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gossipsnake · 1 month

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TIMING: February 24, 2024, (the evening of this) LOCATION: Inge's House PARTIES: Anita (@gossipsnake), Metzli (@muertarte) Inge (@nightmaretist), and Cass (@magmahearts) SUMMARY: After learning about what had happened to Anita and that she had been brought to Inge's house to warm up with Cass, Metzli comes over to make sure Anita is okay. CONTENT WARNINGS: None

It wasn’t right. Anita had been hurt, and any reasonable individual would’ve been motivated by panic and stress, guided toward their loved one with such a force that everything stormed out of their path. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case for Metzli, who had to usually rely on logic above all else to mimic love. They didn’t know how to feel or what to do or how to process, but they had a location and a place to be, so they drove. And somehow, they’d done so calmly, even if they were going twenty over the speed limit.

By the time Metzli arrived, there was not much they could recall from between their walk from the car and their knock at the door. Nothing else mattered except getting to Anita. They just wished they could have made the moment sweeter with a warm drink or a filling pastry, but that was something they could do another time. Their focus diverted completely to their sister.

“Where was she found?” They rushed inside with a curt nod at whatever invitation they were given, not paying much mind to Inge so they could lay their eyes on proof that Anita was alive. It wasn’t as if she or Inge had any reason to lie. As far as Metzli was concerned, they both had their trust, and had given no grounds for them to not take her at her word. But between someone who thought themself a sibling, and the person they saw as their family, nothing else mattered more than reaching them.

With utmost care, Metzli opened the door and reached Anita in a blink, hovering a hand over her hair. She looked tired and worse for wear, but she was warm and breathing, resting soundly in clothing that looked much too big now. Metzli thought perhaps their mind was playing tricks on them, which would be no surprise. Panic had a way of altering a mind.

Metzli retracted their hand and backed away slowly. “I am here.” They kept their voice quiet, waiting for Anita’s approval to get closer. Their touch would do her no good, considering their lack of body heat, but they still held onto hope that they could offer some sort of physical affection she usually claimed she didn’t need. It wasn’t uncommon for Metzli to find her cuddling up with Fluffy or leaning into their touch. As much as Metzli wanted to, they never picked on her for it, and they especially wouldn’t right then. Not in front of Cass or Inge.

It was important that Metzli find out what was going on as soon as possible. Cass could only imagine the worry they must have felt when Anita didn’t come home. Were they looking for her? Were they scouring the woods, were they searching? She couldn’t imagine they’d be doing anything else, not if they had any inkling that something was wrong. Metzli was proactive, was dedicated, was loyal. And they loved Anita, Cass had seen it. If they knew Anita was hurt, they’d be worried. So they needed to find out right away.

She figured it would be better for Anita to text them, maintained her position practically curled around the lamia as she did so. She kept up that warm-but-not-too-hot temperature, gradually warming herself a little more to make sure Anita got the heat she needed without being too hot. She tried making awkward small talk with Inge at first, but she got the feeling neither of them really wanted that, so she gave it up after a few minutes.

And, when Metzli finally arrived and entered the room, she let the relief wash over her all at once.

She wondered, somewhat absently, if Metzli would display the same desperation if it were her in Anita’s position. She felt guilty for wondering it — Anita was hurt, and this should be about her — but her mind went there all the same. Cass was so used to being an afterthought and, in this moment, Anita was clearly anything but. She thought back to Alex, after she was hurt, to the way she would have done anything to get her out of Rhett’s cruel grasp. Hadn’t it been intoxicating, being the center of someone’s world? Even if only for a moment, even when it was over now? Hadn’t it felt good?

“She’s getting warmer,” she spoke up almost tentatively, like she was no longer sure of her place in this room. Neither Inge nor Metzli had the body heat to warm Anita, so Cass was necessary. She liked being necessary. It meant no one could make her go. “I think it’ll be a while longer before she’s… back to full strength.”

—

They had been at Inge’s place for a little while before Anita had the strength to even send Metzli a message about what had happened. And of course since she didn’t even have her own phone with her she had to rely on using someone else’s to even send the message. It felt like this was becoming a habit, needing help from others, and it made her feel uneasy. As much as she wanted to tell everyone to leave, not because she didn’t want them there but because she felt that her debt to them was growing with each passing second. Debt she didn’t know how to repay.

Just before Metzli arrived, Anita had finally felt warm enough to shift back. While most things in life were aided by being an incredibly large rattlesnake, trying to get warm was certainly not on that list. “I’m gonna get smaller,” she said to Cass so as not to startle the woman wielding that much heat near her skin, “It’ll make it quicker. Warmer blood and whatever.” It took more effort than she was used to but the scales that spread across her body were slowly replaced with soft pink flesh, allowing her to curl up into herself and get herself under the aluminum blanket that the tall stranger had given her.

When she heard Metzli’s voice there was a simultaneous relief and guilt that panged through Anita. She didn’t want to worry anyone… she didn’t mean to worry anyone. There had been nights, plenty of nights, that she didn’t make it home. She usually let them know that was going to be the case though, when she remembered to. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” she offered up. Normally the lamia adored being the center of attention - she thrived on it - but this type of attention, this type of care, felt so foreign to her. She didn’t know how to handle it all.

“I just need to get warm. I already healed the wound.” Nodding towards Cass, Anita agreed, “Will be a while, for sure.” Even if her body got warmed up Anita wondered how long the exhaustion she was feeling would last. “I’ve never… I don’t know anyone who’s ever… guess this is why my father wanted me to stay in the desert.”

She couldn’t recall the last time she’d turned on the heating in her cold apartment, but she had it blasting now. Inge could host, at the very least — it was one of the skills she’d taken with her from her former life. She could fret a little, offer whatever comforts Anita needed while waiting for her to warm up again. In a way, it was good to be on the other side of this: to help rather than to need to be helped.

And though her body ached from all the walking, she got up and moved towards the door all the same when the doorbell rang. Her eyes locked with Metzli, she offered the, “Come in,” required for a vampire and let them burst in. She followed, pushing through as she tried to keep up their pace. “In the Pines. I was astral hopping and I saw her and got help.” This was the second time in a long time where Inge was confronted with the fact that she was limited, that in some cases she was powerless. She had none of the superior healing her vampire brethren had, nor the strength. Not even the bodily warmth to assist Anita. And even though she’d manage to help Anita, she despised the feeling.

She followed Metzli, no longer bothering to keep up with their vampiric speed and leaned on a chair in the living room. What a strange combination of people, two of whom she’d only met rather recently and in very different settings. Inge didn’t question it. Life was spontaneous. And pain connected, that too she knew.

A small smile for Cass. Ariadne’s friend, she assumed. The one she’d asked her not to give nightmares. “Good.” She moved around the chair, sat on its edge, close to the gathering of people in her living room. So filled with life. She found it confusing. “You can stay as long as you need to, you know that.” Not often did she open her doors like that for people, and it wasn’t like Anita and her were as tightly entwined as she perhaps was with Metzli or even Cass — but still. Inge wasn’t going to kick her friend out. She wasn’t quite sure what to say. “It’s … you’re here now, hm? Just focus on getting warmer.”

“Ay, mi hermosa.” Metzli leaned forward and planted an affectionate kiss to Cass’s head, fully trusting that if she was in contact with Anita, then it was safe to do so. Besides, they couldn’t help themself when the person they saw like kin was making them proud. She truly was a hero, and Metzli wholeheartedly believed that’s what she was meant to be. They smiled, “Thank you for helping her.” They didn’t care if Cass would bind them, and some part of them knew she wouldn’t. Regardless, it felt important to express their gratitude, and they turned to regard Inge, who they could see through the doorway to the living room. “And thank you as well, Inge. I…” Tears brimmed their eyes, a few daring to streak down their cheeks as they returned to Anita’s side and sat.

Metzli sniffled and cleared their throat immediately, trying not to feel too embarrassed. Anita likely didn’t have the energy to tease them, but they hoped she might. Anything to further cement that she was still there, and what Metzli was seeing wasn’t just a figment. It was asinine, really. They knew that. So, carefully, they reached forward, placing a gentle hand on Anita’s head for a few moments. They smiled warmly and retracted it before they could undo any of Cass’s hard work. Anita was real. Anita was real and even if Metzli had failed in finding her, she was alive and able to recover.

“I looked for you. Was very scared you were hurt and I am very sorry I could not find you.” The possibility (and really, the inevitability) of Anita dying became far too real, and it choked them. It formed a ball of some sort and it lodged itself in Metzli’s throat. Their leg began to bounce as discomfort overtook them, but they took a grounding breath to keep their emotions at bay as best they could. Some emotion was okay, but they didn’t want to overwhelm Anita or overtake the attention she needed. Instead, they breathed once more, offering Anita their hand, palm facing up.

“I will be here until you can come home then. Whatever you need, hermana. Like Inge say, focus on getting warmer. We will help.”

A warmth that had nothing to do with the magma flowing through her veins filled her chest as Metzli addressed her, and she offered them the smallest of smiles. When they’d first found Anita in the woods, trailing behind Otis and Inge like a lost dog, there had been so much desperation. She’d been so afraid, so uneasy. If anything happened to Anita, she’d thought, and Cass didn’t prevent it from doing so, she was sure Metzli wouldn’t forgive her for it. She was good so long as she was useful, and she’d been useful tonight. She’d used the destructive force of her volcanic nature for something decent, for warmth instead of ruination.

Metzli thanked her, and Cass disregarded it with a shrug. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m happy I could help.” She looked down at Anita with a small smile. “Everybody deserves somebody to help them, right?” It was something Cass desperately wanted, needed to be true. If Anita deserved salvation, if everyone did, didn’t she get to be included in that, too?

She flashed Inge a grateful smile as the mare said they could all stay as long as they needed to. It was funny — she hadn’t liked Inge much at the beginning of all this, but she was grateful for her now. Offering her home not just to Anita, but also to Cass, who she probably still hated, was a pretty heroic thing to do. And Cass would know; she was a superhero.

“So, um…” She shifted her weight a little, repositioning Anita slightly so that they both could be a little more comfortable. “Anybody have any Uno cards?”

—

As much as Anita adored being the center of attention in normal circumstances, these were not normal circumstances. This collection of people surrounding her, from different aspects of her life, all coming together to help her out was not a dynamic she knew how to navigate. But they didn’t seem upset or annoyed, at least not visibly, at needing to tend to the weakened lamia. That felt surprising to her, mostly. Metzli’s reaction, their support, was expected. But the other two, that felt surprising. Not because of who they are or because of anything they had done but simply because having people around to support her was such a foreign feeling at this stage in her life.

The idea of her absence causing Metzli to go out and search for her, knowing that she caused them any amount of fear, only added to the guilt that was cursing her. How many nights had she not come home in the past without letting them know? Did it always spark such a reaction? That wasn’t a question she really wanted an answer to. “Don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have … been out there like that.” She reached out and placed her hand in theirs, keeping it there despite the cold.

She turned her attention towards Cass, who was doing the work of a dozen heat lamps all by herself. “Is this tiring for you?” For all that Anita knew, whatever Cass was, and whatever powers she had, were foreign to her. “Don’t think I’ve played Uno since… college, maybe?” She didn’t wanna make presumptions but it seemed unlikely that Inge had a deck of Uno cards lying around. But Cass was onto something. If they had something to do to pass the time, maybe Anita would feel less guilt, or at least be distracted enough to not think about it for a short while. “Wouldn’t be opposed to playing a game or something, though.”

The scene was a strange one. Inge had people over at her house aplenty, but it was never this kind of combination. Anita in her living room made sense, had occurred before, but Metzli she only knew professionally and then there was Cass, the thief who’d melted her things. Put together the fact that someone was being offered aid and she wasn’t entirely sure if she’d encounter this kind of thing again soon. She gave Metzli a serious look, nodded. “Of course.” It wasn’t like she’d done it for Metzli, but still. She didn’t mind a little appreciation.

Inge remained leaning on the chair until Cass said something about Uno. Now the scene was really becoming something completely foreign. It wasn’t a bad thing, though. She raised up, jaws tight at the movement. “I can find us something. I’ve got a deck of cards, so we can just play crazy eights.” She could host. Though the days of serving guests pickled eggs and vruchtenbowl were over, she hadn’t quite lost that.

She moved away from the three others, feeling strangely out of place. She cared for Anita, certainly, and enjoyed her company deeply — but she and her had never felt this proximity she seemed to share with Cass and Metzli. No matter. It was hardly like she was jealous. Inge opened one of the many cabinets in the living room, most of them filled with various items. Old games from back at home, books and collections, dried flowers and trinkets she intended to do something with, one day. A deck of cards was produced and she returned, pulling an ottoman close to the small gathering. “If anyone wants something to drink, you can help yourself. There’s wine and other things in the kitchen.” No blood, that she only got when she had planned vampire visits. “But for now, I’ve got the deck. Shall I deal?”

Metzli shook their head at Anita and shushed her. “You are strong and your confidence is big. Maybe you make mistake, but you are alive. That is what matters.” They paused for a moment, offering Anita an intimate gesture by pressing their lips to the back of her hand. For someone not normally too keen on touch, it meant a great deal. It was something that required trust and comfort that they had only just begun to understand. “You matter to me. Worry will happen and that is okay. Just shut up and accept.”

There were various options that everyone presented for entertainment, nourishment, and comfort. Uno sounded interesting enough. If there were only a single item in a game, Metzli figured it couldn’t possibly be overstimulating or incredibly complex. It sounded quiet. Perfect, even. That was probably why Cass suggested it, and they offered a small and gentle smile to her as they gave Anita’s hand one final squeeze. She didn’t need her temperature lowered again.

“Let us play this Uno game and I can pay for pizza if someone will like to order.” They turned their head just in time to watch Inge’s hair bounce around the corner as she mentioned a much more chaotic game. Crazy eights? That is bigger than one. Not by much, but enough. And the numbers were crazy? Metzli couldn’t make sense of it, but before they knew it, Inge provided the group with a deck of cards. They stared at it as if it were as atypical as themself, their back stiffening as they shook their head and responded. “I will watch. I do not want to gamble in your deal.”

Anita asked about her, about her well-being, and it was enough to make Cass’s chest feel warm in the metaphorical sense as well as the physical. She offered the lamia a small smile, shaking her head. “It’s not tiring. This is just… being, for me.” Without the need to maintain her glamour, this was actually less tiring than her day-to-day, even if the glamour only took a very small amount of energy to keep up. Regardless, even if it had been exhausting, she would have done it. Anita was cold, and Cass could warm her. That was all there was to it. It was a simple thing.

She hummed, disappointed but not surprised that Inge didn’t have any Uno cards lying around. It had been something of a long shot, given Inge’s whole ‘fancy lady’ aesthetic. Fancy ladies probably didn’t play Uno, which was stupid. Uno was fun. But, regardless, Cass knew how to work with what was given to her. Metzli wasn’t interested in Crazy 8s, though Anita didn’t seem to mind the idea. Cass considered it for a moment.

“Maybe we can do a round or two of that, then Go Fish?” She looked to Metzli as she said it, brows drawing together in a pleading look. It was an expression perfected from years of making sure everyone felt included enough to stay. If there was nothing for a person to do, they were more likely to walk away. And Cass didn’t want Metzli to leave.

She didn’t want anyone to leave, but Metzli was the only one who really could right now. Anita was frozen in place (though not quite literally anymore), and this was Inge’s house. If she could keep Metzli here, they could stay as they were right now. And Cass liked how they were right now. It felt kind of perfect… or as perfect as anything could be, under the circumstances. “Maybe we could have hot chocolate, too?”

—

It would have been too overwhelming for Anita to take the time to fully process and internalize the amount of care that was being given to her. So she was glad to have a distraction in the way of a card game, no matter what game that ended up being. Something to do other than talk about the situation she got herself in. “Crazy 8’s isn’t all that crazy,” she offered to Metzli in Spanish when they seemed uninterested in playing. She wanted them to have a good time if they were going to be stuck here waiting for her to defrost, but also knew that watching the others play might as well be as enjoyable as playing for them.

Anita was feeling well enough to move her arms a bit, being able to do the absolute bare minimum action for a game of cards. As the cards were delt she reached out to grab her hand, fully accepting that it would be near impossible to keep her cards fully concealed from Cass. “Hot chocolate would be amazing. Especially if you’ve maybe got some tequila lying around to throw in there?” She asked, looking over at Inge. She should have asked Metzli to bring some from home. Even though she knew the science behind it was flawed, there was no denying that a bit of tequila was known to warm just about anyone up. “I think after a few rounds of the game I should be warm enough to head home. I don’t wanna put y’all out all night.”

She looked between the strange range of people and folded down the cards so they could be shuffled and dealt at a later time, “Maybe you can explain the rules to Metzli? It is not so different from Uno.” Inge got up, sure to not touch Cass and her searing skin again. She remembered how she’d burned her once and thought it some kind of metaphor — how warmth could be healing yet also dangerous.

“Anyway — hot chocolate I can do. With tequila. I’ll also order a pizza.” And she’d pay for it. She was a gracious host, after all. It was a fundamental skill for women of her once-caliber. It was one she didn’t mind not having unlearned — though plenty of the other submissive housewife traits had luckily left her. “What kind of toppings do you like?”

Her eyes flicked to Anita, then. “Don’t worry. Neither Metzli nor I need sleep. You are hardly putting me out. You’ve —” Slept over before, she almost added, before remembering herself. Inge smirked vaguely and then gave Cass another one over. She was okay. Even if she’d stolen her bag and burned her hand. “And if you doze off, that’s alright.” She moved to the kitchen to heat up some milk on the stove, feeling a distant sense of a feeling she couldn’t quite describe. Perhaps it was as simple as contentment, but maybe something more rare — a feeling of safety and unity.

They knew what Cass was doing when she made that face. They also knew she was scared that they’d leave, even if that was far from the truth. More than once, she had used it to get her way, ensuring abandonment of any kind wasn’t any option. It was how she operated, experiencing dismissal and loneliness far too long. If given the chance to live those moments again, Metzli surely would’ve given Cass what she wanted without any sort of plea.

They just enjoyed her face far too much to give in immediately. They enjoyed the way she knew a certain look would sway any decision they made. As if Metzli was truly her guardian. “I am staying, mihijita. And I will beat you at this crazy game.” Gently, they reached over and patted her head, ruffling her slightly and playfully with a small but genuine smile on their face. “I will also beat Anita.” They chuckled, rising to their feet to help Inge out in the kitchen. A room they were comfortable and navigated well in. Never mind the fact that they had no need to eat actual food anymore.

“If you have chocolate that I can melt with the mix, I can help you make it very tasty.”

“Pineapple!” Cass cut in immediately, eager to make her preferred pizza topping known. Normally, she might have let someone else respond first, might have pretended to like whatever the popular answer was, but… she felt comfortable, in this moment. She felt comfortable enough to be a little more of herself, to stop pretending even if it was only for a heartbeat. Later, the mask would slip back on as easily as breathing. She’d cut herself into smaller pieces, something easier to digest. But right here, right now… Cass felt good. And that was good. Wasn’t it?

She grinned a little as Metzli agreed to stay, feeling as though some invisible weight had been lifted. The teasing, too, felt good, felt like something she’d never thought she’d have. “There’s no way you’re beating me,” she shot back, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m totally gonna win. You’ll probably beat Anita, though.” She flashed Anita a grin — a quiet confirmation that she was only kidding, with a question underneath it: is this okay, are we here yet, can we do this?

As Metzli and Inge went into the kitchen, Cass remained with Anita. This was good, she thought. However terrifyingly the night had started out, this ending was good. She wanted more nights like this. She wanted them forever.

—

It was not very often that Anita found herself alone, physically. She usually had some body nearby to keep her company - either a meal or a tryst. Even when she spent time with people she cared about, the people in this room, it was almost always one-on-one. Genuinely, she did not know if that was an intentional doing on her part or if it was coincidental. Laying there, wrapped up in physical and emotional warmth felt so foreign to her. It made her think back to Mexico, before she left home. But even as she let her mind wander back there, as she shuffled through her cards and listened to discussions about pineapple on pizza, Anita was faced with the reality that home had never actually felt quite this warm.

Back then she may have been constantly surrounded by a sea of family but they were all so preoccupied with themselves that moments like this - simple evenings - were scarce. Anita smiled up at Metzli when they returned with cups of cocoa and nodded at the indication from Inge that pizza was just a few minutes away. As she took that first sip of the spiked beverage, for a moment the guilt she had been feeling slipped away. For a moment she was just in a living room, playing cards with people who cared about her.

#wild cards #thread #para #metzli #cass #inge #c:m #chatzy #writing #p:cass #p:metzli #p:inge

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banisheed · 12 days

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TIMING: May 1st, 2024 LOCATION: Ireland PARTIES: Siobhan (@banisheed) & Metzli (@muertarte) CONTENT: Domestic Abuse (child abuse discussion) tw, Animal Abuse tw SUMMARY: Siobhan and Metzli have a strange encownter.

Being kicked out of Saol Eile didn’t hurt so much the third time, Siobhan thought. Perhaps it was something about third times being charming, or what have you. Or perhaps it was that this time, she had chosen it. Regardless, she didn’t fancy being in Ireland for much longer and she had a million gratitudes and apologies to give Metzli, Anita and Xóchitl; nothing had gone the way she thought it would. Siobhan hadn’t talked about what happened, or what was happening; how does one explain that an idea of a life has died and will never come back? She was as lost as anyone else. All she needed to do was take some things from the shack and then it was done, it was over, they could all go back to Wicked’s Rest—it wasn’t home, she could never call it home, but it was the place she would rather be. Not that she’d started packing yet, but… but…

There was a cow. That was, in fact, exactly what she said to Metzli: “There’s a cow.” Its red and white hair was painted with mud, and it stuck its large head into the rusted trough that was bolted to the side of the shack. Siobhan frowned; that thing had collected rain water over the years, but it was far from clean. The water the cow so hungrily slurped wasn’t even clear. She thought she should help; Rónnait liked the animals she kept and Siobhan didn’t hate them, or caring for them, either. Her family were ranchers technically, though they would have screamed at the label. But she was still a banshee, despite her shame, and all she could really say was: “Metzli, there’s a cow here.”

The colorful tag on the cow’s ear shook as the creature continued to drink up the dirty water.

—

The departure from the banshees didn’t come lightly, and had it not been for Siobhan’s strength, it likely wouldn’t have happened at all. That time spent outside of that dreadful place had been quiet for the vampire. All Metzli could do was listen and watch, take any precaution they could to prepare for an outburst. Whether sad or angry. Or both. Yeah, probably both. That was what Metzli expected anyway, and as they continued to watch and follow Siobhan, they were surprised to find peace in her eyes. It lay comfortably all over her, the way she had deserved all along. Metzli was honored to share that experience with her, and apparently a cow too.

“Yes, there is a cow.” They took an unnecessary breath, as they always did to keep their sensitive nerves settled. “We should get it clean water.” Taking a step toward the cow, Metzli stiffened at the way they were painted with flecks of mud as it shook its head free of some of the wet dirt. The sensation forced out a groan up their throat and they swallowed with a step. If they could get past the crawling ants under their skin, then everything would be fine. Some days, they really hated being able to feel again, but all it took was one look toward Siobhan, a person that made it worth it. The ants ended their march.

“Is there a pond or stream we can lead it to?”

—

“Or we could…” Siobhan waved her hand around in the air, running through ideas in her head. She settled on what she usually did: “Kill it.” She grinned as though the cow could understand her. “Eat it. Chop it up. You get the blood, Anita can have the meat, I get the bones, Xóchitl can watch.” The cow lifted its head up, water dripped down its brown nose, getting caught in the fur around its chin. She watched the water collect in the fur, and then drip down, and was struck with the sudden desire to dry its mouth. The creature stared at them with its big, mucus-crusted black eye and again, Siobhan was struck with a need to clean it. Everything about the creature was pitiable; cattle always were. Was there any other creature so thoroughly domesticated? So completely incapable of living without human interface? Or one that wore its uses so plainly, that could not be anything more than it was? Each cut of a cattle’s meat had a name, didn’t it? That hair, though muddy, would make fine boots. And if the cow was producing milk, the excess of it wasn’t meant for a calf. Everything this creature had to give was for someone else. There was nothing more pathetic than this thing staring at her.

(Did it ever look at itself and think that maybe it should just—)

“There’s a stream nearby. We used to fill the water for the livestock from there.” Though this shack was far from the dairy farm that comprised the Dolan estate in Saol Eile, the few animals once here lived well, so Siobhan thought. If you were alive, that was living well—what else did lesser creatures need? Siobhan ripped in old rope from the broken pasture fence and tied up a simple noose. “Your family owned a farm too, didn’t they?” Siobhan asked absently, slipping the noose around the cow’s head, who didn’t protest or jerk away. Obviously, if the tag in its ear was any indication, the cow was used to human contact. She could’ve led it anywhere; didn’t it have any sense to be cynical? “Come on, I’ll lead the way; at least, if we’re going to eat it, it should have some clean water.”

—

Killing the cow would indeed be a kind gesture to its cycle. Whatever direction its owner was taking, the cow’s place at the end of its road would be on a plate. Metzli had seen that cycle countless times, in a place where they had both arms for working, and land to tend to. Blood, as it seemed, had always stained their hands, and now there was only one to paint. “Yes, we had a farm.” A beat, and a huff from the steer as Siobhan beckoned it to walk. Metzli followed her closely. “There were many animals and crops. My cousins were helpers like me, but I was oldest so they would give me much more work.”

Back in those days, where the air was fresh and the streets were full, survival had a completely different meaning. It meant waking up before the sun circled back around, before a rooster could screech as an alarm. It meant lugging around food for animals and trimming ripe vegetables from their roots. It meant the blood on Metzli’s hands wasn’t human, and it never mixed with dust. But those days were long gone, and in Metzli’s place, stood an abomination that understood all too well that a dead heart hurt just as much as a beating one.

Because despite what people may say about Siobhan or think about her for doing the things she had, Metzli understood. More than once, they too had to rip limbs away for the sake of family. For the sake of keeping order and peace among the clan. But there was no peace, and there was no safety in the bond that was supposed to be sacred. Far more sacred than those, Siobhan’s ties were born of blood and not a bite, and yet…and yet she stood next to an abomination, with no tethers of blood surrounding her with the same warmth that trailed through her veins. It was wrong, and it was heartbreaking, but luckily for them, hearts couldn’t truly break. They could only bend.

“Sometimes I miss that farm, but I cannot go back. I am not even sure if anyone in my family survived the attack from when I was turned.”

—

There was something about the definitiveness, the straightforwardness, the inexplicable knife-to-the-chest sentiment that amused Siobhan about the sentence: “Yes, we had a farm”. Of course, everything Metzli said was rather blunt; ‘Yes, we had a farm’ was no more different than the accompanying ‘there were many animals and crops’. They were just statements, and Siobhan’s invention of subtext was an exercise in creativity more than intuition. There was nothing there and yet the sentence echoed like a handful of nails spilled across a table: rattling, rolling, scratching and bouncing. Yes, we had a farm. As the shack turned into nothing but the brown point of a roof on the horizon: yes, we had a farm. As her gaze turned to the trees far beyond, and the mockingly silent entrance to Saol Eile hidden among them: yes, we had a farm. Yes, Siobhan had grown up on one. Yes, we had a farm.

The truth could be a simple affair—yes, we had a farm—and yet how much truth lived inside simple words was variable. Siobhan tried to imagine the farm Metzli spoke of, with its animals and crops and cousins. She tried to think of the place that Metzli couldn’t return to but only thought of the one she couldn’t. She held only one idea of a farm. Yes, we had a—with pastures that all sloped downwards and miserable animals with Death caught in their fur. And the cows! Siobhan could never forget them. Where the sheep pooled together on one end of their enclosure, and the goats shrieked until their last breaths, the cows greeted their butchers. To Siobhan, they seemed to have a docility that was bred. They seemed to understand their purpose. Yes, we had a farm and it was a home, once, full of gray, dead animals.

She heard the stream first, then saw its lazy trickling stream and led the cow to it. It was her imagination that the creature seemed grateful as it drank. “Only sometimes? You don’t dream of going home?” Siobhan asked. “If you could have your farm again—or rather, maybe those days again. Before…everything. Would you? Would you go back?” Did Metzli long for it the way she did? Siobhan leaned down, flicking a finger at the cow’s yellow ear tag. “Do you think the cow wants to go back?”

—

Home. It could be any place, but more often than not, it was a collection of people that provided love and safety and understanding. People like that were what made a home a home, and if Metzli really thought about it, their childhood had none. They stopped walking, wringing their fingers against themselves as they struggled to answer Siobhan’s question. It should’ve been easy. Instinctual, even. Because Metzli did miss certain parts, but they struggled to believe that any of it was worth missing.

There was no home. There was no family. There was no love. There were only memories of safety in solitude and hatred stinging their skin. But the more Metzli thought about it, the harder it was to cement their desires onto their tongue. Instead, for several beats, they streamed down their cheeks until they managed to let out what sounded like a pitiful croak.

“N-no.” Their shoulders sank, and they avoided any chance at eye contact by forcing their gaze to remain on the cow as it drank. “Not…It was-I…” Swallowing harshly, Metzli counted to six, pacing along with each number and repeating the process until they calmed down enough to speak. Properly that time, albeit with a few tears.

“That was not home. That is just where I was raised.” Their breath stuttered out of their useless lungs, “I have many wishes that it was a home, but it was not. Be-because home is where you are happy. Home is where people are happy to see you. Home is-is where you want to be when you are not happy.” Passion grew in their chest, blooming into a small smile that shone beyond the tears down Metzli’s face. “Home is-is Leila and Fluffy, and-and Anita and Xóchitl, and Cass!” They lit up considerably, “And you. Home is you. When-when…when I think of my past, it hurts. Tingles are on my skin and it itches, and then I feel this-this…” A beat, and then Metzli rubbed at their half limb to settle the rising tension in nerves. “Heavy thing in my stomach.” They sniffled, finally looking at Siobhan. “I was not loved. I was not wanted. You call me abomination because I am dead, but I was called this before because…because I was alive.” Metzli breathed, watching Siobhan mess with the yellow tag. “I think the cow wants to be free to choose where to call home and that is okay. Sometimes…sometimes home is not where we think it is.”

—

An apology crystallized in Siobhan’s throat, bobbing as she swallowed useless words away. Siobhan wanted to ask what the difference between the place you were raised and a home was—Ireland, with all its edges, was her home—but the question withered away. She’d overwhelmed Metzli with her question and that was the enough to change her tone and pivot her curiosities. She stood slowly, her hand flexing at her side. “Home is back in Wicked’s Rest, isn’t it?” For them, but not for her. This was home; the cocoon shed her, but the lost shards would always be home. Her gaze lifted to the brown point on the horizon then back on her friend.

Siobhan, knowing that Metzli had never hesitated to offer her comfort, shifted nervously on her feet. She remained where she stood, by the flowing stream. Her voice transformed into an oddity of kindness; something like her great-great-grandmother’s. “Home is where you’re loved and you are loved, now. And you’re loved in Wicked’s Rest and that’s home.” Siobhan repeated Metzli’s sentiments hoping there was some comfort for them in their version of truth. She considered her disagreement suddenly irrelevant. “We don’t have to think about your past anymore, if it burns; if it makes you heavy. I think your future is more fun, isn’t it?” But it wasn’t the same for her and it didn’t matter: loved or not, wanted or not, this was home. She could be a stray if she wanted, a little runaway from the beef ranch, but her reality wouldn’t bend.

Then, there was the matter of the cow. Siobhan thought she understood the metaphor (Metzli was making a metaphor, weren’t they?) but she couldn’t pretend like she agreed, or that she understood, or keep herself from the question. The simple creature continued to lap up the water. “It can’t choose,” she said, arguing as softly as she could manage. She offered her friend a gentle expression, betraying the comfort and kindness she hoped to offer. “It’s a…cow. It can’t just…it doesn’t know better. It can’t live in the wild. It can’t just…exist. It wasn’t made to live. Not the way you’re describing.” Metzli must know; they grew up on a farm. There was a singular purpose. A unifying duty. “It’s a cow.”

—

Without a word, they nodded, keeping the silence as Siobhan struggled to keep her illusion from completely falling apart. Things were easier to understand when there wasn’t fluff in what people were saying. Little meanings here and there that were thrown in for their sentiment, but most of the time, Metzli felt like it was for their confusion. However, now that they had the experience to decipher what was being said, they realized how important fluff could be sometimes. Words without the sharp edges. Words softened to allow for comfort to follow. Words that were too full of emotion to freely walk off one's tongue, but fell when they needed to. Into the arms (or arm) of someone who could carry them. Metzli lifted without hesitation.

“It can choose.” They affirmed, closing the distance between them and Siobhan. “Cows can be stubborn and bold, or shy and quiet, or controlling and rude.” Something akin to a snort came out of them as they thought back to one of their favorite dairy cows, Chicha. She was one of the best, and having been just a child when she was born, Metzli grew fond of her as they grew together. “One time, we lose a cow. Chicha. She was much annoying and always want to be out of the fence.” They breathed out a small chuckle.

