#reminded me of the fact that i need to mod one of its pockets to fit my phone again bc i instinctually reached for it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fallout4reactsblog · 3 years

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What if a sole survivor that’s a teenager(like 14-16 years old) begins to view the companions and faction leaders as parental figures, before slipping up and accidentally calling them “mom” or “dad”? Just a thought.

Ada: “Ah, shit.”

Sole patted themself down, checking their pockets, before sighing. “I knew I should’ve taken the time to skin those mole rats.”

“Is something missing?”

Curious, Ada leaned over to check the project they were working on. They slid to the side to accomodate her.

“I just don’t have enough leather to finish my armor mods. I wanted to put some pockets in my chestplate so I could carry a couple extra rolls of duct tape, but I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

“Leather?”

She checked back through her mental inventory, sizing up what she was carrying. Enamel bucket, ashtrays, pack of cigarettes...

“Ah, here we are.” She pulled out a baseball glove and handed it over. “Will this suffice?”

“Oh, yeah, this is perfect!” They beamed. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Anytime.”

If either of them noticed sole’s little slip-up, neither of them said a thing.

Cait: Sole reminded her too much of herself, some days. She knew their jaded expression, their thousand-yard stare, the haunted look of a kid who’d seen more than they should have. She knew more about them than they’d probably like, which was how she knew to stop them before they could do something they’d regret in the long run.

“No chems,” she said, plucking the canister of X-Cell out of their hands before they could get too close a look at it. It still felt dusty from its years laying in a Concord Speakeasy, and she wiped her hand on her pants.

“I know,” they huffed, rocking back on their heels. “I was just looking.”

“Well, don’t.” She tucked it into a back pocket, making a mental note to either toss it in the closest river or sell it first chance she got.

“It’s not like anything bad can happen from just looking at it, Cait. I wasn’t even thinking about it.”

“You better not have been. If you start doin’ that shite-”

“I know.” Somehow, their tone remained patient. “I promised I wouldn’t do chems, and I won’t, okay, Mom?”

The breath left her like she’d been sucker punched. For a moment, all she could do was stand there, eyes wide, unable to form a thought, much less words. Was it really like that? Had she really let things go this far? How long until she ended up like-

“I mean, uh, Cait.”

She glanced up to see their face beginning to turn red, and they ducked their head.

“Sorry, it just slipped out. I don’t, I mean, I didn’t-” They huffed. “Sorry. I know you don’t want to be a parent or anything, and I don’t mean that you should, I just...”

They prattled on nervously, as if trying to comfort both of them, words going right past Cait’s head. To think sole thought of her as a mother. She couldn’t have that responsibility. Her parents had been trusted with a child, and look how she’d turned out. She couldn’t take that risk, not with sole, not when at any moment some switch could flip inside her and she’d turn into the monsters that had raised her.

She’d known this was a bad idea, right from the start.

Codsworth: “I was thinking about putting another mod on my pistol today,” they said, hunched over the kitchen table. They were poking at some circuit board or another, something that they’d never have been allowed to touch before the war. He eyed the screwdriver in their hands warily.

“A fine idea,” he said, resigning himself once again to the fact that a new world meant a new way of life for mum and sir’s child. “Perhaps a larger magazine?”

They chewed their lower lip thoughtfully, tightening a screw. “I was thinking something more quick-eject, you know? Speed in battle and all.”

He couldn’t argue with that.

“The only reason I hadn’t done it was I needed some more adhesive. But since Carla stopped by again and she had some duct tape, we should be set.”

“As I recall, Miss Carla had more than enough for an extra set of sights as well. You asked me to remind you when you had enough material for a large scope, and by my measure, you should be there now.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that.” They nodded thoughtfully. “We can get that old hunting rifle in working order again. Thanks, Dad.”

He froze. Dad? Him? No, that wasn’t right. But they’d said it so casually, as if they hadn’t even realized they were saying it. Surely, they couldn’t have forgotten sir already. They’d had years with him as their father. Such things couldn’t be forgotten so easily.

“Sole.” He tried not to make his tone sound warning.

They, too, seemed to have realized what they’d said, ears beginning to turn red. “Sorry, Codsworth. I was just working and not thinking about it, and-”

“It’s alright. Such slip-ups happen, after all! We’ll just have to make sure it doesn’t become a habit. After all, I’m simply the family Mr. Handy. Hardly a father. I wouldn’t want to take sir’s place.”

“Right, right. Sorry.”

“No need for apologies! We’ll simply call this a learning moment, for both of us.”

They sighed, “Sounds fair,” and returned to their work.

Curie: “You have your stimpaks, yes?”

They patted a pocket. “Got ‘em right here.”

“And your bandages?”

“In my bag.”

“Extra ammunition?”

They sighed. “Stop fussing, Mom. I told you, I’ve got everything I need.”

She pursed her lips and cocked her head to the side. That was certainly an... interesting choice of words.

“You see me as a maternal figure?”

“What?” They adjusted the straps on their bag, refusing to make eye contact.

“You referred to me as your mother. I am simply curious when you began to perceive me in such a role.”

“I don’t.” Their cheeks flushed, and they turned away further. “I didn’t call you ‘Mom,’ either.”

“Oh, but there is no need to be embarrassed! It is only natural for such things to happen. Your brain is still maturing, and as the primary provider of such maternal care in your life, it is predictable that you would-”

“Okay, okay, I’m leaving now.” They turned hastily to the door. “I’ll see you in a few days, Curie.”

“Certainly. Au revoir.”

As she watched their retreating back, she let herself consider the happy hum in her chest. Did she want to be sole’s mother? Was it that she wanted to be their mother specifically, or was there simply a general maternal instinct that was now surfacing? It was intriguing that such an instinct could exist in her, since she could never have children, but perhaps there was some lingering Ms. Nanny instinct that was affecting her. No matter what, it was certainly interesting.

If sole saw her as a maternal figure, she’d do her best to provide.

Danse: He found sole leaning against a wall, panting. There was blood splattered across their armor, gun dangling loosely from their fingers, but they were smiling, which was good enough for him.

“You look exhausted,” he said.

They laughed a little and smeared some of the blood from their cheek. “That was quite the fight. We should’ve brought some backup, huh?”

He glanced over at the scribe Quinlan had sent along, who had been of even less use than he’d expected, but decided to let that go and focus on sole. “I wouldn’t be so sure. You fared quite well on your own, and for your level of training your performance was impressive.”

Their eyes flicked over to meet his. “For real?”

“I would never lie to you, especially in your field evaluation. You’ve come a long way.”

He caught a hint of their smile before they ducked their head. “Thanks, Dad.”

He paused, sucking in a breath. While it wasn’t an uncommon mistake, it wasn’t one he was exactly willing to overlook. Still, best to approach things tactfully to avoid embarrassment for them. “What was that?”

They wouldn’t meet his eyes. “What was what?”

The scribe, tapping at the terminal, decided that was his moment to be useful. “You called Paladin Danse ‘Dad.’”

“No, I didn’t. I said, ‘Thanks, Danse.’”

He allowed himself a smile. “I didn’t know you saw me as a father figure, sole.”

“I don’t.” Still, their flush of embarrassment betrayed them.

He waved a hand through the air. “It’s alright, Knight. You wouldn’t be the first to refer to their sponsor as Mom or Dad, and I sincerely doubt you’ll be the last.”

Really, they were a good kid. Young initiates usually tended to find a substitute parental figure in the ranks, and of all sole’s options, he was glad it was him. He could keep them on the right track, make sure they didn’t go astray. With any luck, they could probably take his position someday.

All in all, this was a good thing for both of them.

Deacon: “Deeks, how does this jacket look on me?”

He glanced up from the hats in Fallon’s Basement to see sole tugging on the sleeves of a leather jacket. It was a bit rough around the edges, but it was just worn enough that he could believe it had seen some action. It wasn’t really their style, though; Agent Whisper tended more toward a softer kind of spy work, based more on charisma and less on punching people in the face.

“I like it,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “It’s a new look for you.”

“I was thinking I should add a more badass disguise to my collection. Try for that intimidation factor every once in a while, you know?”

He tossed the idea around a moment before agreeing. “We could make it work. It’d need practice, though, and some other accessories.”

“We could go get a bat from Mo while we’re here.”

“Now you’re talking. You put a couple nails in that sucker, and boom. You’re halfway to badass city right there. We’ll just have to teach you how to actually use it so you don’t stab yourself by accident.”

“Yeah, sure, but you’ll teach me, right, Dad?”

He nearly choked. Shit. Did sole know something he didn’t? No, that couldn’t be true. He’d never had kids, despite how much Barbara wanted them. Plus, sole had known their father. He’d seen the body, still half in cryo in 111.

That left the fact that sole had come to see him as a father figure, which left him in the awkward position of either shutting that down, probably hurting their feelings in the process, or just letting it slide. But could he even consider the latter? He couldn’t be a father, not in this state. He couldn’t lie every other word and still consider himself a decent parental influence, now could he?

Still, that voice in the back of his head nagged, “Barbara would want you to say yes. She thought you’d be a good dad.”

“Deeks?”

They looked at him quizzically, obviously still looking for an answer.

He sighed and, just this once, gave in. “Sure, kid. I’ll teach you how. It’s not that much different from their intended use, really...”

Desdemona: She always had a certain fondness for sole’s reports. She never got to hear much about the missions, just a quick affirmation of success and not much else. Sole, though, sole always told her a story, starting from the beginning and highlighting anything that they thought was interesting.

“But, you know, they’re just raiders,” they said, twenty-some minutes after they’d started. “In the end, H2 got where he needed to go. Highrise will take it from here.”

She smiled and ruffled their hair, making them laugh. “Good work, agent. You’re making all of us proud.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

They froze immediately, realizing what they had said, but their moment of embarrassment was cut short by Tom’s sigh of relief.

“Finally! You know how long we’ve been waiting for this? You took so long to join the club.”

Glory caught sole’s look of confusion and added, “Everyone calls Dez ‘Mom’ at some point. It’s basically a rite of passage.”

They looked to Dez for affirmation, and she could only nod.

“It’s true. It happens to everyone, sooner or later. I’m more than used to it by now.”

“You sure?” they asked, voice still hesitant.

“Positive. The only one that hasn’t is PAM, and she doesn’t have the capability.”

“Give her time,” Tom said. “She’ll get there.”

Gage: “You’re being stupid,” he snarled.

They glared back with surprising intensity. “You’re being a prick. You said yourself, I’m the Overboss. Things go how I want them to.”

How they’d managed that little trick, he didn’t know, but he hated it more and more every day. “Bein’ the Overboss doesn’t mean you don’t have to listen to anyone. You’re still new here. You better show me some respect.”

“Oh, fuck off, Dad,” they snapped.

That only pissed him off more. “What did you just call me, you little shit?”

They blinked, anger seeming to cool for a second. “Gage. What else?”

