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ashessonfire · 1 year

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Hi, I just gotta say I really love your stories and how detailed and eloquent your writing is.How about a Kaz Brekker x reader angst where a heist gone wrong results to Kaz (temporarily) losing his memory and reverting back to old Kaz, who is not in a relationship with reader, and he keeps pushing the reader away 'til reader gives up 'cause of something Kaz said or a scenario where they think Kaz is better without them♡♡♡thank you for listening HAHAHAHA

'Forgotten' - Kaz Brekker x Reader

Prompt - Kaz Brekker's plans rarely fail, but what happens when a heist goes incredibly wrong, and the Bastard of the Barrel forgets you completely? - Pairing: Kaz Brekker x Reader (established relationship) - Warnings: Depictions of violence, gunshots, Kaz's trauma / memories, Kaz being an asshole but not really his fault??? ANGST ANGST ANGST Part two found here! A/N: Thank you all so much for the amount of support and love i am getting for my first few posts! I will definitely write a part two if you want it, its a massive cliffhanger but would be WAY too long to do it in one go. JUST PURE ANGST IM SORRY T-T

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Kaz’s plans often fell victim to unseen circumstances, however, small hinderances to his meticulously planned out schemes rarely affected the outcome. Yet even Kaz himself had to admit, that this plan had gone spectacularly wrong.

From incorrect blueprints for the building, to four times the number of armed guards than initially expected, all the group could do was try and escape relatively unharmed. The crows were splintered into six breathless individuals, winding their way through narrow streets to try and loosen their attackers’ grips. Sprays of bullets and the glints of knives rushed past each one of them, only narrowly missing their targets.

That was until Kaz felt a searing pain in his leg, a sudden slash just under the back of his knee, sending fire trailing throughout his body. He groaned deeply, internally damning the attacker for not only striking his target, but also managing to hit Kaz on his already bad leg. The pain from the wound caused it to buckle, giving him a clear path straight towards the glistening cobblestone of Ketterdam’s streets.

Before he could fully feel the impact, a hand tightly gripped the roots of his hair, pulling his face parallel to the grinning pursuer, evidently pleased with his achievement of apprehending the Bastard of the Barrel.

Before Kaz could use his cane to fight back, it was violently ripped from his grasp, another set of hands clutching his own behind his back, rendering him completely immobile. Suddenly, the knife was yanked out of his leg, earning a surprised growl from Kaz, his leg leaking onto the stone beneath him a deep ruby shade.

“Well, that wasn’t so hard, was it? I’m afraid to say I am more than a little underwhelmed, Dirtyhands,” The leader of the group sneered, earning a howl of laughter from his gang, who seemed to be forming from the shadows of the abandoned street, emerging in staggering numbers.

Despite his predicament, a thought flashed through his mind, calming his increasingly alarmed state. “Perhaps they abandoned the others in favour of catching me,” Kaz silently contemplated, feeling a light sense of relief at the possibility his crew would make it back to the slat alive.

Especially you.

However, the relief was knocked out of him as swiftly as it came, along with all the air in his chest. A brutal kick sent him reeling backwards into the chest of the man behind, followed by a series of punches which Kaz was defenceless against. The assault continued, blood pouring into his eyes from an open wound on his forehead, blinding him to the onslaught of attacks that followed, as he rapidly tried blinking to wash away the crimson from his vision.

The ambush subsided, giving him enough time to throw his head back and remove some of the steadily flowing substance from his sight. Murmurs sounded around him, but Kaz couldn’t decipher what was being stated, the ringing from the punches obscuring the sound around him, leaving him underwater, drowning in his own blood.

Despite Kaz’s senses becoming increasingly obstructed, a flare of panic welled up within him, as he spotted something brassy glinting through the sheet of red, catching the light from the street lanterns surrounding them. The unknown object began its descent towards him, the glint becoming a beam which shone through the curtain of crimson, until it was just close enough for Kaz to make out the flash of a crow’s eye, and the curve of a beak.

“How ironic,” Kaz thought to himself, “Being killed by my own cane.”

The scarlet curtain closed on Kaz, the blow ending the performance the gang was putting on, leaving their victim in a world full of darkness, the feeling of the waves washing over him and pulling him deeper into the abyss.

The last thing he heard was the sound of a voice.

Jordie’s?

The concern that radiated from the sound brought him back to memories of the farm, where Kaz would climb too far up a willow’s branches, and his brother would have to call him down. Or perhaps when they had arrived in Ketterdam and Kaz had thought it comedic to hide in a dimly lit street, blissfully unaware of the dangers that lurked in its gloom.

However, as Kaz slipped deeper into the ocean, the voice getting further away with each of his slowing heartbeats, a tinge of warmth hit his chest, signalling that this wasn’t Jordie.

It was you.

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Your adrenaline had served you well, since shortly after you were separated from the crows, familiar edges of buildings and glints of neighboring signs entered your vision. Using this to your advantage, you utilized your familiarity of the area to hide, slipping into the shadows, melting into the gloom of Ketterdam's alleys. Soon, all five of your pursuers had bullets lodged in their throats unable to pinpoint where they were being shot from. Each fatal blow perfectly central just as Jesper had taught you.

Whilst your mind began to settle at the lack of immediate threat, something burred within your core pulled on your heartstrings, pointing your unsettling fear towards Kaz.

You had taken great care to note which routes the other crows had disappeared down, for insurance if they did not return to the slat within the agreed time. However, as you fled, your heart had plummeted at the sight of at least ten men chasing down your boyfriend.

Before your mind could register your actions, you were sprinting back in the direction you had come, weaving through the bodies littering your path. You quickly reached the alley Kaz had fled down, and you bolted through the streets you estimated Kaz would take.

As he was your boyfriend, you had become accustomed to imagining what he would do, or how he would act in certain situations, helping you decode his behaviour when he barricaded himself from you on troublesome days.

The sound of bone cracking and pained grunts pulled you away from your thoughts, turning a sharp corner just in time to see the head of Kaz’s precious cane colliding with his temple, the light visibly fading from his eyes due to the blow.

Rage swept through you, controlling your actions as your mind failed to synchronise with your body. Rushing forward, you shot wildly, achieving at least three separate screams from the men before you. Before the others were made fully aware of your presence, you had a serrated knife plunging into a further two, leaving fatal wounds which would slowly bring about their demise. Once every one of group were flooding the streets with their blood, your gaze shifted to Kaz.

Lying in a growing pool of blood, your boyfriend’s face was swollen, covered in deep gashes that littered his sharp features. The dim light from the lanterns overhead cast murky shadows over the wounds, highlighting the gruesome fate Kaz had endured. From somewhere far in the distance, you heard your voice screaming his name, begging for him to wake up, at some point you had even rushed over to him and began caressing his fractured face to wake him.

Allowing a deep inhale of Ketterdam’s air, you collected yourself, imagining that Kaz were conscious and scolding you for your slow reactions and the ‘weakness’ you were portraying. Laying your head against his frigid chest, you held your own breath, only releasing the growing tension when a faint heartbeat pounded against your ear.

Silently apologising for your next actions, you hooked both of Kaz’s arms underneath your own and used all your force to haul him back to the Slat.

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For several days following the attack, the group had come to a collective conclusion that their boss was severely concussed, so much so that he was barely conscious for more than a few minutes at a time.

Throughout the harrowing days, you never left his side, constantly aiding his body in a frail attempt to bring him back to the conscious realm, and to you.

The crows stopped by often to assist you, compelled to keep at least one half of the pair in a decent condition, Nina bringing hot food, Inej wiping down your face with a warm cloth, and Jesper or Wylan keeping you company for an hour or so, brightening the mood wit =h jokes or stories.

Time seemed almost to cease its movements, with even the smallest of things, like the rain rolling down the frosted glass in Kaz’s room, or the flickering of the candles illuminating the slat, appearing sluggish to you.

That was, only until Kaz woke up.

A bout of coughs awoke you from a light sleep, sending alarm bells ringing through your head, echoing off the walls and overwhelming you. Upon seeing the straining eyes blinking against the intensity of the candlelight, the roar swiftly subsided.

“Kaz,” you breathed out, barely audible to both you and him.

You gently reached out to feel the heat from his forehead, an action not dissimilar to the gentle brushes of his locks you would often settle on when he was too engrossed in scheming to provide you attention. However, your movements were stopped dead in their tracks when a voice sliced through the air.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Kaz seethed.

Although his voice was hoarse from his absence over the last few days, a clear threat laid deeply within his sentence, piercing your chest with a thousand knives. “Kaz, I’m just checking your temperature, my love,” you offered gently, praying to the Saints that whatever malice behind your partners eyes was due to his condition, and not a genuine fury.

Instead of removing the knives from your heart, he twisted them painfully, glaring directly at you as he warned lowly, “I am not sure how long I have been out for, but I severely doubt it would be enough time for a word like ‘love’ to be directed towards me. Especially by the likes of you. Go and get Nina, you are of no use to me.”

Your breath hitched painfully in your throat, blocking the air trying to travel both in and out, glittering eyes locked directly with his as your mind struggled to process the disgust that laced his voice. Your body battled as it tried to force another ‘Kaz’ out into the world, but he intruded before the sound escaped.

“Leave now, or I will dismiss you for insubordination. Go,” Kaz stated, bitterness being the only discernible emotion portraying through his words, his chest filling with an emotion so strong he couldn’t name it, deciding to settle on disgust. Your eyes welled up, clouding your vision as you cautiously left the room, shock coursing through your body and stiffening your every movement, causing shivers to wrack your body as your blood froze to ice.

Your mind seemed to leave your body, taking little note of going to Nina and sending her up to Kaz, or the other crows fawning over your broken state, clearly panicking further when your only form of response was a stiff silence. It seemed safer to hide behind glossy eyes and blank looks, than to decipher what had caused Kaz’s reaction.

It was only an hour later when Nina came downstairs, shaking you out of your daze with words that did a far more agonizing job than Kaz’s knives would.

She downright shot you point blank in the heart.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry, it seems like the blow has affected his memory. I can’t tell the severity yet, but it seems that he has no recollection of you two as, well you know. ‘You two,’” Nina bit out, voice cracking as her heart shattered for you, who now stood shaking before the group, the slightest breeze threatening to barrel you over.

You dismissed them with a fractured smile, barring yourself within the confines of your room, knives drawing blood within your heart, twisting excruciatingly each time a shuffle or a creak would sound from the room above yours.

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Your perseverance impressed not only the rest of the crows, but yourself too. You didn’t allow yourself to wallow in your self-pity for long, determined to regain Kaz’s memory despite his protests and frustration with you. You had already molded a loving relationship with the deadliest man in Ketterdam, you figured that you would be able to withstand doing it once more.

Enduring the blade-like words was the simplest part, however it was the emotion behind them that faltered you each time you were faced with him. He always his behind a face of insults or harsh syllables, but you had decoded their meanings long ago, the sentiment behind each radiating through in a way in which only you could detect.

As he recovered, you remained vigilant to his every need, bringing him herbal tea infused with medicine or offering fresh bandages to change when the blood seeped through the last.

Each encounter ended with tears streaming drearily down your face, matching the raindrops that hit against the pains of the slat, each impact slamming against your heart. As you persisted, the feeling Kaz felt towards you grew, the emotion intensifying with each glimpse at you.

He couldn't stand it.

Rage bubbled within him at your attempts at kindness, the insults increasing in harshness and malice each time you dared to provoke him.

Yet you bounced back, offering him delicate smiles, compassionate gestures, and kind words. However Kaz couldn't bear it any longer, the weight in his chest obscuring his breathing and brooding for too long, consuming him from the inside out.

Despite his unbroken hatred that radiated towards you, he seemed to gradually be regaining his memories, allowing Jesper's jokes or Nina's teasing to go as far as they would before the accident. It caused you great anguish, and shamefully jealousy, at his return to every one of his crows.

But you.

The door to his office was given a light few taps, before Kaz permitted you entry, knowing from the weight of the knocks it had to be you. Although the others seemed far more wary of him than usual, there was something almost gentle about how you acted towards him, making it easier for Kaz to single you out from the rest.

You entered with a stack of papers, a vast collection of work that had accumulated whilst he regained his health. Biting back his usual snarky insults and remarks dripping in poison, Kaz watched you intently, deadly intentions practically radiating from his gaze.

Setting down the pile, you stepped back silently, too exhausted to bear the weight of another one of his lashings, each word cutting you and leaving you bleed out, not dissimilarly to how you found him that night.

The silence in his office was impenetrable, the air becoming impossible to breath through the tension that radiated between you, with only one of you being able to decipher what it truly was. Your mind was so focused on the intake of air, you almost missed the hand that extended towards you, the closest he had allowed you since his memory had stolen you from him.

Clutched in his grasp was a simple white letter, signatures coating the outside of the envelope, and something folded, protruding from within the packet itself.

The silence became deafening, the pounding of your heart like a bird trapped in a cage infinitely too small for its prisoner, crashing into the walls in an attempt to escape. As your hand made contact with the offering, Kaz spoke in a tone you had never heard before.

He simply stated, "From tomorrow, at four bells, you will be gone. A job in Ravka requires someone of your skillset, so you will go. If you fail to comply then you will no longer be welcomed here. I have tolerated your incessant troubling for long enough, you have no true place here until you finally realize how burdensome you truly are."

Your heart stopped.

The air around you liquified, slowly filling your lungs with fluid and choking you, drowning you silently as Kaz looked on with an indifferent scowl, an eyebrow raised in question at your astonishment.

The tears streamed, your body screaming for air, for comfort, for him. But it couldn't seem to attain any one of them, instead pushing all its strength into forming the the right words to pierce Kaz Brekker's impenetrable façade.

"You still don't remember?" you coughed out, "After the incident who was it who rushed back to you, dragged your half-dead body across the Barrel and into the slat. Who stayed by your side until they were forced to leave each night? Do you not have any recollection, not of the memories, but of how you felt for me? Surely I didn't mean that little to you," your voice wavered heavily whilst you gasped out the final line.

The tears formed rugged streams across your cheeks, glinting in the dim candlelight from Kaz's desk, highlighting the pain you had hidden from him for weeks. It was now his turn to be stunned, the words echoing around his mind but not seeming to form into coherent meanings.

Despite Kaz's astonishment at your outburst, it wasn't enough.

Wasn't enough for him to stop you from walking away, or enough to whisper your name louder in confusion and uncertainty as your form dissolved into the hallway .

Surely this was what he was supposed to do?

Yet deep inside his plagued heart your words resounded, filling Kaz with a sense of dread, the waves that usually consumed him began to swell, drowning him in his seat just as he had done to you earlier.

He was certain on one thing, that the gaping pain in his chest which he had presumed was disgust, or perhaps even hatred, had not disappeared. Had not lightened as he had prayed it would if you just vanished.

No. Instead it had intensified into something that swallowed him whole, dragging him further into the bitter ocean than ever before, waves crashing fiercely above his head.

The emotion consumed him as his breathing deepened, heart both simultaneously stopping and racing into oblivion, as it finally dawned on him. Somewhere within that feeling a small spark remained glowing, something that felt warm and familiar which he had repressed.

Something that resembled care, or affection, or...

Love.

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Tag list: @animalistic00 @whos6claire

Click here for part two <3

#kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker x y/n #kaz brekker x you #kaz brekker imagine #kaz brekker x reader imagines #shadow and bone season 2 #shadow and bone x reader #six of crows x reader #six of crows imagine #six of crows #grishaverse #shadow and bone imagine #kaz brekker x reader fluff #ashessonfire

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unlucky-corvid · 26 days

Text

Home

A little self indulgent piece of my OC phantom and cayde.

Angst with eventual fluff.

This has not been proof read

Enjoy xoxo

Home.

He's home.

Sprawled out on the sofa of my...our flat, snoring softly. One leg over the back of the sofa, head tilted back, resting on his hands like he never left.

His Cloak slung over the coat hook it used to call home until 5 years ago, boots beneth it, still caked in mud and on the coffee table, his holster and ace...ace 2? I glance back to my bedside dresser, caydes ace of spades resting there, the tool of retribution that carried swift justice to uldren sov. My gaze returns back to the other wespon, cracked with an un-earthly glow sitting on the coffee table.

Why can't I be happy about this,Like every one else?

Why can't I welcome him back into my...our bed like I used to, curling up into his side, listening to his inner mechanisms softly working as we simply bask in one another's presence?

I should be elated. I am. Its like every wish I ever asked for rolled together in one. An impossible ask made real, laying on my sofa...our sofa. Back where he belongs. He's safe.

But what about me?

Selfish thought I know but,What about the tears I cried every day for 5 years? The nightmares? The hallucinations? The sleep terrors? The anxiety attacks?

What about my pain!?

I grieved. I grieved for him. The life we could have had. The death of seemingly everything I held dear and now I'm supposed to just...forget that? Forget how much i suffered while everyone else managed to move on.

Envy it an ugly emotion but I feel it nontheless strongly as I do my grief.

Does he even know?

I'm sure he must have some idea. I'm sure zavala and ikora filled him in. I'm sure sundance and midnight spoke.

Spoke about the night I screamed so raw my throat bled. The night zavala found me curled up behind the bust of cayde in the tower, wrapped in his cloak as the snow settled around me, slowly burrying me as i stared off into nothingness. The missions I returned from, battered and bloody only to pick up the next bounty and leave. No food. No rest. No time to remember.

Maybe thats why his eyes followed me with that uneasy concern when I bid him good night. The look of understanding that sent an uneasy shiver down me when I asked him if we could sleep separately for a while as I got used to my dead partner being alive and well back in my...our apartment.

A shiver of frosty air shoots up my spine and sets my teeth on edge.

He's here again.

Not the real cayde.

But the cayde thats been with me since he died.

The cayde that lingers in the shadows, that stalks me in the light of day, that lingers over my shoulder. A waking nightmare.

He first started to apear a few days after caydes death. Only at night. He would hover beside my bedside, bending down beside my ear to whisper.

"I was waiting for you. Waiting for you to run in and put a bullet between that bastards eyes. But you didn't. You were too late. Too late. TOO LATE!"

"Youre sick. Sick in the head. You welcomed my killer into our home with open arms. Crow? Crow?! That's what the sick fucks calling himself now? Are you that desperate to betray me? That desperate to desicrate MY HOME with that murders precence?!"

Then it would vanish as the dawn arrived leaving me sleepless and guilt ridden.

Until it didn't.

Until guardians would give my looks of sympathy and fear when a smokey apparition of the ex hunter vanguard would be glanced over my shoulder. Lips uttering words only I could hear.

