

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I hate how we invalidate feelings, How we automatically place guilt because someone else has it worse, That doesn’t make the pain I’m feeling any less real. There’s this shame that comes with invalidation, Like how can someone like me suffer from depression, Looking from the outside gives a different perspective. I know it could be so much worse, But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, I know I’m blessed but that doesn’t take away the stress. Here I am building this nest, Finding comfort in my mess, Just living with this regret. Gathering sticks, Placing them in all the crannies and nicks, Forming this structure that will easily collapse under a puff of wind. Not investing the time and effort it would take for my house to not break, Wasting time with meaningless materials, Cheap and off brand that will deteriorate in the end. Wanting this internal war to cease, Desperate for peace, But I’m searching for a makeshift way to maneuver to victory. An easy way out because I don’t know where else to go, Wanting to let go of all of these strongholds, Wanting to raise my white flag but I don’t know how. I don’t want to hold onto the pain, I don’t want anxiety associated with my name, I’m tired of being locked onto the depression chain. I feel like there needs to be a balance, Feelings need to be recognized, But they also have to die sometimes. We have to move on, We have to push through, Accept the change because comfort can kill you. Moving forward doesn’t invalidate your pain, You have to deal with it, But you also have to realize there’s something more important. I’ve recognized the need to get out of this mindset, I feel like I’ve been desperately trying to dig my way out of this hole I’ve been in, Like the last seven months have been this consistent struggle. I’ve been screaming internally, Physically feeling these chains that are holding me, Fighting back but my weakness has gotten the best of me. It’s been exhausting, Something I’m so tired of carrying, But I have an inability to let go, controlled by the fear of losing control. Where did my faith go? When did I begin to doubt? How can I really question if He’s going to work it all out? How do you regain your faith? How do you kill the doubt that remains? The doubt that sneaks in, that you don’t even see. I didn’t think that I could do it better, I think I thought I could do it without all the pain, I was wrong and I lost more than I could gain. I was focused on avoiding the shame, Just wanting to be numb to the pain, Not wanting to feel this way. Not entirely recognizing how long I’ve been running, Numbly searching for the answer that I already possessed, Finding solace in the noise in my head. Justifying my struggles for what they were, Blindly looking over the allure, The crutch that this pain would become. Convincing myself that I couldn’t see what I was doing wrong, Not allowing myself to see what I was to become, Excusing the crippled Christian that I was. Did I run into the arms of sin? At what point did I take the wrong turn? Here I am retracing my steps. My morals and values are solid, My faith is what’s shaken, My doubt is my poison. Trying to figure out what deep within causes me to question Him, On the surface it’s all clear, But there’s this black hole that begins to suck all that clarity in. It’s supposed to be simple, But here I am overthinking it, Making it more difficult. It’s a curse, This head of mine, Always analyzing, trying to pick it all apart. Looking for the deeper meaning, Constantly believing there is something I’m not seeing, Unable to believe that it’s really that easy. I have to figure out how to let go, Let go of the chronic need for control, Let go of this girl, the one with the reflection I don’t even know. The girl whose eyes hold pain, Who’s lived in a condescending bubble, Surrounded by fear. I don’t know her, I don’t want to be her, But I want to save her. In order to do that I have to let her go, Move forward, no looking back, Get over myself and live life again. Regain the faith I’m missing, Learn how to trust in these unseen plans, Because He holds the world in His hands. Plain and simple, Faith and trust minus the pixie dust.

“Internal Dialogue of an Overfilled Mind,” MW

#poetry #internal monologue #pixiedust #pain

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qqueenofhades · 6 years

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the tangled web of fate we weave: xxii

welp, it’s almost done. the epilogue is probably gonna be tomorrow before the finale. in the meantime, yes, after what i did to you last chapter, here i am. back again.

part xxi/AO3

July 21, 2014

There is no one word in the English language that is really sufficient to describe the scale of São Paulo, Brazil. Huge has a decent stab, but still doesn’t get there. When the eggheads who study urban planning and population density and civil engineering use terms like “macrometropolis” and “megapolis” to describe it, you start to realize the shortcomings. It’s not actually the biggest city in the world; it’s something like eighth or ninth, including the metropolitan area, but right now, it might be. It is a sea of endless buildings between distant blue mountains, known for its notoriously changeable weather, a city to which “diverse” likewise does no justice, a melting pot and a global powerhouse. It’s winter in the Southern Hemisphere, so it’s not very hot. In fact, the temperature struggled to get above fourteen degrees Celsius today, and a fine Atlantic drizzle is dampening the pavement outside, bleared in the endless lights. It’s ten o’clock at night in a down-at-heel bar in Vila Andrade, not far from the poor Paraisópolis favela on one side and the wealthy district of Morumbi on the other, and Garcia Flynn intends to keep drinking as long as they’re going to serve him.

Ogroman, he thinks. Maybe ogroman does as a word for this place. It’s Croatian, means “vast, tremendous, oversized, immense.” It also sounds a bit like “ogre,” in English. Ogre-man, which he isn’t altogether sure he isn’t, become something monstrous and deformed and barely human that cannot venture into the sun without turning to stone. São Paulo’s sheer magnitude is his refuge: nobody can find him here, or at least he’s fairly sure they can’t. A needle in thirty million haystacks, a completely anonymous blip on nobody’s radar. His Portuguese is rudimentary, but he knows enough to order drinks, and for now, that has to do.

The bartender passes him a glass, Flynn grunts in thanks, and puts a crumpled five-real note on the counter, as this isn’t usually the sort of place where you run a tab. He’s not even sure what he ordered, but he also isn’t going to be terribly particular, as long as it does its job. He has been in São Paulo for three days, and his wife and daughter have been dead for two weeks. No, not dead. That sounds sedate, easy, like the “passed away” bullshit that people use to make it sound peaceful and palatable. No. Murdered. Murdered in the middle of the night by a full hit squad, the muffled thump of silencers and bullets flying in the dark. He barely got out of there alive himself. He honestly wishes he hadn’t.

Flynn lifts the glass to his lips and throws down a burning gulp of whatever local poison is within. It doesn’t taste good so much as it’s a promise that eventually, with enough repeated applications, he might be numb for a little while. He has his gun back at the room if it gets too much tonight. That’s the comfort. Make it through one more day if you can think of any reason to, and kill yourself if you can’t. When the only thing burned into his brain is the image of Iris in her little flowered pajamas with a bullet hole in her head, Lorena half-fallen over her where she was trying to shield her, that’s the place he goes.

Rittenhouse. Flynn takes another drink. When he took the fairly routine corporate finance job for his old buddies at the NSA, he didn’t see anything unusual about it. Broke the encryption and discovered something about a company named Rittenhouse funneling huge off-the-books sums of money to tech billionaire Connor Mason, through multiple offshore accounts in the Caymans. Intended, of all the things, to fund a time travel project. Flynn figured they were just crazy, but not his business. He flagged the transfers to his contact, who said they’d take care of it. Flynn thought nothing more of it. Went on with his life.

Four nights later, Lorena thought she heard Iris cough. Got up to check on her.

That was when, in under ten minutes, Garcia Flynn’s entire world was destroyed.

He has no solid proof. He has nothing. In fact, when he tried to call the police, call fucking someone, as if there’s any ordinary authority that has any jurisdiction over this, he discovered that he was the prime suspect in the murder. Everyone knows the husband probably snapped and gunned down his family one night, that’s how it usually goes. The killers – Flynn knows in his gut, he knows somehow that it was these Rittenhouse people – have framed him for the crime and they want him dead or alive, and his only choice was to go off the grid and on the run. He still has a few tricks up his sleeve, so he got out of Dubrovnik and went to South America because it seemed the farthest away. He wants revenge, it’s the only reason he hasn’t stuck his gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, but he has no idea how to start to go about getting it. They appeared from the shadows and destroyed everything and vanished again. How do you fight smoke? How do you even catch it?

(Nothing, the darkness chants at him. Nothing. You have nothing. You are nothing. You should just go back to the room and get it over with.)

Later, Flynn thinks. Later. It wouldn’t be the first dead body they’ve had to carry out of that place, he’s sure, though if he’s going to make a mess, he should truck up into the hills and keep it to himself. They might not find his corpse for weeks or months, and there is something morbidly alluring about the idea of dying under the stars, staring up at them until he sees Lorena smiling at him, and it’s just a bad dream, and all the world falls away and it is all gone, it is all gone. But he can’t do that just yet without at least trying to take the bastards down with him. He has to think of something.