“No, you called me Dad.” His temper settled in return, hovering at a simmer. “Like this is some sort of family reunion or some shit.”

They snorted. “As if.”

“Don’t try and take it back now. I heard you.”

“You’re old and losing your hearing. Old fucker.”

His temper flared again, and despite that he knew they were baiting him, he couldn’t resist. “What was that?”

“What, I need to enunciate everything for you? Do you need your hearing aids, Grandpa?”

“What the fuck is a hearing aid?”

“What do you think, dumbass? It lets you hear better when you get old and lose your hearing. Like you.”

A knock on the door interrupted what he was going to say, and he snapped his mouth closed with irritation.

“Overboss?” The voice was muffled through the door. “Do you have a minute?”

“Yeah, just a sec.” They dusted their hands on their pants, anger instantly melting into a mask of cold determination. “Come on, Gage. Work to do.”

He huffed and resolved they would finish this later.

Hancock: He was always impressed with how well sole handled Goodneighbor. It went to show that they were much tougher than their age and pre-war softness let on; that this kid who looked like they’d never even handled a gun would shoot you without question if threatened. He’d seen how they’d handled Finn.

“Cold today,” they said, blowing into their hands. “This wind is killer. You wanna head inside and check up on things while I barter here?”

They gestured in the general direction of KLEO’s shop, and he chuckled.

“I dunno. Maybe the big, bad mayor better stick around to make sure you don’t get yourself into more trouble.”

They rolled their eyes. “Come on, Dad. I can handle myself, you know.”

They realized their mistake before he did, eyes widening, jaw snapping shut. He faltered, snappy words dying in his mouth before he got hold of himself again. Dad? Were they kidding? Their face said they weren’t.

“Woah, now.” He held up his hands. “It ain’t like that, kid. I’m not exactly the fatherly type, y’know. Cool uncle, maybe, but I ain’t anybody’s Dad.”

They huffed, clearly embarrassed, and diverted him by saying, “Bet you’ve been more than one somebody’s Daddy, though.”

“That’s more like it.” He nudged them in KLEO’s direction. “You go do your shopping, and I’ll go make sure they ain’t burnin’ down my town while I’m away.”

“Sure. If I’m not here when you get back, I’ll be in Hotel Rexford.”

“Sounds fine. Get me somethin’ nice while you’re at it, huh?”

“Alright, but I’m charging you a convenience fee.”

Content that they were back on the same page, he agreed and went to find Fahrenheit.

MacCready: “Your fever’s gone down a little.” He rested a hand against their forehead. “Seems you’re gonna pull through.”

They smiled a little, eyes still hazy with sickness and medicine. Soon, they’d be on their feet again, he hoped.

“I bet you’re a good dad, Mac,” they said. “Duncan must really love you, huh?”

He let out a sigh. Sole had been strangely emotional ever since they got sick, which had annoyed him at first, but lately he’d just come to accept it. After all, there wasn’t much he could do about it, was there?

“Jeez, I don’t even know if he remembers me. It’s been a while since I got to see him.”

“He remembers you. I mean, I remember my dad, and he’s been dead for a couple hundred years now, I guess.” They laughed a little, as if they’d said something funny. “But you should go see him. Take a break. I’ll be fine without you.”

“Nah, we’ll go together. After all, he’ll probably want to meet you.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. He’ll probably see you as some kind of adopted older sibling or something. You’ll get along.”

They exhaustion in their laugh betrayed them. “Sure, whatever you say, Dad.”

There was a wryness in their voice, an almost mocking note that told him they’d meant it as a joke, but long after they’d fallen asleep, he sat at their bedside, watching them. He’d thought he was joking, too, but now that he was along with his thoughts, he had to wonder. Maybe he did want them to meet Duncan, and maybe he did want them to get along like siblings. Could he do that? Was that wrong?

He sighed and rose from his chair. No use worrying about it now. Sole had probably been joking about him going to DC anyway. After all, there was work to be done here.

They definitely weren’t going anywhere until they were better, though. For now, he had to focus on making sure they pulled through.

Maxson: He watched them across the table as they studied the map of the Commonwealth spread between them. It was a crude battle plan, mostly consisting of bottlecaps and buttons, but it was enough for them to discuss. He found he was regularly impressed by their knowledge in this area; in many ways, they reminded him of himself at that age.

“What if we swung south?” They pushed three bottlecaps across the table. “The way C.I.T is set up makes anything but a direct assault difficult, but we could try to split their forces, or at least their fire.”

He hummed, considering. “You’re still assuming we can’t assemble Prime in time.”

“Right. I’m concerned they’ll force our hand before we’re ready. We need to be prepared for that.”

“If you hope to split their fire, we’ll have to split our forces. That means we’ll need more men overall and be pulling more away from the airport, leaving us vulnerable.”

They scrunched their face as they thought about it. “You’re right, but in these circumstances we’re already at a disadvantage, don’t you think? We’re outgunned and outmanned.”

“Both of which can be overcome by outplanning them.” He leaned back in his chair. “What you lack in physical strength can often be overcome with mental acuity.”

They glanced away from the diorama to look at him. “That’s pretty good advice. Nice one, Dad.”

He felt his heart skip a beat. They had already returned to the diorama, now considering the forces around the airport, but he suddenly couldn’t focus. Sole considered him a father figure. Did he mean that much to them that he was someone they looked to for guidance, not just on the Prydwen, but in all aspects of their life? To be a father to them, to be able to guide them, was more than he could have ever asked for.

He cleared his throat. “I believe you mean ‘Elder,’ Knight.”

“Hm?” They looked up again.

“You referred to me as something else. I’m reminding you that the proper title is ‘Elder.’“

“Oh. My apologies, Elder. It won’t happen again.”

He sighed. “I ask that you’re careful around the others. That is all.”

They nodded, mind clearly already on other things.

Nick: He watched them poke around Earl Sterling’s apartment, careful eyes taking everything in. He lingered by the doorway, letting them do their thing, curious to see how it would play out. He was taking a bit of a risk letting them work the case, but he figured he could clean up any mistakes they made along the way.

Mistake number one was probably letting them pick up all those beers, but he figured as long as he watched them sell them all, it would be fine.

“Aha!”

Triumphant, they emerged from where they had crouched on the floor, brandishing a piece of paper.

“Find somethin’?” He flicked his cigarette to the side, nudging it out with the toe of his boot.

“Some sort of receipt, I think. Facial reconstruction with Dr. Crocker. Appointment date... should have been sometime around his disappearance.”

“That means ol’ Doc could’ve been the last to see Earl alive.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Good work, kid.”

They flushed with pride and perhaps a bit of embarrassment at the praise. “Thanks, Dad.”

He raised an eyebrow, hoping they would realize their mistake on their own, but they were busy tucking the receipt into their bag. It seemed as though they hadn’t noticed at all, and after a moment of thought, he decided not to mention it. After all, there was no need to embarrass them. They’d realize what they’d said eventually.

Plus, it was kind of nice, in a way.

Piper: “You’ve got ink on your face.”

Sole glanced up from the freshly-printed edition of the paper, fingers wandering to their cheekbone. “Here?”

“Little to the left.”

“Here?”

“Less to the left.”

“Here?”

“Oh, just hold still.”

She leaned over, wiping the ink off their cheek with her thumb. It smeared a little bit, but was a marked improvement, and she scrubbed the rest away with the heel of her glove.

“There you go. Good as new.”

They nodded and returned their attention to the paper. “Thanks, Mom.”

They seemed to realize immediately, eyes widening, and Piper felt a sharp pain in her chest.

“Aw, Blue, you know I’m not really...”

They visibly deflated. “I know. I’m sorry, Piper.”

“Not like that.” She leaned forward, putting her coffee to the side. “I’m not upset by it. I’m just not that kind of person, that’s all. I’m like your older sister, not your Mom. I wouldn’t want to replace her. It’s not a big deal, just, you know, get it in your head.”

“Older sister?” That seemed to perk them up a bit, and she smiled.

“Yeah. You’re still part of the family, Blue. Just not like that.”

They smiled. “I guess I’ll take it.”

Preston: The first sign was always the quiet. Sole wasn’t likely to stay quiet for too long; they were always listening to the radio, humming or singing along. When it was quiet for too long, that usually meant they’d either wandered off without telling him, which was never good, or they’d fallen asleep somewhere.

Sign two was the glow of a lantern at the workbench. It wasn’t uncommon for them to work late into the night, but that was always accompanied by the sound of work: the screech of metal on metal, the hum of an engine, the rattling of loose hardware in its drawers.

Quiet and light together meant they’d fallen asleep at the workbench. Again.

“Sole.” Gently, he shook their shoulder. “Come on. You can’t sleep here.”

They sat up, bleary-eyed, a sheet of orange plastic cut from a pumpkin stuck to their cheek. Almost unseeing, they looked up at him with a sleepy, questioning hum.

“Come on.” Gently, he pulled at their arm.

“Sorry, Dad.” They rubbed their eyes, rising on unsteady feet. “I’m going.”

A smile crept to his face as he led them across the Sanctuary street to their home, making sure they got settled. Almost instantly, they were asleep again, long hours of hard living catching up to them all at once. Quietly, he closed the door behind him.

It was too good to be true. They were just tired, and mistook him for their father in the dark. But still, a part of him wanted to believe that it was possible. Maybe he could be a father to sole. He could show them how to make it here, in this unfamiliar world, and support them as they grew into the General he knew they could be.

Maybe, just maybe, they would let him.

X6: He watched them pace back and forth in front of the door, coat tails swirling with every pivot. They adjusted their lapels for the fifth time, sighed, and glanced around for a clock.

“It’s only four twenty-five,” he said. “You’ve still got twenty-five minutes.”

They sighed and sank heavily into a chair. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

They groaned and dropped their head onto the table. “You said it was thirty minutes to go, like, an hour ago.”

“Five minutes ago.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

He set his gun on the table with a sigh and set his sunglasses beside them. “If you keep worrying about it, you’ll only work yourself up more, and the time will seem to pass slower. Your best move would be to get a cup of coffee and relax.”

“I can’t relax.” They leaned back in their chair. “It’s my first meeting as the director. Half of the Institute already hates me because I’m so young, so if I mess this up I’ll be out on the street by dawn. This is no time to relax.”

“If you don’t relax, you’ll be more likely to make a mistake.”

“I know, but it’s easier said than done, Dad.”

He blinked. At first, he wasn’t sure if he’d heard them properly, but his hearing was beyond satisfactory. If he’d heard it, they’d said it, but that didn’t mean anything.

“Case in point. You’re upset, you make mistakes. Like that.”

They sank their head into their hands. “You’re right. I’ll- I’ll get some coffee. Sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize. Humans make mistakes, after all.”

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biotic-boshtet · 3 years

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Aftermath - Chapter 2

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Chapter 1

Sugar?