“Wake up and went to work, and she was not there. We lose her for two weeks. Think she was dead after one week.” Clicking their tongue, Metzli patted the back of the cow’s head and trailed their gaze back to Siobhan, offering a knowing and amused look. “She come back with this confident walk. Like nothing happen. My apá was so angry and wanted me to kill her for meat, but I know this is stupid choice so I just clean her up.” Their face fell at the memory, and they clicked their tongue again. “Our brand was messed up on her back. Some other farm try to put theirs on top and then I see she had cuts and fur missing, and I was so mad, but she was home, and she look very happy because she find this way to come back home where she will be treated good.”

Metzli wasn’t sure if Siobhan would find any comfort in the story, or see what they were trying to say, but they were sure that she didn’t really have to at that moment. Her wounds were still fresh and her heart needed time to repurpose itself. It was a good thing her and Metzli had enough of it to spare. “It will be okay, cariña.” They looked down to their friend, bending at the waist to connect their head to hers in a gentle bonk. “You are not a cow that was made to be certain way. You are…” Metzli pulled back, tears in their eyes with a smile reserved for so few to see. “Free and loved. You are my friend. You are my home. And,” They stood upright, holding their arm open for an embrace should Siobhan want it. “Now you have a new future. What do you want to do next since you are not a cow?”

—

Siobhan knew what Metzli was trying to do. It was thoughtful, it was kind, it was them tapping on frosted glass. What Siobhan wanted was to go home: she wanted her wings, her family, her dusty cramped room full of worn bones. What she could have was this: some kind words which dripped off her skin like rain. All of it left an uncomfortable residue. Siobhan thought she was worse than Chica; if she walked to Saol Eile with her scarred back, there wouldn’t be someone willing to take her in. She didn’t do well with choice, and yet, it spread before her like the dark branches of a blossoming sapling. She could do just about anything, and that was the problem.

She could invite people to Ireland; she could let a leprechaun go; she could lead a cow to a stream and in fact, she’d done all those things. She could help someone she hated; she’d helped Regan escape, she’d spared the doctor’s wings from a full removal. And why? She was always contradicting herself, and why? What great purpose did being so confused serve her? Siobhan was too many things—an abundance of metaphors: she could call herself a garden, a library, a forest, a graveyard. Complexity didn’t interest her nor did it soothe the reality of being stuck with herself: squirming, writhing, pitiful. She needed to pin a more suitable Siobhan to the board (not by the wings, of course, she didn’t have those anymore).

Falling into a different Siobhan was like wearing an old set of clothes; she’d been so many versions of the same, strange meandering woman for so long that slipping into another facet was a secondary nature—her primary nature being completely unknown to her. This Siobhan smiled softly, nodding at the love that Metzli offered, and imagined herself throwing it over her shoulder. She stood up. “What if I want to be a cow?” She did not want to be a cow. “What if it doesn’t matter? What if nothing does? What if I don’t want to be your friend?” She wanted to be Metzli’s friend.

Siobhan pulled one of several knives from her pockets. With the flick of her wrist, she jammed the knife into the thick of the cow’s neck. She twisted, opening up the whining creature like a faucet. She pulled her hand away, covered in slick, burning blood, and smiled. This Siobhan didn’t think about how a different Siobhan really loved cows. This Siobhan didn’t do much thinking at all; it made her uncomfortable. As did being loved (as did being unloved). As did trying to figure out what she wanted (as did disobeying her whims). As did doing anything that was expected of her (as did doing anything she oughtn’t). She could stab a cow if she wanted—not that she wanted to—and she could do things that she didn’t want to—just because—and she wasn’t making any choices because choices made her uncomfortable—ignoring all the choices she was actively making and had made—and she could do it all because…. Because…

“Freedom makes me itchy,” Siobhan said with a shrug. “As does iron.” She scratched at her bloody hand. “So do artichokes; do you think I might be allergic?”

—

“We can see what matters and you can decide not to be my friend if you want. It is what you get to do. You are—” And then there was a knife in the cow, a bloody smile spreading across its throat.

Hunger wound around Metzli’s throat so tightly that they wretched. Their eyes went red and glossy, body tensing as control barely managed to set itself in place. Killing the cow wasn’t exactly what Metzli had in mind for Siobhan’s newfound freedom, but they supposed metaphors were open to interpretation. They grumbled to themself and fought through the animalistic urge to bite, their face twisting with discomfort.

The miscommunication was why they preferred plain speech. It’s what they probably should’ve stuck to, they thought. But Metzli figured Siobhan would’ve used her freedom to kill anyway. She couldn’t resist a good knife and some blood. Not as well as she could resist what was good for her.

“Maybe.” They finally responded in a choke, clearing their throat soon after. “It will be strange allergy to have.” Which was not what she meant was it? They told her about their itch, so was it the same as theirs? Was she experiencing a level of discomfort that made living all too much? If she was, they could already tell speaking about it in depth was out of the question. They responded in kind, granting her silent wish. With a swallow, Metzli approached the now lifeless cow. “Will we take it home for food? I can prepare this and we can have meal together.”

—

Metzli was more tolerant than Siobhan hoped for—had she been hoping for something? No, of course she wasn’t. This Siobhan didn’t hope because hoping was pathetic and nothing she hoped for ever came to be anyway. She was flowing from one whim into the other; one dead cow into the next inevitable dead cow. Chaos incarnate, or something like it, right? (Her mind was strangely empty, no agreement echoed back through its hollow caverns.) Performing for an unresponsive audience really stabbed the life out of her metaphorical cow; in the realm of reality, the literal cow that had the life stabbed out of it flopped over as if taking a deep nap.

What she’d imagined—which was different than hoping—was that Metzli would lunge across the space between them and sink their fangs into the cow. Or, perhaps, press their lips to the spurting wound. Instead, they stood there. Instead, they offered her more kindness that she didn’t know where to put. Siobhan frowned. “Stop being nice; this is weird. Is this what it’s like to have a friend?” Why hadn’t Metzli moved? Why had they retrained themself? Why did they offer to make a meal out of their bloody metaphor? She scratched her red hand, which was sprouting a new rash. “I think I might be allergic to friendship too.” She didn’t like this. “You’re no fun.” Her frown transformed into a childish pout. This Siobhan who wanted to play games learned quickly that Metzli was immune to them.

She rounded the cow and lifted its big, dumb, dead, stupid head. “I don’t eat meat,” Siobhan said, “which I know is ironic considering…” Considering all of her; which she hated to admit was a tolling bell of irony. “But I’m sure Anita and…” Siobhan paused. “...Xóchitl would like a fresh meal.” And why did it matter to her what those two would like? Did it matter why it mattered? She was so tired of fighting her brain’s logic that she’d just have to let this one battle go. Waving a white flag, she smiled softly. “Help me drag this damn thing back. Or carry it yourself and I can pretend like I helped. I’ve got gloves if you need them.”

Siobhan glanced up at the horizon, and the brown pointed roof of the shack. Her shoulders sank. For years she knew she’d convinced herself that she’d come a long way: from child to adolescent to woman to this. But it was always back there she went, back here she came: to Ireland, to Saol Eile, to her great-great-grandmother’s shack, to herself. Could a dog chasing its own tail forget where it was going? All she had to do was turn around and yet, and yet… And why? Why? She sighed; she wasn’t sure she even wanted to run another delusional lap. Maybe she’d start attributing her whiplashed thoughts to vertigo. Or, maybe, she’d find the right Siobhan to pin down and let her take over the laps. Or maybe she’d go back to the shack, watch Metzli cook a cow, and stop pretending like there was anything here that she cared to take back home. Yes, maybe, it was time to pack her suitcases. Maybe. Or maybe not yet. Who was going to tell her which choice was the right one?

“Hey, Metzli,” she said, “I love you; I don’t want to stop being your friend.” That, at least, she could be sure of.

#i had to draw that with my left hand so it was funny #also thank u 2 jojo for letting me cow #c: metzli #s2 #writing #cowuntenance #animal abuse tw #domestic abuse tw

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muertarte · 1 month

Text

TIMING: A little bit after December

PARTIES: @ohwynne @muertarte

SUMMARY: Still learning how to handle their emotions, Metzli has an outburst with a client. Wynne overhears and checks in.

WARNINGS: References to emotional abuse and domestic abuse

Metzli struggled to keep their breath from speeding up, the sensation of crushed velvet sending unpleasant shivers down their entire body. They rubbed their fingers against themselves, the friction warm and rough enough to keep the vampire from having an outburst. Everyone had been skeptical about their return to work, only a week after they had been set free and allowed to experience the full spectrum of their emotions. The collective continued to overwhelm Metzli at a considerable rate, and despite Leila’s urging to continue to rest, they felt as if they had something to prove.

What the curator hadn’t expected though, was for an artist to come in and demand for frame changes. It was bad enough that he had an attitude and brought in examples of what he wanted to use, but then he forced Metzli’s hand onto the texture that sent alarm bell’s ringing in the vampire’s ear. They supposed he’d wanted them to enjoy it with him, see exactly why he absolutely needed the changes done immediately. The smell of his cologne just added insult to injury, and Metzli ripped their hand away with a bit too much force. The piece of velvet went flying, smacking the artist square in the face.

“I…I-I…” An embarrassing moment was taking place, a few swear words even tossed around at them, though Metzli thought it reasonable for him to react such a way. That’s why instead of giving the same energy back, they had the forethought to force their stiff body to move out of the room and into their office. That’s where things were allowed to implode and fall apart, and they slammed the door before anyone could follow inside and see them begin to pace.

Something was different about Metzli. Wynne wasn’t sure what to make of it — sometimes they weren’t sure what to think about the older vampire. They were elusive at times, mysterious at best and though they had shown them nothing but kindness and patience, they also still remembered how Metzli had ripped off heads and locked themself away afterwards. If there was any proof that there were good people who could do bad things out there, they were it.

They didn’t fully understand what was happening until the commotion between Metzli and the customer was reaching a louder volume. Wynne winced at the ugly words, peered quietly from their own workstation to see what was happening. The customer was huffing loudly, face a little red where Metzli had hit them and they bit their lip. He muttered something about going for a ‘fucking cigarette’ and stalked away, leaving them with two people having stormed off. They considered just staying where they were, but in stead quietly moved to Metzli’s office.

Their knock was tentative and soft, as far as a knock could be those things. “Metzli?” They remained, not wanting to open the door. They knew how bad it could be if someone opened a door when you wanted to be by yourself. “It’s me. Wynne. Are you alright?”

The knock at the door pulled the vampire out of their panic for just a moment, the pacing abruptly coming to a stop by the door. Metzli swallowed, shutting their eyes tightly to force the stress back into themself. It was no use. “Wynne.” They strained to say, tugging at their hair in hopes of that working instead. Still, the panic remained, and the silence that lay between Wynne and Metzli began to gain weight with every beat. They decided to break the silence, voice unable to keep steady and their morals keeping them from lying.

“No.” They laid their head against the door, the coolness of it helping just slightly. “Much…stress. Much, much stress.” The worst part of it all was that now it felt like Wynne was being burdened with a struggle that Metzli felt was a lone one. They were supposed to learn to keep their composure and manage their emotions, like any other person in the world, and yet, they had an overreaction that was now costing a friend. That alone was unfair, but the two of them were also in the workplace, which felt even worse, somehow. Still, with a sigh, Metzli opened the door just slightly, if only to offer Wynne some sort of reassurance.

“I give apology, Wynne. I, um…I am sorry.”

Two instincts were at war within them. One told them to not stick their nose in the business of their seniors and not prod Metzli in a time like this. It was disrespectful and they were overstepping. Another, stronger instinct was one born out of care. Wynne seemed incapable of just letting someone be upset, especially if they felt a connection to that person. It was that instinct that won out now, which is why they were carefully eyeing the vampire.

“Oh.” They frowned at the answers that Metzli gave, and it was still on their face as they opened the door. “Is it okay if I come in? You don’t have to apologize to me.” Maybe to the customer, but that would come later. Wynne figured that they could kind of understand the other’s predicament. They’d burst out into tears at their previous job aplenty — their emotions hardly ever exploded into anger, after all. But it was similar, wasn’t it? A spilling over of emotion. Sometimes it was all too much. It almost always seemed to be too much.

“Maybe you can talk about it? Sometimes talking about it helps? Puts things into perspective.” They gave a reassuring smile. “Or so I’ve heard.”

A small, stressed sigh trembled out of Metzli when they saw the frown displayed on Wynne’s lips. Every marker pointed toward displeasure for what the vampire had done, but they were telling Metzli otherwise. They swallowed, quietly tugging at their hair while they attempted to decipher everything from all the reading they’d been doing. People often said one thing, meaning something else. Or sometimes they hide their feelings and lie to themselves so as to not hurt others, subsequently lying to others. Which was bad. Very bad. Metzli hated lying, and Wynne knew this. It wouldn’t make sense for them to do so, even to spare their feelings. This, and they looked to be genuine in their suggestion.

Metzli paused, opening the door further to let their friend into the office. They could trust Wynne, knowing they would do what they thought was right, and having seen firsthand that they were similar in more ways than one. “Um…” Words escaped Metzli once again, and they tightly shut their eyes to shroud their vision in darkness. The thing most familiar and quiet, a place they could escape to for a sense of calm, if only for a moment. “Perspective,” They parroted once their mind seemed to finally settle. “You are maybe right. Always…” With a deep inhale, Metzli took a few steps back and shuffled awkwardly to their chair.

“So wise.” They offered a crooked smile, fidgeting in their seat and wringing their fingers together. “And you are so young. I have heard this means there was forced growth in childhood.” That in itself was a quiet tragedy to realize, a cold and shaky sensation filling Metzli’s chest as sorrow grew with understanding. They knew what that was like, better than most, but there was a stark difference between them and Wynne. While they had become a beast that bristled with excitement at times with blood on their hands, Wynne was a lamb set to slaughter when they were casted out into the world where their kind heart would be exposed. Metzli’s growth ended with a monster, and Wynne’s with a person. What right did they have to relinquish their worries onto them? With another breath, Metzli avoided Wynne’s gaze and stiffly adjusted their seat.

“Did you…have to grow with force?”

They were relieved when Metzli let them into their office, glad that this bit of trust was granted them. Wynne thought for a moment about the place where Metzli had locked themself away. While they understood a wish to be alone, that sometimes it was just easier to choose purposeful solitude — they also knew there was nothing to gain in it. And so they were glad Metzli was letting them in, even if it was just in their office. They moved in, closed the door behind them softly and eyed the other’s unease. Their lips pushed together in an awkward yet sad smile.

As the other called them wise they frowned, not wanting to disagree and start some kind of debate and yet feeling like they should at some point address the fact that Metzli was wrong to think that. For now, Wynne sat down in one of the free chairs, figuring it best if they were at the same eye-height. “I try.” They bit on the inside of their cheek as the vampire said something about forced growth. They wanted to pivot the conversation back to Metzli, to the overflow of information, on what Wynne could do to make it all more okay, but it seemed their wanting was futile.

They blinked at Metzli for a moment, quiet and wide-eyed. Their question was forward and direct, lacked any beating around the bush. Wynne did prefer it like that — they just weren’t sure what the answer was. But they gave it some thought and nodded. “I guess so. I had a lot of responsibility from a young age.” Ten years old, being told by Padrig that they’d have to die in a decade to serve their community. Sanctified from that day on. “I don’t think I was given what I needed when I grew up. It wasn’t good at home.” They shrugged. “That made me think about stuff a lot. About death and dying and other things.” That was a vague answer. “And because I had a lot of responsibility people often asked me for advice, back home. I think I had to act older than I was, I guess.” They were quiet for a moment. “What about you?”

Metzli didn’t like that Wynne had to grow quickly, and they especially didn’t like that they didn’t have what they needed to prosper properly. Children were strong but also so fragile, absorbing too much too quickly about who they should be and what treatment they should accept. Thus teaching others how to treat them, even if it was to their detriment, maybe especially to their detriment.

By the sounds of it, Wynne was taught to care for others and not themself. Be seen and not heard. Metzli didn’t like that, and hoped that they could provide an environment where Wynne felt comfortable and like they were being listened to. They couldn’t tell if that was the case though, considering how Wynne tried to take back the role of listener. But perhaps, Metzli thought, if they really wanted to ask and were given the same treatment, it was really about the give and take. Love’s currency being one of reversal, a never ending cycle of reciprocation. Metzli could do that. It was the selfless option that helped them both.

“I do not remember being happy. In trouble much. I…I feel a lot back then. Like-like right now.” Emotions seemed much more intense right then, though. Metzli wasn’t sure if the difference was because their memory was fuzzy or because they were feeling it all at that moment, but they didn’t think that mattered. They chose to focus on the present. “Parents did not like when I behave like,” Metzli gestured vaguely to themself, “This.” They breathed shakily, moving on. “Did work. Father was carpenter and my mother work with bone to make things to sell. Emotions are better when I work. When my hands…” With an awkward smile, they swallowed and attempted to joke. “Hand is busy.” Metzli sighed, a frown replacing the poor excuse for a smile. “They like it better like that and would enjoy it when I was locked in my room. Um…” Their voice cracked. “Did you have a room?”

They understood by now that parents didn’t always do what was best for their children. Wynne had thought all of their struggles were to blame were because of them. That maybe because of their unusual situation, they had felt an ugly distance and lack of safety with their parents. But since they’d ran, they’d talked to others. Alex with her parents who would’ve hated her for what she was. Emilio, whose mother sounded so cruel. Teddy and their demon worshiping parents. And now Metzli, revealing that their past had also lacked the kind of parents they all deserved.

They felt heavy with it, the reality of it. And as Metzli explained how their parents hadn’t liked it when they got emotional, they felt a hint of ugly recognition. These weren’t the kinds of things they wanted to have in common with people. How many times had they been reprimanded if not punished for the same? “That’s not fair. That we – that you got in trouble for things like that. It’s okay to feel things, I think.” Was it? No matter how soft and malleable they were, they still tended to hold their emotions tight to their chest where they grew heavy until they cried in solitude.

“I understand. I think. I also like it when my hands are busy. It’s why I knit a lot. It makes me fret less.” They were quiet for a moment. Metzli locking themself in a room made a little more sense now. It was what they’d known before. They nodded. “I had a bedroom. There were also other rooms. Rooms for contemplation by yourself.” Wynne looked at their hands. They wished they were knitting. “Home wasn’t a good place. I don’t think yours was either.” They looked up again, gave a sad look to the vampire. “It’s okay, though. To be upset. I tried not to be upset for a long time and in the end that just made the emotions worse.”

It was supposed to be good to have things in common, wasn’t it? Connections were built on that, and similarities were meant to help them thrive. So, why, Metzli wondered, did the tethers feel so frayed and worn? Why did it feel like the strings were made of some cruel material? It felt so weighty and beaten, but holding steady as its root was tied to the core of their beings? For a while, Metzli pondered on that in silence, managing to nod along with Wynne’s statements. But they were wrong about one thing, and they were sure it wasn’t due to Wynne’s knowledge being lacking. They were led astray. All of them were. Cass, Leila, Nora, Siobhan, and so many more.

Their childhood dwellings weren’t home. Wicked’s Rest was, though. Metzli smiled at that realization, a tear surprising them as it glided down their cheek. They didn’t even bother to wipe it away, cementing that what Wynne said is true. It was okay to be upset, to let yourself feel things even if you didn’t understand them. So much younger than them, and yet Wynne had given them more wisdom than they could’ve found within themself, a mind over a century old. That was to be expected given Metzli’s newborn freedom, a birthing of their true self. They’d have to be a little kinder to their process and to themself if they were going to acclimate to everything, and it was thanks to Wynne that they were able to calm down and come to the realization.

Sometimes the kindest hearts truly did come from the cruelest places.

“Thank you, Wynne. You are…” A sniffle snuck up on the vampire, and they cleared their throat quickly to continue. “A good person.” Out of respect, Metzli bowed their head for a moment before finally making brief eye contact with Wynne. Their eyes were watery, but much more calm as the fog faded away. “Would you like to take your break with me? We can go to the room I keep locked for myself when I feel like sketching or painting. We can…” They took a steadying breath, clenching and unclenching their fist below the desk. Anxiety was a hard feeling for Metzli to process. The most difficult one, in fact. But they had a feeling it would be good for both them and Wynne to connect while they busied themself with a task. “Make art together. Next to each other. If you will like. We can both talk and have music. Leila has shown me good music.”

There was something so bittersweet about the quiet understanding that hung in the room. Wynne found it was good to speak to people who could understand to a certain extent, but it also made them feel exhausted. A kind of bone tired, as if their limbs were somehow made of a heavier material than simple bone, making every step harder to make. Sometimes it would feel like they’d sink through their mattress with the weight of it, the knowledge that people had suffered and would suffer, that for every inch of understanding they felt and were given someone else had also been in pain.

And now Metzli was crying and they weren’t sure what to do with that. They looked at the vampire who had years and years on them, who must have learned so much in those centuries and who called them good. “So are you,” they said, and they meant it. They had called Metzli a good monster once, but they were more than that. They had learned that over the months working with them, where they were no longer just the silhouette of the person they had been before. That gallery guide who’d come for their rescue, who’d ripped off heads of vampires while doing so and had locked themself away after.

Wynne nodded at their suggestion, patiently waiting for Metzli to finish speaking. There was a tenseness in their breathing they knew all too well. “I would like that very much.” It would be intimidating, to make art next to Metzli, as they weren’t anything of an artist. Wynne put their creativity in their cooking and crafts, sometimes in the notebooks they filled with scraps of thought. “It would be nice.” They tried to catch the other’s eye. “You know what I do? When I feel – when my chest feels like it’s becoming too small to hold my lungs?” They lifted their hand, placed it flat against their own chest. Over their heart, pressed against their ribcage. “I try to breathe to my hand. To just … feed it slowly, small breaths. Sometimes someone else will put their hand there.” They’d do that at home. Breathe in tandem. Grow calm in tandem. And though there might have been crude reasons for such exercise, Wynne found they still worked for them.

The compliment made them stiff, a slight tremble trickling down their arm and straight into their hand. “I…” A breath hitched in Metzli’s throat and they closed their eyes tightly as they remained quiet and listened to Wynne. Seemed as though they understood what their idiosyncrasies meant, even if Metzli didn’t most of the time. “Okay,” They replied with a nod, eyes relaxing but still closed while they moved their hand over their chest. It helped, more than they thought.

Each breath loosened their shoulders, the coiled and sharpened weight lifting away as well. With a stuttered inhale, Metzli opened their eyes and smiled ever so slightly. “Thank…you.” They blinked slowly, communicating their gratitude and affection further. Much like a cat would, having no ability to use words. Just as they couldn’t, not anymore.

Rising silently from their seat, Metzli took a final breath before rounding their desk to meet Wynne at their seat. After a few brushes of their thumb against their palm, they extended their hand to Wynne. It was an offering of trust and acceptance. Not only was Wynne an employee, but they were a friend, too. Now more than ever, it seemed. Metzli hoped Wynne would understand the sentiment and take their hand so they could lead them both to the painting room. It felt like it could be a new beginning. One they both needed.

One they both had hoped for.

Something about it felt wrong, teaching Metzli a tactic they had used back at home. But it had worked, this way of breathing, both in the commune and outside of it. Wynne watched Metzli focus on their breathing and they hoped it worked. A small bit of relief seemed to wash over them and then over Wynne, too, who didn’t want their friend to be in any kind of stress.

“Of course,” they said. “I’m glad it worked.” Maybe one day they’d reach out and place their hand on Metzli’s, should this kind of thing happen again. It would be nice if it didn’t, but experience learned that these kinds of moods came again and again. Sometimes it seemed the best thing to do was to just find ways to deal with it, rather than get angry about the existence. It was what they were trying.

They watched Metzli get up and then extend their hand. Wynne didn’t hesitate before taking it, fingers wrapping around the other’s and getting up with them. United they moved to the painting room and they were relieved and glad, once more faced with the proof that they had made the right decision by leaving. That they had made the right decision by visiting Metzli when they had locked themself away. It was nice, to work somewhere where there were friends. Where they felt seen and not watched. To be able to simply coexist with someone, without expectation or demand.

#wickedswriting #writings #bloody ink #c: wynne #wynne and metzli #overreactions #domestic abuse tw #emotional abuse tw

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wickedsrest-rp · 6 months

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Between a rock & a hard place | Group Thread

TIMING: December 5th PARTIES: Wyatt (@loftylockjaw), Metzli (@muertarte), Cassius (@singdreamchild), & Caleb (@dirtwatchman) SUMMARY: On a stroll through the cemetery, Wyatt disturbs a crystal monster from the mines, sending it into an accidental rage. Metzli, Cassius, and Caleb all happen to be in that same cemetery that night, and hurry to his aid. They beat the thing, but not without some bumps and bruises (and more) along the way. CONTENT WARNINGS: Body horror

Something big was lurking in the shadows of the cemetery, moving among the headstones. It had been a long trek out of the mines, but the creature had only one thing on its mind as it lumbered along, its crystalline body glinting in the moonlight.

Hands in his pockets, enjoying a rare night off from the Pit and the restaurant, Wyatt thought he’d go give this Mossthorn Bog a look, wondering how much (if at all) it might remind him of home. That would be nice. On the way, he’d become distracted by the sprawling cemetery in Nightfall Grove, doing a little bit of research as he neared its open gate. Loads of missing person cases, huh? Fascinating. Feeling like he could handle whatever this cemetery tried to throw at him, the lamia boldly entered, unaware of the danger that lurked inside. It’d just be a quick loop around the place, then he’d be on his way. Nothing major.

The beast from the mines had other plans.

It was surprisingly quiet, all things considered. It spotted the shifter from a distance, crouching low into the dirt and looking for all the world like a big, fancy boulder. Wyatt paid little mind as he walked by, hearing some sort of… commotion in the distance, and being far more intrigued by the light he could see moving between the trees and mausoleums. Was someone having a party out here? The rock was only spared a passing glance, and as if offended by his dismissal of its presence, it took a swipe at him.

Being soft and squishy at the moment, the lamia was sent hurtling through the air. His instincts took over, sparing him any grievous damage as he shifted in the blink of an eye, shredding through the clothing he wore and sending a nine foot tall gator crashing into the tree instead of a very breakable human. Even still, the shock of the sudden impact left him rattled and he had no kind of grip on the branches, dropping back to the hard earth with a loud oof! and, more poignantly, a loud “What the fuck?!” as he stared up at the gemstone beast that’d taken a swing at him.

“Fuck you!” Very clever, this one. The beast reared back, letting out a roar and lunging for him, forcing him to scramble out of the way. “I liked that fuckin’ shirt—” Wyatt complained, “—and I don’t like fightin’ for free! Piece of—”

There was nothing to move in Metzli’s chest, no swing of a brush or dust from a sculpture could spark any sort of joy. It reminded them of all those years with Eloy, everything coordinated perfectly so that he could retain the power he had accumulated through the years. How strange it was now though that Chuy of all people was in charge, plans of his own to extend his reign now that Eloy was gone.

It made for a rather difficult time in Wicked’s Rest, their connections feeling more like characters in a book they could stow away for another time. Which was strange because Metzli was the expendable one, not their friends. They supposed it was better that way anyhow. Once Chuy made his move, not feeling their connections torn from them would be easier while numb. That was, of course, if Chuy allowed them to stay numb. Which he likely wouldn’t.

Metzli sighed deeply, walking and thinking, taking a break from MuertArte in hopes of something activating within. There was nothing, much to their dismay. They were just about to give up and head back when they heard a man yelling about some shirt, followed by a roar. A fight then? Metzli’s curiosity was piqued, and they sprinted toward the sound with their knife in their hand, putting their body between some scaly humanoid thing and sharp claws.

The razors shot into their shoulders, sending them to one knee with the amount of pressure it applied. But there was no extreme pain, just a hint of warmth that was the tiniest bit enough to feel similar to what their loved ones once caused in their chest. Metzli almost smiled then, cocking their leg up and shoving it into the gemstone beast. It was too heavy to send away like a regular opponent, but it stumbled back, granting them enough space to regard the stranger they just helped. Blood collected thickly from their wound, a black goo dripping as they asked, “Can you fight?”

Cassius hadn’t been back out to visit the cemetery since his crypt had been coated in goo. Well, not his crypt anymore. It was Lydia Hanover’s again. Still, he couldn’t help but come back out and check on it from time to time to see if there was any possible way to retrieve the items that had been stuck inside. No such luck. It was almost comical what had become of what he had learned to call home.

He thought back to the moments he had with Inge not too long ago, where they had a heart-to-heart followed by some nefarious pacts. He thought back to the countless poems Cassius had penned within its walls, the not-so-wonderful attempt on his life from the slayer he now knew as Owen, and, of course, the return of his sire that he had long-presumed to be dead. Or at least, dead to him.

His attention was stirred elsewhere when he heard a loud commotion coming from the mausoleums. Every instinct told him to get out of dodge and escape, but he didn’t. Instead, Cassius found his feet carrying him to the direction of the noise. That’s where he found an alligator and a familiar face. An interesting pairing, but a pairing all the same.

“Hey, what’s going on?” He called out, brows knitting together in confusion. He spoke before he saw it. A giant purple thing hulking over them, roaring as it began to charge toward the two. “Run!” He shouted as it sped up, hurtling itself toward the lamia and Metzli. His shouting had been a terrible ideas, as it shifted its course of direction straight for him. Before he knew what had happened, Cassius had been tossed through the air as if he were nothing more than a sack of feathers. The air was knocked out of him as he was thrown against the side of a crypt. Groaning, he righted himself and looked toward the others.

It wasn't often that Caleb ventured to other graveyards to try and dig up another body or two but these days he was completely desperate. Most of his attempts at, well, murder were either thwarted or complete failures because he was gutless...a spineless, gutless, freak of nature who should have been able to kill a simple garbage human being but couldn't bring himself to do so. Which led him to scour the graveyards in the neighboring parts of town for freshly dug soil in an attempt to find something, anything that could help him stop some sort of horde from forming in Wicked's Rest. His night in Nightfall Grove was not going well.

Shovel in hand, the zombie started to make his way back to the truck that parked in a shaded area of the cemetery when an angry roar stopped him in his tracks. “What the hell....?” Another loud roar filled the night air, Caleb taking a few tentative steps forward before stopping again. It wasn't until he heard the shouts of others that he took off running towards the voices without thinking.

The sight that met him was one of the strangest he'd ever encountered in this town and that was saying something. Caleb was behind some sort of creature covered in or made of the crystals he'd been warning people against, running up just in time for him to see it throw a blond man into a crypt. The monster reared its head back to roar out its frustration into the night before it started toward the other two people in its path, people that seemed like they could be injured already.

“Dammit...I'm about to do this, aren't I?”

His feet were already moving and there was only a moment's hesitation before he gripped his shovel with both hands and swung as hard as he could at the monster in front of him, sending a small piece of crystal flying. The monster turned on him, Caleb scrambling away from it the best he could but tripping before getting far. He was on his back, shovel still in hand, when the monster grabbed him by his right foot and threw him, the zombie landing and skidding ten feet across the earth. Dust and gravel were both flying before he came to a stop, Caleb closing his eyes as it settled around him. A groan escaped and he allowed himself a split second to let the pain radiate through him before his eyes landed on the crystalline figure heading towards him once more. Once again, he was scrambling, hoping to reach the shovel laying behind him before the monster could reach him. “What is this thing?!”

Yellow, reptilian eyes went wide as someone intervened, looking very… normal. What the fuck were they doing? Before he could shout at them to get out of there, they were taking a forceful hit from the beast and… not crumpling like an accordion? Okay, so there was something there—something that became even more obvious, though still not named, as they pushed the beast away and turned to face him.

“Ew,” he commented without thinking, gaze fixed on the thick black ooze coming from their wound. “That’s—you should get that looked at.” Oh, right. They’d asked him something. “But yeah, I can fight. S’how I make a damn livin’.”

Hey, what’s going on? As another person entered the fray, Wyatt pulled himself to his full height and shook off the residual dizziness from slamming head-first into that tree. Why were more people showing up to get themselves killed? Lord, this was why he preferred arranged fights. Then he didn’t have to worry about anyone but himself. The creature was coming at them again until it wasn’t, now heading for loud blondie over there. Wyatt grumbled to himself, giving the person in front of him a curt nod before preparing to leap after the thing—oh. Ow. Blondie took a severe hit, sending him through the air and into the stone side of a crypt. Then there were four, and the lamia cursed aloud, watching as yet another average looking human took a swing at the crystal creature with a… shovel? Why did they have a shovel—never mind. Jesus, never mind. This was insane.

