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bitchfitch · 10 months

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Tbh since i did that b/w comic it's making me think of the other b/w comic I've done and That's making me think of chase and the fact i Flubbed his lines in it. bc like. rn chase is British. man's from London. but left around the time he was in his mid 20s and has been dicking around in fantasy New York ever sense. so like for the last 160ish years because he's trying to avoid his shitty ex. He doesn't talk like someone from the 1800s so i can't just, pretend being that far away and that cut off from his home wouldn't like, effect him and his speach patterns and like. his sense of belonging with his own nation. Chase hasn't been back to England since he left, the Internet is still really new in the context of his life span and his access to overseas media would have been kinda limited until he got a smart phone less than a decade ago at the time of his story.

and like. i started this post considering changing things around and making him one of those state side kids who goes over to the UK for 1 semester of college and comes back acting like a really cringey person's idea of a Brit. because 'pretending to be British for clout' is absolutely in character for him, and an Extremely funny thing for him to be doing.

but now I'm kinda thinking it would be better to just go in in this all the way. Chase is British and his home is still there. like, the physical building he grew up in has survived to the modern day. his city is still kicking, the college he was supposed to go to, the theater he dreamed of performing in when he was little, it's all still there. but none of it is the same. The people don't talk the same, the culture isn't the same, the only people he knew that are still kicking are the sorts he never wants to see again. The skeleton of home is still there but none of what made it Home is.

Time moved on. He's just as much an outsider to this place as if he was foreign born. And that makes him overcorrect in a desperate attempt to feel like he has a homeland, a desperate clinging to elements of a culture that aren't really his and that he doesn't really fully understand but which are all he has because this new place on the other side of the ocean isn't home either.

#idk i know making vampires sympathetic hasnt been vogue since twilight made it cringe #but idk i dont think enough thought is given to this specific sort of tragedy.#Like. Hes one of the lucky ones. that city survived 2 world wars and countless other tragedies in the time hes been gone #the fact theres Anything left to remind him of home is a miracle most of his sort arnt lucky enough to know.#But maybe hed be happier if it had all gone.#A ship loves its anchor right up until its stuck and threatening to keep it pinned there forever.

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nycorix · 11 months

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Consequences [9/11]

[fic post]

HI NKSVERSE FANDOM HOW ARE WE FEELING !! LMAO I was diligently editing this project regularly and then Real Life happened and now it's been a whole year whoops

Anyways!! In honor of the Flight & Anchor release next month, I'm finally resurrecting this! For any of y'all still reading/interested in this fic, thank you I love you <333 (also: everyone go preorder the novella it's my personal enduring favorite of Nicole's work bc it got me fully hyperfixated on the 'verse etc. etc.) For any newcomers, this particular project of mine is a love letter to this novella specifically, a sort of mirror fic that pays homage to that event in their lives (and to Them generally. It's been over two years and I still adore them so much omg they're probably my favorite Bestie Duo I've ever encountered).

This part is another one of my favorites ngl. It is the one in which 22 is so feverish and overstimulated he picks a fight with 06 because he doesn't know how else to process emotion for absolutely no reason. (I wanna know what if any resources were devoted to these kids' mental health. Diana Reyes I just wanna talk-)

TW: the operatives' toxic trait of not being careful with their bodies

Enjoy!!(?)

_______

His fingers are numb beneath the smart fabric of his gloves. His toes, ears, his whole face is numb, but his eyes and nose sting like hell, his throat burning all the way down to his lungs and he is tired. So, so tired—a level of exhaustion he’s unfamiliar with, that aches all the way to his bones. His muscles are on fire, his lungs keep spasming, and his head is throbbing violently enough that his vision blackens at the edges.

Yet only two words loop on repeat in his muddled brain, hammering down with every lurching beat of his heart.

Worth it.

As he flings the hundredth scrap of twisted metal into a pile the size of a small house, ready for the incinerator cart.

Worth it.

As he heaves a broken slab of concrete up off a mangled car, then tosses the car and the slab into the pile.

Worth it.

When he pauses to cough, fighting desperately to control his breathing before he damages any internal organs, biting down hard on his tongue to quell the paroxysms, spitting the blood he draws onto the crumbled pavement at his feet.