Kaidan steps through the door into the medbay, greeted by the smell of antiseptics and the doctor’s warm smile. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I’m having a bit of a problem with our dear Commander, she’s locked herself in her quarters with a migraine, and normally I wouldn’t fuss, but she’s been in there since yesterday, and when I stopped by to check up on her this afternoon, she wouldn’t open the door. As far as I can tell she hasn’t so much has poked her head out that door since she shut it. I did consider calling Jeff down to check on her, but I’d hate to bring him all the way here and have Shepard turn him away. You’re the one best equipped to handle the situation at hand.”

“And you said she’s been in there for 24 hours?” Kaidan knew the stress of the 2 weeks since Virmire was taking its toll on the Commander, and that she’s been working through a migraine, but he’d never seen her down for more than a few hours.

“A little longer than that, really, she stopped by yesterday around noon to tell me she was locking herself in there until the worst of it passed. I believe her exact words were ‘Once my brain stops trying to implode and ooze out of my amp jack’.” Dr. Chakwas grimaced at the description as she repeated it. “I offered her a dose of painkillers, but she waved it off and went on her way.”

“Yeah, ouch, I’ll see if I can’t convince her to at least eat something.”

“Thank you, and good luck.”

Thermos of coffee, water bottle, and hot leftovers in hand, Kaidan leans against the wall beside the door as he sends off a message to Shepard. Hopefully, she was awake. Knocking wouldn’t work, the chances of her hearing aids being on were slim. He’d noticed she had the habit of turning them off when things started to overwhelm her. Feels like they’ve been off more than on lately. He breathes a sigh of relief when the indicator light flashes from red to green, and the door hisses open. As the door shuts behind him, it’s clear that she’s turned off every light she possibly could. The emergency lighting along the floor is still on, though he’s sure she considered cracking into the electrical panel to deal with them.

Walking further into the dark room, he almost believes she isn’t there. Almost. He spots her curled up with a pillow over her head as he pulls a chair up to the side of the bed. Her field feels different without her amp in, softer around the edges, but it still vibrant enough to pop and fizzle against his own. As he sits down and sets the food and drinks on the end table, Shepard moves her pillow to squint at him. He tries not to let his eyes linger on her bare arms or the near meter of hair spread across the mattress.

“Doc told me it was a nasty one.” Kaidan signs, “So I came with coffee. Pretty sure it’s strong enough to give a Krogan heart palpitations, so it should help.”

She pulls herself up to sit against the headboard. She looked like hell. “Sugar?”

“Plenty, don’t worry.” He uncaps the thermos and passes it into her waiting hands. As she takes a sip, her eyes slide closed and Kaidan swears he’s never seen such a blissful look on her face. He lets her enjoy the coffee for a moment before catching her attention again. “If you’re feeling up to it, I’ve got some leftovers too. If you don’t eat soon, I think Chakwas might break down your door and sit on you until you do. Or worse, drag you to the medbay.”

Shepard almost reluctantly sets the coffee down, reaching for the container as Kaidan snaps open the lid and sticks a fork in the steaming spaghetti. The second she takes a bite it’s like a switch flips and the second and third bites follow soon after. Half the container is gone before she pauses to take another drink of coffee and glances up at Kaidan. “I know this is just leftovers, but fuck, it tastes so good I could kiss you.”

Kaidan laughs as his cheeks redden, and he brings up his omnitool to check some emails while she finishes her food. He needs to distract himself from the fact that he wants her to kiss him. He makes sure to send one off to Chakwas, reassuring her that he’s gotten Shepard eating and at least caffeinated. He moves the bottle of water closer to the coffee, waving his hand next to it catch her attention and let her know its there.

“So. Ears are on now, by the way, don’t worry about signing. I had an idea, to boost morale. I can’t be the only person on this ship cracking under the stress, so I’m gonna see if I can’t work out some kind of sparring match in the cargo bay. Prizes and stuff, plus something extra for the first crewmate who can get me down on the mat.”

“Yeah? You sure anybody’ll go for it?” He spoke softly, the way she kept her eyes half closed told him the pain was still very much there.

“Oh, you know, I’ve overheard a conversation or two, some of the other marines are totally sure they can take me, just, without the biotics. Remember, some of these jarheads have never actually seen me in the field.”

“Yeah, or they’d never dream of going toe-to-toe with you. What’s your grand prize?”

“Probably some credits and a few pistol mods? I don’t know for sure yet.”

“I think it’s a great idea, help everybody loosen up a bit.” He checks the time; he drew the short straw for the watch in the CIC. “Alright, I’ve got my watch coming up soon, so I’ll get out of your hair. Go check in with Chakwas if you can brave the lights out there.”

“I’ll try.”

Kaidan makes it halfway to the door before he remembers the chocolate bar in his pocket. The good chocolate. Not impossible to get ahold of in space, but also not high on any Alliance requisition lists. He walks back to the bed, partially melted chocolate in hand.

“I forgot about this. A good bar of chocolate almost always helps a migraine.”

She looks reverently at the chocolate, hand outstretched, but not grabbing it. “Are you sure? This is definitely not on any of our supply lists.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got a few more stashed away, don’t worry about it.” He presses the bar into her hand, closing her fingers around it. He’s halfway out the door when she speaks again.

“Kaidan? Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

Kaidan watches what has to be at least 2/3 of the crew milling around the cargo bay, navy and marines, humans and aliens, all chatting and joking around. He’d picked a good spot, back near a wall, next to Joker. Near the center of the bay, he hears a thud as the Commander puts another marine on the mat. She offered up a prize of 300 credits and a few choice pistol mods to the first person who could get her on the mat, no biotics, no tech, just good old fashioned hand-to-hand. At least Shepard’s got the decency to help them up off the mat after she kicks their asses. Still, even after half a dozen crewmates beat, there’s still plenty looking to try their luck at beating Commander Shepard. She doesn’t even look like she’s broken a sweat.

Kaidan fiddles with his omnitool, pretending he isn’t interested in the match. Another marine hits the mat, and his eyes flick up watch Shepard help Fredricks up onto his feet, and this time she looks right at him, a mischievous glint in intense brown eyes.

“You up for a challenge, Alenko?” Her voice carries clearly over the chatter and general noise of the cargo bay.

Kaidan knows he’s got the look of a deer caught in headlights but recovers gracefully enough. “Oh, no, Commander, I’m content just watching you take out every other marine on board.”

“What, are you scared you’ll beat your CO? Don’t worry, you won’t.”

Joker leans over, with a hand up to his mouth for an especially dramatic stage whisper. “You know if you walk away the crew will never let you live it down. Neither will Norah Jean. She’ll be bringing it up for at least the next 10 years. Believe me.”

Kaidan looks between Joker and Shepard, who’s still standing on the mat, hands on her hips and already looking like she’s won. Then he sighs and wades through the onlookers. Once in the ring he looks down at her. “You know, you’re a real pain in the ass, right?”

“I try.”

Kaidan makes his way to the table set up a few feet from the edge of the mat and makes a show of taking off his uniform shirt, then unplugging his amp, setting both on the table beside hers. Slowly they begin to circle each other.

“Think you can beat me?”

“Shepard, I have no illusions of how this is going to end. I watched you bring Fredricks down in 6 moves. He’s twice your size. My chances aren’t looking good here.” He throws a jab at her left side, testing her reflexes, and she blocks it easily.

They trade blows, trying to whittle each other down, and Adams is clearly about to call it in a draw when Kaidan lunges forward. Then the cargo bay blurs and his back slams onto the mat, knocking the wind right out of his lungs. Shepard is beaming above him. She offers a hand to help him haul himself up, and he moves for his discarded shirt and amp.

“Uh, yeah, Shepard, remind me not to get in your way.”

She pats his shoulder and gives him a thumbs up as she drinks her water.

#shenko #fshenko #mass effect #mass effect fic #mandi writes #norah jean shepard #aftermath #otp: we know the score #of course i finish the chapter and update at 4 am what else would i do #heehehehhe now i drop the first hints of past norah jean/joker #ill reblog it again when its not disgusting oclock lmao

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kinkyacademia · 4 years

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Could I request a scenario or even headcanons (whichever is easier) with Overhaul of how he would be with fem s/o and she just so happens to have a erasure-like quirk.... (I’m sorry it’s so vague I can elaborate if necessary) thank you so much!

So the thing is it is 3:30AM and my dog is alseep next to me, hands not working, I want to write sex.Okay I ended up rewriting and finishing the request, but the fact that my intro was so dumb still makes me laugh XD

-Mod Pasta🍜🍝

💊You had met Overhaul when he was just starting the Shie Hassaikai, you being fresh out of a mediocre Hero Course and still struggling to find your place in the world.You were always told that hero life suited you, but that it would be hard to find work because of your quirk. Why did it have to be hard? Why were everyone’s compliments so backhanded? You wanted to do good, but it felt like the government didn’t care.

💊He pulled you out of that mess and depression, telling you that you were incredible, your quirk was a blessing, wrapping his arm around you without flinching. Without flinching. One of the first things he said to you was, “You’re clean, you may have a quirk, but it’s clean.”

💊That was about a year ago. Overhaul sometimes asked for you assistance with Eri’s “temper tantrums,” Or to teach certain members a lesson, or just to make himself feel temporarily clean. The more skin-to-skin contact he had with you, the better his mood would get that day. There were many parts to his business that you opposed, especially the use of Eri, but you didn’t want to be useless and deny him your service. This wasn’t the easy route you had to remind yourself. You were helping.

💊More contact meant less clothes, and despite his adverseness to germs, the closest he could get to you was sex. He was infatuated with you, and for the first time in his life, he opened his being to someone. It was all on his own terms, of course, but you were more than happy to oblige. You were helping a man achieve his dreams after all, and what was more desirable that a driven person?

💊You had to admit that Kurono throwing you at Chisaki like a happy pill was a bit annoying, but you also felt important. You were this important to one person, especially a very important man - this was what you wanted. You wanted to help others, and this did the job just fine despite the obvious drawbacks. Overhaul made it very clear that you could return to the hero world whenever you wanted, but reminded you of what would happen: You would be shunned for leaving for so long, you would never find work, you would fall into a pit of despair and never be recognized.

💊Technically you only needed to touch someone once to cancel their quirk for a couple minutes, but Overhaul obviously enjoyed your continued use.

On one particular bad day, you were drinking tea in the backyard when you heard footsteps approaching, blocking the sun from reaching you and casting a shadow, “Yes?”

“You’re needed (L/N),” It was short and sweet, but you knew what Kurono meant. His voice was strained, and you pushed yourself up slowly, giving him an apologetic smile.

“Is he okay?”

“Not exactly,” He nodded to the back door, and you felt a prick of annoyance at his rushed tone, but proceeded inside nonetheless. You went down a staircase, down a few winding stone halls, then found Kendo Rappa standing outside of Overhaul’s room, arms crossed in front of him as he pouted, glaring at you. You looked away, hoping he wouldn’t confront you.