Huffing out an exasperated breath, Wyatt looked to the person closest to him. “Gonna bite its head off,” he informed them. What is this thing?! the third stranger cried as he recuperated from being hucked just like the rest of them, but Wyatt was too busy to respond. He galloped toward the beast on all fours, leaping through the air once he got close enough and scrabbling up its side like a lizard scaling a wall. Large jaws parted as he reached its back and he lurched forward, snapping them around the monster’s neck and biting down. It wasn’t soft, of course, and while the gator’s jaws did apply a fair amount of pressure, nothing more than a few crystals broke loose. Still, he didn’t let go, trying to shake his head as violently as he could to do more damage. At the very least, it was keeping the creature from being able to see straight, holding it more or less in one spot as it tried to buck him off.

The verbal disgust did nothing to faze the vampire, not when more people were being added to the rising battle. One of them, in fact, Metzli recognized as he was thrown roughly into stone. They tilted their head curiously, calculating what the next right thing to do would be. At least two of them were actually capable of fighting if the reptilian wasn’t lying about his job, and at the very least, Cassius had his preternatural strength, and the man with a shovel was…resourceful, to say the least.

“Bite head?” Metzli began to circle slowly around the beast, keeping an eye on its legs for its next move as they continued to speak. “Break your teeth, may…be” And of course, conversation was the last thing the man wanted, cutting it all short as he made his first attack. Sure, Metzli hated conversation with people they didn’t know, but strategizing well was what was going to get them all out safely. Not impulsivity.

“You! With shovel!” They pointed at the man with their knife, shooing him to stand behind the beast as they circled and paced carefully, slowly filling and old role from a past they could not get away from. “Cassius, hurry and get up! Position around.” They pointed to an empty spot. “Do not get hit again.” The man had a good hold, that much was evident. Metzli thought perhaps they could use that time to properly set up the battle, surround the creature so that it could not focus on more than one opponent all the time. It was a common tactic they used with Los Sombras, albeit with a large crowd of humans, but the tactic was still a good one.

“And you!” Yelling at the crunching stranger, Metzli watched the formation take shape, a blindspot needing to be filled. “Let go and help surround! Attack one at a time!” It would give everyone a short reprieve to gather their wits about them before their next attack, and it would benefit them all to be able to have eyes on each other. “Once we know attack pattern and weakness, we arc and push—” They were interrupted, dodging a sweep to their body. “Then kill. Together. Okay?” As they waited for any form of agreement, Metzli tossed their knife toward Cassius. They had a spare anyway.

Hearing Metzli’s call to get himself off the ground, Cassius groaned and hoisted himself up off the ground, dusting off his pants as if it mattered in a moment like this. He cast a glance over to Metzli, then nodded his head once. He ran over to the spot that they had pointed out for them to stand in, focusing his attention on the giant rock monster. Man, the thing was huge, it had to have come from the tunnels, right? He narrowed his eyes and frowned as he thought to himself.

For a moment, he was glad Metzli was there to organize everyone, they seemed to be good at it. Cassius only knew that he’d get his ass kicked if it had been up to him. At least this way, they had a chance of taking this thing down.

He tore his gaze away from the monster long enough to look at the others in the group. A gator, who seemed to be able to understand human speech, which led Cassius to believe they were some kind of shapeshifter. Naturally, in a town like this. He then looked at the man with the shovel. Well, it was definitely a choice.A man with a shovel in a graveyard… hm. Cassius kept his eyes narrowed at Wyatt for a moment longer gefore turning his attention back to the rock monster.

It let out a creaking groan as Metzli dodged their sweeping attack. Cassius quickly grabbed the knife that was tossed his way, and jumped backward with uncanny speed as the monster brought its fist down to where he had been standing. He began to study its moves. So far, sweeping and smashing seemed to be his hits of choice. Okay, he could work with that. He glanced in Metzli’s direction for a moment, waiting for them to give some kind of order, then turned his attention back to the monster, waiting for its next move.

All Caleb could do was stare as the reptilian creature started to scale the crystal giant, his movements slowing to a stop and his mouth hanging open. He'd seen some things in his life but watching a gator tear little pieces of crystal off of a monster made of the stuff took the cake. Wicked's Rest just got weirder by the day. It wasn't until he heard someone shouting at him that his attention was torn away from the battle in front of him. If there was anything Caleb could do correctly, he could follow directions so the zombie gingerly got to his feet before taking his stance behind the creature as he was told. This person seemed to know what they were doing, Caleb all too happy to be a soldier following their leadership.

Even if he was a little terrified, an emotion he tried to mask while he grasped the shovel tightly. It wouldn't do anyone any good for his fear to be on display while they were trying to get rid of whatever this thing was. He could freak out later.

As Caleb waited for his next command, a little piece of crystal that had been torn away from the monster by the reptile came flying towards him. The zombie tried to sidestep it but the smaller piece seemed to develop a mind of its own and somehow gripped his arm, clambering up almost the same way the alligator had done to the much larger monster. “Oh, hell no.” He quickly pushed the smaller rock off of him with as much force as he could muster, the thing landing with a thud in the dirt and breaking into two more pieces. Caleb wasted no time and brought this shovel down hard onto both of them, smashing them up as much as he could until they stopped moving on their own.

“This might make things a little harder.” Caleb turned back to face the person who had given him the earlier command while still keeping the larger monster in the corner of his questioning eyes. “I can take on the little ones while you all keep tearing away at him?”

Wyatt wasn’t used to working as a team. In fact, he’d never done it once in his life. As such, he almost ignored the commands that were being shouted back and forth, zeroing in on the enemy and having little room for consideration of anything else. Still… it wasn’t the cheer of a crowd and eventually the gator did come back to his senses, realizing with some delay that the first one to show up had told him to get down and help them surround it. He growled and hissed as he begrudgingly loosened his grip on the creature’s neck, sliding down its back with claws hooked to break away as many small bits as he could on the way down. They rained to the dirt and grass below, and looking up just in time to see—hang on, the guy with the shovel was Caleb? The lamia scoffed as he watched Caleb smashing some smaller pieces of crystal to bits with his shovel. “What are you—” before he could finish asking, the smaller pieces that he’d dislodged during his dismount were springing to life and running right at him.

Wyatt did not like small critters, he oftentimes felt creeped out by them or like he might crush them if he looked at them wrong, and these miniature abominations were the cherries on top of that particular slice of pie. “Oh, fuck!” he yelped, gaze darting between the little army of nuggets that were only a few steps away and the big motherfucker that was whipping around to try and take a bite out of him, understandably pissed about the whole chomping and gouging thing. Wyatt hunkered down onto all fours again to leap out of the way of the smaller rocks while taking a swipe at the big guy’s head, hooking it by the jaw and dragging its head down close to the ground. Another, much faster bite was delivered—ow—and then the gator released it again to back away, heading for Caleb this time, with his trusty shovel, apparently. “Can you smash those for me I do not like them,” he rattled off quickly as he tried to move back into position without the little fuckers attaching themselves to his scales.

Everyone was capable, it seemed, but there was still a disconnect in each of their skills. Two were more apt for smaller, weaker foe, while the other two had experience with opponents of the monster’s size, or even just fighting in general. The plan had to shift if they were going to make it out alive and in one piece. Begrudgingly, Metzli decided to call for a separation, deeming the shovel and Cassius’s strength and knife to be suited well for the little rocks.

Or were they gems? Cass would be upset if Metzli couldn’t differentiate them. Maybe they could ask her later—they shook their head, refocusing on the matter at hand. “Divide!” They exclaimed, lunging forward to sink their knife into the creature’s blindspot. With considerable force, Metzli tugged and dragged, leaving a gaping wound just before clarifying their instructions, in agreement with Wyatt. “He is right! Cassius and Caleb! Attack small things. Me and him will keep this thing—” A gem creature screeched as it pounced toward Metzli, and they reacted quickly enough to punch it straight to the ground. “Busy!” They finally finished, turning back to the beast and trusting the other two to take their plan into more than just consideration.

“You are a good fighter,” They said in a small break in the chaos. The large creature roared and swiped, just barely missing the two in the midst of Metzli explaining next steps. “We attack in pattern, yes?” Another swipe, and another dodge. “Be on opposite and attack only when other is retreated. It will come to defense and leave itself open for attack when it goes after one of us. Have sense?” There wasn’t much time to allow for a verbal agreement, so Metzli had to trust that Wyatt would listen just as he did before. Even if he was slow to do so last time. They groaned to themself, pushing away the thought and instead opting to trust him to collaborate. Everyone seemed smart enough to listen. Metzli just hoped they were all strong enough to survive.

Letting out a withering sigh, Cassius turned his attention to the smaller crystals that were breaking off and forming sentience around him. This was something out of some comedic horror writer’s wet dream and he wasn’t appreciating it very much, thanks. He let out an indignant scoff before having a flashback to his experience with the fury a few months back. “Wait, I… those creepy things from the mines,” he began to explain, trying to remember what they looked like. “They had geodes for faces, one of them attacked myself and someone else, they had these venom sacks that melted the crystals.” He looked to where the entrance of the mines were, and frowned. It would be a gamble to find one of them right now, but it was something at least.

“It could stop us from having to deal with breaking off a million tiny rock monsters?” He then added, stomping a crystalline miniature hellion into the earth with his Doc Marten. A blonde strand of hair got in his eyes, and he blew it away with an annoyed face, then stomped into another mini crystal creature with his left boot. This would be embarrassing for someone to witness if it wasn’t a life or death situation. Another strand of hair flew into his face, and this time it pissed him off enough to quickly throw his hair into a quick messy knot on the top of his head.

A group of the crystal miniatures jumped up onto his pant legs, and began to do their little tiny punches into his thigh. “This is more annoying than painful,” he muttered to himself as he chanced a glance behind him at the giant creature that Metzli and Wyatt were currently keeping occupied. The more damage it did, the angier it seemed to become, letting out a creaking groan that sounded more like earth settling more than it did a cry of pain or anger. He began to pluck the little crystal things off of his pants and crushed them in his hands as if they were nothing to him.

The tiny pieces were starting to become a hassle, Caleb doing his best to smash them as they came barreling towards him with each blow to the much larger version of themselves. They were easy enough to take on but too many of them could prove disastrous, especially since he didn't know what damage they could cause. He'd learned a long time ago not to underestimate even the smallest of creatures. Busy trying to shake off another tiny monster that crawled up his leg, the zombie's attention was momentarily caught by the gator creature, eyebrows furrowing in confusion when it trailed off during it's question. Somehow the voice sounded familiar but he didn't have time to ponder too much before a group of the smaller crystals started to come at them, two of which joined their hellian sibling latched onto Caleb's clothes. These little things were persistent.

Voices were heard while he knocked the three off of him, stomping them out one by one, but he couldn't quite focus on what they were saying while he kept an eye on the giant thing looming over them all. One was speaking about splitting up, another about something in the mines, so Caleb decided his best course of action was to continue with what he was doing. Maybe he could distract the little ones while the tall blond (Who he assumed was Cassius after hearing the names called) went after what they needed.

It was the accent that sparked Caleb's memory as the gator ran towards him with the request, blue eyes widening when he realized who this could be. He'd never heard it from anyone else in this town and the odds of two of them around here were slim. But they were trying to fight a monster the size of a bus that spawned more with every hit it took. This was no time for the many questions forming in his mind. Nodding at the request, Caleb reared the shovel back before smacking the creatures with the curved edge to send them skittering a yard or so away. “Go, I have them.” He turned to look at Cassius. “You too, I can take care of these.”

Giving Caleb an appreciative nod, Wyatt circled around the beast to where Metzli was to draw it away from the other two. Cassius was saying something about a mine monster, and… huh. That did sound better than biting this thing until his fangs started falling out. “Think you can lead one out here?” he shouted to the blonde while Metzli punched the fucking thing to the ground (what the fuck), then gave them a reptilian grin in response to their compliment. “Same could be said of you!” he answered. “But—opposites, pattern. Got it!” Ducking out the way again to take up position behind the cranky rock, doing as instructed and waiting to jump on the thing’s back and do as much damage as quickly as he could before hopping back down and drawing its attention his way, leaving it open to attack from Metzli.

Casting a concerned glance over in Caleb’s direction, the gator let out a loud hiss to get his attention. “Hey, you doin’ alright over there with your shovel, sport?” His tone sounded… affectionately teasing, and the shit-eating grin he was wearing was lost somewhere in translation—alligator jaws weren’t particularly expressive, after all.

There was a clear crack that shot up a hint of warmth up Metzli’s arm. It was the most they felt in weeks, shooting their pupils into large saucers like some sort of high. They smiled lightly, turning in time to watch Wyatt dodge and compliment, agreeing a lot easier than before.

With the beast open for attack thanks to the shifter, Metzli pounced. They found purchase on a few gems, cocking their arm back and plunging their knife into it over and over again. Its maw snapped and snarled, poorly attempting to rid itself of the tick on its side. Metzli granted its wish and leapt back to allow Wyatt to make his move, only to be swiped at mid-air.

The pain that surged throughout their body as they made impact with the ground was enough to force a huff of laughter to escape them. But the claws in their chest? That only served to strengthen the feeling, allowing it to bloom into adrenaline throughout their veins. Metzli laughed, truly laughed, and placed their feet against its chest to keep it from causing any more damage while they waited for help. It worked, for the most part, but if no one charged in soon, they were sure they’d be unable to continue helping.

Once he got the go ahead from Caleb, Cassius took off toward the entrance of the cave. Luckily for him, the commotion had brought out more than one volmugger to the entrance. They skittered about on all fours, their geode faces snapping to attention the second that he stepped close enough. There were three of them in total. For a brief moment, he thought that maybe that three was too many to handle. He wasn’t going to go down like this, and he wasn’t going to let anyone else get exposed to the damn things. With a intake of breath, Cassius rushed toward the closest creature, stabbing it in the middle of its geode, rendering the venom sack behind its non-face completely useless. The acid leaked out onto the knife, beginning to eat away at it. He pulled it out quickly, the liquid dripping down his hand and burning away his skin, exposing bone and muscle tendons.

Grimacing at the pain, Cassius lept backward as the second creature made an eerie clicking sound, then acid sprayed in an arc toward him. It got his chest, burning away the clothes and flesh, exposing more muscle and bone. Black blood bubbled to the surface, and he had no choice but to ignore the pain that seared through him.

The last two creatures clicked at him and sprayed their acid, and this time he rolled away in the knick of time. It eroded the stone where he once stood, leaving bubbling acid in its place. The blood trickled down his chest, and he chanced a glance down at it. His shirt was ruined, and there was no way that wouldn’t leave a temporary scar. It went through the carnation tattoo that he had, and he cursed under his breath. How the hell was he going to explain that to the tattoo artist?

Cassius didn’t have time to think, the third creature clicked and sprayed its acid at his face, and lunged toward the second and grabbed its head and pulled, a horrible ripping of bone and tendon cut through the silent night as he ripped its head clean from its body. The body fell to the ground lifeless, and he had secured what he was after. The last remaining creature charged at him, and he dropped the geode-like head quickly, the acid spraying onto his legs. It splashed everywhere, achieving the same effect it had on the rest of his body. Wasting no time, he ripped into the creatures chest and tore it apart, rending flesh from bone, terrible ripping and squelching sounds as he crushed its organs in his hands.

In a swift motion, Cassius tore another head from its body, then plucked up the other head he had discarded in the earth. With clothes and flesh sufficiently burned away, he ran limped back toward the group. “Catch!” He shouted to Metzli, then threw the geode-like head toward the other vampire. “It sprays an acid, it eats away at the rock!” He explained, then rushed over to the small pieces that were forming tiny creatures and tore out the sac from the center of the skull. He squeezed on it and it began to leak. The blonde made quick work of spraying the liquid onto the smaller crystal structures, which began to melt away entirely.

With Cassius gone, Caleb was almost overrun with the little pieces taking on a life of their own, most of them turning their tiny fury on the pale man churning them to dust with loud blows of the metal stomping them into the ground. Three more were already up his legs with one the size of his head having made it to Caleb’s waste. They were going for his arms, probably to stop him from using the shovel against them. The sound of Wyatt’s voice brought him back to the bigger fight at hand, Caleb questioning how the man could still sound like he was flirting in the middle of this. “Since when am I ‘sport’ to you? I like firebug better.”

The larger of the broken pieces suddenly clamped its jaw down on Caleb’s wrist, making it clear that these bastards were definitely going for his hands as a sharp end of crystal sunk into his skin and hit bone, drawing up that tell tale black goo. “Shit!” He jerked his hand away and shook his wrist with force, sending the crystal flying only for it to come running back towards him as soon as it landed on its feet. Caleb swiped at it, the end of the shovel splitting through it before he stomped both pieces out with his boot. “Yea, I’m doing great. But I think they have it worse.” Head jerking towards the person being held in place by the monster, he raised an eyebrow as Cassius came running back looking worse for wear. “Or him.”

“You’re right, I don’t know why the fuck I said that,” the lamia laughed, putting a pin in the thought that they were going to probably have to have a conversation at some point about… all of whatever the fuck was going on here. Which… it wasn’t going terribly, all things considered. It wasn’t great though, and Wyatt was left to duck his head and charge at the beast pinning Metzli to the ground. The first hit rocked it in place but didn’t quite do the trick, and the gator bellowed angrily as he backed up to try again. “Fuck off, Mount Rushmore!” Bodyslamming the beast a second time managed to topple it over, just in time for Cassius to come back from the mines, apparently.

Looking like absolute shit.

Wyatt held out a scaly, clawed hand to Metzli to pull them to their feet, balking at the sight of the blonde. He threw something their way, which Metzli handily caught. “Dude, you look fuckin’ rough,” he half exclaimed, half laughed, hoping that it wasn’t a future for all of them. It could be, if what he said about the acid was true. Blinking back at Metzli, Wyatt stepped out of the way, giving them plenty of space to spray the big rocky fucker that was getting back to its feet. “All you, friend,” he hissed.

Metzli’s eyes were wide and a bit wild from all the sensations they’d managed to develop. It was a rush, leaving them feral to continue, but they knew that they needed to remain at least somewhat composed if they all wanted to defeat the beast. Even if their mouth was watering at the mere thought of a meal. No, they shook their head, squeezing their eyes shut tightly until they saw stars. It did well to refocus them, and they sheathed their blade in order to grasp the geode in their hand.

“Thank you,” they replied calmly, just barely dodging a swipe from the monster with a roll to the ground. Landing on one knee, Metzli took aim and smiled with satisfaction as the acid began to coat the grisly thing with enough to send it screeching viscerally. Que suerte, they thought, rising to their feet to watch and analyze. It thrashed backwards, trying its best to get away from the thing that caused it pain. “You next.” Metzli said, tossing the geode over to Caleb like some game of hot tomato. Or whatever game that Cass tried to explain to them.

Waving off the comments that were thrown Cassius’s way by the gator man, quickly side stepping monster’s attempts at swiping. His hand reached for the acid sac and grimaced, continuing to spray the vile liquid onto the smaller pieces that had gained sentience. As they melted away, the giant monstrosity turned its attention onto the blonde vampire. It let out a roar as it changed its path, zeroing in on Cassius and smashing down on him.

As soon as the crystal arm came down, Cassius fell out of the way as quick as he could. The stone came crashing down onto his lower leg, eliciting a cry from the vampire. The geode head he held in his hands tumbled out of his hold and toward Wyatt, leaving Cassius to scoot out of the way of the monster. He rolled onto his hands and knees, wincing at the pain that came with it. Ignoring the pain best he could, he hopped up onto his good leg, hobbling away from the large monster and toward Caleb and his shovel. The acid that Metzli had sprayed onto the monster was starting to eat away at the creature, crystal bubbling away to nothingness.

Slamming his foot down on one of the last of the little monsters, Caleb looked up just in time to see the geode head flying towards him. “Wait!” But there was no stopping them, it was too late. He dropped the shovel to catch the thing, his numb fingers fumbling to keep his hold firm. It almost slipped fully from his grasp until he was able to tighten his hold, accidentally squeezing some of the acid onto his shirt which burned through to the skin of his abdomen. Teeth gnashed against his bottom lip when the pain radiated through him, his focus on the battle lost. There was something building inside of Caleb, something that terrified him more than anything, but he did his best to bring his sights back to the problem at hand.

Pointing the head towards the monster that was still being eaten away, he squeezed again, much harder this time while strength started to intensify. The acid sprayed over the side of the monster that was now facing the empty space where Cassius had been standing with its head swiveling around to try and take in all of the enemies surrounding it. Its arm was quickly covered, the limb starting to melt away. “Metzli!” The name was growled as Caleb tossed the head back to them so he could assist Cassius in getting away from the thing. He moved to the man’s side to wrap an arm around his waist and support his weight so Cassius could walk better. “Really are trying to outshine us, aren’t you? Let’s get you away from this thing before it tears an arm off or something.”

Staring down at the head that’d rolled in his direction, Wyatt groaned. “Aw, man. Seriously? Like… seriously??” He glanced around—everyone else was otherwise preoccupied with taking the creature and its little fuck off minions down, and the acid really seemed to be doing the trick. “Fuck me,” he growled, reaching down to grab the head with a grimace. “So gross.” Sticking a clawed hand into the weird creature’s… skull—if you could call it that—the gator sprinted toward their larger foe and gave the sac a mighty squeeze (ew), holding it in front of him like a water hose. Kind of a sad water hose, but at least the liquid did excellent work in small quantities.

He sprayed all down the thing’s side and it shuddered and groaned, collapsing to the ground. It wasn’t dead yet, however dead a thing made of gems could be, but it wasn’t moving fast anymore. Wyatt kept this up until the volmugger dome stopped giving, then spiked it on the ground like a football. “Take that, Kilimanjaro!! Hell yeah!” Now properly pumped again, the lamia leaped forward and clamped down on one of the legs that hadn’t been touched by acid yet, biting as hard as he could stand and thrashing his head around until it broke free, then hucking it over toward Metzli, who had the last of the acid.

The familiar sound of teeth chattering almost caused Metzli to abandon everything, a longing in their mind building and completely convinced that the source was a ghost that’d returned to life. But when their eyes landed on what they hoped would be Honey, it was just Caleb, a stranger tossing the geode back toward Wyatt. Zombie then, Metzli surmised, watching the scene halfheartedly when they should’ve been helping Cassius, or really, anyone. What would she make of their state? She would know what to do, would go through hordes of vampires with them if it meant they’d be free again, but that didn’t matter at the moment.

They turned their attention back to the screeching monster, its wails of agony piercing through the space and echoing around them all. Metzli stayed where they were for a moment, staring at the leg that had been thrown toward them by a much-too-energetic Wyatt. At least someone was having fun, they supposed, pulling out their knife again as they limped somewhat confidently over to the beast that was now too sad to really continue.

Death should be swift if one could grant it, as Honey would say. It was the respectful thing to do, and they’d honor her by thrusting their knife into the creature’s throat and severing its head as much as they could. Viscera and sinew dangled lamely with its head, body slowly going still. Blood and acid mixed together and sizzled against flesh, but Metzli hardly minded (especially not when it allowed them to feel). Caleb and Cassius already had both their clothes and skin effectively ruined, and a job needed to be done, so they’d be a good sport about it and join them. “Think it is dead,” they droned, backing away and tilting their head eerily as they studied its death.

Thankful for the assistance from Caleb, Cassius nodded his head in thanks. “I seem to be exceptional at getting myself hurt,” he grumbled to himself, wincing as he put weight onto his bad leg. Before they could get away from the fray, the monster fell to the ground. Cassius let out a sigh of relief as Metzli declared it dead. “The fuck was it?” He asked as the two of them hobbled towards both Metzli and Wyatt. “Everyone alright?” He then asked, hoping that he had gotten the brunt of the damage instead of someone else. He was thankful he had a connection in his back pocket when it came to getting medical attention.

Studying the half-melted crystal monster, Cassius’s frown deepened. “Glad we were all here before it got to a populated area.” He looked around the cemetery, there were smashed headstones strewn about, but that was better than innocent people being killed by the thing. “Do we just… leave it here?” His brows furrowed together, unsure what to make of the situation now that the imminent threat had been dealt with.

It was quite the scene really, a giant alligator and three people all messed up standing around a melting giant rock monster in the middle of a graveyard with geode heads at their feet. His face contorted with disgust when he and Cassius got closer, Caleb hardly believing that he’d been involved at all, much less had one of those heads in hand. He gently kicked at one as Cassius spoke. Yea, that was gross. “It looks like a larger version of the crystals growing out of the ground but at least those don’t move.” And thank god it didn’t seem to affect them like the smaller ones did. That could have been an even bigger disaster if Wyatt had suddenly lost himself to the thing with all the blows he’d dealt by teeth.

With that thought, Caleb looked over towards the alligator but didn’t move towards him. It was safer to keep his distance with his body trying to heal itself. Besides, Cassius still needed some help. “I don’t know if it’s safe to leave it out here…will the acid spread and melt the whole thing?” It seemed to still be bubbling in areas, eliciting another noise of disgust from the zombie. “That’s really gross.”

“Peachy. Not a scratch.” Well, that might’ve not been true, but who had time for splitting hairs right now? Sucking in a deep breath to calm his wired nerves, the lamia lowered himself into a squat near the beast, claws digging into dirt as he leaned over to give it a closer look. Yeah… would have been a shame if it’d reached whatever party was going on deeper in the graveyard. Which… he might have to check out, actually. He deserved it. But first… they had a point, they couldn’t really just leave it here. Damnit. Wyatt glanced around them, yellow eyes squinted. “I mean, it’s a graveyard, yeah? People bury shit here. Let’s just… bury it?” His gaze danced from Metzli to Cassius and then to Caleb, who wielded the shovel.

Digging a grave for something this big would take the poor man all night.

With a snort, the gator lifted his tail and started to dig with his hands, raking the earth between his legs. “Not a word from any of ya,” he warned, thankful that at least this spot in particular seemed to be free of coffins. Well, mostly. He had to change course once or twice, but managed to claw out a hole big enough for what remained of the crystal creature in a fraction of the time it would’ve taken someone with human tools. Then came the pushing of the beast, which had them all lined up on one side of it, heaving with all their might.

As they threw the dirt back over the top of it and filled in the hole, Wyatt leaned over to Caleb, speaking in a low voice. “So, uh… surprise, firebug! Not exactly how I wanted you to find out.” If at all. “I’d ask about the shovel, but…” He smirked, at least as much as an alligator could. “We can chat later.”

Metzli shrugged at both of Cassius’s questions, still staring at the dead and deflated beast as it continued to sizzle. Their whole body felt similar, a warm haze humming across the top of their skin. It was subtle and consistent, a welcome sensation by all accounts. They looked around at everyone and then at themself, self-preservation obvious in everyone but them, but there was no time for Metzli to linger on the thought when Wyatt spoke.

“Peach…y?” It was a strange term, and no fruit was around to logically generate such a response. But then that didn’t matter either. Wyatt began to dig in a sacred place, with no care as to the respect the place demanded and deserved. Metzli opened their mouth to object, but it quickly shut as a tugging encompassed their entire head. Eyes went blank, a desire to head to another graveyard overcoming them. Their legs moved before anything else could be commented on. It was like Wyatt had said anyway. They could all chat later.

Grateful that he had fed before the whole encounter, the Cassius already started to feel his wounds healing. Of course they wouldn’t heal instantly, but it would be enough for him to be able to walk on his own without aid from a stranger. He nodded his head toward Wyatt, who claimed he was all good. Good. At least he was the only one that got himself hurt. He could live with that outcome.

Then, Cassius all but blinked as the alligator man began to dig like his life depended on it. He slowly hobbled away from Caleb, giving him a thankful nod, but he had it from here. He watched as Metzli walked off, and he shrugged a shoulder. Guess it was time to get back to the hotel for the night and hope that this whole situation was just one giant weird dream. But knowing the town, it probably wasn’t. “Good luck with all that,” he murmured toward the alligator before walking toward the entrance of the cemetery. Yeah, Cassius was definitely done living in cemeteries for good.

The sight of Wyatt digging a hole would have sent Caleb into a laughing fit on any normal night. It seemed like the best reaction, right? Fighting a giant crystal monster with three other people and then watching a large alligator dig a hole to bury it was something out of some supernatural parody show meant to terrify and amuse. Instead, all he did was watch with interest, smiling softly while his thoughts kept flicking between a meal and the chef and the two other…were they undead like him? They were both wounded and still upright, Cassius even walking better after a short amount of time. Had to be undead. He wasn’t going to ask outright though and they were both walking away after the beast was buried before he could think anymore on it anyway, almost as if they saw this type of thing everyday.

Looking back at Wyatt, Caleb took a step away from the gator and grabbed the shovel off the ground, still marveling at how the charm the man possessed was coming through even in this form. “We definitely have a lot to talk about.” But he kept slowly walking backwards in the general direction of his truck, not willing to get close just in case. Even if he was in control of himself right now and could push the thoughts of hunger away Caleb didn’t quite trust himself to keep it that way. “I can’t stay here right now though. It’s best for both of us.” The zombie lifted his hand in a small wave and then, without explanation, turned on his heel, quickening his pace to get far away. He’d call Wyatt later, maybe even look for the other two undead to talk further. For now, he needed to get home and feed before the town had a different monster on its hands.

#season 1 #group writing

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wonder-in-wings · 4 months

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TIMING: Late December LOCATION: Parker’s House SUMMARY: Parker (@wonder-in-wings asks Metzli (@muertarte for a favor. CONTENT WARNINGS: parental abuse (referenced)

He couldn’t see it, no matter how he moved. It was too close to the middle of his back, too far for his grasp to touch. Too deep to fall out on its own, too big to not notice, too foreign to be broken down. It was as similar as the tattoo of the dragonfly that stretched its wings across his shoulder blades; the only way Parker could tell it was there was because of the pain it brought.

And this was too persistent for him to ignore any more. It emitted a pulse accompanied with a feverish heat, making it difficult to sleep or even sit back. The Warden had pressed through every interaction up until that point - he’d gotten into more than one fight, had more than one in-person conversation. And Parker could feel his dull, robotic expression falter more than he’d have liked to admit as he felt another flare of pain radiate from the point of entry. Resigned to not being able to see the damn thing at least for now, he left the bathroom into his living room where he paced rather irritably, scrolling through the contacts on his phone as he felt his mind pulling on such a rare thing that it was almost as though it didn’t really exist; an ethereal tether that he never acknowledged until that moment. He was desperate. Parker’s eyes searched, darting from name to name to name, consistently revisiting one but he kept pushing it out of his pool of options. He didn’t want to bother Metzli, not when they were so freshly opened, so newly freed from the oppressive weight of their elder. And yet, as those same eyes grew wider with a slow realization that aside from Rhett, who he’d chosen not to place this burden on due to the older Warden’s already-full plate, he wasn’t sure who else on this list he– The thought itself became constricted in his mind and he inhaled sharply. ‘You don’t trust anyone, do you?’ Walker asked. ‘Because no one trusts you.’ ‘Who would?’ His father asked with a scoff, the two circling him slowly in a memory. ‘You take things apart. You hold people under and look ‘em in the eye.’ Blue eyes swayed from one to the other, an unfamiliar look on Parker’s scarred face. ‘How long until your friend realizes that’s what you do?’ His father sneered. ‘How long ‘til they can’t stand to be around you anymore?’ He needed to word this carefully, with his family’s words swirling in his mind. They were right. No one on the list was– ‘Metzli, if you aren’t terribly busy, I have a favor to ask of you.’ Parker sent first, wondering if he should’ve rescinded it as soon as it was sent. Without waiting for a response, he swallowed and continued. ‘It’s not [...] important, but if you could come to my house, you’re invited inside.’ A pause. ‘I apologize for being cryptic. It’s [...] difficult to ask.’ Another pause. No, that was selfish. He couldn’t expect them to come over, especially considering what had happened the past week. He exhaled again and sent yet another text. ‘Never mind. May I [...] come over there? I don’t want to bother you.’ — —

It was no easy task to exist in a vessel that now had freedom, still having no ability to prevent the random outbursts that have already led to several aggravated encounters. The spectrum, Metzli had learned quickly, was something that could not be controlled. It could only be learned and countered. And with a little bit of patience from their friends, and a bit of trial and error, Metzli had managed to go a full day without causing any sort of blowup. Leila was proud of them, and if they were honest, so were they. It gave them hope that there was a way to ease the pain of existence.

Even if it was a small amount. Even if it came in small instances that were meant for only them. They didn’t have to practice in the outside world all the time.

Painting had become a home again, a place where emotions and the weight of everything happening around them could dissipate into something bearable. Metzli smiled at the way their brush cascaded down the canvas with practiced precision. A satisfying sight, really. Especially when the line connects to others, just so. It made Metzli roll their wrists happily and get a tad bit distracted. Enough to see that they had a few notifications on their phone from Parker.

