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lily-drake · 3 months

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The Demon's Queen

Chapter Sixteen

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“You remember what you’re supposed to do,” Rajani asked stoically as she stared out the windshield.

“Yes,” Marinette responded, though she was in the trunk of the car with her hands cuffed behind her back. The earpiece was masked to match her exact skin color so that no one would be able to see it when they brought her in. She hated it in the humid trunk, the way she couldn’t control her body as the car rode on the bumpy gravel. The way the shorts and tank top scratched uncomfortably at her skin. The way the heat and darkness seemed to crush her with only its existence, sweat dripping off her like waves plastering her hair to her face and back.

But it would only be for a little longer. The first chance she got she’d be out of here. She’d escape The League of Assassins grasp, or she’d die.

The car came to a sudden stop and that was Marinette’s cue to close her eyes and go limp as if she were unconscious. The voices outside were muffled, and she had to hold back a flinch when the click of the trunk echoed around her and the blazing sun hit her directly.

Even though she could now clearly hear them, she still couldn’t understand a word they said. They spoke in rapid Portuguese, and the only thing she knew was that they were talking about how much she’d cost them. It made her sick.

Only a few minutes later she was hoisted onto someone’s shoulder, left to simply dangle there as the person moved her to the next location. Left, 20 paces forward, right, 10 paces forward, left, left, 30 paces forwards, stop.

The dangle of keys echoed in the near silent room, the opposite of when she was first brought in where there were noises and voices echoed at every corner.

The whir of something heavy sounded behind her before the loud scrape of a door screeched open menacingly. The quiet cries of children whispered against her ears before she was dumped unceremoniously onto the cold concrete floor where she continued to lay limp.

The man now behind her scoffed, poking at her back with his foot until she was flat in her stomach. A feeling of dread creeped through her system, but she forced down the shutter of fear, ignoring the feeling of bile climbing up her throat. Finally the man’s footsteps retreated, and the sound of the door closing and the lock snapping back into place felt like the bells of Heaven. She waited a few moments longer, counting down from one hundred like she’d been told.

Opening her eyes she was surprised to see just how many kids there were. Many were in cages scattered all around the floor while some were chained to the wall. Kids from all nationalities were scattered, all around the room in no specific order. Some stared blankly at the wall, eyes glazed over and void. Others kept their eyes closed, tears streaming down their cheeks. Only a few looked over at her with eyes full of shame, pity, fear, and only a few with hope.

The need to vomit intensifies, but she swallowed it down the best she could. She was going to save all of these kids before she left, nothing like this would ever happen to any of them again. Taking a deep breath she whispered, “I’m in position. I have eyes on all of the kids and am waiting for your signal.”

“Copy.”

Marinette took in the room once more. Was this going on in Paris and she just hadn’t noticed? How many of these children were kids that should have been under her protection? Would she have been able to stop this with her miraculous alone?

No.

She needed to focus, she couldn’t start spiraling now. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out a pair of lockpicks from her secret pocket in her shirt and made quick work of her cuffs and slipped them into her hidden pocket. Ruta had made d* sure that she would be able to get out nearly any restraint and use them as her own weapon.

On silent feet she made her way to the front of the room where a young child who couldn’t be older than 7 sat in a small kennel with a padlock closed on the front. The small girl stared at her with wide red-rimmed, hazel eyes. Her dark brown hair was cut into a ruff pixie cut. Her clothes were skimpy where she was only wearing short-shorts and a training bra. Bruises were scattered all around her body and Marinette could see the small child’s ribs peaking out from her tanned skin.

Swallowing back her own sob, Marinette got to work unlocking the cage. The small click echoed throughout the room and when the girl went to speak Marinette held a finger to her mouth. The child quickly closed her mouth and nodded. “I need you to stay in here for just a little longer, when you hear me shout I want you to follow me. Can you do that?” She asked the girl, praying she understood as she was speaking in English. The girl gave another nod, the broken look in her eye being replaced with fiery defiance.

Marinette quickly moved on to the next child repeating what she said and attempting to mime out her words when the kids didn’t understand her words.

There were so many though, and she had only gotten a quarter of the way through when Rajani’s voice spoke through her earpiece. “You almost done Khata?”

“There are more kids than anticipated, I may need an extra hand if available,” she asked as she removed yet another lock from a cage. There was no noise over the comm, but she could almost feel the disdain they felt for her through it.

“ETA 5 minutes,” Rajani finally responded.

“Why would the League of Assassins even care for the safety of kids anyways, this feels more like a Justice League scenario.” Marinette grumbled to herself, narrowing her eyes as she failed to open a lock and had to restart.

“Our Demon’s Head had left an anonymous tip to the JLA. They thought the prevention of Venom from reaching Star CIty’s shores was more important.” Hossam answered bitterly, disdain dripping from his words like poison.

“Yea right, they have hundreds of heroes, I’m sure if he really sent a tip someone would have come.” She bit back, sighing when the lock finally snapped open.

“Believe what you want Khata, but we only speak the truth.” Rajani whispered from behind her, causing Marinette to jump and throw a punch at her. The woman gracefully ducked out of the way with practiced ease.

“Good reflexes, but your spatial awareness needs to be improved.” She reported as she looked around the room with narrowed eyes. Marinette wanted to bite back, but she held her tongue and moved on after telling the child to stay in place until her signal.

“All of the targets are in position,” Hosaam reported.

“All of the traps are laid,” Azrael confirmed immediately after.

“Nearly done here, only a few more kids left,” Rajani informed. With her help they only had a fourth of the room left. “Activate the sleeper gas and slowly mix in the Nitrogen. We should be out of here by the time the first person falls.”

“Roger.”

After another 20 minutes all of the cages were unlocked and all the kids cuffed to the walls were free, all anxiously waiting for the promised signal. The air was electric with anticipation, and the fear of failing any of these kids now that they were so close weighed heavily on Marinette’s shoulders.

“Something’s wrong.” Hosaam reported, tension thick in his voice.

Marinette and Rajani looked at the other quickly before Rajani answered back, “Report.”

“More men are arriving, and they’re not buyers. I think someone sensed that something was wrong and called in more security. And I heard that the Leader of this whole operation will no longer be present.”

“Al’ama!” Rajani cursed. “I sealed every entrance and exit except for our escape route, so that should buy us some time. Here’s the plan. Azrael and Hosaam, put on your rebreathers. I want both of you to start taking out any man or woman inside that you’re able to without causing a mass panic. I’ll join you on the ground floor. Khata, you are to take the children to the garage where a semi-truck will be waiting. Load the kids into it and wait for us there.” Rajani pulled out a dagger and shoved it into Marinette’s hands along with a spare rebreather. Placing her own over her face before hopping onto the tops of cages and leaping into the ventilation system.

This was her chance! But first she needed to get the kids to safety. Placing two of her fingers in her mouth she let out a loud, high pitched whistle catching everyone’s attention. “It’s time to follow me!” She shouted pulling open one of the kids doors. As soon as the words escaped her mouth the room was in chaos. The sound of metal doors being thrown open, cages being tossed around, and the cries of children echoed through the room like a twisted orchestra. She tried to gain the kids attention, to get them to follow her, but she was shorter than many of the kids and was almost lost in the sea of them as they moved.

“Follow me!” She yelled as loudly as she could, running towards the entrance where Rajani had already unlocked the door. Following the blueprints she had memorized in her mind she led them all toward the garage which was located only a few halls down from the room they were held in. But she noticed many of the kids went down different halls and passages, determined to find their own escape. She needed to get them back, but she needed to get the others to safety first.

When they reached the truck the back was already open and she watched as many of the kids stared at it with hesitation and/or horror. “I need all of you to get in. I promise you that you will be safe! I won’t let anything happen to you.” The older kids scoffed at her looking back into the hall behind them and wondering if they too should have found their own way out. The smaller kids listened to her without hesitation, loading into the large space despite their discomfort.