As you passed him, reaching for the doorknob, he spoke up with a crackly tone, indicating how his conversation with the masked man went, “You’re going in? He’s pretty pissed,” he chuckled, reaching for your hand.

“That’s okay,” You giggled, waving him off, “Thank you though.”

“I warned yah,” He shrugged, looking up and down the hall before leaving you, throwing one last sentence over his shoulder, “We should fight!”

“Right,” You muttered, rolling your eyes. It was like his departing phrase: fight me, give me a battle, see you next round, etc. You pushed his warnings out of your head, taking a deep breath before opening knocking with one hand and pushing the door open, “It’s me.”

“Close the door,” Just as you were got inside, you were ordered around. You had to swallowed your pride and not state that that was exactly what you were going to do. Usually he praised the ground you walked on, but Kurono and Rappa were right: this was a particularly bad day, likely because of Rappa.

You sat in front of him while he looked over a set of papers, “Did Chronostasis send you?” He hummed, turning a page. You nodded.

“Yeah,” Your eyes traveled to a few books that had fallen from his shelves. The fact that they weren’t picked up made your nerves stand on end. The clean-freak himself wasn’t cleaning.

You got up to clean the books up, and he didn’t stop you. Once everything looked orderly, you turned to him, approaching him now from behind his desk, “I guess today was hard?”

“Correct,” He mumbled, getting to the last page, “I would rather my subordinates do what I ask of them without question, but some need motivation,” He clicked his tongue, rubbing his fingers over the paper delicately. It looked like he was trying not to crinkle it, but his anger caused the edge of the paper to turn in. He stared at it for a second, then slowly placed the paper on top of the stack, shaking his head with a groan of disappointment.

You smiled, gingerly placing a hand on his shoulder to provide the much-needed relief he craved, “They’ve fought before, but last time their reasons were jaded. You provide a clear goal: Maybe that’s what’s important to them,” You gave him an experimental squeeze. He didn’t respond, his eyes closed as he thought. A moment passed, and you began to feel an awkward silence brewing. Suddenly he pushed his chair back, reaching up to grab your wrist and pull you down to eye level.

“I’m their boss. You,” His eyes travelled to your chest, then back up, causing your cheeks to flare, “You’re too perfect to give trash like them excuses.”

“Oh,” You whispered, heart pounding. Your surroundings became sharp and in better focus as adrenaline surged through your veins, “Thank you.”

He let go of your hand, and you crouched in front of him awkwardly, awaiting his word. You found trouble thinking for yourself these days: it was just so easy to let Overhaul make the decisions. He pulled his gloves off, putting them in his jacket pocket before removing the coat and placing it on the back of his chair. You knew what was coming, and it excited you to no end.

“You should be ready,” He started working on his mask, and you eyed the awkward man before reaching under your skirt and hooking a finger around your shorts and panties. You stepped out of them, looking around. You ended up placing them on the ground next to his seat, turning back to him. He was staring at your chest, and you instinctively went to cover your breasts.

“Over-”

“Leave the skirt,” He continued to stare with hungry eyes, “I enjoy all of you, (F/N),” He raised a hand up to form the come here sign. You obliged, and he reached a hand out to your legs. You too the cue to climb onto his seat, straddling him and sitting on his knees, “You’re a pure form of human.”

“I think you underestimate your own worth, you’re just as amazing as me,” Your hand came up to his neck, resting against it as your quirk took hold once again. His mask was on the desk now, but a black one underneath had taken its place. You rarely got to kiss him, but he seemed to enjoy the contact of the kiss rather than the emotions behind it. He was better at expressing those through speech and touch.

“We’re powerful together,” He settled that, “But that’s not important now… Tell me about your day,” You chuckled- he was quite monotonous when it came to casual talk. His bare hands went to your shirt, pulling it off of you. He wasn’t one to hold back - the moment your shirt was off, he went to your bra. Skilled with his hands, it dropped immediately and they went to your breasts.

“It was-” You had to pause when he took your shirt off, “Good! I went and made lunch for Eri. She’s so big now,” You hummed with content, then was cut off by his roaming fingers, “You’re cold,” You whispered with a laugh. He stopped for a second, then nodded slowly.

“You’re warm,” He stroked your breasts downward, his fingers reaching your skirt. His eyes flickered up to your own, “You know I enjoy watching you.”“Yeah,” Excitement bubbled within you as you looked down at his lap. Your boyfriend could even be labelled as nice after sex, having been as intimate as possible with the girl who gave him the relief of being “clean.”

He started to seem impatient, leaning closed to you. Your stomach did flips, and you reached for his belt buckle, undoing it and pulling it off. You placed it on the ground, then undid the button and zipper to his pants, pulling them down a bit. All that was left was his boxers, and this was where the leader-type man would usually take the reigns. You were given them for today, however, and you had some feeling of pride in it

You pulled the hem down, enough for his semi-erection to spring loose. You gently gripped it in your hand, enjoying the veins and texture. The rest of his body had a smooth, flawless feeling, likely due to using his quirk on himself. He hadn’t done the same to his member, and the contrast was a strange, but interesting aspect of the man. His breath caught for a second, and your eyes flickered to his own. They seemed expectant. You gave an experimental pump, and he took a short, sharp breath. You felt your own core aching - you had never been with someone other than Overhaul. The Hero Course strictly forbid fraternizing, and everyone was too good two shoes to try anything serious. Overhaul’s style, the way he ordered you, the way he pleased you - it was all you knew, and you knew you liked it a lot. He always left you satisfied, if not yearning for another round.

You raised your hand to your mouth, licking it before going back down to lubricate him. You bit your bottom lip, seeing he was fully erect and ready. Your heavy-lidded eyes met his own, and his hands made their way under your thighs, lifting you up slightly, “I’m growing impatient.”

“Sorry,” You chuckled, pushing yourself up on the arms of his chair and scooting forward. You reached down and position himself at your wet entrance, already remembering the intoxicating pleasure. Overhaul was a scientist after all, and he took data in so he could improve results. Sex never got old with him. You slowly sat, and your sigh of pleasure mixed with his sigh of relief.

“You’re just… perfect, you know?” You smiled, taking a few seconds to adjust to how deep he already was inside of you. His hands returned to your ass under the skirt, his hands still cold against you.

“I am clean, never perfect,” He shook his head, and you pushed yourself up a bit, then sat back down on his member. You gasped at the deep feeling, rolling your hips forward to relish it. You could see his jaw clenched and you reached up to rub it.

“You’re perfect for me, I never want anyone else,” Your hero side showed a bit, and you raised yourself up again, starting to find a rhythm. You weren’t used to riding, but you learned quickly. You were finding out what felt deeper and oh god what made your head spin.

“I feel the same to you,” He squeezed your ass, and you yelped, then laughed, a small sigh of content escaping your lips. You were starting to like pleasing yourself on him, and you knew he liked being inside of you, so it was a win-win. As you used his shoulders to support your bouncing, you got a surprise when his hips instinctively bucked up into you. He swallowed hard, and you realized he was holding back for your own sake.

“Ah… Fuck…” You moaned, rolling your hips into his own. His hands shifted to wrap around your waist, using his small thrusts to get even deep than your bouncing. With the joint effort, both of you felt pleased. Even Overhaul was groaning, his teeth grit. Your head fell next to his own on the side of the chair, your breathing heavy. You knew you were close, and he was as well.

“Overhaul!” You both were startled by a loud shout from behind his door. You pulled back to look at him with dazed confusion, and when there was a bang on the door, he leaned over and grabbed your shirt off the ground. You pulled it on, but the moment you did, a very angry Rappa entered the room. Your blood ran cold - Overhaul was still inside of you!

Overhaul was much better at handling the situation than you. He whispered for you to grab your phone and just play on it until this was over. After a lengthy conversation about the politics of the Yakuza and where Rappa stood, he finally calmed down. You had to use all your might not to react, looking away from Rappa and hiding yourself in the crook of Overhaul’s neck, looking at your phone mindlessly.

Rappa finally left, slamming the door as he did so. Once he was gone, you both waited a moment before you pulled back with a laugh, placing your phone on his desk and then turning to him, “That was close, good thing I kept my skirt-” When you saw how intense his eyes were, you had to do a double take. He’d really been holding back all of those emotions this whole time?

His hands slid under your ass, and he suddenly stood up, taking a step forward to place you across his desk, “It certainly was (F/N).”

“D-Do we get t-to finish?” You tried to play dumb, but your heart was racing, face flushed as his hands slid to your thighs. He grabbed them and pulled back, then snapped his hips forward. You were yet again at his mercy.

“Wait, I thought I was-” You began to whine, then was interrupted by another snap of his hips. A small gasp escaped your lips.

“I still own over you,” He reminded you, “I own over your perfect existence,” He immediately started at a fast pace, already riled up from being edged before. You had to grab the edge of the desk, back arching. You choked back a cry of surprise and pleasure.

“Ah-yes!” You exclaimed, legs wrapping around his back and keeping him close. You were both still aroused and stimulated from before, so you felt your orgasm coming quicker than expected.

“You’re perfect in every way,” He was barely panting, while your breathing was hot and heavy. You whined, gasped, and moaned, pitiful at best against his expertise when it came to your body. Each of his thrusts hit you in a pleasurable place, and you couldn’t hold back for long. Riding him was nothing like this - he was the master of pleasuring you.

“Fuck…” You quickly reached your climax, and once you did, you cried out and pulled him close to you, toes curling and muscles taught. He stayed buried inside of you, then once you were finished, you felt his own orgasm fill you with warmth. His level of control over his own body still surprised you.

After calming down and him pulling out of you, he set to cleaning up the mess with wipes and his quirk. You got your clothes back on, making sure he was better now. His mood was vastly improved, “Should I stay?”

“You may if you would like to,” He shrugged, wiping his chair down. You happily did so, sitting on his chair once he had moved onto the desk. He gave you a temporary glare, and you just giggled childishly. He rolled his eyes.

“I’ve got to say, that was a pretty silly situation.”

“It was,” He agreed, but you still wanted a laugh from him. You dramatically pouted.

“Aw, but you never laugh! Everybody laughs,” You whined, kicking your legs out.

“I’m not everyone,” He commented, then glanced at you once again, “I laugh. I laughed last night at dinner.”

“Chuckled,” You pointed at him, and he nodded slowly.

“That’s laughing,” He paused for a second, then nodded to himself as if to confirm his own belief. This left you laughing as well: he was just so odd.