I tried everything. Pills, alcohol, therapy, eris's hive magic, maras paracausal influence but nothing stopped the ghastly characature of my dead lovers visage from taunting me.

Ikora began to avoid me. I dont blame her. Being forced to see her fallen friend every instance we spoke must have been hard but...at least she could escape it.

Zavala simply gives me this look. The kind of look you give an animal you know needs putting out of its Misery as it lays dying at the side of the road. The type of look you give sickly dying people when you know they're on their last legs. I know he means well.

But I avoid him to now. I am not dying nor sickly...not outwardly and I don't wish to be treated as such.

With a sigh I turn, heading back into my...our room.

I'll get it right eventually.

I shrug off my clothes leaving them heaped on the floor, tugging on one of caydes hoodie that no longer smells like him before sliding into bed.

"Broken" it hisses.

"You think that's what i want. You think after these years, after what you've become, I'll want you?"

"Deluded"

"Shut up" I whisper holding my hands over my ears but it does nothing to silence the vile vitriol that slips from its mouth.

"Broken little phantom. How many time did you think of crushing midnight and ending it all huh? Monster. Selfish monster even considering that. I deserve better."

I curl into a ball as if caydes hoodie and the blankets will save me from the ghastly manifestations of my biggest failure. But it dosent.

My heart rate begins picking up as further hateful bile is spews from the lips of the creature using my lovers face to torment me. My fingers tremble against my face as my body convulses with each sob that wracks my frame.

"Worthless, selfish, untrustworthy, lying, unfait-"

"Hey"

The voice seemingly interupts itself

A hand on my shoulder jolts me to the present as i turn expecting the face of a nightmare...

2 icey blue optics stare into my own eyes from the darkness. Not the misty red smoke I expected.

"Zavala...zavala told me about...well...me" he says softly. The feeling of his hand on my shoulder, thumb rubbing gentle circles feels...Alien but...also like home.

Cayde glances at the misty apparition of himself with a hard glare. His eyes soften as he looks back to you "this guys a real buzzkill huh?" He says softly in a weak attempt to lighten the mood. He readjusts himself on my...our bed. Placing himself between me and the nightmare.

"Just ignore...him? Me? No not me. Ignore it" he murmurs as he slips under the covers. I cant help my body tense as he moves up beside me. As if sensing my unease he also freezes.

"I can leave, if you want. Go back to the sofa" his voice softly speaks as if I'm a cornered animal, soothing. Safe.

I pause. No. No thats the last thing I want now. I spent 5 years apart from him, I don't want to spend a single moment away from his side.

"No please stay" I mumble, voice horse from the tears that a familiar hand was wiping away. My hand finds the material of his tshirt and I move myself trying to get iven closer despite us already being flush together.

"Always"

His body fits against mine like a puzzle piece, arms snaking round my waist, anchoring me to him. "It wasn't your fault doll. I promise"

My body gradually untenses for what feels like the first time in 5 years as I sink back into he familiar embrace of caydes body. My body trembles with the adrenaline finally leaving my system.

His chest still rises and falls, his exo body's mimic of a heart beat still reaches my ears. Home. For the first time in 5 years, We are both home.

A blue light on my bedside catches my eye. A ghosts eye, 2 of them, watch us. Midnight and sundance. The pillow I keep on the bedside cabinet once for both midnight and sundance may seem unnecessary to some but our ghosts deserve a little love to. Midnight had always looked swammed by the pillow after sundance was blown to shards but now, seeing them both huddled up to one another as they to settle down, it feels like everything is finnaly settling into place.

Cayde-6 the once dead hunter vanguard, friend and lover was finally back where he rightfully belonged.

Home.

Our home.

#destiny 2 #cayde 6 #headcanon #oc guardian #female guardian #OC Guardian phantom

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ghostaholics · 1 year

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ᴄᴀᴛᴀʟʏsᴛ ( ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ )

SUMMARY: (au only mildly inspire by the original tv/game timeline since I started writing this before ep. 2 came out; honestly not very canon-compliant) After reaching Colorado – the Fireflies' former backdrop for failed vaccine trials – you and Joel get ambushed in the science lab by people who have since then, made their new home at the abandoned university; during the scuffle, one of the attackers stabs you with a syringe containing unknown contents. PAIRING: Joel Miller x fem!Reader WARNING(S) FOR LATER: pining (mutual) sex pollen; dub-con; p-in-v unprotected sex; use of a mouth gag and a rope during sex but it's for safety assurances not because Joel's a dark guy; still angst even though I left in 50% of it; religious references and lots of metaphors that don't make sense; unbeta'd - expect mistakes; characterization is based on second half of the game and I may have accidentally made him too soft oops idc, ooc for sure WORD COUNT: 2 k A/N: PT. 1; this is already over 10k words in my drafts and I still don't even have like half of it done yet but I'll put out this small part for now I guess

IT'S A GODDAMN SICKNESS – THIS FEELING, festering, like skin stripped raw and every nerve lit on fire. There’s nothing left of you – only flesh and bone knitted together by gnawing hunger.

He should put you out of your misery.

You would welcome death over this: it would be faster, easier, not each excruciating second prolonging your suffering as time bleeds, drawn-out, stretching at an unbearably sluggish pace. This won't pass over. It's only been getting worse the longer you try to ignore it, to let it snuff out on its own. The craving is bad. It surges through your veins, leaves your blood boiling as if it’s burning you alive from the inside-out. Insatiable need devours your body like an all-consuming disease; your mind is scrambled, thoughts as good as ash at this point aside from the surviving idea that you know that this will swallow you whole.

Here's how it happened.

HE'S A KILLER; The leftover carnage is a gut-wrenching testament to that – a breadcrumb trail of carcasses deserted along the westbound, beaten track to Colorado that’s rivaled only by the number of skeletons in his closet.

Not that he's had much choice. It's this very concept that every single media outlet had kept pushing, what had plagued the top headlines, breaking news, and morning segments leading up to Outbreak Day in a concerted effort to capitalize on a little something called sensationalism. The public had wolfed it down, too – had gorged themselves on the idea of it even after all the grocery stores had been raided bare and there'd been zero food left on the shelves; TVs as their place settings with radios emerging as their proxies not long after the power had gone out – because the drama of it all had been more satisfying than the shitty scraps they'd been getting by on: survival of the fittest, who'd get wiped out by the infection first? And Joel Miller is a living legacy that continues to push the limits of natural selection with every poor bastard that he manages to sink a shiny fucking bullet into.

Adaptation. The end of the world has chewed him up, teeth gnashing – razor-sharp incisors; no leftover bones, no remains like the majority of the people who’ve met a collective demise, but a man spit out in one intact piece (physically, anyways – mentally, that’s probably another story). Now, he’s a stone-cold terror. Cutthroat – all jagged edges and mistrust leaching into his pores. Someone who’s had to acclimatize, because the way he sees it, there’s a million different choices to make that only ever lead to two outcomes. And Joel always picks whichever option affords him the best opportunity to stay alive, but it’s the reason he’s got a ledger drowning in red.

Before, that had meant late mortgage payments and loan sharks hunting him down, risky wagers with shady figures to get Sarah new clothes in time for the upcoming school because she’d been outgrowing them every damn year, and also don’t forget the shady business ventures he’d invested in until he’d learnt his lesson the hard way and had decided to throw himself headfirst into work – day in and day out to save up for his own construction company, something stable and honest; maybe then he wouldn’t have to lie about forgetting to pick up the milk or the pancake mix because the reality had been that he was struggling to put food on the table, and maybe he’d get to spend more time with his daughter and pay the soccer club fees that he couldn’t afford so she could make more friends outside of him and the Adlers, and maybe his blood pressure would level out so his pockets wouldn’t dry up with the cost of his medicine because his insurance had been shit, and maybe he wouldn’t have to go to bed every night crunching numbers behind his eyelids to figure out if he had enough to get through the next month’s round of bills, and fuck, maybe things would finally start to look up for once in his life.

Then it had all stopped mattering in an instant.

So now, it means shooting someone dead without a second thought – a past full of necessary evils: ruthlessness, cynicism, and a death toll second to none. Anybody coming up against him? Shit out of luck. He’s never had a problem with having to pull the trigger, and being caught on the wrong end of his gun always promises a grim fate.

Except Columbus, Ohio.

It would’ve been another blight, another wicked deed buried underneath the growing mountain of awfulness that he's responsible for. There are a lot of things that keep Joel up at night, but as bad as it is to say, this definitely wouldn’t have been one of them.

And then, the impossible – first person to break the cycle: a scavenger combing through the tipped over stands of North Market, kneeling under the dusty Penny's Meats cleaver sign at a basket filled with plastic bags of twenty-year-old beef jerky. And Joel would kill (quite literally) for that if it meant securing his next meal; hell, the next week's worth of them. The only thing standing in between him and food security could be taken care of with an easy shot to the back of your skull at point blank range.

A target.

An inconvenience.

— but that's another story.

Since then, it’s been a road paved with affliction. Ohio. Indiana. Illinois. Iowa. (Nebraska's a sensitive topic.) Wyoming.

Joel grasps your hand firmly in his: dried blood over split knuckles and calluses that have stayed around forever because now he wields a gun 24/7 instead of a carpentry tool from his blue-collar days; he helps you navigate the terrain so you don't misstep – a sprained ankle can slow us down in more ways than one, he always says. Cautious, trigger-sensitive, because he needs to be. The action is meant to be practical, shepherding you over the terrain. So you opt to neglect how his fingers slotted between yours shoos the bitter cold from making a home out of your body and thaws the ice from the crevices chiseled in your bones.

The feeling is nice.

The thought is dangerous.

Because, Nebraska: a hellish nightmare in the flesh.

(Let's not talk about it).

(But circling around the topic doesn’t help. You don't bring it up, and yet it still takes center stage, occupying your mind. Always. How could it not?)

Hordes of cordyceps-ridden pieces-of-shit on your heels until you'd been driven into a corner, back against the wall – odds in the negative as infected after infected had zeroed in on your position and converged like a putrid swarm, a writhing mass of rotten bodies, all of them clambering over each other for their own share of pulpy, human meat to tear into; it'd reminded you of the same way people had been after the outbreak had reached critical mass.

Ravenous.

(This is what had been a difficult pill for you to swallow in the beginning – before you'd started sleeping with a machete along the edge of your bedroll, before the sound of a person choking on their own blood had gone from something that had cursed your hands with a 'round-the-clock tremor to nothing but fucking white noise, and before you'd learned everything there is to know about how to survive amongst societal collapse where 'every man for himself' has never been a more true statement than it is now: the hunger doesn't stop when you turn into one of them.)

As the two of you weave through dense foliage overrunning anything in its path and past man-sized slabs of concrete that form a serrated pattern of the very ground you're currently forced to scale, Joel rumbles a low, "Easy, now,"; you can see how in the dead of winter a plume of air leaves his mouth whenever he talks. He's nice to look at, better than your surroundings by a long shot. Boulder is just another wasteland that offers nothing new in your trek across the country because underneath the whalebone-white quilt of snow smothering everything, it's the same old shit that you saw when you'd cut through the never-ending stretch of land that used to be the Bible Belt to get out of the Atlanta Q.Z. It'd been ghost towns dotting the map between miles and miles of infestation: the walking dead had been piloted by the impulse to tear you apart alongside their living counterparts – the survivors with rootless hearts that stalked in the shadows like vultures waiting to pick your corpse clean of supplies.

But, for as on guard as you have to be, you'd rather focus your attention on Joel, because the snowflakes burying themselves in his beard are far more interesting than the decaying buildings and jigsaw-puzzled pavement that paint Colorado with an apocalyptic finish. He's a welcome distraction. Maybe, too good. The toe of your boot catches on the uneven landscape while you're lost in thought so you brace yourself to strike the ground as it gives out from under you, hands flying out in reflex. Instead, sturdy arms secure themselves around your waist before you can fall. You’re hauled flat against the solid wall of Joel's chest, something akin to an embrace that shouldn’t feel as nice as he is to look at. Even through layers of clothes, even through the frigid temperatures during this time of the year, his heat manages to bleed into you.

"Told you to watch your step there'," he murmurs in that long Texan drawl. Whiskey on his breath. Caramel. Ethanol. Burning alcohol-sweet, it greets you alongside the usual smoky and metallic smell of gunpowder and blood; the kind he'd pilfered from a liquor store back in Omaha – makin' sure it's good enough to the Molotov cocktails with, he'll comment before taking a swig. Brings it up like clockwork, as if it gets funnier the longer he keeps trying to wear the joke out even worse than the soles of his boots. It doesn’t. Just short of being a jack of all trades. Certainly no comedian.

Not a drunk, either – isn't stupid enough to put himself in jeopardy around these parts. You'd seen it before, once: cheeks flushed red and eyes glazed over; couldn't walk a straight line for five feet, much less aim a gun (September 26th, you remember). This isn't that. The whiskey's stronger now, though. You can tell when he stands nearby, face inches away.

(He's been drinking more lately. Not a lot, but the right amount to drown out the memory of... well, ever since—)

He's the closest thing to home that you know.

(—he almost lost you.)

You find yourself latched onto the sleeves of his jacket for stability, and even though you should push Joel away – a voice in your head that warns you to put distance between you and him – your fingers curl tighter into the coarse fabric to keep yourself upright as you regain your footing. “You see that thing? Swear it came outta nowhere."

He huffs out a small laugh, not one of those full-bodied ones that you’ve only heard probably twice since you met him (both of them at your expense and God, do you miss his smile), but it’s still a rich, little sound that comes off as something pleasant to your ears all the same – breaks up the monotony of the snow crunching under your heels and teeth chattering during the occasional bouts when you shiver. "Sure," he says, because he knows you can't lie for shit.

You untangle yourself from him with some reluctance. Homesick – a feeling that you attempt to shake off with more mindless conversation to make the time slip by faster. "Out of every place we've been to, Colorado definitely makes bottom three."

There's faint amusement coloring Joel's face. It makes him look years younger. "We haven't even gotten to UEC yet." He tilts his chin in the general direction that the two of you had already been heading towards. "Over there. Just across the way."

Skepticism stains your voice. "You know, something tells me that I won't have a change of heart."

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ - ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #unfortunately i have the smut just not the action~#this will very likely not be done until i finish the term #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #tlou #the last of us

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dovithedarklord · 6 months

Text

Age of Monsters - Chapter Nine

Pairing: OFC x Simon "Ghost" Riley, OFC x König

Tags: Slow Burn, Slow Build, Enemies to Lovers, Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, POV First Person, Not Beta Read, Medical Inaccuracies, Military Inaccuracies, AFAB OC

Trigger Warning: The story will contain violance, blood and smut in detail. Please, keep that in mind!

⚠️MDNI⚠️

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Author's Note

Leona gets involved in an exciting adventure and receives surprising help.

Hello!

I have a few Trigger Warnings for today's chapter: Blood, violence, weapons, gore, viscera, death, and extensive injuries.

Have fun!:)

I.M.L. - Infected mammalian lifeform

I.H.L. - Infected humanoid lifeform

if you're interested you can find the story on AO3: Chapter Nine

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Everything is happening so fast that I can only stare in shock at what unfolds before my eyes through the binoculars. A whole dozen deformed creatures emerge from the smoke rising after the explosion, and they throw themselves among the debris of the street at such a speed, that the soldiers who took cover hardly have time to retreat before one of the beasts, which looks as heavy as a small elephant, snarls and throws itself at the wreck that has served as a hiding place for them. And it's only thanks to MacTavish's lightning-fast reflexes that the bear-like monster doesn't tear one of the scattered soldiers apart, because the Hunter appears in front of the mutant so suddenly, that I'm unable to follow him with my paralyzed brain. With his bare hands, he fights back the shovel-like, huge paw that is about to strike, so that when the enraged creature stands up on its two hind legs and attacks again, he hits the vital organs with a couple of well-aimed shots and takes the behemoth down.

However, they don't have time to enjoy this small victory, because more and more I.M.L.s appear, and as I glance at the entrance to the nest, I realize that, judging by the number of mutants constantly pouring out, they certainly won't have a chance to rejoice for a while. But if this all continues like this, it's also doubtful whether anyone will survive long enough to see a happy ending. A desperate fight begins, and the soldiers flee to get some cover behind the many ruins spread out on the street, from where they attempt to pump the monsters galloping towards them full with bullets. And I'm trying to process what happened through the astonishment taking over my limbs. The I.H.L.s walked through those fucking bombs, willingly and with great joy, to defuse them for their friends who showed up next. Not only did the I.M.L.s not kill the humanoid abominations, they welcomed them into the warmth of their nice little family, and now they even seem to be working together. Which is a fucking wild assumption, even for my imagination running rampant with stress, because so far there has been no example of this in the last fifty years. These bastards are incapable of intelligent actions, let alone outmaneuvering those who hunt them. What the hell is going on here?

"It's Hunter 0-15! Everyone stays in position! They can't go any further!" I hear Riley's command on the radio, and the raw anger in his voice is the testimony that the hell that broke loose has also caught him desperately unprepared. All calmness is lost from his words reaching my ears, and because of this, my pulse skyrockets and tries to breathe some life into me, because it slowly reaches my awareness that the situation will soon become difficult for me as well, even though I am far away from the events.

MacTavish's little soldiers continue to fire at the mutants from behind the rubble, and although they are surprisingly effective at killing the demonic creatures, and they manage to eliminate some of them, this isn't nearly enough for most of them to stay on the ground permanently. Again, a loud explosion shakes the street, which has turned into a picture of frenzied killing, and I'm also forced to close my eyes for a moment from the flashing lights. And by the time I turn back to follow the actions, the foglike smoke that has appeared lulls me into a false calm with its immobility. Because when it starts to disintegrate, it reveals the corpses of the monsters torn to pieces, but soon more of their friends arrive to take their place. It's as if they are besieged by an endless stream, and despite the soldiers fighting and shooting at them incessantly, the dozens of monsters that keep popping up create this feeling, which causes unimaginable panic to run through my every nerve fiber. As if the mouth of the nest would open straight into hell, where more and more vermins ready to kill would pour out. And the whole struggle suddenly seems like a completely hopeless suffering.

Maybe that's why the Hunter with the mohawk can decide to take matters into his hands and rush towards the beasts alone, entrusting his team's survival to his abilities. He can also guess that if even one of the I.M.L.s gets close enough to his comrades, that unfortunate person will suffer the most painful death imaginable. And although he has the repertoire with which he can take out these bastards, his lethal power is in vain if he is outnumbered by the enemy. And this isn't a good thing, to say the least.

