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honestsycrets · 4 years

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Mirror, Mirror | [ Cursed!Ivar x Modern!Reader ]

❛ pairing | cursed!ivar x modern! disabled (cleft lip sooo)! latina!reader

❛ type | ( ? )

❛ summary | after ivar kills his son, the witch freydis, his wife, curses him. somehow, he ends up with you.

❛ warnings | witch!freydis, POC reader, disabled reader, modern fic, cursed!ivar, modeling/elements, mention of self hate, sweet uncles, SFW

❛ sy’s notes | happy Monday everyone! how are we doing? are we surviving the coronapocalypse? I hope so. I come to you with another fruit of my eccentric, written all in one shot, writing. this request was left over from my Ivar 5CW event.

“I got you something for your surgery. See looks just like you, right, good girl?” your uncle rushed into your room, full militant uniform, with the great mirror between his aged fingers. As a military mechanic, his schedule was often too full to have time for lunch, but today was different. He sets it down, a soft tuft of dust floats free, and you cough in its wake.

“Where did you get this, tio?”

“Estate sale on Cherry. Imported by the dead guy, uhh… Mr… Borg,” he answers, flicking his hands in the air in circles as if he’s trying to remember the guy’s name. As he rambles on about the dead man you look to the empty wall, soft grey and bland, just like you’ve wanted to paint your walls-- now that you could! Because unlike the other houses, this great expanse is all yours. You could paint it rainbow colour, flick some glitter up there, and seal it if you so damn wanted. Instead, you settled on a subtle grey. The soft pink dries on your accent wall, waiting for your bountiful French decor.

“From where?” you slur out, smoothing out the bottom of your sundress, and point toward the wall where you wanted the giant mirror to go. It would encompass the wall. But you’d feel like you always wanted to: like a princess. “China?”

“Tsk! China!” He booms half insulted in the way he drags it out, smacking his hat against his palm. “Scandinavia!”

“Scandinavia isn’t a country.”

“Ay,” he walks toward the mattress on the newly mopped floor, picking up a nail that you set on your bed. “Stop giving me a hard time. I bought it for you, eh? Wasn’t cheap!”

It didn’t look cheap, either. It sweeps nearly the size of your tall uncle, its silver designs swirling around, flourishing along the top. It’s lovely. It fits your aesthetic, even. It’d make for some good pictures, too.

“Thank you tio,” you answer, putting that picture-perfect smile on. He’s a proud man when he mounts that mirror up, securing it with some strange hook and chain type restraints. It’ll smash ya, he said! Maybe it could have, but when all is said and done, and you stand before the massive mirror, it’s a strange type of beautiful. Ethereal as it was, something felt… off behind its reflection. Your nails skim the surface of the glass, repetitive click after click,

“How are the stitches feeling?” he asks.

You lift your fingers up, inching toward the puffy flesh of your mangled lip. The stitches would look like shit now. “Dr. Rao fixed it.”

“Tch, he better’ve. How did he do it wrong the first time?” he asks, and you shrug your shoulders, as if you don’t know. What were you, a plastic surgeon? “Since you’re feelin’ good again… Make me a tunafish before I go!”

Should have said no. But you weren’t going to say no to your uncle’s love for salty fish squashed between two pieces of wheat bread and some scraggly salad. You’re sure the mirror caused three times that. Okay, maybe more like thirty… or three hundred.

Good body, but you don’t have the face for it. Try photography. The university has a good program.

Stapled to your portfolio is that one little note. A woman’s would be kind words plastered onto the front as a friendly word of advice. Give up, move on. Something out the bright limelight. You kick off your shoes at the door, thrash the door shut, pop the lock. Set dinner on the counter. Don’t eat it. Head to your room and thrash that door too. Drop the portfolio on the desk in front of the obnoxious mirror and sink into the plush white comforter.

And you breathe. Your chest swells deep with breath, and it's prickly against your lungs, as if it hurt. Your sparkly phone vibrates with your friends’ many questions. Did you get it? Do models get paid per shoot? A hundred considerate questions and maybe, they all failed to give the one comment you needed to hear from anyone of them. Ms. Bisset had dragged the knife of disappointment across your belly, disemboweled you until nothing but disappointment, remorse, and self-hate poured out onto your toes.

“Your face looks better than hers.”

You shoot up, hair matted to the soaked pieces of hair against your cheek, turning side to side. No one was in your room, and yet, you felt them here. Their gaze poisoning the sanctity of your private place-- where you could cry and no one would know better. You lurch out, flip your phone, and there’s nothing there. And again, you reach out, only this time its to the knife at the bottom of the top drawer of your nightstand. You slip out of your fluffy sheets, quaking around the handle, turning it over and over, and over and over, looking around and around.

“Who’s there?!”

The room stretches inhumanely. As if the walls goes on for a mile or longer. You swirl, and your white dress follows, but nothing else. No matter how you pace from one end, to the other, and around the corners. “You’re getting close,” the voice laughs, and there’s a gentleness behind that statement. “No… nope, no. In the chest, really?”

You stomp toward the sheer white curtains, hiking them back, as if you’d really see anyone there. The warm sunlight streams against your skin, down in your bones, and there’s nothing or no one there.

“What the fuck,” you whisper, but no one is there to answer, and you’re sure. You’ve checked your closet, under the bed, over the bed, in the chest, by every nook and cranny and-- you look up, under your desk, and that’s when you see it. Two slouched legs, dependent upon a inky black and ragged crutch. You scan him over, something of a medieval horror, because he’s all leather, and chainmail, and locks, and buckles, and god he’s big in his own way, encompassing the mirror-like a cloud of black death.

But he’s not.

“There you go! Checkmate.” Despite those worn hands, his pale face is chiseled as if by a sculptor. High cheekbones, a pronounced forehead, and a broad nose. His hair is in its own way lifelike, braided back behind his head. His dull expression comes alive in bright blue eyes, excitably staring to you, and past you. His armour clinks. You grasp the knife, flicking it at the mirror.

“Watch out.” He warns, and you duck, because the mirror reflects your knife, chucking it into your beautifully painted wall. It embeds straight out into the wall, and you screech, both for your lovely wall but also the great loss of your mind. There was a man. In the mirror. Of your house. You’re stepping back, staring behind you, then back again. He’s there in the mirror, but not beside you, where you imagine his large body to be overtaking your petite frame.

“What the fuck are you?”

“Ivar,” he answers. Igor-- like those old Frankenstein movies? “Igor?”

His fingers flick, rattling irritation. “Ivar the Boneless.”

“Who?”

He leers behind that glass. For that awful leer of unchecked power, slamming his hand onto the other side of that glass, there’s nothing to be said for it. It’s as if he thinks you should know, because his lip wrinkles, and he turns toward his surroundings. Within the mirror, craggy, dark surroundings. He collapses on a bed of furs, which you can only just so make out because it is directly behind him.

“I am… was a king,” Ivar explains. Though this is all one great illusion, you’re curious enough in it, because what else did you have to do but sulk? Your hand goes toward the holy oil your tio had so graciously left, telling you to smear it all over, sanctify the mirror because who knows what kind of creepie demons were in that thing, and maybe you should have listened, and maybe he knew better.

“I’m not dead,” he snorts, “Take your little Christian bottle and spray for demons somewhere else.”

“Then what are you,” you play along. Ivar, for all his snappy wisdom, falls quiet a moment. He unlatches the armour on his legs, slides out of some medieval torture device that held his legs mishappen and weird.

“Cursed,” he answers. “...by my witch of an ex-wife and her little--” bastard, you almost read, but the pain in which he said it, suppressed any meaning behind it. It’s as if he dies a little when he says such a thing.

“It… wasn’t yours?”

“The wretch couldn’t be mine,” he says factually. For a man as strong as he was, you wonder why. Why was he explaining this to you, who he had only just met, and then again-- why not? If this Ivar brain illusion was locked up as long as he was, hey, maybe you’d be aching for company too. He gestures from his pronounced nose down, over his full lips. “His lips… his nose. They were torn one to another.”

“A cleft lip?” he sighs, dipping his gloved hands behind his head. He doesn’t lift, not even when you shriek, coming closer now. You climb over the white desk on your knees. “I had a cleft lip!”

He turns up his head, bitter at the mention, as if ice had stabbed not only him-- but straight through him, too. Even more than talk of his wife, talk of the small child seems to wound him. A wretch, a bastard-- “What happened to him?”

He turns in his bed, bound to ignore you, when you slap the glass, shaking the very foundation of the wooden boards under the bed. “I killed him-- I killed me son.” He answers, and the words sound heartless to you, torn as they were, pained as they were. When he turns up his head, you connect with his eyes, desperate to give sense to murder. “He was in pain. He could not live like that, mocked by everyone he meets, loves.”

You hold his words close, looking down, the scratchy handwriting from your denied portfolio sits there, a reminder of his words. “That’s why you’re in the mirror.” He clasps his hands together, leaning forward, and unclasps again, offering up toward the dark nothingness and it’s detached light which lights his bed from seemingly nowhere at all. “Well, good. You deserve to be in that mirror for what you’ve done.”

He doesn’t deny it. He turns, all alone, abandoned in his bed. You wonder how long he’s been there. Has it been a short time? Has it been a long time? It’s not been in the last five hundred years, for his clothes look aged. Maybe a thousand. But you don’t really know. Whoever this Ivar the Boneless was, he was an old man.

“I meant what I said,” his voice is rough, almost quaky. Is he crying? His words grace your skin like feathers, tickling you into interest for what he might say next. You settle into your chair at the desk.

“What?”

“Your face is more beautiful than hers,” he prompts. “Ms. Bisset.”

“How did you know her name?”

Ivar rumbles in his laughter, his broad back flexing. “You talk to yourself more than you’d think. And when you’re not talking to yourself, you leave all the important articles on your desk.”

It’s true. You scramble to stuff them into their appropriate folders, cursing him for being as he was. A nosy man with no sense of morals. If you were locked in a mirror, wouldn’t you have nothing to do but snoop around? You make note-- buy a cat. At least then, you wouldn’t feel your mind running away on you.

“That means a lot,” you mutter, “Coming from an ableist.”

Ivar pulls his armour off. Strip by agonizing strip, until he’s nothing but well formed muscles in his inky trousers, matching the blotchy black tattoo of dragons that course by the back of his neck. You spin around in your chair, hands to your eyes, chanting ‘I see nothing!’ as if… if you said it enough times, maybe it would be true. “Product of my time.”

He rests.

“Isn’t that a bit much?”

Hallucination or real, you came to accept that Ivar the Boneless, some kinda Viking-King was here for good. His mirror is the best mirror to do your make up in due to the great natural light that filtered in, but also the worst for his companionship was always awful. WIth every flick of your eyeshadow brush painted in bright red, Ivar had a sing song opinion.

“You look better natural.”

He’s not a fan of this whole fashion eye you were going for. Vibrant hot red and warm blues weren’t his favourite, especially not blue, because they reminded him of his brother Sigurd. Gods rest his soul, he told you. He killed him too.

“Ivar, for fuck’s sake.”

“You talk to your tio like that?” he scrunches his fingers.

“It’s not a date, Ivar.”

Tch, Ivar drags out, throwing his hands behind his head, annoyed in the way that he plops back onto his bed. Ivar’s ideal take? Dewy, natural, something with a hint of colour and a well-flicked eyeliner. Not a fan of caterpillar lashes, as he called them. He did like a perfect red lip, which you only learned by angling your television toward his mirror, so that he might be able to watch while you were out on the town with Igor, the orange tabby cat.

“Then what is it?”

His eyes falter, falling to the red satin romper you wear, as if you know, and he knows, that you’re up to no good. “Fashion shoot.” You answer him. “If they won’t publish me, I’ll publish myself.”

Ivar’s lips quiver, amused, and he smiles as you pomp those soft curls. It’s sultry, sexy, defined. He doesn’t think it needs to be. But it’s bold and only a fool would deny how beautiful you looked, dolled up more beautifully than even his late Freydis. He was here because of his son, placed into a home with a woman who had the same condition as his late, beautiful baby boy. It wasn’t on accident.

Ivar smiles. “Be ruthless.”

So you try, settling yourself on the edge of the bed next to the tripod, gliding your fingers over your dress, considering yourself. “What, no set design?” he asks.

“Set design?” you ask, laughing at the concept. Behind you is the soft pink accent wall, bouncing against the other walls behind you, soft and sweet. That’s all that was needed, really. Or so you thought.

“I’ve been in whorehouses with more taste.”

Ivar, you grumble, bounding off of the bed. Then, standing before him, your hands slap on your thighs. “Well what do you suggest?”

He leans out, gesturing his fingers toward the curtains. “Pull those dust catchers you call blinds shut. Add some soft flowers.”

You rush out of the room on bare toes, rushing back from your craft closet, arms full of fake flowers. You arrange them around your balcony bed, passionate and red. “Like this?” you crawl back on the lip, taking your place on the bed. Ivar leans, his cheek against the cold glass.

“Good enough.”

By now, you’re used to Ivar’s comments. Fashion shoots are on the daily, and as much as he detested the colour, you’ve grown used to his comments. You learn that he is better suited for creating a good background. Something about Ivar is all show, all flash, and you love that. In place of a friend to push you along, there’s Ivar. Always looking forward to giving you opinions about where to place this, or that, and Igor get the fuck out!

Priceless, like you said.

But as you progressed, and Ivar sat trapped in the mirror, something ate at you. When Ivar was not on his crutch, he would throw himself on the ground and drag himself like a giant snake across the ground wherever he went. He never once said a word about your crooked lips. The stitches faded. It was a gnarly scar in its place now, which hardly commanded attention save from the men you met on the daily, who all at least asked what was different about your face at one time or another, or excused themselves and never came back.

“You finally took my advice,” Ivar looks at you, dolled up like he liked. Soft curls, soft make up, a white dress. The gentle purity reminds him of his mother, Aslaug, or so he told you. You peer up at him, dragging the eyeliner out.

“Maybe it looks better like this,” you tease, and the thought hits you. “I’m guessing you have more experience than me, chulito. You’ve been in that mirror for 1200 years, you know.”

“Mostly in whorehouses. Wasn’t all bad, eh? Imagine my chances at finding a virgin with a cleft lip to set me free.”

“I bet you miss your family,” you tell him. Or what was left of it-- that was.

“I miss my brother Hvitserk,” he admits. The one brother, that though they both fought, he still found love in his heart for him. “And my mother,” tears gather, welling at his almond-shaped eyes, and you’ve done it again. “Freydis.”

“Would she take you back?”

“No,” his form drops, “You know I killed her.”

“A common theme,” you tease, drawing a small smile of him. But he drops his head down, cupping his hand behind his thick neck, lost in thought. “Ivar it-- it’s okay. You’re not a monster, y’know.”

“Aren’t I?”

He has a reputation for it. The names, the numbers, the people, the death. So, so much death. If he were here, today, they would call him a serial killer. A terrible man. A demon. When he sits there, unresponsive, you press your fingers to the glass.

“You aren’t,” you swipe the words from his lips, he has nothing to do but back away. Hope and pray you drop the subject, move on. He’s done talking again. This time you don’t. “Ivar-- you aren’t.”

You turn your fist to the mirror, crack your well-formed fist straight on. As opposed to the last time, reflecting the so deemed flimsy metal of your sword, your fist fractures the glass. It clatters around your fist, falling apart into a million tiny shards on the back of your blood, seeping into the mirror. But it’s cemented there, suspended in the air. Eyes wide, Ivar’s chest swells with air, and you roll your scarred lip into your mouth.

Then, the shards drop. The mirror cracks like a halo around your feet.

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bang-to-the-tan · 4 years

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Vessel Euphoria Chapter 8

► SciFi!AU

Thriller

Warnings: Major Character Death, Mind Control, Upsetting Themes Throughout, Alien Parasitism

↳ Summary: 6 months ago, the crew of the space vessel “Euphoria”—destined for a scientific study on a distant planet—dropped out of all communication. You and your fellow crewmates are inbound to reestablish communication with home base, but things are not as they seem and the fate of the mission is placed in grave danger.

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Years of training. Months of preparation.

Months of flying through the endless void of space in a tin can, towards people you revered as idols. Hoping to help them. All for nothing. All wasted.

You’re sitting on the floor, staring at the panels on the far side, watching your thoughts swim desperate circles around your own head, trying to pull back into your body, but everything is static, disconnected, you can’t move so much as the tips of your fingers. Dimly, you’re aware that your breath is short, harsh.

It’s all over now.

At least two of them are dead. Dead? Tears bubble in your eyes, memories of the men on the tapes. Smiling, excited Taehyung. Confident, methodical Seokjin. Gone. Why? How?

And what about Namjoon?

“You have to take me back.” Jungkook’s voice comes through the intercom, crackled and static, and it brings with it a wash of anger in you.

You don’t answer, jerking suddenly to the side, blinking at the water in your vision that blurs the world, cascades down your cheeks, forces you to sniffle like a child. Your fingers fumble for the button on the quarantine room, scrabbling at it. Why won’t it go down?? This is the last thing you need. You don’t need this. Your world is teetering on the edge of breaking and he’s only going to complicate things if you keep listening to his madness.

“There isn’t time,” he insists, frustrated, choked.

“I have to shut you up,” you snap. “And then we’re going to wait for Hoseok.”

“We can’t wait. We can’t. Fever. You said fever.”

“Shut up.” Your fingers slip, scraping fruitlessly against the button, and a growl looses itself from your lips that sounds almost feral. “Just shut up, Jungkook!”

“You. Jimin. Hoseok. Teams of four. The fourth has a fever.” He’s chattering, breathless. “The fever. The flowers. We can’t wait. It isn’t safe.”

No matter how you pick at it, coax it, the button won’t yield, stuck down permanently. Logically, you know that’s not entirely unexpected. The Epiphany is an older model of space-faring vessel, frankensteined with scraps of decommissioned tech. Sometimes she develops quirks. But illogically, it’s another nail in your coffin and you can’t bear it. You can’t do it. You won’t. Furious, you rear back and hammer your fist against it, wincing at the pain, but go to stand anyway on shaking legs.