“Please, I swear to you that I am only here to help you escape.” Hesitantly, the others got in as well, going as far back as they could to hide in the shadows. Once all of the kids that had followed her were all loaded in she looked back at the hall. Then she looked behind her where the moon was shining just outside. Fields of overgrown, yellowed grass littered the side road, and the call of the warm winter’s night begged her to run for it. If she left now, she would be free, she could begin her escape. The others were busy, they wouldn’t know until it’s too late.

She was about to take a step towards the tantalizing embrace of the outside when a child’s scream echoed through her. She turned towards the doorway and without thinking she ran back into the corridors of the warehouse. There were still others she needed to save first.

Turning a corner she saw a large burly man standing in front of a group of children, back to her. “You filth of the Earth.” He growled in rough accented English. There was a gun strapped to his side, but he hadn’t pulled it out yet. Marinette watched in horror as he picked up one of the girls by her hair, lifting her above the ground as she cried out in anguish.

Marinette could only hear her blood pounding in her ears, the small girl's screams, man’s laughter and mocking jests. She could only feel the burning in her gut, the roughness of the blade’s hilt digging into her palm, her feet platened and ready to strike. She could only see red.

The man began to reach for his pistol, leaving him entirely exposed for an attack, and that’s what she did. Without another thought she jumped, bringing her knife down into the man’s spine, severing vertebrae until he collapsed, entirely paralyzed from the neck down.

Marinette stared at the man as he screamed, phantom pain wracking his body as he began to bleed out. Marinette stared at the limp body, red pooling at her feet and covering her hands. Horror and sickness warred for control of her body, ripping the air out of her lungs as the metallic scent of blood reached her nose. The man was still breathing, but for how long? She hadn’t meant to kill him, but she needed to protect the kids.

But part of her was relieved. The kids were safe now. Never again would he ever be able to harm any of these children again. Looking up from the body she looked at the kids huddled together, eyes wide in fear, but safe. Falling back into her old Ladybug mindset she put everything that wasn’t the kids on the back burner. Nothing except removing them from this situation mattered. She could fix this later. She’d call on her lucky charm and fix all of this once she was done and sure that everyone was safe.

Scooping up the child the brute had been hurting—ignoring the red she smeared on the child’s clothes and face—she demanded that the others follow her, and they did without another word. She quickly deposited them into the truck with the others before going back out to rescue the rest.

The halls echoed with the screams of men and women, the banging of doors bounced off the walls as the reinforcements tried to find access into the warehouse. Marintte’s heart reverberated through her body, making the rushing of blood sound like a river to her ears. She needed to find the rest of the kids!

“There are loose kids running around the area, what is going on Khata,” Azrael growled through the earpiece. Marinette was surprised she hadn’t heard any gunfire yet, but relieved knowing that even a single blast could set the whole building aflame.

“Rounding up the stragglers now. Some ran while I was leading them to the escape vehicle.” The only response she received was a low grunt.

Turning a sharp corner, Marinette found another group of kids on their knees coughing. The gas. They were going to get themselves killed. “Grab each other's wrists and follow me if you want to get out of here alive,” she ordered, grabbing the wrist of the kid closest to her first. Once she made sure they were all secure she hefted the kids back onto their legs and ran back to the truck jumping over and ignoring the limp bodies of grown men in their path as she pulled them through the door and pointed toward the truck before going back out.

Marientte’s lungs were burning, but she ignored it. She still had her mask securely in place, but there was only so much it could filter out after a certain amount of time.

Bang.

Marinette stood stock still, listening. The sound of footsteps echoed around the building and Marinette knew that reinforcements had finally breached the building. They didn’t have much time left, they needed to get out of here now if they wanted to make it out alive.

Marinette traversed the halls once more on silent feet, tension lining her shoulders as she peeked over corners, throwing her dagger at any unsuspecting man or woman who stood in her way.

“I found a group of kids and led them to the point. From the sounds of it we were only missing two more then we can head out. We’re not leaving any of them behind,” Rajani barked and received affirmatives from the others. Marinette nearly tripped over herself, she truly hadn’t expected these assassins to care that much over the life of a few kids. She believed that they would fight purely for their survival or the lives of the many over the few. But to risk their lives for all of them, it just didn’t seem like a plausible belief to come from these kinds of people.

After another turn Marinette found herself in the middle of the warehouse. The space was littered with bodies, gun pieces and ammunition littering floor as blood painted it red. Marinette wished she could make herself feel sick, to at least mourn, but she had seen such similar situations before in Paris that she automatically compartmentalized it in search of the akumatized object the children. A loud cry could be heard from the floor above and Marinette rushed up the steps, throwing open the doors to a room only to see Hosaam kneeling in front of one of the kids, holding his own gas mask against their faces.

“It’ll be alright. Follow that woman and I promise that you will be safe. No one will be able to harm you like this ever again,” he murmured, voice smoothed in a gentle timber. It was another shock to her system. She watched as Hosaam picked up one of the kids–the same girl she had rescued first–in his arms while pushing the second towards her. But she didn’t have time to think about the sound of footsteps climbing up the stairs.

“You two have tails, I can’t hold them all off, so get ready for a fight and make sure none of them open fire. There’s too much gas in the air,” Azrael reported.

“I’ll be waiting inside the transport for all of you. As soon as the last two kids are loaded we run,” Rajani confirmed.

“Copy,” Marinette breathed, hosting the weak child onto her back as she peaked out the door toward the railing. Men had flooded the stair and were blocking any exit on all sides, and if she tried to run for it with a hop of the banister there was a high chance they would shoot and kill everyone. Looking over at Hosaam she watched as he calmly removed a small device from a hidden pocket in his jacket and rolled towards the group before shutting the door completely. Marinette couldn’t see what happened next, but the echoing of gunfire echoed off the walls with a sickening bang.

Marinette felt the entire building shudder and Marinette wondered if this was how she died. “We must hurry,” Hosaam ushered. Marinette opened her eyes–when had she closed them–to see that they were completely fine.

“W-what happened? How are we still alive?!” Marinette gasped, her heart hammering in her chest.

“I’m what you may know as a meta-human. I have the ability to create protective shields around those I choose.” And without another word, Hosaam opened the door and ran out of the room with Marinette following only a few moments later. The room was now in chaos, bodies scorching with the scent of burning flesh. It reminded her of her battle with Vatra. They had the ability to create volcanoes at will and cause whoever got in their way to combust into flames if he made eye contact with them (Marinette hadn’t been able to eat meat for nearly a year after that).

Bang.

The sound reverberates around her followed by the clatter of a gun onto the floor as another man dies. But it’s not followed by some explosion. Instead it’s followed by burning so intense that she can’t stop the scream of agony from escaping her lips. Reality comes crashing down around her.

She’s not Ladybug, she’s not a magical suit that can protect her from anything and everything, she can’t fix this once it's over. But even with the burning, she’s still moving with the adrenaline coursing through her system.

“Alqarf!” She hears from beside her. Hosaam, was running beside her now, staring at the wound in her side as red flowed out of the wound like a waterfall.

“Agent wounded, prepare for on field surgery,” Hosaam reported stiffly, rounding a corner. She looked down at the child she was holding, the child that was starting to feel far too heavy with how light they actually were. Her blood was starting to soak into their clothes as well, but they stayed silent, tucking their head against her shoulder as she ran.

Marinette nearly collapsed when she saw the semi-truck. Her head felt fuzzy and her body heavy. Suddenly the weight was taken out of her hands, and her body was floating in the air. Voices echoed around her, but she couldn’t make anything out. Something was pushing her down, keeping her in place as burning liquid was poured onto her side.

“Oh don’t be so dramatic, it’s just a bullet wound,” she heard someone say from above her, but she couldn’t tell who. The world was still blurry.

“How much longer until we get to the rendezvous point?”

“Another 15 minutes.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have released the shield.”

“Next time you know not to make the same mistake again.”

“Thankfu- ‘ust- ‘raze.”

Marintte had pricked herself with a needle countless times before, but it was nothing compared to the feeling of whatever was poking at and pulling her side. She was fairly certain that she blacked out from the pain, as the next thing she knew she was waking up in air surrounded by gray metal walls.

When she tried to sit up, she couldn’t stop the hiss that escaped her lips before falling back onto the seats she was laid against.