"Cover me!" MacTavish says on the radio to his comrades behind him, who obey his instructions without hesitation and get ready in a second to target anything they can. And as the man steps out of his cover and sets off towards the diabolic creatures with a determined momentum, my stomach shrinks from some unknown unpleasant grip, because the only image that appears in my mind is the promise of the Hunter's dead body frozen in blood. And although I trust him and his experience, I'm unable to banish this simple intuition from my subconscious, which is slowly torn in two by the claws of worry and terror.

Despite all the risks, he directs his weapon at the incoming beasts without a moment's delay, hitting them with brutal precision before they can get even a little close enough to attack. And when one of the degenerates, throwing itself over the defeated cadaver of its companion, comes within arm's reach of the Hunter, he frees one hand and swings his fist at his attacker, and hits the brute’s bare, skull-like head with such force that even though I can only see the image through the lens of the binoculars, but in my ears I hear the imaginary crunching of bones. The I.M.L. falls to the ground, and as it lies down in the dust, I see its blood-soaked face, mangled by the blow, in which MacTavish makes a hole with a well-aimed shot just to be on the safe side.

Even I'm amazed at the efficiency with which he exterminates the wretched swines, an although they continue to advance towards the small group with unstoppable anger, still hope awakens in me when the man I have known so far as harmless and friendly shows that it’s no accident that he belongs to S-class. Even though it seems stomach-churning, as minute by minute he enriches the road decorated with black blood and wrecks with more and more unrecognizable limp bodies, I still hope that this pace won't leave him and he sends all these bastards to the other world.

Still, when a mutant larger than its previous buddies appears and, pointing its horns at MacTavish, rushes forward, cutting through the carcasses lying in the filth, my blood runs cold. A skillful little soldier begins to shoot, but it doesn’t make a difference, for the beast charges forward furiously and unrelenting toward its goal, and when it arrives and strikes with unstoppable momentum, it's just a hair's breadth away from slicing open the chest of its victim, who is lucky enough that his vest absorbs the lion's share of the attack. Taking a few steps back, the Scotsman lowers his weapon onto its sling, then pulls himself together to grab the bone growths that are about to strike again, before it can stab him. He fixes his booted feet on the ground to hold back the enraged monster, who tries to push forward toward his chosen prey with muscles tensing under the pale, scarred skin. For a nerve-wracking moment, when the Hunter's legs slide backward in the dust, it seems that he might lose his balance and the fiend will get to him, but this horrific illusion lasts only for an uncertain second. In the blink of an eye, he regains control and pushes his attacker by its horns, then reaches into his tactical vest, grabs a large hunting knife from there and places it in the head of the mutant. The blade sinks right up to the hilt into the creature's skull as easily as if the man just wanted to cut a birthday cake, and he pulls it out with at least that much ease, so that he can continue the fight undisturbed.

And as soon as I see the large body spread out on the ground, I let out the air which I didn't know with what despair had stuck in my lungs until now. I hastily shift my gaze through my binoculars to assess the less-than-ideal state of the battlefield, because at this point the eventual outcome of this fight becomes highly doubtful. And I'm not greeted by a prettier sight from the intersection either, and although I see some of the monsters fall on the road limply, another one inexplicably appears in its place, which throws itself to the soldiers firing from their hiding places. And even my mind, confused by the chaos, knows that we have stepped into a real wasp's nest, because it has long since gone beyond the limits of a routine nest extermination. This is something completely different that we walked into completely unprepared.

I continue to observe the chaotic scene of the battle, and I'm just about to make up my mind to create some workable plan that could help me to survive, when something in my periphery suddenly moves on the battered roof of one of the ruined buildings. Reflexively, I turn my head in the direction of the phenomenon, and concentrating all my attention there, I try to assess with my sharp little eyes, what the figure slowly creeping out from the shadows and appearing almost out of nowhere could be. And when the silvery light of the moon finally envelops the stranger, my eyebrows meet in confusion at the sight materializing before me. Because for a split second, it occurs to me that I might have fallen victim to a hallucination caused by fear and stress, because I can't find a sane explanation as to why the I.M.L., with a body woven with lean muscles, appears with a human-like creature on its back peeping ever so slowly through the stumps of half-destroyed walls covered with vegetation.

But, when I understand what I'm seeing and my brain starts to work on interpreting the visual stimuli received through my eyes, a completely new kind of astonishment comes over me. It defies all known facts as the mutant and its rider stalk towards the edge of the building with almost stoic calm, and just the wording of this observation is enough to make me lean forward, holding on to the handrail, to see if I can get a better look at this impossible picture. The I.H.L. sitting on his cute little pet looks down on the events taking place in the turmoil of the street as superiorly as if it were just watching a movie, and although I can't see its face clearly, I can still perfectly measure up that its features have remained much more human-like than those of its other infected friends. While the other infected humanoid creatures only resembled their late selves in traces, and like the other monsters they took on an amorphous form littered with ulcers, growths, and superhuman muscles, which probably makes their appearance resemble a wraith from a nightmare, this individual remained surprisingly human. Only a few tumors and scars decorate its body, swollen with developed muscles, and its unwavering and proud posture is definitely different from the horrible nest dwellers.

However, I don't have time to analyze the creature any further, because when it raises one hand and points it towards the soldiers and Scottish Hunter fighting at the end of the road, I suddenly forget to muse on the events that took place so far. Because at least a dozen I.H.L.s drag themselves out of the alley that runs next to the building with slow movements, and at the silent instructions of their leader puffing above them, they begin a clumsy but all the more determined stealth towards the unsuspecting troops. And at this point, my mind finally snaps out of the paralyzed contemplation and instead postpones my further smart observations, and my hand hastily reaches for the radio resting on my tactical vest so I can warn MacTavish before the bastards can surprise them.

"MacTavish! I.H.L.s are approaching you from behind!" I shout with an almost desperate urgency, and I tensely aim my eyes at the man, who continues to fight with restless momentum against the ever-coming mass of enemies. An icy terror shoots through me when I don't see any reaction from him, and only one of the soldiers turns back for a moment to check the authenticity of the information coming from me. And when he notices the lanky figures slowly emerging from the shadows of the walls, he quickly spins around and waves his hand to the rest of his comrades who have retreated to cover.

"They're behind us!" I hear the soldier's nervous voice in my ear, and now they all think it's better to turn around and deal with the new threat that is approaching them with dangerous certainty. Even so, the restlessness of the soldiers doesn't break the Hunter from his murderous activities, and he continues to wipe out the monsters showing up from the intersection, despite the fact that by now he is doing this by himself. And I frown in confusion, since he gives no sign of being aware of the catastrophe that will soon begin.

It seems I'm not the only one who notices this, because one of the soldiers hiding close by suddenly jumps up and motions towards the Hunter, no doubt trying to shout over the noise of the active battle. And when he doesn't succeed, he hastily leaves his hideout and sneaks closer to try to warn his superior again. This message finally reaches its destination, because the Scottish man puts down the mutant coming towards him in a fraction of a second, only to look back and face the creatures that are about to pounce on them.

But then it's too late, because the monstrosities, who have been advancing calmly up to this point, suddenly find their anger and attack the small group with all their uncontrollable bloodlust, and the Hunter and his men are now forced to defend themselves from two directions. The soldiers immediately start firing, but all efforts and even the Hunter fighting at their side are in vain when a handful of people don't stand a chance against these wretches. Since when the I.H.L.s reach them, the real carnage begins, and in the blink of an eye, the hopeless struggle thus far turns into total hell. They unstoppably burst into the combatants, and as one of the deformed creatures throws itself at the man shooting from behind a chunk of concrete, it grabs its victim by the neck with indefensible speed with its grotesque, spider-like long arms, and tears off the unfortunate soldier's head with playful ease, as if it had just tried to rip off a piece of grape from its cluster. And the acid rises in my throat at the sight with unforgiving force, and holding my hand in front of my mouth, I swallow back the contents of my stomach that want to burst out, which was led toward the outside world by fear so graciously.

I can't hear it, but it's enough to see MacTavish's mouth open in agony to feel the surprised fury in the scream that leaves the man's lips. But the fun isn't over yet, as the chaos of the night that turned into bloodshed is cut in two by a bone-chilling roar that draws my attention back to the unknown being who started this whole fucking event. And that bastard climbs down the side of the building where it had been observing up until now, sitting on top of the mutant behemoth, and gallops towards the group fighting desperately with its chest out. And my hands reflexively find my radio to do something, to warn someone who knows how to prevent the horror that is slowly unfolding before my eyes.

"MacTavish! There's one more coming up from behind!" I yell into the device at full volume, and I look again for the mentioned person, but instead of responding to my call, he throws himself into eliminating the beasts with even more aggression than before, like a cornered wild animal. And the unpleasant realization dawns on me that this cannot be the work of chance, and that he is not deliberately ignoring my call, but that some accident has happened with his communication device. And this, if possible, pushes me even further towards complete panic, the like of which I wasn't lucky enough to feel even in the forest. That's why I decide it's time to tell someone else about the mess the team got into.

"Riley!" I call for the masked Hunter, ignoring the panic that mixes with my voice that breaks through the radio. Because my instincts are taking over my brain, and it screams inside my skull that if my Scottish friend doesn't get help soon, I'm going to watch with my own two eyes as that fucking beast-riding mutant bastard guts him. And this is just enough to drive my body to the verge of dizziness. "MacTavish's team is surrounded, they need help!" I exclaim, and I shift my frantic gaze to the intersection through my binoculars, just in case Riley and one of his partners appear in the heat of the madness and rush to help.

However, for a nerve-wracking moment, no answer comes, and although I can hear the soldiers messaging each other in broken voices, none of them are the deep, British-accented ones I'm looking for. And that disgusting foreboding creeps into my skull, which tells me that something terrible might have happened to the other man, which prevents him from answering. And this possibility triggers even more ominous thoughts in my brain, which is already falling into a deeper pit of stress. But, when I hear the crackling of the radio in my ear, I almost instinctively feel a sense of relief, because I wouldn't be able to process so much crap in one night.

"Roger that. Stay where you are." Comes the rather concise reaction, and while his tone doesn't surprise me at all, his words are even more so. There is such a measured indifference radiating from the man over the line as he directs this firm instruction at me, that it instantly raises my blood pressure. Because I get the feeling that, he's belittling my concerns and disregarding my observations, and ignoring my entire report, as if it were nothing more than the unnecessary squealing of a silly little girl. Although I can accurately assess the superior confidence with which the demonic monster approaches our mutual friend, who is slowly running out of space to protect himself from threats.

"Riley, I'm not fucking kidding!" I snap at the man fiercely, and my fingers tighten around the radio with such force that I'm afraid it will crack in my grip. "There's a fucking I.H.L. riding a mutant, and it directs the other bastards there and they're cornering MacTavish and his team!" I explain to him, leaving behind all my pride and arrogance, which I have been so happy to convey to him during our conversations. With this, hoping that he will also understand the seriousness of the situation and will finally rally his people, and help the Scottish man so that we can get out of this cesspool together. Because the only chance of survival here is to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. Whether this is the orderly and correct step or not.

"Continue to observe and hold your position!" He raises his voice now, informing me of his previously perfectly worded order a little more irritatedly, with which the problem so far wasn't that my brain cells couldn't process it. And I stare blankly into the distance, with my flaming eyes fixed on the man even through the ruined buildings covered with plants, because I'm unable to understand what is so damn hard to understand in the fact that without his help, his friend will soon kick the bucket. As I take another look at the battle taking place in the street, and see how the multitude of monsters and degenerate creatures are slowly closing in on MacTavish and his two companions who are still alive, my chest tightens with a stabbing pain. Too many enemies are arriving, and there is no end in sight to the bloody mess, and although the Hunter is heroically trying to stand his ground, it's perfectly clear that their chances of survival will soon be zero if something is not done urgently. And it seems that the man is also aware of this, because he nervously turns his head behind his back, looking for an escape route, so that when he notices the entrance to the small alley stretching to the left, he signals to his men to order them behind him. He keeps his weapon on the beats attacking them, trying to hold them back until he manages to fish out a grenade from his vest, and then throws the useful little bomb into the small gang of mutants. The force of the explosion causes the bastards to fly apart like startled birds, and those who are still hit by the detonation are blown into discrete pieces. It seems that MacTavish takes advantage of this momentary distraction, because by the time the dust and smoke clears, there is no sign of him and his friends. And even though I lose sight of them in this way, it still makes me more anxious to wonder how much time they will gain with this stunt before their pursuers catch up with them again.

My concerns are soon answered, because the mutant-riding I.H.L. stands only with immeasurable calmness at the edge of the scene of destruction, only to retreat for a fleeting moment, surveying its sweet little beasts with quite deceptive apathy. It gives the impression as it runs its milk-white gaze over its remaining bloodthirsty companions, as if it would just count how many chess pieces it has left, which it can mobilize in order to inflict maximum damage. And when it’s convinced that there are still enough scumbags that it can unleash on its victims, it once again directs the dozens of monsters towards the escape route used by the Scotsman with that eerily sensible gesture, and the brutes throw themselves onto the designated path with murderous enthusiasm. But it doesn't stay idle either, no. As soon as the last of its kind is swallowed up by the darkness of the side street, the monster below it suddenly moves and dashes after them with amazing speed. And it doesn't take much logic for me to figure out that this is going to be a hide-and-seek with an easily fatal outcome. And this gives me enough justification to try asking for help again.

"Riley!" I call for the man again, and I know that there is real desperation and anger in my voice, but the urgent feeling that with every passing minute, we are getting closer to the bloody highlight of this whole nerve-racking mission doesn’t let me rest. And when a few painfully long seconds pass and there is still no answer, my teeth clench so nervously that my jaw almost aches from it. What the fuck?

"MacTavish has left his position and is now being chased by a herd of mutants. If someone doesn't help them, they will most certainly die." I try again, now perhaps more impatiently than necessary, emphasizing each word separately. But again, I don't get any reaction, from which I can directly conclude that the man is probably swimming up to his knees in the carcasses of the beasts, and thus he can be in exactly as dire of a position as his friend with the mohawk. Because I know he wouldn’t deliberately ignore my warning about the suffering of his dear friend, considering how fiercely he defended his little unit from my harmful little scheming.

From this whole helpless situation, the image of MacTavish's mangled body, lying in the dirt swimming in blood while a beast feasts on him, flashes before my mind's eye inexplicably. The vision projected in my imagination seems so real that the pressure, which was benevolently suppressed by the compulsion to follow the events, once again returns to its well-accustomed place in my throat. Just the thought that the life of the man, who effectively sneaked into the corners of my dark little soul even during our fleeting time together, would die in such a violent and painful manner fills my limbs with unbearable pain.

And as I take in the sight of the gaping nest at the intersection and the monsters rampaging around it through my binoculars again, the very definite idea begins to take shape in the winding paths of my gray matter, that maybe it's time to leave my position that lulls me into the illusion of safety. Although all my survival instincts protest against the idea, I still have the best chance to rush to the aid of the Scottish Hunter, because his other comrades, just like him, are still fighting desperately for their lives. And this simple fact seems like such a logical step, which nevertheless sufficiently triggers the raging waves of adrenaline in my body. And the smile that makes its way to my face breaks out of me almost hysterically when I realize how far I have strayed from the selfish little ideas of my former self at this moment. Because while previously no one could have persuaded me to commit such a stupid and irresponsible move, now the voice in the deepest part of my skull is reviving, which drowns out the sounds of my selfishness, and which screams for me to pull myself together and finally do something. I've never been a coward, I've always been manipulative and calculating, so it's time to act before the terror in my stomach wins. Shit.

"I'll go after him." I announce my sudden decision with surprising ease, as soon as my fingers find my radio again. It's quite obvious that even though I could flee in silence and maybe even survive, every cell in me is furiously protesting the fleeting idea, as if the suggestion itself were a disgusting disease. And thinking rationally, I'm most definitely not going to get out of here alone tonight, so it would be best if I would actively do something so that I and my little friends can get through the night. Even if I put my own skin at risk.

"I told you not to leave your position! This is a command!" Riley's voice suddenly echoes in my ears, and I find it quite funny that breaking his instructions is what finally prompts him to react. I'd like to think he's sounding so aggressive over the radio because he's worried about my safety, but I know he probably just wants to avoid explaining how I died if I would actually bit the bullet during my rescue operation. And while my realistic self understands why he insists to idle my time away here, the fact that he would rather keep me at this fucking observation point than let me do what I'm willingly offering helps the poison spread through my veins. Now is not the time when he can flaunt his dominance, because once I have a rock-solid determination, very little will distract me from it. And the role of the strict Hunter is not one of them.

"I couldn't care less about your order, Riley." I throw my remark at him determinedly, and although I know that this will probably only fan the flames of his temper even more, unfortunately, this die is already cast. "I won't let him die." I explain to him my brief reasoning behind my sudden decision, and before I can even wait for his answer, my hands glide with automatic movements towards the communicator hidden deep in the side pocket of my pants, and with my clever little fingers I call up the map of the whole damn city so that I can look for the man with the mohawk on it. And when the little red dot marking him with his call sign appears, as he flees diligently heading west, then I already know what the target direction of my little action will be.

"Woods! Stay in your fuckin' position!" The masked man reprimands me again, but I only deal with this matter with a sarcastic snort, because at this point he already should know that he won't stop me with this, because he hasn't been able to divert me with his threats so far either. And only a hidden corner of my consciousness grasps the unknown and impatient tension, which until now I haven't heard in his deep voice, but I don't pay any importance to it now. After all, at this moment, the interpretation of his behavior, unfortunately, fell back in the order of priority. And because of this, I decide that I'd rather not waste any more words on this futile verbal battle, because I will get to where I need to be that much later.

"I'll let you know when there's a new development." I send him one last message, so that I can finally surrender to the impatient nervousness in my muscles, which pushes each of my limbs towards action. And although panic is still actively working in my veins, my realization gives me enough impetus to finally move. I push myself away from the handrail that has provided me with firm support until now, and sliding my binoculars back into their holder, I turn my back on the active battlefield, where the sound of loud gunfire and inarticulate howls still fills the space. I grab my assault rifle slung over my shoulder and start with hasty steps towards the stairs leading down from the overpass, crossing the broken concrete road. Even I'm amazed at how springy my movements are, as I take the steps in twos, only to start running immediately after a final check of my communicator.

I decide that I might have better luck avoiding the monsters whose after MacTavish if I try to approach them one street up, because the mutants are definitely working on cornering him. And if the beast-riding bastard is there with them, then unfortunately for the Hunter, but to my luck, maybe his trashy friends won't wander away from there. Because, even though I was suddenly promoted to a one-man relief army, my common sense and will to survive didn't leave me. I run across the wide road, from the end of which the sounds of the battle still reach me, and even though I still hear the memory of Riley's deep voice filled with anger, I only take one last look at the events taking place at the intersection. I will care about the man's rage when everyone is back in the safe and calm confines of the base. Maybe I'll even be happy if he scolds me.