If you can’t fix the button, you’ll leave the room.

You’ll go look after Yoongi. Make sure he’s okay. Wait for Hoseok. Everything will be fine. Eventually.

“What are you going to do when it starts talking like him?” Jungkook shouts suddenly. Ice reaches down your spine, coiling in your legs, freezing you to a standstill.

You shouldn’t stay here. You need to leave. But your head cranes, looking to the stranger in the cell. He looks how you feel. Eyes red rimmed and teary, hair in disarray, hands against the one-sided glass like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“Because it will. It will, and you’ll miss him. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But we have to go. Before it’s too late.”

You watch him, realization dawning in the pit of your stomach, making you feel vile.

‘It’s my fault.’

“...Kim Taehyung and Kim Seokjin.” you croak finally. “You knew they were dead.”

He stares into nothing, face falling as if you’d stabbed him before he nods slow. “...Yes.”

“You apologized to him. Taehyung. You said you ‘didn’t have a choice’.” You take a long breath that does nothing to calm the battering of your heart against your ribs. “What choice?”

He doesn’t reply.

You aren’t afraid of hearing the answer. You’re afraid that you already know it.

“What. Choice.” You repeat.

“You don’t understand,” Jungkook whispers. He rests his head against the glass and you can still see the droplets falling behind the dark curtain of hair obscuring his face. “We have to go back. Namjoon—”

“Did you hurt him?”

“No! No. No, I would never, I would never. I would never.” He sobs.

“Did you hurt your crewmates, Jungkook? Did they get ‘infected’?”

“I—” his voice cracks.

“Namjoon recalled the logs for months. Why would he do that?” You’re stepping forward now, anger, anger coursing through you, fire in place of blood in your veins. “If for months everyone onboard the Vessel Euphoria was still alive and making logs?” You pause. “Unless someone was sick. Someone he cared about. Someone, convinced that something was replacing his crew members.”

A fresh wave of tears threatens to drown you, rising into your throat.

“What did you do, Jungkook?”

He shakes his head, his entire body shivering. Slowly, he starts to drift downwards, and you can hear the muffled, crackling sounds as he cries in earnest through the speaker.

“Please. Please,” he sobs. “We have to go back.”

“We’ll go back. We’ll go when Hoseok and Jimin come back. And then we’ll go home. And from there...” It’s a struggle to clear your throat, your words sticking to the roof of your mouth. “From there, central will figure out what’s best for you.”

You turn on your heel with an artificial sense of finality, striding towards the hall even as every step feels like you’re sinking into sand. Try not to speculate. Try not to speculate. You’re doing your best. You’re trying. It’s hard to pretend you don’t hear Jungkook crying and pleading at your back, or that you don’t feel your heart break a little with every inch of distance you put between the two of you.

The hallway leads you to the med bay before you’re even really aware of the direction you’re going. When the doors slide open, you’re relieved beyond any speakable measure that Yoongi is still where you left him, sleeping peacefully on the cot.

In desperate need of something to do, some way of calming the twitching in your fingers, the caged energy thrumming behind your eyes, you start meandering about the room quietly, picking up the mess he’d made on his exit. Occasionally, you throw glances at the mechanic, almost afraid that he’s going to rise up like something out of a horror film and start spouting gibberish like Jungkook.

Instead, he just sleeps. He looks so peaceful.

Gone is the guy who rigged your alarm clock to go off at 2 am as retribution for you putting salt in his coffee. The thought occurs to you and a wry smile tugs at your lips at the memory. In the end you had to completely dismantle it. He’d fixed it so it wouldn’t turn off and instead kept blaring, waking the entire crew. Oh, he was so smug when you confronted him with a jumbled heap of wires and plastic that had once been your alarm. You almost fed it to him. Looking back, you have to stifle a giggle. Hoseok almost had both of your asses, threatened to throw you in quarantine until you’d ‘developed more professional attitudes’.

...Yoongi would know what to think. If he were in your position.

Level-headed, pragmatic Yoongi. He said from the start that things were fishy about the Euphoria mission...You wish he was awake. Just one good conversation would be enough to ease your mind, at this point. One short chat, with an awake, self-aware, grumbly Yoongi Min.

‘What are you going to do when it starts talking like him?’

A frown slowly replaces the smile on your face as you stare, Jungkook’s words rising to the foreground of your thoughts completely unbidden.

As if deep in a trance, your hand reaches out. You brush a few strands of hair back from Yoongi’s face, tracing his relaxed brow, feeling for the skin, resting your hand on his forehead. A beat passes. Two.

He’s warm under your palm, but the fever has cooled significantly. By the time he wakes up, it might have gone entirely. Your whole body sags with relief at the very thought.

He’s okay.

He’ll be okay.

‘It will. It will, and you’ll miss him.’

You won’t miss shit. He isn’t going anywhere.

You finish tidying, making sure to keep as quiet as possible, and slip back out of the ward. For a moment, you hesitate in the hallway, glancing briefly at the quarantine room.

No.

No, that won’t do.

You walk past it.

Rummaging through the kitchen, you consider digging into a few snacks, but your mind inevitably drifts back to Seokjin and Taehyung and suddenly you’ve lost your appetite. You do some of the washing up, putting away clean dishes and making sure everything is set right. For a short while, you go to your room and try to nap, but your mind whirls so brightly, so worriedly, you can’t manage to eke out any peace from it.

Time passes as a sludge. A haze. It doesn’t march, it oozes. You try not to watch the clock, but it’s impossible, as you sit and count down the minutes before your crew returns.

An hour.

Two. You’re impatient, waiting, ears peeled for the automated message from the doors. The crackle of radio. Nothing.

With every minute over the two hour mark, your anxiety mounts until you’re having trouble catching your breath, chest tight and palms sweaty.

Why aren’t they back?

They should be back.

If they were within range of either of the towers, they would have radioed in.

You’ve started pacing around your small room, checking your comm. The seconds can be marked by the thud of your heart in your chest until finally you can’t stand it anymore and you start towards the communications room. Again, you have to pass by quarantine. Again you hesitate. But your feet are moving without you, propelling you forwards with haste fuelled by concern.

You swing your body into the worn, ripped captain’s chair, brushing over the buttons and switches with all the deft awareness of someone who’s been through the lifetime of training you have. The system takes a moment to itself to boot properly, but displays its startup checks in due time. Everything’s green. Everything’s go. You take a deep breath and press the button to transmit to nearby towers, making sure to amplify the signal enough to reach just that little bit past their respective ranges. It’s not very far, but considering their two hours are up, either they’re close to the Epiphany’s range, they haven’t left Euphoria’s or they’ve taken a detour in the opposite direction on top of a barren planet—unlikely, considering that neither of your crewmates are stupid.

“This is Communications from the stationed Vessel Epiphany, requesting contact with Officer Jung Hoseok and Specialist Park Jimin. Please confirm copy,” you intone.

There’s a silence broken only by the painful thudding of your own heart in your ears.

Again, you press the button.

“Repeat, Officer Jung and Specialist Park, confirm copy.”

Nothing.

You want desperately to throw yourself backwards and shriek, scream into the void. Dig your fingers through your hair until you pull it out by the roots, kick out with your legs and wreck the hulking pile of garbage in front of you.

“Godammit, guys, pick up your fucking comms.” You’re spitting down the line before you can stop yourself, your hand shaky where you hold the microphone steady.

Still you receive no answer.

You’re biting back tears for what feels like the millionth time in the past few hours. Jimin and Hoseok out of line and out of time. Yoongi in a coma. A boy locked in quarantine that may or may not have committed some act of violence against his crew members. And you. Just you. Your body leans forward, leaning your forehead against the desk, being sure to avoid the important switches.

“Please pick up.” You murmur, even knowing it won’t transmit without your finger on the button. “Please pick up.”

You don’t know how long you sit there waiting. Your breath eventually evens itself out and you slip into this state of suspension, poised to answer at the slightest hint of a reply. But still nothing happens.

You lift your head, blearily watching the lights wink.

What could have happened to delay them? Where could they have gone? You have two options. You wait here, for any sign, any communication. And in the meantime, they could be hurt. Stranded, somehow. A malfunction with the buggy. A wire tripped with their communicators. The flowers, perhaps reclaiming a pivotal turn in the road somewhere, leading them off-course. It isn't like either of them to just...not check in. Especially not after their discovery. Hoseok’s announcement. The failure of the mission.

The thought of staying here for much longer, doing nothing, is enough to make your skin crawl.

Right.

So the second option, then.

You shove yourself off the console, standing, stretching, casting one last grim look at the system before you shut it back down and leave the room, heading determinedly towards quarantine.

Jungkook’s fallen to his knees at the window, head against the glass, arms by his sides. He looks like he’s fallen asleep, but the staccato of his breaths tells you otherwise.

The buggy won’t have enough fuel for multiple trips. You’ll have one shot out there, to reach primary and look for Jimin and Hoseok, refuel there, and come back. And you’ll need Jungkook, if you’re going to get the fuel you need to go home.

“You said you know where the fuel cells are kept,” you begin. “Were you telling the truth?”

He shifts, barely, leaning his cheek towards you. His breath fogs the glass when he murmurs a quiet reply. “Yes.”

“If I take you there, we can grab a replacement cell.”

He perks up at that, turning to stare again at where he approximates you might be, struggling to unsteady feet.

“And open the tower,” he adds.

Your mouth purses into a firm line. “The tower,” you echo.

“The tower.” he repeats, emphatic.

There’s a moment of silence. “What’s in the tower, Jungkook?”

He doesn’t answer.

You don’t like that. You don’t like that at all. If you’re going to make the only trip to primary, you have to knock out as many objectives as possible. Search for Hoseok and Jimin on the way there and back, recover the fuel tank, and complete your original mission. Find out what happened to the communication of the Euphoria. Logistically, you need to get inside of that tower.

But why is he so keen on it?

“...I’ll tell you what. Give me the code.” He’s already shaking his head. “And we’ll both go to the primary base.”

“No,” he mutters. “No, you’ll leave me here.”

He’s right. You watch him grimly through the glass.

“You’re going to have to answer for what happened on Euphoria, Jungkook. You know that. You can’t outrun it. Please don’t make this difficult.”

“What happened,” he enunciates clear, slow, suddenly drawn bitterly through a snarl, “was not. My. Fault.”

“Then tell me what it was.”

His nostrils flare. His eyes water, brows drawing close over his forehead. Again, he shakes his head.

“I can leave you here anyway,” you press. “I can just leave you here and go myself, go looking myself.”

“You’re wasting time. Time for all of us. I have to go back. I ha—have to fix it.”

“Fix what?”

“...The tower.”

He’s lying. He’s lying through his teeth. You can see it in the way his eyes flit away from yours, staring holes into the panelling to his right. But he’s being purposefully obtuse. And unfortunately, he’s right. Every minute you sit here and argue with him is another minute you lose to uncertainty. To inaction.

“I need your word that you aren’t going to attack me. I’m going to keep sedatives with me, and if you so much as blink in a way I don’t like I’m knocking you out and we’re coming right back here.”

“I swear I won’t attack you,” he breathes, eyes wide.

“Swear on your life.”

He hesitates, a sigh leaving his chapped lips. “I swear.”

“...Okay. Alright. I’m going to get supplies first. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Hurry.”

What are you doing? What are you doing?

You’ve lost your mind is what you’ve done. What you’re doing. But it’s already been an hour since Jimin and Hoseok should have been back, and your stomach is doing somersaults just thinking of what might be keeping them. Your body is already in motion, desperate to reassign some of that anxious energy to movement, grabbing the sedatives and stowing them away in the pocket of your jumpsuit. It’s never been a habit of yours, praying, but you send out a quick one that you won’t have to use them. You’re packing a spare charger for your comms, making sure the spare suit is good enough for Jungkook to wear, ignoring the apprehension trying to cloud your vision.

Your heart rises into your throat when you step to the hangar, for a brief moment thinking that maybe you missed their arrival. Maybe the buggy is already there. Maybe you’ll see it speeding over the horizon just as you go down there and you’ll be able to call this whole madness off. But no. The space where the first one was is empty, and through the thick glass on the outside of the hangar you can only see the persistent waving of thousands upon thousands of bright red flowers. It’s only about noon—the suns are high in the sky, bathing the landscape in bright yellows and a warm blush. You can’t even see where the flowers had been burned away anymore.

Checking the fuel tank confirms your suspicions. You won’t be making more than one trip in this thing. That’s fine. That’s fine. For better or worse, you can manage it. For your crew.

Lastly, you go back to the sick bay.

Thankfully, Yoongi is still sleeping, and continues to slumber as you skirt around him and pick up a paper and a pencil. You scribble out a quick note, keeping one eye peeled for any sign that he’s being disturbed.

Min—

Gonna go get the fuel cells & teammates.

Door locked to keep you from sleepwalking again. Code is the date of our 1st mission.

See you soon. :)

When you’ve finished, you reach out on a whim and circle a comforting hand around his upper arm.

“Be right back, Min,” you whisper. “I’m gonna go grab those other two idiots and then...then we’ll head home. Alright?”

You tuck the paper gingerly underneath one of his hands.

“Read the note before you start wandering off again, you weirdo,” You add with a faint scoff.

You stand, heading to the outside of the doors. One last look at the mechanic as he rests, before you’re keying into the panel on the side. Should be simple enough. If he’s still feverish when he gets up, he probably won’t be cognizant enough to both read the note and remember the date. There’s also a chance he’ll wake up, forget it, be pissed, and then try to contact you to whine about trapping him unfairly in the med bay, but you’ll take that any day.

You head to quarantine. Jungkook is more alert than you’ve ever seen him, attention captured easily by the sound of the doors sliding open, eyes scanning his side of the mirror.

“Okay. All set.” you tell him, moving to the door button. “I’m going to open the door now. You’ll follow me down to the hangar. We’ll get in the buggy and make the trip up to the primary base, keeping an eye out for my crew. We’ll grab replacement cells and bring them back.” You pause.

“I swear to god, if there’s any funny business, I won’t hesitate, Jeon. You don’t know me but I know you. I’ve seen your logs, I’ve studied your file.”

It’s a bluff. Even Jimin could barely keep a handle on him. You aren’t sure you have the guts to back up any threat you make, much less the musculature. But it’s a necessary bluff.

“No funny business,” he mumbles, casting his gaze at the door expectantly. “I swear.”

The keypad chimes as you press the buttons, the door jolting once before finally sliding to the side, and for a minute, you’re afraid he’s going to leap out at you, hands raised, eyes wild. Instead, he steps out gingerly, with all the uncertainty of a newborn deer, clutching at the frame for support.

It occurs to you, as he stands before you, making eye contact once and nodding, firm, that it really is just the two of you right now. If anything were to happen…

You banish the thought. It’s all going to go according to plan. As you half-turn to start leading him down the hall, your hand brushes past the sedatives in your pocket, and you feel determination rise in you. Determination to make this work. It’s all gonna be okay, dammit, and it’ll be okay because you make it so.

“There’s enough to get us out to secondary. We can refuel there, head back, look for them on the way.” You begin to explain as the two of you walk to the hangar. You pause, turning to look at Jungkook. “You’re sure you know where the spare fuel tanks are kept. You can get us to them and out. Quickly.”

He nods, shrugging to the side, watching the far doorway. “Yes.”

The two of you get suited up in silence. For a moment, you consider offering to help him get it on, but though his eyes glass over with the aftershocks of some memory, he still slips into it with the ease you’d expect. He doesn’t offer any comment but another short nod when you ask if he’s good. You both clamber into the buggy. You press the buttons for the opening sequence to activate, listening to the hiss of air as the doors behind you seal shut.

Garage 1 opening, the overhead voice drones.

You tighten your grip on the steering wheel, looking to Jungkook for a brief moment. He’s sinking into his seat, eyes wide, fixated on the dashboard. His whole body is curling in on itself, his expression deeply, deeply uncomfortable.

“Alright?” you ask.

He shuts his eyes tightly, bowing his head until the bottom of his helmet rests on his chest, bouncing once in an approximation of a nod. You’ll take it. The engine kicks into gear when you rev it and you start your descent down the ramp, into the field of gently waving flowers, aiming for the metal waypoint on the horizon that points towards primary.

Your companion doesn’t speak again, only inhaling sharply every so often when the vehicle hits a bump and jostles the two of you.

You don’t either.

You’re too deep in thought.

The locked communications tower.

Hoseok and Jimin found Taehyung and Seokjin. Not Namjoon.

...What if Namjoon is alive? After all, Jungkook managed to survive this whole time.

The cynic in you doesn’t want to hope. You set your jaw and continue on, grimly aware of one fact.

If Namjoon is alive—and God, you hope he is—then you have to assume the worst. You have to assume the worst about the person in the seat next to you.

You keep an anxious eye on the scenery, scanning for any sign of Jimin and Hoseok and praying that you’ll find it.

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#bts sci fi au #bts scifi au #bts thriller #bts fanfic #vessel euphoria #we definitely aren't making it to 10 LMAO #welcome to the beginning of the end guys #place ur bets whos alive whos right and whos crazy #:PPP

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gellavonhamster · 4 years

Text

good people

gen || Montgomery Montgomery & Bertrand Baudelaire || pre-canon

ao3 link eng || ao3 link rus

Monty Montgomery learned about the deaths of Count and Countess *** somewhere about two in the afternoon, in the lobby of the Biology Faculty of Gerald Durrell University of Natural Science. He didn’t know them personally, and that day he could not even recall their faces when reading an article about their deaths, just as many years later he could not – unfortunately – recall the face of their son, whom he did know personally back in the day and had met as often as not. At the same time, he could remember in detail the moment he heard they were dead – the hum of voices in the vast corridors of the faculty building, sunlight glistening on glass in the frames of photographs and newspaper clippings hanging on the walls, the sound of his own footsteps. He was descending the stairs, almost hopping like a kid because he had just managed to talk a teacher into letting him submit the report a day later, and consequently was in a splendid mood. Few things can compete with the joy that a student experiences when the deadline for a paper that still exists only as a title page gets postponed for a later date. Immersed in happy thoughts, he went down to the ground floor, and was just heading for the exit when he suddenly saw a crowd of students and teachers huddled together and discussing something animatedly. One of the students was holding a widely unfolded newspaper, and several people at once were reading something over his shoulder.