“Ah yes, the joy of one’s first bullet wound. I remember mine like it was yesterday.” Marinette looked over at the far too chipper voice to see Rajani without any face coverings. She was a rather attractive woman, with caramel skin and close cropped curled black hair. The only thing mauring her smooth skin being a four inch scar that trails straight down from her eyelid to her cheek.

“That was a close one Khata. You did better than any of us were expecting though, so there’s that,” she continued casually, her hazel eyes boring into Marinette’s blue. Marinette didn’t answer, her head still reeling.

Rajani didn’t continue the conversation, instead turning away to sharpen her knives. The scraping of metal on metal only fed her pounding headache as her mind replayed everything that had happened.

She had killed people. And she can’t bring them back. She can’t bring them back. She’s a murder. Before she could even process it, she turned her body to the side, vomit spilling from her lips. Rajani scrunched up her nose, but didn’t comment, just continued her chore.

What had she done?

It felt like only minutes had passed, but it must have been hours as the next thing she knew they had landed back into the mountain base they had first left from. They were back, and Marinette hadn’t escaped and she hadn’t died.

Holding onto her side, Marinette limped off the plane, surprised when only Hossam stopped as Rajani and Azael continued forward–faces concealed once more.

“Hop on my back Khata, it would not be ideal for your stitches to tear now,” he said stoically. Mariente looked at him as if he had just grown a second head. It made no sense to her that he was treating her with any form of respect or human decency when all the three of them had ever been to her was cruel and mocking. It must have been some sort of sick joke.

But he just waited for her, eyes looking off into the distance. The memory of him showing the child tenderness and compassion. “Why’d you do it?”

“Why did I do what, Khata? You can’t expect me to read your mind.”

“Why’d you give the girl your mask? You could have died. I figured you would value your life more than some random kids.”

Hosaam was silent for a moment, his face impassive as he stared at the snowy mountain top.

“I was trafficked as a child once before. One day, I was able to gain the advantage and kill my abuser. It was Maha who had found me on the streets, hiding from the man’s friends. She offered me power, the ability to make sure no one hurt me again, and to stop those who tried to hurt others the same way. I took it.” Finally he turned to look at her, the only thing she was able to make out was his amber eyes.

“We are not monsters here. We are the shadows that haunt those who create injustice, and nothing more. Now will you trust me?” Marinette stared at him, biting her lip as she thought. With a short sigh–and a sharp pain from her side–she agreed, allowing him to maneuver her so that she was straddling his back, her arms wrapped loosely around his neck.

When they arrived back at the base she almost expected to see the grounds covered in other ninja training, but it was empty save for Rajani, Azrael, Maha, and the boy. She most definitely had not been expecting him to rush over to her and Hosaam when they entered the grounds.

“Set her down, now,” he ordered, eyes dark. Hossam didn’t hesitate, setting Marinette back on her feet before joining the others. “What happened,” he demanded, noticing the way she kept her weight off her right side.

Marinette bit her tongue not wanting to give anything away to him.

“Show me where you’re hurt,” he barked, eyes scanning her body almost…worriedly, but that’s ridiculous. He probably doesn’t actually care, he just wants to make sure his prize isn’t permanently broken.

Slowly Marinette lifted her shirt to show him her stitched up side where the bullet had grazed her. “As you can see I’m fine.”

Damian glared at the wound, cursing the person who had hurt her. If they weren’t already dead he would make sure that they paid dearly. His stomach was boiling with rage and regret. He had a feeling that something like this would happen if he wasn’t there, and he was right. He should have listened to his gut, and now she was hurt.

From the short report he had gotten from two of Maha’s Jackels she did well. The wound wasn’t her fault, and she had not failed. No one could look down on her–and thus him–for not being good enough. No one could question his decision at this moment, and for now that’s all that mattered. But the longer he stared at the wound the more weight he felt in his chest.

He felt responsible, which was stupid. He hadn’t been the one to shoot the gun. He wasn’t the direct reason she was hurt. But for whatever reason, it weighed like he had all the same.

“Report to Tomoe at once. Do whatever she prescribes.” And with that he turned away, retreating back into his rooms.

Marinette watched his retreating back curiously. While his face had remained impassive the entire encounter, his eyes seemed to be at war. It made no sense. She was simply imagining things, after all her head still felt fuzzy from the blood loss. Sighing, she looked around to see that she was now the only one left on the grounds besides the guards in their respective watchtowers.

With one last look at the outside world, she headed back into the base and down to where Tomoe was waiting for her in the infirmary.

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abyssalaerlocke · 2 months

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Twisty Tavtash

Twisted sweet Tavtash — arranged marriage, dubious consent, Stockholm syndrome/mind manipulation

Gortash wins, controls the netherbrain. He's liked Tav's strength, their intelligence, that they stood up to him. It reminds him of what he liked about Durge and their dynamic.

He can't just let them run around freely, but doesn't want to lose that interaction, so he decides to keep his enemy close, so he can keep an eye on them, make use of them politically. So he presents his offer — complete thralldom, or an arranged marriage.

Tav chooses the marriage — but it's quickly clear they're so stressed and jumpy, they won't risk talking back or anything he was looking for, for fear of the consequences.

So, he tentatively proposes some minor mental manipulation — use the tadpole/brain to make them feel safe and comfortable with him, but their behaviour in that state will be their own.

Tav agrees to give it a chance — they're at the end of their rope, and no use to anyone in this state anyways.

Unfortunately for Gortash, Tav is a fighter in defence of themself and others. That's not how they were with their friends, and with a partner, they get very submissive when they're comfortable and relaxed with their walls down.

There's something comforting in it, the companionship of a sweet pet to ease the stress of his work, but he realises he might never have an equal like Durge...

This isn't because no one can be his equal partner, but because he chases power and being above others. He could forswear tyranny and be equals with his partner in domesticity, adventuring, etc.

Maybe he'll try tweaking Tav's emotions to find the sweet spot he's looking for. Maybe he'll even succeed — but the line of autonomy will blur when he's fine tuning inputs for specific outputs...

#arranged marriage #mental manipulation #enver gortash #tavtash

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bbybearcubbs · 7 months

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"But that's not how it happened" you said, disbelief in your tone

"Tell me how it happened then." they reply

"I can't remember how it happened but I know it wasn't like that" you chuckle dryly. They're doing it again

"Oh so you conveniently can't remember now?" They cross their arms, disbelief on their face

"I don't forget things on purpose." You cross yours. Shit not again...please not again...

"Just like you don't choose to forget doing all the important things you need to do to make my life easier right?" They step closer. Raising their voice louder.

You hated when they raised their voice.

"I don't choose to forget!" You shout in desperation that they'll listen.

"Don't raise your voice at me. Fix your face, you're acting like I told you something wrong-"

"But you're not listening to me!" You say stronger this time, trying not to shout.

"No you're not listening to me! You actively forgot to-"

"I didn't forget on purpose!" You plead "I don't do it on purpose! I just forget sometimes! Maybe to often but it's not my fault! I don't do it on purpose!" Your eyes are tearful but no water was spilled yet. Why couldn't you defend yourself without crying?

"Why are you crying? You have no reason to be crying right now" They crossed their arms again. Looking at you dead in your face.

You take a deep breath in and then a deep breath you. Clenching and unclenching your fists. You blink back the tears and try to swallow the lump in your throat that seems to have grown bigger since last time. Don't fight it. It always ends the same so why do you even try? Just accept it. If they say you did it on purpose maybe you did. Maybe you just convinced yourself you didn't.

"Fine...you're right, whatever. I forgot on purpose 'cause I didn't wanna do it in the first place" You mumble. Your head hangs low at first but you raise it and look at them straight in the face. Deadpanned. No anger, no sadness. You just look at them.

"I don't know why you make us go through this every single time..." They begin to rant.

You've gotten used to drowning them out. You watch them pace up and down. Mixing the words they speak with the voices in your head. You try your best to make them as quiet as possible and pick out a random quote from one of your comfort people amidst the hurricane in your head. You feel your lips twitch as you stop yourself from smiling. This is what you've come too. But it's okay. You can hold out just a little bit longer.