A narrow stretch of road between ruined buildings appears in front of my eyes, and when I realize that the next part of my journey will lead to it, I double my speed and throw myself into the side street surrounded by crumbling walls. I'm greeted by nothing but ominous pitch darkness, and my nose is suddenly filled with the smell of wet vegetation and gunpowder traveling on the back of the wind, but I'm not deterred for a moment by this archival horror movie environment. It takes some time for my eyes to adjust to the world of the alley dominated by shadows, and for the few seconds until this happens, I continue sprinting without waiting, because my heart beating in my ears and the adrenaline bubbling in my veins tells me that there is no time to hesitate. But thanks to fate, my pretty little eyes overcome this obstacle after running a few meters blindly, and from then on I continue on the desolate road with full confidence.

My lungs are filled with decades of dust kicked up by my steps, and the fine crumbs of plaster peeling off the crumbling walls slowly fill my mouth, but even in spite of this, I hurry along the narrow and ridiculously long street. Sometimes I jump with the elegance of a gazelle over the many abandoned belongings and objects lying on the ground that are rotten beyond recognition, and my mind, focused on the task, doesn't stop to think about what a piece of cloth of dubious origin or an obscure outline that appears suspiciously might be. And I'm terribly grateful for that, because now I don't feel like getting into that kind of nostalgia.

When the claustrophobic feeling from wandering in the depths of the alley would finally start to get on my nerves, my small path suddenly ends and I get to another wide concrete road, in the middle of which an overturned large vehicle is lying still. And although most of the paint had peeled off, there are still a couple of yellow scale-like remnants left on it, from which I can deduce that it must have been a school bus once. And I prefer to direct my gaze to the hologram glowing in blue on my communicator, rather than to the windows that look like many screaming mouths, through which I catch the decaying frames of the torn seats for a moment.

I search for MacTavish's blinking little dot on the map again, and when I find it three streets down, pulsing unmovingly in one place, worry fills me. Because the fact that he decided to take a rest in the middle of his escape can mean two things. Either he managed to kill all the mutants, or something is actively preventing him from leaving. And if it's the latter, then I have to hurry because it could lead straight to his death.

I quickly identify the small, one-way street where I will continue my way, which is located one street directly above the position of the Hunter, so that I can leave behind the haunting ruins of the school and begin my frenzied sprint once again. My whole body continues to be doped by the ever-growing waves of adrenaline, which drives away the dryness that bites my esophagus, the burning tension in my muscles, and every other sensation, and pushes me further into the emptiness of the seemingly endless street. The moonlight colors the once serene surroundings in silver and lends a quite eerie atmosphere to the silence, which slowly envelops everything. The sounds of the battle in the combat zone behind me had long since disappeared, and nothing remains but the dull noise of my boots pounding on the concrete and the sound of my hurried breathing.

Every minute, I return to the map looming in blue with my eyes, and as the red dot marking the man with the mohawk, still blinking frozen in place, gets closer and closer, my heart rate soars to dangerous heights. Because I have a strong suspicion that my first hypothesis was correct, and that the being leading the mutants really directed all of his minions towards the Hunter, and that's exactly why MacTavish has been stalling in the same place for minutes, and that's why luck has so far spared me from running into stray I.M.L.. And this realization is a sufficient warning for caution, because at this point it becomes clear that I will have to come up with a tricky little tactic if I want to save not only the man and his friends, but also my own skin.

And when I finally see the end of this damned street, I rather take back my momentum, because I hear the unmistakable deep, rasping and definitely otherwordly grunts and growls, the likes of which only a single lifeform can emit. With cat-like steps, I sneak closer to the end of the street to look for a temporary hiding place, snuggling up against the side of a building dotted with decaying old plaster. I slowly and silently slide my communicator back into my pocket, as I suspect it will be obvious where the Scotsman and his companions have been confined. Resting my palm against the wall, I lean out of the my hideout, and when I see the mob of beasts, my eyebrows nervously furrow. Because a good thirty meters away, they are peacefully huddling in front of an alley, from which the muffled sounds of fighting are heard. And they have every reason to be calm, because the mutant-riding I.H.L. does the same, and observes the events of the battle that emanate from the dark alley with deep indifference. As my gaze glides across the gathered herd to assess how many of them are there, I see a small group of monsters circling the ground with great interest. And as soon as one of them moves, I can finally see what occupied them so effectively. Although there is only a blood-soaked, mangled corpse lying on the ground, I only need to look at the uniformed leg dangling from one of the beast's sharp, needle-like teeth to know that by now MacTavish may be the last survivor of his team. And I thank the stress hormone working in me for kindly suppressing the first friendly waves of nausea, because I don't want to be caught just because I do a technicolor yawn.

And before I can analyze the situation further, I hear a loud bang of a gun firing, which is followed by sick silence. It seems that the little fucker riding the beast could have been waiting for this, because it seizes this opportunity and decides to join the party, raising an object that looks terriby close to a spear in its hand. My chest suddenly tightens as my brain takes in the facts, and then the decision is born in me that I have to act now, or the Hunter, who may have run out of ammunition and weapons, and may be injured and exhausted, won't be able to stand his ground against this scumbag. Even if every fiber of my being hopes the contrary.

And this, instead of causing me to fall into despair, in some inexplicable way rekindles the bubbling energy in my veins that I last felt when I locked eyes with that fucking wild boar. And although I thought that my body wasn't shaken for a moment by that faithful meeting, I'm still glad that this image is etched in my memory. Because now at least I will benefit from the unquestionable determination that once again overwhelms me, and now even though not my survival depends on it, I let this unknown force lick my insides with angry flames. And my brain in a heightened state magically comes up with the plan that I have to implement. And for some reason, I have no doubts about its success.

My fingers nimbly fish out the flash grenade resting on my vest, and its other two much more destructive brothers, because it seems much more logical and poetic to shred these garbage into confetti, as they did with the unsuspecting soldiers. I emerge from the cover of the wall for the last time, and I see that the monsters are still waiting for me at their dinner table, stuffing their faces, and this suddenly makes me want to kill them even more. My body moves almost by itself, and I aim my weapon with automatic movements, then throw the flash grenade between the gathered mutants with such precision as if I had been doing this all my life. I quickly hide myself behind the wall again, and the bastards don't even have time to process what's happening, because as soon as the sneaky little gadget hits the ground, the blinding light that escapes from it momentarily covers the entire ruined street. And when a deafening whine-like sound erupts from them, I know that my vile little distraction was effective.

I grasp the opportunity, and I don't give them time to recover from this, but I activate the two companions that are more powerful than the flash grenade, and I send them flying on their destructive journey straight between the paralyzed, frozen creatures. And although I once again retreat to the protective shield of the building, when the hand grenades land, they explode with a well-known boom, after which nothing remains but the air movement and the mass of dust flying with it. Thus, even in the shelter of my hiding place, I hear the wet splashing of torn bodies of the beasts and the sharp thump of the debris hitting the ground, and I take this as the sign that I can finally make my entrance on the blood-covered stage.

I step out onto the concrete road with every inch of my body filled with determination, and I see, through the dispersing smoke, that my little surprise has indeed achieved the necessary effect. The remains of bodies mutilated beyond recognition lie on the ground, and even the luckier ones, those who are still moving and writhing on the mangled leashes of their own limbs, will no longer pose a threat. I briskly cross the street that has become the site of bloodshed, and my boots clatter with a disgusting sound in the dirt soaked with dark body fluids, but instead of being repulsed by the whole sight, a small joy awakens in my soul, because they all deserved it. Each and everyone of them.

It doesn't take long for me to reach the entrence of the alley, and when I arrive, I lose momentum for split second, and I pause to survey the scene unfolding before me. MacTavish might have been able to struggle heroically against the enemy until now, because the narrow street is covered by the many lifeless corpse of I.M.L.s, and it must have been a miracle of God that he survived in this hot water until now. But now, backing towards the end of the dead end alley, his hands are pressed to his stomach, where the remnants of his tactical vest and T-shirt hang in jagged pieces, giving a clear view of the long, claw-like cuts that run across his torso. A painful moan escapes the man, and his gaze glowing with weak red light is fixed on the beast towering over him, and on the deformed creature sitting on it, who is preparing to finish its cruel work with its spear raised high. And this awakens such anger and hatred in me, the heat of which burns my insides alive, and along which the energy burns even more strongly in my veins, sending a single message to my brain. Kill it. And it doesn't have to be said twice.

Before the scumbag can even make its next move, I grab my assault rifle and aim it without hesitation to pump the bastart full of bullets. My gun fires with a series of loud bangs, and I manage to surprise the mutant, because by the time it realizes what's happening, the fired bullets are already piercing through its body, and maybe even Riley himself would be proud of how efficiently I take I.H.L. down with my sharpened senses. A shrill scream erupts from it, then with a dull thump the human-like creature turns from the throne it had occupied until now, and as soon as it sprawls on the dirty ground, its pet also notices that something is very wrong. The mutant turns with such fervor, as if it were genuinely enraged by my intervention, which it might be. But I'm not frightened by the way it snarls and focuses all its attention on me, because when it lunges towards me and wants to get up on two legs to throw itself at me, I deploy my mean little rifle again and shoot the fucker with deadly efficiency, focusing on its chest, because the useful wisdom that I learned during my training appears in my brain. And I know from this that if I cause enough damage, it will fall to the ground. I don't have to be disappointed in the knowledge I've acquired from my teachers, because when a bunch of bloody gaping holes cover the brute's broad chest, it falls in the filth next to its master. As I unwaveringly walk towards it, and when with its last breath, the milky white eyes resting on its wrinkled, tumor-distorted head look up at me, then I decide to take pity on it and free it from its suffering, and I present it with one last bullet to its skull. It takes a few seconds for me to realize that it's over and I've killed both of them. And then the murderous red fog clears from my mind, and all my attention shifts to the Hunter kneeling at the back of the alley.

"MacTavish!" I shout, and I don't even try to get rid of the worry in my voice, because my nervous system is too overloaded to be able to work on such stunts. Instead, my body moves almost automatically, and I hurry through the narrow alley covered with corpses, shoving my weapon over my shoulder. And the closer I get, the more my anxiety increases, because this way I finally have the opportunity to measure the man's not-so-rosy state in detail.

"Woods... " He moans, and as he looks up at me, and the reddish glow in his eyes suddenly dissapears, which prompts me, when I finally reach him, to stumble and fall on my knees next to him, frantically directing my bright eyes at the injuries on his stomach and chest. “Why are you here? " He asks the completely logical question, yet impatience awakens in me from the way he is trying to question my actions through his pain.

"I came to save you." I tell him quickly and matter-of-factly, pushing his body back towards the wall of the alley with trembling hands so that he can rest while I assess the damage. The large cuts on his suntanned skin show off in an angry red color, from the deep furrows of which crimson blood gushes out, soaking what is left of his clothes. And as soon as I see the characteristic texture of the raw meat emerging on his belly, I don't hesitate any longer, I pull myself together and finally get to work. I can now perform what I was brought to do. Fuck!

"Leave me here..." He pleads with a his face distorted by pain, and as he closes his eyes, his head falls back and connects with the bricks with a soft thud, then I place my palms on his wounds without any delay, and fixing my gaze on his body, I aim the tensely bubbling waves of my energy towards him. "Go... Run..." He starts again with the martyr, self-sacrificing speech, and my teeth clench with such force from frustration that I feel my jaw ache from it.

"Shut up, Soap!" I glare at him, and even I myself don't notice what's slipping out of my mouth, but it's just enough to grab the Hunter's languid attention for a moment and snap him out of his self-pity. Only the beginnings of a cheeky smile appear on his lips, but before he can share his witty comment with me, suffering takes over his features again. And I take advantage of his silence to focus all my attention on healing, and as the complicated system of blood vessels, muscles and organs appear in my brain, and then the gaping cuts running across them, I close my eyes and cling to the damaged tissues with my own energy. In my mind, I watch how the torn blood vessels slowly but surely connect again, and I see how the torn fibers of the tissues intertwine, and gradually everything takes on its original, undamaged and flawless state. As the gashes of his wounds slowly disappear under my palms, the muscles that have been tense from agony also relax, and when a relieved sigh escapes from the man's mouth, I know that this will be enough for now. He probably won't die now, and although he still will be weak from the blood loss, he's just well enough to make a break for it. Because my womanly intuition tells me that my entrance was so radical that it will soon attract the scumbags who might have been idly looking around the area until now.

"Pull yourself together, MacTavish, we've got to go!" I warn the man in a firm voice, and shuffilng next to him I reaching under his arm to help him stand up by spreading my hand on his back. Surprisingly, the Hunter obeys my request right away, and hisses as he struggles to a standing position with me, putting his weight on me until he manages to pull himself together ready to go. "We have to get to the cars!" I tell him the facts, which represent the only possibility for survival, and which our other comrades have probably already set their sights on.

MacTavish acknowledges my proposal with only a weak nod, then sets off with me towards the entry of the alley as fast as he can, and I hastily lead him over the cadavers of so many beasts lying in the dust. As we pass the monster-riding F.H.L., I take one last look at its lanky, frighteningly pale body. And so, up close, it's even more unnatural how humanlike the mutation of the virus left it. I can't think of a reasonable explanation for this phenomenon, but since now is not the time for scientific reflection, I will save the whole problem for a later date. In my small room at the base, after a warm shower, I will stretch out in my bed and create hypotheses.

But when we reach the opening of the alley, the demonic growling sounds reach my ear canals again, signaling the approach of another fucking difficulty. These damned bastards never seem to run out, which awakens the suspicion me, that by size of the nest here, something really shady is behind the whole operation. Because it's quite certain that it wan’t the magically accelerated development of the virus that caused this whole tragic circus.

But before my thoughts can go any further, we step out into the street, and with that, we come face to face with the reception committee, who, breaking out of their mourning over the remains of their dead comrades, fix their eyes on us. And when the angry bloodthirst flares up there, I already know that there is still one more obstacle to go before we can even get to the end of the whole pile of shit. I push MacTavish's body against the wall of the building lining the side street, and he just leans against the hole-filled plaster with a weak groan full of suffering. He tries to say something to me, but before he could even start his sermon, I already have the gun in my hand again, and with all my remaining concentration I try to shoot down as many of the beasts swinging towards us almost simultaneously as possible.

And when life intervenes, and after a few shots I run out of ammo, I reach for the supply on my vest with hasty movements, but when the new magazine is just in my grasp, a beast appears in front of me, and I reflexively jump back before it could cut me open with its knife-like claws. And even though I thank the reflexes of my kind, my joy doesn't last long, because during my little maneuver, my foot skillfully finds one of the many pieces of debris lying on the ground. And as the piece of stone drifts under the sole of my boot and knocks me off my balance, I fell on my ass in such a beautiful curve that under other circumstances I would surely get a funny remark from my Scottish friend. But he holds into against the brick wall, hovering on the edge of unconsciousness, and doesn't pay attention to my clumsiness.

I fix my eyes on the monster attacking me, who has now been joined by a couple of its no less-dangerous friends, to end my life together. And I, keeping my eyes on them, reach for another magazine, because I cleverly dropped the previous one in the middle of my landing and released it somewhere among the other rubble. But by this time, the stress makes my movements properly uncoordinated, and although my mind is clear and continues to urge my body to act, my fingers suddenly become clumsy, even though I have already done this a thousand times with my masked trainer. It shouldn't be a problem for me to change a magazine, but as my brain takes in the mutants who are menacingly stalking towards me, waiting to pounce, then almost a short circuit occurs in every corner of my head. And the sly little voice in the back of my skull tells me that the effect of the adrenaline is diminishing, and that the energy I spent on healing the Scottish man is slowing me down at the moment.

However, after a few torturous seconds, my hand finally succeeds, just as the beast that wanted to slice me up gets tired of the slow, sinister stalking and swings towards me, springing into the air. And I aim my weapon at the monster as fast as I can, but before either of us can succeed in executing our attack, a metallic flash appears out of nowhere and hits the monster's head with such force that it splits apart with a gut-wrenching crack like an overripe melon. The dark blood of the mutant splashes on my face, but I'm unable to deal with it, because my mind is much more occupied by the very sinister figure that appears behind the beast falling to the ground.

It takes me a moment to comprehend who has come to save us, and when I finally realize that it's Riley, an indescribable shock washes over me. Because despite the fact that I voluntarily put my life on the line against his firm orders, I'm sufficiently surprised that he's still here. And as his furiously widened, red-glowing eyes survey my form sprawled among the debris, and then move on to his friend, who has fallen to the ground along the wall behind me, dirty with blood, then such a dangerous, ice-cold fury begins to flow from him that it freezes the blood in my veins. And although only the pale shine of the moon gives us some light, I can still clearly see the strained line of his broad shoulders, which makes him look quite like a predator ready to pounce. Even though for a fleeting moment it seems as if he wants to say something, he turns without a word in the direction of the mutants who are still carousing here, and then concentrates the poison that is surely raging inside him on them. And that's when I manage to observe what did he use so skillfully to free me from the bastard attacking me, and his makeshift weapon makes my eyes widen in an almost comical way. Because he lifts the traffic signpost with such ease, as if it were a twig, and with even more effortlessness and faster than that, he hits the devilish creatures leaping towards him with the piece of concrete at its end. And when I understand that this guy tore a fucking traffic sign out of the ground with his bare hands, in order to continue fighting with it, then, in addition to the surprise, something completely different reaches my nervous system, which is struggling to process the events. Because there is something quite animalistic in the way his body pulsates with power as he kills his enemies with the brutal strength and unstoppable momentum of a big cat. I feel a dull tingle in my stomach in an irrational way, and my mouth besomes dry in a fucked up manner as I stare at his strong figure rampaging and killing.

And scolding myself, I divert my attention from the massacare unfolding in front of me before I can even analyze how artistic I find the line of his broad back in the middle of the fucking bloodshed, as he beats down and degrades the I.M.L.s that come in front of him to pulp. Instead, I break out of my observation and get up on my feet again to hurry with quick steps to MacTavish, who is now lying limp at the bottom of the brick wall, immersed in the beneficial darkness of unconsciousness. My fingers carefully slip on his neck, and as I feel the slow, even pulse under the urgent searching of my energy, I calm down and turn back to our savior.