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afni-fics · 3 years

Text

Elder Scrolls DC - A Reluctant Dragonborn - Chapter 13: Bleak Falls Barrow - Interior (part 4)

Elder Scrolls DC - A Reluctant Dragonborn - Chapter 13: Bleak Falls Barrow - Interior (part 4) by C_R_Scott Chapters: 12/? Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Red Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Characters: Tim Drake, Lucien Flavius Additional Tags: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Skyrim/DCU crossover, Reluctant Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Not Beta Read, Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Modded Skyrim, Skyrim Spoilers, Tim Drake is Dragonborn | Dovahkiin, Batfamily-centric (DCU), Tim Drake-centric

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Summary:

Finally, Tim and Lucien make it to the inner sanctum of Bleak Falls Barrow

-------------------------

Fortunately for Tim and Lucien, their initial disastrous encounter with the draugr ambush was something they learned from and adapted to immediately. They observed from a distance how the undead creatures would only "wake up" if either someone was extremely close to them, or if there was a loud noise that drew their attention. Tim, much to his relief, learned that he could fire off arrows to make noises that would lure any draugr in the area to that spot. Once lured to a spot, usually clear on the farthest side of the room they were in, Tim would pick off the draugr with relatively little trouble.

Turns out, though ferocious in combat once engaged, while they were searching for intruders the draugr were pretty slow and not very intelligent, often giving up the search and returning to their slabs if they weren't able to find anyone within a minute or two.

Tim also made it a point to fire off arrows at any "sleeping" draugr laying on the slabs.... Just to be on the safe side.

Using those techniques, Tim and Lucien didn't have to worry too much about the undead threat as they moved deeper into the Barrow.

***

"Well, looks like our Bosmer bandit made it quite a ways before the draugr finally got a hold of him," Lucien remarked as he saw the body of the now dead dark elf lying on the cold stone floor at the bottom of a flight of stairs.

Tim knelt down beside the body and searched the bandit's pockets. His eyes widened when he pulled out what looked like a solid gold claw.

"Wow... It's beautiful," Tim exclaimed as he turned the artifact over in his hand. Lucien was quite excited by the find.

"Look at that! What exquisite craftsmanship!" he cooed. "And look.. There are carvings of Nordic animals, just like that death trap puzzle."

Tim took a closer look at the carvings. Just like the deathtrap puzzle, there were three animals icons in a row on the claw. However, this time the animals were a bear, a moth, and an owl.

As Tim looked at the claw, Lucien had found a journal on the bandit and had thumbed over to the last page with any writing. "Hmmm... It appears this bandit stole this claw from someone named Lucan Valerius."

"I know that guy," Tim remarked, turning his attention back to the scholar. "He owns the general store in Riverwood. I think I overheard him the other day complaining about someone who'd broken into this shop. I guess this is what they stole."

"Well listen to this," Lucien said. "This is what the bandit wrote, 'Now I just need to get to the Hall of Stories and unlock the door. The legend says there is a test that the Nords put in place to keep the unworthy away, but that when you have the golden claw, the solution is in the palm of of your hands.'"

Tim smirked as he looked at the claw. "I guess whatever door we're needing to get through is locked, and this claw is the key."

"Undoubtedly! Goodness this is so exciting!"

***

Unfortunately, it took another several hours of exploring before they got to anything that looked remotely like a puzzle door. They killed more draugr and also circumvented a few more deathtraps, though these were more straightforward attempts to kill them, consisting of things like spiked walls that were triggered by a floor plate or multiple swinging axes lining a narrow corridor.

Also, while they did finally get past the crypts and into more hallways, Tim had a thought as they crossed into what appeared to be a large main hall and stairs that led up to a second level. "It's kind of weird," he remarked as he shot another draugr.

"What is?"

"Well, all things considered, aside from those few bandits and ourselves, it doesn't appear that any other living people have actually come this way in years, right?"

"Not as far as I can see," Lucien agreed. "If bandits had made it further through the Barrows, I think they would've made off with more of the artifacts we keep coming across."

Tim nodded. "Well... if that's the case, then why are there so many candles and cauldrons actively burning in this place?"

Lucien paused and looked at the nearest trio of burning candles. "You're right. That is rather odd." He pulled out his journal and jotted down a few notes. "Perhaps that's part of the draugrs' function in this Barrow? Some kind of maintenance?" He tapped his pencil against his chin.

"Or maybe it's something they just do, like a restless ghost repeating tasks they used to do in life?"

Lucien looked to Tim and smiled. "If it wasn't for the fact they are full of murderous intent toward the living, it would make an interesting research project if we were able to observe these draugr in an undisturbed environment."

Immediately Tim's thoughts went to tracking bugs, remote controlled drones, and hidden wireless cameras. He sighed as he pushed open a set of large wooden double doors. He was really missing technology.

Then he froze.

"Lucien! This room..."

"Goodness! Could this be the Hall of Stories?!"

The doors had opened into a space that was completely different from all the other halls and rooms they'd passed thus far. It was a long hallway that was lined with carvings of ornate scenes on both sides. Tim went up to the first one on his left and lightly traced the carving of a woman surrounded by moths with his fingertips.

"What is all this about?" he wondered aloud.

Lucien had pulled out a scroll of paper and a stick of charcoal. "If I recall correctly, in addition to dragons, ancient Nords of the Merethic Era also worshiped a variety of animal spirits." He took a rubbing of the carving and mused over the desigh. "This appears to be a moth priestess presiding over some sort of funeral procession of some high ranking figures."

He moved down to the next set of carvings. "Hm... Similar funeral procession figures, but the priest is different. Animal appears to be a bear in this one."

Tim examined the following carvings. "This priest looks to be for owls."

Both men came up and examined the final set of carvings. Tim felt a slight uneasy chill course through his body as he noted what animal this priest seemed to represent.

"Clearly, this a relief of a dragon priest," Lucien remarked.

Tim left Lucien to get the rest of his rubbings and moved towards the odd door that now barred their path. there were three large circular rings with animal emblem on them, and there was a clear spot for the golden claw to be placed. He pulled out the claw and examined the pattern once more. Then, he matched the animals on the rings.

Bear... Moth... Owl...

Then, Tim lined up the gold claw with the center keyhole.

"Here goes nothing," Tim said as he pushed the claw into the keyhole. Once locked in place, he turned the center circle.

Suddenly, all the rings reset themselves, spinning around until there was a solid line of owls facing him. Then the door began to sink into the floor. Tim pulled the claw away before it could clatter to the floor and both he and Lucien watched as a new set of stairs was revealed.

***

Past the stairs was a long hallway cut into the mountain.

Past the hallway was something that took Tim's breath away.

"Look at that," Lucien whispered in awe. "The inner sanctum of the Barrow is inside a natural cavern!"

Tim stood there and just took the entire site in. A colony of bats, startled by their intrusion, flew past them just overhead with achingingly familiar chirps and leathery wingflaps. The cavern itself was huge and spacious. He could hear all the same usual cave noises that he practically grew up with for nearly half his life. The sound of water dripping from unseen corners of the cave. The sounds of wind rushing through tunnels just off the main cavern. A natural stream wove around the main altar area, fed by several small waterfalls, adding to the nostalgia, and moonlight from a hole in the ceiling somewhere in the mountainside illuminated the majestic stone carvings resting behind the altar.

It was all so different than The Cave back home in Gotham, but just similar enough that it made his heart ache from a sudden wave of homesickness.

"Timothy?" Lucien said gently as he noticed his travelling companion had gone quiet again. "Are you alright?"

Tim cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. "Yeah. I'm fine, Lucien. It's just..." He glanced around himself before sighing wistfully. "It just reminds me of home."

Though he didn't see any draugr anywhere near or on the altar, Tim still kept his bow at the ready with an arrow nocked and ready to fly as he went up the stairs. However, as he came upon the landing of the altar area, Tim paused.

"Do you hear that?"

Lucien followed closely behind Tim. "Hear what? The waterfall?"

Tim shook his head as he looked around warily. "No... It sounds like... chanting?" He tried to follow the source of the sound, and found himself being turned toward a giant stone wall full of what looked like a foreign language carved into it, similar to cuneiform.

It was... odd... Those letters looked almost, familiar?

Slowly, almost as if in a trance, Tim walked toward the wall, and the chanting seemed to get louder in his head.

"Timothy? Is something there?" Lucien asked, though his voice sounded very far away to Tim as he lowered his bow and put his arrow back in its quiver to free up one hand.

"This... This word," Tim murmured as his gaze focused completely on three strange jagged letters. "I think... I know this word..." The letters seemed to glow invitingly on the stone wall as he traced the jagged marks with his fingertips. "Fff... Uuu...Sss... Fus?" Tim drew his back as the chanting suddenly stopped, and there was nothing but the sound of the cave around him. He glanced around himself and at the rest of the writing on the wall, but none of the other letters made any sense to him.

"I didn't know you could read dragon language script." Lucien said curiously.

Tim looked back at him, clearly confused. "I... I can't. I mean... I've never see this language before in my life."

Lucien took a closer look at the three-letter word Tim had been drawn to on the wall. "But you read this one?"

"The word is 'Fus,'" Tim admitted. "I think... it means 'Force'?" He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if he had a sudden headache. "But I don't know how I know that."

Lucien looked between the word wall and Tim and then back again. "Don't worry about it right now. I'll take some notes and try to write down all these glyphs in my journal before we leave. I think the library in the museum may have a book or two on how to translate dragon language text. We can study this at our leisure once we're done exploring the Barrow. Why don't you look around for that Dragonstone you came here for? This may take me awhile."

As Lucien pulled out his journal and pencil again, Tim turned to the altar itself. There were a couple of tables, pottery, and a large chest. He began to fish around for his lockpicks. If the Dragonstone was anywhere, it was probably in that chest.

Suddenly, the top of what he thought was a table exploded upward and off the altar. It wasn't a table at all, but a coffin! The lockpicks were instantly forgotten and Tim grabbed an arrow instead. "Lucien! Draugr!" he yelled as he fired an arrow at the undead creature as he tried to backpedal away from it.

Tim fired a couple more arrows at the draugr, but this one seemed stronger than the others they'd fought earlier. Lucien tried cast a fire spell on the draugr, but suddenly the creature opened its mouth and...

"FUS.. RO... DA!" it shouted at Lucien and Tim. An invisible but strong pulse slammed into them both. Lucien was knocked off his feet and Tim just barely held his ground.

In the end, the lack of intelligence the draugr seemed to possess was how they won the day. Rather than focus on Tim, who was still armed and partially upright, the draugr turns its full attention on Lucien, who was still recovering from being knocked back to the ground. Before the creature could get to Lucien, Tim lined up one more arrow on the monster and sent it flying. The projectile struck the draugr straight in the middle of its chest and down it finally went, the light fading from its eyes.

"Lucien! Are you alright?" Tim rushed over to check on the scholar.

"Go on an expedition to Skyrim, they said." Lucien grumbled sarcastically as he held his head while getting to his feet. "It'll be fun, they said." He pulled out a healing potion and drained it like a shot. "There won't be any horrible Ancient Nordic zombies, they said." Lucien leaned heavily against the wall with a sigh.

Tim looked at him for a moment in silence, then started laughing.

Lucien looked at him like he'd gone completely off his rocker. "Are you... laughing at me?"

Tim shook his head as he calmed down and wiped some tears that had escaped his eyes with his hand. "No. No. It's just..." He snickered as he tried to get a hold of himself. "Things have been so bad lately, and I honestly wasn't sure we were going to make it, but we're still alive." Tim sat down on the ground next to Lucien and leaned against the wall. "I'm just so relieved."