Worth—

“Hey, dumbass!”

He barely hears her over the ringing in his ears, but she’s upon him in seconds anyway, hand clamped to his shoulder. He tries to say something—fuck off, probably, or what are you doing here or go back to HQ you idiot but all that comes out is a strained sound that may or may not be “Kit—”.

She ignores it, gripping his shoulder bracingly with one hand while she claps the other to his forehead.

“She sent you out with this fever?” she says, voice low, careful.

His silence is all the answer she needs.

“I’ll fucking kill her.” Her voice is the calm before a storm neither of them can afford, not now, not this time, not anymore.

“Leave me alone,” he rasps, wincing at the nothing state of his voice. Pushes her, harder than he means to. She stumbles back several yards, arms flailing for balance, too stunned to reply for a moment before the anger comes.

“Like hell I will.” She plants herself solidly between him and the rubble pile, eyes squinted against the wind that lashes around the corners of the buildings to buffet against them. “What the fuck do you think this is, some misguided half-assed attempt at—”

“This is.” he interrupts, hooking his shoulder into hers and tilting forward, “Me covering.” he pushes, just the barest fraction of his strength, and she staggers, nearly tripping over her feet, “For you.” He bends down, picks up a four-foot chunk of broken concrete, hoists it on his shoulder as he locks eyes with her. “Yesterday was a mistake. I told you she’d know. And she always needs a scapegoat.” He pitches the debris over his shoulder, an involuntary shudder passing through him at the way the clatter grates against his oversensitive ears. “I was the one available. Better to lose one than risk two.” His voice cracks at the end, whittled to nothing by the virus waging war in his throat, but the jab hits home.

“That's bullshit and you know it,” she mutters, kicking a meter-length of metal pipe toward the pile, but he doesn’t miss the flash of hurt in her eyes before she drops them.

“Is it.” He scans the ground, frowns as it blurs before his eyes. He stoops, picks up a dormant resonance grenade—gingerly, thumb and forefinger—crushes it down to a marble-sized lump of inert junk metal, winds up, and sends it flying straight through the chassis of a Greenleaf surveillance drone several hundred feet above their heads.

“Whoa, watch it!” 06 yelps, peering up into the clouds with a hand shading her eyes. She tilts her head, tracking the trajectory of the falling drone by the sound, then springs into motion. In just seconds, she sprints across the street and leaps into the air, snatching the smoking hulk of machinery before it can slam sideways into a Stellaxis info board. She folds it in half, then half again, chucking it onto the rubble pile and dusting her hands off with a bemused twist of her lips. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Move.” He brushes past her hard enough for her to grunt in pain, stalks up the side of the pile, and shoves his hand through the crumpled layers of metal into the drone’s transmitter module, extracting a small plastic chip and crushing it into powder. “Don’t be sloppy.”

“Come back with me, idiot.”

“I have one more street to go.” A wave of dizziness washes over him as he starts to descend the pile, and he pauses, half-closing his eyes. “My orders are to do this alone, you shouldn’t be here. Go back.”

“I won’t.”

Frustration bubbles up despite his every effort to keep it down, and he’s beside her in a single roughly calculated leap. “06,” he starts warningly, but she only rolls her eyes.

“‘22’.” Light, mocking. Then, after a breath, his name. No trace of the kickback in her eyes. “You’re being a stubborn ass and you know it.”

This doesn’t dignify a response. They stare at each other, at a standoff.

She looks like she’s cooking up some juicier insult, or worse, maybe something compassionate.

“Hey—”

Before she can get any actual words out, he sneezes, which feels approximately like getting all of his ribs kicked in at once (a sensation with which he is, in fact, intimately familiar). His expression after must be a sight, because when he looks up she is staring harder, that deep furrow creasing her brow that he hates.

“What,” he tries to say, but he sneezes again—this time bottling it up with every last inch of his willpower, ignoring the detonation of pain behind his eyes—and this expression must be even worse, because now she is glaring at him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” she says, face undergoing a series of contortions—concerned to alarmed to sympathetic to incredulous—that would have been funny if he wasn’t so strung-out-pissed.

“Shut up,” he grinds out, meant as a snap but lacking about eighty percent of the energy required for that.