Riley takes care of all the mutants present with surprising speed, and then, when he has mutilated them all beyond recognition, he casually throws away his weapon and it lands with a loud crash on the street, which has now turned into total bloody chaos. It seems that he was able to release the accumulated tension, because when he turns his gaze to us again, he looks far more relaxed, and he strides towards us with confident steps, sizing up our little couple with his eyes. And when he stops next to me, he bends down without comment to throw his Scottish comrade on his back with a rather light movement, as if the well-built man was nothing more than a rag doll. And this is probably the case, if I only consider the way he got his previous weapon.

"Let's go. The others are waitin' for us at the edge of the combat zone." He says briefly, and even I'm surprised at how flat his deep voice sounds, despite the fervor with which he began the slaughter just minutes ago. And I'm not going to present him with an apt remark, but with a silent nod, I agree to his suggestion, because I also can't wait to finally be able to leave this fucking place. And if he hastened so enthusiastically to save us, then I won't talk back to him, thanks to whom my head is still in place. At least for a while, for sure.

The smoldering eyes of the masked man scan my face for a fleeting second, as if searching for something, but then, after a brief nod, he sets off in the direction of the road back, and starts running as fast as if he hadn't fought for half the night and wasn't weighed down by the one of his companions. And certainly, for a Hunter belonging to the SSS class, all of this doesn't pose any particular difficulties, yet for the first time, I'm amazed at the cold professionalism with which he handles this whole situation. After all, it occurs to me that this whole mission ended in a complete disaster, which no one could have predicted. The responsibility for this rests on his shoulders, despite the fact that even he can't predict the future, and even his super-sharp Hunter senses couldn't foresee the series of mishaps and sad accidents that would follow each other during the night. And the fact that we are now in the ruins of the deserted city, fleeing together towards the edge of the combat zone, is also only thanks to the immeasurable benevolence of fate.

We get back to the road we marched down at the beginning of our operation surprisingly quickly, and I'm filled with immeasurable gratitude that I can finally leave this godforsaken pile of ruins behind me, which only enriched me with a lot of new and quite pleasant experiences. Without a doubt, I overachieved the task imposed on me in a quite reckless manner, and I have no doubt that because of this, the man who continues to advance steadfastly in front of me will have an unsolicited word or two for me. But that's the least of the problems I experienced during the night, because his small punishment is dwarfed by what I saw. Because here something quite large had slipped by the wayside, which even Laswell's omniscient little information couldn't have avoided. And suddenly I remember the camera still merrily recording on my chest, and I thank my foresight and her clever procuring skills, because if Price doesn't see with his own eyes what MacTavish and I were able to experience in this goddamn place, then he won't believe it. If someone were to tell me that the I.H.L.s and the I.M.L.s united under their mutant-riding leader and surprised a team of trained Hunters and soldiers who had been through dozens of missions, then I would also offer that person a special medicine to stop imagining things. But this was different. This was reality. And nothing proves it better than the unconscious Scottish guy traveling on the back of the masked Hunter, who suffered this story firsthand. And the dull throbbing in my limbs, left behind by the long-gone adrenaline, is a very nice reminder that I, too, was lucky enough to admire this horror on several occasions. And although, for now, my brain can't dwell on this, I'm sure that I will have a thousand assumptions while watching the nice little recordings. Because we need to find an explanation for this.

When we finally arrive at the edge of the combat zone, and the waiting vans appear in front of me, my heart beating in my chest finally slows down a bit. The members of the Watcher team anxiously survey our arriving small group, and I look at the handful of survivors who remained from the original fifteen-person team that sneaked into the city with a similar gloom. And these four unfortunates have also seen better days, and even though all their limbs are intact at least, I know that as soon as we return to the base, I need to treat them immediately, because they have plenty of injuries to take care of. And this is another cruel stab in the festering wound caused by the events.

"Start the countdown when we leave. We don't leave it up to chance." Riley gives his first instructions to one of the soldiers left behind, who with a quick nod pulls out his remote control and then jumps into one of the vehicles with his companions. And I follow the masked man, who opens the back door of the other car with fast movements, and then, entering, lays his friend on the ground as carefully as if he were made of glass.

None of us waste any more time waiting, because the next step is to escape from here. We also get into the van, and after I find my seat, I lean forward and slide my hand on my patient's neck again, checking his vitals in a quick second, which flickers reassuringly steadily under the curious touch of my energy. Fortunately, I arrived in time to save him, and thanks to Laswell's pampering, I came here full enough to be able to save the man's life. But if I got there even a minute later, or Riley didn't come after us to help my stupid self stuck in the corner, things would be different now. And now, for the first time, I don't find it difficult to admit that even though I don't regret for a minute that I defied him, my dark little heart beats gratefully that nevertheless he rushed to our aid. Even if his efforts were more for his partner than for me.

And instead of brooding, I decide that it's time to regenerate the man with the mohawk a little, because by the time we get back, he should be alert enough to stand in as a witness to tell the story of what happened tonight. I gently place my palm on his neck and direct my force in even waves toward the unconscious MacTavish to breathe life into his exhausted body again. And when Riley throws himself down in front of me after the van takes off with full throttle, my troubled gaze meets his now familiar chocolate-colored eyes. And with an almost habitual sense, I decipher the thoughts swirling in them, which now pose even less of a challenge. Because in his stare, there is exactly the same grim restlessness that has settled in my head.

For a moment, an orange light paints his face as the bombs left behind explode in the distance, and none of us need to say a word to know that tonight is just the beginning of something terribly messed up.

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fortune-fool02 · 2 years

Text

A Close Call

Bigby Wolf x female reader

Summary: After the attack from Bloody Mary, Bigby decided it was best to try and get some form of rest to heal. [Name] ensured he did so.

I couldn’t help but write for this man again! Please reblog, like and comment as it really helps! Thank you!

Please enjoy!

The room was thick with the smell of medicine, blood and alcohol. As well as those bloody Huff’N’Puffs, but that was the least of [Name]’s concerns at the moment. When she got the call from Snow about what happened to Bigby, she all but sprinted to Bigby’s apartment, white hot concern coursing through her veins with a burning tightness in her nerves. Sitting beside Colin on the floor, [Name] tried her best to keep herself calm as Dr Swineheart carefully removed each little fragment of the bullets that riddled Bigby’s body. His hands stained with blood, but it was nothing compared to the blood on Bigby’s body and chair.

She knew him being a Fabel meant he could take injuries that were fatal to humans but the fact he had stopped breathing a few times during the operation had her fighting back tears and keeping herself from falling apart right there in the room. When she first got there, and saw Bigby like that, she had some colourful words for Snow as to what happened and why she allowed it to happen.

“Don’t worry, [Name]. Bigby’s a tough bastard, he’s been through worse.” Colin said, plopping beside her as they watched Dr Swineheart work. Snow had taken to hovering around them then sitting down for a few minutes, and then repeating it all again. Chocking back a shaky breath, [Name] tried to steel herself, tried to make herself believe Colin’s words. A soft groan was heard, making everyone perk up to see Bigby lifting his head, looking around in a daze before turning his head to spit out blood.

“Bigby.” [Name] couldn’t stop herself from moving over quickly and resting her hand on his cheek. A wave of relief hit her hard to see him awake, alive. His eyes focused on her and he smiled weakly.

“Hey, love.” He coughed a little, little flecks of blood on his lips but [Name] didn’t care as she pressed a soft, loving kiss on his lips.

“Excuse me, Miss [Surname], but I’m still working.” [Name] looked at Dr Swineheart before apologising and stepping aside to give him more room to work with, though she hovered close to Bigby. “He’s lucky to be alive. If he takes one more silver round close to his heart, the only place we’ll be meeting again is the morgue.” A cold shard of ice pierced her heart at that, and her mind working hard not to picture Bigby in that situation.

“It’s been... a confusing set of days. Even for us.” Snow commented, but [Name] couldn’t be bothered to listen to her. Her attention focused only on Bigby as she gently held his hand, he responded by giving her a weak squeeze with what strength he could muster. His arm bandaged up after being reset and Dr Swineheart finished up once removing the final piece of bullet, bandaging the rest of the injuries up.

“Miss [Surname], please ensure that the Sheriff gets some rest. His body will eventually give out if this continues. There are limits to what even I can do.” She nodded at that, standing up for a moment to see him out, thanking him profusely for his work. Snow had followed not long after, agreeing to let Bigby get some rest for the night. The second they left, [Name] locked the door and removed the phone from its base, preventing any phone calls from reaching them.

Another soft groan was made as Bigby forced himself to his feet and shuffled into the kitchen to get himself a drink. His body stiff and aching with every little movement. Just as he shut the fridge, he felt a warmth press against his back and two arms come around his front, her touch gentle in worry that she might hurt him further.

“I’m alright, [Name]. I’m not made of glass.” He smiled, taking a sip of alcohol and humming softly against the warmth. Her touch seemed to chase away any pain before, but these wounds weren’t so merciful. Still, he enjoyed the touch regardless.

“You scared me.” He just caught her voice by how low it was, the fear and worry that stitched into her words, the concern. “You.... we almost lost you.” Her hold tightened ever so slightly and he could feel her body shaking lightly.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Bigby shifted around, setting the bottle aside and took her into his arms, ignoring the sharp shooting pains. “I’m not leaving you that easily, [Name]. I promise.” That was the last thing Bigby wanted. He didn’t want to see her distraught like this, he wanted to be there for her. In the Hellhole that was his life, [Name] was the one ray of light that kept him from drowning in it.

She nodded, resting her head against his chest. "Thank you, Bigby." They remained like that for a moment, the world around them no longer of any concern, all that mattered was each other. In each other's arms, feeling the warmth of their bodies, even all the little textures of their skin. The slightly rough bandages that covered most of Bigby's chest and shoulder, as well as the bits of chest hair, but it didn't bother her at all. She could hear the faint rhythm of his heart beating beneath his chest, a sound that gave her such relief and comfort, a soothing sound.

"Hey, you know I'm still here, right?" The tender moment was shattered by Colin's announcement. An annoyed sigh slipped Bigby's lips but he looked over at the pig.

"Colin. Do you mind?"

"Not really but I'd like a drink, and you're both in front of the fridge. And I don't have hands." [Name] chuckled softly, pulling away from Bigby before turning and getting Colin a drink, setting it down for him as he thanked her. Bigby took the moment to watch them. Watch her, mainly.

Where would he be without her? The one that brought such light to his life, such warmth and a sense of belonging. If it meant protecting her, he would take any bullet for her. But [Name] didn't want that, he knew, she wanted him to live.

Maybe being a bit more careful wouldn't be a bad idea.

#bigby wolf #the wolf among us #bigby wolf x reader #the wolf among us x reader #the wolf among us 2 #the wolf among us season 2 #the wolf among us: 2 #sheriff bigby x reader #twau bigby #sheriff bigby #twau

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sonofthesaiyans · 27 days

Text

A 21-Gun 'Fuck You' to Isayama's little bastard child....

Well guys, another day, another birthday in the Attack on Titan canon. But there are no warm wishes, no fond feelings to be had for this one. Nothing but the blood of the innocent innocent all over her hands. And the beginning of the end of Titan as we knew it.

For it is none other than the biggest mistake in all of anime, GABI BRAUN.

There's the look of a girl who's out to fuck an entire franchise.

To have to put her face on my profile truly makes me feel uncomfortable; I would feel better off if I never had to acknowledge the existence of someone as unlikable and as forced as Gabi, the character who has singlehandedly ensured that I will never EVER watch the series again from start to finish.

Still not enough words to describe my hatred for this bitch. Ever since her debut in the manga, Gabi has been nothing but poison to damn near every aspect of Attack on Titan, and while fans and critics may remain convinced that Eren Yeager was still the focus of the story after the ocean, that for a time was nothing but a motherfucking lie, as everything seems to shift its gears towards forcing Gabi Braun as the new hero of the franchise, a similarly overpowered, out of her depth suicidal bitch who Hajime Isayama REFUSES to let come to harm under any circumstances, and in fact seemed to take a perverse pleasure in how much he could defy the fandom's hostile reactions to her obnoxious, overzealous, and aggressive personality.

I've spoken at length about how truly awful Gabi is, for how much she takes over the story out of the blue and how far her worst fans will go to defend her, with Isayama himself and his overly defensive fans and critics pushing this nonsense "redemption arc" that some still insist was critical to Titan's final resolution. Right, a character who was only introduced in the final act of the story is the one who takes priority over everyone whom we've followed since season one, over her own fucking cousin Reiner, over Eren, over Mikasa, over Historia.....And that's not even getting into the biggest victim of all of this yet.

Yeah, this is the girl so many deluded fans will rush to defend, you take one look at this and you realize right out the gate she's nothing but bad news. An overly toxic character who by herself makes the story increasingly more uncomfortable to sit through, and yet gets a free pass because, say it with me now........"SHE'S JUST A KID"......

Yeah. A kid who regardless of upbringing clearly is NOT right in the head.

And yet THIS is the character we push this goddamn "break the cycle" message with, this is the kid who we have to thank for that "children of the forest" horseshit. Well maybe some people are not worth rescue from the forest......

Gabi just an open condescension of the audience, and Isayama does everything in his power to frame us as being in the wrong for following our natural inclination to hate her guts, and to force sympathy for her when she's done nothing to earn it, and has never received lasting consequences for her actions.

Any sympathy I could have POSSIBLY felt for Gabi went out the window years ago. And it all comes down to one fucking reason:

It doesn't matter how much time passes, it does not matter how many excuses I hear, it does not matter how many self-righteous little fuckheads I square off with online who try to hit back at me with "You just didn't get it!" ..........Absolutely NOTHING will make me forgive what Gabi did to Sasha. A character who had all the potential to be something so much more and who was so profoundly iconic in the series, just to be cruelly cut down like garbage to move the plot of an unwanted newbie who's name has since become synonymous with "garbage".

Never ever can I forget that horrifying from Assassin's Bullet, where Gabi stole Sasha from us. Gabi Braun is the only character in fiction to actually cause me lasting emotional and psychological damage. Of all the horrifying scenes Attack on Titan has given, that ISAYAMA has given us, Sasha bleeding out from the mouth and sent out on the most inappropriate and insensitive last words possible is the one scene I DID NOT NEED.

ALL BECAUSE OF GABI BRAUN!

The fact that that bastard Isayama would be sol deluded to think he can force sympathy for Gabi after having pulled a stunt like that, a scene so emotionally manipulative and disrespectful, the fact that he would have us tolerate her existence after such a spectacle....And the fact that she survived to the end after what she did to Sasha, and after all she did to provoke Eren's assault upon the world, again after facing no lasting repercussions for any of it.

And let me tell you something, looking up these images, seeing those disgusting scenes of Assassin's Bullet still brings great anger to me, reminding me how badly I still wish to see Gabi die for all of this, how much I hate Hajime Isayama, and how much I still wish to personally rip the man a new one for everything he's done since the day he published the chapter that brought on this VILE piece of animation.

And the fact that some fans have the AUDACITY to imply that Sasha and Gabi are anything alike, right down to their physical appearance, a notion that the anime and manga themselves promoted in their tasteless attempt to draw a parallel between the two of them in their encounters with Kaya.....It's a lie and a farce that I find personally offensive and stomach churning even now. There were so many ways they could have executed Gabi's story, and if it had been done any other way where she didn't have such egregious plot armor and wasn't so clearly overplayed and overpromoted by Isayama for the entire final act, MAYBE somewhere in my heart I might've found a speck of sympathy for Gabi.

If the story had made room for her AND Sasha, things might have been very different around here......

But it's far too late. The damage is done, and for me the damage is lasting. And there is absolutely NO number of excuses today by the few fans Gabi does have that could ever make me see things from her perspective, let alone wish her anything other than a cruel demise to match the one she dealt to Sasha and the billions she got killed by provoking Eren with her recklessness. And to this day, I will NEVER understand what the hell Falco ever saw in her. Nothing good can come from a relationship with someone with the kind of of blood on her hands that Gabi has.

So no sympathy points for Gabi, let alone a 'Happy Birthday'.

And as a parting gift to her and her fans....

A little souvenir from a friend of mine...

If you haven't figured out who I got this from yet....... let's just say she manages to make a chainsaw headed dog a lot cuter than any living soul could have accomplished voicing Gabi Braun. And for her, I have a lot more respect.

And if you know who I mean Gabi fans, sorry to tell you I got to say my piece first. Chew on that.

And speaking of chew.....

Happy Birthday, Gabi Braun.

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octopiys · 1 year

Text

A little bit of a one-shot I wrote on my ao3, and wanted to share here :)

Ghost and König fight over Soap. One-shot based on acidgrynn's tiktok

(Tw for violence, blood, gunshot wounds, cursing)

(Part 1?)

It was cold and rainy, two of the things Soap hated the most when he went on missions, practically alone. It was the dead of night, and the wind howled outside his hideout where he had hauled up, and waited for the enemy to pass.

To be fair, he was so numb from the elements that he practically hadn't felt the bullet pierce through the meaty part of his upper arm. It was only when he saw the blood mingling with the rainwater at his feet that he started to feel a little lightheaded. His flesh hadn't been as gnarled or mangled as he had thought it would be, as compared to other previous bullet holes, so he typically wasn't one to complain. The only thing that worried him was that he couldn't recall when his injury occured.

To make matters even worse, he had already completed his objective, and was heading out. The exfil truck was half a mile out of town, and one of the hostiles he thought he had killed had a little more fight left in him.

It wasn't a life threatening wound, believe him, he'd had those before, like when he fought that one bastard over in Afghanistan with the wicked looking knife that could've mirrored Ghost's.... He still had the scar on his stomach to prove it.

"Oh shite-" He thought aloud, realizing the extent of his troubles. The one thing that the Lieutenant had said to him as he left base was that he needed to be more careful. It was an order. And Riley hated it when he disobeyed.

It seemed like Price was rubbing off on him more than anyone wanted it to. After all, how were they supposed to keep up his scary guard dog attitude if he actually started caring about the rest of the team?

That was a joke.

A bad one. But still.

They'd come a far way from their first meet, when Ghost had practically cussed him out on the spot, ignored him for days, pretending like he hadn't existed, and would've left him for dead without a second thought. Now, well, sometimes he was still ignored, but Ghost could carry a decent conversation every once in a while! But he acted like he felt sometimes. And he was a beast on the field. Not that- not that Johnny liked to watch, or anything.

He wondered what the Lieutenant would do in this situation.

He damn well wouldn't be hiding in a slowly-flooding alley, waiting for the threat to pass.

The Sergeant sighed heavily, checking the ammo he had left, and going over both options he had laid out for himself.

"Creepin' fuckin' Christ." He grumbled, before ducking beneath a half wall and peeking out into the main part of the road, suddenly wishing he had brought a jacket as the wind whipped around his face. Or at least a hat.