Right now, however, Flynn has thought all day and still come up with a big fat blank, and he’s not drinking because he wants to keep doing it. He yearns and aches and pleads for oblivion, for a sweet soft coma, and he doesn’t think there’s enough alcohol in the world for it. He has a little money, and he can get more if he puts his mind to it, but unless he’s going to bounce from place to place like a billiard ball, he needs to get himself together and decide what he’s going to do. Or he could just find somewhere high and jump. Christ the Redeemer is in Rio de Janeiro, but Flynn could head up there and really make a splash. Rub it in Christ’s face for not being any sort of redeemer. Tourists gawking at his broken body, probably a few headlines. Rittenhouse would definitely know he was dead, then. Might frame it and put it on their wall. In that case, no. He can’t give them that satisfaction.

He finishes the first drink and pushes the glass back for a second one, which is duly supplied. The door opens and closes, letting in wafts of cool, damp night air, as patrons come and go. There is a group of young men with gel-slicked hair, leather jackets and flashy necklaces, who might well know where to get the stronger sort of anti-depressant, but Flynn doesn’t feel up to it right now. A few women with too much makeup, short vinyl skirts, and platform heels circulate through the drinkers; he suspects they’re hookers drumming up business. There’s a futebol match on the TV in the corner, which Flynn stares at for the simple need to look at something besides his own reflection in the dirty bar mirror. His wife and daughter are dead. He’s not the only man who this has ever happened to, but it feels like he is. His wife and daughter are dead. His future is gone. His entire world has been erased.

One of the hookers comes up next to him, trailing her fingers over his arm, and Flynn brusquely sends her packing. He doesn’t want to be touched, he doesn’t want company or solace. He wants a miracle, and he knows he isn’t going to get one; the world is, as well proven, not that gracious and not that forgiving. Another drink, or call it curtains and go back to the room? He’s not sure he can resist the pistol tonight. If he’ll survive, he has to walk.

When the second drink is down to the dregs, Flynn cursorily pushes it back and asks for something else, just to change it up. The bartender looks askance at him; even in a place like this, it’s obvious when someone is intending to drink until they end up on the floor, and he probably doesn’t want to have to drag someone of Flynn’s size out by his heels. But Flynn puts another bill, of a larger denomination, on the counter, and the bartender hesitates, then pours him a third. Flynn isn’t drunk, since it takes a considerable amount, but he can feel the floating edges of not-total-sobriety. Good. That’s the point. He takes a sip, then another.

The liquid in the glass has dipped to about halfway when the door opens again. He doesn’t bother looking around, since it’s not going to be anyone he’s interested in. All he wonders is if it’s stopped raining, because if it has, he might think about leaving (how permanently is still up for debate). It might be stupid to care whether or not he gets wet, but he has to cling to whatever excuse he has by his fingernails, because otherwise he will –

“Hello, Garcia.”

Flynn almost has a heart attack. He jostles the glass of whiskey with his elbow, splashes it on the scarred wood, and whirls around. He doesn’t have his gun on him, if only because the temptation to use it might overtake him, but he doesn’t need it to kill someone. How – how – after all his precautions, his certainty that the megacity would hide him, after leaving no trace, has Rittenhouse found him? He’s had just enough to drink that the urgent command from his brain to snap into Terminator mode gets lost before being fully received by his body. Half-stumbles as he knocks the stool, prepares to fight whatever operative this is in the middle of some slovenly dive bar in –

And at that, he freezes.

The woman facing him could very well be Rittenhouse, and he’s certainly not ruling out the possibility that she is, but she has both hands up, clearly aware that she has startled him and that, given his current mental state, it might not have been the best idea. She holds his eyes as he stares at her in a confused, bleary, furious haze, waiting to be sure that he isn’t going to lunge at her. Then she says gently, “I’m sorry. How about you sit back down?”

Flynn tries to answer, but his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth for more reasons than just the percentage of alcohol in his bloodstream. She’s about his age – forty, give or take a few years – and she’s beautiful. Petite and trim, with shiny dark hair that shows just an elegant touch of silver at the temples, and a few lines around her soft brown eyes. She’s stylishly dressed in skinny jeans, a long coat, silk blouse, and scarf, and she’s spoken to him in English, with an American accent, rather than in Portuguese or any of the numerous other languages spoken in São Paulo. Some faint, attractive floral scent lingers around her, as if inviting him to lean in and take a breath. He’s not going to, of course, but the desire has briefly passed through his brain. She can’t be a hooker too, can she? No. CIA, or something in that department. Intelligence agent of some stripe.

“How do you know my name?” It’s not the most scintillating question in the world, but it begs asking anyway. He sinks heavily back onto the barstool. “Look, if you’re here to kill me, Jesus Christ, just get it over with.”

“I’m not here to kill you.” She looks at him. . . tenderly? Almost like she knows him. “I’m sorry for surprising you. My name’s Lucy. Lucy Preston.”

She holds out her hand, and before Flynn has any idea what he’s doing, he shakes it. It’s small, like her, but her grip is strong, and since it’s the first time he has touched anyone in any capacity for two weeks, it’s a shock, a reminder that there is still a physical, concrete world beyond the tortured hellscape of his thoughts. He almost wants to hold on, but this total stranger (is she a stranger?) has not come here to be his emotional crutch. He withdraws and clenches his fist on his thigh, trying to stop it trembling. Finally he says roughly, “If you’re not here to kill me, what the fuck do you want?”

“It’s complicated.” Lucy looks at the remnants of his drink. “You might want another.”

Flynn grunts. “I’ve had a few already.”

“I suppose you have.” She tilts her head, studying him with that strange, soft look that both unnerves and intrigues him. “Do you want to talk here?”

“Where else?”

“All right.” She signals the bartender and orders a drink of her own in serviceable Portuguese, though it sounds like she’s practiced the phrase. Flynn keeps watching her carefully, waiting for any hint what her game is. When she’s gotten her glass and taken a sip, she says, “This is going to sound insane, and hopefully you’ll hear me out before you make a decision. There really isn’t an easy way to start, so. . . well. I know who you are, I know what happened to your family, and I know that you’d do anything for revenge on Rittenhouse. I’m here to tell you that there’s a chance.”

That, despite himself, snaps Flynn’s spine straight like a whip. Some of the fuddled torpor burns off, almost that fast, and he stares at her narrowly. “How do you know about – ”

“Again.” Lucy raises a hand. “Let me finish?”

He bites his tongue, though his head has turned into such a cyclone that he has to force himself to pay attention. He looks at her expectantly, as she reaches into her jacket pocket and removes a slim black leather book, monogrammed with the initials LP in the lower right corner. “This is my journal. I want you to read it.”

“You. . . want me to read your journal?” Flynn blinks. Anger is starting to replace confusion. “You come here promising revenge on Rittenhouse – when I still don’t know how you even know that name – and instead you give me your fucking diary? What, am I supposed to read about your high school crushes and – ”

“This isn’t an ordinary diary.” Lucy’s tone remains level, though there’s a certain aggravation that suggests, heartbroken and spiraling as she knows he is, he’s still frustrating her with his inability to follow simple instructions. Viz., keeping his fucking mouth shut for thirty seconds and letting her talk. “As I said, this was going to sound insane. That journal is going to help you take down Rittenhouse. And – well, we’ll start with that.”

“And how the hell is it going to do that?”

“Because – ” Lucy takes a deep breath. “Because I came here from the future.”

That, as might be expected, hits Flynn between the eyes like a bowling ball. He stares at her, waiting for her to proffer some, any other explanation, half-wanting to shout at her for thinking it would be funny to come here and pick the heartbroken, suicidal widower and bereaved father for her fucking YouTube prank show. He looks around for her cameraman. If this is supposed to go viral, he’ll kill them first. Finally he says, “I beg your pardon?”

“I came here from the future.” Lucy’s lips press together. “That’s how I know your name and about your family and about Rittenhouse. We’ve already met. We’re – we know each other.”

There are implications in that pause that make it clear she could have said any number of other things. Flynn can’t quite get air into his lungs, so he reaches for his drink and polishes it off in a long, burning slug. Then he shoves it across the counter. “Outro agora.”

The barman pauses, glances at Lucy (Flynn’s almost relieved for the confirmation that he can still see her, since he briefly started to wonder if this might be a total nervous breakdown), then figures that since Flynn has paid him enough for several drinks, it’s his department if he wants to get shitfaced in front of the lovely senhora. Once the glass is returned in an acceptable state of replenishment, Flynn takes another gulp. The tipsiness is starting to be less pleasant, a grating buzz like a nail between his eyes, and is on the verge of proceeding to full-on drunk. There’s something to be said for just quaffing it all and passing out, but Lucy hands him a glass of water, and he finds himself taking it. Finally he says, “You know there’s no way I actually believe you, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Lucy hasn’t broken character, if this is an act, or summoned some hipster with a man-bun to appear from behind a video camera. “Honestly, I don’t blame you.”