Brows stitched together with concern and they replied. ‘Not busy. I will leave in a few minutes.’ They tapped away at their phone and immediately moved to clean their supplies, quickly moving to grab their keys and give Fluffy a few pets before departing. The drive was fast, faster than usual considering Parker had requested something from Metzli. It was an unusual thing for him, leaving something brimming just beneath the vampire’s skin and sending their fingers rubbing against themselves. When they arrived, they hastily (and stiffly) made their way to the door and knocked. — — Every second between every checkpoint of something happening was swelled with an unspoken, unrecognized anxiety. Parker’s pacing was now accompanied by hand-clenching, having started as soon as his miniature barrage of texts were sent out. He felt… like he was taking something that wasn’t his. In this case, he was taking Metzli’s time, their effort, their space regardless of where either of them went in relation to the other. He shouldn’t have asked. He should’ve asked someone else. He should’ve told them ‘never mind, it’s not important’. ‘Not important, he thinks as he has a big red pustule on his back.’ Walker was still there. He was always there in Parker’s head, an irritable “aid” to his thought process, “helping” him in the place of thinking on his own. Could he do anything on his own? He had to have, right? This was just something unfortunate that he required help with. And that was why he asked Metzli. And the spiral threatened to start over again. The Warden shook his head but not before approaching one of his walls and almost ramming his head into it, a negative solution to a problem he couldn’t seem to react to in a tangible way. And something he hadn’t done since August. No, he was above that. He was in control, not whatever was tugging at him, urging him to curl into a ball and slip out of coherence for his surroundings. Hands clenched tightly into fists, so tightly that his middle fingers were threatening to break under the strain. It wouldn’t have been the first time. A knock on his door was simultaneous with a deep breath he’d taken and Parker turned his blue eyes to the dark wood. If it had been any other time, any other day, he would’ve granted them entrance regardless of who it was - Parker was confident enough in his abilities, even after his close calls with Emilio but now, he was unstable; one papercut, one innocuous nosebleed, one minute abrasion away from temporarily losing himself to a frenzy, not remotely helped by the pulsing in his back. So Parker approached the door as he attempted to recover his calm, collected appearance. ‘Stand up straight, boy.’ His spine was pulled back subconsciously and he ignored the fierce sting that raced up his musculature. He opened the door and whether he was aware of it or not, his expression softened when his eyes beheld Metzli. Tired, but not unhappy with the ghosts of what had happened recently still present between the inclinations of suddenly expressing themselves genuinely. “Metzli, hello.” Parker said rather awkwardly before stepping aside to allow his friend passage into his warmly-lit living room. “I’m… sorry for the messages. I…” The sentence was abandoned. “How are you doing?”

— —

It was disconcerting to see Parker behave so…expressive. At least, in his own way. The way he spoke with a lack of stone gave Metzli pause. A weight, cold and sharp, veiled over their chest and they took a quiet breath to ease it as best they could. A technique Xóchitl had given them when things started to become ‘loud’. Though they were surprised to find it wasn’t an overwhelming tidal wave like usual. The sensation Metzli felt was more like a bystander watching the storm, unable to do much more than stare. Empathy, they thought. Something they had before, but only a small whisper of it. Now it had become a thunderous chorus. Metzli couldn’t help but listen.

“I am fine. It is good to see you.” Stepping inside, they took another breath and scanned the entranceway slowly. If Parker was hurting in some way, they thought perhaps someone or something was in the house. Another look, and nothing. Everything was where it should be and looked fine. “Hm…” Metzli’s brows pinched together as they continued inside, turning around to regard Parker with a look of concern on their face. Their fingers wrapped around themselves continuously, the friction a decent distraction from the anxiety that developed from their worry. “Is everything okay, Parker?” Metzli rolled their shoulders and swallowed. “Something is different.” — —

The door closed gently and as Metzli turned, presumably to gather their surroundings, Parker’s brow cinched together, unable to keep himself from entirely hiding the wince of pain as the mask dropped during that moment. “It’s also… good to see you.” He replied slowly, quietly. “I’m…” ‘Just spit it out, boy. They’re your friend, ain’t they? You called them over for a reason, you disappointment.’ Usually his father’s words didn’t worm their way through his head nearly as easily. “Sorry.” He shook his head again. Clenching and unclenching his hands as it took him a few seconds longer than it should’ve to process what Metzli had asked him, he furrowed his brow and looked to the vampire. “Yeah, it’s– no, there’s…” The sentence faltered again; why was this so difficult? It felt as though there was a disconnect between his head and his mouth, what he needed to say versus what refused to be said. Another stab up his spine, drawing a sharp breath from him. Stupidly, he motioned up in a general gesture, his hand forming a loose point. “I need help.” He finally admitted. “But… I understand if you don’t want to.” He added, avoiding their gaze, his blue eyes lowering in submission. It was an unspoken sign of vulnerability, accompanied with a silent acknowledgement that it wasn’t his place to ask for help. ‘Imagine! Parker Wright asking for someone else’s help when he hasn’t done anything to earn it.’ Walker said incredulously. ‘It’s okay.’ His mother’s considerably gentler tone soothed over, managing to settle a microcosm of the anxiety that was wracking the Warden’s mind. ‘It’ll be okay. Just be humble.’

— —

Watching Parker unable to complete his thoughts only served to concern Metzli further, the grip of worry tightening. Neither one of them took touch lightly, every move considered before being made, but that wasn’t the case at that moment. Carefully, Metzli reached forward without another thought and cupped Parker’s cheek in hopes of centering him, or at least comforting him. “You must take a deep breath.” They rose their brows and leaned their head forward to look their friend in the eyes, urging Parker to listen to their words. Whatever was going through his mind, Metzli couldn’t help but sympathize having been in his position so many times.

Thoughts were a heavy burden, weighing painfully on the heart that wanted desperately to be lifted. It was a good thing the vampire was strong. “If you need help, then I will do this. You are my friend and you are there for them in times like this, yes?” They offered what they thought was a reassuring smile, attempting to be friendly and helpful. It didn’t meet Metzli’s eyes and didn’t curl like any real smile should, showing only teeth in an awkward display. “Will you tell me what is wrong? Let us sit.” Retreating their hand, they gave Parker some room and made their way to the living room so the two could sit comfortably as they were told what the issue was. When they took a seat, Metzli kept their breath steady and calm, eyes still soft to be a friendly presence despite the rigidity from their posture to escape pressure on their back. — —

‘How many years has it been?’ Parker didn’t know who was asking, what the answer was. Why it was so difficult, why he was so insufficient. The question had many answers, it turned out as he attempted to sift through the noise in his head to find the right one, if there was one. All the while, his mind kept racing back to the original: He shouldn’t be putting any of this on Metzli. Not now, or ever. And yet. Their hand on his face was immediately felt; at first, it appeared to Parker in a flash of contact, knuckles and a ring striking in an attempt to get his emotionless expression to react, to feel something, to show remorse or shame. It had happened a number of times he could count on both hands, long having since been a futile endeavor and thus abandoned before he had reached his teens. That feeling, sharp and stinging as it was from a distant memory, was quickly replaced by something else… a sort of longing comfort. And he realized, on his own with no family members to help, that the answer was ‘too many’. Parker hadn’t earned any of this. But even he could recognize when an attempt had been made. Fighting the urge to retreat into the bathroom, feeling embarrassment pulling on him like a child desperately trying to escape from an unfamiliar social situation, he did indeed take a deep breath. His mind, something that had been careening into the abyss, was grasped, somewhat stabilized, and he followed them to where they could sit, though he ended up standing. “I have… something lodged in my back.” It sounded so simple now that he had actually just admitted it. “And I can’t… reach it.” Though that second part was the part that was difficult to actually say, though he managed.

“It’s… foolish. I’m sorry.” He apologized again. “It’s just… I don’t…” These pauses weren’t due to anxiety spiraling in his mind now. They were deliberate, with an admission still on the tip of his tongue but there was still something keeping him from outright saying it. It wasn’t the injury, but there was something horrifyingly vulnerable about exposing his back, asking someone for help, trusting them with this process. It felt wrong, even if it wasn’t.

— —

“Lodged?” Eyes widened with a hint of horror, the idea of a friend being that badly hurt so awful. Their eyes darted to and from Parker’s face and the general area of his back. “Something is stuck.” Metzli reiterated, nodding in understanding as they reached for their knife behind their back. They did it slowly, hand much gentler than it normally would be when retrieving their weapon. There was no malice needed anyway, not when their help was needed. When a friend was asking for assistance. Because that’s what you did for friends, and Parker had made it clear he was happy to be Metzli’s.

They were both monsters that were so rarely understood, and if there was a chance to reduce the loneliness and dread, even slightly, Metzli would always jump at the chance. “You do not have to give apology.” They shook their head softly, presenting their knife and placing it in front of Parker so he knew Metzli’s intentions. The apprehension in his voice made it clear that asking for help wasn’t an act done often or easily. Something else they understood all too well. Vulnerability was a luxury, one not granted to Parker.

For a moment, Metzli wondered if he was allowed to do so with his own family. They surely weren’t, having too strong of outbursts in an environment way too misunderstanding. It was a bitter existence at times, but around the right people (and Metzli hoped to be one of those), vulnerability would come a bit easier. “Show me and I will get this thing out for you. It will be no problem for me to do this.” They reassured, “You are my friend.” — —

‘You’re such an enigma sometimes, you know that?’ Walker asked, a few years ago as Parker watched Metzli remove the knife and display it before him. The speed and deliberation of such an act were the unspoken indicators that they weren’t going to attack him, even if part of the Warden accepted that that would’ve been preferable to the constant attention whatever was going on near his spine demanded of him. Fighting was distracting, he’d learned which he hated as he didn’t find any enjoyment in combat. This wasn’t enjoyment, though; it felt more like necessity. The knife was placed, the assurance that he owed them no apology was surely wasted on him, but there was something else there. Something that somehow tethered the two of them. It wasn’t romantic, not that he knew what that felt like. Parker was also so unfamiliar with what friendship was, as his blue-eyed gaze met theirs and he gave a silent nod. He was their friend. They were… his. ‘It’ll be okay.’ His mother soothed as he deliberately started to pull the worn black Henley over his torso. Scars over scars were revealed on the skin overlaying a rippling musculature; the gashes from the two balam, the claw marks from Teagan. Knife wounds, thin white lines from razor-sharp blades. Most recently were two garish bite marks, one on each forearm. He was not ashamed of his body, nor was he embarrassed by the scars he’d accumulated; he was 47 years old, a survivor, a competent hunter, a Warden. He didn’t know what Metzli looked like under their clothing but he was willing to wager they had similar stories woven into their skin, everything from fights they didn’t start to possibly a parent who didn’t understand. They and Parker were similar in more ways than he comprehended, which was the only reason why he slowly turned where a rather large, discolored bump could be seen visibly protruding from his back inches away from his spine, and located in the exact right location where he couldn’t reach it either from above or below. The house was warm, but Parker felt dipped in cold water and the hair on the back of his neck stood up as he exposed the lingering malady to them. A deficiency. Something so (seemingly) small that made him so angry. A thorn in the lion’s paw. “I��m sor–” He cut himself off before he could finish the apology and instead he hunched over slightly as he stood, wincing as the skin over the infection grew taut. “I don’t know what it is but… it’s imperative that I don’t see any blood.” He added somewhat vaguely. “...I’m… You’re my friend, too.” He admitted quietly. “And I’m not… just saying that because… you’re being kind enough to help.”

— —

It was useless to counter Parker and his apologies, when a mind grew too twisted with guilt and worry. Metzli had been in the same place many a time, saying the same things, interrupting themself to prevent any more burden from spilling out. Metzli gave Parker a simple shake of their head, offering a ghost of a pat to his shoulder so as to not startle him in his vulnerable state. “Wars.” They said, scanning Parker and reading the tale of his life on his flesh. “I have wars, too.” They softly admitted. Some scars were more faded than others, some deeper and therefore a little more thick and jagged. They made Metzli’s own ache with empathy, a shaky sigh escaping them when their eyes landed on the anomaly.

Parker was obviously in pain, and the confession about blood only made Metzli worry, brows furrowing. With a nod of understanding, they grabbed their knife and analyzed the tick-like thing embedded in Parker’s flesh. Even regular ones caused pain, discomfort, and disease, but what Metzli was looking at was no regular tick. Not in a place like Wicked’s Rest. They hummed in thought, their thumb rubbing the side of their blade, the smooth and cold metal providing some comfort amid the stress. It helped, just a bit, that Parker was being so kind in his moment of vulnerability. They were friends. Even if Metzli knew what they were going to do next was going to cause him an enormous amount of pain.

“Take many deep breaths. Slowly. Okay? I will try to not make you bleed.” They gave Parker a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder before readying their knife, thumb pressed against the side so as to pinch the tick in between. “I will pull now.” Metzli placed the thing in position, squeezing tightly and securing it before they tugged with care. If it were like any regular tick (and they knew it wasn’t, but there wasn’t much to work with as far as knowledge went), then it was imperative that they removed the entire thing. Which would prove painful considering its size. Metzli wished they had their other arm to provide Parker extra comfort, but they knew they had to focus on pulling. So, they did, and with much force. — —

Wars. He knew Metzli had encountered wars, as well. Conflicts etched into their skin, bones mended with lessons, markings left on the brain from something that wasn’t understood, but it was acknowledged. Clutching his shirt in his hands, still feeling icy needles on his skin, Parker felt the gentle pressure on his shoulder. “Do what you must. I… trust you.” It was small, like a scared child taking the hand of a firefighter in a burning building. It didn’t feel like much of a choice, either; they’d already gotten as far as they had, with the Warden feeling the rotten, squirming pulse of something trapped beneath his red, healed-over skin. He thought Winter had removed it that day. What she must’ve done was instead remove the sac from its back instead of the whole thing; ticks did that, of course they did that and of course Parker knew that. This felt different than that day, however and the newfound knowledge that all this time it had still been there didn’t mean much as the vampire pressed before pulling. Pain was a teacher. It was there before Parker could speak, always present in every interaction. Pain was a teacher to help him learn of its distraction, something to numb himself to as to not be caught off guard, perceived as weak, taken advantage of. He had been stabbed, sliced, clawed, torn apart. Opened up, forcibly closed into himself, restrained both physically and mentally. ‘You aren’t sensitive, like the older one.’ His father’s sharp tone cut through the pain that erupted from his back, that damned spot so close to his spine. ‘You don’t feel things like other people. You’re a machine. You only stop when you’re shut down.’ The material in his hands was ripped effortlessly, and at the same time as a sharp inhale that made his nose sting with the air that was pulled through it. ‘You take things apart. It’s such a shame you’ll never be–’ “I’m trying.” Parker replied through tightly-gritted teeth, feeling blue eyes widened from being so unused to processing what that pain was supposed to feel like welling with tears. He took a deep breath, shuddered out an exhale and repeated the process. ‘You’re not trying hard enough.’ His father snapped back. ‘Look at you, crying because of a bug. And in front of someone who’s just… waiting for you to show too much of yourself.’ His father’s voice wrapped itself around the feelings from his back, puncturing his thoughts. ‘I said you weren’t sensitive. I think maybe I was actually wrong.’ His shirt was ripped again and he could feel himself wanting to recoil from the blade, a snake flinching in the presence of a hawk but he stood firm. Physically. — —

Parker suddenly speaking broke Metzli out of their concentration. It was as if he was responding to someone they couldn’t see in the room. Someone who was making the storm in his mind worse if the tearing they heard was any indication. “Breathe, amigo.” Metzli took to breathing a little louder to push Parker to follow their pattern as they continued to tug. No matter how gently they pulled though, blood began to seep at the edges with each millimeter it moved out. Red flushed over brown and fangs stretched, a shuddered breath fluttering through Metzli’s lips. Their throat constricted slightly, and they swallowed past the uneasy sensation so they could focus on their careful force.

In a matter of minutes, the tick was halfway out, thankfully still intact. Metzli licked their lips at the sight of Parker’s blood cascading down his skin, and it was all they could do to keep themself from sinking their aching fangs into their friend. Stop it. Stop it. He needs focus. You will focus. Tapping into their strength, Metzli gave a final tug, removing the tick fully from its home. It bulged with blood, tightening hunger’s grip around the vampire’s throat as they stared. The thing had to be supernatural to be such a size and to require Parker to avoid the sight of blood. All of it was so concerning, but at least now Parker was free from the intruder, and hopefully could be relieved of whatever symptoms he had. Metzli held the tick in place and studied it, then looked at Parker quizzically.

“What do we do with this?” — —

The thought had long-since occurred to Parker that this might’ve been a mistake. How foolish he was to expect a vampire to help him remove something from his skin; was this as torturous for them as it felt for him getting the damn thing pulled out? Were their eyes glowing red like they had been the first time, their fangs unable to hide inside a mouth that told him to breathe? He felt blood oozing down his back, warm yet cold in the dim lighting of the living room and his eyes that were wide with a lack of effective coping mechanisms to tolerate pain that was so sensitive and unfamiliar were squeezed shut intensely; the only thing worse than Metzli possibly giving into their temptation was for him to see it and be rendered effectively… the word Winter used flared up again. Feral. It wasn’t going to happen. He was better than this. His breathing found Metzli’s simulation and he squared his shoulders as he straightened up slightly, almost as though attempting to pull away from whatever the vampire was prying out of his back. Nostrils flared, teeth grinding but being very careful not to crack another one, Parker’s whitened knuckles dug into the material of his now-ruined shirt and it felt as though a nerve itself was being ripped from him. Another forcibly deep breath, don’t open your eyes– With one more tug, one last seemingly herculean wrench from the vampire had the two separating and Parker stumbled forward, catching himself with one of his legs that almost buckled before him. The pain was still present, but immediately he could feel that something embedded in his skin had been removed in its entirety this time, leaving no urticating hairs, detached mandibles or spare bits of a carapace. At least… he hoped it was removed in its entirety this time. The smell of his blood reached his nose and he made sure to keep his eyes firmly shut, gasping for breath as he now felt tears streaking down his sweating face. “I’m not sure, give me a second–” He was torn in two, even as his mind raced with what steps had to be taken. He didn’t want to walk away, he was still bleeding and didn’t want to risk accidentally trailing it on the floor for him to see later. Clearing his throat, he furrowed his brow and he gathered the shirt into one hand before holding it behind his back for the vampire to take, his other, four-fingered hand also being held out in a wide, gripping formation. “If you’ll stem the blood flow, I’ll take the parasite.” He explained. “And if you can hang on for just a few moments longer, I’ll have some blood for you. From the fridge.” A pause, with another sentence catching in his throat. The suggestion was almost too foolish. “Or… you can have that. If you…” It was so dumb. He was so stupid.

“Sorry.” Parker apologized. “...Thank you.” He added. “Sorry.” He apologized again, heavier this time. Tired, tinged with something he didn’t like that swelled inside him. Unfamiliar, paralyzing him. Making him want to sink to the floor. He remained standing, though, one hand offering the shirt and the other, trembling, offering to hold the baseball-sized parasite in it. He wanted to apologize again but he swallowed it and instead he shuddered out an exhale. ‘Pull yourself together, boy. Straighten up. You’re embarrassing me again.’ He straightened up more.

— —

The wars on Parker’s skin seemed to be seeping into his mind with a harshness that made his composed demeanor break. Seeing him that way made Metzli’s throat tighten with something other than hunger, somehow being worse. Their friend was in pain, invisible and contained, and there was nothing they could do about it. They looked to Parker, eyes softened in hopes of offering comfort, and they took a deep breath. It flowed through Metzli’s body soothingly, until their fingers relaxed and flexed to adjust carefully on the blade and tick. Another breath and they were focused again, finally able to shake their head in regard to Parker’s offer. “No need for the blood and no need for apology. Have much experience with this.” Metzli gestured to the wound on Parker’s back, “I can control self. Many teachings to do this. Many years.” They explained in broken English, memory failing them in the moment while their concern blanketed over everything else in their mind.

Parker may be a monster, but even the most wretched things struggled at times. This was a first-hand experience Metzli had had more than once, over the span of the lives they had consumed and taken. They wondered then, just a bit, if being a monster was an inherent part of their beings, or could they be something else with the right support? With hands that were gentle and understanding. It was something for Metzli to attempt and observe. For their friend. “Let me take care of you.” They took the ragged shirt and tightly wrapped the tick inside of it, tying a strong knot to keep it in place. “Standing is not necessary. Lay down.”

Without waiting for an answer, Metzli took it upon themself to place the tick down on the coffee table and wrap their arm around Parker’s waist to move him to the couch. They faced him to the inside of it, leaving his back exposed for them to stem the bleeding with the knotted sleeve on their shirt. It wasn’t like they needed it anyway, with no arm to pull through. Even if they had though, Metzli was sure they’d offer it anyway. Shirts could be replaced. Friends could not. They got to work and hummed as they did, recalling an old tune from their days of youth. A time before the hatred and the neglect. The lyrics were long gone from their memory, but the sentiment of love remained.

“You can rest now.” — —

One curious intuition he realized humans and nonhumans shared was the sensation of eyes on you. Parker could feel Metzli’s gaze on him - he had long grown accustomed to being looked at - but even after all this time, he couldn’t tell what anyone’s eyes meant. Were those eyes on him condescending? Were they angry, pulsing and red? Or were they red for a different reason? Metzli could feel again, even if the two of them interpreted those things differently than normal humans. Were they feeling how he had felt on the rare occasion, with something strange inside them that they didn’t know how to explain?

Or was that something else that he wasn’t meant to know? And, of course, he had apologized again and insinuated that Metzli couldn’t control themself. It was foolish. He was foolish. Not thinking critically; of course Metzli could control themself. But why was there always a hint of doubt when Parker talked to them, or to Felix or Mackenzie? Was it because he didn’t want to underestimate them, or because that was exactly what he was doing? ‘Come now, my son. Thinking like this isn’t like you.’ His mother soothed in his head. ‘Let ‘em take care of you.’ It was said, but only partially by Walker. The voice in the Warden’s mind mixed with Metzli’s as the latter took the shirt from him and did something with it. He wasn’t sure, he was still anxious to open his eyes out of concern for what would’ve happened if he saw his blood.

Metzli moved him in response, feeling their arm around his waist and he was led to the couch. It was surreal, almost, the pain in his back being replaced by a dreamlike weightlessness. Parker tried not to think about how easily it would’ve been for an important nerve to be ruined, just as he tried not to think about how much worse this could’ve gone if it hadn’t been Metzli. Wordlessly, he moved as they gently guided him and it wasn’t until he was facing the wall that he opened his eyes once more, sparkling with lacrimation. He stared at the wall, but his gaze was unfocused. Instead, his attention was feeling each bead of blood welling from where the tick had been latched onto him for a month. It was the initial surprise, but subsequent relief of Metzli’s tied sleeve against his exposed back with its scars etched into the skin. The hum of a song, soothing, quiet, evocative coming from the vampire. Parker’s brow knitted in the middle, though not from anger. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was anger; anger at himself for– “I don’t know how I can return the favor.” He said quietly, reaching his hand across his chest until it was being offered to Metzli, palm up, fingers still being moved by faint tremors that betrayed the Warden’s normally-calm, very controlled movements. “May I… Can we… hold hands for a minute?” It was the oldest physical interaction they had. The first person in town that wanted to touch him with no ill intentions, no threat of harm. Metzli took his hand because it was soothing for them and he realized, at that very moment in time as he sat on his couch and they hummed an old song to him, carefully and kindly pressing their sleeve against his back, that he needed that connection too. A brief moment in his existence as a monster that maybe… The thought wouldn’t come to him.

Maybe he wasn’t thinking at all. Maybe he just wanted to feel something. Maybe he wanted to truly appreciate Metzli’s hand in his. As though he hadn’t taken enough from them that evening.

— —

Metzli’s nose stung, the first sign that their heart was bending. A small breath shuddered past their lips just before they curled into a bewildered smile. Touch, of any sort, was intimate, especially for people like them. For those that only received contact from cruel hands and hard lessons. “No favor,” Metzli finally quieted their melody, smile continuing to grow. They could feel the urge to roll their wrists growing, but their attention was quickly diverted back to Parker and his hand. His wound was covered and there appeared to be enough space for something more than just simple hand-holding. Metzli decided to act.

“We can do that, yes.” They breathed shakily, uncertainty almost winning out. They pushed through it. “But there is another thing I am thinking you will like. Have thoughts that it will help.” Quietly, Metzli shuffled their way onto the couch, slipping their half-limb under Parker’s head and pulling him into their chest firmly. More than once, they’d had someone do the same for them, easing their panic and overwhelming thoughts. Being held was a simple but powerful act, and it was made stronger the moment Metzli reached their arm around Parker and laced their fingers with his.

“Have many minutes. We can stay here, hermano.” — —

The line between what was and wasn’t allowed seemed so fine nowadays, so uncertain and Parker’s instincts tensed him up as Metzli suggested something further than holding hands. Of course, it was the small, animal part of him that moved in his brain before the logic and critical thinking could catch up and while he tensed, he didn’t push the vampire away. His rationale was overpowering the small part of him that always felt eyes on his back, now exposed, previously weeping blood between the scars and through the ornate wings of the dragonfly tattoo that stretched itself across his shoulder blades; if something were to happen, it likely would’ve already happened. He had to place more faith in Metzli than he was.

He had to. The staunch refusal to show any more vulnerability than absolutely necessary at this point, after everything that had transpired between the two friends, was becoming unreasonable, if it hadn’t long since been already. A thought that repeated in his head before he had contacted Metzli, and Parker would’ve been lying to… everyone if he didn’t think often about where the limit was. When something would come to light that would serve as the final strain to sever the tentative bonds he formed with others. Part of that mixed with his animal need to always be prepared, coiled like the spring he was, ready to clash with the weapon he knew Metzli was turned into once, as well. It was calm now, but when would the next tragedy with the vampire happen? Why weren’t either of them allowed to exist? Then again… that’s what the ragtag group of misfits Metzli’s influence had brought together did in the crypt, right? Metzli was here because they wanted to be here. Parker didn’t force them… did he?

That line of thought didn’t matter. He wondered if anything he thought mattered, or if all of it was just more noise. He remained still, yet malleable enough that it surprised even himself. Their incomplete arm comfortingly placed against his collarbones after sitting down behind him, Parker allowed himself to be pulled against their room-temperature body. There wasn’t the concept of exchanging body heat as humans did, but the emotion and intention behind such a move was recognized by the Warden. It felt familiar, but distant, and definitely something he hadn’t experienced since he was in the single digits of his age. The sensation was… warm, even if not literally. There was no heartbeat to be found pulsing in Metzli’s ribcage as he was pulled into something of an embrace, only… it wasn’t, not quite.

‘Breathe with me.’ His mother was in the same position Metzli was in and Parker, eyes unfocused and blurred with tears, gave a shaky nod. His tiny hands clung to his mother’s arm as it was gently wrapped around his trembling frame. His breathing, erratic but still unnaturally quiet as he cried, matched his mother’s rhythmic motion. His breathing matched theirs. The warmth from their action washed over him and his blue eyes that sparkled, lashes glistening, closed slowly. He felt their hand in his and he resisted the urge to squeeze it as he did with his mother’s arm all those years ago, grasping it as though if he relinquished, they would drift off, something else for him not to keep or experience, something else not for him to have.

That bond would be severed. It always was, and Parker had long since grown used to it. He wasn’t meant to have friends. But as they sat on his couch, as he matched their breathing and felt them against his bare back that went from a stabbing pain to a dull thrum, he finally, finally loosened his grip from the tight control he had on his emotions. He relaxed, leaning into them, keeping his eyes closed. ‘Hermano’, something Walked called him on occasion so he understood the meaning of the word, reached his half-deaf ears and he did squeeze Metzli’s hand in response, carefully but communicating in that way he could with them. In a way both of them understood.

Tomorrow the bond could’ve been severed. But tonight they were siblings, two children torn apart and broken down to be built back up in the shadows of unattainable images. Two monsters that… possibly didn’t have to be.

#wickedswriting #writing // Parker Orders Tickout #writing with // Metzli #parental abuse tw #//I need to start making tags for his relationships

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kadavernagh · 5 months

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Record Scratch || Regan & Ray

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The Medical Examiner's Office PARTIES: Ray and Regan SUMMARY: Ray is searching for more information about Ryan's death, and Regan finally meets Ray... and the ghost possessing him.

“I just want to know what the hell happened. It’s my death.”

He felt odd walking up the step and pushing the door open. He’d never expected himself to be voluntarily going to an ME office. Ray awkwardly shuffled through the smallest gap he could get through in the door, not wanting to make a spectacle of himself and closing the door as quietly as he could. As much as he did want to meet Regan, he was a little out of his depth with this investigation he’d started. He was no expert in data collection, not in this way and not in places like this. If only he could open a textbook or piece of software to find the answers. But he had to do this. He’d made a promise to Ryan that he’d try to figure this out. For both of them.

He lingered by the door looking around as if he’d recognise the doctor if she wandered by, because she wouldn’t recognise him. Ray pulled his phone out of his pocket and shot a quick ‘Hey, I’m here at the front door :)’ looking around for any sign of someone looking for a stranger as well.

When Regan had invited Ray to the morgue, she hadn’t expected his immediate arrival. As soon as Marcy messaged her that a confused boy had wandered in looking for her, she rushed up to receive him. She’d barely had time to look into the strange file Ray was asking about. Ryan Baxter had died back in 2013, and she didn’t even recognize the name of the forensic pathologist who had conducted the autopsy. That was only the beginning of the problem.

As she pushed through the lobby doors, it occurred to her that she didn’t even know who to look for. Despite conversing with Ray online for months, they had not yet met face to face. Fortunately, there was only one person there: a lanky young man with a slouch that made Regan want to forcefully straighten his spine. There was also a bandage around one of his fingers, she noted. “Ray?” Regan asked for good measure with a tilt of her head. Something slithered inside of her chest, some emotion, and she pushed it away. Yes, they had spoken online. Yes, she had a certain fondness for Ray the same way a human might enjoy a bird regularly returning to their feeder, but what did that matter, really? “Dr. Kavanagh. As you’re well-aware.” Regan extended her hand. “I can’t say I expected that we would ever meet in person.”

There was another surprise. Something was… off. With Ray. Like he was surrounded by a dark, eerie pulse – the same mockery of death she felt around Metzli, but weaker, stranger. Her mind itched with the possibility of looking with her asfís bháis, but she couldn’t do that while Ray was paying attention. She couldn’t even imagine how that would go over. For now, they were to move on. As she led him down to her office, she braced him for impact. “I have some questions for you about this file you asked about. And I don’t suggest lying to me.”

Ryan buzzed in the back of his mind, increasing Ray's usual levels of discomfort in new situations tenfold. But he couldn’t tell the ghost to quiet down, that was rude, especially since they were here on his behalf to find out about his death. It seemed a bit callous to ask the dead to shut up about it for his own comfort. Ray was brought out of his head when he spotted just what he was looking for. Someone looking for a stranger.

She opened her mouth and called his name and he smiled brightly at her. It was nice to see a friend for the first time. He was really getting to love the feeling -even if he’d never say as much to her directly considering her stance on friendship. Ray extended his hand to shake hers, aborted the action realizing his finger was still healing and instead grasped her hand oddly with his left, shaking it quickly. “Oh, well I appreciate you helping me out with this stuff. I’m glad we get to meet in person.” he told her enthusiastically. “What do I call you here? Doctor?”

His head was on a swivel as they walked towards her office looking around in some sort of morbid curiosity and not actually wanting to see anything. “Hey you’re helping me out, why would I lie?” He responded before really thinking about the implications of what he’d said and what he was definitely going to have to keep to himself. He’d already been bending the truth a little when he’d initially asked her. As was usual for him, worry started to set in and he tried valiantly to mask it from his face. Ray then spoke up again against his better judgment. “How’d you know if it was a lie anyway?”

Regan cast her eyes down to Ray’s injured hand, as he seemed to forget he’d acquired a splint. Curious. “When did that happen?” She nodded down to his finger. And why hadn’t he mentioned it before? Not that she needed to know everything medically wrong with this child. But it would be nice. “Doctor Kavanagh is fine. And if it suits you, I’m going to continue calling you Ray, and not Soup.” Something lingered on her own fingers after she’d shaken his hand. Her skin felt twitchy, wrong, but the sensation was brief enough that she waved it away, questioning if it had ever been there to begin with. But she couldn’t entirely ignore that Ray himself still elicited something in her. Cliodhna would have understood it immediately.

As she carded the two of them into her office, she turned to Ray. “I don’t want you touching anything in here. None of the bones. And certainly not the file.” The chair, though; he could touch the chair. “You may sit,” Regan said, pointing to the chair in front of her desk. She circled around it and sat down herself.