Lucien sighed went over the examine the draugr more closely. "True. that was quite the battle. Slightly terrifying. Glad we didn't die. Oh! And look," The scholar found something attached to the draugr's armor. He pried it off and offered it to Tim. "Now you have a fancy rock!"

Tim took the stone and examined it curiously. On one side was what looked like a map of Skyrim with specific locations marked off with stars. On the other side was text in that same dragon script as on the wall, though this time Tim couldn't read any of it. "I guess this is the Dragonstone..."

***

The pair rested for a bit before finally moving onward. Lucien finished taking several pages of notes about the draugr, altar, and word wall. He also made a couple of rubbings of the Dragonstone for his own research. Tim in the meantime picked the lock of the chest and found it quite full of treasure. Septims, jewels, armor, and even an enchanted weapon. Once their bags were loaded up with all that they could carry without injuring themselves, they followed a stairwell and a path that eventually, finally led them out of the Bleak Falls Barrow and back into the wilds of Skyrim without any trouble at all.

-------------------------

Warning: This is being pantsed more than plotted, and this is not beta read. We'll see where this journey takes us. Mostly I'm just doing this for my own amusement.

Note1: If you have any questions about the playthrough and Tim's feelings/experiences that aren't described in the chapters, please ask me in the comments. I'll do my best to answer your questions as best I can.

Note2: And so ends Lucien and Tim's first excursion into a draugr-infested dungeon. Rest assured, it will not be their last.

Writing out this dungeon crawl took a lot longer than I had anticipated, but I think I'm quite happy I was able to record my adventure with Tim and Lucien in this fashion in Skyrim!

I can't wait to write more things between Tim and Luci as they become even better friends!

#elder scrolls dc#fanfiction#tim drake#skyrim fanfiction#batfam fanfic#red robin#batfam#crossover#lucien flavius#wip#afewnovelideas

#elder scrolls dc #fanfiction #tim drake #skyrim fanfiction #batfam fanfic #red robin #batfam #crossover #lucien flavius #wip #afewnovelideas

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thisweekingundamwing · 5 years

Text

This Week in Gundam Wing 24-30 November 2019

Here’s this week’s roundup!

Remember to give your content creators some love! And join in on the events at the bottom!

(Looking forward to all the Unorthodox Undercover Work Mini Bang entries going up this next week!)

~Mod Hel

Fanfiction/Snippets/AU Ideas:

@bobo-is-tha-bomb

Encounters with Heero (Ch. 12 & 13) https://archiveofourown.org/works/21385951/chapters/51360610

F/M, Heero Yuy/Reader

Heero Yuy, Reader, Relena Peacecraft, Duo Maxwell, Hilde Schbeiker, Trowa Barton, Quatre Raberba Winner, Chang Wufei

Romance, Drama, Fluff, Friendship

This man oozed danger. Nonetheless you are attracted to him and you grow closer to him than anyone has ever before. Being nice to a stranger was what got it all started.

Burn to a Cinder (Ch. 7) https://archiveofourown.org/works/18781273/chapters/51374644

F/M, Zechs Merquise/Reader, Treize Khushrenada/Reader

Zechs Merquise, Treize Khushrenada, Lady Une, Mariemaia Khushrenada, Relena Peacecraft, Chang Wufei

Romance, Drama, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Violence, Reader-Insert

Your path had been laid out for you from an early age, allowing you to move into the higher circles of society and catch the attention of one of the most powerful men in the Earth Sphere. As Treize’s mistress, you watch his rise to power and the disastrous war breaking out on Earth and in Space, putting your loyalty to the test. You are torn between your duty to His Excellency, and your unquellable lust for one of the top soldiers under his command. And when he rises to power in Outer Space, there is nothing you can do but stand back and watch them tear each other apart. This is no game of hearts, but yours is at stake, and the consequences can be felt for years to come. Labeled as OZ’s whore, you struggle to find your way, only for things to fall apart around you again. But then there is still Zechs, and the undeniable way he makes you feel…

@doctormegalomania

Your Body’s Poetry (Ch. 7) https://archiveofourown.org/works/20438891/chapters/48490382

Duo Maxwell/Heero Yuy, Trowa Barton/Quatre Raberba Winner, Chang Wufei/Original Female Character(s), Duo Maxwell/Hilde Schbeiker, Relena Peacecraft & Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell/Original Male Character(s)

Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell, Trowa Barton, Quatre Raberba Winner, Chang Wufei, Sally Po, Relena Peacecraft, Lucrezia Noin, Zechs Merquise, Hilde Schbeiker

Past Relationship(s), Slice of Life, Post-Break Up, Slow Burn, Developing Relationship, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence

Long after the wars, long after peace is established the Gundam Pilots discover one immovable fact: Relationships are hard work.

@duointherain

The Hidden Cherry (Ch. 1) https://duointherain.tumblr.com/post/189338568519/fic-the-hidden-cherry-1

Intersex Duo, disabled Heero

He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Duo wanted to think that the stress in his voice made him sound like an asshole and that would motivate the person on the other side of the phone. The space he was in was small, like 3 meters by maybe 5. His cigarette lighter had given him enough light to see the space, but it was back in his pocket now. “I need an analyst. It’s fucking Wednesday. There is an analyst in the office.”

@janaverse

Stickies from Heero (Ch. 26) https://archiveofourown.org/works/19796581/chapters/51374212

Chapter 26: ‘circumnavigating the simple truth’ is now on AO3. It was nice to actually get another story written for this odd universe!

Duo reads Heero latest note and fallout ensues.

Rough https://janaverse.tumblr.com/post/189270598643/drabble-day-38-adult-themes-rough-heero-stood

drabble - day 38 - adult themes

Consider it done https://janaverse.tumblr.com/post/187883433878/consider-it-done

So this is the follow up to my short fic ‘something to consider’ which I posted about a week or so ago. You can find it here: https://janaverse.tumblr.com/post/187689757828/something-to-consider or here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20669474 in case you have not read it yet. this fic will make infinitely more sense if you have!

pairing: 1X2X1

warnings: unholy amounts of sap and lovey dovey stuff. please take this warning seriously! lol this is THE sappiest thing i have ever written!

Heero had entered the house first, taking off his soaked shoes and leaving them out on the front porch beside the door. Duo had followed suit, noticeably shivering once inside the house, and headed toward their bedroom to get changed. Heero had only removed his jacket and hung it on the coat rack inside the front door; opting to start a fire before getting out of his wet clothes and into something dry.

@ransomedbard

Clipped Wings (Ch. 3) https://archiveofourown.org/works/21360976/chapters/51500641

Duo Maxwell, Hilde Schbeiker

Preventer!Duo, Criminal!Hilde, 2+H, Adventure, Kidnapping, mild violence, Crime doesn't actually pay

Time has a funny way of turning history on its head. Two years after the Eve Wars, former rebel Duo Maxwell is now a member of the secretive anti-terrorism unit Preventers, while Hilde has been living on the wrong side of the law on Earth. When he makes a visit to attempt to salvage their strained friendship, he’ll uncover just how much their paths have diverged, and end up getting caught up in her life on the run from a gang that wants revenge.

Fanart/Gunpla/Photo Manips:

@animethingsandstuff

https://animethingsandstuff.tumblr.com/post/189231234100/w-night-by-%E3%82%80%E3%81%86%E3%81%9F%E3%82%8D-posted-with-permission-please

The G-boys and posing... and flowers.

Photosets/Gifsets/Screenshots/Manga Pages:

@vegalume

https://vegalume.tumblr.com/post/189361489995/i-immediately-thought-of-heero-but-this-could-be

Before leaving the house, Heero does...

Fandom Discourse:

@amberlyinviolet

https://janaverse.tumblr.com/post/189290275628/i-am-here-for-the-giving-of-the-happily-ever-after

@noirangetrois, @janaverse

About the struggles of all GW characters.

@incorrectgundamwingquotes

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/189326495789/unpopular-opinion-despite-the-horrible

Unpopular Opinion: FT had good points.

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/189326409984/for-unpopular-opinion-not-on-the-series-itself

Unpopular Opinion: 1X2 is overrated.

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/189326308699/i-dont-know-if-this-is-actually-an-unpopular

Unpopular Opinion: EW was not that great.

@lifeaftermeteor

https://lifeaftermeteor.tumblr.com/post/189380639699/life-after-meteor

LAM has a website now!

@ransomedbard

https://ransomedbard.tumblr.com/post/189357520583/thank-you

Fandom loves you too!

@terrablaze514

https://terrablaze514.tumblr.com/post/189258275567/wing-zero-episodes

Wing Zero Episodes (Who flew it better?)

My opinions on Wing Zero and the impact it plays. Borderline meta I guess, and excuse the occurrence of Trowa and Zechs muses.

Quotes:

@incorrectgundamwingquotes

https://gwminorcharactersrpblog.tumblr.com/post/189313789527/quatre-why-is-your-back-all-scratched-up-trowa

Quatre & Trowa

With additions made by @gwminorcharactersrpblog

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/189293229002/texting-duo-hello-duo-are-you

Duo & Trowa

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/189298062910/quatre-you-should-be-nicer-to-people-heero

Quatre, Heero, Duo, Trowa, & WuFei

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/189326315129/zechs-you-played-me-like-a-fiddle-duo-oh-no-i

Zechs & Duo

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/189333739266/duo-whyre-you-ignoring-relena-heero-im

Duo, Heero, & WuFei

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/189338458478/trowa-handing-duo-some-pills-here-take-four-of

Trowa & Duo

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/189342871815/heero-ill-worry-about-that-bridge-when-i-get-to

Heero & Quatre

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/189358288319/heero-dont-correct-me-wufei-dont-be-wrong

Heero & WuFei

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/189397723234/duo-uh-its-salt-wufei-thats-what-i

Duo & WuFei

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/189377500808/une-about-mariemaia-you-cant-give-her-that

Une & WuFei

Calendar Events:

@gundamzine

Rhythm Generation: Shooting Stars, Celebrating 25 Years of Gundam Wing

Zine Content https://gundamzine.tumblr.com/post/186791784139/rhythm-generation-shooting-stars-is-an-unofficial

Pre-orders Open! https://gundamzine.tumblr.com/post/189370843928/gundamzine-pre-orders-are-open-rhythm Open until January 11th!

Q about Free Merch https://gundamzine.tumblr.com/post/189215831466/are-you-really-giving-free-merch-i-am-kinda

@gundam-wing-bingo

Gundam Wing Bingo is here!

Come and sign up for a card here: https://gundam-wing-bingo.tumblr.com/post/185466400076/gundam-wing-bingo

@gwcocktailfriday

Cocktail Fridays!

Post responses on Friday, during Happy Hour between 3 & 5 pm in your own timezone.