Flynn debates what to say. He could be much crueler, he could lash out, he could tell her to take her ill-conceived practical joke and shove it up her ass, but something – he has no idea what – is making him hesitate. Maybe it’s just a testament to his desperation, that any lead, no matter how ludicrous, might be the difference between life and death tonight. She knows about Rittenhouse. She knows his name. Even if not from goddamn time travel, she learned those somewhere. And the way she has been looking at him, with tenderness and sympathy and care. . . perhaps he’s just too small and weak and shattered to stand up, but he can’t quite bear to remove himself from it, not yet. Even if it’s all a lie or a trick. Maybe especially if it is. Reality is too much and he could do with a few comforting illusions.

After a moment, he pushes his drink aside and takes another sip of the water instead. “The future,” he says, with something between sarcasm and curiosity. “When?”

“I can’t tell you that exactly. We’ll say the relatively near future.”

“Convenient.” Flynn toasts her sardonically. “No firm dates.”

“Time travel is very confusing.” It seems as if this is probably the understatement of the millennium, but Lucy says it simply and almost apologetically, as if she really would tell him if she could. “I don’t know what I would risk changing if I told you too much, and things have happened in a certain way that. . .” She trails off. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry.” Flynn considers that. He isn’t sure he wants to ask for what, or if she would tell him. “So you’re going to appear, tell me that time travel is real, hand me some magic diary, and think that this will take down Rittenhouse? You can’t know what they are, if you think that’s going to work. You can’t possibly – ”

“Can’t I?” Lucy’s eyes flash. For the first time, she looks downright formidable, a mature and beautiful and slightly terrible queen – no Snow White evil stepmother, but no gentle, naïve princess frolicking with the songbirds either. She stands half up, staring at him. “I can’t know what Rittenhouse is? Do you think, do you remotely think, that I would have done this, that I would have risked everything to come here and find you, if I didn’t know exactly who they are? They killed Lorena and Iris, and before that, they – never mind. But they’ve taken more from you than you even know. I’m here because I’m willing to do whatever it takes to stop them. Is that you too, or not?”

Despite himself, Flynn is jolted. He recognizes the anger in her voice, because it’s the same rage that has been burning unceasingly through him, turning him to ash and soot and char, stripping away and tearing up everything he used to be, any soft place there ever was. He opens his mouth, then shuts it, even as Lucy takes a considerable slug of her own drink. He almost feels as if he should apologize, though she’s the one who turned up here spouting deluded fairytales. There’s a fraught silence, until he says, “All right.”

Lucy raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t answer. She wipes her mouth and leans on the counter, still too beautiful and put-together and glamorous for a shithole like this, composed and mesmerizing even in her anger. She controls it well, has taken it out and then put it back in its box, but it’s clear that it rubs raw nonetheless. She takes another deep breath, then says, “I’m sorry. I realize the burden of proof rests with me here. I brought the journal this time, I wrote everything down – well, as much as I could. It was actually your idea. Sort of.”

“What?” Flynn is thrown by that. “How can it have been my idea?”

“It. . .” Lucy debates something with herself, then shakes her head. “There are. . . there are other ways things happened before,” she says at last, unhelpfully. “We’re working on retrieving some of those, but it – anyway, it’s complicated. The best way I can describe it is the garden of forking paths. You walk in, and you see all the choices that you could have made, all the realities you could have existed in, branching off to every side. You can only walk one course through the maze, and that becomes your life. But there are echoes of what used to be, what might have been, or what was taken away. They’re still there somehow, on some quantum level, with some leftover trace that can be found in the time stream. Glimpsed, perhaps, if not recaptured. You and I, in one of those, we were – ” For the first time, her voice cracks. “There’s a reason I’m here for you.”

Flynn is even more thrown, understandably, even as Lucy turns her face away as if she didn’t mean for him to see that. He finds himself fishing out his handkerchief and offering it, some idiotic gentlemanly reflex, as she takes it, dabs at her eyes, and hands it back. “Yes,” she says, her tone once more cool and businesslike. “Anyway. It’s not random. How do you think I could have found you tonight, in a city this size, if I wasn’t here for you? If I didn’t know, in fact, exactly where you were going to be?”

“I don’t know,” Flynn says uncertainly. “You could have been looking for me for a while.”

Lucy snorts. “Do you really think that would work? Going door-to-door in all the gin joints in the world? Across this city, across the entire world?”

Flynn has to admit, the odds seem low. He doesn’t know if that means he believes her or not, so he takes a few more sips of water. He wants to judge if this seems remotely sensible at even partial sobriety, or if the alcohol is the only reason he’s entertained it thus far. There is certainly a part of him that is touched at the idea that she’s traveled through time and space to see him, that they have some sort of deep connection she can’t or won’t explain, but the rest of him is horrified. His wife died two weeks ago. He is not in the market for any other options. He wants Lorena back. Lorena. Whoever Lucy Preston is, she can’t be what he’s really looking for, what he needs. But walking into this place looking like an angel, telling him this impossible story, and seeming to think he might actually believe it. . .

He doesn’t know. There is another part of him that is well aware he was just asking for a miracle, and this seems as close as it’s possible to get. He’s prayed to God for answers, he’s begged for anything – that was, when he wasn’t screaming his pain and rage into the empty, uncaring void, swearing and cursing and bleeding. Lorena was the believer more than him, though he went to church to humor her, but Lorena is the one who was murdered in cold blood in her own home, trying to save her five-year-old daughter from men with machine guns who did not turn a hair. How can God have let that happen, if He is any sort of God worth His salt? Flynn knows the technical term: theodicy, or the question of how the existence of evil is compatible with a loving and powerful divinity. None of the explanations he has heard have ever quite satisfied him. This, even less.

There’s another silence as he and Lucy stare at each other. God, she is beautiful. Disloyal as Flynn feels, he’s a man with eyes, and he can’t quite take them off her. He glances at her hands, as if in search of a ring. He still wears his own, he can’t imagine wanting to take it off, but her fingers are bare, keeping their secrets. He wants to ask more about how they’re supposed to be connected – is this some sort of past-life nonsense, does she think they’re the reincarnations of Antony and Cleopatra, or something else to add to her clearly quite eccentric beliefs about the nature of reality? What’s even stranger is that he keeps having momentary, elusive flashes of something just below the surface, like sunlight on goldfish in a pond, that he cannot grab or hold onto. Is this hypnosis? Power of suggestion? She said something outré, and now he’s adjusting his beliefs to accommodate it? He’s been a soldier and a special operative for a long time. He can usually see mind tricks coming a mile off.

“I’m not sure if you’re crazy,” Flynn says at last. “There’s still a good chance you are. But I think you believe you’re telling the truth. If nothing else.”

Lucy seems to accept that is a start, given what she’s just asked him to swallow. She pushes the journal toward him. “Please. Take it.”

Flynn looks at it. He wants to ask if there’s a piece of Voldemort’s soul contained in it, because it seems like it might be a pertinent question, but he takes it and puts it in his jacket pocket. Then he gets to his feet, and promptly staggers enough that Lucy notices. “Come on,” she says. “How about you let me walk you back to where you’re staying?”

This is almost adorable, given that Flynn is a six-foot-four ex-commando with extensive military training, and Lucy is a five-foot-five woman who doesn’t look likely to be Black Widow in disguise. But he oddly doesn’t want her to go just yet, and he reminds himself that it’s really him doing the favor for her, making sure a foreign woman on the streets alone in a huge city, late at night, doesn’t get into any unfortunate situations. The ground, however, does feel a little farther away than usual, and he weaves his way to the door, Lucy bobbing at his elbow. He pushes it open and strides out into the night. Drops of mist bead finely in the air, but it isn’t raining anymore. Cars drone by, splashing puddles. The coolness is bracing against his hot face. For once, it feels good to breathe.

Lucy walks quietly beside him, dark hair tugged by the breeze, face intent and inward-looking. She doesn’t seem in a hurry, and he is absurdly tempted to ask where she parked the time machine (that has to be how she got here, right?) and if she has to get back before the meter runs out. The endless city lights flicker across her face. She is fine and ethereal and even more lovely in the glow, like something or someone not quite mortal or human. He keeps looking at her. He can’t stop.

After another few minutes, they reach the door between an all-night Japanese restaurant and a used electronics store, which leads up into the kind of apartment that can be rented with cash, without much paperwork, and a generally flexible occupancy. Flynn takes his key out and unlocks the door, then steps through into the shabby front vestibule, mail for previous tenants stuffed in the slot. He doesn’t expect Lucy to follow him in, but she does, and then up the narrow stairs. When he glances at her in confusion, she says quietly, “I know you have your gun in your room. I’m worried. That’s all.”