They finally shut up. They say to go. Just leave. So you do. You go to your room, climb onto your bed and pull out your phone. Your plan was to watch your favorite people do silly things and the things they love online but before you can even unlock your phone you realize you're smiling. They won't help you right now. Any emotion you try to feel is going to feel like it's squeezing at your heart. Your chest already hurts. Maybe you should just sleep. The emptiness will be gone when you wake up and you'll be okay again. Probably. Like usual.

#cubbs.vent #vent #venting #vent posy #adhd #adhd memory #adhd memory problems #forgetfulness #forgetting #mental manipulation #emotional #tired #tiredness #exhaustion

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marune2 · 1 year

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The sad true Abaut Ida and her Birth…..

Triger warnug read the #

Josele is @loosesodamarble oc

Discordia is @lyranova oc

-Ida whas create inadvertently in a experiment whit devil DNS and Mana what get’s in contact whit Mothers Faust and there the Father they make you know 🐝🌼 and so happened it’s whas in begin clear Ida is a Devil not a human but she get’s a Human body and looks like this but she whas Never Human

-ida whas from begin of her birth a experiment in the dark they abuse her whit Experiment but not so this you can see this Ida tush many year’s this is Normally and her whas forbidden too talk abaut ore else Nacht and Morgan wuld getting harm more (they lie this Nacht and Morgan do the same what whas not the case in this form at least) so she didn’t never talk abaut this

- she is like mewto from Pokémon

-ida know just thanks too Nacht and Morgan (in crossover whit josele and Discordia) what love is but she know thanks too this her parents never love her nobody from them know what they did too her fully Nacht and josele don’t do

-Ida’s body lost thanks too the experiment‘s the abelity too fell pain but can fell everything else

-as then her parents die and Morgan run she away not just because she lost Morgan no she run away too be free she just want be free even she never See Ore lost Nacht and everything she has

-Nacht Never Fine the document‘s abaut Ida what is hitting in the house so he never know what there parents did too Ida and Ida wuld never tell abaut this

#Ida #ida faust #Nacht #Faust #Black clover #Black clover oc #oc #abuse #Experimente #Experimente abus #abuse of power #mental abuse #mention of past child abuse #Child abuse #mental manipulation #trauma #sad #Angst #body horor

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freakorgasm · 3 months

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#actually mentally ill #girlblogger #hell is a teenage girl #femcel #schizoposting #coquette #female manipulator #female hysteria #girl interrupted

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novankenn · 4 months

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Saints of the Sword (v1-4)

(I am going to very BLUNT with this statement, even though it seems like it... THIS IS NOT an everyone betrays Jaune fic. There is much more going on including Jaune's own low sense of self-worth.)

Cardin found himself standing before the Headmaster of Beacon. Professor Goodwitch standing off to Ozpin’s left, as the man in question sat behind his large desk. Cardin said nothing and just waited for Ozpin to speak.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr Winchester, and I must say I am impressed with how you are conducting yourself.” Ozpin commented. “I have been apprised of your exploits, and I can tell you are no longer the young, brash young man that once attended this school.”

“Thank you, headmaster Ozpin.” Cardin responded, with a respectful tone.

“I understand you wished to speak with me, but I was under the impression Mr Arc would also be in attendance. Has something happened to him?”

“Jaune is… under the weather, and we decided he needs rest more than to attend this meeting.” Cardin replied. “Give him a few days, and he will be more than happy to speak with you and answer any questions you have.”

“I see. I must ask… if you don't mind answering.”

“Go ahead.”

“How? How did you and Jaune find yourselves working together?” Ozpin asked before adding to his question with a reason for it. “From what I know, and the reports I read… your relationship here at Beacon was rather hostile.”

“It’s rather simple, really.” Cardin answered, “I watched him prove his worth time and time again, and I had my own inaccurate ideals dismantled, during our tenure with the RoughNecks.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard of that group.” Ozpin commented, “So your team and Mr Arc joined them, did you? Rather surprising that you would do such a thing… almost as surprising as you and your team quitting Beacon shortly after Mr Arc. Care to elaborate?”

“I saw… things that didn’t sit well with me.”

“I find that rather puzzling, considering your past actions.”

“Those are in the past. I have moved past those misconceptions.” Cardin responded to Professor Goodwitch’s comment.

“So what did you see, that made you leave and join the same company that Mr Arc did?” Ozpin questioned, “What was so troubling to you, considering your… past relationship with much of the student population.”

“I will openly admit, I was not the best behaved of the students here, but even as miserable a person I was… there are some lines I wouldn’t cross.” Cardin offered, “Jaune was weak, and I bullied him for it… but as loathe as I am to admit it, I saw potential in him, the little bastard wouldn’t give up. He never gave up, he always climbed back to his feet.”

“I will agree to that assessment… Mr Arc was rather stubborn.”

“Well, what do you think of Jaune just suddenly giving up? Didn’t that seem… odd to you?” Cardin asked his former teachers, “It did to me, especially when his team and friends didn’t notice?”

“So you chose to leave Beacon when he did? Interesting.”

“I feel we are getting off-topic, Headmaster.” Cardin spoke as he pulled a rather ratty and dog-eared leather-bound journal from the pouch at his side. “This is what I wished to speak to you about. Inside you will find descriptions of all the… visions Jaune has had about Beacon.”

“I see.” Ozpin commented as he reached out for the book Cardin offered.

“You can thank Jaune for us coming here. He was adamant that you be warned.” Cardin commented, “I on the other hand, didn’t care. What happens at Beacon is Beacon’s business, not ours… Though the thought of those who should be defended and protected falling into harm’s way did not sit well with any of us.”

“I see.” Ozpin placed the journal upon the top of his desk. “For someone who had been… so…”

“I do not expect you to understand my decision, or that of my team, but…” Cardin cut off the Headmaster, “Jaune’s strength has carried us through many situations that we should have been… overwhelmed with, and that will be the last I say on the subject.”

“Very well.” Ozpin conceded, “I would like to speak with Mr Arc when he is available to do so.”

“Understood. If there is nothing else?”

“No, that will be all.” Ozpin answered, “Glynda would you escort Mr Winchester to the lodgings we’ve arranged.”

Glynda just nodded, before stepping forward and directing Cardin back towards the elevator.

/== Table of Contents ==/

#saints of the sword #volume one #rwby #cardin winchester #jaune arc #various OCs #team jnpr #team rwby #team crdl #mental manipulation

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lily-drake · 6 months

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The Demon's Queen

Chapter Fifteen

First <> Previous

One month passed both far too soon and not soon enough. She hadn’t received any information from anyone on what she would be doing, but her training was ramped up tenfold. She hadn’t been this sore and bruised since her first few months of training.

“What on Earth was that ?” Maha bellowed from where she stood on the side of the mat. Marinette grit her teeth as she ducked under another blow made by the bulkiest of her oh-so-precious Jackals.

“I must agree with you Maha,” Hadid sighed, “and here I thought she had finally mastered the move.” He sounded disappointed and it pulled at something inside Marinette. For some reason, a part of her felt upset at the thought of upsetting Hadid. She could care less about Maha, but failing Hadid made her want to fight even harder. She felt like she needed to prove herself to him.

Feigning a punch she ducked before kicking out and pushing him off valence slightly. But the second that it took for him to fall back into position was just enough for Marinette to get close and hit multiple of the central pressure points she learned about from Tomoe, paralyzing his arms, shoulders, and neck. Then with one last well placed kick he was down with her on top of him squeezing his windpipe until he tapped out as best as he could with his paralyzed arm.

Marinette stood up. She expected her legs to start shaking, for her breath to be staggered, to feel scared about what she had just done. But no, she felt calm, her legs were steady, and she felt proud of herself. She felt like she had finally accomplished something great.

She looked up, her face an emotionless mask. Maha had her usual displeased frown, not giving away any emotions. But when she looked up and saw the large Cheshire grin Hadid was giving her she felt a cold shiver of fear run down her spine. His face was unnatural, but it showed just how proud he was of her.