“Must be a change of government or something,” Monty thought as he approached them. Frankly, the prospect of writing a paper in two days concerned him much more at that time than a hypothetical coup.

“Ah, Montgomery!” shouted one of those reading the paper, Professor Stein of the Herpetology Department. Stein was always shouting: he had hearing problems. Now, on the other hand, a raised voice was more than appropriate, for too many people were talking at once.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” Monty gave him a nod of greeting as he joined the group. Getting closer to the paper was impossible – the crowd was too thick. “What’s the news?”

“A murder, Montgomery! A crime story at its finest; the whole city is going insane! Come read.” At that, Professor grabbed him by the elbow and pushed him into the middle of the crowd, so that Monty found himself right behind the left shoulder of the guy with the newspaper.

He took a look at the page, found the piece everyone was reading, and grew cold.

“Poison darts! With snake venom!” Stein exclaimed. Monty winced as if in pain. The loud noises around him were distracting; he wanted to read carefully, turn each word round in his head, persuade himself it was not what he thought it was. Coincidences do happen sometimes, after all. “And where – at the opera! Right during the performance!”

“Yeah,” someone to the right of the newspaper chimed in, “straight out of Gaston Leroy.”

“Leroux,” Monty corrected mechanically. He was suddenly overcome with fierce and helpless anger. He stepped back. “I’m sorry, Professor, I really have to go.”

Walking quickly, even quicker than back when he was urged on by the unwritten report, he headed for the door.

Well then, La Forza del Destino. Poison darts. Snake venom.

And his flatmate, who went to the opera yesterday and didn’t come back home.

***

Bertrand asked him to procure the venom about a week ago.

It might have been Thursday, or maybe Friday. Monty was writing a term paper then, one that he could not set about writing earlier because he was busy doing other things, from the tasks assigned to him by VFD to attending the parties organized by other volunteers, which in some cases seemed as important to him, even vital at times. VFD gave him time to deal with the exam period, relieving him from participation in any missions for the nearest future – the pursuance of science was highly valued among their ranks. Many volunteers flaunted some academic degrees, but not many of them got those degrees officially, even if they deserved them objectively. Some Doctors and Masters among them didn’t even hold a certificate of Bachelor’s Degree. Fighting the fires, both literal and figurative, took up a lot of time and energy, leaving virtually none of it for attending the lectures or even distance education. However, the VFD members had connections – Had Connections even, capitalized – owing to which many of them got the opportunity to call themselves professors or academicians, although all their scientific contributions, sometimes absolutely groundbreaking, remained hidden from the general public.

At the Biology Faculty, VFD Had some Connections as well, and if Monty wished so, he probably could obtain the Master’s or even Doctor’s Degree without much effort, but he had no such wish. He desired recognition and respect from the people outside the organization, desired to make discoveries that he could tell the whole world about – desired for everything to be fair. That was why he had spent the whole previous week in a kind of a time loop. Every day looked like the day before: writing, writing, writing, leafing through the sources frenziedly after another bookmark gets lost, sorting the materials collected in the expedition, drinking gallons of coffee, and occasionally sleeping. And feeding Maturin, of course. As to Monty himself, it was Bertrand who had been feeding him, which was very kind of him, because Monty couldn’t even afford the time to heat some ready-to-cook foods. Bertrand simply used to come into his room, not even knocking anymore so that not to distract him, put a plate of vegetable couscous or spaghetti bolognese or something in front of him, and leave before Monty noticed that plate. The dirty dishes he used to take away in the same manner, unnoticed. Monty had to yell “Thank you!” for the whole house to hear, to which Bertrand yelled back “You owe me!” from his room or from the kitchen. He was joking, and Monty knew that, but still planned at least to stand treat at the pub after the exams were over.

That morning, Bertrand knocked on the door again – first came in, then knocked. That meant he needed Monty to pay attention to him.

“Hello, hello, hello!” Monty exclaimed, turning on the chair, immediately knocked one his books off the table, and bent to pick it up. “I am listening to you attentively, o dearest neighbour.”

“You’re going to the uni tomorrow, aren’t you?” Bertrand asked.

Monty nodded. “Yeah, to submit this Frankenstein’s monster. Only the bibliography left to do.”

“You’re a hero,” Bertrand praised him. Monty thought so too, in all honesty. “Could you do something for me while you’re at it?”

“Buddy, I would’ve wasted away without you here over the last few days. What exactly do you need?”

“I need,” Bertrand felt for something in the pocket of his trousers, took out some scrap of paper, and gave it to Monty, “a vial of venom of this snake.”

Monty’s heart lurched. He skimmed the note.

“Oh,” he said. “No problem. There are a couple of excellent specimens of this species at the City Herpetological Centre.”

“I know,” Bertrand replied. “I thought of asking N or S, but I don’t know them well. I wouldn’t like to shoot my mouth off in front of the people I do not trust completely,” he sat down on the edge of Monty’s bed. “Not these days.”

Monty noticed that Bertrand was trying not to meet his eyes.

“I see. Tomorrow it’ll be done.”

“Thank you,” Bertrand smiled slightly, still not looking at Monty. Instead, he was looking at Maturin, the turtle, which was chewing on a salad leaf in its terrarium. The turtle was undoubtedly remarkable, but it wasn’t hard to see that Bertrand was rather looking through it than at it. Sooner or later that was bound to happen, Monty thought. Sooner or later, each volunteer had to do something… like that. Not necessarily related to deathly poisons and what very logically results from their use, but still something that made it difficult to look one’s friends in the eye. Like it was now difficult for Bertrand.

“Who?” Monty asked in a hushed voice. “I’m not asking about the name, I’m asking if you know that person. Or were you just given a description?”

“A description,” Bertrand echoed. He smiled again, wider and brighter, but still somewhat stiffly. “Don’t worry about me. I am not a child, I’ll handle this.”

***

“And so he did,” Monty thought as he was unlocking the door to his flat.

Bertrand was already home; there was no need to call their acquaintances or go to Kit’s place. When Monty entered, his flatmate was sitting at the kitchen table and rubbing his knuckles on one hand with the thumb of the other. His face was calm, without any trace of either tears or smile. It reminded Monty of the kind of “Closed” sign that people put on the shop doors on Sundays.

“There you are,” Monty said, peeking into the kitchen. Bertrand gave a start and looked at him.

“Hi,” he said, and offered Monty a faint smile. It didn’t look too convincing. “How did the report thing go?”

“They let me submit it later,” Monty told him. He didn’t know how to ask Bertrand about what was really vexing him, so he asked another question that was, in his opinion, appropriate in any situation. “Would you like some tea?”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

Monty went into the kitchen, took the teapot off the stove, shook it and made sure it was empty, filled it with water, ignited the burner, put the teapot on the stove. Having been in a hurry to check if Bertrand was home, he didn’t have time to take his shoes off, and was now stamping around the kitchen in outdoor shoes. “Gotta sweep the floor later,” he noted to himself. It came with experience – the skill of not forgetting about the dull everyday things like cleaning and cooking while your entire world was in a whirl and threatening to fall apart.

“I saw the article in the newspaper,” he began as he took teacups from the dish drainer. Bertrand was still sitting at the table in silence, still rubbing his hands absentmindedly. “About the opera.”

“Yeah, I’ve already read it, too.”

“You lied when you told me you didn’t know who the target was, didn’t you? When you asked me to get you the venom.”

“I did,” Bertrand agreed. He leaned back in his chair. It wasn’t hard to see by his eyes that he hadn’t caught even a minute of sleep last night. “Do we have any lemons for tea?”

“Um?.. I think there must be some. Check the fridge. Why did you lie?”

“You had enough problems of your own. And you still do. I didn’t want you to worry about me as well,” Bertrand got up from the table, walked up to the fridge, and took out a bowl containing half a lemon. Having taken a knife and a board, he started cutting the lemon into very neat identical pieces. Everything Bertrand did was neat.

“Yeah, you can want whatever you like,” Monty muttered. The teapot was still taking its time to boil, and just standing empty-handed and discussing the murder committed by his neighbour was unbearable, so he took a cloth and started cleaning the sink aggressively. That was not the first time he procured poisons required by other volunteers. Perhaps he hadn’t killed anyone himself – yet – but he suspected that in a sense he already was partially responsible for a number of deaths. It was scary, it was weighing down on him, it kept him up at night and made him drink and dance and party with a vengeance in the hope of forgetting himself – but that was him, and when it came to Bertrand, it was a hundred times more of a shame. Bertrand was a good person. Bertrand didn’t deserve to be turned into a murderer. Monty was hoping he could express that all in such a way as not to make it seem like his heart is aching not so much for his friend as for his own hurt feelings, but the right words just wouldn’t come.

“You are one of the best people I know,” he finally began. Bertrand made a strange sound, something between a laugh and a sob. Monty turned and saw that he had already cut the leftover lemon and was now standing with an absent look on his face, clutching the knife. “Don’t hold the knife with the edge toward you. Fucking hell, B,” he raised his voice when Bertrand didn’t react. “Don’t hold the knife with the edge toward you, and put it down anyway!”

The knife fell on the table with a thud. Bertrand closed his eyes, leaned on the tabletop with both hands, and lowered his head so that Monty couldn’t get a good look at his countenance.

“I keep remembering that he hit O several times when boozed up, back when O was a boy,” he spoke quietly. “He used to drink, you know – not every day, but he used to go on drinking sprees from time to time. O’s taking after him in that respect. I keep thinking back on it as if it makes an excuse for me, but it really doesn’t, you see? And she was innocent – I mean, the rational part of me gets that she wasn’t, I know who she and her husband used to finance and what they used to cover up, but all I can remember is that she was usually nice to O, and to B after she moved to the City too.” Now his voice was taut, his face burning with indignation, his former numbness gone without a trace. “How come this task was assigned to B, of all people? After they had basically accepted her as family?”

Monty knew, personally and by repute, several Bs among their associates, but this time Bertrand didn’t have to specify who he was talking about.

“I am angry they made you do this, you are angry they made her…”

“Because she didn’t deserve this,” Bertrand interrupted him. “Because she’s a good person.”

Monty realized that Bertrand was basically repeating word for word what he had been reflecting on earlier himself, and smiled sadly.

“How willing we are to assure the others vehemently that they are good people,” he spoke. He was completely in agreement with Bertrand about Beatrice. She was not just fun, but also reliable, which was much more important. She looked after her own. She was vivid and loud and incredibly brave and incredibly loving, and Bertrand was right: she did not deserve this. “And never as willing to defend ourselves the same way. Perhaps that is where our hope lies? In our inability to turn a blind eye to our own faults?”

Bertrand took off his glasses, inelegantly wiped off the tears that had broken out after all, and put the glasses on again.

“Monty,” he said gently, “you’re a good person too, you know that?”

Monty blinked, then blinked again, feeling that soon he might have to wipe off the tears too. Bertrand was one of the best people Monty knew, and he didn’t deserve to be turned into a murderer, and didn’t deserve to labour under such grave delusion about other people either – but the fact that someone still considered him a good person gave Monty confidence that despite all his wrongdoings, he still wasn’t a lost cause.

He reached out and ruffled Bertrand’s hair.

“Sit down,” he told him. “The tea’s about to be ready.”

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events #uncle monty #montgomery montgomery #bertrand baudelaire #snicketverse #not completely satisfied w/ this one but i like some bits so let it be here #yes the name of the turtle is a reference to stephen king's it #iirc they reference danny the champion of the world as early as atwq and it was published in the 70s #and time is a construct anyway (especially in the snicketverse) so i couldn't resist #talk talk talk #gella talks snicketverse #my fic

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anangelicday-mrwolf · 4 years

Text

Wolfsbane : Noblesse Fanfic (post-ending)

(previous chapter)

Chapter 23 – Shattered Lake

“Haaa...”

Like a dragon spitting smoke, Frankenstein yielded a sigh with a sound expected from a steam locomotive, as he dropped the document he was holding.

The thin piece of material was long devoid of life it used to relish in the forest that gave it life; however, Frankenstein could swear the paper was just drained of life as it swam in the air towards the desk.

Which was not his first time seeing it.

It has been weeks, now more than days, ever since he agreed to a secret deal with Muzaka to constantly receive Ignes’s data from Lunark to dissect.

At the same time, he had to regularly probe through Union’s data that 3rd Elder had collected for him, in order to find something, if anything, that can unravel the mystery of Raizel’s return.

Neither of which has reciprocated him with any progress.

A hamster in a wheel was now an overstatement for him; he felt now he has become a cogwheel in a machine.

And such lament, of course, changes nothing. The only resort he could make once again was reasoning with himself.

‘Next time. Yes, next time I will land upon something. So I’ll just have to wait until Lunark shows up.’

That moment his heart seized with an unusual “thump,” and Frankenstein could not deny that he started when there was no reason or need to.

He knew unlike before, he has turned dangerously conscious of Lunark, ever since he fell asleep due to minor immunity he had grown to the wolfsbane tonic and thus fell victim to a nasty show of effigy by the Dark Spear.

Even now, thinking about Lunark was all it took for his heart to pump blood in an all-so-strange way.

‘Get a grip, Frankenstein. What are you, a teenage boy with a crush?’

Aaaand I just had to come up with such metaphor.

Frankenstein violently raked through his hair, his fingers not quite gentle.

His intention was to pacify the turmoil in his head, but his hands ended up whipping up a storm out of the said turmoil.

Even without her presence, he is busy fidgeting and tap-dancing and off-balancing himself.

So he doubted he could handle his tasks as he had used to once he is actually at her presence.

It was impossible to either shun Lunark or have another werewolf replace her as Muzaka’s secret agent.

Even Garda, Muzaka’s oldest follower, is in the dark regarding this secret deal for the sake of security and peace of wolfkind. Who knows what will happen if there is at least one more shareholder in this secret project?

Most importantly, this secret deal is not altogether unrelated to the Union, and the only werewolf who has been in direct affiliation with Union is Lunark, which means there is no legitimate excuse for Frankenstein to veto her participation.

As Frankenstein shook his head and added a huge chunk of air from his lungs into the atmosphere, from his computers came a barking noise signaling an incoming transmission, causing him to jump.

Once he checked the origin of transmission, he deliberated for a moment whether he should pretend there is no one home. Because whoever it was that was requesting his time, there was no doubt this caller was a werewolf.

Nevertheless, he knew there is no way he can play deaf to this call; after all, he was the one who willingly provided werewolves with his coordinates, in case they have any hint on Blood Stone that he could find useful.

The only thing he could do, therefore, was to pray to all deities and powers he could think of to please let it not be Lunark who demands him at the moment.

Much to his relief, his prayer was answered in a good way.

<It’s been a long time.>

A werewolf with very familiar physique and countenance nodded at him in the monitor, and Frankenstein almost let himself betray his relief.

“What is it? Is there trouble?”

Kentas very effectively destroyed the vortex of unease in Frankenstein’s head.

This was what the latter has been dreading all this time.

“Union. Of course they would seek retaliation. Is everyone alright? How many visitors did you have?”

“No need to be so considerate about my anxiety level. We all know the top-tiered fighters in Union are gone, but I doubt eight invaders from Union had left no scar upon your land.”

Frankenstein was about to frown, when Kentas’s expression, too calm and even innocent to be from someone being considerate, held his muscles.

“How is that possible? Just who were you against?”

Frankenstein was reminded of the 8th Elder that Lunark and Zarga brought to Korea, upon his first encounter with the werewolf woman. And then he was reminded of the two guards that accompanied Aris upon her first entrance to Seoul.

‘Of course, there’s little chance that they are the only models of biological weapons that Union would fabricate out of living humans. But things would be complicated if the ones Kentas is talking about are the identical model to the 8th Elder. That dummy’s intelligence was so horrible I had to think they downgraded it on purpose, but his power was definitely threatening – which is an unbiased evaluation. In fact, his power made me understand how in the world such idiot could call himself an elder like Luna...’

Hold up.

Just why am I thinking about her – again?!

Frankenstein pictured himself slapping his own face with a vicious thwack, before focusing back on Kentas. He could not dare pull it off in real life when he had an audience.

“Listening to you, I can think of a model of modified human. It’s a model that would shoot energy beam from its mouth, with its jaw distinctively designed in a mechanic fashion. Am I right?”

<Exactly. You just pulled out the image from my head.>

“And you say you suffered no damage? Is it safe to assume that means your clan’s defense system has been perfectly recovered?”

<...I wish I could say that, but I’m afraid I cannot, once again.>

Kentas’s shoulders rose and fell as he sighed, and Frankenstein’s intuition signaled there is something not right about this.

And there is a reason that for the past centuries, his intuition has been his deadliest, most faithful weapon.

“But...?”

“Warn you?”

<Yeah. It was like seeing a cobra raising itself with its hood visible towards its enemies.>

“...So who fought them?”

<Me, Dorant, and a couple warriors who happened to be returning from field tasks. And they told me the ones they were against also simply played threat.>

“...And that was it?”

Kentas nodded, and Frankenstein let his eyebrows squeeze his forehead in puzzlement.

‘Weird. This is far from retaliation. It’s like giving a taste of what they could do, to test how well the werewolves can fare as of now.’

But of course, Union has yet to regrow its power, which gives them enough reason not to cause too much hassle with werewolves.

‘If they cause damage too serious for werewolves to give a pass for, the werewolves might pay back with retribution that they cannot handle in their current state. But their ego would not let them just suck their thumbs in waiting until they can return to spotlight, so perhaps they sought to make their enemies remember they are alive. And as of now, that’s the most likely scenario behind this case.’

Nonetheless, Frankenstein was getting an attack from that sort of feeling – the bad feeling that there is something more about this “assault.”

He had his mouth shut as he was drowned in his own thoughts, and Kentas spoke once more.

<Luckily, they found out nothing about what’s going on with our kind right now. Which is a good thing, since we cannot let anything related to QuadraNet leak.>

“Oh, which reminds me, how was the human researcher? Is the QuadraNet good to go?”