For the first time, after everything else she’s said or hinted at, that’s what rocks him the most. There is not any way he can specifically think of for her to know that – everything else could be a combination of very good intel and accurate guesswork, the kind of trick that fairground fortune-tellers use to read people and come up with something that might be relevant to their lives. He hasn’t said anything about that, about the lure it has on him, the coin toss every night as to whether he’s going to buckle and give in. Shaken, he turns away and takes longer than necessary to unlock the door. Muffled samba music drifts up from the flat below. He might mind it more if he thought there was any chance he’d ever actually sleep.

He pushes open the door into the apartment. It’s a bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a battered couch, with a bathroom squashed on the end. There are definitely cockroaches, the décor has not been updated since the eighties, and the power can be unreliable, but if he wanted to leave tomorrow, he could walk out with no strings attached. He almost feels compelled to apologize, again, for its sheer dreariness, but he stands awkwardly in the middle of the floor instead, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, half-wondering if he is supposed to be presenting for parade inspection. She is even more beautiful in the slitted light of the old venetian blinds. His throat is dry for other reasons than the alcohol, but he can’t quite get his feet to move.

Lucy looks up at him, as if trying to make up her mind about something. It’s well apparent that there is tension between them, whether or not there should be, and that if she made a move toward him, Flynn doesn’t know that he would turn her down. He’s still a little drunk and he probably shouldn’t, but he is so exhausted and so heartbroken and barely holding up, and she has appeared literally from nowhere and she’s here in front of him. He feels like he should say something about his gun, remind her why she came up, but his entire chest hurts and he is blind and raw and shaking with need. For what, he doesn’t even know. Not her, exactly. Maybe what she represents. Life. Hope. Light. Any remote, wild ghost of a chance. She hasn’t said what exactly she’s offering, what the journal is supposed to do, or how it’s related to taking down Rittenhouse. He could ask her that. He could ask her a lot of things.

Instead, slowly, Flynn raises both hands. Lucy’s throat moves as she swallows, but she shifts closer, rather than away. She looks up at him with simple, vulnerable, unselfconscious trust that shreds his already crumbling resolve. He puts his hands very, very lightly on her upper arms, not quite closing his fingers. Not grabbing her, not trapping her, not trying to give her any reason to regret coming into a terrible apartment with a mentally unstable strange man who is twice her size, but because he doesn’t know what else he can do. Because the desolate, impossible, harrowing pain inside him eases the smallest bit when he does, and he is utterly desperate for that relief. He has no pride left. He is flattened. He is wrung out.

Lucy’s eyelashes flutter, her lips parting, as she tilts her head up. Flynn runs his hand up her shoulder, cupping her face. He traces his thumb along her cheekbone, still mildly astonished that she is a flesh-and-blood woman, and not a detailed hallucination. Lowers his mouth closer, not sure if he wants to kiss her or just breathe her in, absorb her in some elemental way like symbionts, like atoms, like stardust. Her lashes make dark shadows on her cheek. Her breath is soft as a whisper on his.

Flynn closes his eyes just as their foreheads touch, as a shudder racks him from head to toe and he briefly thinks he might go to his knees. But that’s when Lucy grabs his face in her hands, guides his hungry, hollow mouth to hers, and kisses him so gently that his broken heart snaps again. The sound is almost soft, a light, dry click. Then the floodgates open.

He lifts her almost off her feet, arms wrapped around her waist as hers lock around his neck, as they turn their heads and mash their noses and open their mouths and gulp and gasp and kiss and kiss as if this is the only thing they have meant to do since she arrived. Flynn doesn’t know if it’s the case or not, and frankly does not want to think about it, or anything. If he keeps his eyes closed, it’s easy enough to pretend that she is Lorena, and either way, if he is not going to die tonight, he needs this. He can add it to his sins later. He already has enough.

There is not much attempt at seduction or foreplay. This is clumsy and staggering and primal as an avalanche, and there is just as much point (which is to say, none) of getting in the way of it. He breaks away from her mouth, pressing blind kisses into her cheek and neck and shoulder, as he shucks off her jacket and scarf, throwing them across the room. She unbuttons her blouse as they keep kissing, as he pulls his shirt off and she runs her hands over the heavy muscles of his chest and arms, catching a nipple between her fingers. He reaches around to unclasp her bra, and she shucks it off her arms. His hands come up to cup and caress her breasts, and she shudders like the wind.

They walk backwards into the bedroom in a muddle, and fall on the bed in a heap. It occurs to Flynn that he does not have any condoms, and while he does not have any diseases, thank you very much, she might not want to walk away from this night with the risk of an unexpected souvenir (of whatever sort). He manages to pull away long enough to pant, “I don’t have – are you sure you want – ”

“It’s all right.” Lucy looks touched by his concern, that he is able to snap out of his mad blind delirium long enough to make sure she is safe. “I have it handled.”

“You. . . mmm. . . sure?” Flynn kisses her again halfway through asking. “I don’t – you might – ”

“Yes.” Lucy crawls on top of him and leans forward, bracing her elbows on either side of his shoulders, lowering herself onto him at full length. “I said I was here for you.”

Flynn wonders if that encompasses the possibility of what is apparently about to happen, then decides to hell with it. He would have stopped if she said so, no matter how much it might have literally killed him, but if she’s sure – he’s shaking, he’s not able to touch her enough, as much as he needs. They untangle long enough to shuck trousers, and then underpants. The sight of her naked body in the low light – God. For a second he swears, he absolutely swears, that the sight is as familiar to him as his own, that there is nothing strange or unusual about it. He’s noticed, even in their hungry making out, that there isn’t any of the awkwardness or fumbling or uncertainty about what to do where and how that normally attends a one-night stand with a stranger. There is something uncanny about the fact that they already know exactly how to kiss each other. Almost lends a true touch of destiny to whatever she’s saying, and yet. It will just make it easier, for now, to pretend.

They stand on their knees, as Flynn grips Lucy’s hips and pull her gently toward him. He nudges at her just a bit, just a little, as she takes hold of him and helps guide him, as he slides carefully into her soft warm wetness and almost loses his mind. He doesn’t know why she is here, why she is giving herself to him like this. In the back of his head, he wonders if this is a calculated ploy, if she is making sure that he will read the journal no matter what, take to heart whatever insane thing it says, and want to see her again. Something cynical and intentional, the old honeytrap game. She could be. He wonders if he cares.

Lucy rolls her hips, easing the fit of him inside her, uttering a small whine in the back of her throat that makes him want to roll her over and take her as deep as deep goes and fuck her flat into the bed. But he goes down on his back beneath her when she pushes lightly, straddling him and bracing herself, still breathing in quick, shallow gulps. Sweat beads on her forehead, her eyes are glazed. She seems almost as shaken by it as him.

Their hands reach out and meet, clasping hard, as Lucy pushes his arms over his head and starts to ride him, with long, possessive swoops that drag him against every single bit of her and make him see stars. But then she gives the control back to him, lets him flip her onto her back and brace his weight on his elbows, cover her with his height and bulk, and thrust into her hard enough to make her hips jerk. She draws her knees up on either side of him, wrapping her arms around his back, as he buries his face between her breasts. “Lorena,” he mutters indistinctly, cursing and gasping and praying all at once. “Lorena.”

He has just enough consciousness left to know that he is calling another woman by his dead wife’s name and he should probably try to stop doing that, but it spills out of him anyway. He gulps, he tries to apologize, but this is already enough of a mess, and Lucy seems somehow to have expected that he would. The pace of his thrusts increases, raw and reckless, rasping and rutting. He needs her, whatever – whoever – she is. The realization is coming to him in punching bursts, breathless, blinding, hot as the heat of their coupling. He can’t walk away from whatever she is offering. He has to read the damn magic diary and learn what it is. He has to follow her. He has to – somehow – trust in the utterly impossible. Nothing else makes sense. Nothing else is left.

All further thoughts, however, are driven out of Flynn’s head in the next instant, as he bucks and jerks and loses himself entirely, collapses on Lucy as if his back has been broken, and realizes belatedly that he is probably squashing her. Guilt percolates through him, slow and cold. That was probably the worst lay Lucy ever had in her life. If it was just to bind him to her, maybe she doesn’t care if it was good or not, but he feels the duty to own up to it. Slowly, badly, as if he has two broken arms and legs, he manages to disentangle his body from hers, roll off and collapse next to her. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He tastes the choking tears in his throat, struggles to spit them out. “M’ sorry. M’ sorry.”