“Many people have a lie they wish to tell about the death of a loved one, someone they knew. I encounter them daily. Sometimes they wish to obfuscate the case from me, and other times they wish to obfuscate their connection to the deceased to others in their life. I can always tell.” It was true. She’d sat through dozens of witnesses trying to convince her that they’d never seen someone in their life, or next of kin trying to bury affairs and family secrets along with the deceased. And while Regan didn’t have a preternatural sense for detecting those lies, she had grown seasoned at it, her mind as sharp as her scalpel. Her eyes turned down to what sat on her desk, the file. “As I have told you, I must protect the confidentiality of the decedent. But these are unusual circumstances. I want to know the truth, and I don’t think I’m going to get it from this file.” She held up the unusually thin manilla folder, which was only about half the size of the others swelling in the morgue’s file cabinets. “So let’s start at the beginning, hm? How do you know Mr. Baxter?”

“A week ago I think?” Ray responded, lifting his hand to also look at his bound fingers. “Hockey accident, didn’t have my gloves on during practice.” It had been one of the few times Ryan had actually let Ray play for himself instead of taking over. The ghost assured him that he would not stop making fun of him for that until the fingers were healed. “Doctor Kavanagh, sure Ray is good.” He repeated back as they walked. He didn’t know that Regan could tell there was something up with him, in his mind all he had to do was keep his story straight.

Rest assured, Ray has absolutely no desire to touch anything, especially not the bones. In fact he gave everything in her office a pretty wide berth as he made his way over to the chair to sit down - even if he did catalog things as they passed. He clasped his hands together in his lap as best he could carefully, looking at her with even more uncertainty now that they were sitting down to an interrogation of sorts. He just had to play it cool. He could play it cool right? The ‘no’ that echoed in his skull was unwelcome and he grimaced slightly, willing the ghost to shut up.

It was definitely intimidating. Her whole speech about detecting lies made his thin guise of calm dissolve a tiny bit - the true anxiety of the situation shining through more clearly on his face. But he hadn’t murdered anyone…directly, certainly not Ryan anyway, directly or indirectly. “We ar- we were pretty close before he died?” it was a terrible start, his resolve was already crumbling and even Ryan was losing motivation for this. The first hurdle. The VERY first question. “Well no I didn’t meet him before he died, actually. But, I just…want to know what happened to him. I think we need closure to move forward, and I don’t think we can be at peace without knowing what happened.”

“So you never knew him.” Regan clarified, mulling over that information. That only produced more questions. “Perhaps a better question I should ask, then, is how do you know of him? If the two of you had never met, what brings you here asking about him?” She was acutely aware this was beginning to have the edge of an interrogation, and it was only going in one direction. Which was how she liked it. But she didn’t want to scare Ray off or render his tongue silenced before he provided some actual information of value. She was in this now, and she needed to understand what had happened to this file.

Regan laid the file flat on her desk and flicked it open, her hand smoothing out the first sheet inside, the autopsy report. It was of an older format than the ones the ME’s office used now, and covered in a doctor’s messy scrawl rather than neat, legible typing. Time had introduced wrinkles and yellowed the page, which Regan could only hope had been digitized years ago, but she lacked confidence in that. “This is Baxter’s autopsy report,” Regan explained, holding the stapled packet up but not for long enough for Ray to glean anything from it. She had his attention though, and he looked raptly even as his long limbs poured awkwardly out of his chair and he seemed to be drowning in discomfort. “There are pages missing, several, and the cause of death is highly unusual for a man of the decedent’s age. Not only that, it’s a terribly lazy one. We pathologists try not to list “congestive heart failure” as a cause of death. Everyone’s heart fails when they die. There is always an underlying cause. I see none noted here, and the autopsy photos are scant. Very few are of the heart, and I see no evidence of anything amiss.” She paused, realizing her lungs had been picking up pace, attuned to her mounting frustration. Few things got to her more than sloppy autopsies and documentation. But was this really poor work, or was there something bigger at play?

She met Ray’s eyes. “You know something that I don’t, and I would like to hear it.”

“I-” She was a woman of science she was unlikely to accept his reasoning, if he were honest with himself she was likely already tired of his backwards explanations. But he was unsure what else he could do, if she were to write him off as a blithering idiot he was unlikely to find out anything more for himself and Ryan. Ray needed her to tell him what was wrong with everything, show him the papers if possible in order to glean any tiny little detail that might help him find out truly what happened. Ray realized he'd been silent with his mouth open for a little too long, sat back slightly away from her to regroup and wet his dry lips more nervously still. “I know him. I’ve recently found out a lot about him. He was…on my hockey team ten years ago and I’ve inherited his nickname and…” none of that a lie, and in that he could at least be sure.

His eyes raked over the papers she held up to him but he couldn’t make out much before she was back to asking questions. Ray’s whole body shivered involuntarily as Ryan left him. The ghost was unseen to Ray and unreachable to him now that they weren’t connected in the same body. He didn’t know what had bothered the ghost so much that he’d abandon him to this alone but there was no way to ask him back for support in front of the doctor. “Can it be that it’s just someone lazy? Is it that unusual?”

The ghost himself had moved to look over the doctor's shoulder. If his autopsy report was weird enough for them to be called in to talk about it…well it was his surely he should be allowed to look at it.

Ray was caught in her gaze and couldn't quite break the heavy question she was asking him. “It’ll sound like you should throw me out of the building.” he said vaguely. Could he tell her? Probably not. He shouldn’t. She was no nonsense. She’d write him off. Another friend gone. “I met him after his death.”

“I have never met a lazy medical examiner. The demands of the work weed out all but the most qualified and diligent.” Regan had looked into this medical examiner with a cursory search. Dr. Patil. He had been a medical examiner in the county for only a year before his disappearance, which was probably why she hadn’t seen any other reports penned by him yet. The circumstances of his probable-death also likely explained why Dr. Rickers had neglected to mention the other doctor to her. Examiners had come and gone. Some moved elsewhere. Others vanished. Such was life in Wicked’s Rest.

She nudged her notebook in front of her and started making a list of pertinent information she was collecting from Ray, as well as everything unusual she had noticed about the report. Mid-way through writing that the cardiac findings section was missing every other field, she froze. The implication of what Ray had just told her snaked into her ears and wrapped around her bones. The living did not meet the dead. It would have been a perfectly normal answer in Saol Eile, but not here. It was as if a cold wind had just swept across the room. Setting her pen down, she looked up at Ray. He captured her full attention now. “And how did you do that?” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, but there was no disbelief in them. She believed Ray entirely. And that was the problem.

Ryan read through her notes quickly as she wrote them, she didn’t seem to have gleaned much from the report itself other than it’s lack of detail -or she had already filed her findings on that away before they’d arrived- but what Ryan could tell clearly was that she was interested in the case. More so than a few of the people he had already had Ray ask about him. But he didn’t remember having ever met her in life, so she was curious about this all on her own merits, maybe she really could help them. Curiosity could work well in their favor, they could bargain details for contacts maybe? Ryan was spinning a hook for them to bribe her as she spoke with Ray. Drifting back towards the human, to be drawn in quickly by the space in his soul that Ryan had taken to inhabiting.

Ray hummed in acknowledgement of her words. She’d know her profession better than he would. But it was concerning. He could have perhaps settled into her interrogation style if she’d not asked such direct questions. “By accident. Not on purpose. I didn't do anything. He did it all for me.” It was unusual for someone normal to ask how and not if he was okay. It was unusual the amount of clarity she was looking at him with. “Ghosts you know. They don’t ask before they take from you. But we’re trapped together now. Ryan and Me…”

Ghosts. Regan closed her eyes, feeling again the way death had wrapped itself around Ray, light touch though it was. She had known there was something off. And where death was concerned, Regan was never wrong. The others spoke of ghosts as if they were as commonplace as a squirrel or sparrow. Some disparagingly, others with fondness. Regan herself had seen plenty of those apparitions, though she refused to slap such a fantastical label on them, rather thinking of them as an extension of the visions – hallucinations – she was able to slip into. Interestingly, there were humans in town who seemed to be able to see these “ghosts,” too, and they weren’t timid about calling them such a ridiculous term.

She had no time nor desire to feign incredulity, though she had little idea of what Ray meant about ghosts taking things, about being together. It was prudent to make sure they were talking about the same thing. Regan gave Ray a hard look, like if she stared for long enough Ryan himself would appear. …Would he? “I don’t know anything about ghosts. But I know death. And I know you’ve carried some in here.” Again, she looked. Eyes narrowing to slits. Her asfís bháis was there in her periphery, an option and perhaps a door to seeing and understanding, but she didn’t want to cause Ray to run out of the office. Asking was better. “This thing that you’re calling Ryan. Is it present now? I suspect yes.”

Ray met her stare for only a second before he looked away. He was serious, he was deadly serious about Ryan, but he wasn't built for eye contact so serious. Regan was intense, he gathered that from the times they'd spoken online but there was something so much more in person. Ryan was asking in his head what he was waiting for, she clearly believed in this what was he doing staying so quiet? Why was it so easy to speak about Ryan when it didn't matter, but as soon as they had someone asking real questions it didn't seem so fun anymore. She had an autopsy or something in front of her, Ryan's.

"Yeah, he's here." Ray tapped his chest first, followed by yet another aborted gesture -possibly heading for his head- but deeming it unimportant to clarify further. Ryan was getting impatient but Ray still wasn't saying anything. The ghost was not one to waste time. This was HIS death. He was bored of having Ray speak for him when she clearly understood. Ray's eyes rolled slightly, his limbs locking and his breath stuttering. A moment later his body hung differently in the chair, arms crossing. The body now hung oddly as if a puppet had strings just a little too long. "Ryan J Baxter. Hand me the file right? What's wrong with it?" It was an introduction, maybe.

“If he’s here, where is he?” Regan raised a brow. She was clearly not understanding something. Was Ray saying that he kept Ryan inside of him, the way one might clutch to their fading memories of a deceased loved one? But then Ray’s entire body jolted, his head lolled violently, and his eyes rolled back in his skull like two big, white marbles. At once, Regan mobilized. She flew out of her seat, one word burning through her brain: seizure. Before she could even grab his shoulders it was over. Regan hovered next to Ray’s chair, ready to attend to whatever was needed, but waiting for an indication that something was needed. “Ray…?” She said quietly, her breath bunched up in her throat. Had it been a seizure? Was it over?

Stillness coated the room. And then Ray started talking. His voice, she noted, sounded different. Produced by the same tongue, but syllables rolled differently, hesitation no longer living between his words.

She had not been prepared for the assertion that Ray was Ryan.

A chill pinched down her spine. She backed away a couple of steps so she could see him better, observe him. Something was not right, but she didn’t understand it. What… was she seeing? There were mental disturbances that could look like this. More on television than in actual practice, generally, but it was the best explanation she had. Then again, Ray had briefly looked as though he had a seizure. Could this have been related to that? Seizures could correlate with odd beliefs, cause altered mental status. Was this temporal lobe epilepsy or a cousin to it? Was “ghost” seriously in the differential?

He was looking at her, demanding an answer. Even his eyes looked different than before. The same color, the same set, but his gaze was more firm, impatient. Regan decided that the danger – if there had been danger – has passed. She could engage with whatever this was. “I am not handing anything over to you…” She looked at his hands, Ray’s hands. They would not hold someone else’s file. “You claim to be Ryan, and I will humor you. You need to prove it. What is your social security number? The names of your parents? Tell me the locations of your scars.” Regan gestured to the file. “I have all of that information in here.”

If Ray had been at all aware of the shift from himself to Ryan he would have been touched by the attention Regan paid him. He’d have appreciated the way she moved quickly to reach towards whatever unknown that was happening to him, in the moment between one soul and the other. But she wasn’t greeted with the nervous giant she’d been speaking to online for months. Ray had been put in suspension of sorts and instead she was met with the other. The other soul wasn’t nervous, and the other soul hadn’t ever spoken to Regan before. He didn’t appreciate her hovering and he didn’t have time for her whispered and worried address to his host.

Ryan lowered Ray's hand and crossed his gangly arms instead. “It’s my file. I already read your notes but I want to see the whole thing.” it was the most direct this voice ever got - when it wasn’t being used by its owner.

There was an impatient huff of breath before Ryan set out to answer her questions. One by one the numbers of his social security lined up in formation. The full name of his mother followed quickly by the full name of his father. The only piece that seemed to trip his flow of speech was found when they were half way through the number of scars he had on his hands. He named a little over half before he gave up. “Just believe me. You believed in ghosts a minute ago doctor, you let Ray think you were on board. Are you taking it back now I’m here? Even with his face, am I not as trustworthy?” Ryan was usually a lot kinder, usually a lot more jovial, and usually a lot more ready for a laugh. But as they’d been having trouble gathering information about his death his humor decreased. Every obstacle, and every closed door with no answers made him itch.

“I just want to know what the hell happened. It’s my death.”

To Regan’s astonishment, Ray was able to recite everything she had asked for. Was there any other way for Ray to have acquired that information? Yes, realistically. It was unlikely. But she also was not ready or willing to admit that the person sitting across the room from her, in Ray’s body, was a dead man. “You must have been very close for him to tell you that information.” Which contradicted what Ray had told her earlier: that he met Ryan only after he had died, somehow. But how was she to believe any of this? Regan ran her hands through her hair, the only visible sign that she might have been a little frustrated. Had she been willing to think about it or admit it, she might have realized most of that was out of concern for Ray’s behavior.

She wasn’t quite sure how to handle this. Ray wanted information about someone who – regardless of how or when – he had a close relationship with, enough to know the locations and sizes of Ryan’s scars, which were at least correctly reported in the file. Apparently. She couldn’t exactly check Ray’s body for them.

Was it really sharing information if the information was incorrect at worst or obfuscated at best? Regan wasn’t sure. And part of her, however small that part was, wondered if Ray – or “Ryan” – might be able to fill in some of the gaps. Perhaps she could treat this more as a fishing expedition. Let Ryan provide details she didn’t have.

“You’re going to be disappointed,” Regan cautioned, a bit of an edge to her voice; she didn’t appreciate being told what to do. She flipped through a few of the pages. Dr. Patil’s work was rushed, incomplete, and in some places a flagrant abuse of protocol. But there were things she could probably share, and what was missing might be more valuable than what scant information was present. “As I said, the cause of death is listed as ‘congestive heart failure,’ which means nothing.” She flicked through a couple autopsy photos. “And there’s nothing wrong here. A berry aneurysm, which is a common incidental finding. Some eczema.” She turned to the toxicology report. “Nothing of note in here, either. Marijuana in the hair.” She turned to Ray, or Ryan, or whatever he wished to be called. “I don’t know why Dr. Patil provided no evidence to support his already-flimsy cause of death. Anyone looking at these photos would be able to see that. See nothing, rather. They look healthy. Dead, but healthy.” She was a little unnerved by how much Ray’s mannerisms had changed, but she spoke to him plainly nonetheless, pretending nothing was different. “I’d like to hear what you have to say about that.”

Ryan tensed Ray’s fingers and flexed them in his lap. Being disappointed was starting to become a usual occurrence. He was getting restless and more frustrated the longer he and Ray searched for information. No one knew. He’d had hope that maybe she was holding something back from them due to the unusual story they’d presented to her, but she’d moved to repeating the information he’d read over her shoulder with a finality to the words. A finality that led him to believe they’d hit another cold trail, a cold trail with the added obstacle of letting an onlooker to their search. No one else they’d asked for anything from had been as insistent on knowing more. Death made people uncomfortable. No one else had the gumption to inquire further.

“I was an athlete. I was as healthy as I could get…pot aside.” bitterness tinted his tone as he heaved a breath and looked towards the file. “I can’t believe there’s really nothing officially recorded anywhere. Damnit.” Ryan cursed and stood up suddenly, knocking Ray's knees against the desk as he went. He didn’t pause for a second, he turned away from her, staring angrily into the middle distance. “How did I fall through the cracks like this? My family… they loved me, I had so many friends, I was on the hockey team. But no one asked any questions, no one got any extra information. No one knows.” It was dramatic, but he couldn’t help the display of increased emotion. Having control of the body always did this to him. The longer you didn’t get to feel anything the more intensely the welling of emotion could knock you off balance.

Ryan turned back towards her and held onto the back of the chair he’d just vacated. “There are no other records? None? No one has anything more? Surely there’s something somewhere, the hospital maybe? The university?” He was searching for hope. They’d spent the entirety of winter up until now mentioning his death to anyone they could, but this was nearing the last straw. “I know this is the first time you’ve met Ray in person, but he likes you, he considers you a friend. Will you help him?” It was selfish to put Ray’s friendship with the doctor on the line for his own gain, but if it meant professional help - as much as he’d never admit as much to his host- he’d throw away all the friendships he’d helped Ray make in order to just know something.

The situation was slipping from her control. Regan was used to being in command in the morgue. It was her office, her duty; here, she cloaked herself in the respect of others and she called the shots, and her apparent age didn’t matter as much as the comma-MD behind her name. But every once in a while, circumstances would zig when they really should have been zagging, and whatever was happening now was not a typical conversation she had with next of kin. This was not the anger of losing a loved one, having a life snatched away from them. Ray had the sound of someone who was coming to terms with his own death after it already happened. It was unfamiliar territory, unfamiliar emotion, and she was equal parts uncomfortable and curious. She was taken aback enough to be stunned into silence, and as a result, Ray was given more allowance for this display than she would have normally permitted. The rawness of it all made Regan’s skin scurry with distaste. She needed to rein things in.

She stood up, unwilling to let him march around her office unchallenged. He was still taller, of course – by quite a lot – but it made her feel more in control. Ray still seemed focused on answers. That was good. He would not be completely unreasonable. Regan shot him a no-nonsense look. “If you want to discuss this you will calm yourself.” Her throat swelled a little at the claim of friendship but she quickly swallowed it back. “He’s foolish to consider me a friend.” He’s. Why had she said that? Why not you’re? This was starting to mess with her head. She couldn’t deny that the presence in the room with her seemed utterly unfamiliar compared to the awkward kid that had been sitting in the chair before, though. She’d get a second opinion about this later from someone. Preferably a physician who was not Rickers, but she’d make due with a nurse at this point. Actually, she did know one…

Things seemed to calm. Ray’s knuckles relaxing their grip on the chair. Good. Regan eased up in turn. “This is an older file. The hospital probably still has records, but little that isn’t already in here.” She flicked the folder. “It isn’t going to help you understand what happened. It didn’t… help me. The pathologist who did this autopsy was either hiding something or simply sloppy.” She hesitated for a moment, wondering if this was a good idea. It was not. Yet she’d offered similar to Lil regardless. Cliodhna would turn in her grave if she knew (the one she enjoyed spending recreational time in while alive). What was Regan even gaining from this? Yet she was compelled. If pressed she’d excuse it as her own curiosity. “But I might be able to help. If you can bring me something that belonged to Baxter, something that held importance, maybe I’ll be able to give you better answers. That is what you want, right? You want to know what really transpired at the time of death.” She let the offer linger for a moment but knew there was more she needed to say. “One other thing. I am leaving in a couple of months – moving overseas. The window for my help is limited.”

Ryan didn't even watch as Regan got to her feet in order to get a handle on his swing of emotion. He was too busy trying to get a grip to focus on a singular individual that wasn't himself for too long. If Ray was able to hear the ghosts thoughts he'd comment how dramatic it all sounded, likely to be put back in his place when reminded where they were. It hadn't always been like that for the ghost, but the abundance of dead ends and lost notes were taking his patience and wearing it thin like the heel of a well loved pair of shoes - uncomfortably thin but not yet broken. If he'd been honest the idea was to wear her down, keep badgering, use Ray as a hinge on which to swing the door open to his story. But she gave a little. She hesitated and then she gave a little more. Perhaps she cared for the human a bit more than she would let on…or maybe the idea that this unexplained death existed itched at her skin. Either way he'd take it.

Ryan extended a hand towards her “you've got yourself a deal, if I can bring you something of mine that might have some relevance, you'll see what you can dig up?” A small ember of hope had reignited. “Short time frame…right…Ray will be gutted when he finds out you're leaving but I'll take it. What's important enough a thing to get more information? A hat? A trophy? I'm not a jewelry person if it's a reward thing. Can't flog much of mine now I'm dead. Imagine all the good stuff is gone.”

Regan lifted a brow, but kept the stern look on her face. Just who was she making a deal with? The person in front of her still didn’t seem like Ray. But the need for understanding scratched at her brain, and was there really anything wrong with sharing information that came not from a confidential report, but from her own gift? She would be guarded, but she wasn’t ready to declare this a waste of her dwindling time here. Especially if it would help Ray. She finally nodded. “I don’t think the – I mean, the object in question does not matter. Anything you’re able to get your hands on that you care about, that connects you to who you… were. But yes, I’ll do it. I dislike unanswered questions.” Better to sound confident, authoritative, even when she wasn’t positive this would even work. And even more importantly, better to sound not personally invested in Ray for any reasons other than the objective, the practical.

A chill scurried up her arm when she shook his hand. She took care to be gentle with his uninjured finger. More care than he took, which gnawed at her. Was it because he was a careless child, or because this “Ryan” was an entity of the mind and not the body? Regan looked away when he mentioned Ray in the 3rd person, but it was more because of what he’d said than how he’d said it. “He’ll be fine. Everyone will be fine. Life goes on, and then it doesn’t. And while you’re at it, bring me a dead chipmunk. For morale.”

That chill seemed to linger around her, even as Ray, or Ryan turned out the door, and Regan stared at the space previously occupied by him. Was the unease real or imagined? Was this some kind of medical condition, however rare, or something relegated to the hush milieu of places like this town, and Saol Eile? Whatever the case, Regan wasn’t sure just who or what was walking out of here.

#writing #c ray

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stainedglasstruth · 10 months

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TIMING: Current LOCATION: Dandridge Barn PARTIES: Zane (@rn-zane), Wynne (@ohwynne), Zack (@zackbanes, Arden (@stainedglasstruth), Emilio (@mortemoppetere), and Metzli (@muertarte) SUMMARY: Wynne, Zack, and Arden find out what the vampires have in store for them. CONTENT WARNINGS: Kidnapping

Zane was only one of many that had pondered the purpose of the giant barn on Alma Dandridge’s lot, seemingly pointless as there were no animals nor farming happening on the big spread of land. Despite every bit of doubt and apprehension, the true purpose could not have been conjured up in even the vampire’s wildest nightmares. Alma had run this sort of mission many a time before, practice runs she liked to call them instead of mistakes, so of course a nice and big basement underneath an inconspicuous barn had been the first matter of business when moving to Wicked’s Rest.

It had been empty for many years now, patiently waiting. Finally, it was serving its purpose.

Descending the dark, musty stairs, whose entrance had been well hidden until now, was akin to being swallowed whole. Zane could still not decide whether staying behind had been the right call. Whether contacting Emilio was just adding another soul lost to whatever was about to transpire. There was no turning back now, stairs creaking with every step, his body flanked by more vampires as the group traveled down. Somehow, Zane hadn’t expected the shouting.

The noise grew louder once a door was opened, light flooding the dark stairwell and bringing with it the sound of pleas and banging on metal. Zane hesitated, not the only one in the group to do so, but all of those who paused were given a pointed shove to the back. And then there they all were.

The vampire spawn grabbed everyone’s attention first. Alone in its cage, for now, it slammed against the bars and snarled at anyone who would listen. Zane’s eyes didn’t linger for long, dragging over the sight which filled the rest of the big basement with his stomach sinking further every second. The floor-to-ceiling bars looked old, like they had been waiting for years to house the desperate humans that now huddled inside. A quick count provided for fifteen people, hands tied and some of them definitely looking like they’d put up a fight while transported here. His instinctual step towards the wounded was cut off by someone’s hand on his chest. “Easy, tiger. There will be plenty to snack on later.”

Except they weren’t here to be snacks. They were here to be soldiers. Here to be turned into the creature that still trashed in its cage, right up until the moment Alma suddenly appeared amidst the throng of vampires, only a few of whom looked as confused and petrified as Zane. Alma placed a single hand on the spawn’s cage and it cowered away, head bowed. Dark spots danced in Zane’s line of vision and before he could know whether he would pass out or throw up first, Alma was turning to the prisoners with a soft smile and speaking.

“A warm welcome to our guests. They have been brought here to serve their purpose in making this town a paradise for all of us.”

—

It might be the middle of summer but Wynne felt like they had been shivering for days. Here, in this basement, it felt like their teeth had been clattering ever since their forced arrival, and there was no way of stopping it. Sleep had been hard to come by, coming in increments by resting against the soft flesh of the people that had been dragged down here with them. Arden and Zack hadn’t left their side and they hadn’t left theirs. Tied hands searching for each other in the dark. Inklings of hope shared when it was lacking in the others. Wynne was familiar with this kind of dread, but they had never shared it before. It somehow felt worse.

Back at the commune, there had been rooms like this, but they had been smaller and looked less like cages. They were rooms for solitary reflection, where the door remained shut. Wynne had been placed in them twice, not often blamed of insubordination, and they’d sat in silence and quiet and dark until the time was done. But nothing could have prepared them for this, this depravity and hopelessness. When they had awaited death at home, they’d done so under flannel sheets and in a soft bed.

By now, it had been days, the numbers in the cage having grown, a vicious humanoid creature having joined them one cage over. Wynne’s cheeks were dry and red from the shed tears, their senses dulled and numb, their fight seeped out. The arrival of new figures had them perking up, though, heart hammering — there had been no explanation, no full one, as to why they were here.

And these new additions to the crowd weren’t dragged in or unconscious, weren’t dripping blood from their noses the way Wynne had five days ago. They walked in willingly, staring at them as if they were cattle. Wynne felt like they were cattle, like they were sheep being herded. But rather than being prepared for grazing, they were being prepared for something much worse.

Their throat was too dry to fashion a response, but their eyes did fall on a familiar face in the crowd. Zane was a vague acquaintance, nothing more, and yet Wynne’s gaze got stuck on him as they shuffled closer to Zack and Arden. There was no use in pleading, that was a lesson hard-learned half a decade ago. The only solution was to run, but in this basement there was nowhere to go.

—

When they first got jumped, laughing and on their way to the Wormhole, Zack had assumed it was just another night in Worm Row. He had almost been annoyed about it, expecting to hand over his wallet and move on with the night. But of course it couldn’t be something so innocuous, so simple, as that. Of course there was some kind of kidnapping plot involving the spooky farm and cages and a veritable monster.

And he was useless. He had tried –carefully, just once or twice– to summon up his fire but the spark wouldn’t seem to come. And then, as the days went on, more and more people were added to the cell, and he didn’t want to risk trying. With no control, he couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t end up hurting someone. And he couldn’t say why his abilities weren’t working in the first place. Maybe he was too scared or maybe it was from the meager food they were given. Zack still barely understood how any of it worked, and never had he regretted it more than right then. If he could control his fire with any accuracy and dependency, it could have actually helped.

Instead, all he could do was try to keep as close as possible to Arden and Wynne. Cast a watchful eye over any injuries the two had accumulated in their initial attack to try and make sure they weren’t too hurt, make sure they both got enough food and water, when it came. And wait for any kind of opening.

When there was the stirrings of a commotion, Zack sat up straighter, struggling with his bindings. A group trudged in, including the ones who had been there the night they were all taken. Anger rose in his chest at the sight. Next to him, Wynne flinched and he turned to find them staring into the crowd as well. But not at their attackers, like Zack, at some other face he didn’t recognize. Casting a look to Arden and assessing her first, he nudged Wynne as best he could. “All right?” he asked, voice an undertone.

When the woman at the front began to speak, dread settled heavy in Zack’s stomach. He wasn’t sure what exactly all she said meant, but he was certain it wouldn’t be good for them. Apparently there was a plan. A purpose. He was reminded suddenly of Wynne's commune. He wouldn’t bet against another instance of human sacrifice.

—

Metzli would be proud of her; Arden had put up a fight. She had gotten a few hits in and everything, but unfortunately the knife they had gifted her was iron and that didn’t exactly help her when she was being attacked by Fucking Vampires. Again! At least she had managed to get some of that training in during the past few weeks.

She had tried so hard, for Wynne and for Zack, but ultimately she was still just a useless human in the face of the supernatural. The point of the training had been to be able to protect herself and her loved ones, but she hadn’t been prepared enough, and they had been hurt and taken. Logically, she knew she couldn’t even blame herself– she had been working diligently, pushing herself probably a little harder than she should with the workouts and sparring sessions. They were just outnumbered, and they were outnumbered by vampires. Still, Arden couldn’t help that feeling in her gut, the little voice in her head that told her she could’ve done more.

They had been down there for days. It was hard to keep track of time, but the vampires had come in with food for their ever-growing little collection of humans four times. However long they had been down there, they had at least been able to speak freely. And while Arden couldn’t exactly say she was grateful for Wynne and Zack’s company– she much would’ve preferred it if they weren’t involved in this mess– it was comforting, having them there. If not for them, she wasn’t sure how she would be staying sane. They had each other's backs, sleeping in shifts and offering comfort however they could.

She tried her best to keep a level head, watching over her roommates, of course, but also trying to keep a close eye on their captors. While they were stuck there, she had also informed them about vampires as much as she could, telling them everything she could remember about them, save for their weaknesses; Arden didn’t think the person keeping watch over them would react well to that.

The spawn had freaked her out. She didn’t want to panic Zack or Wynne, or piss off the vampires, but the spawn had made their plans clear to her. Her stomach sank when the vampires entered the room. They were really outnumbered here, not that they would be able to do much even if they weren’t. They were just human.

Arden eyed the vampires, before once again turning her gaze to the room around them, hoping something that could help them might have magically appeared when she wasn’t looking, knowing she would find nothing. They weren’t even going to die down here, they were going to be turned into mindless, undead bloodsuckers in this stupid fucking basement. She had hoped someone would find them before it was too late. Their absence had surely been noticed, at the very least by their bosses, Sully, and… Teagan. Probably Ariadne and some others, too. However, it seemed like they were well and truly screwed.

At the mere thought of the nix, her eyes began to water. The necklace she had gifted her hung heavy around her neck, a constant comfort, a constant reminder. She bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to let out the tears that threatened to spill. Instead, she turned her attention to Wynne, leaning closer in an attempt to provide them some comfort. Her gaze then turned to Zack, who was focused on Wynne, of course. She once again had to blink back her tears. No matter what happened, Arden would fight for them. Until the end.

—

Alma’s voice had been enough to finally quiet the sound of heart wrenching pleas but it did little to lighten the situation. As much as his stomach sank with every new face he registered, Zane couldn’t stop himself from taking them all in. They looked tired, angry, scared, hurt. Confused, the feeling properly mirrored in the nurse’s eyes when they met a familiar gaze. Wynne looked even younger now than they had during the two’s first and only meeting. He had helped her out then but now, he was just as useless as the people inside the cages.

“This spawn is only the first of many that will help us claim what is rightfully ours. A place where the strongest don’t have to cower in fear and scrounge for food. This is only the beginning as our new recruits will help us build up an army of spawns.” Alma was gesturing towards a few of the vampires, a small and separate group Zane hadn’t noticed forming until now. There were six of them, including him, flanked by the half circle of vampires that had all been here for a long time and none of whom looked disturbed by the basement’s set up.

This was all happening too fast, Alma was still speaking but it didn’t register as English to Zane’s frazzled brain. He couldn’t get all of these people out of here, there were so many vampires here and no way past them. Even though the people closest to him, lovingly dubbed ‘freshmen’ like himself, looked wary and confused, Zane couldn’t count on them to help. In his line of work, he had witnessed every possible response to overwhelming danger. Never before had he experienced first hand the seldom mentioned ‘freeze’ response, blankly watching the situation in front of him unfold, feet glued to the ground.

The nervous vampire standing next to him stepped forward, the sound of jangling keys was deafening and there was more movement. There was no way to tell whether the blurry vision was due to panic or tears but everything became clearer the moment Zane finally realized who had been pulled from their cage and destined for a new and worse sort of prison. Wait. It took a moment to register why no one responded to his voice - Zane’s mouth hadn’t actually moved. One more glance at Wynne’s resigned face was enough to finally spur him into action.

“They didn’t choose this.” Numerous pairs of red eyes converged on him and Zane swallowed thickly, taking a step forward on legs that felt like they wouldn’t carry him. A protest from behind that Zane could only assume was Razul was quickly quieted by Alma raising a hand. “I… this is wrong. We,” shaky hands gestured vaguely at the surrounding vampires, “all chose but they… we can’t do this. This isn’t right.”

Alma approached slowly, a comforting smile on her face as she cupped Zane’s cheek with one soft hand. “I always figured you’d be opposed,” she sighed. In a blink, the soothing touch was a vice grip on the back of his neck, pushing him towards Wynne. They were being held by an annoyed looking vampire, making sure Wynne’s neck was properly exposed. “So why don’t you start us off and just get it over with, dear?”

—

The keys rattled and for a dumb, naive moment Wynne thought they’d open the cage and let them go. They had asked, hadn’t they? Pleaded, tried to reason with the people that kept watch of them and then grown so silent that they were afraid they’d never talk again. Even Zack’s question they couldn’t answer, their gaze just landing on his for a moment as both their roommates put themself in closer proximity to them. But it was little use, was it?