Trying his best to ignore a flinch in his chest upon mention of her name, Frankenstein kept his poise.

However, his poise started to crack like an icy lake hit by a rock, upon what Kentas said.

Frankenstein could feel his pupils contract in a speed of light.

Torn between desire for and fear of what is to befall, he waited for Kentas’s explanation, when his monitor flourished with an array of colorful noise and lost transmission.

And that moment Frankenstein’s poise was shattered like an icy lake blasted with a cannon, and the last word from Kentas plunged towards the abyss of his heart like a cannonball in water.

Did Lunark... What?!

‘She’s had plenty of experience in Union, and she’s one of the most powerful warriors that werewolves have. There’s no way she was taken down by the weapons that did not want to fight in the first place. She can take care of herself.’

Yet Kentas decided to bring her up for a reason Frankenstein could not fathom, forcing his heart in a tug-of-war: trust his knowledge about her that it is no big deal and just ignore it, or trust his intuition and find out what it is that Kentas was trying to say.

He paced back and forth in his spot, but it took less than seconds for him to make his choice.

“Goddamn it...!”

Frankenstein found himself in front of 3rd Elder’s bedroom, in a speed he has never exerted in this isle.

Immediately reacting to a frenzied knock, 3rd Elder opened the door.

“What is it...?”

“Something urgent came up, so I must ask you to substitute me for a couple of days.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“No time to explain. Just contact the werewolves if you need me.”

“A-alright.”

Frankenstein trotted back into the corridor, his lab coat still on. As soon as he was outside, he sprinted in full speed across the huge body of water.

His determination not to think about Lunark perfectly forgotten, he could only beg that there is nothing wrong with her.

*****

“A couple of days...? Just what could this be about?”

This is not the first time for either of them to be away from this island, but 3rd Elder has never seen Frankenstein willingly leave for days, with him left behind – an opportunity that he might never find again.

With such ball of gold laid in the palm of his hands, 3rd Elder’s mind was redirected to that one grocery shopping that took place outside, nothing like the ones he had before.

(next chapter)

Yes - next episode will be in the 3rd Elder’s point of view. I took extra care with this episode, so I��m super-excited to finally post it. :D Please stay tuned for more!

#korean webcomic #korean webtoon #fanfic #noblesse #frankenstein #frankensteinxlunark #lunark #wolfsbane

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thewritenerd · 3 years

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Victor and Adam: NaNoWriMo Day 25

Victor

After updating Igor and Justine on the situation Victor made his way up to Adam’s room. Emptying out his school bag onto his bed he looked around for things he might need. The doctor said they would want to keep him in for a couple of days just to keep an eye on things. He’d need things to do. Books, that seemed a good place to start. Making his way over to the bookshelf he picked out a couple of things and put them in the bag. What else? His phone, but where was the charger? He eventually found it in the drawer of Adam’s bedside cabinet. Thinking what else to put in Victor spotted something out of the corner of his eye. Something light blue poking out from under the bedsheets. Reaching for it Victor grabbed hold of the material and pulled it out. It was a shirt, or what was left of one. One sleeve had been torn of and most of the buttons were missing. There were also several rips and tears. ‘What the? He thought. Then he remembered. That night he’d brought Adam to life as the boy had ran away he’d taken one of his shirts. And he kept it? Victor thought. Not just kept it, it seemed he was using it like some sort of comforter. Without a second thought he shoved the shirt into the bag and continued packing. He put in Adam’s notebook and a couple of pens, a puzzle toy which he could technically be done one handed, his headphones and his pills. Victor also decided to he’d let Adam borrow his tablet for a couple of days, as long as he was careful with it. He didn’t use it that often anyway. Making his way back down he saw Igor dusting the banister. ‘Ah Igor I didn’t want to say anything in front of Justine but I need to talk to you about this intruder of ours.’ Igor nodded.

‘Yes I’ve been thinking about that. Do you think they know about the tunnel?’ ‘They certainly know about the trapdoor.’ Victor said looking thoughtful. ‘Though there’s no way they can open it from the outside. Not unless they’re really strong. And if they were I don’t doubt they would have opened it by now.’ In fact the trapdoor could only really opened by a hidden mechanism that was operated by a remote Victor kept on him at all times. There was another way to the tunnels but the intruder would have to break in to the castle to find it. ‘Igor I want you to update security in here. I don’t care too much about this person skulking around outside. They’re not going to get anywhere anyway. But I can’t risk them breaking in.’ Igor nodded. ‘Good idea sir. I won’t be able to do anything today as you have the car. But tomorrow I can go into town and buy some security cameras.’ ‘Good. Now I’d better get going. I promised Adam I’d be back before he woke up.’ ***

When he first got back to the hospital Victor was informed Adam would be in surgery for a little longer. Sitting down he prepared himself for a long wait. Time crawled by but Victor stayed put in the waiting room, only leaving to grab something to eat from the hospital café. At one point a guy sat next to him. ‘Been here long?’ he asked. ‘Since six. More or less.’ Victor replied. ‘Ouch. So who you waiting on?’ Victor thought for a moment wondering how to answer. ‘My son.’ He replied. ‘Broken arm.’ ‘Must be a bad break if you’re here. Still kids are tough.’ He gave Victor a reassuring smile which he didn’t quite return. The man didn’t seem to upset though. ‘Can’t blame you for worrying though.’ Victor looked down at his hands. Truth was he was less worried about Adam’s physical wounds and more worried about him psychologically. His injury was very similar to William’s and though it didn’t seem he’d made the connection that very easily could have been down to shock. ‘So how old’s your son?’ ‘What? Oh he’s sixteen.’ ‘Any others?’ ‘No. It’s just him.’ ‘Got two myself. Ten and fourteen. Wanted to come with me to see their grandma but I said they couldn’t go skipping school.’ School? ‘Shit.’ Victor hissed. The man frowned at him. ‘Sorry. I forgot to call the school. Um excuse me.’ He stood up and headed outside. Once he was done explaining what had happened to the school receptionist, who seemed very understanding about the delay, he headed back in doors. ‘Ah Mr Frankenstein.’ The doctor who’d been treating Adam said as he approached him. ‘Your son’s out of surgery now. It all went well. He’ll probably be out until later this afternoon but you can see him now if you want.’ Victor simply nodded and after learning the room Adam had been moved to he headed there. He stopped in the doorway. Adam was in a bed much too short for him so they’d had to lay him on the bed sort of half sitting up. His head had fallen to one side so he was facing the door. In the bright hospital light Victor noticed the skin of his jaw didn’t quite match the skin on the rest of his head. Though the difference was subtle. Taking a deep breath Victor made his way over and sat down in the chair next to the bed. Almost without thinking he reached out and pushed a strand of Adam’s dark hair out of his eye. Adam didn’t stir, of course not he was drugged not just sleeping. As he watched him Victor couldn’t help but to think how much like a child he looked. Though Victor had set out to create a teenager and had used as many parts from people of the right age range, though that hadn’t been easy, but it was hard to see someone who towered over everyone as being so young. But now looking at him there was no doubt this was just a kid Victor was looking at. A kid you pushed away, he scolded himself. Because you couldn’t take responsibility. You were the only one to have had any say in his existence, yet you were the first to turn your back on him. ‘Great.’ He muttered. ‘My conscious is turning into Igor.’ He’d been hoping he’d have at least until the old man croaked before he started haunting him. No such luck it seemed. Turning his attention back to Adam he noticed a small birthmark on his earlobe he’d never noticed before.

***

When Adam finally woke up Victor was reading a paper he’d bought earlier that day. He didn’t notice he’d woken up at first. When he did look up he say Adam looking at him through half open eyes. ‘How are you?’ he asked folding up the paper. ‘Dunno. Can’t feel anything.’ Victor nodded. ‘Yes that’ll be the pian killers.’ Adam’s looked thoughtful. ‘How long have you been here?’ he asked. ‘Since you got out of surgery. Been a few hours.’ ‘You eaten?’ Victor laughed at this and shook his head. ‘Listen to you. Just out of surgery and you’re worrying about me.’ ‘Well if something happens to you I’m in trouble.’ Adam joked. For a moment the two just stayed looking at each other not speaking. ‘Oh I brought your stuff.’ Victor placed the bag on the bed. It should be enough to tide you over until you can come home. Adam nodded and began to pull on the zip with his good arm. He pulled out the tablet first. ‘You can borrow it. Just don’t go spending any money okay.’ Adam gave a small smile. ‘Yeah thanks.’ He then pulled out one of his books before putting it back. Then he frowned and reached in and pulled out the shirt. ‘I figured that was in your bed for a reason,’ Victor explained. Adam nodded. ‘I would have given it back. But I didn’t think anyone could repair it.’ Victor shook his head. ‘No it’s in a pretty bad state. But never mind, I have plenty of others.’ Adam let out a sigh of relief reached into the bag again the shirt still on his lap. Once he’d done checking the contents and confirming there was nothing else he wanted or needed he sat back again clutching the shirt in his good hand. ‘Ah I see we’re awake.’ Said a nurse as she stepped inside. ‘What’s this?’ she asked when she spotted the shirt. ‘I can’t sleep without it.’ Adam admitted his face turning red. ‘Oh don’t worry sweetie. You can keep your blanky.’ She turned to Victor. ‘So how is he?’ she asked. Victor frowned not sure why she was asking him. ‘Well the pain killers seem to be working.’ He said. The nurse nodded and made a note. ‘And do you have any questions.’ ‘Yeah how long do you think I’ll be in here?’ the nurse gave him a smile that people usually reserved for small children who wouldn’t shut up. ‘Oh sweetie you can’t go home just yet. You need to rest.’ ‘So how long will it be?’ Victor asked quickly noticing the growing anger in Adam’s eyes. ‘Oh a couple of days at least. Just to be sure. But we rarely keep anyone in longer. Not for a broken bone.’ She quickly checked the iv drip before leaving. ‘I don’t like her.’ Adam grumbled. ‘She doesn’t seem very professional.’ Victor agreed. ‘Do you want me to have a word with someone about that?’ Adam shook his head. ‘No I don’t want a fuss. I mean it’s just one nurse.’ Victor nodded. After sitting in silence for a moment Adam spoke again. ‘I’m really tired so if you want to go home and get something to eat I don’t mind.’ ‘Are you sure?’ Adam nodded his eyes closed. ‘Okay. I’ll be back to check up on you tomorrow. As soon as I can.’ He waited for Adam to respond but he was already asleep. Standing up he made his way out of the hospital to the car and drove back to the castle. It was well past dinner by the time he got home. Igor had something waiting for him in the oven. ‘I assumed you wouldn’t have eaten today.’ He said as he set the plate down. He went to pour the wine but Victor held out a hand to stop him. ‘Not tonight Igor.’ He tucked into the meal a little more eagerly than he usually would have, he really was starving, and finished without leaving a crumb. ‘So how is Adam?’ Igor asked as he took the plate. ‘Fine. The surgery went well. He was getting tired so I left him to get some reast.’ Igor nodded. ‘Anything for desert sir?’ Victor shook his head. ‘No I’m actually quite tired myself.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll be heading off to bed now.’ Igor nodded. ‘Well I’ll see you tomorrow sir. Sleep well.’ Victor nodded and headed out the door.

#nanowrimo #writing #writblr #victor and adam #long post #read more

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laurasinele · 5 years

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Red, silver, blue (a Fictober Stucky 3k crackfic)

Prompt 2: “Just follow me, I know the area”

Fanfic from: the MCU

Tags: Stucky, Steve Rogers & Bucky Barnes friendship, Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes, friends to lovers, love confessions, Tony Stark is a pain in the neck, background Tony/Pepper

Warnings: swear words, mentions of sex shops and sex toys, mentions of BDSM, mentions of murder (but it’s actually a very lighthearted story)

Ao3

“No. Absolutely not. Don’t you think that’s a bit too much?”

Buck was listening too, and he was doubled down with silent laughter, hand covering his face and shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

“Honestly, I don’t see where the problem is, cap. I’m just asking you to grab a present for my fiancée…”

Steve interrupted him, stammering with embarrassment and annoyance.

“A very specific kind of present, Tony! I really don’t think Miss Potts is going to be happy knowing that it was me and Bucky who picked up her lingerie!”

“I never said you should take Barnes. And I did say specifically erotic lingerie. Barnes, are you listening?”

“Right here, Stark”, managed to wheeze Bucky. Steve rolled his eyes.

“Just, feel free to not go shopping lingerie for my girlfriend with Rogers. That’d be weird”. While Bucky laughed, Steve tried to complain again, but Tony spoke over him. “Okay, it’s settled then. Take your time, no need to be back in a hurry, take care, have fun, don’t let the bed bugs bite, and all that jazz”, and he cut communication.

Bucky was delighted. Acclimatation to this new world and new life had been hard, and he did not have fun really often, so Steve’s indignant face right now was a real treat. Having Steve around made things way easier. He never stopped wondering how would have it been for Steve, with nobody from his time aside from an elderly Peggy Carter.

This intel mission they had just finished in Amsterdam had allowed them to have some time together and apart from “the kids”, as they jokingly referred to the rest of the team. Tony’s suggestion to take some time off there seemed pretty appealing to Bucky, regardless of any potentially embarrassing trip to the Red Light District’s sex shops. Which took him back to Steve’s expression, between flustered and upset.

“Okay, buddy, listen…”

“Don’t”, said Steve.

“What? You don’t know what I was going to say”, complained Bucky.

“Something along ‘it’s not a big deal, think of it as a mission’?”

Bucky smiled widely. Steve did know him well.

“Okay then, now seriously. Stark is obviously messing with you. The feisty, tiny Steve I knew, would probably hit him back twice as hard, so why wouldn’t big, buff Steve do the same?”

Steve looked at him with a furrowed brow. He then looked away and then down at his hands fiddling with his baseball cap. He looked up at Bucky, rising an eyebrow and said:

“Buff?”

Bucky smiled, slapped lightly his shoulder and let his mechanical hand rest there to stir Steve into movement. “I am updating my vocabulary, Captain. Now let’s find something scandalous enough to make Stark blush”.

“I can’t even imagine what that would be”, sighed Steve, reverting to his embarrassed state as they neared the entrance of the Red Light District.

“Oh, you just follow me, pal”, said Bucky with a wink. “I know the area”.

If Steve had been updating his vocabulary as enthusiastically as Bucky, he’d say he was “tripping major balls”. Instead, he settled for a much more boring “shocked”. Bucky walked around pointing landmarks and possible destinations as if he had been visiting these streets weekly for the past decade. He even knew what to call most of the items the “erotic boutiques” offered. When they entered a store dedicated to BDSM products and Bucky started to explain how to use what Steve was sure he’d seen in a documentary about the Spanish Inquisition, he thought he’d had enough.

“Buck, stop. I don’t really want to know. I don’t even know if I want to ask how on earth did you learn all this”.

“Well. While I was the Winter Soldier some of my targets, most of them actually, had a very specific taste. Not that I’m proud of it, but I happened to match that taste and it was a very effective way to approach them. And discreet”, he explained in a whisper.

Steve stared at him, battling with astonishment, grief, anger and, for some reason, a teeny tiny bit of arousal he tried really hard to ignore. In the end he declared: “Enough. I’ve had enough”, and headed to the exit. Bucky followed him and caught him in the street.

“Hey!”, he called. Steve turned around to face him reluctantly, one hand resting on his hip, the other scratching his brow, eyes pointedly avoiding his childhood friend. “Hey, buddy. What’s wrong?”

Steve opened widely his eyes and rose his palms facing the sky, instantly becoming de embodiment of the sound “duh”. He shook himself, exuding incredulity and after a few tries he managed to say: “I don’t know, Buck. It always grinds my gears when I think about your life this past few decades. And now I find out they made you… that you had to put yourself in intimate situations? And it’s not as if I’m comfortable talking about sex, either, okey? Some of you forget that I’m just a 90 year-old virgin!”

Steve had risen his voice unwillingly and many heads turned in the crowd, most of them sporting a condescendent smile. He tried to make himself small bending his head down and burrowing his hands in his pockets. Bucky got closer to him and set his hands on Steve’s shoulders before trying to make eye contact.

“I am sorry, Steve. I really am. I am trying to get over it, to make it sound like war tales that happened to someone else. You know I’m not proud of what I did. I hate it, actually. But as memories from then and before come back, I’m just glad it happened because otherwise I’d died or I’d lived only to lose you to a freezing ocean. We’ve both gone through serious bullshit. But we met at the end of the line. I’d never change that”. He squeezed Steve’s shoulders and Steve finally looked up, his eyes meeting Bucky’s and his hands resting on his best friend waist.

“Ah… I’m sorry too. For snapping like that. It’s not your fault that I got freezed nor that I got the serum”.

“It’s not your fault either that I fell off that train and that nasty little Frankenstein experimented with me”.

“It kind of is…” “It isn’t”, said Bucky, sliding his hands up Steve’s nape reassuringly. “Look at me. You saved me more times than you know. And, again, if hadn’t fallen, we wouldn’t be here”.

Steve remained silent, looking at James Buchanan Barnes, his childhood friend. Sergeant of the US Army. The infamous Winter Soldier. Bucky. He threw himself into a tight embrace with him, letting sink the idea that they were there, at that time and place, together, still young. Able to start again at any given time.

Bucky returned the hug gladly, and broke it gently after a while. “Let’s go back to the apartment, yeah? Let’s have a quiet night in and try again tomorrow with Stark’s stupid errand”.

Steve nodded and led the way, unable to erase a peaceful, content smile from his face.

Bucky exited the bathroom after his shower, with a towel wrapped around his waist and another one over his head. He was going to his bedroom but he stopped on his tracks at the sight of Steve sitting on the couch nursing a beer and staring broodingly at some point between the living room carpet and the assassination of Franz Ferdinand in 1914.

“Hey. Alright?”, he said as he approached him, removing the towel from his head and wondering what might have gotten Steve so preoccupied after their pleasant way back to this place.

“Uh, yeah. Everything’s fine. You done with the shower? I think I’ll take one too”.

“Cut the crap, Captain. I’ve known you forever. What’s going on?”