Lucy rolls over and pulls his head down onto her chest, letting him rest there as she strokes his hair, as he grips hold of her side and presses his face into her. He jerks and shakes with sobs he won’t quite succumb to, his entire body torn between the sweet release of climax and the stabbing agony in his heart, his mind, his soul. He feels as if he must be hurting her, as if his hands are sinking into her like clay, molding her and marking her. She’s tiny, especially compared to him. It feels like far too much to ask for her to bear the weight of his pain.

And yet, Lucy doesn’t move, stays where she is, until he’s finally gone still, too exhausted and heartsick to stir at all. She rolls out from underneath him and goes to the bathroom, then pads back, pulling the covers out and crawling in. He manages to do the same, collapsing, as she slides up next to him and lets him rest his arm over her. He feels like a soldier that has been through far too many wars – which, perhaps, is exactly what he is. His chest heaves a few more times. His hand runs up and down her ribs, her hip, her slender thigh. “M’ sorry,” he mumbles again, eyes closed. “Isn’t what you deserved.”

Lucy doesn’t answer that, at least aloud, but he feels the light touch of her lips on his unshaven cheek. The backs of her fingers ghost along his jaw. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not.” He opens his eyes and stares at her. “It’s not, it’s – it’s not, it’s not.”

“It’s not,” Lucy agrees, admirably steady. He wants to cling onto her, he wants her to make it stop shaking. Perhaps it’s unfair of him to think that one small woman can make the whole world stand still, and yet, he almost thinks that if anyone, she could. “It’s not right now. But it will get better, Garcia. I promise. I promise.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask her how she can possibly know that, until he remembers, right. From the future. He’s too tired not to play along, is starving for any drop of reassurance, however childish or impossible. “What is it?” He has to know. “What am I supposed to do? With this – with time travel. Do I save them? My wife and daughter?”

Lucy hesitates for a long moment. It’s clear she’s deciding what to say, what sort of oracle it is permissible to play. At last she says, “We’ll say you do.”

“How?” He pushes himself up on his elbow. He desperately wants to believe her and he thinks, somehow, that he already does, has made the decision and felt the key turn. “How do I do that?”

“Read the journal,” Lucy repeats. “I’ve written down everything I can tell you there. It’s going to be hard, and it’s going to be difficult, and what it’s going to cost us, and you – I can’t possibly tell you that it’s going to be easy, or that it’s something I’m asking of you lightly. But if nothing else – ” she laughs, dry as dust – “it’s been like this before. I made another visit back to you, and that set things in motion once. I have to trust it will again.”

“What?” Flynn is confused. “I’ve never met you before.”

Lucy hesitates, then shifts his head down to rest more comfortably on her stomach, fingers still playing with his hair, a soft little gesture that seems almost unconscious. “No,” she says at last. “I suppose we haven’t.”

Flynn has a feeling that that is another one of the things she’s said which wouldn’t make sense even if he was sober. He’s closer to it than he was earlier in the evening, but the combination of alcohol and sex and heartbreak is never brilliant for a man’s brainpower. All his strength has run out of him, but in a different way than when it first left him, along with a sizeable proportion of his will to live, when he saw Lorena and Iris’ bloodied bodies on the floor. He has had to bear the shattered pieces of his world in absolute solitude and silence, barely any time to even grieve, when he needed to get out of Dubrovnik and avoid being framed and deal with the logistics of staying ahead of Rittenhouse and choosing a hideout and renting this flat and resisting the ever-present urge to eat the business end of his gun. He has not let it out, not once properly wept, because he is afraid there is no way to recover from it if he does. He still doesn’t know, in fact. And yet.

He cries so hard that his entire body shakes, face pressed into Lucy’s stomach, his tears glistening on her skin like sweat. He tries to bite it back, but he still makes horrible, hoarse, gulping noises like a wounded animal, one long, choked howl that comes out of him over and over. Lucy doesn’t make any attempt to shush him or tell him not to. Finally, she nudges him up so he can put his head on her shoulder instead, wrapping her arm around his back and pulling him alongside her. She waits until he’s finally fallen silent, drained and done, can’t even open his eyes or think about ever standing up again. It seems, even more than everything else he has heard tonight, utterly impossible.

They drift and doze. They’re still both naked, there is nothing between them in the dark, and for the first few hours since the murders, Flynn sleeps without any nightmares at all. When he wakes up, the light in the room is grey, he has a splitting headache, and Lucy is asleep next to him, curled up on her side with the quilts tucked under her arms. He stares down at her, not knowing what to do or think. Is she going to stay? Can she stay? Whatever faces him, it seems as if it might be easier with her help.

Lucy stirs as a touch of fragile sun peers through the blinds, rolls over, and opens her eyes, as he’s drinking the glass of water from the bedside table, grimacing and grumbling. Hangovers always suck, but for some reason, Flynn almost welcomes this one. It feels real, it feels like waking up from the haze of grief and guilt and alcohol, the wastelands he’s been wandering on. He thinks of the gun, one final temptation, and then pushes it aside. It doesn’t have the same hold on him anymore. Its curse has been broken. Now, he has other plans.

“Morning,” he says gruffly, seeing that Lucy’s awake. “About – everything. Last night. I wasn’t very – I wasn’t.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” Lucy sits up and glances at the clock, which – given where, or rather, when, she’s come from – strikes him as oddly and unbearably poignant. “I can’t stay much longer, Garcia. I was promised only twenty-four hours in which this would definitely work, and any more than that was playing with fire. And I have other places to go.”

Flynn bites back his instinctive response that she could. “Lucy – ” he starts. “Lucy, are we – we are going to see each other again?”

“We will.” Lucy swings her legs over the side of the bed, goes to peer in at his shower, and apparently thinks better of it. “It’ll be a few years, but yes.”

“And? Then what?”

“I suppose you’ll have to find out.” She looks at him gently. “We both will.”

Flynn can’t believe he’d be visited by a woman from the future who then is no help about the future at all, when all he craves is a flicker of certainty and stability in the sea of chaos, but he can already sense that it will get him nowhere to push. He watches as Lucy gets dressed, then gets up to do the same. “Can I walk you to your – car?”

Lucy grins wryly. “All right,” she says. “I suppose you can see it work. You might as well have your proof that it’s real.”

Flynn suddenly wonders if he’s prepared for this or not, but doesn’t demur. He pulls on his shoes and jacket, and they step out into the cool, misty morning – São Paulo is once more living up to its unofficial nickname of Terra da Garoa, Land of Drizzle. It’s early enough that the streets are as quiet as they ever really are. A few fruit sellers on bicycles speed past, cardboard crates strapped precariously over their back wheels, and Flynn and Lucy walk awkwardly side by side, not quite looking at each other, hands in their jacket pockets. It’s about twenty minutes to a certain back alley, where Lucy strides up to a shrouded object at the end, pulls the lashed-down tarp off, and reveals a large grey metal eyeball. As time machines go, it looks like the junior varsity squad, and Flynn eyes it skeptically. “You came here in that thing? You’re braver than I thought.”

Lucy laughs. “Like the Millennium Falcon, yes, I did. It’s called the Lifeboat. You’ll probably want to stand back. But, well. This is goodbye for now. Good luck.”

Flynn doesn’t want to ask why she sounds as if she thinks he’ll really need it. He isn’t ready to let her go. “Lucy – ”

“One other thing.” Lucy tilts her head back to look at him. “My younger self meeting you is going to be… well, it’ll be an experience for both of us, let’s put it that way. She will ask you eventually how you got the journal. Don’t tell her about this – this night, all right? It’s going to be – well, I don’t want her to know that way. Just tell her that I gave it to you at the bar that night, and leave out the rest.”

Flynn has to run over that sentence in his head a few times to be sure he’s understood it correctly. He coughs, then nods, and holds out his hand. “Well then… goodbye?”

Lucy looks at him, then nods in return, takes it, and shakes it. Then she lets go, hits a lever, and opens the Lifeboat door, crawling in with what seems less than total grace. Flynn is almost tempted to offer her a hand up, but doesn’t. As ordered, he stands back.

The door shuts, and the bands on the outside of the machine start to whirl, building up momentum. The whine of the engine grows, and then, with a sharp backwash that rattles the windows in the nearby tenement, it vanishes into thin air. There one moment, gone the next. Jesus fucking Christ. It’s actually real. Time travel. What the hell.

Flynn shakes his head, resists the urge to rub his eyes, and stands there another few moments, as if to be sure that Lucy didn’t forget her purse and might have to come back. But the morning is still again, and there’s a faint brightness on the underside of the mist. The sun will probably come out later, and burn it all away.