“Still a long way to go with you, but it’s a good start,” Maha finally growled out, “at least you have proven ready for your mission.”

Marinette stared down at one of the men that had caused her so much pain and distress. She should despise him for the pain he’s put her through, after all he chose this life. He chooses to live a life that causes the pain and suffering of others. She should just leave him to get back up on his own. After all, it was just a training spar.

Hadid’s voice from so many months ago rang through her mind, “Your defiance against your allies could lead to your demise. Be careful of who you make your enemies.” Marinette didn’t like it, but she knew what she needed to do.

She lifted her hand and was actually rather surprised when the man—she’d been sparring him for months now and still didn’t know his or the other’s names—took her hand. Like usual he didn’t say a word and when dismissed by Maha, he disappeared.

__________ Damian was worried about sending her on this mission. It was the strangest thing he’d ever felt before. Never once had he worried over the safety of his servants. If they died it was simply because they were not strong or skilled enough to over power their enemies and return. But this, this was different.

He had chosen Marinette himself, had hand picked her to be part of his most elite. If she died here it would not only mean that she was not strong enough, but that he had made a mistake in his beliefs. He could not allow that to happen.

His mother was gone—something about a private affair she needed to see to—so she couldn’t tell him if he had indeed been mistaken in his decision or not. He didn’t feel like he had made a mistake, he needed her to see exactly what they’re fighting and why. Needs her to see that he is not the villain. Of course he is no hero either, heroes are naive and can only bring themselves to carry out the barest sentence of justice.

Take his father as an example. He calls himself and his little Posey “the heroes of Gotham”, but nothing ever changes. His enemies always escape their cages, always kill more innocents, always spread destruction and chaos, and then what happens to them? They’re sent back to their broken cages only to reoffend again and again.

Todd had the right idea when he broke the moral code and killed the monsters he found. With them gone and the others controlled under Hood’s reign, the people under his protection are truly safe.

Damian stared out across his balcony overlooking the entire base. He watched the silhouettes of Marinette and her team—The Jackals Maha liked to call them—headed towards the entrance where a helicopter was waiting to take them on their mission.

Something was pulling at his chest. A strange dropping sensation in his gut telling him to follow her. Telling him that something would go wrong and that he needed to be there to ensure her return. He ignored it. She would return, she is strong enough that she will live through this. It’s not even that complicated of a mission. The feeling of unease still remained.

__________ The helicopter ride to the “airport” was an interesting—unsettling—experience. All four of them, plus the pilot—so five—sat in complete silence the whole way. They were all dressed in their robes, faces covered and weapons strapped and hidden all along their bodies. Once they made it to a secret bunker of sorts they switched to a messenger plain where the shortest of the Jackals took over and began to fly them to G* knows where.

“I should probably know your names while we are on this mission if we want to communicate effectively.”

“And you will need a code name so we do not blow your cover.” The smallest of the group said tersely. The voice was obviously female though she spoke with a slight accent, but it was still a shock to hear it after so many months of nothing but silence. She had honestly wondered if all of them were actually mute or not.

“You may call me Rajani. My brother,” she pointed to the most muscular of them, “is Azrael, and he,” she pointed to the second man, “is named Hosaam. Now we must pick a name for you.”

“Khata sounds just fine to me,” the pilot—Azrael—grunted. Marinette’s brows furrowed at that. Through her studies of the Arabic language she had quickly found the name Maha had given to her as one of the biggest insults she had received. Everyday she would call Marinette a mistake. Everyday she would say that the name Khata was the only thing she had truly earned. It burned her insides and made her push herself if only to prove her wrong.

“I agree,” Hosaam nodded, arms folded in front of him. “It is a good name for this mission. No one would suspect.” The others nodded allowing the silence to fill the space once more. Marinette but her lip. She did not wish to be known in the field as “The Mistake”, but she knew arguing would only activate her supposed Allie’s, so she remained silent.

It took nearly 11 hours for them to reach their destination. 11 hours were the only noise was the whirring of the plane’s engine. It made her skin itch, but Marientte did her best to make as few movements as possible. She didn’t trust that either of these three wouldn’t try something if she left herself vulnerable in any way. Marinette was honestly surprised with how smooth the plane ride went. She had assumed that–with her luck–something would have gone wrong. But no, from the air to landing not a single misfortune moment had occurred–she wondered if that was because she no longer had any access to her miraculous.

They had landed in a sort of bunker, away from the public and any cameras that could have picked them up. She followed the Jackals to a sideroom where a large table sat in the middle of the room with a set of black blue construction manuals. “Where are we?” Marinette asked, breaking the tense silence.

“ Fortaleza, Brazil,” Rajani stated, shoving a flashlight into her hands. The others gathered around the table and turned their flashlights on before shining it above the paper, revealing the structural design of a large warehouse with text written all around it in the League’s Dialect. Marinette followed suit as she studied the design and read about their mission.

A large worldwide trafficking ring will be meeting in this city in two days. The ring leader will be the last to arrive minutes before they begin auctioning off hundreds of children to the highest bidders. Nearly everyone attending are people that oppose The League of Assassins and have been trying to destroy it. Their job is to break into the event, free the children, and kill everyone in attendance ensuring the safety and secrecy of the League and its existence.

The warehouse was large, and located in a deserted part of the city. It was far enough away from the Favelas to keep the public away while also close enough to not be a conspicuous meeting place. In order to ensure a peaceful gathering, the gangs and cartels were all paid off as were many of the cops.

“It will be best if we can get in and out.” Rajani began to plot, “I will ensure that all of the exits are sealed off while Hosaam sets up a trap. Khata and Azrael will be in the audience ensuring crowd control. We have the guest list, so it is of utmost importance we ensure everyone on this list only enters the building. I wonder if it would be best for one of us to go in as one of the children though,” everyone’s gaze turned to Marinette.

She felt a shiver up her spine from how intense everyone’s eyes were. They were all cold, calculating, distant. They were assessing in their minds whether or not she would actually fit in, and unfortunately for her, it was rather well. Marinette was short, her full height only coming to 157.48 centimeters (5ft 2in). She was petite, and was still covered in large bruises from her shoulders down from all of the sparing she has had to endure.

“It would make finding and freeing the children more manageable,” Azrael grumbled, tilting his head slightly as he studied her, “as long as she put up a convincing act.”

“And what if I’d rather not be the caged child,” Marinette snapped, meeting his gaze. She couldn’t see it as he still wore his mask, but she could feel his smirk, his cold brown eyes boring into hers.

“You don’t get a choice.” The coolness of his voice sent a shiver down her spine, but she didn’t let them see how much he frightened her.

What if she became like that? Cold, uncaring, cruel. How would she ever be able to live with herself?

“Where are we supposed to take the kids once they’re free,” Marinette snarked, changing the subject, “we aren’t doing all of this just to let them wander off and get taken by someone else.”

“The Demon’s Head has a plan. We take them to the rendezvous point four miles East of the warehouse–transport will be provided. Once they are dropped off we leave,” Rajani reported calmly. “We have our own rendezvous a mile north from there. If we do not arrive by twenty-two hundred hours we will be stranded here and forced to return in disgrace.”

This was a lot for Marinette to take in. Here was a top secret ninja league that had kidnapped her rescuing a bunch of children while also killing the children's tormentors. What was their goal here? Like Rajani had started, there were going to be hundreds of people who planned against The League here, and their main purpose was to eliminate them–Marinette wanted to gag–but why save the children. Why not just let them die as well in the collateral? Why go through the trouble of ensuring they’re safe at all?

“What’s the most efficient way to kill the others? There will be hundreds of people, and if even one person senses something off or dies too early, everything will be over.” Hosaam spoke for the first time since the flight, nearly making her jump. His voice was rough and deep, deeper than she imagined, though she didn’t know why.

“Poison is out of the question, too easy for something to be messed up in the interim,” Rajani muttered to herself as he brought her hand up to cup her covered chin. “There are too many people for a frontal attack, explosions hold too much risk to the cargo,” Marinette bit her lip to keep her from lashing out at calling the kids “cargo”.