They were standing face to face. Bucky was looking at Steve sternly, holding each end of the towel thrown around his neck. Steve must have been wishing to become his pre-serum self, avoiding Bucky’s gaze and biting into his bottom lip. Bucky caught himself just about to rise his hand and free Steve’s lip with a stroke of his thumb. He wondered if this kind of impulse was there before the war, before the serum, or something else had put it there.

“It’s stupid, really. Nothing to do with war, or saving the world or anything”.

Bucky was both relieved and confused. He relaxed his stance and nodded. “Okay, well. What is it then?”

Steve sighed, closed his eyes and threw back his head in defeat.

“Ah, really, it’s nothing. I just… I was thinking, okay? How I’m this world-known hero for everyone, and how I’ve got so much more in common with the old veterans than my own team. I’m grateful for you, for having someone from before. But even before… Ah, shit, I don’t even know what’s up with me”.

“It’s okay, Steve. I’m listening”.

Steve paused for a moment and locked eyes with him. Bucky felt an indescribable weight on his chest and wondered what was he afraid of, if he ever had been afraid of Steve Rogers, or Captain America, before. Steve lowered his eyes to the scars on Bucky’s torso before talking again, and he traced them tentatively, lost in his own head.

“I used to look up at you. I always thought I didn’t need you, that I could stand my own. I never called you and you were always there, through school, through hardship, through my mum’s death… I really wanted to enroll for myself and for my country, for the innocent people dying in Europe. But most of all I was scared that you wouldn’t come back and I needed to be there to make sure you were okay”. Steve breathed a laugh and kept tracing Bucky’s scars up to his arm. Bucky didn’t know where was this heading, but he told himself he was staring at Steve’s lips just so he wouldn’t miss a word. Steve resumed his speech:

“The thing is, I always thought you’d be around. I took you for granted, but I also felt I was responsible of you. Any fight with your parents, you’d tell me. Any dream or fear. Any girl you liked. More than the fear and the rage about what they did to you, what shakes me everytime is that I wasn’t there or that you can’t tell me half of it because you don’t remember. There’s a part of your life, of you, that I missed, and every time it hits me, I lose my grip of things”. Steve let his fingers slide down Bucky’s metal arm and there was a silence after that, heavy as a blanket and just as warm. When Bucky managed to untangle the knot in his throat, he said:

“Doesn’t sound stupid to me”.

Steve scoffed and covered his face with both hands. He rubbed his eyes and put his hands in the pockets of his jeans, smiling widely but obviously embarrassed.

“No, it probably doesn’t. What is stupid, though is… Ah, I can’t, nevermind”.

Bucky was amused, now, and he totally needed to know. He grabbed Steve’s shoulder when he motioned to turn his back to him.

“Hey, no, no, no, no. Don’t leave this way, I could use some of your good old stupidity”.

“Ah, okay, fine. Don’t laugh”.

“I promise nothing”.

“Okay, you little shit. Ah… It’s about… Jesus, help me. Okay. Here I go. You now how everything in this century is just all about sex? And I’m trying to get used to it but it still flusters me. I thought that I wasn’t the last prude of America anymore because I’d found you but then you go and tell me you where some sort of kinky sex assistant or whatever and I’m… Upset. There. I said it, okay? I’m upset that you had a sex life which is something very mature and clever to say. What are you laughing at?”

“Your face. And the way you’re telling it. ‘Kinky sex assistant’? I swear to God, Stevie…”

Steve pushed Bucky playfully, and he tried to stop laughing, very unsuccessfully. When he finally calmed down they had sit back on the couch, since Bucky could hardly hold himself standing. Steve looked at him, still a bit embarrassed but with eyes aglow with laughter.

“Thanks for not laughing. You are a good friend”, he said as he patted Bucky’s knee.

“Oh, oh poor Steve. I’m sorry, I really am. But listen, pal. There’s something you need to know”. Steve lifted an inquisitive eyebrow and Bucky was caught in another fit of laughter. “Listen. Listen, I never said I did anything with my targets. The kinky sex, as you put it, was an excuse. I’m a 90 year-old virgin too. Only I’m a little bit more educated than you”.

Steve made the most confused face and tried to talk several times, only to stammer and shut up, crestfallen, which sent Bucky cackling. When he finally gathered himself he asked:

“But how? I’m not saying you had to do it with the people you were set off to kill but… I mean, I was frozen for 70 years, what’s your excuse?”

Bucky got slowly off the laughter before answering. He looked at Steve’s genuine curious look and he wondered if he really didn’t know. Immediately, he wondered for how long since leaving HYDRA had he known. He stared into Steve's eyes for a while, pondering his options and their outcomes. He finally decided for ambiguity.

“There wasn’t anybody I wanted to do it with in this time”.

A look of sadness overcame Steve, who delicately held and squeezed Bucky’s flesh hand.

“I’m sorry I brought it up”.

“I’m not”.

“Did I know her?”.

Bucky thought “Fuck it” and talked before he could think it twice.

“Him. Yeah, you did. Not as well as you knew me, though”.

Steve’s eyes were wide open, but Bucky couldn’t tell with which emotion. At least, he thought, he hadn’t let go of his hand. Bucky held on tighter and made a point not to look away from Steve’s gaze.

“Steve, one of the best things of coming back to my senses was realising that I could say out loud how much I liked a man as well as a woman. Back then there wasn’t much of space to talk about it. I didn’t even knew liking both was possible. I knew I liked most of the girls I dated. But when things got serious I just… I could only think that I needed to get back home and check on you. See if you had eaten, if you hadn’t got into any fight, get you into bed and kiss you good night. Sometimes I even allowed myself to imagine me staying with you for the night. Just holding you, keeping you warm. I’d get us money and food, you’d stay at home because you were always sick. I’d take care of you. I just needed you to be happy in return. And when I thought those things I couldn’t care less about any girl, anyone really, that my cousins wanted to introduce me to”.

A single tear was gliding down Steve’s face. He let go off Bucky’s hand to wash it away, took a deep breath and stood up, looking antsy.

“Steve…”

“Fuck you, James Buchanan Barnes!”

“Steve, I’m sor‒”

“Shut up!”, shouted Steve while turning to face Bucky. Tears were streaming now down his face and he covered his mouth as if willing the shout to come back in. “You don’t get to say you’re sorry just like that. You don’t get to put me through all your girlfriends and their girlfriends, you don’t tell me you’re enlisting yourself and leaving my sorry ass in Brooklyn, to come back 70 years later and tell me you wanted a married life with me. Now. Now that I’m tall and strong and healthy and… buff. For love’s sake, Bucky, I fucking hate you!”

Steve turned his back to Bucky and started crying for good now. Bucky’s heart was beating like a steam roller as he stood up, wrapped his arms around Steve's chest, laid his head on his shoulder and breathed out shakily, afraid that Steve would snap at him.

“If I had found you, short, scrawny, asthmatic, in this time, I would have never hesitated. I would had never asked myself what was that feeling”. Steve took in a deep breath and covered Bucky’s hands with his. Bucky hold onto him tighter. “It is nice that you are tall and strong, and specially it is so very relieving to know you are healthy. But I fell in love with you back then. I just didn’t know better to give in to it”.

Steve turned around in Bucky’s arms and let Bucky softly kiss his eyelids, his cheeks and his lips. It was a feather touch after which Bucky took Steve’s face between his hands, searching for any sign of his best friend thoughts. Steve mimicked him, tacking his face between his hands, and kissed him passionately, pushing them towards the couch. As he did, Bucky’s towel fell from his waist.

“Hey, hey, hey! You said you were prude?”, joked Bucky between kisses.

“Shush, got decades to compensate for”.

Bucky was reading the paper near the window at their kitchenette in the Avenger’s facilities. Steve was stirring his coffee and shamelessly checking him out. They’d come here straight from the hangar, and they were waiting for Stark to show up anytime soon, Steve strategically placed to be at his back when he entered the room.

“Ah, Terminator, back from Amsterdam I see?”. Bucky merely acknowledged him, nodding and biting off a smile.

“We’ve got something for you”, said Steve, causing Tony to dramatically turn around from the open fridge. Steve held up a small, luxurious-looking black shopping bag with red tissue paper peeking out of it.

“Excellent! What is it?”, asked Tony, taking it. His face immediately fell when he saw the bag content. Bucky took it as his cue to stand up and hold de door open for him and Steve to leave. “But this is… mangerie?”, asked Tony, perplexed, examining an heterodoxical piece of clothing with more lace than seemed possible to keep in its scarce surface.

“Yup. You wanted a present for her. I bet she will enjoy much more to see you wearing it than wearing something to please you”.

“But wait, guys! This has no tag!”. Steve bit his bottom lip and looked at Bucky. Bucky smirked and they both left with Tony’s exclamations at their wake. “Come on, did you use it? Be straight to me! Or, well, don’t. No judging, love is love. Hm. It smells clean at least”.

#fictober19 #stucky #Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes #steve rogers/bucky barnes #mcu fanfiction #captain america #captain america fanfiction #Winter Soldier #winter soldier fanfiction

8 notes · View notes

tlirswriting · 5 years

Text

Past Mistakes, part 6

Read part 1 here: https://bookfroggity.tumblr.com/post/187152824147/past-mistakes

Now before we jump into this,, a few things: there's more death than what's typically discussed, and a very brief mention of suicide along with the guns that are to be expected from tua. There's probably more specific triggers in there, but basically, it's not particularly for the squeamish. It's also over 2000 words long, so you might want to sit down with a drink or a snack or something, depending on how quickly you read.

P.s. sorry Luther

///

Five checked the house. It was the Frankenstein's monster of architecture, and unreasonably large, but as he wandered down the halls he found that Klaus was... Right there, in his room. Getting dressed, presumably after getting out of the-- oh.

Well, how about that, Five thought, looking at the bloody footprints leading from the bloodier bathtub.

"You okay?" Five asked after knocking on Klaus's room's partially-opened door. It was a social courtesy Five didn't particularly understand, especially when he could already see inside, but one he decided to humor regardless.

Klaus inhaled sharply. Five could see from the doorway there was something in his eyes. He looked haunted. What a coincidence. "Yeah, I just... Long night," He said, his voice tired.

Five chuckled slightly at what was possibly the understatement of the year. "More than one, from the looks of it."

"Yup."

"Don't remember the dogtags."

Klaus made a noise as he pulled a shirt on. "Yeah, they belonged to a friend." He hesitated ever so slightly at the word "friend," which Five probably wasn't supposed to notice.

"How about that new tattoo?" Five prodded. There was clearly something up with Klaus.

"You know, I don't totally remember even getting it. Like I said, it was a long night."

It clicked in Five's mind what happened.

"You did it, didn't you?" He asked, taking a few steps closer.

"What are you talking about?"

Five paused, unsure how to put it. "You know, I can recognize the symptoms, Klaus."

"Symptoms of what?"

Stop playing dumb, I can see straight through it, Five thought.

"The jet lag," Five started listing. "Full body itch. The headache that feels like someone shoved a box of cotton up into your nose and through your brain."

Klaus just looked at him.

"You gonna tell me about it?" Five asked, trying to be gentle about it despite his lack of experience in the field of comforting people.

"Your pals, when they broke into the house and they couldn't find you, they took me hostage instead."

"And in return, you stole their briefcase." Five couldn't help but smile as he turned and started pacing. It would've been a smart move, had Klaus known what he was doing.

"Yeah. I thought there was money in it, or I could pawn it, you know, whatever. And then I opened it."

"And the next thing you knew, you were... Where? Or should I say when?"

"What difference does it make?"

"What diff-- okay. How long were you gone?"

"Almost a year."

"A year?" Five stopped and looked at his brother, his mouth hanging slightly open for a moment. "Do you know what this means?"

"Yeah, I'm ten months older now."

"No, this isn't any sort of joke, Klaus. Hazel and Cha-Cha will do whatever they can to get the briefcase. Where is it now?"

"Gone, I destroyed it." Klaus held up a fist and opened it, making an accompanying "poof" sound.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"What do you care?"

"What do I care? I needed it, you moron, so I-- I could get back, I could start over!"

"Just, just..." Klaus stood and walked away.

"Where are you going?"

"Interrogation's over, just... Leave."

After watching Klaus go, Five grabbed a pen and a piece of paper off his dresser and scrawled notes on it. You had to write down everything when dealing with time travel if you wanted to have any chance at recreating -- or avoiding -- results.

...

Five spent about an hour writing chalk calculations on his bedroom walls. Then again, it was hard for him to gauge how much time exactly had passed when he was focused this intently on a task.

He paused and looked at his work, reading it back. "Hey, I think I've got something, Delores," He smiled. "It's tenuous, but... Promising."

Luther stepped in the doorway, not humoring the social courtesy of knocking first. "Who are you talking to?" He asked before realizing there was a better question. "What is all this?"

"It's a probability map," Five said, not stopping what he was doing.

"Probability of what?"

"Of whose death could save the world." Five briefly looked away from it to roll his eyes at Luther. "I've narrowed it down to four."

"Are you saying one of these four people causes the apocalypse?"

"No, I'm saying that their death might prevent it."

Luther let out a quiet "oh" and let Five keep working for a few moments.

"I'm not following."

God, you're dense, Five thought as he turned to face Luther who somehow still didn't understand this. "Time is fickle, Luther, the slightest alteration in events can lead to massively different outcomes in the time continuum."

"The butterfly effect."

Great, at least he's heard of it before. "So, all I have to do is find the people with the greatest probability of impacting the timeline, wherever they may be, and kill them," Five said rather matter of factly for someone discussing first-degree murder. "Oh, yeah." He grabbed a notebook out of his drawer to save the most important parts in and keep them for later.

"Milton Greene," Luther read aloud, studying the quite literal wall of text. "So who's he, a terrorist or something?"

"I believe he is a gardener."

Luther turned to look at Five, that look of holier-than-thou shock on his face again. "You can't be serious. Wait, this is madness, Five, you--"

He seemed to notice that Five was grabbing a hunting rifle.

"Wh-- where'd you get that?"

"In Dad's room. I think he used it to shoot a rhinoceros," Five explained as he loaded it. "It's pretty similar to the model I used at work. Nice shoulder fit, and highly reliable."

"But you can't-- this guy Milton is just an innocent man!"

"It's basic math. His death could potentially save the lives of billions. If I did nothing, he'd be dead in four days anyway. The apocalypse won't spare anyone."

"We don't do this kind of thing."

"We are not doing anything. I am."

"I can't let you go and kill innocent people, Five, no matter how many lives you'll save."

"Well, good luck stopping me."

Five began walking away, notebook tucked neatly away and familiar instrument of death in arm.

Luther sighed. "You're not going anywhere."

Five spun around to see him holding Delores out the window, his hand around her throat. In his mind, he heard her choking. He instinctively raised his gun, looking at Luther through the scope.

"Put. Her. Down."

"Put the gun down, you're not killing anyone today--" Don't test me. "--I know she's important to you, so don't make me do this."

Please stop, you're hurting me!

"It's either her or the gun."

I-- I can't breathe!

"You decide."

Five was shaking. He thought about pulling the trigger, but killing his own brother would be pushing even his morals. He froze.

Luther didn't seem to be taking any of this as seriously as he should.

It's the survival of the entire planet we're talking about, you idiot, he thought. I've killed before, what difference does it make if I have to take a handful more lives to save everyone else?

Five, please, make him stop!

Luther should have been more afraid of him than he was.

The bastard actually dared to throw her.

Five didn't have time to think, only react in the way he was most used to.

Brains were splattered.

Five heard Delores clatter to the ground, but his eyes stayed on Luther's body, slumped against the wall. His eyes were still open, staring back at him with no one behind them.

"Oh, god," He sighed. "What the fuck did I just do?"

Five paused, taking a shaky breath and sitting down on the side of his bed, waiting for his head to stop spinning at what just happened.

"I'm sorry, Luther. You shouldn't have gotten involved. This is why I didn't want you getting involved, I... I didn't want this to happen. I was supposed to save you."

He looked at the corpse again.

"Just another body, really, no big deal," He told himself. "I knew there would be collateral damage. What's a few more deaths when billions of lives are on the line, right? I'm just minimizing the number of dead people. It's statistically impossible to save everyone, anyway."

"Is everything okay?!" Someone shouted, footsteps running up the stairs.

"Shit, shit, shit..." Five thought about making it look like a suicide, but he knew it wouldn't be convincing. Nobody shoots themselves in the forehead, and presumably even fewer choose to do so with a hunting rifle. Besides, he needed the gun.

He jumped outside and assessed Delores. Her arm had detached, but the latching mechanism might not have been too badly damaged. Other than that, the plastic had enough give to it for nothing to break.

It hurts, Five.

Five wished he had more control over his imagination as he listened to her whimpering in his head.

"It's okay, it's okay, I can put you back together--"

There was a scream from Five's room. He figured he should get a move on before anyone looked out the window.

...

Five drove out to the address of his first target, but time froze just as he pulled the trigger, the bullet suspended mid-air on its path to an unsuspecting Milton (who was, in fact, a gardener) Greene's skull.

The Handler appeared behind him.

"Neat trick, isn't it?" She said, taking off her sunglasses. "Hello, Five. You look good, all things considered."

He wasn't amused, but went along with the niceties. "It's good to see you again."

"Feels like we met just yesterday. Course, you were a little bit older, then."

He still wasn't amused.

"Congratulations, on the age regression, by the way. Very clever. Threw us all of the scent."

"Ah, well, I wish I could take credit; I just miscalculated the time dilation projections, and... Well, you know. Here I am."

"You realize your efforts are futile. So, why don't you tell me what you really want?"

"I want you to put a stop to it."

"You realize what you're asking for is next to impossible, even for me. What's meant to be, is meant to be. That's our raison d'être."

Five pointed the rifle at her.

"Yeah? Well, how about survival as a raison?" He said.

"I'll just be replaced. I am but a... Small cog in a machine," She half-sang as Five's arm slowly sagged before returning to her normal tone. "This fantasy you're nurting about summoning up your family to stop the apocalypse is... just that; a fantasy. I must say, though, we're all quite impressed with your initiative, your... Stick-to-itiveness, really quite... Quite something. Which is why we want to offer you a new position back at The Commission, in management."