After a final minute, Flynn turns his back and starts to walk. Slowly at first, and then faster, weaving through the streets of São Paulo as they’re starting to come to life, and the commuter traffic is soon to be in full and crushing throng. For the first time, he knows for a fact that he’s going to make it to the end of the day today, and then to the end of the next one. He is possessed, consumed, afire with curiosity, brain spinning fast as the Lifeboat’s gyro, as the world does not seem – not better, not exactly. It will not be better, nothing will be resolved, nothing will be stopped or surrendered, until Lorena and Iris somehow take another breath, and that night never happened, and the broken world is set to rightness. But it’s something. It’s more than that. It’s hope.

Flynn reaches his apartment, and heads up the steps. He has a feeling he won’t be staying in Brazil much longer, will be going somewhere else, and he needs to find out where that will be, needs to find out everything he can. He steps inside, shuts and deadbolts the door, and goes to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. Black and rich; Brazil is one place you will never go without good coffee. He opens the blinds and cracks the window. Can smell diesel exhaust and the salty wind from the Atlantic Ocean and the whiff of roasting meat from sidewalk carts, gulps it all down. He’s ready now. Life can have him back. His head hurts with an almost crystalline clarity.

When the coffee is ready, Flynn pours it into a mug. He goes to his jacket, takes the journal out of the pocket, and carries it over to the table. Sets it down, runs his fingers over the embossed LP on the cover, and stares at it for a very long moment. Then he takes a deep breath, opens to page one, and begins to read.

#lucy x flynn #garcy #garcy ff #timeless ff #the tangled web of fate we weave

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quillovesdbz · 6 years

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Week 2 submission for @tpthvegebulmayhem

Clandestine Downfall

Chapters: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7

Chapter 2: A Shark Among Koi

Summary: Bulma admires her family, and reflects on the danger she causes Yamcha. The Regent devises a plan to assassinate a King Vegeta loyalist who may spread propaganda to the influenceable prince.

Rating: T

Genre: Cloak and Dagger, Fantasy, Fairytale AU, Horror, Dark Fiction

TW: Violence, conspiracy for murder, assassination, injury description, poisoning, vomiting

Prompts: Trail of Breadcrumbs, Blood of an Englishman, The boy who lied

The attack was over in seconds. The great general had won the war with a simple stab in the back. There was no need for a bloody battle when King Vegeta had double agents on the inside. Nappa cradled the dying duke of Sadala in his arms.

“Forgive me,” he whispered lightly. The duke scratched at his throat, fighting for breath. But Nappa’s tiny dagger had been coated in a lethal poison. It was over in seconds for the duke. Sadala belonged to King Vegeta now. All its inhabitants would become slaves, or rebel and die. It was horrible business, but business nonetheless. The King's wife was with child for the second time, and nothing mattered more to him than providing for his people and securing a prosperous kingdom for his son to one day rule.

Nappa had spent most of his life loyal to the Duke of Sadala. But the king promised prosperity, wealth, and above all life. Yes, for the atrocious betrayal, the king promised not to kill General Nappa. The giant found himself unable to refuse when the price was his life. Coward. So he turned on his own friend, who had trusted him. His stomach felt heavy, his throat dry. He relaxed his hold on the duke, who rolled from Nappa’s lap and onto the cold stone floor. Nappa turned his head and clutched his stomach as he heaved. The bile seemed an endless stream, nearly suffocating the general. The taste was putrid and sour, the smell much worse. This is only the beginning of my punishment. Nappa lamented to himself. The hot sting of regret swept over him like waves of lava. His eyes could not contain the tears they fought to hold back. He let out an anguished scream, chilling and seemingly endless.

Then he awoke from the nightmare. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. He felt drips of perspiration down his back and neck. His sheets were wet throughout. His heart pounded incessantly, filling his ears with a rhythmic beat. He could hardly hear himself think. “Guh…” he vocalized as he tried to catch his breath. He hadn't had a nightmare quite so realistic in a long time, in fact years.

This is my ongoing punishment. Nappa lamented to himself.

…

It had been years since Vegeta had heard Nappa’s blood curdling screams in the middle of the night. It jolted him awake nonetheless. They didn't last long, the general woke himself up quite quickly. But... the prince couldn't help but wonder what trauma this man had endured to trigger such violently horrific dreams. He knew that before his father's death, there were many a bloody battle, led by the great general. But these screams weren't battle cries, nor were they cries of pain or injury. These nighttime howls were deep suffering cries. Cries of acts unable to be undone. True and raw regret, sorrow and heartache. And they chilled the prince to the bone. Though, he dared not ask of them.

The prince had always known Nappa. For as far as he could remember, the lumbering, bald man had always been there.

Vegeta sat up in his bed, squinting at the bronze rays of sunlight dancing through the drapes. His stomach bayed angrily, a call that the prince did not normally refuse. But today he wanted to avoid people. Especially Nappa. So he sighed and fell heavily into the oversized wine colored pillows.

Nappa…

Lately the general had been sick. He was hacking and coughing all day, in every wing of the castle. Someone get that man a hobby. There had been a long peace. The war the king started ended shortly after his death, and the general had been on babysitting duty ever since. When Prince Tarble and the Queen had passed, the king became ferociously protective of his first born. The first order of business was appointing a personal bodyguard to the prince, which became General Nappa. In times of peace the general would protect and train the young prince. In times of war others would be tasked with the job while Nappa led the armies in battle. The most recent political turmoil was due to the emperor of France. A sniveling lizard of a man, with a fearsome army. Emperor Frieza had tried to take over the kingdom of Vegeta in an attempt to gain more territory for France. The armies clashed in many great battles but it was ultimately a stalemate. The Regent and reluctant General Nappa called an armistice for the time being, but the emperor was not one to be trusted. And thus the mandatory enlistment was enforced.

So in this long peace, the prince and the general had become close. Though neither would ever express that sentiment.

But together they created many fond memories. In a strange way, this enemy turned double agent became a sort of father figure to the lost and lonely boy. He was the solid ground for which the prince could stand. A ribbon to hold the strands of yarn that were the prince's insecurities together. And for Nappa the prince was redemption. A cloth to wash the sins of his past away, a chance at atonement. They needed each other, these funny two, as physically contrasted as they may be.

…

“So it will be by poison?” the assassin inquired.

“Arsenic,” the Regent replied, slyly.

The assassin held the bottle to the dim candle light and examined the fine gray powder.

“This isn't the way I normally do things. I would much prefer slicing a throat or a dagger in the back. This feels…”

“Dishonorable? Any kind of killing is dishonorable, Hit. This is just a more discreet way.”

The assassin, Hit, shifted in his boots. He wasn't uncomfortable with the request, but he felt safer doing what he knew best, and he didn't know poisons.

Hit was an outsider, an englishman. The Regent selected him for his renown, there wasn’t anywhere on earth you could go without word of his work. He was taller than expected, bald and dignified. He wore a long violet cloak that held his form tightly to the waist, and loosely in the skirt. His skin was pale, almost lavender in shade, and his eyes were a blood red.

The regent sensed the unease from the killer he hired.

“It can't be helped…” The Regent began. “One trail of breadcrumbs will lead to another, and we can't risk being found out. You will not spill the blood of this, or any other man. Arsenic is the most clandestine method, and which I command you to use.”

Without argument, Hit bowed to the black clad Regent, and took his leave.

It is done. The Regent sighed internally, gliding elegantly to the crimson covered mirror.

“Mirror, mirror,” the Regent chanted, lifting the veil of drapery from the golden mirror.

“M'lord?” it answered, with the accent of a regal gentlemen.

“Will this be enough to control the prince? I will have eliminated all of the old king’s allies with the pending murder of General Nappa. There should be no supporters of his left to fill the young boy with his false propaganda.” There was a sadness in his tone, and as his words came out they fell like heavy bricks.

The mirror was silent as it felt around the otherworld for the most likely outcome.

“This plan will work under one condition. The prince will meet a blue haired girl, and fall in love. He will trust her word over yours, ultimately ending in your death. You must make sure they never meet, or kill her as well.”

The Regent pressed his fingertips on his cheek, the cup of his hand covering his mouth. His hand reeked of garlic, a side effect of coming in contact with the arsenic.

The mirror flashed a vivid image of the blue haired girl. She was pale with pink lips and a slender nose. She had a small frame, but she was taller than most girls. She looked to be about 17, the same age as the prince. She was dressed in peasant garb, no doubt a lowly commoner. She's just a girl. A peasant. How much could she mean to anybody? It would be a great hassle to hide the prince away, securing a future where he never meets her. She too must die.

…

Bulma had a horrific experience on her trek home. The forest was pitch black and foreboding. The rain beat down on the earth, the trees and the girl. Traumatized from her recent encounter with the prince, her mind was racing.

What a horrible man! She recalled. I am so lucky I am not found out, an evil person such as he would have killed me on the spot.