The keys rattled and the vampire that entered the cage left no room for stragglers, no room for escape attempt. He pushed past others and eventually Zack and Arden too, fingers enclosing around the back of Wynne’s neck. “What are you —” they began, trying to struggle against the tight grip but unable to do so, strength larger than their own (and that of any other human) dragging them forward. There were no words now, just an animalistic noise. They could feel the vampire’s fingernails break the skin and they let out a yelp of pain. “Please.”

Once out, away from the other dozen-or-so trembling humans, Wynne felt eyes on them. They thought about home and that engraved altar, of Jac laying down with his hands tied behind his back, Siors bringing down the knife to his throat. They hadn’t wanted to die and they didn’t want to die now either, even if it meant coming back. They had grown tight and tense but not hard enough not to be moved around, their body like a stiff doll in the arms of the vampire. He had turned them around, bend their head to expose their neck and all Wynne could do was whimper and close their eyes and look at Zane and tremble like a meek little lamb.

When he spoke up they watched the woman speak to him, so soft and then so cruel and they thought of Siors again, of all their elders and their parents. How many times had Padrig cupped their cheek like this? Squeezed their chin until their skin turned red?

Zane was like them — not just a vampire’s friend, but one of them. Wynne did not trust him, but he called this wrong. He did what no one at the commune had done when they’d prepared Wynne for the slaughter and when the two came eye to eye, with their neck exposed and their breathing falling from their mouth in rapid succession, they thought there was something to appeal to.

“You don’t have to do this,” they said, their voice constrained from the way their neck was bent and the tears flowing down their cheeks. At least if they’d had died at home it would have been beautiful. Their hair laced with flowers and their body warm with scented oils, a splendid meal beforehand and a speech in the last moment. It would have been honorable. But even then, Wynne hadn’t wanted to die. “Please, Zane.”

—

Zack didn’t fully understand all that was happening, but he knew enough. He knew that the people who had taken them were not human. And he knew that whatever that thing in the cage was (spawn, they called it), they planned on turning all of their captives into that, somehow.

Apparently, they were going to do that now, with one of the group stepping forward with a set of keys. Of course, of course, he came right over to their little group. Zack tried to put himself in front of Arden and Wynne, but they grabbed for the youngest of them all. “No, don’t!” Zack struggled to get himself up, to put himself between their captors and Wynne. But it was no use – with his hands behind his back he wasn’t even able to stand up, let alone fight back in any way. “Not them.”

Some of the group seemed amused by his weak protesting, with one comment, “Don’t worry. You’ll all get a turn.”

Sick dread slipped into Zack’s stomach at that. That was likely true, but if there was a chance of somehow stopping this, it meant that Wynne couldn’t go first. Wynne who had already had their head on the chopping block once, in that awful place they had called home before coming to Wicked’s Rest. Before making a home with Zack and Arden and Sully. “Please, just don’t take them first.”

Zack wasn’t the only one trying to stop this, though. One of the group tried to reason with the leader, someone who Wynne knew, apparently. And there were a few others, not many but a few, who looked similarly conflicted. In the end, it didn’t matter. Their leader was uninterested in any protests and forced the man who had spoken out, who seemed to know Wynne, over to do whatever it was that would start this horror show.

Desperately, Zack tried to call up the fire that lived somewhere inside him. “Please,” he muttered to himself. “Please, please…” Since they had first made their appearance, his abilities were nothing less than a plague. A shadow that lived over his every move as he tried to contain and control it all so it would never hurt anyone, never cause any harm. And here, now, there was the chance that it could help. If he could only bring it forth. If he had only learned, in any of his years, how to use it in any way that mattered.

The fire never came. Distraught and ashamed, Zack turned to tip his face against Arden’s shoulder. He couldn’t help and, in the end, he couldn’t watch.

—

This was it, then. The beginning of the end.

Arden couldn’t help but think of her last vampire encounter. She had been convinced she would die, certainly would have if not for the cross around her neck, if not for Emilio. She had barely taken it off since that night, but, of course, it had failed her, and she, in turn, had failed her friends.

That night, the sheer panic of staring down that vampire, knowing she would die, had been so overwhelming it had almost been peaceful. Now, though, there was no peace. Not when Zack and Wynne and all these other people were here. Not when she knew they wouldn’t even have the dignity of dying as themselves. They were simply pawns in some fucked up game of chess. Dying here meant an eternity of mindlessly harming others, and for what? Some insane vampire’s power play? No, there was no peace now, just dread and terror and rage and regret.

The awful pit of dread in her stomach only widened as one of the vampires came to grab one of them to be the first sacrifice, and it just grew and grew the closer they came toward their little trio. Of course, Zack tried to put himself in front of them, and Arden had to swallow back the wave of tears that threatened to spill. And, of course, they didn’t even grab her.

The horror that shot through her as they grabbed Wynne was unlike any other she had felt. “No! Wynne!” She struggled against her binds, trying to do something, aware Zack was doing the same. They had only recently told her about their home, about why she had run, the fate she had run from. Wynne was one of the sweetest people she had come to know in her twenty-eight years on this Earth. Of all the people who could’ve been subjected to such a fate, they damn well hadn’t deserved to live their life in fear, knowing that in the end, they were simply a sacrificial lamb to appease some demonic entity. And they certainly didn’t deserve this. No one did, but not them, not Wynne.

Their plea, Zack’s pleas, they broke her. Arden had tried to keep it together for so long, tried to be strong, especially for Wynne, but she couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down her face. “Take me first,” she choked out. But the only response she received was laughter. Since her father, since Jo, since coming back to this goddamn town that she considered home, she had felt so small, so useless, so human. Never had she hated it as much as she did then, moments before they would all be turned to monsters.

When one of the vampires spoke up, she had a moment of hope– maybe they weren’t all convinced on this plan, maybe this didn’t have to happen. It was quickly crushed as the leader forced his head down. He would be the one to turn Wynne for his insolence.

Beside her, she heard Zack’s quiet pleas and it broke her heart. Arden closed the space between them, the only way she had of comforting him. She remembered back when she had first moved in, she had been a little jealous of how close Zack and Wynne were, how much they seemed to care for each other, how much she had wanted that after years of not letting herself be close to anyone. But that was months ago, and now she had her own relationships with them. She loved how much they loved each other, and she loved the both of them so much. She would do anything, give anything, if it meant they could be free of this situation. Arden would turn into a monster, become a spawn, become whatever these vampires wanted if that meant they could survive this.

As Zack burrowed his face into her shoulder, Arden only had her eyes on Wynne. This was it. The beginning of the end, and it was starting with Wynne.

—

You’re walking into a trap. It was something his mind kept repeating, over and over again. A vampire gives a slayer intel about the clan they’ve sworn loyalty to time and time again. Tells the slayer to come to a remote location, ready to fight. They don’t trust each other — they never have. What else could it be?

On some level, Emilio knew Zane wasn’t the type to kill him outright. He’d proven that time and time again, helped him instead of hurting him, saved his ass against another vampire even when he knew it meant signing that vampire’s death warrant. But that didn’t necessarily mean he was safe here, did it? He was walking into a trap. It was the most obvious answer, the easiest one to default to. He was walking into a trap. He knew he was.

But he was walking anyway.

If it was a trap, after all, it was a well-laid one. If you told Emilio that there were people in trouble and that he could save them if he only had the courage to show up, you’d get him where you wanted him every goddamn time. It was a slayer’s job, wasn’t it, to die for a cause? To fall on a blade, to bleed himself dry? If there was a chance, even a small one, that Zane’s information was good, Emilio had to take it. He knew that.

Asking for help was a rare thing, but he’d thought about Nora. About Ren, about Leticia, about Rhett. About all the people who, for some unfathomable reason, gave a shit whether he was alive or dead. He was bound to die for his cause sooner or later, and he was probably walking into a trap, but maybe if he put up half a fight they wouldn’t hate him for it. Metzli was the only one he could really ask; Rhett or Owen would have wanted to kill all the vampires involved, including Zane, and he couldn’t stomach the thought of taking any of the kids along. Leading Kaden into something that was probably a trap, too, would have felt cruel, and Andy was retired. So it was Metzli or it was no one. And it was a miracle that he picked the former.

“This is it,” he said gruffly, nodding to the barn. “Got a guy on the inside. Zane. Don’t kill him, or the humans they’ve got locked up. Everyone else is fair game.” When he was done here, either the clan or the Cortez family name would be wiped out. There was no room for anything else. “Got it?”

—

When the barn came into view, Metzli couldn’t help but stare at their hand, feeling the weight of what was to come, keeping it from being consumed by tremors. Emilio had requested their help to fight, to take out a small army of vampires. They’d done it before, dead blood coating their skin not an unfamiliar sensation. By the end of the night, Metzli was sure they’d be painted like a warrior, and Leila would likely be all over them for it. But it didn’t matter. Not then. Emilio needed their help and so too did innocent people inside.

“I will do what you ask.” The vampire replied with no personality in their tone, falling into the role of soldier once more. Metzli’s thoughts began to drift far away, body functioning as whatever Emilio needed it to be. Whether shield or sword, it didn’t matter. Metzli wanted to help their friend and atone for every atrocity they had a hand in. It was one mission, but it was enough to be a start.

“Let us begin before it is too late.” Metzli trained their attention to the entrance, retrieving their blade as they slipped inside. They could feel the truth in sharp velocity, of knowing the odds of survival to be shaky at best.

There was much to fight for, the fear of death not overwhelming but still biting the back of Metzli’s neck to remind them of what was waiting for them at home. They carefully descended down the steps, the sound of chaos consuming them with each step. Looking back at Emilio one last time, Metzli gave him a nod, tensing their body in preparation.

Whatever was to come, despite the way they were created to oppose one another, it felt bittersweet to find a brother in the midst of so much blood. To have a man like Emilio trust Metzli—a vampire—enough to help him and run into danger without hesitation. It was an honor to extend their hearts to one another, whether the slayer saw it that way or not. The role of soldier fell and Metzli quickly became an ally instead. It fit just a bit better, they thought.

—

Sharp nails were digging into the back of his neck, the fact that it was Alma causing him harm somehow much more painful than the physical sensation. Zane had wanted information on her way back when but never could he have imagined this to be the answer to his nagging doubts. Someone who would go this far for power, who would take another’s free will, whether human or vampire. Tears were relentlessly brimming in his eyes now, lips parted in a desperate attempt to say something, anything, as a response to Wynne’s pleas. To reassure the people that seemed to be their friends that he wouldn’t hurt them. He wasn’t someone who hurt people. Or so he had always thought.

When Alma grew impatient, nails dug further, feeling monstrously elongated inside his skin. The pain was enough to push out fangs, eyes turning red behind the tears. He couldn’t do this, not to Wynne, not to anyone. The whole point of joining what he had thought was a new family was having choice. For the first part of his life, choice hadn’t been an option. You adapted and fit in or, in Zane’s case, got cast out. What was there if not choice? “I won’t,” he whispered, voice trembling. Alma could hear him, he knew, because she was snarling in his ear now.

There was no actual response from her and for a moment, Zane let himself live in the delusion that maybe his words had an impact. That he had a choice.

Strong hands, his sire’s, moved quickly. There was no time to register what was happening - he had expected to be tossed aside, maybe even a swift death. Blood filling his mouth had not been one of the expected variables, his teeth sinking into Wynne’s neck, held in place by the strong grip of the woman Zane had once thought would rescue him. Innate enjoyment overpowered panic, mixed in with pure revulsion at the new emotion. Greed fought with regret, hunger struggled with disgust and the last bit of hope that Emilio had received his message flickered out.

—

Metzli was right — they were on a strict schedule here. Vampires intent on doing as much damage as possible didn’t tend to take their time. They’d tear through those people in that basement in a matter of hours at the most, and then they’d start ripping into people in the streets, in their houses, leaving bodies in living room floors and —

— No. No, he couldn’t think about that right now. He couldn’t be a man when what Zane had asked for was the weapon. There were people in that barn that needed saving, or there were vampires in that barn that needed killing, or there were both. Either way, it was Emilio’s job to step inside.

“Let’s go, then.” He pushed the door open without waiting, without pausing to see if Metzli would follow. He knew they would. And that was a strange feeling, too; the hair on the back of his neck was standing up straight, refusing to allow him to forget that they were a vampire, that he was built to put a stake in their chest just as much as he was built to take out the monsters in the basement. But he trusted them, somehow, knew that his back was safe so long as they were the one watching it. It was strange, wasn’t it? Learning to rely on someone you’d been raised to hate, to kill. It was nothing you could ever recover from.

There were stairs, just like Zane said there would be. Emilio took them two at a time despite the pain in his knee. Any element of surprise they had would hinge on timing. If the vampires were paying close enough attention, they would have heard the barn door open, would have heard the feet on the stairs. If this was a trap, there would be no surprise, anyway. But when Emilio shoved his way into the basement, everyone seemed surprised to see him.

And they weren’t the only ones surprised.

His eyes immediately went to the center of the large basement, to the main event. There was Zane, his teeth buried in an achingly familiar throat.

Wynne.

There was a flash of something else. Of bloody hands, of still-cooling bodies, of a living room floor. Emilio quickly pushed it all down, pushed it all away. That story was over. There was no one in that living room that he could still save, no ending that he could pretend was happy.: It was finished, it was gone. But this wasn’t.

Time seemed to slow, for a moment. He took in the cage full of people, met Arden’s eye and noted Zack with his face buried in her shoulder. There was another cage with a spawn already there, and for a moment, he felt an awful relief. The spawn was unfamiliar, wasn’t someone he cared about, and he wondered when he became the sort of person who was okay with death so long as it was the death of a stranger. What did it make him, he wondered, that he said a silent prayer of gratitude that the spawn in that cage wasn’t Arden or Wynne or Zack? If God was listening, would He forgive this sin, too? Or was Emilio more sin than man now, too far gone to save?

Turning to Metzli, he tried to control his breathing enough to speak. It was a difficult thing. “I’m saving the kid,” he said, no room for argument. He was saving Wynne, because he had to. Because he didn’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t, because there was no other option here. Wynne wasn’t dying in a goddamn basement with a vampire’s teeth in their throat. “Keep me alive long enough for that. Then do whatever.” It was all the warning he gave before he was shoving his way through the crowd of vampires, desperate to get to the center.

Whatever Zane was doing, he was going to stop it. If he had to put a stake in the nurse’s chest to do it, he liked to think Zane would prefer it that way.

—

The tremors that Metzli had been able to fend off continued to bite at them, persisting until they had managed to consume their hand. Flashes of their childhood stung their eyes, the intensity growing as Eloy’s voice boomed in Metzli’s thoughts. They were back in their clan again, the urge to attack growing.

Especially when they saw Wynne.

Metzli took a single step, stopped by Emilio’s plan, command laying just beneath his words. Right—Eloy’s voice dissipated and they looked at their friend. It appeared they’d be Emilio’s shield, using their newfound ability to feel as fuel for the ferocity of the punishment they’d lay thickly onto their enemies.

With a feral and guttural growl, Metzli surged forward, following closely behind Emilio. They plunged their blade into one neck, drawing a squelching smile across while they ripped out another throat with their teeth. Flashes of red orbs, the last thing the vampires saw before theirs went blank.

There was no time to stop or hesitate, the horde catching wind of the anomalies. They were going to swarm them before Emilio had the proper chance to stop the monster from hurting Wynne fatally. Metzli knew that because they were a monster too.

“Oye,” They head-butted another vampire, wrapping their arm around Emilio, “Jump.” Metzli lifted the slayer over the crowd, sitting him on their shoulders briefly before throwing him toward Wynne. When he made it to his destination, Metzli turned back to their victims, eyes filled with violence, striking the others into a moment of submission. It was enough to give them the upperhand, leaving a few vampires headless and spewing black blood in their wake.

To Be Continued...

#kidnapping tw #writing #wickedswriting #collab #rn zane #wr zane #ohwynne #wr wynne #zackbanes #wr zack #mortemoppetere #wr emilio #muertarte #wr metzli

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mortemoppetere · 5 months

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TIMING: current LOCATION: outside something wicked news PARTIES: @stainedglasstruth & a mysterious man… SUMMARY: after getting nowhere with wynne, our mystery man decides to approach arden in search of answers instead. CONTENT: none!

The neighbor was, perhaps, the most logical dynamic the man had observed in the new life of Emilio Cortez. It seemed he’d set himself up as an investigator in this town — whether this was a genuine passion or a simple means of making cash remained unclear — and an investigator working side-by-side with a journalist certainly made sense. The relationship clearly wasn’t one that was strictly professional, though. There was a certain back and forth between them, a banter that implied some form of friendship. It was the kind of thing that could be made useful.

Approaching as the hunter’s friends left their places of employment seemed the most effective method. There was little chance of running into the hunter himself, and leaving work for the day tended to leave people relaxed enough to be a little more open. So the man waited outside the newspaper (newsletter? Was that what they were called online?) office for the journalist to exit. When she stepped out, he stepped forward. He held his hands up, palm out; she struck him as the paranoid type. “Excuse me, miss.” His accent was thick, heavy. English wasn’t something he’d practiced, and it showed. “I am hoping to speak with you on something. Is very important.”

—

Arden liked her job. She didn’t always love it, but she liked it, the process, the research, the editing. It was satisfying work, and she had spent the last several years of her life focusing almost entirely on her career as she avoided facing herself. So it felt strange to notice that she was obsessively checking the clock these days, eager to get back home to Teagan and the cats, or to go catch up with Metzli or drop in on Leila or hang out with Wynne or whatever it was she happened to be doing on any given day.

That day, she was just ready to get back to the cabin, and curl up in bed and take a damn nap– preferably with Teagan. As she stepped out, though, she almost immediately found her path blocked by a man stepping forward. Despite the winter gear and the poor posture he was clearly rather buff, and he was taller than her for sure. Judging by his appearance and the slight wrinkles, she’d guess he was Latine, probably somewhere in his late 40s or 50s. And, man, he had a mean look on his face.

It was clear he'd been waiting outside the office to approach whoever was leaving, which made her feel slightly wary, but wasn’t alarming enough to set off alarm bells quite yet– though the raised hands almost felt more suspicious than a normal approach. A precaution, maybe, to counteract the resting bitch face? Either way, if he was hanging around the office, it was likely business related to the paper.

“And what would that be?” Arden asked, looking up at him, brow raised.

—

There was no greeting, no hello, but he supposed that was to be expected. Americans had a reputation of rudeness, after all, and the man had approached with little warning. Besides that, he suspected that anyone who spent a considerable amount of time around hunters were bound to inherit some of that patented paranoia. (Did she know, he wondered? Did she have any idea what her neighbor got up to in his free time? The things he’d done, the things he likely continued to do now… Was she ignorant, or complacent? Either way, he thought, it was sure to say something about her.)

He tried for a smile, but it was an unpracticed thing. Clumsy and unnatural, like it had been carved onto his face by force. If anything, it looked like more of a grimace. Most expressions did, these days. It was difficult to manage anything else. The last few years had been especially hard on him, after all.

He made no move to get closer to her. The last thing he wanted was for her to run, to have to chase her down or to have her call the hunter and end all of this before it could begin at all. He needed her — and the rest of them — unassuming. Or, as close to it as he could hope to make them. The man had never been particularly good at coming off as nonthreatening; it wasn’t in his nature, and it was difficult to sell such a monumental lie. Still, he made some attempt. He allowed the distance to remain between them, allowed that grimace of a smile to remain on his face. “Is about a friend you have,” he said. “A neighbor. Emilio Cortez?” He watched her expression carefully, waiting to see if there was any shift there, any change. Even the smallest details could give him more information than he had now, and information would be helpful during the inevitable confrontation to come.

—

He seemed to be trying to appear non-threatening with the raised hands and pitiful attempt at a smile, but it only served to assure that she would not be lowering her guard anytime soon. He surprised her, though, with the mention of Emilio. Her brows furrowed slightly as an uneasy feeling settled in her gut, the situation immediately feeling more suspect, more dangerous.

The man wanted to talk about Emilio. Emilio, who had a knack for finding trouble, making enemies–especially the undead– and pissing people off. (Distantly, Arden remembered Teddy mentioning something about goons.) He knew they were friends, which, granted, they did have public conversations online from time to time, and he knew that they were neighbors, which would’ve been clear had he gone looking for their addresses, regardless of their current living situations. But it meant he’d clearly done at least the bare minimum of looking into them both. He’d even sought her out at work.

She didn’t like this.

“Can I ask what this is about?” she asked, trying not to let her nerves show. She was hyper aware of the knife in her coat pocket, the familiar weight of it a slight comfort. It would be ballsy to try to attack her immediately in front of the paper offices, but, well, she was just human, and the man was large. There was only so much she’d be able to do about it.

—

He saw it happen. He saw her guard shoot up even further, saw those already impressive walls grow in magnitude. He hadn’t gotten much from the kid, but he felt like he’d at least walked away with a little more than he’d had before that conversation. But here? With her? The man had a feeling he’d be getting nothing from this. It wouldn’t dissuade him from trying, of course. The stakes were too high to walk away without so much as an attempt. Even if the reporter was closed off and unwilling to share, there was always an attempt she might let something slip unintentionally, between the words. The man was good at picking up on those things.

So he kept that forced, unnatural smile firm on his face, he shrugged a shoulder. “Not very interesante, I think. I knew him back in México. Would like to catch up with him here, but, ah…” He trailed off with a hapless shrug. “He is… hard to approach, no? Best to know what… state he is in before trying to say hello.” He’d yet to actually lay eyes on the hunter as of yet — he wasn’t sure how he’d react, even from a distance — but he’d gathered a few nuggets of information here and there. After what happened in Mexico, the hunter was bound to be on edge. It would do the man no good to ignite his plans half-cocked, with no information on his side. If he wanted this to go his way, he needed to know everything he could.

It started here. With the reporter, with the kid, with whatever friends or acquaintances the man could approach without giving himself away. Tangaroa wasn’t the threat he would have been years ago, but unapproachable all the same. The man didn’t particularly want to tangle with the rangers the hunter seemed to have been spending time with, either, or the other slayers. Keeping to humans for now, the kind with no enhanced senses to speak of… That was his best bet. Even if those humans were as guarded as the reporter seemed to be. “I’d just like to know… what state he’s in these days. How he is doing.” He heard the hunter walked with a limp now. It seemed to track with the massacre. It seemed like it could be useful, if it needed to be. But emotional state… that would be handy to know. That was the sort of thing you could only learn by asking.

—

There was something about his tone, his phrasing, that didn’t sit right with her. Maybe she was just being paranoid, but it felt like he was trying to play this off casually, keyword: play. The explanation didn’t really make sense, either. If he was a friend– a word he hadn’t said, she noted– why wouldn’t he just go say hello? Why come to her? And why would he need to know Emilo’s state?

She really didn’t like this.

Her mouth twitched at the ‘hard to approach’ comment, so she leaned into it, allowing it to grow into a smile that she hoped seemed somewhat sincere as she back on how she had confidently strode into Axis so many months back. “Oh, are you an old friend, then?”

Someone from Mexico, though…

Emilio hardly ever mentioned his home, his past. Arden hadn’t heard the entirety of the confrontation he’d had with Teagan at the cabin months ago, but it was her understanding that hunters had killed his family, same as the nix. They hadn’t spoken about it, though, and she knew nothing of the details, didn’t know what had happened or when, or if there was even more tragedy in his past. All she knew was that Rhett was the only family he had left …and she had caught him fidgeting with a ring a few nights when they’d had too much to drink. Other than that, though, she just knew he’d left two years ago. There certainly hadn’t been any mention of friends.

“How nice of you to check in on him,” she continued. After a moment, she cocked her head to the side. “You know, I don’t think I caught your name.”

—

It felt like a game between the two of them; a chess match that he doubted either of them was entirely prepared for. How much did the reporter know about the hunter’s past, he wondered? It was unlikely he’d go into detail, if his patterns over the last two years were to be taken into account. The hunter stayed in a town only as long as he needed to before moving on to the next. But Wicked’s Rest was already an outlier, wasn’t it? He’d stayed here long enough for the man to catch up with him, put down enough roots for there to be reporters and kids and friends to approach with questions. Maybe he’d broken his usual pattern in other ways, too. Maybe the reporter knew more than he’d assumed she did. That was an answer all its own, wasn’t it? The hunter had people here.

It was a good thing to know.

“Friend, yes. Something like that,” the man replied, his smile tightening around the edges just a little. It would have been easier if these people were only associates, he was realizing. Friends asked too many questions, had protective streaks. But the hunter didn’t seem to have gathered a good deal of casual associates; he was inspiring a loyalty in this town that was surprising to say the least. The man hadn’t thought him entirely capable of it.

More unwelcome inquiries. The man shrugged again, noncommittal. “I didn’t say it,” he replied. “You know, the last time I saw Emilio, he was in… ah… a state. Bad. Not easy to talk to. All I want to know is if he is still so… voluble. If you can’t tell me this, maybe I just go on my way, no?”

—

Arden had seen that look far too many times to miss the way his smile tightened. She was annoying him. He didn’t like her asking questions, clearly, but he should have thought of that before approaching a journalist– this was literally part of her job description.

Something like that. Like that wasn’t super fucking suspicious. Her lips curled up at the next words out of his mouth. It was almost funny, he didn’t even try to give her some bullshit name, he just wasn’t giving her anything. It hardly seemed fair when he clearly knew hers– he’d come looking for her, after all. She was tempted to say just that, but she didn’t want to anger this stranger. She was already annoying him, and she didn’t know not what he was or what he was capable of. It wasn’t the time to be a smartass, though, she had no doubt that Emilio would disagree were he there.

Voluble, that one wasn’t in her vocabulary. Damn her terrible Spanish. She was fairly certain she got the gist of it, context clues and all, but she tried to file it away to look up the moment she had the opportunity.

She really wanted to push, wanted to see if she could turn the tables on the man and get him to spill some information, but it was a risky move. There was too much she didn’t know, and the more she spoke the more she risked spilling information herself. Not to mention she would possibly be putting herself in danger.

No, she needed to be smart about this, quit while she was ahead.

“I think that might be for the best,” Arden agreed, still in that polite tone of voice.

—

He was a little surprised at her response. He’d expected her to push more — to try to get more out of him, and to unintentionally give him more in return. But she was smart, it seemed; smarter than he’d given her credit for. Too smart to be running around with hunters, isn’t she? What was someone like this doing associating with a man like Emilio Cortez? There was more to the story here, more to the relationship. There were pieces the man didn’t have, and there was a part of him that wanted to push for those, wanted to take things apart bit by bit until he held more of the puzzle than she did.

But doing this would mean giving her something in return. She was too smart to walk away with nothing, and he was too desperate to give up anything that he had. He wanted the upper hand when he finally approached the hunter firsthand; giving away too much here would mean losing it. Nothing was worth that. Not even satiating his desperate curiosity.

So, hating it a little, the man nodded his head. “Perhaps there are others I can ask, then.” Doubtlessly, the journalist and the kid would put two and two together that the same person had been in contact with them both; the man remembered uncovering a shared address between the two when he was in the earliest stages of his fact-finding mission. He wondered if they would approach the hunter separately or together, or if the kid had told him already. Would the next person he approached see him coming? Time, he thought, would be the only thing to tell.

He took a step backwards, not taking his eyes off the journalist, not turning his back. A hand in her pocket — would she go for her cell phone, or a weapon? He was confident he could take her in a fight, but it would be a bigger mess than he was hoping to leave behind here. It would almost certainly expose him to the hunter with less doubt than he had working for him now. Not worth it; best to avoid.

“It was nice to be meeting you,” he said politely. “Maybe next time, you’ll have more to say.” Let her take it how she wanted — a threat, or a friendly goodbye? It served the man’s purpose better to confirm neither option.

—

He hadn’t expected her to agree, it seemed. She took a bit of satisfaction from it, the way his eyes narrowed in response. But of course he wouldn’t just approach her, would he? And if he knew about her, he likely knew about Wynne. The thought both worried her and pissed her off, however Arden tried her best to keep it from showing.

When he moved, her hand went to her pocket, clutching the hilt of the knife in her hand as she watched him slowly back away, staring right back at him.

“Likewise.” Though, her grip only tightened as he offered his goodbye. A threat. Excellent. “Maybe so,” she replied, offering him another fake smile.

She didn’t look away, watching his retreat until he disappeared out of sight. And even then, she gave it a moment before turning around and heading back into the office. It was only once she was safely back inside, back pressed to the door, that Arden allowed her face to fall.

She needed to talk to Emilio.

#wickedswriting #stainedglasstruth #arden: interrogation

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nightmaretist · 8 months

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TIMING: Backdated to when Metzli was away PARTIES: Leila @amonstrousdream & Inge @nightmaretist LOCATION: Karl Johansson's bedroom SUMMARY: Leila is about to have a lovely meal when suddenly another mare appears! The two have a bit of an awkward moment before deciding to feed together, which Leila didn't know was even a thing. Sometimes the younger grandma teaches the older grandma things. CONTENT WARNINGS: N/A

Well, this was awkward.

Inge had just projected herself into the bedroom of her newest intended victim, a man who had grated her so very much upon their initial meeting that she’d made careful work of figuring out where he lived. Karl Johansson deserved a good scare, that much was clear — he was a rude person, a sexist pig and had a handlebar mustache that simply belonged in a time period long gone. She didn’t often consider these things when picking her meals, but every now and then she found herself enjoying her meals even more if she could feel righteous about them.

So here she was, arriving right on time for her meal, but finding that there was already someone in the room. Someone who did not appear to be a lover by the way she was standing near his bed. She cleared her throat, softly, and when Ingeborg’s eyes met the other, red met red in the dark. This hadn’t happened to her in at least twenty years.

A finger lifted to her lips, hands then rising in surrender. Whether this was a vampire or someone like her, she wasn’t entirely sure. Either way, she was going to be a bit annoyed if she couldn’t get her feeding of the night done. Sure, she could just plop into the house one over and improvise, but she had prepped for this! Her voice was a whisper, “Well, one of us is gonna have to change.” It was an idiotic statement, but Inge wasn’t sure what to say. If there was mare etiquette, she cared little to follow it anyway.

Sometimes, being a nightmare was a good way to exact a bit of vengeance without ever being found out for it. Take Karl Johannson, for example. Perhaps it was just something with people with K names in Wicked’s Rest- Karl, Kurt, hell, Leila had even found several Karens that were, to put it politely, absolutely terrible. Though the ‘Karen’ name seemed to also be a title bestowed on people with entitlement and terrible manners…

Karl Johansson had made the grade with sexist remarks and other such misdeeds. He reminded her a bit of… well… no, she didn’t even want to think it. It didn’t matter if he acted like him, it only mattered that he acted horribly. No one so horrible deserved such a sweet night’s sleep… And so, Leila moved through the astral, following the sticky sweet scent of dreams until she found just the right one.

Just as she was about to start her meal and watch as the old man’s dreams turned to ash, Leila saw a pair of red eyes appear out of nowhere just across the room from her. Vampire? Mare? Who was she looking at here…? She watched as the woman raised a finger towards her lips, as if she were a silly child who needed shushing. She wasn’t about to wake up a perfectly terrible meal… “Change? What are you talking about- I’ve got a nightmare to give… What are you, blood or dreams?”

Sometimes she found herself longing for some kind of community with her fellow mares, but it seemed so hard to come across one another. Especially with hunters often hot on her heels, Inge found little room to mingle with others like her. But it had been glorious, to spread fear with Sanne in tow, to use their astral projection skills to their advantage to nick some small trinkets from their victims, to make the world feel like nothing but a playground. It had been the very opposite of lonely, which was a feeling she now felt more than she liked to admit.

And yet there was a tenseness in this room, wasn’t there? She looked at the other, thought she recognized her from around town – a local, like her, that was funny – and reached out her hand towards Karl. She wanted the man to stay asleep, lest he ruin this potentially fruitful interaction. “Never mind.” Her comment had been nonsensical and to explain it would make Inge feel very, very lame. “Dreams. Or, well — nightmares. Kind of awkward, this, hm? I was going to give Karl the night of his life myself, after all.”

Wicked’s Rest was proving to be the most nightmare-ridden place Leila had ever lived in. Crimson eyes burned through the darkness, scanning the other woman over before the mare finally relaxed. It wasn’t like a slayer could pretend to be a nightmare… She let go of a small sigh of relief as she moved closer to the woman, eyes flicking back to the snoring-like-a-freight-train Karl. “The same here… Nightmares.”

But… the woman knew Karl? Her curiosity was piqued, to say the least. “And how do you know this… fine specimen of humanity?” Sarcasm dripped from her whispered words as Karl let out a horrendously loud snort in his sleep. “Because, funnily enough, I was going to give him a night to remember as well… He’s earned as much with his behavior…”

Another mare. Inge’s eyes widened, more red showing, her lips spreading into a wide smile. She continued her contact with Karl to keep him asleep, but extended a hand. “Well, hey, nice to meet you. I’m Inge. And you are?,” she asked, speaking a little louder than before. She had half a mind to forget all about this human and suggest the two of them remeet in a different spot.