Here’s the prompt for Friday, December 6th! https://gwcocktailfriday.tumblr.com/post/189390586070/cocktail-friday-post-responses-on-friday-december

For those going to Pillowfort, find us here.

If anyone has ideas for prompts, PLEASE send them in! Our ask box is always open.

In need of Winter prompts!

@thisweekingundamevents

Gundam Wing Holiday Gift Exchange 2019/2020

https://thisweekingundamevents.tumblr.com/post/188113410410/holiday-gift-exchange

Schedule: 5-11 January: Post your Gifts!

Holiday Exchange Q & A: https://thisweekingundamevents.tumblr.com/post/188824081840/some-holiday-exchange-q-a

Criteria and Schedule Reminder! https://thisweekingundamevents.tumblr.com/post/188943007445/holiday-gift-exchange-reminder

Gundam Wing Unorthodox Undercover Work Mini Bang

Posting starts today!

Here’s everything you need to know to post! https://thisweekingundamevents.tumblr.com/post/189346329635/gw-uuw-mb-posting-again-lol

For those artists who haven’t a story, if you finished your piece, feel free to post it up on tumblr. Remember to tag us and I’ll get you in the End of Event Roundup anyway! ^_^

Posting Dates: https://thisweekingundamevents.tumblr.com/post/189405682420/posting-dates-gwuuwmb

Note! There is also a Gundam Wing Discord Meet-up going on right now! See @lifeaftermeteor for details and a discord invite if you aren’t in it already!

#Gundam Wing #This Week in Gundam Wing #Weekly Roundup #24-30 November 2019

11 notes · View notes

yandereshit · 5 years

Text

707 x Reader: chance encounter.

It’s my piece for the @2019loveforallseasons. A big thank you to the mods for making up the title becuz I was just SO UNCREATIVE ON THAT DAY.

And of course an even bigger thank you for making this zine. I’m so proud to be a part of it!

“Ever considered you are a piece of trash yourself? You can’t imagine how much it would explain.”

Unwelcoming voice brought the man back to reality. He stared forward blankly, trying to get back to his casual self.

A futile attempt, really.

“Do I stink that much?” he shared a doubt, finally moving to check if the shirt he was wearing for the past few days was still somewhat fresh.

“I think there are flies living in your trash hoodie.”

“Excuse you. It’s my best hoodie.”

“Its trashness suits you.”

Seven rolled his eyes.

It’s easy to insult him when he’s like this, a realization came. When he literally feels like a trash. When his head throbs and every line of code he writes makes close to no sense. So he has to rewrite it at least twice before it does. And once he writes the whole text it turns out it doesn’t work anyway and then he’s forced to rewrite it once more. IT specialist? More like IT loser.

Now, he sat in front of his computer with his legs curled up under his chin and stared at the screen that was already covered in cat memes he set as his screensaver.

How long has he been staring before Vanderwood put a plate in front of him and told him to turn the computer off because he’s being useless anyway? He wasn’t even sure what time of the day it was until he spotted the numbers on his phone’s screen.

“Don’t even think about it” Vanderwood muttered, snatching his phone away. “If you take a break from computer, no way you’ll be texting these RFA guys instead.”

“But that’s a good break…”

“Your eyes are so red I’m surprised you haven’t gone blind yet.”

Seven huffed, looking away and then at the plate in front of him. Its content looked like some kind of meat. He took a fork and suspiciously poked the surface.

“You haven’t poisoned it, have you? It looks too good to be sincere” he noticed.

“If you want I can splash it on your face. Will it look sincere enough?”

“No, thanks. I like it how it is” Seven muttered, taking the plate and spinning on his chair so that he wouldn’t have to face Vanderwood anymore.

Instead, his eyes fixated on the wall in front of him as he took the first bite of the food.

Walls, walls, walls. A red wall with thick, yellow stripes all over its lower half. Walls thick enough to not let a single sound outside. To separate him from the outside world. To make him believe he’s alone here, so that nothing ever bothers him.

But it was only the theory. He still would get bothered. By everything. By cats, photos, RFA, Vanderwood. And now by…

By the hopeless girl on the chat, the one who tried to break his peace, who felt like his opposite. Bright and innocent, with no dark past to haunt her, nor ties to some fishy organizations.

A complete opposite of himself.

He had no idea why it kept bothering him.

But he knew much enough to be aware that he won’t focus until he manages to get it all off his head.

“You’re really hopeless, you know?”

“No, you” Seven muttered, putting down the empty plate and glancing up at the other. Vanderwood stood in the doorstep of his working space, with his arms crossed. “Give me back my phone” the redhead ordered, but his colleague only snorted in response.

“Not until you rest.”

“That’s incredibly touching you suddenly started to care about my well-being but I still would rather you give me back my phone.”

“You’re addicted and not getting it back until you look like a human in the first place. I don’t want you to waste your time on being useless so at least spend try for once to look less vulnerable.”

“You’ll call me useless no matter if I-”

“Seven Zero Seven. Get your ass off the damn chair and get out of this house.”

“...Out?”

“Yes.”

“Out… like outside…?”

“Yes.”

Seven pressed his lips together, his face twisting in unease.

“But…”

“When was the last time you were outside? Was it like, in this century?”

“Oh excuse you, now you’re trying to insult me” Seven huffed, crossing his arms. “I was outside two months ago, don’t you remember?”

“Great! Then you don’t have to worry!” The mean apparently brought out his whole sarcasm supply. “You’re used to it, right? Or should I taser you and just throw your limp body out the door?”

A single bond of cold sweat ran down Seven’s neck.

“I-I will leave on my own” he mumbled, still not convinced but pretty much ensured that it’ll be safer for him this way.

But his doubt only grew stronger as he thought about what weather there is outside.

With no windows to look out through, he didn’t even know what season it was until he checked the date, and even then he wasn’t sure just how much of said season was visible outside. All he ever saw was Vanderwood dripping wet when he escaped the rain, or his red face when the sun was way too strong and the poor guy cursed all the clothes that were his usual attire.

For Seven, every day of the year was the same. He’d go out if there was a need to, and if there was none, he usually didn’t have time to take walks either. His load of work increased greatly since a few months ago a few other IT specialists have been fired due to… various circumstances Seven preferred not to know about. Ever since then, even Vanderwood was more stressed and usually decided to restrain Seven from making breaks even when the hacker was clearly overworked. He only ensured the redhead had some nutritious (not necessarily good-looking) food that made him able to stay up longer and work… till he fainted.

That’s how Seven’s life looked like and no matter how suffocating it was, he had no right to deny it. The realization was so strong that he managed to convince himself that he doesn’t want any other life. That it’s the best to just stay and work till the end of his miserable life.

However, on days like this, he got painfully reminded that food and work was not all he needed to live. Puffy eyes, increasing headache, a will to just faint so that he doesn’t have to deal with reality – that was his life now.

“...How long do I have to stay out?”

“...What?”

“Will you count the time? Is five minutes enough?”

Vanderwood’s eyebrow twitched dangerously.

“You’re kidding, aren’t you? I’m letting you leave and do whatever but you don’t even want to? You’re really hopeless.”

“Yeeah…”

“I don’t want to see you here before dinner.”

Pushing himself off the chair, Seven yawned and stretched, as if he just woke up from a nap. Not longer than five seconds later, he tripped over his own pants sprawled on the floor and fell down the short stairs that led from his workspace to the main room.

Vanderwood stared with his eyebrow raised, as the guy slowly stood up and limped to the main door, acting as tough as it was only possible with his ankle probably almost strained.

“You’re leaving like this?”

“What do you mean like this.”

“You know it’s autumn, don’t you?”

“What, already?” The man looked sincerely surprised.

His colleague rolled eyes.

“Put on a scarf or something. And don’t kill yourself while trying to walk. Good luck.” With these words, Vanderwood disappeared in the kitchen’s door, as if completely losing interest in Seven’s vulnerability.

Opening the closet next to the door, Seven started throwing everything out until he found a scarf – the only one he had. He couldn’t care less, but if it turned out to be cold outside, maybe the scarf would save him from catching a cold? Because a cold would definitely be the last thing he’d like to catch during this cursed walk.

The world inside was always different than outside. No one changed their bedroom depending on the weather or even season. So when you were inside, you could spend long days in a perfectly stable temperature, where it never rained, where you could focus on what wanted to because the weather wouldn’t absorb you.

The world outside was always different than inside. It was full of life, full of changes. One moment, you could be standing in the sun rays and the next – rain was dropping onto your head and you would ought to accept this fact. It was more difficult to focus on what you’d like to, because the surroundings would always somehow attract your attention. Their changes, moves, cycles.

That’s how the girl felt, walking among the trees slowly losing its colors and leaves. More and more, the world was fading to reds, yellows and blacks. Slowly, but constantly. And yet the changes were made in silence. Low whistling of the wind was nothing in comparison to what one heard outside the park. Here, everything was quiet and relaxing.

So when she went forward, ridden of her worries, hiding among a hat, scarf and ear warmers, the sight of a weirdly familiar silhouette was what she welcomed with peace. It didn’t disturb her at first, only brought out some curiosity, like a soft accent that rid her off the first signs of boredom.

The man sat on one of the benches, not really standing out. Among other people passing by or sitting on other benches, he looked really average. Maybe except for his intensively red hair and the childish scarf, but in the end, no one seemed to pay attention to him.

The girl did.

For a long while she stood in her place, subconsciously tilting her head to the side as she thought. Was it him, she asked herself. Pieces of images started roaming through her head, her eyebrows furrowed as she wondered, unsure whether the feeling she had was true or not. But once her eyes landed on the man’s hoodie, she recognized it in an instant, and it was enough to convince her.

She went forward, confidently at first, but when she came closer, she started noticing more and more in the other’s silhouette.

He was hiding his face’s lower half in the scarf tied tightly, but messily around his neck. His hands were tucked into the hoodie’s pockets, and behind a pair of glasses, she saw his eyes closed as the man just sat there, with no intention to even look around.

It was one of the colder days this Autumn. She made sure to not get cold herself, but the other apparently didn’t care much enough. Or maybe he didn’t notice it was that cold outside? He should have checked it. Or went back home when it turned out it’s colder than he predicted. How irresponsible of him.

She had to take this matter in her own hands and at least try to soothe his misery.

Sitting on a bench without as much as a phone to busy himself with was just boring. Boring as hell. He wanted to go home, but he left barely a quarter ago and he was afraid Vanderwood wouldn’t even let him back in.

The man didn’t let him even take a car (or more precisely – he blocked the garage’s door). He’d rather go to someplace warmer than that, but he didn’t take a wallet either. However, what he was lacking of the most, was a hat. His ears were so cold he flinched when he touched them with his hands. Oh, gloves would be nice too.

He closed his eyes, kind of wishing to just take a nap, completely ignoring how irresponsible it’d be. The coldness around, soft wind, everything was like a lullaby.