With each step she quickened her pace to get home as soon as possible. With each step her heartbeat also quickened. She had the most exasperating feeling that she was being watched, but she knew it was just her anxiety, heightened by the encounter.

The once full moon was completely encased by the dense tree tops. The animals rustled in the distance more so than usual, likely due to the storm. Damn animals, she reassured herself. When she knew she was close to home she untied her navy ribbon to let down her hair. It was drenched, and fell heavily to her shoulder blades. Her lie was undone, and finally she made it home.

...

Yamcha rose from bed early. He stretched his arms out and let out a long windy yawn. It was a gorgeous morning, having just rained the night before, the sun was out and dusting it's glittery dew on every leaf and blade of grass. He looked at the bed space behind him and noted its distinct emptiness. She sure was mad at me. He concluded. But just then he heard a splash coming from the washroom.

...

Bulma had stayed awake all night, frightened of the consequences she might have to face at the stables. And the trauma from the kick in her side was too painful to let her sleep. She instead watched her siblings sleep. Each one rested in their own unique way. Goku, a raven, wild haired boy, was sprawled out with a foot in Oolong’s rotund face. Oolong, a fat pink boy with short light red hair, had a hold of Goku’s entire left leg, as if it were a delicious turkey leg waiting to be eaten. Launch, a blonde petite girl, curled into Tien’s arms, one half of her body tightly to his, the other half outstretched like Goku. Tien, who was the second oldest at 9 years, had always slept far from the others in his own private corner. That is until Launch came along and she appointed the light blond boy her personal stuffed animal. He didn't mind. Chichi and Krillin were 8 year old twins who couldn't be more different. Chichi slept on her belly, legs and arms tucked in and rear in the air. Her dark hair was nearly as long as she was tall. To avoid entangling the other children she kept it braided tightly during the night. On the other side of the room, as far from his sister as possible, Krillin was on his back, arms behind his head and legs outstretched, hanging of the bed. He kept his head shaven, as he aspired to be a monk for the monastery one day. And little Lazuli, the 6 year old mute blonde girl, slept as straight as a board, hands to her side and heels at attention. It was funny how she looked just like a tiny soldier, disciplined and fearless.

After hours of listening to their small snores, Bulma picked herself up and decided to bathe before they awoke.

The scar faced delinquent stood from the bed. While hesitant at first, he decided to join Bulma in the bathroom. She was never mad at him for too long. He tiptoed so as to surprise her. He pressed his dark skinned hand to the curtain that separated their chambers and their washtub. For a split second he listened, enjoying the subtle sound of a beautiful woman washing herself gently. I’m sorry Bulma, he prepared. He never was good at talking to girls, so he went over conversations in his head quite often. I’ll make it up to you. How’s breakfast? Yeah, I’ll make breakfast. Decided on an apology, he grasped the curtain and pulled it open.

Startled, Bulma looked up from the washtub, to see the boyish face she was so frustrated with the night before. Quickly, she grabbed her side so that Yamcha didn’t see the large still-forming bruise. Unfortunately she hadn’t seen the one on her cheek from being pressed into the ground under the boot of the monarch. “Yamcha,” she said with a sincere smile.

He blushed at her nakedness and her smile, but he couldn’t help but notice the wound on her cheek. Not only was it blue from bruising, it also had quite a lot of brown dirt surrounding it. And boy, did she reek or manure.

“Gee Bulma, you stink,” he said with a hearty laugh. He bent down to her level and prepared to ask about her bruise.

“Well!” She yelled, flustered and angry that he would point out her smell.

“What happened to your face, it's all dirty and bruised. Did you fall last night? I know it rained it must have been slippery and dark on the way home.”

“That’s exactly what happened,” she lied.

He knew her too well to believe her lie. But he also knew that she didn’t like to be prodded and decided to let it go. Whatever happened was in the past, and she clearly didn’t want to talk about it.

Bulma lifted her hands from her side, confident that Yamcha wouldn't prod her any further. She looked at her once feminine hands, and noted how worn they’d become. Over the last two years, working in the stables had barely fed her siblings, but had an immense effect on her youthfulness and beauty. Is this worth it? She thought as she looked spitefully at her calloused and short-nailed hands. No man will favor me when I am ready for a husband, she bemoaned.

Yamcha was bewildered by the apparent beating Bulma had taken. Yamcha began to feel the rage well up inside of him.

“Who did this to you?” he demanded at her.

She was silent and gave him a begging look, asking him to drop the subject.

“No! This is unacceptable!” he barked, some frustration leaking into the words he said to her.

“The quartermaster,” she lied, believably. If she had told him it was the prince, he’d surely get himself killed for her sake.

“I’ll kill him!”

“NO!” Bulma yelled as Yamcha stood from the tubside.

She quickly decided on the truth, because she believed Yamcha wouldn’t go after the prince, surely.

“It was the prince! I didn’t want to expose myself so I took his beating!” she pleaded.

Yamcha froze as he felt a fear make its way down his spine. All his worry and anxiety of being found out came to the surface.

When he first met Bulma, her first day working in the stables, he knew her secret. The only person she hadn’t been able to fool was Yamcha. He played it cool for a while but something drove him to confront her. When all the other stable hands had left for the day, he pinned her, like the smooth delinquent he was, and asked her why she did it.

“Why do you cross dress, Bull?”

He remembered how red and confused she became at the question. She couldn’t answer it. Her river colored eyes begged him to keep quiet. He reassured her he wouldn’t tell, so long as she promised to tell him why. So she took him home with her where he met all 7 reasons why.

Since then, their relationship was complicated at best. It was an on and off romance, but neither of them could commit. Bulma ended up relying on Yamcha for help entirely too much, a thought which now suffocated him. But she helped him too. She was the reason he stopped thieving in the night, a habit formed in his early years of being an orphan. She harbored him when he dodged the mandatory enlistment. She, and the children, became something he cared about other than himself. But they weren’t good for each other. He had a wandering eye, and he knew he couldn’t make Bulma happy. He surely couldn’t make enough money on his own to take care of all of them. She had to continue the lie, for her family, and he was the boy who lied for her.

And suddenly, it was becoming too much.

Bulma’s eyes followed the motionless boy. She wondered what went on inside that messy-haired head of his in this confusing conflict.

“I release you,” Bulma breathed. “you don’t have to keep my secret any longer. This isn’t your burden to bear, and I don’t dare to think what might happen to you if I was found out and you were charged as my accomplice.”

Her words relieved his stress slightly. He had to let go of this wild blue haired woman, that he knew. It would hurt, but there were many fish in the sea. She was releasing him, the koi fish, vibrant orange and black, into the sea. He could feel the waves of relief rush over him.

He smiled his crooked, bandit’s smile. “Thank you, Bulma. You be safe. Take care of those kids. One day, I’ll have many riches and I’ll return to you and you won’t need to dress up anymore.” He meant it.

Bulma smiled back, softly. She didn’t want him to leave her. He was safety embodied. And she was chaos and danger.

A shark among the koi.

…

His muddy boots were kicked in the corner of the room, a product of the night’s storm. The Prince had been curious of the stable boy, and thought he might be a thief. Afterall, it was exceptionally odd that a servant would still be tending the horses after dusk…

He followed the boy through a beaten but not overly so path. He stayed as far behind as he could manage, as the forest was nearly jet black. The sound of the heavy rain helped to cover the noise he created in his pursuit. What intrigued Vegeta most was that the boy lived so far from the castle. He wondered why the boy even made the commute. It wasn’t until the cottage was in view that he realized where they were. It was the old hospital. Yes, the one the insane old doctor used to run before he lost it and started kidnapping slaves. Did the doctor have a son? Vegeta pondered. Come to think of it, he looked just like the old kook, a spitting image with blue hair and eyes. Vegeta surely would have known, for it was mandatory for boys to enlist in the military for two years, just after their 15th birthday. He must be evading the enlistment. Then something unforeseen happened. She let down her hair.

Vegeta thumbed through the memory like a book. The reveal was so astonishing that the Prince almost fell over. He left promptly with the secret, vowing to return the following day with punishment. The crime of impersonating a man was one thing. But to appear in the prince’s presence and lie was another thing entirely. But he was intrigued. Before enforcing his punishment upon her and the senile doctor, he would find out why.

The prince felt a small pang of guilt when he remembered the beating he'd given the girl. He pondered about the double standard. I would've done it again regardless of gender. In fact, he began to imagine just what sort of punishment he would give her for her crimes. The old doctor may just receive a slap to the wrist. After all he was old and senile. But the girl knew what she was doing, and she did it deliberately. She would need to be jailed, and made an example of. A king can't have his subjects parading around as people they are not. Ridiculing her in the streets before her sentence would do the job. Then she could rot in a cell for all he cared.