Five scoffed. "Sorry, what's that now?"

"Come back to work for us again, you know it's where you belong."

"Well, it didn't work out too well the last time."

"But you wouldn't be in the correction division any longer, I'm talking about the home office. You'd have the best health and pension, and an end to this ceaseless travel," The Handler laughed. "You're a distinguished professional, in... Schoolboy shorts."

The odds of Five being amused were slim, and she didn't make it yet, but one could admire the attempt.

"We have the technology to reverse the process," She offered. "I mean, you... You can't be happy, like this?" She gestured to his short, thin frame, pushing his gun down lower.

"I'm not looking for happy," He spat.

She brushed the back of her hand against his cheek, smooth save for a nearly imperceptible coating of peach fuzz. "We're all looking for happy. We can make that happen. We can make you... Yourself again."

"And what about my family?"

"What about them?"

"I want them to survive."

The Handler looked around and huffed. Negotiations usually went faster, Five guessed.

"All of them?" She asked.

"Yes, all of them."

"Well..." She reached into her pocket and put her sunglasses back on. "I'll see what I can do. Do we have a deal?"

Five looked at her outstretched hand, and briefly hesitated before shaking it.

///

Part 7: https://bookfroggity.tumblr.com/post/187649566892/past-mistakes-part-7

#my writing #fanfiction #past mistakes #tua #the umbrella academy #long post #death tw

10 notes · View notes

jbuffyangel · 6 years

Text

Fight Back: Arrow 7x01 Review (Inmate 4587)

WOW. Arrow’s Season 7 premiere came out swinging! This took me way longer to write than my typical season premiere because there is so much to unpack. “Inmate 4587” is in my top 3 of Arrow premieres. Not too shabby for seven seasons in. Way to bring your A game, Arrow.

Let’s dig in…

Olicity

And we’re running!

Arrow opens with a green hooded figure racing through the forest like we’ve seen in so many seasons prior. However, it’s not Oliver who is running. It’s William. He’s wearing his father’s green hoodie; the one Oliver wore when he was happily jogging through suburban paradise during his blissful life with Felicity.

This subtle call back to Ivy Town reminds us of heaven as we enter Oliver’s hell.

William stumbles and we immediately know something is off. He’s running through the forests of Lian Yu – a very intact Lian Yu. If William was truly on the island things should be looking a bit more charred. It’s clear this is a nightmare.

Source: felicitysmoakgifs

There’s something full circle about William wearing the green hoodie. Arrow began as a story about father and son. William’s introduction maintains that familial relationship, but now Oliver is the father. His mission began from Robert Queen’s guilt and now Oliver is transferring his own guilt onto his son, albeit in his mind. William is cloaked in a piece of Oliver and trapped in his father’s purgatory. Felicity and William may not truly be on Lian Yu, but they are stuck in their own version of purgatory. They are stuck there because of Oliver’s actions.

Felicity is running close behind William. Diaz is hunting them.

Source: felicitysmoakgifs

Felicity screams Oliver’s name helplessly and Diaz moves menacingly towards them. Felicity tells William to run before Diaz shoots her in the chest.

Source: andjustforthismoment

She collapses to the ground and gasps a final breath. Lian Yu is where everyone Oliver loves dies. The island always finds him. Diaz killed Felicity, but it’s Oliver’s fault.

Source: oliverfelicitygifs

Then, Oliver wakes. This is a new reoccurring nightmare. Nightmares are one of the many ways PTSD manifests in Oliver.

We’ve seen many times before when he’s experiencing a lack of control, facing death or an impossible obstacle, or grappling with his guilt. Oliver is dealing with all of the above in Slabside prison.

We quickly see what life is like on this island.

Source: candicesalvatore

Nightmare, workout, shower, food, stare at the picture of his family, mark the day, sleep and repeat. Repetition can be its own kind of hell. Every day is the same until you start needing that repetition. Until you become “institutionalized” as Red put it in Shawshank Redemption.

Source: @seeing-red-arrow

Oliver places the photo of Felicity and William on top of his copy of “Count of Monte Cristo” because they are his way out. Physically he may be trapped, but there’s more than one way to find freedom.

Oliver’s coping mechanism is to keep his head down while avoiding any human contact of any kind. It’s kind of working until he runs into Stan.

Source: smoakmonster

Good old Stan who stans Oliver Queen. Same buddy (I see you Arrow writers.) Oliver has a fanboy of his very own now. This is very inconvenient to Oliver because he’s not interested in protecting Stan from the vile criminals in Slabside. Oliver isn’t interested in doing anything other than survive. He is a country unto himself. Survival makes Oliver an isolationist.

Brick (Season 3), Turner (Bronze Tiger, Season 5) and Sampson (Amell’s pro wrestler buddy, Season 5) attack Oliver. The fight scenes are BRUTAL. Arrow has reclaimed the dark, savage, gritty, rapid and realistic tone to their fight scenes again. We are also back to Oliver Queen taking on ten guys by himself. Season 1 was highly problematic, but this is one element I am glad the show has returned to.

Oliver plants a shank on Turner and he’s thrown into the hole. I don’t actually know if that’s where he went. I just really wanted to say “thrown into the hole.” My expertise on prison lingo comes from Shawshank Redemption, Netflix documentaries and a lot of Dateline. I also know how to run heroin in and out of New York City thanks to Power.

The fight puts Oliver on Brick’s and the guards’ radar more than he already is. So much for low profile.

Diggle comes for a visit just in time to give Oliver a little pep talk. Oliver looks completely defeated walking towards the phone. It’s a humbling and humiliating experience to be shackled, told where to sit, who to talk to and for how long. These men are a long way from their homey Arrow cave and a bottle of vodka.

Oliver’s voice breaks just a little when asks about William and Felicity. It hurts to even say their names.

Thankfully, the nightmare hasn’t come true… yet. They are safe and Diggle has upped their surveillance to 24 hours after his last visit with Oliver. The 24 hour surveillance was probably Oliver’s request after suffering through the 90th rerun of his nightmare. Oliver is desperately trying to think of every angle and tactic to keep his family safe. He’s trying to maintain control even though he has none.

When John remarks on Oliver’s appearance (seriously he looks like crap and it’s not just because of the dead animal on his face), Oliver responds, “I’ve looked worse.”

Pain is relative to Oliver Queen. Slabside is nothing to Lian Yu… yet. He’s not stopping birds from picking at his father’s body. Oliver hasn’t been tortured for hours with a sword.

There’s no arrow through his shoulder.

He hasn’t chosen who lives and who dies.

Oliver’s life is a series of bad to worse moments. It’s why Felicity and William are so precious to him.

They are his lone happy story among all the misery.

Oliver compares and contrasts Slabslide with all his bad days, orders it accordingly, and determines he’s had much worse days – much much worse. His family is safe, which is all that matters. That is hope for Oliver, which was sadly lacking on Lian Yu. Bruises and cuts heal - the pain doesn’t come close to the pain Oliver truly fears the most.

Diggle supports the “Keep your head down” plan, but he worries about the emotional toll it’s going to take. Oliver has made himself quiet, submissive and small, but he’s not any of those things. He has to suppress who he is to survive. How long can Oliver ignore who he is before he loses himself all together? Oliver Queen has always done what he’s had to do to survive, but what does survival truly look like inside of Slabside?

Source: oliverfelicitygifs

Oliver returns from his visit with Diggle to find Brick and Sampson in his cell. Brick creepily caresses Felicity’s photo and Oliver is ready to kill him right there. DO NOT TOUCH THE WIFE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.

Brick gives the standard join-us-or-we’ll- kill-your-family villain pitch. When this doesn’t motivate Oliver they attack Stan. Unfortunately, Oliver refuses to protect Stan and walks away as Brick and Sampson beat the crap out of him.

Source: saebrfan

THIS was the moment Stephen Amell was convinced fans’ would be furious with Oliver over. Eh. Not so much. Do what you gotta do home skillet.

Listen, I thought Oliver was going to kill Stan.

This was waaaaaaaaaaaaaay better than my worst case scenario. It’s also wildly apparent my dark is a lot darker than Arrow and I’m considering a therapist.

The guards drag Stan back to his cell (awww he’s neighbors with Oliver) after he’s stitched up and he looks like Frankenstein’s bride. Oliver explains all the reasons he couldn’t get involved. They are all understandable reasons, but very “me” focused reasons which isn’t very Oliver Queen. We can argue Oliver doesn’t know Stan, owes him nothing, and the priority is getting back to his family. This is all true.

However, Oliver didn’t know 98% of the people he saved as the Green Arrow. He wasn’t a hero because he wanted a reward or thanks. Oliver was a hero because it was the right thing to do. He sacrifices himself for the greater good. Oliver Queen is selfless. It’s what makes him a hero.

Unfortunately, Stan the fanboy is presented with a disappointing version of the Green Arrow. He explains how he’s wrongfully accused. (Oooh! Dateline on Arrow? I’m so down.) There’s no justice in Slabside or Star City. Stan was hopeful he’d see the Green Arrow fight for justice, but all he sees is a coward.

Jeez Stan. Snap a man’s balls off why don’t ya? You’re alive bro - be glad the writers didn’t go with our other theory.

After Stan calls Oliver a coward the lights switch off. Okay we get it, show. No need to beat us over the head with the symbolism. Oliver is suppressing who he truly is, which means he’s suppressing his light. A man can only live in darkness for so long before he’s consumed by it.

Gee I wonder who can harness his light again.

It’s tricky to separate your main couple for long periods of time on a television show. The central love story can be easily lost if you don’t keep the characters connected even when they are physically or emotionally separated. Arrow is always at its best when Felicity and Oliver are united as a team. The show flounders when this couple is separated for long periods of time or not allowed to emotionally connect.

“Inmate 4587” plays it smart. Oliver and Felicity may be separated by walls, but they’ve never been more connected. They are both on an island. Felicity is struggling to adjust to her new environment as well. Her name is Erin. She’s living in Hope Springs and is the cutest pink haired barista to ever live.

Source: whenikisssedyou

The nice guy customer hitting on Felicity and asking her on a date is to remind us how disconnected Felicity is to this life. She looks like a happy, single woman on the surface, but deep down she is lonely, missing her husband and everything that matters to her.

Source: andjustforthismoment

Unfortunately, Felicity can’t say she’s married. She can’t wear her wedding ring and talk about how much she misses her husband. Felicity can’t explain why she knows computers so well. She can’t even say her real name. She’s tried to make herself small, quiet and forgettable, but Felicity is not any of those things.

However, when Felicity suppresses her light it only fights to burn brighter. Felicity is the same person serving coffee as she is hacking A.R.G.U.S. satellites. Felicity approaches her life in Hope Springs with the same humor she brings to everything.

Source: whenikisssedyou

The young man asks her out because she is beautiful, smart, warm and funny. People can see Felicity’s goodness no matter how hard she tries to hide it. Also, she’s serving coffee and not living in prison so it is little easier to be a slightly more cheerful.

I love Felicity’s reaction to being asked out. “Still got it!” Something happens when you get married, start raising children, and picking up snot rags. You stop thinking of yourself as desirable. Felicity has spent so much time making sure she’s hidden she’s forgotten what it feels like to be seen. It’s a warm and friendly reminder to Felicity that she’s anything but invisible.

Source: whenikisssedyou

Felicity returns home to a dark apartment and William is there to greet her. Felicity holds the key chain Oliver gave her in one hand and her son in the other.

It’s a tangible connection to everything she’s lost and everything she still has. Felicity is desperately trying to hold on to the pieces of her life, but it’s not the same. She’s not the same and Felicity knows it in her bones. Felicity is doing what she needs to do to survive, but what does survival truly look like on this island?

Both Oliver and Felicity are struggling with the same questions. Each is living in a repetitious purgatory. They sleep restlessly in an empty bed, aching for each other.

They wake to the same photo. A reminder of what was lost and what they still have.

They both step into the shower. They shake off the nightmares and loneliness, wash away yesterday, and fortify their will to face another day.

There’s a sense of foreboding. Someone is coming.

They fight for survival.

Source: oliverfelicitygifs

As vicious as Oliver’s shower fight is, it is Felicity’s fight with Diaz that stresses me out.

Source: smoaktechs

My worst fear is being alone in my home, with my child, and unable to defend us. It hit a little too close to home watching one of my beloved fictional characters go through it. I was terrified for Felicity and it is one of the few times Diaz felt menacing.

Source: smoaktechs

But nobody fucks with her cub. Felicity goes full Mama Bear on Diaz and it is spectacular.

Source: feilcityqueen

She takes advantage of Diaz’s need to monologue (Of course he monologues. All arrogant pricks monologue) and gets William out. Felicity didn’t hesitate to put her body between William and danger. That’s love. That’s being a mother. It makes me emotional even thinking of it now and Imma need a tissue. Just a second.

Okay I’m good. Just when we thought there was nothing better than Oliver fighting naked in a shower they give us Felicity kicking Diaz's ass. Can we take a moment to appreciate how little Felicity Smoak, all of 5’ 5” and less than 100 pounds, beat the crap out of the big bad, super ninja Dragon with a coffee pot and a poker? AMAAAAAAAZING.

Sure, he flips her into a table like a rag doll, but that’s like being impressed if Goliath beat David. Diaz doesn’t get points for putting a woman HALF HIS SIZE through a table.

BY THE WAY WHERE’S THE 24 HOUR SURVEILLANCE DIGGLE?

Felicity’s fight ends with the impending doom of a bullet and Oliver’s fight ends with one of the prisoners confirming Felicity is dead.

Source: oliverfelicitygifs

Oliver: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Me: Pfft. Not in this life. *eats a cookie*

Oliver paces in his cell like a caged animal.. The guards refuse to allow him a phone call or to call themselves. This is when the walls close in. This is when we understand how uncontrolled and helpless Oliver feels. He has all the skills and strength to stop Diaz, but instead it sits bottled up and useless. Oliver defines himself by his ability to protect those he loves. It’s how Oliver loves. Now it’s taken from him. He can do absolutely nothing. He is powerless.

Oliver is back on Lian Yu again. The birds are picking at his father’s bones. The arrow is in his shoulder. He’s being tortured by Billy Wintergreen. Yao Fei is dead. Shado is shot in front of him. Sara is swept away. This is all of Oliver’s bad days rolled into one and times a million. The reason why Oliver can order his pain so nonchalantly is because he already knows what his worst pain is.

This. This is his worst nightmare, only he isn’t dreaming. Oliver isn’t in purgatory anymore. This is hell and it will never end.

Oliver waits for Diggle to walk in and confirm his family is dead. Instead of Diggle walking through the doors, it’s Felicity

Source: oliverfelicitygifs

– just like she has time and time again.

It is like watching Oliver be reborn. He was dead inside. All hope vanished from his eyes. The will to live was gone. Then that beautiful, but battered vision of pink and flannel flies through the door and Oliver remembers how to breathe again. He comes back to life.

If there is ever a time Oliver wants to punch through that glass this is it. I think he shows an incredible amount of self restraint.

Source: oliverfelicitygifs

If it were up to me Oliver, I would have bust out of there Faith style.

Oliver whispers, “You’re okay” just like he’s done so many times before, in his soft and gentle voice reserved just for her. Oliver says it to reassure himself almost as much to reassure Felicity. He needs to hear she’s okay; to know it’s true.

Source: oliverfelicitygifs

Of course, Felicity is horrified by Oliver’s appearance, but the cuts and bruises have all but disappeared in his mind. All that matters is his family is safe.

Source: oliverfelicitygifs

This is what I love about married Olicity – we aren’t beating around the bush anymore.

Source: oliverfelicitygifs

Remember when we had to wait a whole season for these types of goodies?

Oliver and Felicity know better now. Life is short. Everything they hold dear can be gone in an instant. They don’t want to waste time. They need to say what matters, so the other knows. So it gives them something to hold onto.

Oliver apologizes for not being there to protect Felicity. He can’t even look her in the eye he’s so ashamed. It’s heart breaking watching Oliver blame himself for things out of his control. Felicity rightly points out that there’s no way Oliver could have been there because he’s in prison. But guilt is how Oliver maintains his sense of control when the world spins madly on.

Oliver went to prison to keep Felicity and William safe, but Diaz was supposed to be off the board. He is powerless to stop everything he tried to keep his family safe from. There’s anger in Felicity’s voice when she says “I know.” There’s a thousand arguments wrapped up in that “I know.” There are a million reasons Oliver’s plan was stupid in that “I know.” There’s a billion ways Oliver stole Felicity’s agency in that “I know.” Felicity won’t read Oliver the riot act while he’s fighting for his life in prison, but that “I know” means its coming, big boy.

Oliver immediately starts telling Felicity what to do again. He wants her to get new identities and go back into witness protection. This is how it works between them. Oliver does as he wants and Felicity reacts.

In fact, Felicity’s character is often a series of reaction. Oliver breaks up with her and Felicity reacts. Oliver lies to Felicity and she reacts. Felicity is shot and reacts. Damien launches nukes and Felicity reacts. Her boyfriend is killed and Felicity reacts. Felicity seldom, if ever, gets to move her story via her own agency. It’s rare she makes the decision and the other characters have to react to her.

Source: felicitysmoakgifs

Not this time.

This time Felicity is acting. This time Felicity is making the decisions. This time Oliver doesn’t get a say. This time Oliver has to react. It’s a powerful reclamation of her agency.

Felicity was not able to protect William from Diaz and they would be dead if ARGUS hadn’t shown up.

Source: whoeveryoulovethemost

She feels powerless, but she felt powerless long before Diaz showed up in her apartment. She’s remained hidden, but to do so is suppressing one of the most important parts of her. Felicity needs to fight back. It is who she is. She can’t watch helplessly as everything she loves is taken from her. Felicity refuses remain hiding in a cave waiting to die.

She’s never been that person and she sure as hell isn’t starting now.

Source: whoeveryoulovethemost

And if Oliver doesn’t like it (he doesn’t) well that’s just tough cookies.

Oliver isn’t going down without a fight though.