He flexed his arm experimentally, not failing to wince when it did actually hurt like he thought it would. This only caused blood to flow out faster, and he didn't have any bandages on him. Well, fuck.

One way in, one way out.

There was a group of hostiles at the end of the street, guns raised and looking for a fight. They were gonna sniff him out eventually, so he might as well welcome it with an open heart and a blazing barrel.

He dove out into the slick streets, firing round after round at their group.

The one-four-one's favorite rule? If you get attacked, you return it.

Tenfold.

None of them stood a chance by the time Johnny was finished, his weapon steaming in the rain. He was down a grenade, and he had no bullets left in the mag, so he dropped it uselessly out of his gun and reloaded his last one. This would be an emergency use only weapon, he thought to himself as he stuck it back on its clip and pulled out a knife.

He fought tooth and nail against KorTac soldiers and the elements to get to his shitty infil and exfil truck. In one point, he had actually accidentally judo-flipped a soldier before severing the main artery in his neck with the sharp blade of his knife.

The next he ran into was just around the corner, leaving one of his buddies to investigate a sound he thought he had heard. Briefly, Soap wondered if he had ever seen a horror movie. Because even he knew that you don't go anywhere alone, at any point in time. There was a shout as he was spotted, and the Sergeant quickly shot the man in the side as he approached, and shoved. KorTac 1's weapon clattered to the ground with him, and Soap put a bullet through his helmet, before he decided to run the other way.

Exfil was a little over half a mile away, off road in the trees on the outskirts of the town, hidden beneath a camo tarp he had placed over it.

In his truck was where he had left all his medical supplies, with enough stimshots and bandages to last him three days depending on how long the mission took. It wouldn't do much, nothing like a decent doctor would, but he had to manage with what he had brought.

It always starts out as an information run, until you actually get to the information, and it gets a hell of a lot harder to get out, and keep a hold on the flashdrive.

This hadn't been one where he was given an option. He was the best to fit the job as their pet demolitions expert, able to get in and out... in as fun(in his own definition) a way as possible. And Gaz was out with Price, dealing with something in Urzikstan. It had been difficult, that location, since Alex Keller's death, but Farah had needed help, and of course, they would oblige.

By the time he tore off the tarp, and poured himself into the truck, he tied himself a tourniquet using a strap from the seat belt aside him and a screwdriver that had lay forgotten in his utility belt, and drove himself the hours back to base.

On the way home, he had found himself thinking back to the beginning, when both KorTac and SpecGru arose from the ashes that Hassan Zyani's death left behind in his trail of destruction. Each side had a few that jumped ship, including a 6'10 hood-wearing platoon specialist that soon joined them.

Soap always wondered what belonged under the sniper fabric, the same that he did for the Lieutenant whenever his blue-hazel eyes got too close for platonic comfort.

He had already accepted defeat in his half lust for tall, mysterious, masked men that had higher ups on him. It would be an issue at some point, he was sure of it.

Never had he dared to mention this to anyone, though. Why would he? It would only cause problems....

After a few long, long hours of driving, low-on-gas warnings, and self deprecating humor trying to relieve himself of the stress he had created, Soap approached the lights of the front gate.

He only glared at whatever poor kid had been stationed there on the nightshift, waiting for the the gate to open any fucking faster, and he sped through.

It was a miracle he hadn't been followed, or even tracked, he thought to himself as he skidded on the gravel of the parking lot to a stop. He drew enough himself out of the car, leaving all his gear on the bloody passenger seat, approaching the main building. Briefly, he wondered if he would have to clean it, or if the truck was shitty enough that they could scrap it for material. Most of the lights were dimmed in the early morning, and he doubted anyone had expected him back this quickly. Or even in this state.

Johnny stumbled up the steps, noticing how his fingers were numb, a chill settling into his very bones, and he tried to push away the uncomfortable feeling of half-dried half-wet hair that stuck limply to the side of his face.

The first door he cleared without interruption. It was freezing in here, and he really didn't want to add hypothermia into the mix, much less even risk it. The lights were always on in the corridors, so it was just the other rooms that were dark, their occupants inside still sleeping.

Down the hallway, with his good hand planted firmly on the tourniquet, he elbowed open the next door to the common area.

He had been trying to make his way to the hospital wing, taking a shortcut through the larger half of the building when a welcome warmness hit him and spread and suddenly he wanted to wait in the cozy room, just sleep right there, up against the wall.

The fire was going in the stones of the fireplace, and two people had lounged on opposite ends of a chess table, seeming extremely engaged in whatever they were doing. Two large windows on either side of the fireplace showed the hilly landscape that their base had crested upon, and how the sun just began to peek over the horizon. He noticed then that the sky had cleared at some point, sending the freezing rain somewhere else for the time being. The fire had cast shadows across the room, drifting across the hardwood flooring, up the couch, moving as they did.

"Johnny?" Ghost asked with furrowed brows, the rest of his face hidden behind the familiar striped black and grey balaclava that the man dared to call comfort.

"'M back lads." He murmured his greeting as the world spun and he leaned against the thick wooden doorframe for support. He should've just kept going to the medical wing, but God it felt so warm in here and he was so, so cold from the pouring rain that he felt had frozen into shards of ice around him.

He would rather be stuck in here, than waiting outside Price's office to write a report. He fucking hated those. Suggested body cams instead, but then remembered the amount of war crimes the team had probably committed, and they all quickly kicked the idea to the curb soon after that.

König turned from his spot in the chair and gave him a friendly wave, missing how Ghost switched around one or two of the wooden pieces. He still wore his face covering, the faded red paint blending into the black background of the cloth. It had settled loosely, and he could barely see the long strands of strawberry blonde hair beneath it.

"Well done." Ghost complimented, looking back to König's move, further sending warmth into his very core, or maybe it was the blood loss. He didn't seem too entirely focused on Soap at the moment, that was left mostly up to König.

The tallest man's eyes looked him up and down scrutinizingly. "Are you alright, Sergeant?"

The Lieutenant finally looked up at his question, doing half a double take as Soap felt himself slide down his place at the wall. They both were up from their spots in a millisecond, and at his side quicker than that.

"Just got nicked on the way back is all..." Mactavish grumbled, not wanting to be babied right then, but also..... he didn't entirely loathe the feeling. He watched Ghost's hooded eyes rake up and down his appearance, and tried to put aside his enjoyment. He was bleeding out, you know.

But..... there was no way he'd get to medical by himself. Too far away now. If he hadn't stopped, he might've been able to make it on his own.

Yet they fretted over him.

"Need to be more careful." Ghost's low voice rumbled across from him, raising goosebumps up his skin out of reflex and the Lietenant crossed his arms, glaring without any real malice.

"Thanks, Si, I'll try to remember that next time." He said sarcastically, inching his way back up the cool gloss over the wooden support, watching as Ghost rolled his eyes.

Gentle fingers prodded the tourniquet on his arm, and Soap tried to hide the heat that pooled in his stomach at the soft touch, or the wince that jolted his system. For such a large man, König was.... surprisingly tender with his hands. He wondered what else they were good for. "Did you return the favor?"

Johnny half smirked, bathing himself in the feeling of home, yet trying to regain some perception of his own being. "Of course... tenfold."

"I'm proud, Sergeant." König murmured, close to his ear, but loud enough so that the other could hear it too.

Soap's eyes widened slightly as the sudden adrenaline pushed him back onto his feet and taking a step forward before he stumbled, like some dame waiting to be saved. But he was no dame, and he didn't need saving, actually, he was John fuckin' Mactavish and-

"I'll take him to medical." Strong arms pulled him back up and he recognized the familiar rough texture of Riley's skeleton gloves on his bare flesh.

"Oh, don't worry, I can do it." König said, looping his hands around his waist, dipping low.

The Austrian was a fucking tease, that's for sure.

"I said, 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨." Ghost growled, locking eyes with the other hooded man.

He only narrowed his eyes into a stare, sharper and harsher than any dagger he'd ever seen, in response, and if Johnny could guess, he had his teeth bared behind the rumpled fabric. "Do you, 𝘓𝘪𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵?"

The words hung in the air like a challenge, for that's precisely what they were.

Soap could've cut the tension with a knife, the exact one that he had left in the passenger seat from his mission. As he glanced between them with a mixture of nervousness and... something a little more than just plain need, realization smacked him in the face.

These two apex soldiers were poised at each other's throats because of 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

Something a little more than need was... definitely an understatement.

And maybe he was mistaken, as the two held him tightly close, dragging him to medical, but Soap could've sworn he saw the sunken desire plunged in the deep pits of their eyes too. The only matter was who would fold first.

Who 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 fold first.

To hell with it, lay him down, he'd willingly bend to whatever either of them commanded.

Johnny may have been half delirious from blood loss, oh that much was true, but he was no idiot. His vision still worked, no matter how it tipped or blurred, or how he was sure he was half conscious by the time the sun fully came up.

Ghost and König had abandoned their verbal quarrel, retreating to a silent battle of scowling across his medical bed as the doctors fixed him up, visibly uncomfortable in the tension that had flooded the room, rolled off the two in waves. But no man was brave enough to interject, dare even ask them to leave the room so they would work it out.

They'd all resolve their.... issues later, and Soap wished he was there for it. Deep down, he knew he would be. He didn't think they would give him a choice.

And fuck me, he thought to himself, wouldn't that be a glorious thing?

#ghostsoap #könig x ghost x soap #oneshot #fanfiction #fanfic #cod mw2 #call of duty #könig modern warfare #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #modern warfare 2 #romantic tension

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galemasters · 4 months

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How Gunvolt lost its muse, literally and figuratively

So, if you're a Mega Man fan, you've probably at least heard of the Azure Striker: Gunvolt series, which is a spiritual successor to Mega Man Zero by the developer of those games, Inti Creates. The gameplay is fairly well-received, as a score attack focused side scroller with a speed running mode. The narrative, on the other hand, has often been decried as a rehash of Mega Man Zero, except replace "androids" with "psychics".

This take, I feel, is at least partly based on those who had played the game when it first come out and no longer cared about it, because if you had played the initial release you absolutely would have left with that impression. The thing is, that's because the original localization bastardized the whole thing. It was a very unfaithful translation which also cut out a lot of dialogue, namely the stage chatter and, most importantly, the slice of life snippets that could be accessed from the stage select menu. This meant that the primary theme of the game was lost.

In the original localization, the fact that you had to collect jewels for Joule in order to get the true ending seemed like a silly pun, but it's not just that. The game starts with Gunvolt rescuing and adopting her for a reason. She is the spiritual center of the game, not merely a gameplay mechanic to justify how Gunvolt can come back back to life powered up on defeat. Those slice of life snippets helped build up Gunvolt's relationship with Joule. The jewels you collected for her were used to create a necklace that blocked a bullet, allowing Joule to bring Gunvolt back when all seemed lost. This is because everything Gunvolt does is to protect Joule. She is his muse. The "humans vs. Adepts" plot is ultimately just a framework for this very relationship-focused narrative, which is quite different from Mega Man Zero. Zero had relationships, true, but the narrative was very much about the human-Reploid conflict and the role Zero played in it.

The sequel continued this. Joule is now just a ghost, and Gunvolt is hung up on this, but still inspired by her to keep pushing forward. Of course, the sequel also made Gunvolt's rival Copen playable. Copen actually has a muse of his own: his biological sister, Mytyl. In the ending, it's revealed that Mytyl was the original muse whose Joule's powers come from. Joule merges with her, so Gunvolt and Copen's final battle is over the Muse, as a singular entity. Regardless of who wins, they ultimately decide to let her have what she always wanted: a normal life. This devastates them, but it does mean that rather than Gunvolt or Copen getting a happy ending, the Muse does. This is because the Muse is the main character, not merely a damsel in distress to be stuffed in the fridge.

So, in that case, how do future games follow up on that? In Copen's case, his spinoff games are part of an alternate timeline. Additionally, the first spinoff game of his really is about the human-Adept conflict, and rightly so given that Copen's fatal flaw is his bigotry towards Adepts. For these reasons, I won't dwell on it. That said, they do manage to incorporate the idea of the Muse into the plot by revealing that Mytyl has been transformed into a monster, forcing Copen to put her down. The second spinoff takes place in an entirely different setting, weirdly enough, and has very little to do with the human-Adept conflict or the Muse.

As for the third mainline game, Gunvolt 2 ended on a cliffhanger. Gunvolt's mission control was revealed to have plans involving Mytyl. I was admittedly a little nervous about how they might follow up on that. Gunvolt 2 was effectively the end of the Muse's arc. Why take away their happy ending? So, I was hoping that Gunvolt 3 would find a way to make those plans not end Mytyl's normal life, or else do something different.

Gunvolt 3 actually did nothing with this cliffhanger. Instead, it's revealed at the beginning of the game that Gunvolt's powers spiraled out of control, causing him to almost kill the character that was set up as his future love interest in the previous game, Quinn. Out of fear, he turned himself into the evil mega corporation from the first game, Sumeragi Group, whose goal is to control Adepts, and was sealed away for several decades until his power grew to the point that a shrine maiden with purification powers was forced to step in. Now Gunvolt helps the shrine maiden purify other Adepts whose powers are driving them mad.

"Great!" You say. "That's something different!" Except... no, they actually just brought in a counterpart to the Maverick virus from the Mega Man franchise, the one thing from that series Gunvolt was lacking. Gunvolt's narrative actually became even more of a Mega Man rehash. The Muse technically returns as a sort of program that achieves sentience as a result of Gunvolt's influence, but here she plays almost no narrative role and is just there for the returning gameplay mechanic. Additionally, the bad guys have a muse, of sorts, but she's not really all that important, and instead just the MacGuffin that the bad guys are using to try and brainwash everyone like they wanted to with Joule in the first game.

In essence, while I would disagree that the first two games were just a Mega Man Zero rehash narratively, the third game is and it makes me sad.

#azure striker gunvolt #gunvolt 3 #on writing

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calypso707 · 1 year

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Chapter eight : Save my soul.

As in the good old days, Jill and Chris teamed up again against this bastard. They'd been fighting the Tyrant for a while now and did their best to avoid his attacks, but he was powerful and very fast. They retraced their steps through the academy, trying to find an open area that would be to their advantage to fight him properly, arriving near the visitors' car park. While Chris paused for a few seconds to empty the magazine of his machine gun into the giant's head, Jill positioned herself against the wall of the archive building. Whatever they did, their bullets did nothing but slow him down.

"We've got to blow him up!" shouted Jill to Chris.

They were not properly equipped to deal with the Tyrant, Bindi or Nanan. Their mission was becoming increasingly dangerous and the situation more and more out of control. And their resources were dwindling by the minute; if they ran out of ammo, it would be their death warrant. The Tyrant leaned forward to pick up a car in his hands, lifting it with ease as if it were a simple toy. He dug his hands into the bodywork of the car, ready to hurl it at Chris. Just as Jill was about to take a step towards her partner, he grabbed a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin and threw it at the giant's feet.

The explosion was instantaneous and was followed by the blast of the vehicle he was holding, increasing the violence of the detonation tenfold. The fire had completely enveloped the monster. A wave of heat hit Jill and she covered her eyes, struggling to breathe as the air became hot. She felt a hand grasp her shoulder and Chris motioned for her to follow him: "Let's go, now!”

She nodded and followed him as he entered the archive building, breaking down the back door which had remained blocked until then. The place was completely plunged into darkness, and she could hardly see what was just a few metres away from her, but Chris managed to turn on his flashlight to look around. Familiar noises were echoing around the place. There were a few infected in the building, some wandering around, others who had been trapped or crushed by the overturned shelves and crates of archives. The place was turned upside down, as if an earthquake had caused it all. Jill had no difficulty understanding what had happened here: someone had locked the doors of the building and this Nanan had probably released its toxins to contaminate them. An unpleasant shiver ran down her spine, barbaric techniques had been used simply to take revenge for Mother Gracia's actions. So many dead...

Jill was shaking her head slightly, as if to clear her mind of the negative thoughts and traumatic memories that were gradually seeping into her head. Chris used his knife to get rid of the few infected who detected them, both avoiding using their weapons to attract others. The two agents managed to make their way to a staircase leading down to the basement to take a break, and once inside the room, Chris sealed off the entrance to prevent the infected from following them. Jill sat down on an iron crate, her hands resting on her thighs and her head bent forward. She would take a deep breath, hold it for three seconds and then exhale. She did this several times to regulate her breathing, a technique she used sometimes to calm herself.

"How are you feeling?" asked Chris as he approached her.

"I can't wait for this to be over. I wouldn't say no to a little nap." replied Jill, trying as hard as she could to hide her discomfort. This Tyrant had brought back painful memories that she thought she'd buried deep inside. Everything took her back to Raccoon City, and she had the terrible sensation of being imprisoned in a nightmare from which she would never be able to escape. But that wasn't all…

"I should have stopped you from coming, I'm sorry, it's my fault" added Chris, who sat next to her, placing his machine gun against the wall.

"No, it was my choice, I thought I was ready. I wanted to be but... Shit"

Jill could feel Chris's gaze on her but she didn't dare face him. He put his hand on her arm but she tensed at his touch. Seeing her do this, Chris turned to her, "There's something else, isn't it?"

The young woman kept her eyes down on his fingers pressed to her thighs and nodded slowly, "I tried to kill you at Kijuju, Chris. And I nearly succeeded. I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive myself..." she tilted her head back, she didn't want Chris to see that she had tears in her eyes. "Damn.. I couldn't control my body but I was conscious, I wanted to scream, to stop but I couldn't."

Jill finally dared to look at Chris, who hadn't taken his eyes off her for a second. He had even closed the distance between them, he moved his hand up her arm and ran it over her cheek in the most delicate way possible. He feared that if he was too brusque, he might break her. He intertwined his fingertips in her brown hair - she had dyed and cut it as soon as she left the laboratory - and slid his thumb close to the wound on her cheek, as he had done earlier: "But I'm still here, you had nothing to do with what happened, Wesker is the only responsible and he paid the price. Jill, as long as I'm by your side, I swear to protect you”

The young woman's bluish gaze remained locked on the captain's face, as if she was learning every contour of his face by heart. Did he realise what his words were doing to her? Her feelings were running wild, and her heart seemed to be breaking in her ribcage, the beats echoing in her temples. Grabbing the strap of Chris's bulletproof jacket, she leaned forward and kissed him, offering him a fiery but brief kiss. She broke it off before Chris could even react and she lowered her head as she realised what she had done, feeling ashamed because it wasn't like her to do that. She pressed her fingers against her still wet lips: "Sorry, i don't know what I was thinking..."