“Oh, I had a horrid introduction to this one the other day. In line at the bank, he was just loud and obnoxious, spouting all this nonsense. Old-school rhetoric, you know? A real backwards man.” How dull! It was 2023, for Christ’s sakes, couldn’t people come up with something new to be obnoxious about? She took in the other’s words, wondered if that was how she’d picked out her meal for the night. “So you pick out the bad guys, or …?” She glanced at Karl. “Is he one of your usuals? ‘Cause then I’ll back off.”

Karl was safe in his slumbers, trapped there by the other mare’s- Inge’s- touch. Leila sighed in relief, reaching out to shake the other mare’s hand. “Leila. Nice to meet you too… I’m sorry for the tense… intro-” A wave of hunger crashed over the mare as the sticky sweet smell of Karl’s Johansson’s sleeping thoughts rolled into her. She couldn’t quite remember the last time she’d fed. If she was being honest, she hadn’t been quite good about remembering since Metzli left. As soon as it hit it was over, Leila’s smile returning to her face.

“No, not a usual. I don’t do usuals.” It was true enough. In all her time in Wicked’s Rest, she’d avoided feeding on the same person twice. It couldn’t last- Leila was sure of it. But for now… for now, it could. “No, I’m here for the same reason as you. I had the misfortune of him coming into my shop and witnessing his horrendous behavior… and so I’m here. Consider it a bit of Dickensian Intervention. Or a scared straight program done by the undead.”

Inge let out a soft noise of amusement, waved away the apology, “No need to apologize. It’s all on me, I’m the one who arrived second.” There didn’t seem to be a thing such as mare etiquette, but first-come-first-serve was a social rule that seemed to apply in many areas of life. Maybe that could be the case here too. She had the feeling if she was to fight the other over it, though, she could possibly win.

Especially as the other referenced Dickens. “The mare of Christmas’ past?” She chuckled. So she was a righteous one after all! Inge couldn’t relate, but she supposed it was a good way to go about it for those more morally compromised than herself. “Well, how should we resolve this, hm? I’m still somewhat satiated from last night, but I had looked forward to have something of a snack. Do you want to go in together?” Oh, that had been long ago. She thought of Sanne, she and her terrorizing people together. “I’m down to share a meal. How hungry are ya?”

The Mare of Christmas’ Past… She had to admit, it was catchy. Somewhere in her possessions, she had a well loved and nearly falling apart first edition. Leila had come to the conclusion that if Dickens had written from experience, then a mare definitely had to be behind it. “I suppose so. It makes me feel less guilty when I need a big meal- speaking of,”

Red eyes flicked back to the too-soundly sleeping form of Karl. She could feel her whole body roar with the pain of hunger as he slept on, blissfully unaware of what was coming. “I’m starving- it’s been a bit of a time, but-” Could mares share meals? It was news to Leila, but she’d never had someone to share a nightmare with, so how could she know any better. “I didn’t know m- we could share dreams. I’d be happy to share. Lord knows he needs a good scare.”

Inge was quickly beginning to understand that she and this mare were fundamentally different. It was sad, she thought, when people like them couldn’t or wouldn’t embrace their nature. “Why are you so hungry? Do you not feast enough?” How sad! She never let herself go hungry, getting herself a snack near-daily (or nightly to be more precise). And guilt, well … that only existed in the most deeply buried parts of her, and certainly didn’t pertain to her sleepers.

“Oh, that’s a pity. Are you new?” She did seem young. Inge couldn’t imagine being a hardened mare who dealt with things like grief or hunger. She got up, approached the other, extended her hand with the intention of taking the other’s. Sanne and her had done this so often, transferring their previous meals. Not even because they were hungry, but because there was something caring about it. “May I? I’ll show you. And we can go into his dreams together afterwards. I like to see other mares at work.”

Feast was a strange word. She had feasted once- only once. That first night, before Leila knew what death had done and transformed her into, she had sampled as many dreams as she could. Fear had been a delicacy she had never known, sweet on her tongue and heady to her senses. But the red eyes that stared her down in the mirror put a stop to that. Disgust and loathing made hunger a common friend. Metzli had made her feel less monstrous. Less revolting to herself. Feeding was a necessity to continue her existence. But now, she wasn’t sure she cared. They were gone. She was hungry. And hunger made her an ugly thing. C'est la non-vie.

“No. Not new…” It felt ridiculous, rolling off her tongue. She wasn’t new by any stretch of the imagination- not after nearly two hundred years of un-life. “I didn’t have anyone to teach me.” The admission felt like one of defeat. But the other mare seemed excited at the prospect of teaching… Leila mustered a weak smile. “Please? I’d like to know how…”

Abstention had ruled her life, when she had been a mortal. That Christian soberness forbade Inge and all those around them from getting too greedy, living a life of soberness except for a few dates reserved for celebration. Maybe that was why she indulged so much in her unlife. She had no interest in putting limits on herself and her needs, becoming a glutton of fear and any other instinct that required feeding. She could not imagine living any other way, especially if life was to be forever.

But the other wasn’t new, which meant she was restrictive. She was still inexperienced, it seemed. Inge thought of Ariadne, whose creator had abandoned her. How unconventional Sanne had been, then, to stick around the way she had. How she missed her. “I did,” she said. “She taught me all.” She took the other’s hand, pressing her palm against the mare’s wrist. Fear was just another source of energy, and she moved the fear she’d consumed the night before to her finger tips and then onto the other. Eyes slightly closed with focus, the energy leaving her body but entering the other — it was not dissimilar to putting humans to sleep with ones fingers. Inge opened her eyes and looked at the other. “Did you feel it?”

Life. It felt like life.

The woman held her hand, and it felt as though she had become a live wire. As the energy flowed into Leila, the stabbing pain of hunger dissipated. Like snow melting under the spring sun. Her eyes shot open, wide, full of a vitality she hadn’t known in quite some time.

“I felt it!” She had to keep herself from speaking too loud, the excitement of it all entirely overwhelming. Learning. Learning about herself. It was something she had only ever been able to do alone. But now, here was this stranger, this other mare, teaching her how to be. Leila forced her voice into a whisper, hands flexing at her sides to get rid of the excited energy somehow. Karl needed to stay asleep. Yes, there was no more hunger, no more pain. But now there was a task at hand: scaring the ever-loving-hell out of a man who was, as the children put it, ‘the worst’.

“So… a nightmare for two?”

It had to be more glorious for the other as it was to her, as she was on the receiving end and Inge the mere giver. It was good, then, that she tended to feed near-nightly, even if some nights it was only a small snack — and that giving her some of her previous feeding would not starve her. Inge didn’t go hungry any more, not only out of hedonist tendency but because any ache that felt like starvation brought up bad memories.

She smiled at the other, glad to have taught a fellow mare something. “Good,” Inge said, flexing her fingers as well. The other’s excitement was infectious and she nodded. “A nightmare for two. You can take the lead, if you want.” She didn’t mind watching, and besides, the other had been here first.

Still, she moved down to crouch next to Karl, resting one knee on the ground and pressing two fingers against the man’s exposed calf. Her red eyes looked at Leila. “Just go in as usual. I’ll follow.”

Is this what it would have been like? Leila couldn’t help but wonder as she perched on the foot of the bed. Would this what she would have had two hundred years ago if whoever had made her hadn’t vanished long before the corpse of a girl had awoken into something new? Learning from another, gentle guidance in a world she didn’t know? Would she have learned to hate herself a little less?

She pushed the questions out of her mind. Now wasn’t the time for hypothetical dream worlds. There were real dreams to take care of- namely, those of a mortal whose behavior had deemed him worthy of some terrible dreams to, hopefully, set him straight.

One breath, two. Red eyes closed tight and Leila let herself fall into that place between the waking world and the silence of a dreamless sleep. As easy as falling asleep. Karl Johansson’s saccharine dreams would be stolen away by not one nightmare, but two.

Despite herself, Leila couldn’t help but grin.

#the mares of christmas past.#leila.#threads.

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magmahearts · 18 days

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[pm] Leila tell me what happened. Why did you not tel I thought You are my

Did you get hurt? Are you okay mija?

[message marked as read.]

[user reads through message history. he keeps coming back to this message. he keeps stopping on the last word and staring.]

[user boils.]

[pm] What do you care? You're already gone.

#muertarte #metzli: what happened #private #makaio driving

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singdreamchild · 8 months

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@amonstrousdream replied to your post “[pm] So I might need help, the no questions asked...”:

[pm] Metzli was going to meet with someone from their past, another vampire. And it's been a while, and I was worried, so I messaged. Got this in response. [user attaches screenshot of the message] And that is not how Metzli writes. And I'm trying to figure out what in the hell is going on. Looking for as much help as I can get- I reached out to another friend, but I just don't know what to do. Mostly not knowing what to do. And worrying.

[User stares and contemplates Leila's message for a while before finally responding]

[pm] So you think something must have happened to them.

[User stares at his phone for a long moment, swears, then texts Richard for assistance.]

[pm] First of all, if they were taken or went into hiding, you'd be the first person they'd target if they wanted to get under Metzli's skin. So either I'm coming over there, or you get someone there who can protect you, dammit.

[...] I know someone who may be able to help us.

#amonstrousdream #pm;amonstrousdream #pm;

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natusvincere · 2 months

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Have there been any in-character events that have shaped your character since you started playing them?

]meta] Vic is so new to this iteration that not much has happened, but SO much of what happened to Vic in the last round really changed her. Her growing closeness to other undead (particularly Metzli) really helped reshape her view of the world and her identity as a vampire.

More importantly, getting Rosie really cemented her change in character, though everything is still a work in progress with her. I'm so excited to explore this new element of her since Rosie was brought in pretty much the last month before we closed last time around!

#meta #answered

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fearhims3lf · 10 months

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TIMING: A few weeks ago

PARTIES: @amonstrousdream @fearhims3lf

SUMMARY: Leila finds out who the mare was that haunted Cass.

WARNINGS: None

The Abstract was the place mares wandered next to beings of ethereal quality, picking out meals through glimpses into the physical realm. Mateo had never ventured much farther than that, knowing and respecting there are some boundaries that cannot be crossed and should not be tested. Besides, his hunger was in need of sating and that was his first priority.

“Hmm…” Mateo rocked back and forth on his feet, shaking his head at the brief glimpses of a potential meal. Not enough ingredients, he thought. He wanted more. “Maybe the next one,” Mateo muttered to himself, eyes still stuck to the preview as he began to move on. He bumped into a stranger, almost irritated until he caught a glimpse of how pretty she was. “Oh damn–my bad, ma.” Shuffling to the side, he smiled, tilting his head curiously. “Never seen you here before. Who are you?”

The Astral was one of the few places where Leila really did feel like a ghost. Mares were nothing but whisps of shadow flitting from place to place, following the sugary scent of dreams wherever it led them. For a long time, she had never really paid attention to the place. By the time she had become ethereal and gone hunting for a meal, she was absolutely starving. Metzli had put a stop to that. Nightmares had become more of a regular thing- a necessary evil in order to keep surviving. Without the blindness that came with hunger, she could meander freely and see more than just her next meal.

Which was important. Especially now that Cass was being tormented by someone. Now, the astral was a place where she stood vigil as well. Leila could still remember the nights of terror that slowly drained the life from her, and she wouldn’t let that happen to their kid… Well, no, not theirs… She and Metzli were just looking out for and taking care of the girl. But she wouldn’t let anyone else hurt her. Neither of them would.

She was trying not to let the intoxicating smell of dreams drag her away from her post. But little by little, she strayed, dreamy eyed and lost in the astral. Until someone bumped into her and sent her mind reeling back to attention. A man. A mare. And friendly, surprisingly… Leila stared for a moment, surprise making itself evident on her face. She’d never encountered another mare in the Astral before… “Sorry, it was my fault. I should have watched where I was going… I’ve never seen anyone else in here before. My name’s Leila.”

“Nah, fam. You’re good.” Giving his best charming smile, Mateo looked Leila up and down, pocketing his hands. “Nice to meet you. I’m Mateo.” His eyes wandered to the ethereal space around them, and he shrugged. Leila wasn’t the first person he’d run into.

Hell, Inge was the first to stumble into him his first week in Wicked’s Rest, though he wasn’t even sure she resided in the town. She very well could be in a neighboring town, or even state, but only time would tell. Mateo was on a subtle search, waiting for her familiar face to pop up. Until then, all he could do was be on the lookout.

“Wait.” Mateo took a step back, surprised. “You really never seen anyone else? Shit, you’re probably the second homie I’ve run into since I moved to town.”

Fam. A younger mare by the sound of it. But it did beg the question of if mares were, in fact, some strange family by way of the dust that ran through their veins. Leila hadn’t ever had cause to question it- but now, after meeting several of her own kind in the span of what felt like a blink in her life, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“Er- no… not until coming to Wicked’s Rest, at least. And in the Astral, not once, not ever.” Her fingers wound and pulled themselves together, a modicum of control that brought her a little peace. If her fate was out of her control, at least she had control over herself. Who she was, how and when she fed, how she acted… it was a fight against being what she had become. And Leila was determined to win.

She’s never been caller homie before… a first. “Maybe Wicked’s Rest is a hotspot for people like us…” Her voice was nothing more than a murmur as she contemplated it. But the clouds of her own thoughts vanished and bright red twinkled back at bright red. “It’s nice to know I’m not alone.”

“You ever just chill in here? It’s peaceful as hell. My brother taught me how nice it is.” Mateo smiled fondly, reminiscing silently for a moment before returning his attention to Leila. She looked uncomfortable, in a way. If her hands were any indication, at least. It was similar to what Mateo did to calm down. Wringing his hands together felt as close to a relaxing massage as he could get at any random time.

Mateo breathed, tapping his chin as he began to peruse again. He waved Leila to follow, welcoming her to join in on a meal. He’d done it before with his brother and figured it was the friendly mare thing to do, especially in a place like Wicked’s Rest. Or a hot spot, as Leila called it. “Yeah, might be a beacon. Been having fun honestly.”

Humming to himself, Mateo spotted a familiar cave, looking a bit miffed. “There’s so many people to feed from. Like this chica.” He jutted his thumb toward a sleeping Cass. It wasn’t possible for another visit thanks to whoever helped her mare-proof the place. Assholes. Mateo rolled his eyes, “She’s got real problems. Kinda sad I only got to visit once.”

The man spoke and left her with a million more questions. Who willingly spent time in the astral? The idea of being surrounded by dreams at all times felt overwhelming. Leila had only just gotten a handle on spending more time in that strange place between dreams and waking. But what puzzled her more was a brother. Had a nightmare fed upon two people, gorging itself on every terror it could before two hearts stopped beating in the same home? Or was it a title of affection- another mare, made family by experience rather than blood…

She followed after him, whoever he was, curiosity taking over all logical thinking. That was, until the cave came into view, and the gentle whisper of a dream tugged at her- a terrible invitation. One she could ignore now, thankfully. Besides, even if she were starving, the cave was safe from the likes of her. Safe from him, too…

Or so she had thought.

Leila froze in place while the other mare spoke, red eyes rolling casually as he spoke about Cass like she was nothing. Like the pain he’d left her with, the terror and hurt he’d instilled in that poor girl was nothing. In another situation, she might have spoken rationally. Another time and place, another dreamer in another bed. But something snapped. His words were a match that unwittingly set a blaze.

“You…”

Without a thought in her head, Leila lunged at the stranger. Not Cass, he’d hurt her Cass, Metzli’s Cass… Not again, though.

“Me?” Mateo quirked a brow, confused as to why there was a burning ire in her expression. She had seemed so innocent and sweet before, the energy changing in an instant. “Whatchu mean, fa—” There was no time to finish his sentence, his body being sent to the ground by Leila tackling him.

“Yo, ma, what the hell is your problem?” Leila was quickly shoved away effortlessly. She practically weighed nothing, standing at what, five feet? Mateo towered op ver her, at the very least. “If you wanna cut of a meal, all you gotta do is ask, but right now it’s a firm no.” He scowled at Leila, standing back up and dusting himself off.

“Besides, like I said, the little puta made it impossible to get into her crib.”

Leila was not an angry person. In life and in most of her death, it took a lot to get anything more than a bit of frustration out of her. But as she knocked Mateo to the ground, all she felt was rage. He hurt Cass. It was the only thought she could wrap her head around. He hurt Cass. The dreams that she fed on, that they fed on, the nightmares they created hurt people, whether or not they meant to.

He shoved her aside as if she were nothing, sending Leila scrambling to get to her feet. In that moment, Leila didn’t notice how much taller the other mare was. She didn’t care that he was stronger. Her hands were balled up in fists as she marched right back up into Mateo’s face. “What’s my problem?” The words came out of her mouth like a snarl, eyes flashing like some wild thing. “I don’t want a cut of your meal, Salopard-”

While she was by no means an expert in swearing in spanish, Leila knew what puta meant. Without another thought, she took a swing at him, her fist colliding with his jaw. “That girl is my family!” Her voice was hoarse with rage. “You want to call someone a puta? Mírame, connard. I have to protect her from meeting the same fucking fate I did! You want a meal, go find some asshole. But don’t you dare try to feed on her ever again.”

Oh shit, this lady was mad. Now, Mateo had seen his fair share of angry women in his lifetime, most of them having charged out of room after messing up a bed, but never had a mare attacked him for doing what he was made to do. Mateo supposed it made sense. If it were his kid, or really, anyone in his family, fists would start flying immediately. That’s just what you did for your family. So when Leila’s fist made contact with his face, Mateo couldn’t help but feel impressed as his back hit the floor.

“Damn, ma. That was a nice punch.” He rubbed at his jaw, face contorted with pain. When Leila began to make her speech though, Mateo rolled his eyes and began to stand up. If she was going to punch again, he’d be ready. “Look, how was I supposed to know she was your kid? I eat where I eat and don’t ask questions. Everyone gets nightmares, ma. It ain’t my fault hers were particularly tasty.” He hissed, crossing his arms and backing away in preparation for Leila to retaliate. And to leave, but he wanted to see how she reacted first. After that, Mateo was positive that he’d need to make a run for it before things got worse. Not like it’d be right to kill Leila for protecting her kid. Plus, she was pretty hot when she was angry.

Maybe he could…no, no. Bad idea.

She’s never been a violent person. She’d lived in fear of such harm coming to her. But Leila’s unlife was so very different from the life she’s lived two hundred years prior. Survival had become something to fight for. There was a difference, however, in fighting for herself to live and fighting to protect a loved one. She would hide and starve to save herself. But for her petits? The family that she had found for herself in the strange little town of Wicked’s Rest? She would go down swinging for any of them.

Leila rubbed at her knuckles, the feeling of bone against bone making the mare cringe. His argument was stupid. All nightmares were tasty to them. If there was terror in sleep, it was a meal to them. “I don’t care if she is the only meal left in this town. You do not eat from her. If you know other mares who even think about her, you tell them the same. She is not a meal to be made. She’s protected by me.”

Yeah, it was definitely about time to leave. Shit was getting boring, and as much of an asshole as he’d always been, Mateo knew better than to get between a mama bear and her cub. To both save his ass, and out of general respect. Fact was, Mateo could see Popa in Leila, and that made it harder to instigate her further. There was no fury like a mother’s, and Mateo had always been a mama’s boy.

“Okay, okay, hot-shot.” He tried to keep playing his part, hiding the fact that Leila had indeed won in their little battle of the wits. It had been since the summer of ‘98 since Mateo had lost such a battle, and while he hated losing, he had to admit, Leila was a good opponent and he had a wicked streak. Oh well, he thought. Time to set a new record.

“Guess I’ll just—” In a blink, Mateo disappeared with that grin he loved to tease others with. One that read, I had fun at your expense, with a snide tag of catch ya later!

He was gone in a flash, vanished from the astral. As to whether or not he would listen to Leila’s warning was a mystery to the mare. His attitude was so unbothered. But Cass would not be made a meal of, not on her watch.

And so the mare sat and sat and sat outside of that cave, far into the night as the stars whirled past and the moon turned into day once more.

#wickedswriting #nightmarescapes #writings #salt in the wound #mateo and leila #c: leila

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muertarte · 6 months

Text

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @wonder-in-wings @magmahearts @amonstrousdream @banisheed @highoctanegem @gossipsnake @muertarte

SUMMARY: Friends and strangers band together to invade a crypt and bring an end to Chuy's reign.

WARNINGS: Emotional Abuse

The evening started a lot earlier for Jade and Parker. Not that she minded, hanging out with him was so much fun (even if he would insist he wasn’t good company). But fun as it was, it was super long, even by her standards. No luck tonight, again. But when the odds of them striking gold were diminishing by the second, it happened: A fledgling, in the flesh. One with a running mouth at that! It didn’t take much prodding from the duo for it to reveal the location of the most sought-after crypt on this side of the map. And with that, Jade hit the group chat, dropping the location for the rest of the team to meet up. The gang by the way? Straight up out of a model catalog. She’d never seen a more attractive group of misfits teaming up to roast a scaly douche. Which meant, they were totally about to get that W. (Everybody knew hot people always won). As soon as the group neared the crypt, Jade plunged Louis into the generous informant, no longer needed for anything.

Unfortunately, there was not much room for introductions after that, the entrance to the crypt was clearly guarded by Jesus’s bodyguards. They weren’t twelve, though. More like, ten. And no one was wearing robes or sandals (good for them, actually). Anyway, that meant slipping into slayer mode right away, the crossbow in her hands firing expertly to weaken the opposition, Harry at the ready to stab those who came near. It was a fair fight, but by the way things were moving, bodies beheaded, some burnt, others dust, Jade knew the entrance would be theirs in no time. If patience was a virtue, Parker could’ve been considered a saint. He had spent more time than he likely would’ve preferred searching for information on the location of one… Master Jesus’ crypt with Jade but if he had been bored, irritated or starting to lose whatever semblance of hope he was able to feel, he made none of it evident on his scarred face. And, as Fate would have it, patience had won out as he forcibly restrained what was called a ‘fledgling’ in place, twisting one of its arms up and behind him with his other arm around its neck.

Their methodology, with her able to sense and ask the right questions and his proclivity to do the heavy lifting in terms of threats and restraint, worked well and soon enough, they had finally acquired the information they were after: the location of the elder’s crypt. Where the coffin was was another story but as Parker carefully and rather gracefully weaved around the battlefield and his temporary allies in the party’s attempt to pierce through the first line of defense into the crypt (‘she finally got to utilize her idea for a group chat!’ Walker exclaimed in his head, threatening to distract the Warden from the fight the group was embroiled in), uncharacteristically brandishing a stake in one hand while his other still held his broad iron dagger, he knew that between the six of them, that coffin wouldn’t survive another day.

Now they just needed to make sure that Metzli would.

When she had been alive, Leila was never a fighter. There was no warrior’s blood that ran through her veins when it had been blood and not grains of dust as countless as stars in the sky. No bravery. It hadn’t been time that had changed it- if time had had it’s way, Leila Beaulieu would have been a coward until the world ended. It had been people- her people. A little family that carved itself out in a little town in Maine of all places. Those people had created an ember that slowly burned away the fear that would have sent her running in the centuries before. When she’d received the message that Jesus’s crypt had been found, that ember had roared its way into an inferno in her chest.

The plan, as far as she knew, was fairly straightforward: cut through the fledgling guard, find the coffin, burn it, get out. If the coffin burned, so too would Jesus. But first, the lot of them needed to get past the fledglings. Her fingers itched for the blowtorch that was strapped to her back, too tight to be wrenched away from her easily. It was being reserved for as long as she could- Leila did not want to risk not being able to turn the coffin to ash. And so, she wielded her dagger- Metzli’s dagger. The irony in it all was not lost on her. A stake (repulsive thing) was strapped to her thigh, a ‘just in case’ compromise she had made with the hunters in the rescue party. And there was one more tool in her toolbelt: the dark of night. A fledgling had begun barreling her direction, looking for all the world determined to rip the mare apart. But their hands caught nothing but evening air and shadow.

The next moment, Leila reappeared out of the shadows, and drove her dagger in the fledgling’s back.

Even though teamwork was something that Anita avoided at nearly all cost, for the sake of Metzli she had allowed her number to be added to some group chat. A group that didn’t fit together on paper but were all coming together for a common cause, a common connection. Upon getting the notification of the location of this fuckers crypt, Anita grabbed one of her shifter go-bags from the closet and headed towards the inevitable action. She hadn’t been the first to arrive and immediately recognized her temporary teammates fighting off a crowd of fledglings. She smirked a bit, adrenaline pumped through her bloodstream with efficiency as she transformed into a mighty Mojave before diving into the battle.

The vampires hardly even flinched at the sight of the lamia - a lack of respect she didn’t much care for. She was the biggest creature out there, they could at least pretend to react. As if she didn’t already have an excellent reason for killing them, it added fuel to her fire. Letting her tail slink around to the left and cause a distracting rattle, Anita swooped around the side of two young vampires before quickly striking and biting the head clean off one of the vampires. Nothing like decapitation to kill the undead. As she looked around to see the others also being successful in their efforts, Anita saw the merit in working well with others. It was more efficient, certainly.

Anita kept barreling towards the crypt, swerving around the fledglings as she used her fangs (which were far bigger and sharper than theirs) to rip their heads from their bodies.

Siobhan loved violence. It said so on her custom long-sleeved shirt, right up both arms. On the front, in large font, was a simple ‘I LOVE METZLI’. However, as she lacked any photos of her friend, she relied on her artistic interpretation of the vampire: a crude drawing that looked more like a hairy potato than a person. On the back, an attempt at a nude drawing of Metzli: an abstract abomination that made Picasso’s work look like Da Vinci’s. Grinning, she took as much pleasure in slicing her short swords through dead flesh as she did watching everyone else partake in such affectionate violence. Wasn’t this love? To slaughter in the name of another? She wished Metzli could see them, she wished they knew the ferocity in which blades flew and teeth ripped. There was a beauty in their massacre—a persistence; an orchestra of brutality that they all understood.

The assortment of them was odd: two humans, an undead, a whatever-Anita-was and two fae (one much sexier than the other). Yet, Siobhan felt the goal tethered them beyond understanding. Did Metzli know how much they were cared for? Wanted? Another fledgling fell to her blades as she skipped along. Being cared for looked like this, she thought, as death rose around her, swaddled her cold flesh and lit her body up from the inside. No matter what, they’d be setting Metzli free today, she was sure of it. She just hoped it wasn’t the sort of ashy freedom that sometimes befell vampires. She wanted hundreds of years with her friend, and this was the team that would make it happen.

The drawing of Metzli on her shirt winked with each step closer.

This was a new sensation for Cass. Most of her experience as a ‘superhero’ was more opportunistic than anything else. She went out at night looking for crime to stop, sure, but not like this. Never with a goal so specific in mind, never with an intended target. Certainly never with the intention to kill. The very thought of it dug a pit into her stomach, though she wasn’t sure if it was a genuine thing or one forced there by her desperate grip on human morality. She reminded herself, the whole trip over, that Chuy was a bad guy. This was Thanos, this was the Joker, this was Kilgrave or Black Mask. This was someone so evil that they deserved the fate that was coming to them. She repeated it as they arrived at the crypt, like a mantra in her head. She tried to hold on to the memory of the relief she’d felt when she got the news that the hunter who hurt Alex was dead and tried not to remember the sticky guilt that came right on its heels. Heroes weren’t supposed to kill people, but didn’t they have to do what needed to be done sometimes? This was for Metzli, and Metzli deserved to be free. She clung to that thought above everything.

The fledglings outside the crypt left her with a different kind of guilt, a more complicated one. She tried not to think of Metzli, who was being controlled by the same man who had created these vampires, the same man who was just as capable of forcing orders into their heads, too. She tried not to remember that the dust floating around her used to form the shapes of people, people who probably had families and friends, people who could have grown and found their freedom the same way Metzli had. There was no room for thoughts like that here; no one else seemed to be having them. Still, Cass hung back a little, sticking close to Leila but not attacking anyone directly. Her glamour was down; it was easier that way. Heroes wore masks to separate themselves from their vigilantism. Dropping her glamour allowed Cass to do the same. With the glowing magma burning beneath her rocky skin, most of the fledglings didn’t try to approach her, anyway. She pretended it wasn’t cowardly to find relief in that.

She pretended her heart didn’t rise to her throat as the path to the crypt became clearer and clearer, as less and less resistance separated their little group from the door. Soon, nothing at all stood between them and the entry, between them and Metzli. Cass steeled herself. She knew from her last encounter with the vampire that there was no telling what state they’d find them in.

The smell of lavender filled their nose before Leila’s visage became less of a blur. It was a scent accompanied with acrid blood and dust, a tale of war told by smell alone, but also one of love. Friends had gathered to destroy a man that Metzli had been forced to call Master. Worse yet, they were going to be forced to fight the very people who were dead set on saving them. The gesture and dedication angered Master, and he made it clearer as he held Metzli in place with his hand gripping the back of their neck. Not that it really bothered them. No, they were too focused on the scent that had so often brought them relief and comfort. They wanted to will it to do the very same as they sat in place, waiting.

“They really here for you?” Master asked, grip tightening.

Metzli simply nodded, inhaling slowly as they felt a trickle of blood cascade down their skin. They caught a few more scents, surprised to find sulfur among the group. It had to be Cass, no doubt. Body tensed at the realization, their soul unable to keep itself from worrying. She wasn’t supposed to join along. Of course Metzli knew she could fight, that she was more than capable of taking care of herself, but the worry remained, and Master caught onto it.

“Ah...the one you call child. Maybe she will be the first I kill.”

A flare of anger breached through the numbness, and Metzli whipped around to crash their arm on top of Master’s, ripping it away from their neck. A crazed mixture of surprise and excitement painted over his features, and just as quickly as their rebellion rose, it dissipated, body going slack with obedience as Master gripped them by the throat. They could hear the rest of the room bristling with bloodlust, Metzli’s friends just around the corner. A fight was coming, and even they weren’t sure who would win.

When the final fledgling turned to dust by virtue of Harry, everyone gathered around the entrance to the chamber, descending to the crypt with a very straightforward plan: Take as many as you can (hopefully, look hot while doing so). What mattered was to leave Jesus isolated. Unable to defend its crypt. They moved as a group, Anita slithering ahead of them. And sure, there was no time to like, stop and dwell on stuff… but how cool was it, to share this side quest with a snake shifter and Lavagirl (Sharkboy-less, but stilll). Jade heard the low murmurs, her skin prickling, stomach fluttering with the unmistakable presence of undead ahead. There was no point concealing their footsteps, not when every vampire within the chamber had already picked up their scents. It was always better to make an entrance, anyway. Which, they did. Storming into the main room, ready to take names. A brief moment of recognition danced around the chamber, a second, as time stood still and every player was in position. Adrenaline kicked into a higher gear. A few of her bolts found their way into vampire bodies, before deciding to take a more hands-on approach with the swarming beasts. Her crossbow discarded in favor of the classic stake and blade combo. With nothing to wait for, Jade clocked in for another shift.

Fortunately, everyone present seemed able to hold their own, at least in the context of fighting untrained vampires. More fortunately, there were no strangers that Parker could see as they hastily, yet comprehensively formulated a plan. Unfortunately, even as their dynamic movement into the crypt commenced, he still felt his blood churning in his veins every time Siobhan or Cass unintentionally drew too close to him. He wasn’t to be deterred, though, and indeed, he forced himself to push past the unpleasant sensation every time it happened. The group broke through the barrier, barely having time to catch their breaths before launching into another fight. He opted to stick close to Jade as they engaged; it was rather dark (the candles that were placed here and there, he supposed, were more for “aesthetic” as he was sure vampires could see in the dark) and he wasn’t afforded that same luxury. Good thing they had a volcanic oread to help illuminate the space, not that he’d have admitted that aloud.

If everyone had a job in this fight, Leila’s was both painfully simple and painfully difficult. Step one: find the coffin; Step two, make sure it is nothing but cinders. In theory, simple. But theory did not account for the half-feral fledglings that were flinging themselves at the strange little rescue party. Theory did not account for the waves of fear that she had to force herself through- fear for Cass, fear for Metzli, fear for all involved. Theory also did not account for the unbridled rage that made the nightmare want nothing more than to charge up to the elder vampire and rip him apart with her own two hands… not that she had the supernatural strength to do so.

She kept close to Cass as the group forced their way into the crypt, fighting to get to Metzli. Not going to lose anyone. That silent promise was chanted over and over again in her mind as Leila started her mad-dash hunt for Jesus’s coffin.