“We could gas the place. First we could gas the place. Sleeping gas first, then nitrogen gas. Kills them fast and is untraceable. We get in, then we get out,” Hosaam supplied.

“We’d have to get the kids out first, kill the guards and switch them places, but it should work.” Rajani agreed with a firm nod. Reaching across the table to grab a single match, lighting it against the table before tossing it onto the blueprints. Marinette watched as the blue paper material burned black and red, turning to ash in front of her eyes. She couldn't help but think of a dress that she’d like to make based on the burning paper flying around her.

Taglist:

@aespades @adrestar @astrynyx @doll246 @queenz-z @toodaloo-kangaroo @crazylittlemunchkin @seraphichana @miraculous-ninja @dorkus-minimus @mysticsoulgirl @ritacrow-blog @snow-leopard-777 @fidget-eep @sometandomstuff333 @lady-phoenix-of-tardis @shreeing @achaoticmess1 @liquid-luck-00 @buginetye @stainedglassm @prettylittlebutterflie @laurcad123 @iloontjeboontje @heartsong18 @raeuberprinzessin @when-no-wings-do-broomsticks @jennifer-rose123 @moon5608 @corporeal-terrestrial @skitarii-alpha-c6-555 @saltysugarysembei @phantom120 @kking13 @depressed-bitchy-demon @a-slytherinish-gryffindor @iamablinkmarvelarmy @fleursroses @buginetye @humanoid606 @ev-cupcake @blackroserelina @rainbowbunny0159 @the-ace-reader @humanoid606 @taewinterbear95 @blueberrygeniejam @alex-rebecca @neulosfantacyworld @devilbunny612 @boredteen19 @agentxx92 @animegirlweeb

#maribat #dc x mlb #mlb x batman #marinette dupain cheng #damian al ghul #angst #descriptions of violence #the league of assassins #league!marinette #OC characters #mission #damian is bad at feelings #damian is the demon's head #jason todd (mentioned)#assassin training #manipulation #mental manipulation

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star-crossed--lovers · 16 days

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It really do be like this.. They’ll get upset because you don’t trust them for proving they can’t be trusted..and then they turn it on you & somehow it’s all your fault🙃 toxicity at its finest..

#mental manipulation #mind games #narcissism toxic behavior #toxic men #toxic shit #disgusting behavior #the audacity

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until--i--disappear · 1 month

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#You ruined me. All of you.#depression #abuse #psychological abuse #mental manipulation #gaslighting #bullying #isolation #abandonment

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generic-whumperz · 4 months

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The Aid: Chapter 5, Part 1- SUSPICION

TW & CW: all hurt/no comfort; slave fic pet whump (so dehumanization, but nothing too severe); alcoholism (Whumper) & drug dependency (Whumpee); shock collar mention; explicit language (including insults); sadistic, creepy, intimate, bully Whumper; Caretaker turned Whumpee; emotional manipulation; recovering starved and beaten Whumpee (including mention of issues with being able to hold down food); post-coma & surgery recovery; mention of broken bones, stabbing, death and resuscitation; drugged Whumpee (partially voluntary, partially forced); Whumpee is an adult (mid-20s) but called “boy”; ANGST

Author’s note: Surprise-surprise, I’m a bitch that enjoys worldbuilding, so be prepared for some AU lore! But I hope this exploration helps introduce what’s happening here, as I think some explanations are due in our sixth part! Our boy is finally awake and alert enough to talk, so we finally glimpse his and Wyatt’s dynamic 1-on-1. It’s only going to get more batshit crazy and worse from here on out, enjoy!

Look out for the special blue text! (Explanation at the bottom with the Footnotes!)

*Initial song inspo was “I’m Only Sleeping” by The Beetles (but oops I kinda derailed & went ham.)

Word Count: 3876

<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->

A stern fist pounded on the doorframe in three successive knocks.

An authoritative, booming voice followed, “Get up. It’s time for meds.”

The Aid let out a long yawn, then peaked his head up from his cozy blanket cocoon and pushed down the mountain of bedding he snuggled under to chest level, his warmed face kissed by the early morning chill of the crisp midwinter air.

‘Thank fuck,’ he thought to himself. His beloved painkiller began wearing off an hour ago, and he itched for another dose.

Like most mornings, The Aid awoke groggy and lethargic and awaited the on-the-dot 8 o’clock breakfast bell that was Wyatt Sullivan’s brutish knuckles pummeling his doorframe.

Today was no different.

He’d been awake for some time but pretended to be asleep, hiding under the covers for as long as possible, milking as many precious moments of undisturbed rest as he could. That, and well, he hurt like hell and tried to move as little as possible because of it.

Cautiously rolling over from his side to his back, he sprawled out his unmaimed limbs, which welcomed the movement and released a euphoric surge of endorphins for his efforts—nothing like a good stretch in the morning to get the gears turning.

He hadn’t reached the stage in his healing journey where his body ceased feeling like he got hit by a bus, but then again, it had only been three days since he awoke from his week-long coma. The annoyingly heightened sensitivity to light that nearly blinded him since the first day he regained consciousness continued to plague him- his pupils struggled to dilate, and his vision continued adding a hazy, bright whitewash over his surroundings, making him feel like he was in a perpetual dream state.

Could it be from the side effects of the new cocktail of pharmaceuticals? Body trauma? Starvation or a disturbed mental state? A combination of all? The answer was impossible to know.

What he did know was between the round-the-clock cocktail of drugs Sullivan fed him made him nauseous and heady, his inability to move half his body, and his disorientated eyesight, he half-convinced himself he really was finally dead; or at least sequestered in some poorly constructed, shabby purgatory that would hold him until he wholly phased over to the side of the dearly departed.

But death be too sweet of a release for a disparaging sad-sack such as him, and he knew better than to hope he would be allowed to go so easily.

His snap back to reality—his reality, his sad, miserable reality, was the hard-to-ignore militaristic growl of his Master, recognizable in any mental state, clear-headed or not, no matter how dead he debated himself to be.

The Aid fulfilled Sullivan’s read-between-the-line command out of a trained compulsory instinct rather than intentional effort—he carefully twisted his torso with his outreached, unbroken hand to the right, taking special consideration of his broken rib he hoped to not further aggravate in the process, as he fetched his glasses on the nightstand and promptly adjusted them on his nose.

He sat up with a lackadaisical effort, matching all the bursting-at-the-seams excitability of a DMV employee, to face the day ahead of him and to face Wyatt Sullivan’s ugly mug glaring at him with a special delivery of meds and breakfast neatly put together on a serving tray held out in front of him.

What a beautiful sight it was to see—his Master serving him for a change.

Sullivan frowned, acting as if he were allergic to the words he spoke, chewing them with the same dissatisfaction as a toddler forced to eat broccoli, “Trouble… sleeping?”

“No, Sir,” The Aid replied sleepily, voice laced with a twinge of early morning raspiness.

Dr. Paul’s generously supplied Ambien made sure to keep him adequately sedated throughout the night—bonus points included keeping the pesky demons at bay.

Sullivan handed him an uncapped eight-fluid-ounce bottle of Ensure to kick off the morning regimen. He struggled the most with solid foods, but he was able to manage liquids. He sipped the drink dutifully between paced intervals as Sullivan put the tray on the dresser, then turned to witness him consume the contents.

His appetite hadn’t fully returned; Dr. Paul said it could be quite some time before his body started feeling hungry again, some effect of long-term starvation and post-surgery recovery. And who knew what the hell this hefty dose of mixed medication was doing to him?

Every mealtime was a battle.

He fought hard to keep down every bite he could bring to his mouth, but his efforts were not without reward as he successfully managed to hold down a couple of days’ worth of food now—which was more food than he was getting in a whole week when chained up beneath the floorboards. He forgot what it felt like to quench his thirst fully or to have a full belly—or as full of a belly as he could manage despite his ever-present teetering urge to puke his guts out.

In the grand scheme of things, his current state was hardly an improvement, but anything—everything— felt like sunshine and rainbows compared to bleeding to death as an emaciated corpse in a dungeon.Three cheers for being adequately fed, properly hydrated, and munificently medicated—hip-hip-horay.