Chris responded by grabbing her chin to lift her head and kissing her back. At first he seemed to be holding back, but as she moved closer to him, he intensified his kiss, to which she responded with delight. She had the sensation that his presence, this kiss he was offering her, was helping her to hold on to this reality and, in the blink of an eye, all her fears vanished. Their lips parted, only to meet again, exchanging ardent, languorous kisses. His lips tasted slightly earthy and salty, but that didn't bother her in the slightest. Their lips met and parted, only to find each other again and the heat was rising inside them. The despair around them, that was coming out of this suicide mission, only accentuated the desire to fall for each other. She needed and wanted him.

They parted after a few seconds, reluctantly, to catch their breath. Jill's eyes were riveted on Chris's lips as she ran her fingers through the captain's brown hair, quietly catching her breath. They had found comfort in this apocalypse, even if it's brief. Chris, who had slipped his hands down the young woman's back during their embrace to keep her close to him, placed a kiss on her forehead "We must go and find the others".

Jill nodded in agreement but they continued to stare at each other, in silence, savouring the calm for a few seconds longer. She finally detached herself from him to stand up, Chris doing the same. She approached the window overlooking the alleyways running through the buildings, the way was clear. Jill reloaded her weapon and Chris did the same with the machine gun, and just as she was about to open the window, a huge tremor was felt above.

"What now?" asked Chris.

Then it started again, once more, and again, at a regular pace. Jill noticed that the ceiling was beginning to crack more and more, and realised that what they were hearing were blows, which were becoming increasingly deafening, the force shaking the whole building. Suddenly, the ceiling partially collapsed, debris tumbling down close to them. Looking up, Jill saw the Tyrant with his fist raised - the bastard had survived the explosion and was there to finish the job.

#resident evil #chris redfield #resident evil 5 #romance #jill valentine #valenfield #resident evil fanfiction #re3 jill #re3 remake #resident evil 3 #chris redfield x jill #valentine x redfield #chris x jill #jill valentine x chris redfield #resident evil chris #resident evil jill

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brawlqueen · 7 months

Text

aftermath. / drabble.

maybe it was inevitable. or maybe the small girl was so used to the notion of 'false peace' . after the man who had solved the cyclops serial killings had adopted her, mizuki didn't quite know where to balance what was and what wasn't. her parents were still brutally murdered in ways both complicated and could never be shown to the public. she had verified both, quite literally in bloom park the other after . . . where date had found daddy.

despite it all, all the insanity coming afterwards and new terms to grasp, she wanted to believe things had ended. even though the grief, the insurmountable pain and horror that had compromised almost entirely her twelve year old life would end. then those 'hunger games' started. frankly with all she had endured, be it abuse, neglect, witnessing untold pain after pain, trauma after trauma until it cemented itself like grafting into her bones . . there was both an odd alertness and equal parts numbness when mizuki entered that unwanted arena.

so many people had tried their best to help a little girl, she, someone capable of utterly crushing bones to powder if she wanted to. she didn't need the pipe varys gave her, her body itself was a weapon since date had taught her how to fight . she didn't need the magic cloak as much as maria could have benefited and not suffered.

she hadn't been able to protect a single person!

and solita . . hearing the cannons sound for her had hit the twelve year old in such a raw and visceral way that her eyes watered up with tears. the way she had . . . as far as mizuki considered it, died by a sword, brought up too many unpleasant memories. no, horrifying memories that eclipsed even the games itself in most every aspect, only enhancing the reality of her life; not eclipsing it. it hadn't been a bad dream, it had been real, and no amount of stoicism she bore would make her life a 'bad dream' either in the months of both aftermaths.

idly she rubbed at her leg wound; where the culprit's bullet had hit her in an attempt to disarm him . to protect her best friend. it still hurt. just another scar like a quilt laid on her chest, mark after mark after mark . . .

. . . and then she heard the door knock.

she was wiser beyond her years, but even then she was still a little girl, somewhere buried beneath the thousand yard, fiery stare. dark grey eyes flitting to the door expectantly and subduing the quiet happiness mixed with annoyance that it brought her.

" date ? " she calls out to the man who had raised her for four years . she calls out to the man who chose her. she doesn't think to grab her metal pipe, nor release adorabbit, three eyes in its fur and all . it may just be someone dropping off one of his weird 'videos'. pervert. . .

but she is wrong the moment dark grey open to the stranger; description unimportant. her gut instincts coil like a trapped yet armed rabbit, fist aiming in reflex towards . . . the wall.

to say it left a dent would be a kindness the wall could not be given. the man in question seems rather disturbed as well, mortar and brick falling in powdered substance around her red sneakers.

" ah, you're mizuki ? district five? "

a curt, and burning stare, the one in question raising her chin in absolute defiance and barely subdued rage. perhaps even a little bit of fear for the fearless. " . . . i'm not giving you my last name. and you aren't coming inside. " came her cold response, seething with flame at the edges.

" i wouldn't expect anything less from the star contestant who attracted so much . . . attention. "

she flinches; teeth gritted as she snaps viciously, shaking her gloved hand of well, brick: ( sorry . . date . uh, my bad . ) " shut up you bastard. do you wanna look like the wall or do you honestly think i'm going to talk about it?!" she raises her voice; teeth gnashing together, a rabbit blending into a small lion. either cornered and coiled to attack all at once. the wall was proof of that.

" whoa , whoa missy. i'm not here to cause trouble. and i'm not here to harm your adoptive father, is it? i did hear you were recently adopted. a congratulations is in order, don't you think? " another flinch, eyes widening like a deer caught under the hunter's gun . " he - you leave him out of this! " hissed; taking a step forward to firmly safeguard the door.

she was for once, glad, kaname date was late at work.

" you even attracted the kindness of our menace, varys himself, and a few other characters . . . " she felt her eyes sting. she still hadn't verified if they truly were alive like she was or not, but it only fueled her resolve . . and her rage.

chin lifted in defiance, mizuki pauses to contemplate her next move. the man , rather insignificant for his role, clearly here to dredge up another fresh wound in her heart, has little tolerance. she doubts he'll give her any answers about maria, solita or varys. or any of the contestants. "so mizuki, " he begans so calmly, so casually, that she almost forgets that she broke a hole in the wall of brick that made up their apartment in preparation for him.

" can i ask you a few ques - " but the man does not get to finish his sentence. with a sharp cry beneath him, a girl's cry, a fist collides with his face.

along with a subdued yet powerful kick to his gut.

said girl stood over the now pitifully unconscious man, cracking her knuckles and barely hiding the slight tremble both of rage and a bit of fear as she looked at the wall, then at him. " damn. " muttered furiously, feeing tears prick her eyes . not even punishing him for all this felt good . . . and date is going to be so pissed .

" well, i think the interviews over . . . " mizuki mumbled; tilting her head around, a messy blue ponytail and too many wild strands sticking around her face and head bobbing with the movement.

sighing with exasperation she drags his unconscious form into the hallway; glad no one is outside to see. she hadn't even used a full fraction of her full strength, but at least this was good enough for her.

" . .yeahhh . . . the interview is definitely over. "

#𝐈𝐂 *ೃ༄ braver than all flowers.#✯hunger games simulator✯#and that was her being gentle RIFP...she's not happy.#𝐕; 𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐅 / 𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐄: 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 *ೃ༄ a family; a future.#please ask to tag!#so i can know what tags to make sure it's okay!#cw: abuse #cw: neglect #/ abuse #/ neglect #/ parent death #/ murder

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altocat · 1 year

Note

does Sephiroth ever get ill/sick?

Behold! A needlessly detailed examination of Sephiroth's immune system!

Sephiroth is immune to most diseases. His directly-infused Jenova cells simply eradicate all potentially fatal threats to its host's body before it has the chance to sink in. If Midgar were to suddenly be engulfed in a deadly plague, Sephiroth would easily be the last one standing.

Long-term or terminal illnesses that would normally be an issue for everyday people simply don't apply to him. It either doesn't form or it just evaporates from his body over time. Sephiroth additionally would have lived far longer than the average human, likely to nearly the same centuries-long extent as Jenova herself.

This immunity doesn't apply to Genesis or Angeal as neither were directly injected with J cells the way Seph was in the fetal stage. They would both share Sephiroth's expanded lifespan, but not to the same extent. Angeal is a lot more durable than Genesis, who is sickly and as we all know, prone to degradation.

Sephiroth's natural immunity gives him a particularly malicious, smug satisfaction when Geostigma comes into play. The bastard.

Basic cuts/scratches/wounds/physical trauma typically heals within the span of days. Broken bones heal at a faster rate than normal humans, though he'd still be stuck with a cast for a week or so. He doesn't really have many scars apart from the ones he received in childhood during Hojo's many surgeries/dissections/experiments. Those are very faded, but still visible.

Sephiroth isn't invincible, of course. He has an extremely high healing factor, but he can be fatally wounded. The Jenova cells can only do so much and he's still got plenty of vulnerable spots if you can actually land a blow on him. He would have bled out completely from Cloud's attack in Nibelheim and was going to die either way. Cloud irrevocably owned his ass.

Sephiroth is mostly fire-proof-ish since we have his long-haired ass casually strolling into the heart of the inferno like it's nothing. But he certainly isn't bullet-proof, or immune to the limitations of requiring air, food, and sleep. Though this no longer becomes a factor after he merges with Jenova.

Sephiroth can additionally suffer from Mako-poisoning if subjected to it to extreme degrees. It won't kill him or put him in the same dire condition as Cloud, but it will leave him severely weakened, vulnerable, and comatose for a few days/weeks.

Regular poisons don't typically work beyond causing extreme discomfort/brief paralysis. He has a pretty normal human level of tolerance to alcohol and tranquilizers, as the Jenova cells don't view those as a threat to the host body. Thus, Seph can get as trashed or doped out as he wants.

Now as for common illnesses/colds, Sephiroth typically isn't prone to them. He has gotten the flu on rare occasions, but 99.9% of the time he's gotten sick has been because of fatigue. He typically is forced to stay in bed for a few days whenever he's like this.

Speaking of fatigue, Sephiroth suffers from it a LOT. Stress, suppressed anxiety, overwork, chronic insomnia and stretching himself beyond his physical, emotional, and mental limits often cause Sephiroth to make himself ill. He's basically his body's own worst enemy. This often brings about flu-like symptoms and fevers, and occasionally more troubling symptoms such as hallucinations and paranoia.

Basically, Jenova and her lovely little cells keep her kiddo safe and sound from most physical threats. Like a good demonic eldritch space-mom should! Except when he refuses to take care of himself or allows certain chocobo-haired protagonists to kick his ass into next Tuesday.

#Sephiroth #Sephcanons #Ffvii #FF7 #Crisis Core #Asks #Final Fantasy 7 #Angeal hewley #Genesis rhapsodos #Cloud strife #Jenova #Advent Children #Nibelheim Incident #Alto rambles

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nevadas-night-time-novelist · 2 years

Text

Main 3 + Jeb - Feline shape-shifter

Hank

It was no secret that Hank likes cats, nature’s perfect killing machines, covered with soft fur, tiny paws with small little paw pads, how they purred, but most importantly how independent they were. Like him, cats wander around and do as they wish, kill as they please. This love extended to big cats too, he’d seen a tiger once a long time ago at a zoo, such a mighty and powerful beast with gorgeous distinctive colouring and stripes.

Silent paws stalked the hunter, he who hunts becomes the prey without realising it, sleek black coat helping the feline blend with the dark world. They’ve been on his trail a while, always distant enough to where he can’t see them, but never too far as to lose him. Its easy pickings for food, the man leaves a trail of corpses in his wake, plenty of fresh meat for a carnivore.

He’s always managed to dig himself out of tough spots with brute force, but even he meets his match sometimes. A pack of agents had caught up with him after already having gone toe to toe with a MAG and barely escaping alive. With one of his arms slashed up beyond use, a cluster of bullets snugly burrowed into his chest, he can only but wait for the reaper to come again, and for Doc to drag his sorry ass out of purgatory.

And you leap from the shadows, claws extended and teeth gnashing, poised to kill and destroy. Rich blood gushes into your mouth as you crush an agent’s throat between your teeth, tossing his limp body aside as you lunge to the next target, tearing into skin like paper.

Hank can only sit propped against the wall, good hand pressing into his chest to stem the bleeding, watching as this shadow beast finishes his job for him. Goring the last of his attackers, your gaze turns to him, blood dripping from your muzzle, soaking into your jet black fur, paws guiding you to him.

He reaches out a hand, as though an open and outstretched palm would stop this feline’s fatal fangs. But he’s pleasantly surprised when instead of feeling air hit inner organs, he’s greeted with soft fur brushing against his fingers, you nudge his hand with sweet affection, silently thanking the one who’s kept you fed and entertained.

Surely blood loss was making him delirious as this panther changed into a grunt before his eyes, but then again, he’d seen weirder. You stalked off to grab some clean water and rags to tend to his wounds as best you could, not much given your lack of medical knowledge, but it’d be enough to keep him alive until you found someone more qualified.

With unsteady feet, he rose and wobbled, leaning into your side reluctantly for support, this was going to be a slow endeavour. Opting for the easier option, your fur bristled again, and now back in your panther form, you slithered between his legs, standing up so he was sitting on your back. His good hand grabbed your scruff, and those nimble black paws raced into the night.

Sanford

Cruising back to HQ after a solo mission, Ford’s fingers drum the steering wheel in time with the music shaking the van. He’s high on life and his own success, but eager to get back and sleep in his bed, much comfier than the cab he’s been sleeping in, his arms around his favourite smart mouthed teammate.

A blur of orange beside the road makes him slam on the breaks, orange is a rare colour these days, usually only reserved for mingling blood of agents and A.T.P agents. Grabbing his signature hook, he kicks open the door and surveys the situation.

Ginger fur aligned with black stripes and a white underbelly, it’s damaged form breathing heavily as the smell of blood hits Sanford, his eyes trace the nasty wound dyeing the white under fluff red. Before him lays a tiger, weak, suffering, and-

Why the fuck is there a TIGER out here?

You weakly raise your head at the strange man, a warning growl rippling from your throat. The last bastard who’d gotten too close ended up mauled beyond recognition, and despite your state, you could easily do it again.

He speaks in low hushed tones, gently trying to reassure the big cat he means no harm, raising his hands up in front of him. The tiger lays its head back down, green eyes transfixed on the man as he slowly backs up to his van. You hope he’s just going to drive off and leave you alone while you rest.

Sanford grabs the med-kit from the passenger side glove box, cautiously making his way closer to the fallen cat. You growl again, too close, you swipe out and miss as he jumps back.

“Whoa there big guy,” He keeps his voice quiet and steady, despite the fear consuming him. “easy, I’m just trying to help,” Your suspicion doesn’t fade, nobody ‘just helps’ others, it’s not how life goes here. Everyone’s always wanting something. You assumed he’d come for your skin, the last asshole had, and it wasn’t much of a surprise.

Gorgeous fur, an elusive and prized item out in the land of nobodies, regal and showing wealth and power, to have slain a fucking tiger in Nevada. A third growl rumbles from you, you’re feeling weaker than before, and this man has the audacity to bother you, to take advantage of your current state. You’ll enjoy his death screams.

He shushes you softly, again stating he’s just trying to help. “Looks like someone got you good, you’re gonna need it tended to, you’ll die otherwise. I just want to help, I hope you can understand me. I don’t speak tiger, and you don’t speak human.” A nervous chuckle escaped him at that.

Contrary wise, you understood the words quite well, you just didn’t know why. You allow him to get close, baring your teeth as he slowly puts his hand on your tummy. “Looks pretty deep,” All of his movements are paced, last thing he wants is for this confused beast to take a chunk out of him.

“This is gonna hurt, but I promise you’ll be better off for it.” You snarled and lashed out as liquid pain filled your wound, claws meeting their mark barely and peeling skin from Sanford’s chest. “SHIT-”

His cut wasn’t deep, you’d just barely nicked him, enough to break skin, not enough to draw blood. “Okay,” He breathed out slowly. “Okay I get it, it hurts, I know, believe me, but it’s gonna do you a world of good.”

He continues to reassure you as he patches you up as best he can, panting heavily as the stress and heat of the red sky burns down on him. You start to feel a slight twinge of guilt at hurting him, he’d kept his promise, helping stop the bleeding and stitching you back together. Your tongue scrapes across his hand, and he meets your gaze.

“Uh-you’re welcome?” He still backs off as you get to your feet, body aching and fixed wound burning. You leap into the cab of the van, and Sanford is floored, rushing over expecting to see this now fixed tiger tearing his ride to shreds but-

“What the fuck?” He instead sees a grunt with dark stripes adorning their body settling in the passenger seat, orange fur fluttering off their body. “You’re a person?!”

Deimos

He’d spotted you a few times now, thick grey fur and giant fluffy paws, but any time he’d tell the others, you’d be long gone. Sanford thought it was another stupid long running joke, and Hank was irritated Dei has promised he’d see a cat only for it to not be there.

Tired of being called a liar, Deimos set out to prove he was right, and that this big cat was no prank, no illusion, and he could say those ever so sweet words 'I told you so.’ But to catch a cat is no easy feat, aloof and elusive, always two steps ahead, nimble and flexible frame allowing escape from most traps.

Sitting in a bar and trying to string together some kind of plan, he failed to notice the stranger approaching him. “Hey there handsome, what’s with the glum face?” Dei looked up from his drink, his usual grin spreading across his face as he observed the person in front of him.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” He gestured to the empty seat next to him, which you took. “I’m just trying to devise a plan, see there’s this cat thing roaming around, and I swear I’m not crazy, but my friends think I’m a liar. I wanna get proof, show 'em that I’m telling the truth.”

You nodded as he explained. “Yeah, I’ve heard about that thing. Its pretty elusive. Some out here will pay good money for it to be put down, but I don’t think it’s causing harm. Well, not yet it isn’t.” Deimos scowled at that. “It’s got as much right to live as you or me, its just an animal doing what animals do.”

“Some don’t see it that way. They see it as a threat, or as a trophy.” “That’s fucked up, why would anyone wanna hurt something so exotic and rare?” You gave him a half hearted shrug. “It’s in our nature to destroy.” “Doesn’t make it justified.” A short laugh was your initial response. “Is anything that goes on these days justified?”

This time all he could answer with was a shrug, morality wasn’t something many questioned anymore. “It’s just an animal.” “Aren’t we?” This was getting too deep for his liking, he took a long swig of his drink and sighed. “You said you’d seen this cat before, any idea where it might be nesting or whatever? I just want a picture of it, just to prove I’m no liar.”