There was an unexpected sensation of relief that washed over Anita when she barreled her way into the crypt and saw Metzli. Seeing the way they were being gripped, however, washed that relief away expeditiously. There wasn’t time to dwell, she needed to keep her focus on the mission at hand: mass murder. It’s okay when you’re killing bad guys! “All of you,” she began muttering under her breath as the fight raged on, “are a bunch of useless, spineless, dickless…” her list of insults quickly made the transition to Spanish, which was fitting given the audience, and just like her attacks they didn’t stop once she started. Combat was nothing more than an intricate dance and even in her lamia form, Anita was nothing if not a graceful dancer. With her thermal vision, Anita was able to keep track of where her teammates were and as she tore her fangs into the icy flesh of one of the vampires she used her tail to trip another one who was trying to sneak up behind Siobhan.

“Anita, I might owe you another kiss.” Siobhan smiled, nodding her thanks at her coworker before stomping the offending vampire’s skull to a pulp, whistling as it dissolved to ash. Inside the crypt proper, Siobhan was shocked at the dedication to decoration—or the lack thereof. If she was a vampire cult leader she’d have her face plastered around. “The candles are a nice touch!” She called out into the writhing bodies of vampires. How many were there? It was hard to tell when they were being rendered into ash like spraying mist out of a fountain. “I forgot the plan,” she called out to the two humans ahead of her, “are we getting naked now or later?” Her knives hadn’t stopped moving; restless in her hands. As the fledglings lunged at her, she weaved and dodged and continued to smile. “Cass, leanbh, can you go a little brighter? I think my beauty is being lost in the darkness.” This she said as she separated another head from a fledgling, the ones she dodged rising up in snarls after her.

She was afraid. It was there in her chest, curled up like a tangible creature constricting her lungs. It had been there ever since Rhett, sleeping some days and flailing others, but never entirely absent. There were people fighting all around her, and Cass was afraid. But afraid wasn’t the only thing she was. She saw Metzli, with that terrible man’s hand locked around their throat, and she was angry, too. And she liked the second sensation better, so she clung to it. She let herself burn a little brighter, a little hotter at Siobhan’s request. A fledgling moved in to attack her, hand locking around her bicep, and Cass let the magma beneath her skin flare until the vampire was screaming, until the smell of burning flesh was replaced by the smell of ash. She felt a little sick with it… and she also kind of didn’t. She hated that a little. Glancing over, she saw a pair of vampires sneaking up on the woman with the stake — Jade, she knew her, she was nice — and ducked over to help, rearing back with a rocky fist to deliver a very solid punch.

Everyone had arrived, anger flurrying their movements and ferocity motivating their weapons. A strange and outlandish array of skills and species mixed together in one room, busting themselves with the onslaught of enemies filling it. The scent of lilac disappeared and ash flew left and right, coating Metzli’s skin uncomfortably, but that hardly mattered as they caught sight of the strangest part of the mayhem. It took a few blinks to register, to see that what Siobhan was wearing was actually real and not an illusion. They supposed it was fitting, given the strange and endearing way she went about life, and had Metzli not been on the brink of having their esophagus crushed, they surely would’ve barked out something akin to laughter. Instead, Master stole their attention and commanded them silently to attack just as he let go. Their feet met the ground and they bolted into action, knife and fangs going after their closest target.

Jade.

Um, rude. Not only did Jade find the blabbermouth fledgling, she also like… gave away some stakes for the gang to use ‘just in case’, (not to mention the excellent vibes she was providing by existing), and this was how Metzli repaid her? She braced herself as the vampire lunged at her, keenly aware she couldn’t inflict damage due to her bind (dammit, Regan). She dodged blows from the feral vampire with a little more finesse than she usually did, which was… strange. Until she understood why: Metzli couldn’t land any hits either. Something warm and inconvenient fluttered in her chest at the realization, but it had to be pushed aside in favor of continuing the awkward tussle with Metzli. Whatever kept them distracted, away from the people they might be able to hurt for realsies. It seemed to work, until they crashed against Parker and Anita. Jade barely managed to keep her balance before she was tackled by another vampire who also demanded her attention (she couldn’t help being so popular, but it was a little annoying).

Blood and dust was sprayed through the air from wounds both superficial and fatal. Parker’s eyes stung from the sweat on his brow mixed with the ash that swirled around the two factions. He could feel it catching on his exposed skin, somehow a worse sensation than when blood started to dry and become sticky on his hands, but he forced that part of his mind into further dormancy. So he moved through the battlefield, ducking, weaving, stepping lightly and striking swiftly and with opportunistic fervor. Parker never was gifted with the ability to take on multiple enemies at once, being much more suited for solo combat, but despite how he was raised, he was remarkably good at spatial recognition and reasoning - in this instance, he wouldn’t have laid a hand on any of these women that fought alongside them for any reason. …That didn’t mean he couldn’t still get irritated with his temporary allegiances, however. “That wasn’t part of the plan at–” Parker had barely not been able to finish the sentence in reply to Siobhan when a body collided with his, solid, unexpected, and eliciting a grunt of surprise from him. Stumbling to one knee, he turned, seeing the movement of the serpent out of his peripheral, and he inhaled deeply, the sting of iron, ash and smoke from the candles entering his nose as he felt himself tensing up in preparation to be attacked by Metzli. They were so close. Just a little longer, he hoped.

It took all of her strength not to go where Metzli was going. She knew Jesus had a grasp on their mind still, she knew that, but despite it all, she wanted to run to them. Find the coffin, find the coffin, find the coffin- Leila forced herself to become nothing but bits of smoke and shadow that danced along the periphery of the battle raging on inside the crypt. A bit of night to flit around from place to place and find that god damned coffin and turn it to nothing but a pile of slowly cooling embers that she could crush underfoot. But trying to find a safe space to land was complicated when fledglings seemed to be rushing about trying to- oh… Of course they would be trying to protect the coffin. With one last look towards Cass, one last glance towards Metzli, the nightmare charged into the thick of the fight, popping in and out of reality.

If she could be anyone’s worst nightmare, she would be Master Jesus’s and she would be damn proud to make fear the last thing he ever felt.

Anita had fallen into a rhythm and got a bit blissfully swept away in the decapitations that she had briefly stopped paying attention to how the others around her were doing. That was why it took her by surprise when Jade fighting with a very feral Metzli slammed into her. It was painful to see her friend in this state but not as painful as things were about to be for the vampire who had just tried to bite through the thick scales of the lamia while she was distracted. “Idiot,” she muttered before eating him whole.

Even though she knew they needed to keep Metzli occupied until their little mare could start a fire, Anita didn’t want them to get hurt in the process. She had seen them fight before, however, and they were a better fighter than they were seeming to be. With a forceful thwip of her tail, Anita separated Metzli from Jade and followed through with her tail shoving them against one of the stone walls of the crypt. “Te amo. Lo lamento,” she hissed softly, the only time she felt the need to apologize for any of the fighting she had done.

All that mattered was buying time for Leila to get to that coffin.

“Metzli—” Siobhan’s voice caught in her throat, choking on her quivering breath. It was one thing to see her friend captured, another to them twisted into some creature they would never want to be. She hadn't known Metzli very long, but she understood that the last thing the vampire wanted was to hurt their friends—their unbearing heart was tender, kind. In her daze, fledglings slammed into her, fangs snapping and claws tearing into her lovingly made shirt. She hissed, kicking and stabbing; she knew her part was to help thin the numbers. Yet, despite all their work, it didn’t seem like the vampires were relenting. Instead, their desperation grew and with it, their danger. One good scream would end all of it—but that wasn’t part of the plan, and anyway, she didn’t think the ancient crypt walls could handle it. Siobhan crawled out from the tangle of fledglings, stumbling to her feet. Aided by Cass’ brighter light, she watched Metzli slam into the wall and winced. Whatever optimism she had slowly dissolved; this didn’t seem like it was going well.

It was chaos. All around, the battle raged, and Cass did what she could to help, but she didn’t have the same experience as the other fighters here. She had no training beyond her quiet attempts at vigilantism, and her confidence in that had been so shaken that she wasn’t even sure it counted for anything anymore. And on top of that, her eyes kept darting over to Parker each time she threw a punch. Did this negate the bind she’d made with him? Their agreement had been that he wouldn’t hurt her, but only as long as she wasn’t hurting anyone else. Wasn’t this hurting people? Parker was doing it too, of course, but… she remembered Rhett, his hand around her throat. She didn’t think wardens held themselves to the same standards they held fae to. She pulled her attention away from him now, focusing instead on the vampires. It was okay, she thought. Even if this did nullify their agreement, even if he used it as an excuse to hurt her later, it would be fine as long as Metzli was free. That was worth more. That had to be worth more. She glanced around for Leila, seeing only flashes here and there. Good, she thought. The sooner the mare took care of that coffin, the sooner it would all be over. Cass wanted, so badly, for it to be over.

Everyone moved so quickly and with articulated precision. With no blows to land on Jade, the feral vampire was quickly thrown around and sent to whoever could best keep them occupied. To Metzli’s surprise, it had been Anita to hold them down effortlessly, eyes meeting and sending a shockwave through them as she spoke a declaration only few got to hear. Their eyes softened, fight dissipating from their limbs while she held them there, giving them a chance to truly see the room and hear Siobhan. They didn’t want to fight. Friends didn’t hurt friends, and while everyone there fighting the fledglings were Metzli’s friends, they were certainly no friend of theirs in that moment. They didn’t mind the attacks, and would welcome them with ease, even at the rage it instilled in Master. Even as that anger thundered in Metzli’s head and turned the room red.

“You will obey!” Another boom, “Kill them now!” Master Jesus’s eyes burned into Metzli, his power over them tightening as much as it could. But to his surprise and utter dismay, all Metzli’s body did was strain against itself and the giant snake holding them. There was resistance in their tether with each demand to kill, turning the rest of the fledglings silent as they turned to their master with a mixture of concern and disbelief. Master Jesus swallowed thickly, worried that they may see him as weak again. It turned his stomach and sent acid up his throat, and he was quick to make a move.

No. He simply couldn’t have his power ripped away when he not only deserved it, but just obtained it.

“Come. Now.” Master Jesus commanded, to which Metzli responded to quickly. Their face turned blank, pupils turned into mere pinpoints as they wrapped their legs carefully around Anita’s body. With determination and care guiding them, Metzli twisted and drove their knife into stone to be a grappling point, pulling themself up and away from the hold without laying a single wound on their friend. Master Jesus gritted his teeth, rage burning in his chest at the abject insubordination. There was only one option left, it was time to stop playing the game he had enjoyed up until then. All it would take was a simple end of life, the very one that had been a thorn in his side since he was stupid enough to bite them.

“You want them so bad?” The elder smiled sadistically, sharp teeth glinting from the candles around the room. What fledglings still stood abandoned their fights, walking calmly to watch and guard their master’s presentation as Metzli avoided anyone who tried to stop them and knelt in front of him, facing the room. “You can have them.” Master Jesus grinned even further, contorted his face menacingly. “You’ll just have to…” Breaking a leg off of a nearby chair, he made a makeshift stake and hovered the point over Metzli’s chest. “...gather the ashes.”

Metzli watched the stake with mere indifference, following Master’s hand until he ordered them to look at him. There was little they could hear through the barrier of thoughts and apologies they couldn’t speak, but they understood what he requested next, all emotion flooding into Metzli like a roaring tsunami. Their lungs burned with fervor, panic rising at the silent chime of their hourglass teetering out its final grains of sand. There was no stopping the inevitable, or the tears that blurred their vision. They blinked them away, desperate to see the people they loved dearly and loved them in return, one last time. Master laughed, and it echoed in the canyon of Metzli’s existence, a reminder that voices resonate for a while before fading into the vast silence of eternity. His would silent one day, too. Metzli would just have to be first, and the final echo was incoming fast, the stake cocked for just a moment before plunging back down.

The wild, crowded fight in the dim candle-lit crypt was persevering. Inexperienced fighters dressed as creatures of the night seemed never-ending; every time one would be reduced to ashes, another would return in its place. It was a method of attrition, something Parker was unused to in combat as he shoved yet another fledgling away from his scarred body. And yet, in the chaos of the dust, snarling, the rhythmic warning of a rattlesnake’s tail, Parker could hear the elder’s voice as it rather effortlessly punctuated it. An unnatural wave of calm swept through the crypt as the subordinates suddenly ceased in their attack. His breath heaved, deep but quiet, and he turned sharply to see Master Jesus, Metzli, the impromptu stake that was hovering dangerously near where their heart rested inert in their chest cavity. His breath caught in his throat. Instinctively he moved his hand to one of the small, tightly-packed hand crossbow bolts in the quiver on his utility belt - something, anything. Delay. Stop. But even Parker knew, however reluctantly as his blue-eyed stare, wide with an unusual emotion on his otherwise-stoic face, that there were things he couldn’t control. Things he wasn’t fast enough to react to, to change. So, instead, that reach for a crossbow bolt changed into reaching for one of the bottles that dangled from his belt instead - one had survived the fights. He would gather Metzli’s ashes while the rest of the team tore Master Jesus limb from ‘fucking’ limb.

Find the coffin, find the coffin, find the coffin.

Leila could hardly hear anything over the roar of her own thoughts. It was a race against time, and she knew it. The mare moved through the astral faster than she had ever moved before, using the dark to her advantage to slip away and cover as much ground as she could. Find the coffin, find the coffin, under rubble, in dark corners, and candle strewn quarters, she scoured for a hint- any hint- of Master Jesus’ hiding place. She promised the universe whatever it wanted, prayed to whatever was listening to give her the coffin so she could save Metzli.

And then, she spied it. Across the room, tucked away just out of sight.

It was then that she heard the eerie voice of Master Jesus rise up over the din. The fledglings she had desperately been avoiding as she dipped in and out of the bounds of reality were leaving, headed back towards their master… back towards Metzli. Jesus had the leg of a chair in his hand poised as a makeshift stake. The point of which was dangerously close to Metzli’s chest. Time felt as if it had become so painfully slow around her as Leila melted into shadow one more time, forcing herself to reappear beside the coffin, head reeling. “Jesus!” Leila shouted across the crypt, voice raw. She wanted him to see. He could not dream, and yet she wanted him to know only fear in his last moment.

She pulled the trigger, the coffin set ablaze.

Even though no words were spoken, Anita could tell by the look in her roommates eyes that she had gotten through however slightly. But that moment faded quickly and was replaced by the bellowing commands of a man who did not deserve the power he wielded. She really wanted to rip him apart piece by piece and scatter his limbs across the globe but Anita knew that a far more practical plan was in play. When Metzli escaped from her hold and approached Jesus the lamia tried to reach back out. She had been so blinded by fear and anger when he threatened them with the stake, however, that she failed to notice the group of fledglings approaching from the side. They created a barrier that prevented her from getting to Metzli as they tried to claw through her scales and keep her away.

As she tried to fight away the vampires she watched in horror as the wooden stake got so close to its intended target. There was an overwhelming tightness in her chest that caused her tail to rattle fiercely and for a moment she had stopped fighting back against her attackers. But even in Anita’s moment of weakness, she could at least see that Leila had started the revolution - she set fire to the bastard’s coffin. A stab of pain snapped her back to reality as one of the fledglings managed to claw underneath some of her scales and ripped them from her body. She repaid them by ripping their heads off of their bodies while their master’s scream echoed throughout the crypt.

The world slowed; the fledglings she’d been occupied with (mostly ash now) faded beyond Siobhan’s perception. There was Metzli, the broken chair leg and the fear that had lodged in her throat. Affection was beyond her—something she was not made to hold nor allowed to—and yet, her body caved in with it. She trembled. She couldn’t count the number of people she’d seen die, or return to death—beyond the thousands, into the ever spinning cycles of life. It was selfish to want someone to stay but the single second she took to imagine the world without her friend was enough to tell her that on this matter, on Metzli’s unlife, she would always be selfish. A plea tumbled over her lips, and then, fire. The man who’d brought them here, united unlikely allies under a single goal, made the world shudder with the idea of Metzli’s loss, was gone.

Siobhan dropped to her weak knees, watching the fire. Her happiness washed out of her with guilt and shame. What kind of a banshee was she? Who had taken her unfeeling heart and replaced it with the unwanted bloom of love for a friend? She should have been more concerned about the imposter that lived inside of her chest, but all she could do was watch.

Years ago, when she’d lived on the streets and clung to anyone who’d stayed around long enough to give her something to cling to, Cass confided in another lost teenager the loneliness that came with having no one. She remembered the way the other girl had scoffed at her, remembered not understanding the haunted look in her eye when she’d turned away. It’s better, she’d said, to have no one. At least then, you have nothing to lose. It was a sentiment Cass had hated, because she wanted something to lose. She wanted something to hold, even if only temporarily. It would hurt when it was gone, but it would be so full for a moment, and wasn’t that moment worth it? Wasn’t that moment all she’d ever wanted?

But now, watching as a makeshift stake moved so cruelly towards Metzli’s heart, she understood it a little better. That moment would never be enough. To have something and lose it hurt. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want it.

Magma burned hot beneath her rocky skin, pushing its way out, out through the cracks in a miniature eruption. It coated the floor of the crypt around her, creating a moat around her trembling form. A few fledglings screamed as it melted the soles of their shoes, burned their feet to the ground, but none of it mattered. There was a vampire, and she loved them. There was a vampire, and they were the first person who’d ever even tried to offer her something like a family. There was a vampire, and there was a stake moving towards their heart at a speed that was somehow both slow motion and too quick to stop.

And then, there was fire.

For the first time since that stake had appeared, Cass tore her eyes away from it, looked instead to Leila and her beautiful flames. The relief was crippling. Jesus’s screams filled the crypt, but Cass could hardly hear them over the rushing of blood in her ears, over the quiet sobs rising up in her chest and escaping through her lips.

The moment would never be enough, but that was okay. Because for now, at least, the moment would continue.

Flesh tore and blood spilled, but no ashes burst into the air with a final breath. Instead, there were flames. Bright and powerful, raging like the screams bellowing from Master’s lungs. Metzli shuddered as the world spun and slowed, mind betraying them. They were desperate to run to their family, but Master, as occupied as he was with burning, commanded them to remain where they knelt. He wanted them to burn along with him, and he grabbed the scruff of Metzli’s shirt. The flames trailed quickly to the fabric, heat blistering their skin painfully, and yet they remained. Just as he requested. Just as he wanted.

“If I’m burning, so are y—”

Master was interrupted by a force, something burning just as brightly. “Cass…!” Metzli’s eyes widened, watching as she tore Master away and slammed him powerfully and with no hint of hesitation into several fledglings. She didn’t like to hurt people, Metzli knew this, and thus they were surprised to see her jump in with such ferocity. They felt a hint of guilt for it, full of regret that they had to be saved by someone they were supposed to protect.

“I’m…” Metzli trailed off as their voice tightened in their throat, trapped behind a ball of grief that was beginning to form. Master was dying, and a strange, sick part of them felt compassion for the man that had ripped their life away. The rest of the clan reacted the same, many trying to stop Cass and Leila from allowing the fire to continue. But it was no use when a person made of magma burned every hand that made an attempt at grabbing Master. “S-stop! Stop!” Words were strained through their teeth. Truthfully, Master dying was a blessing, but the tether that came with the bite twisted Metzli’s mind into a child yearning for their father. It was demented and corrupt, sending shockwaves of pain through the vampire as they slammed their fists into the dirt floor. Whether they were reacting to the death or the desperation to be free, Metzli wasn’t entirely sure, but it was pain all the same. Embers attacking and ashes coating their skin.

They screamed, joining the chorus of torment each vampire in the crypt was consumed by when the last of the flames flickered away. That’s when it all came for Metzli. With Chuy’s death, came the cost of living as a person, experiencing the liberty of self and what it meant to have no barriers between heart and mind. They screamed, but in no way were they mourning Chuy then. They screamed, curling like a fist protesting death. They screamed, crying out in freedom, the echoes of every emotion swallowing the crypt until Metzli’s throat could no longer produce a sound.

Jade was the outlier. (Nothing new). She remained perfectly chill as she disposed of the inexperienced vampires guarding their master. The fact that she, with subpar fighting skills, could so easily exterminate those creatures had her thinking it was all rigged. The math wasn’t mathing. A plot twist hid somewhere. The plot twist came in the shape of a chair leg pointed directly into Metzli’s chest. Huh. Jade’s eyebrow quirked in interest. This was totally a two-birds-with-one-stone scenario, wasn’t it? Jesus staked Metzli and the mare burned Jesus in retaliation. It sounded like an even greater finale than the scripted one. (To her). It took one look around the dimly lit chamber to know it was a tough crowd to share that sentiment with.

Something bitter simmered inside as she took in the faces of concern. Of love. Jade was bound to die a hunter’s death one day (fingers crossed, not before Rihanna released that freaking album). Probably some unoriginal stab wound in one of those annoying ‘vital’ organs. She’d bleed out, alone. Scared, maybe (definitely). Yet Metzli, had an audience to witness them leave their second go at life. (Even the snake had like, a perfectly timed tear, come on!). An audience that ached for them in a way no one would ache for her. A dead beast, a monster with no heart would be mourned harder than she ever would be. And sure dying wasn’t the annoying bit, that was the commitment. That was fair. But boy if jealousy didn’t burn hotter than the flames engulfing Jesus’s coffin. Guilt over said jealousy was a little new, though. Cause like, Metzli was totally not having the time of their unlife right now. So getting pissy about it? Kinda totally out of line. This had to be like one of those, multicolored emotions from Inside Out, for sure.

Leila came through before the stake sank (bummer). And the master burned, pulling Metzli along with him. Agonizing pleas spilled from their lips and Louis tightened in her hand. Jade shuddered. This was duty. This was kindness. This was mercy. She was meant to end that pain. She pushed forward, careful not to step into Lavagirl’s doing. Screw the promise, she'd handle the strain. Metzli’s suffering would be over soon. They’d no longer be tormented by the years used as a killing machine, they’d no longer belong to anyone, no more fight to control bestial urges for the rest of their miserable existence. It ended now. She could do this, and she’d fight the crowd once their friend turned to dust anyway, despite their best efforts. Her conviction was unwavering. But the screams turned into something else, and Jade froze, witnessing something she couldn’t grasp yet: A new beginning.

She would have stood there forever, trigger pulled, flames swallowing the coffin whole until there was no more coffin to burn, until the embers didn’t even have the strength to burn anymore. She would have stayed if it meant Jesus could never come back, could never hurt Metzli again. Leila swallowed down the sob of relief mingled with rage as she watched the lid of the coffin start to cave inward. No return. Lost to the flames. Good.

A scream pierced through her- one particular raising up with the lamenting chorus- and the spell of fury that had her fixed on the spot while fire spewed forth from the flamethrower like some demon cradled in her arms utterly shattered. Metzli… A wave of panic crashed over her, dousing the heat of her wrath, replacing it with icy fear and guilt. The flamethrower had not clattered to the ground yet by the time Leila had vanished once more only to reappear closer to Metzli. She scrambled past bodies- fledgling and friend, fallen and filled with life- anything to get to them. The screaming only got louder as the mare approached, falling to her knees before the vampire. And worst of all, worst of all, she did not know how to comfort them. She did not even know if they would want comfort.

Hands that had only ever created had now destroyed someone important- monstrous, terrible, horrific? yes to all of the above. But important nonetheless. The nightmare had no words to give, all of them trapped in her throat with no hope of escape. I’m sorry… the word echoed in her mind. A hand sat open before Metzli, there to be taken or ignored. She only wanted them to know they were not alone.

Even as the fire began to engulf that wretched man, Anita couldn’t help but wonder if this was truly the end, if this would give Metzli the relief they so deserved. Then she saw him reaching towards them and Anita quickly darted down and through the few fledglings left staring towards Metzli, trying to push away the obvious realization that she was likely too far away to get there in time to help. And she was, but Cass wasn’t. As she finally reached where they were, Anita saw the subtle, gentle gesture Leila made; reaching out her hand as an act of affection.

Now that they all had a moment to breathe, Anita looked around at all these people that she knew in differing contexts standing together in this crypt. They had all come together, to fight together. She and Metzli may have been outcasts together at some point in time, but it was apparent that they had managed to build something much bigger than that. Once again, Anita felt like she was out of place. The vampires who had been trying to kill them just moments before their so-called Master had fallen to the floor as a pile of worthless ash also seemed to be freed from whatever hold they had been under. There was no longer any need to fight, no need to kill. Anita didn’t have anything to contribute anymore. She wasn’t equipped to deal with the aftermath; she only thrived in the violence.

Normally this would be where she made some quip, some joke or gentle dig that cut through the emotional tension and made light of what had transpired. And while she had more than a few one-liners locked and loaded, they all felt… wrong. Turning away from Metzli, Anita coiled her tail up underneath her and simply stared down the remaining fledglings to make sure they didn’t decide to turn any residual anger they may be feeling towards them. It was, quite literally, the least she could do in that moment.

As he was anticipating Metzli’s form to erupt into ashes, instead the elder vampire behind them was spontaneously enveloped in flames, tongued demons licking greedily at the pale skin and dark cloak. Parker’s blue eyes, illuminated with orange fire from the spectacle before him, also saw clawed hands grasping at Metzli’s shirt and, without having a way to explain it, his heart leapt into his throat. Again, he wasn’t quick enough to stop what was attempting to transpire and wordlessly, he mouthed the name “Cass”; she was a volcanic construct, a golem that could withstand any heat that was directed at Metzli. And Cass was there, prying the elder off of his plaything. Screaming rose with the smoke in the air, bouncing off of the walls, but it wasn’t until he heard Metzli yell ‘stop’ that Parker subconsciously dropped the stake he was holding and reached up to cover his working ear - a childish gesture when he had experienced overstimulation. And yet, he didn’t remove his eyes from the display until there was nothing but the kneeling figure of Metzli, the ash from the dead fledglings and the elder swirling around them, around the room. Hundreds of years rendered indistinguishable from the dregs he surrounded himself with. The elder was dead. But Jade’s ambitions weren’t. Parker finally blinked, his eyes stinging but instead of going to Metzli, he approached the slayer as her body was positioned in such a way that she was ready to break the promise to one to fulfill another, one that was older, much more powerful as it had been one she had been forced to take for over two decades. The Warden, seeing Leila there, seeing Cass and Siobhan and Anita there, approached Jade and placed one hand on her shoulder, the other reaching the stake and wrapping powerful fingers around it gently. “You did well.” He said, just loud enough that she could hear as he attempted to make eye contact with her. Quiet, but surprisingly genuine. “Come on.” He gestured towards the exit with his head. The battle was won. The elder lay in ashes, Metzli was freed, no doubt overwhelmed with the influx of emotions returned to them all at once like a tidal wave. Surrounded by their friends and loved ones, the makeshift family that they had formed. It wasn’t a place for Parker or Jade; they were weapons, the tools to assist in getting the job done. And their job was done, at least for that day. And he… was satisfied. Not happy or expectant, but as though he had contributed to something larger than him. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but not entirely unwelcome.

There was something to be said about ends and beginnings, though Siobhan didn’t say any of it. The crypt hadn’t filled with relief, but pain--screaming, searing pain. The victory echoed through her hollow body and she turned her attention on to the frozen fledglings. There was comfort in certainty, and in a life lived with obedience to certainty. Nothing was certain now: freedom was achingly terrifying. Her attention moved along to Parker and Jade; her smile for them lost to the crypt’s dancing darkness. She felt emptied out, as if someone had reached down her throat and pulled her fleshy stuffing out. Inside, there was her own tiny vampire-on-fire: compassion for her friend. Really, her only friend--the only one she allowed herself to have for reasons completely unknown to her. She pushed herself off the ground, dusted off her legs, and walked over to Metzli.

She had no kind hands to offer, not like Leila, and she stood with a degree of awkwardness slightly aside from them. “It’s done,” she said softly. “It’s over.” But Siobhan knew that wasn’t entirely true; something else had begun, something that had been stirring for a while and could exist properly now. She stuffed her hands into her pockets and remained watching over her friend, considering that some things were entirely worth the agony they caused: freedom, friendship, particularly spicy chips.

And most of all, Metzli, her friend, who might finally find life the way birds did: songs carried into the air, wings across blue sky.

For as long as she could remember, Cass had loved stories. As a child on an island where there were two worlds, neither of which wanted her, she’d found some strange comfort in telling them to herself late at night, like self-created bedtime stories. They were simple at first, of course; retellings of other stories she’d seen or heard, but they got more complex as she got older. She told herself stories about princesses in castles, waiting for rescue. She told herself stories about princesses rescuing themselves. She invented worlds where nothing was wrong, and worlds where everything was. She told stories where the sea was made of lava and the sky was full of water.

She told stories where she was loved to make up for the fact that she wasn’t.

But all of those stories, from the beginning, had common themes. There were always heroes, and there were always villains. And the heroes were good, and the villains were bad. Real life wasn’t like that, she’d learned; it was never so straightforward. But today, in this case, it was simple. Chuy was a monster, a tiny man who wanted power to make himself feel better and who would step on anyone and everyone to get it for himself. He had an ego so large it filled the crypt with a suffocating atmosphere. He threw tantrums when he knew he was beaten. He reached for Metzli, for someone who loved her, and he tried to burn them up with him just to be petty, just to claim some form of victory even in his death. And Cass acted on instinct. She surged forward, she pulled him away, she held him in place. She made sure he died alone, and he did. Even among the screams of the people who only cared about him because he’d forced them to, he was alone. The way he should have been, the way he deserved to be.

Chuy died screaming, and Cass liked it. There was something terrifying about that.

It was over quickly, even if it felt like an eternity. The body under her hands turned to ash. The screaming died down. The fledglings stopped fighting. Metzli was screaming. And Cass wanted to pretend that there was something heavy in her chest, wanted to pretend that she felt regret for her part in the ashes on the floor, but instead, she felt something else. She didn’t feel like she had outside her cave, with Rhett’s hand wrapped around her throat. She didn’t feel small or helpless, didn’t feel like she needed saving. A monster was dead, and he’d lived for centuries. He’d terrorized her friend, he’d made them feel like they were nothing, and Cass held him in place until he was ashes even if she hadn’t struck the match. And she felt good. She felt powerful. Like the way she used to feel stopping muggers, multiplied by a thousand. It was a good feeling. She didn’t think it was supposed to be.

She pushed it to the side now, shoved it down as deep as she could. It wasn’t important. Metzli was what mattered here, and Cass approached them slowly. She put her glamour back up, let that rocky skin give way to something that looked more human, let the fire burning behind her eyes die down. The volcano went dormant, its eruption finished. She placed a hand on Metzli’s shoulder with caution, unsure if they wanted to be touched but needing tangible proof that they were okay. “Let’s go home,” she said quietly, squeezing their shoulder. “We can go home now.”

It was easy to forget things when you reached an age with triple digits. Even easier to let yourself go numb and disregard the person you were before a monumental change. When Metzli collapsed, all screams dead inside their chest, they remembered how they forgot. Each enemy quickly became a friend, and in a matter of seconds, the hold Chuy once had in the bending of their mind, dissipated. With that came a tumultuous wave of emotions that had laid dormant for over a century. It was agony, an avalanche of passion that threatened to smother Metzli completely. And they welcomed it, turning it into a cacophony of instruments instead, so that when the swell finally came to its apex, the music would die down into a melody that wouldn’t shred their ears.

Grief and sorrow, like a heavy cloak draping over their shoulders. Joy, a butterfly dancing within their chest. Fear, a shadow looming over the landscape of their thoughts, on the verge of swallowing Metzli whole. Regret, a haunting ghost from the past; a wish that they would finally be able to verbalize. But most importantly, love and heartache. A bittersweet mixture that few had the opportunity to experience. It was a raging fire that danced to no clear tempo, too many hearts enchanting the tune. It burned and it ached, and in spite of this, Metzli stood on unsteady feet with the help of Leila, feeling grounded by Cass’s touch. They pulled Leila into a tight hug, their vision greeted with friends they were told they’d never had. They hardly minded that Parker and Jade were leaving, knowing it was likely for the best. There was too much to focus on. Because, right then, they knew that they finally had their wish.

“I am…free.” Metzli croaked, stumbling forward to reach Anita. Besides Honey, she’d known them the longest. She knew them just as well as Leila, if not better. They became family first. Without much of a voice to use, Metzli propped their chin over Anita’s shoulder, still holding Leila’s hand and looking to Siobhan and Cass with a smile that finally knew what happiness felt like. Never mind the way their stoic features trembled as they struggled to keep the drowning emotions at bay. Everything was okay now that Chuy was dead and the fledglings were scurrying away. Metzli just wanted their family to get the appreciation they deserved.

“I…” They fell back to the ground, too weak to keep themself up. It looked like the appreciation had to come later, much to Metzli’s dismay. “Home?” They looked to Cass and attempted to reach for Anita’s hand, but it looked more like they swatted at it, and they laughed, genuinely, for the first time—albeit with a bit of exasperation. “Home.” Pain, it seemed, wasn’t so bad.

The freedom was worth it.

Hearts truly could heal.

#wickedswriting #writings #bloody ink #hazy shade of winter #c: jade #c: leila #c: cass #c: siobhan #c: anita #c: parker #emotional abuse tw

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