Source: whoeveryoulovethemost

Of course Oliver understands her helplessness because he shares it. However, Oliver’s way to deal with it is to keep his head down. They narrowly avoided Oliver’s worst nightmare coming true, but now Felicity is tempting fate. Oliver’s mind is racing with all the ways this could go wrong. He begs and pleads with Felicity to go back into witness protection, but she holds firm.

Source: whoeveryoulovethemost

Something happens when Oliver and Felicity place their hands through the window.

They may be separated by walls and glass, but they are connected in their suffering. They are connected in the way they deal with that suffering. They are connected by vows.

Oliver seems to realize this when his palm reaches for hers.

Source: oliverxfelicity

He begs for more time, but he is locked in a world where everything is controlled by someone else.

Once again he’s being torn away from the woman he loves.

Felicity is crumbling and she reaches for Oliver through the glass again.

Oliver acquiesces. He does so to calm her, so they don’t part on bad terms. Oliver also has no choice, but to agree. He’s not making the decisions for Felicity anymore. It’s her turn to decide. Oliver understands that now.

Source: oliverfelicitygifs

Felicity returns to William waiting for her at ARGUS and explains she is sending him to a boarding school. William immediately thinks Felicity is abandoning him, which is a natural first reaction. She reassures William this is not forever and once Diaz is off the board she will come for him. This is an incredibly smart decision on Felicity’s part. She can’t do what she needs to do if she’s constantly worrying about William’s safety. Diaz won’t have anyone to hold over Felicity if there’s no one to find.

Source: @felicitysmoakgifs

She gives William the hozen and right about now is when I start to cry. THEA GAVE FELICITY THE HOZEN. QUEEN SISTERS FOREVER.

Obviously, the hozen means reconnection, but Felicity is totally tracking that sucker.

Felicity puts on a brave face and reassures William it will all be over soon. The truth is, Felicity doesn’t know how this will turn out. She’s putting it all on the line to stop Diaz, but for the first time in a long time Felicity feels like herself. Felicity won’t go gentle into that good night. She will rage against the dying of the light.

“Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” by Dylan Thomas

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Felicity’s actions do trigger a reaction in Oliver. She wasn’t trying to harness Oliver’s light in their jailhouse chat. She was harnessing her own light. Felicity is determined to be who she is even if it costs her everything. Seeing Felicity fight like this inspires Oliver to do the same. Oliver realizes he can only control himself.

He wipes the chalkboard clean. He’s done keeping his head down. Oliver is done counting. He’s done living a slow and quiet death. Oliver Queen needs to fight back because that’s who he is.

As much as I love dark Oliver, I am glad Arrow isn’t rewinding him back to Season 1 status on this island. Oliver shut down over the five month hiatus, but that’s done now. It’s clear he will fight to retain the light he’s worked so hard to find over the last six years. It’s incredibly important for Oliver to learn he can hold on to who he is even when he’s cut off from everyone he loves. It’s a crucial step in his superhero evolution. Oliver is already light years ahead of where I thought we’d be starting from.

Source: seeing-red-arrow

There’s a glimmer in Oliver’s eye and the hint of a small smile as he stares at the photo of his beloved wife and son. He enters the prison yard holding his copy of “The Count of Monte Cristo,” but he’s not going to read it.

Oliver uses the book to beat the ever loving crap out Brick.

He ignores the guard’s warning and beats a prisoner, the man who told him Felicity was dead, with a 100 pound weight.

Source: dctvgifs

The Green Arrow is officially in Slabside.

Oliver kneels, puts his hands behind his back, breathes deep and looks at the sky. He feels like himself for the first time since entering prison. He may not have escaped (yet), but there are many ways to find freedom. Felicity and William paved the way out. Oliver will not go gentle into that good night. He will rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Diggle, the Newbies and Mystery Green Arrow

The weakest part of the episode BY FAR is all the stuff with Rene, Dinah and Curtis. As per usual, Curtis operates as default Felicity. He’s taken a job as the head of R&D at A.R.G.U.S. and for love of Zeus please let him stay there.

There is absolutely no reason for this man to remain on Team Arrow. Ship him off to wherever Lyla goes when she’s not on the show. Then bring Lyla back more - a lot more. Prayer circle time.

Rene is working at a boxing outreach center and I am really trying to care, but I don’t.

One of the kids argues he won’t be able to defend himself in the Glades with a couple boxing lessons. Oh yeah? TELL THAT TO L*UREL L*NCE BOXER EXTRAORDINAIRE. Wait. She’s dead. Never mind. Kid is right. Hehehe. I jest.

Rene is all about helping this mysterious new Green Arrow whereas Dinah, as the new police chief, is intent on catching him. If Rene is so hard pressed to play vigilante and go to prison then why didn’t he just do that in the first place? Then Oliver wouldn’t need to save your ass and leave everyone one he loves behind, Rene!!!!

Dinah believes not being a vigilante is honoring Oliver’s sacrifice, which okay... I guess?

I don’t know. She’s trying to restore the citizen’s belief in the police force again. If the police ever arrest someone on this show without a vigilante’s help then I’ll eat my hat. This feels like trying to make Dinah into Season 1 Quentin Lance or Season 2 LL. Her hard line on vigilantes doesn’t make a ton of sense though since, ya know, SHE WAS ONE.

Diggle isn’t big on masking up either because he doesn’t want any of the blame to fall back on Oliver’s shoulders - i.e. it screws up any potential for Oliver’s early release. This feels like a far better reason to stay off the streets than anything Dinah or Rene came up with. Points to Diggle.

The whole Dinah versus Rene thing felt very forced given how “Ra Ra Team Newbies” they both were last season. Also, I don’t care if they are getting along. I don’t care if they are fighting. I don’t care if they go have smoothies every night, play Fortnight and braid Dinah’s hair. Whatever.

The Mystery Green Arrow, let’s call he or she MGA for short, is interesting because he/she allows Arrow to bring back old school Oliver without actually bringing back old school Oliver. We keep Oliver’s character growth and get nifty stunts like this:

Source: saebrfan

At first, my money was on Roy. There was a lot of unnecessary parkour. Seems like a no brainer. Reveals like this on Arrow are seldom surprising, so I am prepping for the most obvious choice.

Source: olivergifs

However, I did notice there was a decidedly pink hue among all the green light. Pink is the American color for girl, so MGA may be female. I don’t think she’s Katherine McNamara’s character though. Maya is described as Buffy The Superhero Slayer. If you want to slay vigilantes you don’t like them. So, it’s a bit of a head scratcher if Maya is running around as a vigilante.

Perhaps MGA is the mysterious yet unnamed character played by Shea Shoomka. Maybe she is Robert Queen’s daughter and Oliver’s half sister. Who knows at this point. Watching for clues will be fun.

Flash Forwards

Real time reactions of me watching Arrow 7x01:

None of the above! It’s flash forward Roy and grown up William. IT’S FREAKING AMAZING.

I am so here for flash forwards.

Source: supercanaries

I looooooove this type of storytelling particularly on This Is Us. If you’ve read any of the interviews with Beth she’s a big This Is Us fan as well. Now, before everyone starts flipping their skillet over Oliver being dead, there’s nothing William said to Roy that directly points to his father being dead. He spoke in both past and present.

Beth said there will be other present day characters showing up in the flash forwards. I am so here for aged up Felicity.

Since Stephen is signed for Season 8 and he’s the star of the freaking show, I feel confident he’ll show up in the flash forwards.

This is twenty years into the future (2040), so Oliver is probably at home and drinking a scotch with Felicity. Maybe William’s younger brother or sister is home from college. I don’t know, but I’m not worried about it.

The bigger question is – what the hell happened to Roy? He’s gone Season 1 Hiatus Oliver on us. Why didn’t he recognize William? How long has he been on Lian Yu? Where the heck is Thea?

You can bet Felicity’s comment about always being able to find William if he has the hozen will be important in the flash forward.

Not a lot of information on William other than he’s cute (family trait) and incredibly rich (also a family trait). We all know Oliver won’t be bringing home the big bucks any time soon, so Felicity’s company is a smashing success. Seriously - $200,000 for a boat ride y’all. They are loaded.

He also has a bit of the Oliver Queen sarcastic wit and, according to Beth, is very smart. LOVE IT.

I know some are bothered by the reappearance of the island. Yes, Lian Yu was “blown up” in Season 5, but that doesn’t mean it disappeared. In present day it is uninhabitable, but have you ever seen a forest twenty years after a fire? It looks like nothing happened. So all the regrowth on the island is perfectly natural. Adrian Chase didn’t nuke it.

I also know some were bothered the grave sites were still in tact, but I’m fine with it. First, it’s Arrow. They play fast and loose with accuracy at times. BS is a DA. If you want to cry foul she’s the bigger fish to fry.

Source: @oliverdant

Second, I always thought the graves were a few feet from the shoreline. Oliver didn’t drag his father’s body ten miles into the forest to bury him when he stepped off that raft. He didn’t have the energy.

Third, it’s entirely possible the graves were not near bomb sites or weren’t impacted by the bombs. Would Adrian Chase leave Robert Queen’s grave undisturbed? I mean… I don’t know. What’s he gonna do? Kill Robert more? Worst case, the bombs destroyed the wooden headstones and, at some point in the future, someone (probably Oliver) returns to replace their memorials. Does it really matter? No. Just roll with it.

This opens up a ton of story telling possibilities and Beth promised the flash forwards would remain on the show for as long as it’s on air. So, we get to see all of the characters we love (or most of them) twenty years into the future. That’s nifty. It’s absolutely something Arrow can tie up and bring full circle when the show goes off the air.

Is anyone else dying to see the Olicity baby all grown up in the flash forward? I AM. Beth also said there would be no time travel, so I am not expecting flash forward characters to show up in present day. If Katherine McNamara is playing Olicity’s daughter, like some have theorized, then I believe we’ll only see her in the flash forwards. See how quickly I made this about babies? Yes, I have a one track mind.

Stray Thoughts

If we are going to get this many Oliver work out and shower scenes then I’ll survive the prison storyline. Source: arrowdaily

Yes, I spent nearly a page discussing green hoodies. You know you love me.

Popular music on Arrow is rare. I really love using “Madness” by Ruelle for the opening montage.

We don’t know much about Diggle other than he’s working for ARGUS, so let’s dig deeper in future episodes Arrow. Pun intended. You owe us some decent Diggle time.

As a woman who’s on the later side of the 35-40 age bracket let’s settle down with the aging make up. Roy is 50. He’s not 80.

Pink hair Felicity looks like Lady Lovely Locks and Jem had a baby together. It’s everything I didn’t know I needed.

I love that Felicity calls William “Will.” STEP MOTHER NICKNAMES FOREVER.

Arrow keeps faking killing Felicity because they’d rather walk into hell than do it for real. How many times has Arrow pretended to kill Moira, Laurel, Quentin, Tommy? ZERO. Every time Felicity’s death is a ruse it lessens the emotional impact and shock if it happens for real. It’s no different than killing Oliver in 3x09. Arrow has already filmed Oliver’s perfect death scene, which makes it highly unlikely death is his ending.

Honestly, if that coffee customer took one look at Oliver’s picture he’d know better than to ask for a date.

LL hit the streets as BC after a couple boxing lessons. BS hits a couple law books and is DA. You’re right LL fandom. Totally same character.

Is anyone else unnerved watching all these characters fight crime legally?

Diggle thinks it's a smart play to keep his head down. Felicity wants to fight back. Oliver always listens to the wifey. See? He’s starting to understand how marriage works. There’s hope!

Disclaimer: Any gifs on the blog are not mine. If you would like a gif removed from my reviews, please message me. 7x01 gifs credited.

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#arrow #olicity #arrow 7x01 #arrow reviews #arrow spoilers #oliver queen #felicity smoak #william clayton #roy harper #anti rene ramirez #anti dinah drake #anti curtis holt #john diggle #anti black siren #arrow season 7 episode reviews #season 7 episode review

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shyflameweasel · 3 years

Text

Probability

Is this old news? Yes.

Am I still annoyed at it? Also yes.

What it is about? If this is in the right tag then it should be somewhat visible. It’s about everyone’s favorite human character in Transformers Prime: Silas.

Specifically for his act of wearing a corpse in the hopes it would make him a god to humans instead of the demented little meat man that he is. It’s not just the corpse snatching, plus vivisection on the corpse when they were still alive.

For all intents and purposes I shouldn’t be all strung out about it. And ya, for the most part I’m not. It’s for how actually plausible it is for him to do what he did. If it was any other character besides this maniac I would be completely fine. But what he did and who he did it to is what grinds my gears.

It’s basically like a small animal or insect deciding to take over a dead human and go walking around thinking that now it can live a human life with all the perks. Well, considering that several fungi and and parasites already do this kind of thing to insects I’m not too surprised.

He essentially turned Breakdown into into an amalgamation of a exoskeleton suit (which is an actual thing being developed), a full body prosthesis, and an life support system. Its like a Frankenstein-esque iron lung with limbs that has a giant ass hammer and guns.

It would have been much easier to copy the neural pathways of his brain into a electronic copy of himself if MECH was that advanced. Way smarter too for several reasons.

So lets start out with something smallish and common knowledge. Transformer anatomy. Transformers are technological based, meaning that although they have a humanoid shape they’re systems are mainly that of normal mechanics. They do share some similarities to human anatomy but this differs on the bot, and continuity.

Skimming over that, lets get to the meat of things. How he was grafted into Breakdown. For one, MECH had at least some of his specs from their vivisection of the Decepticon. Not too mention what information they were able to get post-mortem and whatever info they got from Starscream when he worked with MECH. This part get a bit tricky cause I had trouble finding information from the show so its just speculation to a degree here.

What most likely occurred that they grafted sensors onto either Silas’ spine or to the amputations of his body. (Thank you Agent Fowler for taking a bazooka to the dude.) This would allow for the electrical pulses of his nerves to work through the sensors and translate it into Breakdown’s limbs. Add into that the plate and wires coming out of his head would further strengthen the control as well as hook up to Breakdown’s head to allow for input and out put of sight, hearing, and speaking. I also wouldn’t be surprised if in the chest section they hollowed out to mount Silas is some form of nutrient drip or something.

Now all of this? This is in the realm of plausibility. Not the body snatching but having prosthetics connecting to either the severed nerve ending or into muscles. Current ones that I’ve heard in development were ones that used the movement of the muscles in the arm to predict how a prosthetic hand should move. Not the best for fine motor functions but works great with basic hand movements.

Exoskeletons are used for patients that have been in accidents where they have to retrain their ability to walk due to muscular or nerve damage. They go over the clothes and act as a safety net while a person get physical therapy to regain some to full mobility.

Here’s where the dumb part of Silas plan comes into play. He so badly wants to be a Cybertronian and to throw away his humanity that he doesn’t really take into account the risks. He is the meat filling of this robo-twinkie. If anything happens to his meat suit then there’s gonna be no one around to fix it. Why? Cause for one he went ‘your free trial of living is over’ and murdered all the folks that got him to that point. So no help there. Dude can’t really go to the hospital cause, ya’know grafted into a giant robot. I have absolutely no clue if he’s actually eating food to get the needed nutrients to o’ I don’t know live. Plus lets not forget that energon in this continuity is actually poisonous to humans with Raf almost dying from it.

And either the Decepticons or the Autobots? Not gonna happen. The latter may but that would be solely out of their morals and would do anything in their power to get him out of the disturbing amalgamation he turned himself. Which leaves the Decepticons. The guys that hate organics. The guys that see humans as an annoyance. The ones who would see this and absolutely despise Silas.

The man turned himself into an abomination of science and I am not at all surprised that this later resulted in the Terrorcon virus breaking out aboard the Nemisis.

Thanks for listening to my rambling and have a nice day.

#personal little rant #this is the kind of stuff I study so I'm always excited to see it in cartoons #although it does make it a bit hard sometimes to enjoy shows

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marksburyscripts · 3 years

Text

Episode 8-- Where Two Were Made

Google Doc

Content Warnings: -Strangulation

[Pre-episode announcement]

Hey, everyone! Victor Stark here! Just a couple announcements before we get started with this episode. First off: We are currently accepting auditions for Season 2 of The Marksbury Incident. Yes, already, wow! You can find us over at PariahPod on Casting Calls Club, or at the link in the description of this episode. Auditions go until February 14, 2021, and if you don’t get a chance to audition for next season, we will have auditions for future seasons, as well.

Second: We have merch! You can get Marksbury bags, replicas of Henry’s college hockey shirt, or anything else RedBubble will let us put our designs on. Again, you can find us at PariahPod, or in the link in the description.

Finally, thank you all so much for sticking with us. I can’t speak for everyone else, but I know that I’m having an absolute blast sharing this story, and I can’t wait for you to see how everything plays out.

Okay, that’s it from me! Here is Episode 8!

[Buxley, Maine. Ingleside University. Day. Christine and Victor are walking around campus]

CHRISTINE

So, how's it feel to be back?

VICTOR

Terrible, and I want to leave.

CHRISTINE

We drove six hours to get here, and you said you thought it was a good idea.

VICTOR

No, my therapist said it was a good idea, and I made the mistake of mentioning that to you.

[The sound of a small bell as they enter a cafe]

CHRISTINE

If you really aren’t comfortable, we can go back to the hotel. We don’t have to rush it.

VICTOR

No. No, we’re here, might as well get it over with.

BARISTA

Hi, what can I get you?

CHRISTINE

Hi, could I please get a small chai tea latte?

BARISTA

And for you?

VICTOR

Yeah, could I do a large black coffee with three espresso shots?

BARISTA

...Sorry, did you say--

VICTOR

Three, yeah.

[There are several seconds of concerned silence]

CHRISTINE

...How are you alive right now?

VICTOR

Through very unfortunate circumstances. [He slides his card] And yet.

CHRISTINE

You’re sure you’re okay being here, though?

VICTOR

We’re gonna find out pretty quick, aren’t we? [Beat.] Did they redo the library?

CHRISTINE

Yeah, they started not long after you left.

VICTOR

Good, that place was falling apart. Did you ever see on the third floor, that there was that glass partition that was just completely shattered and held together with tape?

CHRISTINE

Is that the one someone glued a bunch of condoms all over?