His satiated basic needs lent a hand for his wits and senses to begin slowly returning, and among his normal senses, he reacquainted with his sixth sense, which he had long forgotten about.

And he sensed something was off this morning.

The Aid felt Sullivan’s shift in energy…something was— looming?

The edgy ambiance alluded to more than just Sullivan’s usual restless withdrawals from alcohol (he was sure the brute hadn’t taken a sip since their little basement incident—his shakes, evened-temper, and cleaner-than-usual smell were enough of an indication of that), but any additional insight escaped him. The aura remaining in the room was unsettling at best, foreboding at worst.

***

As The Aid lay slowly dying from starvation and infection on that rotting mattress in that hell of a basement for months, the last thing on his mind was his special little bag of tricks. He was endowed with a unique set of senses separating him from the rest of the herd and earned him a hefty price tag that only those from considerable means could afford—yes, despite Sullivan’s slanderous accusations of his low worth, he did, in fact, fetch a pretty penny, many pretty pennies, a fuckloads worth.

If Wyatt ever found out how much his mother spent on the measly servant, the man would undoubtedly pop a gasket and explode with a plume of steam jetting from his ears.

It was more than happenstance for The Aid, a trained caregiver of Olympic-grade rank, to be a Mystic—a conduit of psychic abilities. He possessed a sought-after and rare sense-set his former CSI* facility overseer, Handler Bryce, doted on him for having and landed him the posting with Madame Sullivan in the first place—as anyone who could afford it wanted a special breed of a Domestic servant, and Elenor Sullivan spared no expense when it came to acquiring the best of the best. The Aid not only fit the bill for a high-class servant who came with all the fixings, including a level of inculcated etiquette that would make a Victorian maiden blush, but he was the damn paragon for all Mystic Grand Servants.

The Aid’s repertoire consisted of the empathic, hyper-intuitive, psychometric*, and premonitionative* variety- that’s right, a true four-for-four value nicely wrapped up in one little shiny package available to the highest bidder. Although, according to him, these abilities merely sounded cooler than they were practical in day-to-day life, he regarded his abilities (what he thought of as “annoyances” or “curses” more than anything else) as sporadic hindrances welcomed with the same fondness as a migraine.

The Aid’s most prominent abilities, his varying forms of empathy and hyper-intuition, morphed together (lending some to classify him with the gift of discernment- ‘yeah, ‘gift’ my ass’) to generate feelings- strong, unshakable feelings that overcame him in the form of heightened emotions, mental images, or sometimes both.

But what all Joe Schmoes failed to realize was that Mystics were particularly vulnerable to negative energies, which his four-year-old self affectionately named “yucks.” And these yucks were everywhere: people, places, and things oozed “the yuck.” Consequently, he opted to close himself off from feeling other people; he had enough of his own shit to deal with.

Who the fuck wanted to be burdened with the feelings of other people anyway?

A non-Mystic would assume that he at least found solace in his premonitions.

Wrong.

Sure, his degrees of clairvoyance told him things he’d never know without supernatural intervention, and it was always right; he was always right. Yet he rarely felt satisfied with such knowledge. And sometimes, “being right” and knowing things he shouldn't landed him in a heap of trouble—and once, not so long ago, it even landed him a four-month stay shackled to a support beam, surrounded by concrete walls below ground.

***

Sullivan sat on the edge of the bed, an awkward grimace rolled over his face, his chary eyes locked on to The Aid’s wary expression.

‘What the hell is this about?’

The Aid wanted to stick out his feelers and openly prod as he would with others but knew better than to; his Master was full of nothing but a nauseating amount of malice and animosity that quickly seeped into him if he looked in for too long. If he dared plunge into Sullivan’s internal affairs, it would have to be a covert mission, a war fought with surveillance drones rather than foot soldiers. Undoubtedly, Sullivan’s MO was off—his idle moping was unusual behavior, especially for a man as heedless and brash as he, who—more often than not— navigated the world with the cocky tactlessness of a bank robber.

The older man broke the stare, turning his attention to his clasped hands resting on his lap.

Was he…brooding?

After a solid minute of staring at his anxious, twiddling thumbs, Sullivan finally grumbled, “My brother is coming over today.”

‘. . . Oh?’

Sullivan couldn’t look at The Aid as the words came from his mouth; if The Aid hadn’t known any better, he would’ve thought a thorn of guilt pricked Sullivan, but psychopaths don’t feel guilt, do they? He would know.

Perhaps Sullivan merely acted to be suffering from a pang of remorse to get sympathy points from his empathetic-to-a-fault servant; a bold and brash move considering the man just murdered and threatened to disembowel him to settle a pricey bill from the mechanic a little over a week ago.

The Aid knew what the arrival of a guest meant, but since Sullivan didn’t ask a direct question, he kept quiet. Although he could feel Sullivan’s surface-level desire (the man projected like a lighthouse, so The Aid had to all but crack open his mentally projected empathic door just a smidge to not be overwhelmed by the influx of Sullivan’s toxic yuck) for him to just-say-something-god-damn-it to ease his internal tension, he opted to play the obedient slave role and not speak unless commanded to. He would slyly play by Sullivan’s rules when it served him best. More often than not, weaponized incompetence was the only weapon he had at hand that Sullivan was too stupid to notice since the man was an arrogant rat bastard who paraded around with the false confidence of the most intelligent person in the room.

It was quite a sight to see the ogre of a man internally floundering like a fish out of water without his go-to conversational crutch of threatening or yelling at his sorry excuse for inheritance. The Aid found small victories where he could, and feeling the man battle himself gave him a much-needed dose of satisfaction. He fatuously likened himself to David conquering Goliath, and in true legendary fashion, the much older man at least doubled The Aid’s weight and had a full 13 inches on him, but The Aid liked to think that he had him beat when it came to native wit.

Sullivan huffed a compressed, bitter laugh, “For reasons I don’t understand, he likes you and is going to want to see you.” As he spoke, he outstretched his fingers, trying to release the tension brewing in his sweaty palms before making himself bring his gaze back up to face the physical representation of his alcohol-fueled violent outburst.

“So-” Sullivan surveyed the broken, gaunt, sickly-looking figure before him.

The Aid finished sipping the Ensure slowly, making sure to milk every moment of Sullivan’s sulky fidgeting, ‘Look at him posturing, actin’ all tongue-tied and flabbergasted and shit. Petulant bastard. This is gonna be a real doozy.’

The Aid kept his empathic door cracked and peaked in the sliver of space between him and a dark, dread-filled abyss, careful to keep his distance, far away enough so that no harm would befall him, but open enough to catch any emanating feeling that dared poke its tendril out from the frightening depths of Sullivan’s mind palace. The danger of meddling in his Master’s feelings did not escape him, nor would the opportunity to gently pry at the man in such an oddly vulnerable state elude him just the same.

In an equally unpredicted but half-expected second later, a thick, clouded emotion overcame him, clear and strong as ocean winds. In the entirety of that single instant- which seemed to expand further than metaphysically possible—he felt a rare, mutual link stitch between himself and Sullivan, intertwining them in an impossible moment as they emoted in unison—

SUSPICION

Drunken Sullivan couldn’t tell his ass from elbow, but sober Sullivan was a few notches quicker (now leveling the playing field as his dried-out self was more on par with The Aid’s drugged and slightly disorientated state) and all the more eager to detect The Aid’s use of abilities, of which he banned him from using without explicit permission. Unsanctioned use resulted in a swift and proper beating for defying the Master’s orders.

Sullivan knew of The Aid’s tricks, how he felt invading his mind, so The Aid quickly closed the mental door between them and settled back into the present moment, hoping that Sullivan didn’t catch wind of their accidental syncing.

The Aid gulped a knot in his throat and tightened his jaw as he shifted restlessly, trying to distract Sullivan with a wince and doleful whimper to sell the look of being in physical pain over mental distress—both were true, so it didn’t demand much fabrication.