She sighs, raking both hands up through her cropped hair. “Fine,” she mutters. “At least let me help you.” She picks up a piece of metal, which he snatches out of her hands faster than she can gear up to toss it.

“No.” He’s tired—so fucking tired—and he’s not sure if he’s angry at her or just himself.

He chucks the piece of metal toward the pile, skews wide by several feet, and watches it careen off course and smash through a third story window, greeted by a smattering of screams. Every molecule of him cringes away from the thought of the message the Director will absolutely be sending him about this, fear and subsequent fury at the fear pooling like poison in his stomach.

He fists his hands so tightly, a bone in his left index finger snaps.

06 flinches, shooting him a look that he steadily ignores. When the moment wears thin, silence stretching taut between them, 06 tsks, catching up his wrist with a rough little tug.

“Idiot,” she says softly, digging in a pocket. “Don’t just leave it like that.”

Her warm fingers brush against his frigid skin through the barest gap between glove and sleeve, featherlight, and it is too much.

His sword is out before his thoughts catch up with his absolutely misdirected blind rage, the point grazing her throat. A glance down reveals hers at his heart, a hairline tear in the fabric of his jacket as she leans casually into the onehanded counterstrike. Her stance is open, healing device tucked behind the thumb on her free hand where he can see it. Her face is a question, a new glimmer of hurt kept guarded just beneath the surface.

“Touch me again,” he breathes, drawing a tiny bead of blood from her skin, "and I will kill you."

Incredulity and amusement tick her eyebrows up, but her eyes themselves are very, very serious. “I’d like to see you try.”

Six minutes later, he’s still not sure why they’re fighting but he is sure that he has to keep moving, has to keep striking, has to keep control at all costs. 06 is going easy on him, he knows that she is, yet somehow this has no power to dissuade him from the nonsensical match he’s thrown himself into. They’re a tangle of swords and limbs, boots and fists, and it’s both so much better and so very much worse than his previous ill-fated match with 08.

Sparring with 06 is like fighting an extension of himself. They are a single fluidity, a collective force, two jagged halves of a whole. Their pivots and lunges, strikes and blocks weave together in a seamless flow, easy as breathing, every potential move the other could make etched irrevocably into the folds of their brains. He could do this in his sleep.

Several more minutes pass, indeterminate. The incandescent edges of his anger abruptly cool, releasing his mind and dropping him unceremoniously back into his body just in time for him to realize that he is fading. Rapidly. With 08, he’d still had the greater part of his faculties; now, he’s running on autopilot, the fever like a fire raging in his veins. Black spots shimmer across his field of vision in time with his pulse, which thunders in his ears. His awareness of his body is reduced to points of pain—head, throat, finger, chest—and all of it is screaming at him to sit the fuck down.

He needs to finish this, and quickly.

With the last dregs of his strength, he surges forward, sheathing his sword. As he strides into range, he catches her sword at the base, gripping it in one gloved hand and ignoring the bite of the blade through his fingers as he yanks it from her grasp and casts it aside. In one swift, lethal motion he corrals her by the throat, one handed, and pins her up against the nearest wall.

He’s prepared for the way her hands circle his wrist, a vice-grip that she will tighten further and further until his arm breaks or he lets go. He’s unprepared for the way all of his muscles start trembling, shuddering with the effort of holding her up that’s normally no effort at all.

“Match.” The word falls from his parched throat, unrecognizably blunted in his own ears. He’s shaking all over now, and he has to let her down a moment before she properly concedes, teeth chattering in his head as the heat generated from the exertion dissipates and he’s wracked with full-body chills.

He thinks 06 replies, but he isn’t sure. Suddenly, everything is fuzzy and wrong, his vision splintering into fractals of white and black as a wave of dizziness swallows him whole. The street spins out from beneath him, 06’s face a blur against the sickly too-bright-ness, and then there is nothing, and he is falling, and it stops.

|part 10|

#nksverse #firebreak book #flight & anchor #boxcar thing #06/22 #consequences fic #fanfiction #kasey writes #the ghost/22 #foster/06 #RIP 22 #I love that that's an actual tag of mine. lmao #his life is full of hardships. the ones that aren't stellaxis's fault definitely self-inflicted #also yes the Throat Wall Pin Move makes an appearance! god he's awful (/affectionate)

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