Once he kicked off most of the crusted mud, he left his chambers in search of Nappa.

…

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ophionrp-blog · 7 years

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A S R A, DAUGHTER OF PERSEPHONE, IS A FIRST GENERATION SOLDIER // she is twenty-four & a nurse at arcadia. she resides in room 200, ithaca.

AGE YOUR MUSE JOINED MOIRAE

asra was around nine when she joined moirae. she followed all the classes and became one of the best students at the institute, learning everything about her true nature, the history of moirae but also how to defend herself as a demigod should. at 16, she graduated along with the rest of the students at that time.

ABILITY

shadow manipulation: she can create, shape and manipulate shadows. her power allows her to fight day and night as long as there is some light. she can generate shadows from darkness but can also manipulate people’s shadows as much as her own by accessing a dimension of dark energy. it can be channeled to a variety of effects, her power requests a lot of concentration and efforts. daily, asra tries to extend her power to control it and develop it until it knows no fail. for now, she uses shadows in three different ways:

shadow mutilation: can inflict damage to the opponent through their shadow, which may kill human targets and potentially destroy the body in the process. she uses her shadows to injure the other. this power can’t be used against other demigods.

shadow marionette: can manipulate her shadow or the target’s shadow to torture her fully conscious enemy, the target becomes her puppet and only respond to her. through that power, she can only inflict pain and is unable to take control over her enemy.

shadow camouflage: inside a shadow or in complete darkness, she becomes invisible in the eyes of everyone but the fates and hades. in the daylight, she can turn her body into a shadow allowing her to move faster.

STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES OF THEIR ABILITIES

strengths

endurance: she turns herself into a shadow to extend her rapidity and move swiftly. that way, people can’t catch her as her body is too light to be considered as solid.

concentration: to manipulate shadows, her entire mind has to be focused and form a detailed image for the shadow to respond to her orders.

pain tolerance: as a shadow, asra is unable to feel pain at all. her body doesn’t exist anymore as it is formed with nothing but her own energy. severe injuries can slightly weaken her but not enough for her to feel it.

weaknesses:

hand-to-hand: to be able to use shadows, she has to remain thin. unable to develop her muscles, asra cannot fight as her body is too light to cause an injury.

absorption: if she remains for too long in darkness or shadows, she will herself turn into a shade permanently. her power, generated by darkness, swallows her soul and body.

absence of light/complete darkness: she is unable to create marionettes without a minimum of light as shadows have to be attached to a body for her to bring them to life. in complete darkness, she can only become invisible, she is unable to fight or control/create a shadow.

PERSONALITY

asra is a relatively silent person, she never lets her anger take control, she never shows she is angry. most people wouldn’t be able to describe her personality as they don’t know what truly lies in her mind. no one knows if it’s due to her ability, but she is similar to a shadow, she barely speaks and interacts if it’s not mandatory.

the way she acts in a crowd contrasts with her personality on a battlefield where she can be described as fierce and destructive. nothing ever shows on her face so it is hard to know how she feels or what she thinks about. in a few words, asra is distrusting, she relies on no one but herself.

everything she does is calculated and planned, spontaneity doesn’t have a place in her life. a soundless machine without a heart, sympathy and mercy can wait.

positive: intuitive, brave, calm, wise, focused, ambitious. negative: secretive, lack of empathy, quiet, selfish, uncaring, solitary.

BACKGROUND

I’ll seek you out.

When he holds her in his arms, there is no love in his heart, no compassion. Under his roof, she brings nothing but sadness. She turns his existence into an endless winter as if the sun will never rise again, the little girl crying because of a nightmare is nothing but a heavy weight on his shoulders. Sometimes, he thinks about choking her but the minute his large hand is around her throat, he finds himself unable to finish her. Tired eyes lands on her frail body, they are alone in this world. He has nothing, no one but her. There is another child, he knows, but that one has another fate. Oh, Asra, forgive this foolish father.

Her words are as poisonous as her cries once were. He feels nothing when he looks at her, her wide eyes are empty the same way his heart is. Children are supposed to be happy, curious and adventurous but Asra isn’t like this. She is silent, patient and detached from this world yet, flowers make her smile, a smile so bright it would put the moon to shame. The other child looks at her often, she knows it. She has no one but him. A gloomy grace emanates from her, the same mysterious charm that belonged to her. How could he live in peace if she is nothing but a memory to him? The boy, too, looks like their mother, but the bruises on his face make him look closer to death. Their father sees her in the children she gave him, he’s cursed.

A new woman tries to knock some sense into his life but he knows it’s useless, the child lives to ruin him. No one can free him from his nightmare. Asra calls him father even when he tells her she isn’t human. His words are harsh, it hurts her. She seeks out his love but in his house, all she meets is torment. She can’t rely on the boy, if she speaks, he gets hit. Her face doesn’t break anymore, her eyes aren’t wet anymore. He raised a little girl and, now, she has to grow up.

Our youth is running out.

Another scream can be heard from the house, it’s burning down, turning into ashes. Asra is lost, the show in front of her eyes happened so quickly, she is unable to remember how it all started. He hides behind a tree, he knows she did it, she is like her. Unable to dissociate the livings from the deads. His lover is dancing with flames and his child did it. Where is the other one? She is the one who called someone to do it. A dark, silhouette he couldn’t describe. A body made of nothing but darkness, a shadow. Was it hers? He doesn’t know.

Nobody believes him, the crime is nothing but an accident in the eyes of his neighbors. At night, he hears her, talking to her special friends, he knows his curse became stronger with time. An abomination, a monster. He reminds her something in her mind seems dysfunctional every day, he persists and tells her people like her will never be able to live a normal life. Not in time of wars.

They come to him, promising him they will finally release him from his living nightmare. The other one is too young, he seems “normal”. Her father learns about the institute, he asks them to fix her as if it were possible. The shadows she talks to are not hallucinations anymore, they understand what he says and agreed with everything he requests. Keep Asra away from him the same way her soul is away from herself. At her age, she should be worried about making friends, she should ask for sweets. Instead, the little girl keeps her distance. She acts like humans owe her their lives and, he is scared it’s true.

Changing lanes.

Persephone. She learns her name, writes it every time a pen is in her hand. Books too heavy for her tell her more about her mother, the one who ruled over two kingdoms. The livings cherished her while the deads begged for mercy. She admires her, loves her. Oh, Asra wants to be like her mother for she is so full of love yet she so full of terror. A goddess who should be feared even in a world where gods no longer mattered. They promise her they will make her like her mother and she believes them. The little girl will bring death to this life, she will turn white petals into red ones, painting them with the blood of her enemies. It’s her destiny, they tell her and she agrees. Her mother was full of love but there isn’t time for love when war crushes your dreams and hopes. Alive or dead, there is no limit between their world and the underworld.

The bright smile she once had disappears as her expression becomes uninterested. Nobody is allowed to waste her time, her shadow ready to scared them until their hearts give up. Years pass and Asra becomes merciless, selfish. The lost girl transforms into a soldier, her lack of emotions makes her stronger. Once there was a time she would beg for her father to love her, now, she laughs when they talk about love. A weakness. Her interest lies on a new gadget, they call it masks, some sort of help for them to become stronger, a useful weapon on the battlefield. They don’t need love, they need strength. Asra will be invincible, she will live to remind her dear father her existence matters. They will bow to her, imploring her to let them live.

Lost frequencies.

At first, it was curiosity that tickled her, made her wonder who was that girl. An uncommon hair color, hazel eyes and red lips. She blamed loneliness, too. The young woman was, unlike her, full of life and joy despite the place they were living in. Maybe it was because she joined late, maybe Asra saw too many of her boring roommates die. She didn’t know. At sixteen, you don’t really care about the what ifs. Oh no, she cared about the sweet words the other whispered to her, her soft eyes looking at her, only her. Death’s daughter never met someone like her.

It is all in the past now, her body rests silently in Asra’s arms, blood slowly falling from the wound she created. They failed her, the mask fooled her. For a second, her lover was the enemy and, for a skilled soldier, a second was more than enough. In her ears, she can still hear her voice, begging her not to shoot, screaming her name to bring her back to reality. Too late.

Water rinses off the red stains on her clothes and her skin, hiding the tears she kept for too long. Her mother never made a mistake like this, she repeats to herself. But Asra knows she isn’t like her mother, she doesn’t know love. A soldier needs a heart of steel to stay alive. She makes her choice, her loyalty belongs to herself and no one else. “It was a mistake a little girl made but, oh mother, look at me, I am no longer a child. It’s time I become the queen.”

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