Sullivan narrowed his eyes and hacked a cavalier snicker, scrutinizing The Aid’s woebegone manner, but continued, “Ya’ve been sick, real sick. By the looks of it, for a while, I reckon. Ya’ve been struggling to eat; maybe ya got a viral infection or some bad strain of the flu or somethin’, that’s why ya’r all shriveled up an’ lookin’ like hell. An’ ‘fore that, ya hurt yourself when cleaning the windows outside on the second story…ya fell off the ladder an’ got impaled by a tree branch.” His faked insistence dwindled to an unconvincing timbre towards the end of the falsity of events, revealing his inability to buy his half-baked bullshit.

The Aid forcibly gulped his last sip of vanilla-flavored dietary supplement, or else he would have spit it out and erupted in a fit of laughter. He bowed his head, trying to conceal a small, giggly hum that escaped him anyway, despite his effort to hold it back.

“The fuck is so funny?” A flash of anger bolted across Sullivan’s face; his piercing eyes shot icy daggers as his hand stiffened at his side—oh, he wanted to slap the snide little fucker clean across the face.

“Sir, respectively, we live in a desert, not many trees around. There aren’t even any trees on the sides of the house?” The Aid tried to reason, choosing his words carefully while anxious eyes surveilled Sullivan’s rigid hand, which resembled closer to a cocked gun over a human extremity.

Sullivan forced a dramatized sigh, airing his frustrations with what he took as The Aid’s unwillingness to cooperate. A stern hand reached out; The Aid preemptively flinched—but instead of being struck, to his surprise, Sullivan snatched the empty Ensure bottle from him and replaced it with a cup of water coupled with a napkin of pills on his lap.

“Then what happened then, hm?” Sullivan asked smugly with a click of his tongue, challenging The Aid’s ability to contrive a believable story to sell.

The Aid took a moment to shift through the morning pills—all 10 of them—in search of the only three he cared about: his precious off-brand oxycodone, Klonopin, and fluoxetine. The rest he didn’t know or give a shit about, and Sullivan never bothered explaining to him. Not like it mattered; he’d have to take them all regardless—Doctor’s orders.

The Aid considered how he could respond, wrestling with the outcome of each conjurable scenario—it could go so many ways.

But how would he play it today?

He singled out the two smallest pills, adding them to his holy trinity of medication, before quickly swallowing them with a couple of gulps of chilled water.

He’d try his luck; after all, he was on the winning side, and Sullivan seemed more forgiving today.

“I think a burglar broke in and attacked me. But thankfully, my big, strong Master stepped in to save lil-ole-me since I was stuck in bed with an icky cough and too weak to defend myself.” His cadence was uncharacteristically slow, calculated, and clipped with disdain.

He downed the remainder of the pills with a finishing chug of water and handed the empty cup to Sullivan.

‘Checkmate bitch.’

“Is that so?” The older man’s words flowed slow and sticky; suppressed anger coated every syllable; then, he slid his tongue over his teeth. Now, he really looked like he wanted to hit him, and The Aid knew it took every ounce of strength for the brute to hold back.

Sullivan expelled a sigh before tittering at The Aid’s innuendo, seizing the cup from him and standing to set it on the dresser. Before Sullivan sat back down, he threw back the bottom covers to expose The Aid’s feet, placing a possessive hand on his sprained ankle as he settled back into his spot.

‘Oh, big man wants to play a game?’

Against his better judgment, The Aid upped his antics and turned the insinuation switch to overdrive, “You mean you don’t remember? Wow, I guess he hit you over the head harder than I thought—”

Sullivan squeezed his lame ankle, abruptly cutting him off and forcing a surprised gasp to fill his chest. A white burn relit in his ankle, shot to his toes, and smarted up his leg, splintering off just below his kneecap; the pain plucked a yelp through his gritted teeth as he placed his hand over his broken rib, steeling himself against the sharp, pulsing agony daring to wreck him from both ends.

“Ya’ve been a real little shit ass since ya woke up from that coma, ya know that?” Sullivan snarled, rage flickered in his hollow eyes as he threw a sulky look at the insolent slave.

The Aid knew he shouldn’t. Oh, he really shouldn’t.

Don’t say it… Don’t even think it.

‘You’ll regret it.’

That may be true. But the opportunity was his for the taking.

Fuck it—

“I learned all my shit-assery from the very best, Sir-”

He sucked in a quick, painful breath and bolted his eyes shut from the new spark of a fiery, needling pain bursting from his ankle as Sullivan forcefully extended his wrapped foot to a point. A delayed scream ripped from somewhere deep in his belly and reverberated through his splintered rib.

“I’m sorry!” A screech burst from the pits of his chest, trembling from a whirlpool of pain and adrenaline flooding his nerves as a few involuntary tears rolled down his cheeks. A wounded, shaky chuckle thrummed in his throat, an unconscious attempt from his body to expel pent-up distress.

Sullivan glared at him wickedly. In any other circumstance, The Aid would’ve already been slapped around and given a black eye for being mouthy. He usually bit his tongue, or at least knew when to get off the proverbial bus before it rode off the cliff, but since awakening from the coma, since Sullivan stabbed him to death, he felt different—blasé. Devil-may-care.

And it scared him like hell.

“Keep it up, boy, and ya’re gettin’ the fuckin’ shock collar an’ I’m frying that soft little neck of ya’rs, got it? That don’t leave marks, an’ Dr. Paul won’t know.” He jerked The Aid’s ankle again, stealing another pleading yawp pried from his vocal cords to drive the message home that he was serious—as if he ever doubted his Master’s inclination towards cruelty.

“Yes sir, please, I’m sorry!” He begged weakly between sobs. Sullivan eased his grip but didn’t remove his hand. The Aid’s ankle and side throbbed mercilessly, and he wondered how much longer they would take to heal now.

“Look at ‘dat, an’ you fell an’ hurt ya’r already fucked up foot! The Doc is gonna tell ya that ya need to be more careful!” Sullivan taunted.

“Yes, sir, I am very accident prone.” The Aid tried to joke, but the humor he attempted to muster didn’t rally; instead, its remnants dropped and sunk heavily in his gut. He quietly whimpered as he slowly rocked back and forth to lull himself, chastened by his foolishness, and hung his head in remorse.

Sullivan smiled shallowly at him—it was amazing how the ogre could even ruin a smile—reveling in his slave’s misery and surrender.

Sullivan retrieved the food tray and placed it on The Aid’s lap, monitoring him intensely as he did so. The Aid examined the contents of his breakfast—a small bowl of oatmeal, a slice of toast, and a cup of orange juice. He didn’t know how he would be able to eat it all. His barely-there appetite became further nullified by the pain throbbing throughout his body. Dr. Paul said to give it a few days for his body to get used to regular food again before he should proceed with an anti-nausea and appetite enhancer if his appetite couldn’t return on its own, but damn, did he wish for another magical little pill to fix another one of his Sullivan-made problems.

Sullivan espied The Aid’s poorly concealed apprehension towards his food- how he looked so helplessly at the bowl of oatmeal.

“Eat,” his Master demanded.

Funny sentiment, all things considered, the man who starved him for months ordering him to eat.

The Aid took the spoon and stirred the oatmeal. He was pleased to see steam coming off it—nothing worse than cold mush. He brought a small spoonful of oatmeal to his mouth and chewed it slowly, trying to overcome the urge to spit it out and forcing himself to swallow.

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So, what’s with the random blue text?

‘This is a premonition.’

THIS IS AN EMPATHIC FEELING

Footnotes:

*CSI: (not “crime scene investigation”) stands for “Chattel Services Incorporated.” CSI is a WRU adjacent type facility that “trains” would-be enslaved people. I don’t want to give too much away right now, as more will be revealed about CSI and its facilities as time goes on! Just know that they are the big cooperation that has a monopoly on the industrialized slave trade in this alternate-reality universe.

*Psychometric: relating to the psychic power, Psychometry, where a person receives visions through objects. We will learn more about what this means specifically for the MC down the road!

*Premonitiative: relating to the psychic ability to receive premonitions- visions of future events. The MC’s premonitions come through in a couple of different ways. Instead of visuals, he may receive internal dialogue that seems to come from nowhere. I still consider this a “premonition,” although it can also double as his hyper-intuition.

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