VICTOR

No, that was the one on the second floor.

CHRISTINE

Ah.

VICTOR

Everything else looks pretty much the same, though, if I remember correctly.

BARISTA

Here you go, you two.

CHRISTINE

Thank you.

VICTOR [Overlapping with above]

Thanks.

CHRISTINE

Yeah, I guess they were planning on updating the gym and the theater, but the funding had to go toward something else.

VICTOR

Oh?

CHRISTINE

Something to do with an “accident” in a biology lab.

VICTOR

...Ah.

ICHABOD

Well, would you look what we have here. It’s been a while, Christine, how have you been?

CHRISTINE

Professor Crane! Good, really good!

ICHABOD

And Victor Frankenstein. I didn’t expect to see you again.

VICTOR

Because I had a mental breakdown, set fire to the science building, and dropped out before they could expel me?

ICHABOD [With an audible smirk]

Because you hated my class.

VICTOR [Softly]

Oh, right.

ICHABOD

So, what brings you two back? Looking for a bit of nostalgia?

VICTOR

Therapy trip.

CHRISTINE [Cutting in before things can get too awkward]

But how are things with you? Everything still going well?

ICHABOD

Yeah, about the same as they were. Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing. Are you two still around here?

CHRISTINE

No, we’re both down in Massachusetts now.

ICHABOD

Whereabouts?

VICTOR

Doubt you’ve heard of it.

ICHABOD

I’m from Connecticut originally, I might have.

CHRISTINE

Marksbury? It’s not far from the Connecticut border, actually.

ICHABOD

Okay, yeah. I’ve never been, but I’ve heard it’s nice.

VICTOR

It’s trash.

CHRISTINE [Cutting in again]

We were just gonna hang out here for a while. You’re welcome to join us if you’re not busy.

[Victor lets out an exasperated breath. Christine hits him, and he lets out a small “Ow”]

ICHABOD

I suppose I have some time.

VICTOR

Don’t you have like… a class to teach or something?

CHRISTINE [Through her teeth]

Don’t be rude.

ICHABOD

They have the ramp for the music building torn apart for renovations, so all of my courses have to be online for the next few weeks. Really I just wanted to get out of the house.

CHRISTINE

Perfect timing, then.

[Two chairs are pulled out, and Ichabod pulls his wheelchair up to the table. Victor unzips his bag and starts flipping through a book]

CHRISTINE

So they seriously just took apart the ramp in the middle of the school year?

ICHABOD

Despite my best efforts to get them to put it off, yes.

CHRISTINE

And no alternative accommodations? Isn't that extremely illegal? If you went to the news with that, I'm sure it would get fixed up within a few days. If there's one thing universities hate, it's bad press and lawsuits. Hell, I'll do it if you're afraid the school will retaliate.

ICHABOD

Oh, believe me, several news stations and papers have already gotten some anonymous tips. It’s just a matter of time before they--

[He cuts himself off, a touch of fear creeping into his voice]

Victor, what are you reading?

VICTOR

Uh… it's my mom's journal…? I'm not even really reading it, it's not in English, and sure I know some scientific Latin, but I've never been good with--

ICHABOD

Let me see it.

VICTOR

What?

ICHABOD

That page you have open. Please. [Victor slides the book over. Ichabod takes a few seconds to look it over. When he speaks again, it is clear that he is trying to keep from panicking] You two should go.

CHRISTINE

Wait, what do you mean?

ICHABOD

This-- You two should go back to Marksbury. Victor, whatever your mother was doing… I think it's best if you leave it alone. It was nice to see you both.

CHRISTINE

Professor Crane, wait!

[The bell rings as he leaves the cafe]

VICTOR

...One day. Just one day, I'd like to not have something ominous happen. Three hundred miles away, and I still have to deal with it.

CHRISTINE

He recognized that symbol. Do you know what it means?

VICTOR

No. No, I've never seen it outside of the journal.

CHRISTINE

We should go after him, if he knows--

VICTOR

If he knows, that's his business. Whatever this is, whatever… follows me, I don't care. I'm done searching for answers to questions that people aren't meant to know.

CHRISTINE

And yet, you're still looking through the diary full of ciphers and weird sigils. I know I haven't known you for long, Victor, but even I can tell when you're lying to me.

VICTOR

You ever think that maybe I just didn't want to forget what her handwriting looked like? ...Look, we'll talk about it later. C’mon. I’m stressed and I feel like garbage, might as well keep going before I start to feel better.

[The cafe bell dings once more as they exit]

CHRISTINE

You’re sure you’re going to be okay?

VICTOR

No. But no point in turning back now.

CHRISTINE

Let me know if you change your mind, okay? I’m not gonna force you to do anything.

VICTOR

No. No, I need this. Don’t let me get out of it. Hold me there if you have to.

CHRISTINE

I’m not an expert, but I don’t think that would be healthy.

VICTOR

Look at me. I left healthy coping mechanisms behind a long time ago. There comes a time when you just have to force yourself to bite the bullet.

CHRISTINE

If you say so…. [Beat.] Tell me what you’re thinking.

VICTOR

That I should have gotten another espresso shot in my coffee.

CHRISTINE

I’m being serious.

VICTOR

...I feel like everyone’s staring.

CHRISTINE

Why would they be staring?

VICTOR

I don’t know, maybe-- maybe they recognize me. I’m sure there’s a few dozen urban legends or rumors, or maybe they’re just really into true crime stuff.

CHRISTINE

Victor, it was five years ago. Plus, you’ve changed a lot since then.

VICTOR

Thanks.

CHRISTINE

I’m not wrong.

VICTOR

No, you’re not.

CHRISTINE

No one’s staring, Victor. I promise. Everything’s okay. [As they approach the science building, Victor lets out a breath] You good?

VICTOR [Clearly not fine] Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just… never thought I’d see this place again. Can’t even tell what happened. [Beat.] It was in that room. Right there. Third floor, fifth from the left. Lab 311B. Lightning struck the rod I’d snuck onto the roof, down the wires and into-- [Beat.] I’d been holding onto the cables hardly a second before, I remember thinking how lucky I was that I’d let go in time. Then… it went wrong. The fire alarms took a while to go off. I was already down the hallway and headed toward the stairs by the time it started. Three floors down, and out the door. Then across the quad and toward my apartment. Maybe people saw me. They probably did, but-- But I'm not sure. I don’t even remember what happened on the way there, next thing I knew I was calling Elliot with no idea what I was supposed to tell him. I hadn’t spoken to anyone back home in months, and obviously I never told them what I was working on.

CHRISTINE

And what did you end up saying?

VICTOR

Nothing clear. Just that I was scared, that I made a mistake. It was the middle of the night, he didn’t even answer. By the time he woke up and listened to the voicemail, the police had already shown up at my doorstep and taken me away. I don't remember much past that, but I know it took them two days and a firm attorney before they actually sent me to a hospital.

CHRISTINE

That's horrible.

VICTOR

And yet, I am not surprised in the slightest.

CHRISTINE

Do you want to go in?

VICTOR

No. No, this… this is enough for today, I think. We can try that in another five years. [He forces a laugh]

CHRISTINE

...Can I ask you something?

VICTOR

You say that a lot.

CHRISTINE

Is there any reason in particular that you were being a huge ass to Professor Crane earlier? It’s not like you.

VICTOR

Would you believe me if I said that I just don’t like him?

CHRISTINE

Nope.

VICTOR

...Trusting people is hard. I had one class with the guy, it’s not like I really know him.

CHRISTINE

You could say the same about me.

VICTOR

And who says I trust you?

CHRISTINE

I thought that was implied when you agreed to be alone with me three hundred miles away from home.

VICTOR

...Good point. [Sighs] I-- I don’t know. I don’t know, there’s just… something. I think… you remind me of my sister a bit.

CHRISTINE

Yeah?

VICTOR

Yeah. Like… warm, but rational, you know? Never afraid to tell me when I’m being an idiot. Which happened a lot. [Laughs] She was into the arts, too. I was actually the odd kid out in that regard. She and my brother, they had this arrangement. If she were ever having artist’s block, they’d sit down at the piano together. Billy would make up a little melody on the spot, and Evelynn would paint something that made her feel the same way the music did. You know, the songs weren’t exactly breathtaking, he was ten. [On the verge of tears] But… they were nice.

CHRISTINE [Soft]

You okay?

VICTOR

...Can we leave now?

CHRISTINE

Yeah. Let’s rent a movie at the hotel. I know one you’ll love.

[A beat of silence as the recording ends and the scene changes. That night. We hear crickets and Ichabod’s wheelchair on the pavement. He pauses, listens for a moment, then continues on, slightly faster now. Whispers begin to fade in, and he stops once again as someone begins speaking]

WOMAN

Good evening, Ichabod.

ICHABOD

I-- I’m sorry, who--

[He is cut off and begins struggling for breath as she begins choking him]

WOMAN

Oh, let’s not get distracted. You’re a long way from home, aren’t you? [She throws him to the ground] Now. Tell me about that night on the bridge.

NEXT EPISODE➝

#Season 1 #Episode 8 #Christine Daae #Victor Frankenstein #Barista #Ichabod Crane #Unknown

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bumi-illustrates · 5 years

Text

Chapter 1

It’s been nearly seven years since that day. A lot has changed, but one thing hasn’t. The people of Spero still live in fear of the power of Lady Somna. The biggest change to our small town is that we no longer worship the false Goddess. When the dreaded Day of Dreams came, our plan fell apart. The sacrifice was to act willing, until the last moment. If all had gone well, the Goddess would have been slain at the hands of her people, but her Noctis got wise and began slaughtering anyone nearby. Somna was furious, but her true colors came through. We turned our once peaceful town into a war zone. A losing one.

Lacey was among the first victims of the war on the Day of Dreams. Jenna contracted the plague four months later and only lasted eleven hours. Father disappeared shortly after Jenna’s death. There were no witnesses to his escape and no body has been recovered, so we assume he took off. Though the likelihood of him being eaten by a Noctis is high. Only one has ever survived an attack from the beasts, but his body has become a mismatch of parts and mechanics. If father did come into contact with on of the beasts, he was long gone.

I sighed as I approached the entrance to our underground base. We lost another body to the beasts a week ago. I had picked up his patrol shift until we can find another to replace him. But our numbers are low, and hope is running out. More and more people are giving up and allowing themselves to become Noctis prey. This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to be, but this is how it was now. I try to keep my spirits as high as I can, for me and for everyone else.

I held up my keycard to the lock mechanism on the old metal door and a large dust cloud erupted from it as the gears shifted, opening the door just enough for me to squeeze through. I quickly placed the keycard on the pad on the inside and the door quickly snapped shut, another burst of dust making me cough.

“Ah, the legendary Michael James! Back from second shift I see.”

“And I see the good doctor is finally out of his lab. So, what’s with the special greeting?” I asked, removing the pack from my back and throwing it on the table set off to the side of the large concrete room.

“Why can’t I just be here to welcome you home?”

“Because you never do. And you know as well as I that leaving your lab could be a sign on a double apocalypse.”

The Frankenstein man laughed with a shrug of his shoulders, “Alright, you caught me. I was hoping you managed to pick up what I asked for. You were taking so long I was getting ready to go find your body and drag it back here for a funeral.”

I snorted and reached into my pocket, pulling out a gray flash drive. I tossed it to him with a smirk, “You and I both know I’m too stubborn to be taken down that easily.”

He caught the small piece of tech in his tan right hand as he flashed me a lopsided grin, “Too stubborn, or too sneaky? We should call you the Invisible Man with the way you slink around.”

I chuckled slightly as I moved to stand in front of him, “That’s why they keep me around.”

He rolled his eye at me and I grunted softly, reaching up and removing the patch covering his right eye, “You don’t have to hide a perfectly good eye. It’ll be easier to get around without this thing in the way.” I dangled the eye patch briefly in front of his face before placing it into his left hand, that was noticeably paler than his right.

“I don’t usually cover it.” He mumbled, averting his eyes as we began walking deeper into the base.

“Just around me.” I frowned.

I watched him from the corner of my eye as he bit the inside of his cheek. I knew why he was hesitant to show his right eye around me. It was a painful memory. His pain was mostly physical, with lingering emotional grief. Mine was purely emotional.

“I just, it’s hard. I know how much you loved her.”

I stopped in my tracks, placing a hand on his shoulder, “And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t keep hiding the only thing I have to remember her by. Listen, I knew her better than anyone. She would have wanted this. She helped people, it’s just who she was.”

“I guess I have to take your word for it. I didn’t talk with her much, but she seemed like a good person. I’m sorry you had to lose her.”

“We’ve all lost people, Chrome. You’ve lost a lot yourself.” I lowered my voice as we neared a group of teenagers, quietly talking among themselves.

Chrome was an interesting character. Before the war started, he was a kid named Cole who had dreams to become a doctor slash inventor. The name change came after the Noctis attack. No one is sure how he managed to get away, but he seems to stand by the fact that someone helped him. Not a soul fessed up to such a feat as great as finishing off a Noctis. They were monsters and anyone with a sound mind knew to stay far away from them.

All that we know to be fact is that he was found, bloody and torn, with the body of a green Noctis not ten feet from him. He was, amazingly, still conscious and decided to take some of the beast’s hair for his own partially scalped head. Fortunately for him, he had been studying medicine and mechanics, because unfortunately for him, there were no doctors left after the Day of Dreams. The poor kid, only fourteen at the time, had to patch himself up. The adults did what they could to assist him, but he managed to stitch himself up mostly alone.

Starting above his left eye at his hair line, a large trail of stitches cut across the bridge of his nose, cutting it close to the inside corner of his right eye. It continued down and across his cheek until it ended just underneath his jaw. Another string of stitches started on his left eye, extending from the inner corner of that eye, wrapping around his cheek and disappearing underneath his left ear. On his neck, just underneath his jaw, was another line of sutures. It started just to the left of his jugular before making a slight curve and coming down directly in the center of his chest. From there, it made another, slightly more prominent turn to the right where it wrapped around his waist and crawled up his back in a similar trail as his front. Finally ending at the nape of his neck.

His skin had been tan, and although some of his skin remained intact, he had been hurt severely and was now a pale skin tone in several spots. Above his stitches on the right side of his face and the left side of his stitches along his chest were pasty in comparison to the tan skin next to it. I shuddered slightly looking at the thousands of stitches that would forever be a part of him. He had tried to remove them several times, only to figure out the wounds wouldn’t hold without them. So, the inventor in him decided to make do. His current stitches were made of a flexible metal he designed. He had tried to explain the science to me once before, but three sentences in and he had lost me.

Once we had passed the group of teens, Chrome spoke up once more, keeping his voice quiet, “Thank you.”

I raised my eyebrow at him, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my torn and dirty jeans, “What for?”

“Doing what you did, so I could see fully again.”

Oh. That.

“Like I said before, if she could save someone, she would have. I like to think of this as her way of contributing to the cause.” When he kept silent, I continued, “Look, I know it might not seem like it, but I am okay. Like I said, everybody has had to make sacrifices and grieve lost loved ones, but most weren’t so fortunate to reconnect with old friends.”

He breathed a short laugh, “Wouldn’t have had to reconnect if I hadn’t ditched you for science. And what a reunion, huh?”

I threw an arm around his shoulder and leaned slightly into him as a toothy grin spread over my face, “Sorry for ditching you for a year to go play doctor, but there’s a really cute girl that works there that I just have to marry!” I teased, making a halfhearted effort to mimic his prepubescent voice. I had placed my free hand over my lips, trying to feign a lovestruck posture.

He laughed, slightly shoving me, “Don’t be a jerk! You know I didn’t say I had to marry her. I only wanted to marry her. And you know, she was totally into me.”

We both paused slightly before erupting into laughter. He threw his own arm around me as we used each other to hold ourselves up.

“Yes, because what self-respecting eighteen-year-old girl wouldn’t want a nerdy fourteen-year-old boy?” A new voice spoke up tightly.

Chrome was the first to pull himself together as he straightened up, still supporting part of my weight as I continued to struggle with containing my laughter, “Come on, Tabs! You know you were totally into me.”

She rolled her emerald eyes as she mumbled incoherently. By the time I had pulled myself together, the older blonde woman stood before us, holding out a file towards me, “I’m glad to see you having fun, sir, but here’s the inventory report.”

By the look on her face I could already tell what she would follow up with, “We’ll need to schedule another excursion to the field to harvest more of the crops.”

Called it.

“Right, how soon can you have a group ready?” I asked, looking over the numbers, realizing we were lower than I had anticipated.

“Oh no! As the doctor around here, I refuse to let you go out again! You just got back from a double shift, man! You need to rest.” Chrome cut in sternly.

“Is this true, sir?”

I rolled my eyes, “One, please stop calling me sir. Two, I’ll be fine. There were no beasts out. If we hurry it can be a quick trip.”

“Michael, no. I may be your friend, but I didn’t study the human body and become a doctor for nothing. I know what I’m talking about when I say you need to rest.”

“I’m afraid I have to agree with Chrome.” The smug look on Chrome’s face was caught by Tabitha as she wrapped her arms around herself with a scowl crossing her features, “As much as it pains me to say that.”

Chrome’s face fell, “Oh, come on! I’m not that bad!”

She ignored him and turned her attention back to me, “We have enough to last through the night. Please, get some rest. I’ll gather some of the able and help prepare them for departure. You will all leave first thing in the morning.”

As she walked away, I stood in shock before muttering, “First she calls me sir, then she’s the one giving orders.”

The weight of Chrome’s arm on my shoulder’s returned as he stuck his face uncomfortably close to my own, “hey, man. I see you getting ideas. I already told you that one’s mine.”

I snorted with laughter and covered his face with my hand, pushing him slightly, “good luck with that.”

“You just wait, it’ll happen one of these days and when it does, I will take great pleasure in rubbing it in your face.”

I rolled my eyes at him, the smile never leaving my face, “Come on. Let’s head to the lab. I want to see what’s on that oh-so-important flash drive I had to risk my easy patrol for.”

#mycharacter #my novel #debut novel #adventures #fantasy #my story #reverie #original story #originalcharacter

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