“No, I don’t know.” You lied, knowing fairly well that the lynx he sought was sitting in front of him. “Fuck. I don’t have much more free time on my hands to find it, and when I next do, no doubt it’ll have moved on, or be stuffed and mounted on someone’s wall.”

His words seemed genuine, but you’d been burned before, a nick missing from one of your ears and several bullet scars lining your back, but perhaps this one was different. He did only want a picture, or so he said, plus his scrawny frame would be easy to dispatch of should he change tactics.

You finished your drink, deciding to take a chance. “Sometimes it walks around the junkyard at night. Don’t know when, but sometimes. You should try there later.”

“Uh, thanks. I’ll be sure to do that.” And you left him alone, heading to the junkyard and shifting into your feline form. The grey fur was a great help, you blended into the world very well when you needed to, and huge fluffy paws made your footsteps feather light, primed for stealth in this hostile environment.

And so the waiting began, forelegs crossed and ears poised to pick up on any signs the man was coming. After an hour or so, he did, and the smell of warm meat hit your nose. Did he grab something for you to eat? You were rather hungry.

Jumping from your hiding spot, you could see him well before he saw you, he was spinning on the spot, trying to catch sight of you before he caught his death. “Here kitty kitty kitty,”

You figured it’d be better to make yourself known to him, rather than sneak up, looking at your feet there was a crushed up can, and you gave it a slight kick. He gasped and spun to face you, his eyes wide in apprehension, body shaking slightly with fear. “Whoa… Look at you-”

A long moment passed, both just staring at each other, expecting the other to launch into an attack, but it never came. Deimos tossed a chunk of warm meat in your direction, you bowed your head and got a good sniff of it. It didn’t smell wrong, didn’t look wrong, you assumed it was safe to eat and promptly did so.

He pulled out his phone and began recording you, tossing more chunks of meat to keep your attention. “See, I’m not a liar. I fuckin’ told you so, look at this, see?! You guys are gonna feel so fucking stupid.” So he seemed genuine, just recording and snapping pictures.

Well, why not give him something else to brag about? You stalked closer, bumping your furry head against his hand, relaxing as his fingers brushed into your thick fuzz. “Friendly one aren’t you? God damn… Oh Hank is gonna be pissed he wasn’t here.”

Jebus

Jeb had caught you while gazing down the sight of his sniper, sand coloured fur with a thick dark mane, gnawing on some poor fucker’s bones. “Lions… In Nevada? How curious.” He simply assumed you’d been the descendent of one of the animals from Nexus’ zoo, after all lions aren’t native to this hellhole. But then again, it sometimes rains whales and marshmallows, so…

From that day, he’d always hope he’d catch sight of you, wild life was rare in Nevada due to excess hunting, and general assholes killing for sport. Your existence alone managed to brighten the grizzled old man’s day.

You sat on a nice flat rock, soaking in the heat of the red sky and relaxing after a successful scouring mission, no one had encroached on your private little territory, and all was well.

Unbeknown to you, Jebediah had been routinely picking off anyone who’d gotten too close for comfort. He wasn’t obsessed, he simply just wished to preserve what little natural beauty Nevada had left.

He observed you though the scope, a rare smile crossing his face as he watched your tail swish back and forward. But that smile faded into a confused grimace as he watched you transform, turning back into your grunt form and heading off the rock back home.

“What.. The.. Fuck?” Surely his eyes were playing tricks on him, animals don’t just turn into people, that’s not how the world works. Then again, his former best friend was a feral zombie clown, and he himself was going around acting like a biblical figure. Stranger things have happened.

He was enamoured by you now, he needed to find the answer, were you just an anomaly like so many others? Were you a godly being like the Employers? Something else from the another dimension? So many questions burned in his mind, and there was only one source for answers.

Taking the plunge, he’d position himself near to your favourite sunning spot and await you, a man of science at heart, he wanted-no, needed answers. It didn’t take long, your claws scraped along the rocks and you huffed in contentment, lounging around.

Jeb levitated upwards, clearing his throat and causing you to jump up. “Shhh, easy there,” His gravely voice was calming, your tail swished back and forth in anticipation. “I know that you’re… Different. I’ve seen you, from my vantage point, you’re not normal.” He scowled and shook his head. “That came out ruder than intended. The point being, I’ve seen you become human.”

Ah. Well shit. “Well, you’ve kept yourself well hidden,” You scraped your long claws on the rock, mane waving as a light breeze rolled over the cliffs. “Naturally. It’s in my job to be subtle.” His crimson eyes burned with pride, a grin pulling at his face.

“Well, you have made it adamantly clear you don’t have intentions of killing me, or else you would’ve already.” Your tail neatly folded around your paws as you sat and stared up at him. “So, what is it you want? I’ll warn you, aside from the shifting, I’m very boring.”

He hummed softly and sat down across from you. “I want to pry your brain, you’re certainly something else. Will you indulge me?” “I suppose. But like I said, I’m very boring.” You rolled onto your back, going back to soaking in the sun. “Very well. What are you? Not everyone can just change like that. Are you an experiment?”

You let out a purry laugh. “Born this way, my mother was the same, mane and all. I just call myself a shapeshifter.” Jeb rested his hand on his chin and hummed again. “I see. So this is clearly something you control. Does it hurt? Can you half shift, a half human half beast?”

“No and no.” You swatted at a pebble, the quizzing rather boring to you, but incredibly enlightening to Jeb. “Are there others like you?” Now that got your attention. “Not as far as I know, but then again, I’m not one for making my abilities known. You just found out by chance.”

He nodded and closed his eyes. “Makes sense. I’m sure that plenty of folks wouldn’t be so kind with you. Thank you for your time.” He got the sense he was outstaying his welcome. “May I come again some time?”

You shrugged. “Do as you please, I can’t tell you what to do.” Jeb got to his feet and stretched, his old bones clicking and cracking in protest. “This is your space, it feels rude to not ask.”

Exhaling sharply, you stared at him as he prepared to leave. “Again, do as you please. As long as you don’t bring trouble or hostility, I don’t care.” He bowed his head. “Well thank you again. I’ll see you again sometime. Take care, Nevadian Beast.”

And he left you alone. Curious, you found yourself beginning to develop your own questions about him. You’d have to pry his mind next time.

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cophene · 1 year

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24 || ✦.⁺ feverish.

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pairing : vento aureo x gn reader summary : a college student tries getting the attention of some of the most admired and attractive people on campus, only to get caught up with stands and vigilante groups in the process. notes : modern au, multi-chapter fic, sfw, doesn't follow canon plot word count : 2.2k+

═ ☆. Y/N YANKED NARANCIA BACK SO HARD they were surprised his arm didn’t pop out of its socket. He yelped in pain, staggering back from the toilet stall.

“The Stand is really big and hates water!” (y/n) gasped desperately. The words made no sense, but nonetheless, Narancia looked at them.

“You need to stop this,” he said, sounding a little panicked. “What is wrong with you? Why do you keep shouting things like that?”

(Y/n) couldn’t say anything. They just continued to grip his arm like a scared child.

“Okay. We’re just gonna take this one thing at a time. Is something wrong with your mouth? Your tongue?”

(Y/n) tried to nod, but their head shook in a no.

“No?”

(Y/n) shook their head harder this time. They widened their eyes at Narancia, willing him to understand.

“Is … this a Stand attack?”

Again, (y/n)’s head shook.

“This doesn’t make sense. You’re shaking your head no, but your face—” Narancia cut himself off, an intense scowl on his face. “Okay, I’m just going to assume something is up with you. A Stand attack, no less. Fugo was in this washroom and now he’s gone. That also must have been a Stand. You grabbed my arm. I’m guessing you don’t want me close to the toilets?”

(Y/n) stayed silent. There wasn’t anything they could say without messing up Narancia’s reasoning.

Could it be possible that the Stand that had attacked Fugo was still around here? (Y/n) thought about Zucchero moving in the pipes of the yacht. They let out a strand of White Satin, watching its path intently. (Y/n) and Narancia aside, the Stand drifted aimlessly in the air, not attracted to anything in particular.

Narancia squinted at it. “What are you trying to show me?”

All of a sudden, White Satin pulled taut, seeming to point straight at the sinks. It clustered around the faucet, winding about uneasily.

The shark Stand. (Y/n) was sure that if they turned the faucet, it would appear. They moved towards it, poising a hand over the faucet. They could only hope that Narancia would start shooting the living daylights out of the shark Stand as soon as he saw it.

Narancia watched warily over (y/n)’s shoulder, Aerosmith hovering above his head.

(Y/n)’s body jerked forward of its volition, much to their shock. Their tongue darted forward, the fleshy humanoid twisting around the faucet and turning it on.Water rushed out and for a long moment, that was the only thing that came out. But then (y/n) leapt back. A grey fin dove out of the water, straight towards them.

Narancia wasted no time. A hail of bullets tore into the sink and faucet, shredding it and releasing a spray of water. The shark fin disappeared, flashing between the puddles of water around the sink. Aerosmith tried to shoot it, but the fin teleported too quickly for the bullets to reach.

“Bastard,” Narancia muttered, eyes bright. “That’s the Stand that got Fugo, isn’t it?” Aerosmith’s radar appeared around his head. Instantly, (y/n) knew he was tracking Fugo’s carbon dioxide as he got carried around by the Stand.

In a flash, Aerosmith was raining bullets down over the stalls. One of the toilets burst, sending a stream of water bursting from the pipes. With deadly ferocity, Aerosmith shot at the shark fin as it leapt from pools of water. The pools turned a murky pink as the bullets hit home, tearing into the fin.

Narancia was breathing hard. “Shit. I lost him.”

“Hey!” A harried-looking server ran into the restrooms, gaping at the destroyed restroom and gushing water. He screamed at (y/n) and Narancia, his phone pressed to his ear as he called the police. The restaurant patrons stared as they hurried outside, no doubt wondering if they’d just murdered someone inside the restrooms.

“If a Stand gets hurt, so does its user,” Narancia muttered to himself. He looked feverish, his eyes darting up and down the street before looking back at his radar. “Aerosmith tore into that son of a bitch’s Stand. He must be hurt pretty good.”

By now, (y/n) was sure the Stands attacking them belonged to Squalo and Tiziano. They must have known that they were coming to try and pry information out of them. (Y/n) was no expert, but these Stands seemed like the close-range variety. Squalo and Tiziano couldn’t have controlled them the way they did unless they had been able to see what was going on. That must mean they were nearby, right?

Where had that shark Stand taken Fugo? Try as they might, (y/n) couldn’t sense the Stand anymore, and Fugo’s circle on Aerosmith’s radar had also disappeared. Did that mean he wasn’t breathing anymore? He’d be able to protect himself, but (y/n) wasn’t sure to what extent without Purple Haze harming himself as well.

Narancia started running. Startled, (y/n) lurched after him.

“If you get hurt, you start breathing faster,” Narancia explained as they ran. “Doesn’t sound like shit, but using that, I can narrow it down. The Stand user’s probably all torn up. If we’re looking for someone who’s rapidly inhaling and exhaling—”

On Aerosmith’s radar, a number of the circles disappeared, leaving just a few that blinked quickly—people breathing hard as Narancia had said. (Y/n) had to marvel at how quickly Narancia was able to do that.

They rounded a corner, coming to a halt at a group of kids running around and chasing each other. (Y/n)’s heart sank when none of them appeared bloody. Narancia, however, wasn’t deterred.

“I know that bastard’s here somewhere.”

(Y/n) had never seen such singular intent on Narancia’s face before. He couldn’t have been more different from the goofy guy they hung out with. He looked like could rip someone apart with his bare hands just then.

Chills ran down (y/n)’s arms.

Narancia spun in a slow circle. Something at the base of (y/n)’s skull prickled. They whipped around at the same moment Narancia did. (Y/n) barely had time to register the figure with a dark hoodie thrown over itself before Aerosmith was soaring down, releasing a deluge of bullets.

Narancia, wait!

Someone threw themselves in front of the figure. People screamed and ran as the bullets made contact, the person crumpling to the ground.

“TIZIANO!” someone howled.

A slim, red-haired man cradled the crumpled body. The body had warm, dark skin, his fair hair spread around him as his blood pooled along the cobblestones.

“Oh shit…” breathed Narancia. Aerosmith flew a loop in the air and disappeared over his shoulder.

If that was Tiziano, that meant the red-haired man was—

The shark fin raced along the pooled blood, leaping up, straight for Narancia’s throat. Too quick for them to process, White Satin wrapped itself around it, wrestling it to the ground and squeezing tight.

“W-where’s Fugo?” Narancia called to Squalo shakily.

“You killed him,” Squalo whispered. “You killed him.”

Tiziano moaned, and despite themself, (y/n) was relieved. Not dead. Just severely wounded.

“Where’s Fugo?” Narancia repeated.

Squalo gritted his teeth. He glared at the fountain a few feet away. There was a splash, and when (y/n) followed his gaze, a leg was slung over the side of the fountain, strawberry sneaker dangling.

Narancia and (y/n) hurried towards Fugo, hauling him out of the fountain. His clothes were drenched and his face was ashen. (Y/n) brushed a hand under his nose. Fugo was unconscious, but alright.

Narancia propped him up against the fountain, relief permeating his face.

(Y/n) turned back to the two males on the ground. They edged forward. Squalo had withdrawn the shark Stand, leaving White Satin curled on the ground. Tentatively, (y/n)’s Stand darted toward Tiziano. Squalo actually hissed at it, but (y/n) allowed it to wrap around Tiziano’s torso, staunching the blood. Squalo relaxed slightly.

“We have questions for you,” (y/n) said. It looked like Tiziano’s Stand had been withdrawn too. They could actually control their words now.

Squalo smoothed the hair back from Tiziano’s forehead. “Sale was right. You guys are goddamn menaces. Couldn’t leave us the hell alone.”

(Y/n) heard someone calling an ambulance behind them.

“You work for Signor D, don’t you?” Narancia came up beside (y/n). “You meet with him at that restaurant and hand over Stand users, right?”

“I don’t have to answer you,” Squalo snarled. He instantly leaned towards Tiziano when his partner coughed.

“Just … tell them,” he wheezed. “What does … it matter?”

“I’ll get you out of here,” Squalo whispered, kissing Tiziano’s knuckles. “You’re gonna be alright. We won’t get involved with shit like this anymore.” He took in a breath. To Narancia and (y/n), he said, “Signor D works for an organization, as I’m sure that asshole Sale told you. He’s collecting data—research, he likes to call it. He put up an ad, asking for people with “abilities”. He said he’d pay for our help. Squalo and I needed the money, so we hit him up. He was the one who explained what Stands even were to us. Afterwards, it seemed simple enough—just find other people like us and report to him. Tell the Signor about their whereabouts, habits, schedules. Occasionally, he’d ask for certain people, and that’s when we’d bring out Coco Jumbo—the turtle.”

They were actually getting answers for once. (Y/n) listened intently, trying to remember every word.

“He knew right away when Giovanna started interfering,” Squalo continued. “It meant less Stand users, less data for him. I don’t know what he needs it for, just that it’s important to him. He started cutting our pay. That’s why you had so many people coming after your ass. If we got rid of you, our pay would go up, simple as that.”

“You don’t know who he is?” (y/n) asked.

Squalo laughed hollowly. “Of course not. He’s nothing more than a bank deposit number.”

“That can’t be all you know,” Narancia interrupted. “You’re higher up—Sale said so. You have to know more.”

Squalo shook his head. “The Stand users? Sure, I can tell you more. But I don’t know shit about the Signor himself.”

Tiziano shifted, grunting in pain. Squalo squeezed his hand, telling him to relax.

Narancia frowned. “You don’t—can’t you tell us how we can find out who he is?”

Squalo hesitated. (Y/n) could see the fear flickering across his expression before it went blank again.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “There’s an annual fundraiser for Sapiena students coming up, isn’t there? The Signor wanted us to go, but I doubt he’ll be sending us now.” His gaze darkened. “His objective was Giovanna’s father.”

Giovanna’s father. Chief Prosecutor Brando?

“Why?” asked (y/n).

“I don’t know. The Signor never told us.” Squalo sighed. “You’ve really cut his work out for him. Squalo and I aren’t going back. Sale and Zucchero are locked up again. His other Stand users are busy elsewhere. It seems like … well, like the Signor himself will make an appearance at the fundraiser.”

(Y/n)’s heart flipped. The Signor himself? At the fundraiser?

Sirens blared nearby. The crowd that had assembled began to murmur uneasily, unsure what the conversation taking place was about.

“Are you sure about this?” Narancia’s tone was sharp.

“It’s what I would do,” replied Squalo.

The server from the French restaurant burst through the crowd, a uniformed officer right on his heels. He pointed furiously at (y/n) and Narancia, yelling. At the same time, the ambulance arrived, paramedics rushing out to assess the situation. Tiziano was loaded onto a stretcher, Squalo trailing behind him. The officer barked at (y/n) and Narancia to hold out their hands, slapping handcuffs over their wrists. They were shoved into a cruiser, where the officer said they would be questioned and charged for destruction of property.

(Y/n) and Narancia said nothing during this. They were too occupied trying to figure out what Squalo had said, trying to form the picture.

By all accounts, this was a success, wasn’t it? They were closer to discovering Signor D’s identity than ever before. They would finally figure out what his “research” was for. What his organization was.

So then, why did dread hang like a suffocating blanket over them?

Meanwhile, concerned members of the crowd huddled around Fugo, prodding the drenched student and asking if he was alright. He stirred, blinking blearily before jolting upright. There were shouts as he tried to understand what had happened. Where were his friends? Why was there blood everywhere?

Fugo eventually reined himself in. He watched the ambulance and police cruiser leave, the back of his mouth tasting bitter. He was cold and pissed off. If he’d known the restaurant visit would end like this, he wouldn’t have gone.

He reached for his phone. Wiped the water from the screen.

“Hello? Giorno?”

“Fugo, what happened? Is everything okay?”

A long breath through his nostrils.

“No. Everything is not okay. I—how fast do you think you can get two people out of a police station?”

“Police…?” It was silent for a few beats. “Damnit.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know how much I can do. I’ve already used all of my brownie points to get myself out of jail the other day, if you remember.” Fugo couldn’t understand how Giorno managed to sound wry at a time like this. “... Get to the police station. I’ll see what I can do about (y/n) and Narancia. You should all be able to get back to the dorms by this afternoon.” Giorno hung up abruptly before Fugo could add anything else.

Fugo sighed. He brushed his damp hair out of his eyes and dragged his drenched sneakers to do as Giorno instructed.

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#pseuminova #jjba x reader #jjba #jjba fanfic #vento aureo #vento aureo x reader #golden wind #golden wind x reader #gender neutral reader #modern au

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