And when he was already about to give up and fall asleep, the steps of a person passing by suddenly stopped, pulling him out of the trance.

He heard many people passing by and steps were nothing out of ordinary. It’s just that the steps actually stopping were what brought out his uneasiness.

He opened his eyes and looked up at the silhouette in front of him.

Just a girl, he thought. Not a danger, he more of prayed than realized.

“Um… hi?” the girl spoke, smiling kindly. She extended her hands to him, showing him a cup of coffee, steaming and smelling. “Here, take it. You look like you need something to warm up.”

He stared back, dumbfounded. What did this girl want him to do? To take this cup? Was she giving him coffee?

Wait… Was it poisoned? Was she an enemy?

Or just someone who enjoyed poisoning innocent passers? No one just comes to a stranger and hands them a coffee. Things like this… just don’t happen. And he didn’t look like he’s homeless or something. So there was no reason to show him pity either.

He couldn’t let her know how suspicious he was though, could he? She’d think he’s smarter than her and that’d make the situation more dangerous. That’s what his instincts were telling him.

So he took the cup. It was warm, very warm. So warm he decided to just hold it in one hand for no longer than five seconds and then switch to the other. She probably didn’t feel it that strongly because she had gloves.

She has no idea how lucky she is, Seven thought.

“Er… thanks” he mumbled, trying to sound natural. He looked down at the cup, but his attention would never leave her silhouette.

“Can I… um… sit with you?” she uttered.

He shrugged.

“Sure.”

The girl sat next to him, in a safe distance, yet not awkwardly far. Her eyes were focused on him for some time as he tried to smell the coffee. She probably thought he was going to try it, but he more of wanted to find out what kind of toxin could be inside.

She didn’t look too bothered and just rested back, glancing up at the clouded sky.

“You don’t look prepared for Autumn, you know?” she chuckled.

He frowned, not responding. Was she trying to distract his attention? He wasn’t going to give in. For his own good.

The girl tilted her head to the side, a bit concerned.

“Are you feeling alright? You look upset” she noticed, pointing at his face. The man quickly hid himself in the scarf, welcoming the slight warmth it gave him when he exhaled and his own breath hit his face.

“I’m… fine. It’s just the weather, I guess” he mumbled.

“You should have taken something warmer than that” she scolded him.

“I… uh… guess so” he stuttered, unsure if that was the right thing to say. No one besides Vanderwood ever scolded him before. That was a weird feeling. “I was just in hurry, I guess.”

“Where were you hurrying if you’ve been sitting here for the last ten minutes at least?”

He frowned. Did she watch him before she approached? Suspicious.

“I was… hurrying out” he precised, even though he felt like he had no obligation to. What kind of conversation it even was?

The girl tilted her head to the side, clearly confused. Should he explain that? Probably not. But on the other hand, what harm would it be?

“Well… My maid said I should breathe with fresh air for once” he said, shrugging. The hotness of the coffee cup in his hands became unbearable and he put it on the ground next to the bench, hoping so that he doesn’t accidentally knock it over. Or… should he? So that he spills the poison… if there’s one… the girl won’t be able to urge him to drink it… Was it even poisonous in the first place…? Just what kind of situation it was?!

The girl laughed, as if he just said a good joke. But he didn’t. Why was she laughing?

“It’s hard to imagine it. But your maid must be a very specific person” she noticed, smiling cheerfully, which he knew from the wrinkled skin around her eyes, as the lower half of her face was hidden underneath that thick scarf of hers.

“Well… yes, she’s specific” he only admitted, afraid of spilling any more. Staring at the girl for a few long seconds, his thoughts started to stir. Something in his mind started to shuffle, as though there was some kind of thought, begging for him to hear. Something deadly obvious he couldn’t quite put his hands on.

“Do I… have something on my face?” the girl asked and he quickly shook his head, pushing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and looking down as he was doing before. “Hm… What are you going to do? You know like. It’ll start getting dark soon, and even colder, do you have to stay here? If your maid doesn’t want you back at home, we can go to some cafeteria at least. You shouldn’t risk catching a cold like this. She surely wouldn’t like that either.”

He shivered at the thought of Mary Vanderwood 3rd yelling at him for getting sick on his day off.

Somehow, the girl’s attempt to lead him somewhere else calmed down his mistrust. He glanced down at the cup of coffee, slowly cooling down on the ground. The girl looked like she completely forgot about it.

“And how about you?” he asked, picking up the cup and warming his hands on it again. It was already cold enough to hold it normally. The coffee inside must have been good to drink by now, but there was something still holding him back from doing so.

“Hm?”

“Weren’t you on your way somewhere? Is it normal for you to just… stop by and buy strangers coffees?”

Strangers.

What Seven could not, by any chance, be aware of, the girl merely smirked at the remark. She was very well aware by now that the man just didn’t recognize her.

“That’s not a bad thing to do, you know” she smiled. “Especially when you see someone freeze because of their own stupidity” she added with such kindness in her tone that he was dumbfounded for the next few seconds, torn between did she just diss me and no way she would do that.

He must have made a really funny face because the girl suddenly started to laugh. And he just kept staring, unsure what else to do.

“Come on… I didn’t think you’d be so gloomy in real...” he noticed slight hesitation in her voice, when the girl corrected herself. “Laugh will help you warm up!”

“...I’m warm” he mumbled, taking a sip of his coffee.

Did he really just do that?

He panicked slightly, staring down at the cup. The coffee was still somewhat warm, with a perfect amount of sugar, maybe a bit too strong for his liking, but the milk was making up for it. But overall, it tasted just normal. He was aware some kinds of poisons had no flavor and he wouldn’t be able to recognize them. Yet…

It was just so tempting to give in. The girl didn’t look like she was a bad person. All she did was… just too sincere to be a cover-up. Because she made herself so suspicious in his eyes he just didn’t believe it all would be to make him give in. That would have to be some twisted kind of double bind.

He took another sip.

“You’re dumb” she exclaimed in such a straightforward voice he had no space there to disagree. He just pressed his lips together and took yet another sip, as though filling the stagnant silence with coffee.

“Yeet.”

The silence that took over from the next moment was way more relaxing and the two didn’t bother either looking at each other or even moving much. They both just stared forward as they sat, eyes glued to the world around. Seven, a bit warmed up already, felt more willing to actually look at anything besides his own feet and only then he started to notice how Autumn had started to take over the park.

Seasons were something quite weird to him. He never really saw them change. He just saw the results. In his childhood, he didn’t get to look outside too often. Once he grew up a bit, his house didn’t even have windows to peek through.

Yet when he looked up, he felt some kind of longing. The Autumn sky held some sort of nostalgia, as though he’s been waiting for the whole year to see it.

“It’s time for me” the girl suddenly announced. Seven glanced at her and although unwittingly, he felt quite disappointed with the fact he won’t get to sit with her anymore. They haven’t talked much. It was each other’s presence that kept them there, not some kind of conversation. “It’s quite cold already.”

There was no kind of mutual feeling connecting them, and no bonds.

Barely a few days of vague knowing, not enough to set anything for sure, and not enough for the one to recognize the other on a street. Not enough for the other to see through the sadness that dwelt in the man for over twenty years of his life.

Enough to enjoy the touch of weather, to rest in the soft colors, as though nothing else in the world existed, besides wind and leaves.

“Thanks for the coffee” Seven said, staring as she stood up, fixing the scarf wrapped around her neck.

“Sure. Don’t want strangers around me to get sick” she hummed, sending him a sincere smile.

Seven smiled against himself, but hid it in his own scarf.

“Well, anyway. Get going soon too, or you’ll get sick” she added, pushing hands in her coat’s pockets. Another smile lightened up her face. “Have a good day, Luciel.”

With these words, she walked away, quickly disappearing behind the trees where the park alley turned.

Seven stared forward dumbly for a few long minutes, as though unsure how to proceed this whole situation.

Luciel.

His name he never shared with the strange girl, yet the one she knew.

She knew.

She knew him.

The man, with his face completely unmoved, finished the last sip of coffee and threw the cup perfectly into the nearby trashcan. Now he could say that with hundred percent certainty.

She had to be a spy.

#mystic messenger 707 #mystic messenger seven #mystic messenger saeyoung #saeyoung choi #707 x reader #saeyoung x reader #707 #seven #seven zero seven #mm luciel #luciel x reader #mm 707 #mm saeyoung #mm fanfiction #mystic messenger fanfiction #mm ff

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midnight-circus · 5 years

Text

bad girls go to vegas

At one of the largest green-flocked tables, one of the Seven Cat’s regulars is busy winning money he doesn’t need. It is his third casino of the night, and this time he intends on breaking big.

Poker, of course. He is briefly lured by the sweet simplicity of blackjack and wastes a little time at the polished handles of the bandits, but his talents lie in folds and flushes. He gambles his takings back into the game with no pause for thought, playing with an air of apologetic self-deprecation, as though he can hardly believe his own good fortune. He eases the sting of the losses and eschews his own wins with incredulity, vouching for himself as a poor player, really, the cards are just honouring him tonight, and it is in this manner that René Chevalier steady lines his temporary bank account.

He bids yet another player goodnight and thank you as they leave (empty hands, empty wallet), offering a last, effusive apology for his uncanny beginner’s luck, and the black Aces that line his pockets go unnoticed. It is a risky game to play – cheaters are vilified nowhere moreso than Las Vegas – but his singular situation means he has nothing to fear. What danger do large bouncers in black suits signify for a man in his position?

Four hundred years ago, he turned a hunting tactic into a gambling ruse, and he has enjoyed a comfortable life ever since. Foresight is terribly useful on the heels of panicked prey – predicting a left turn or a right could be the difference between blood and hunger – but as it happens, it’s also extremely handy when sitting opposite a croupier. He watches his opponents make their moves seconds before the thought has even occurred in their minds, and he manipulates his own (with the help of the cards in his pocket) to out-manoeuvre them.

Is it cheating?

René, as he slips an Ace into his royal flush with effortless sleight-of-hand, would posit it as strategy.

And really, he doesn’t feel any guilt. These people – draped in jewels and Rolexes and mulberry silks – can afford to lose a couple grand each to a handsome stranger who will take it from them with charming apologies, and besides, it’s not as though he keeps it all to himself. Some he gambles back in, and then the rest of it is spent on booze and snow and expensive accommodation, so it all ends up back in the economy one way or another anyway.

A Kitten sashays past the table, placing her hands on his shoulders as she goes and kissing his cheek; he plucks a cat-eared band off her head and slips it over his own dark, tousled curls, winking as she slaps his arm playfully and leaves him to it – if there’s one thing René does not need, its encouragement to spend more money.

So he wiles away the next few hours – the sun sets outside and the sky turns the dull, hazy yellow of an eternal Vegas twilight, lifting an arcing dome of light pollution above the city’s head. By the time he is finished, extracting himself from the game and walking away from the table in the wake of handshakes and good-natured ‘I’ll-get-you-next-time’ threats, he is almost fifty grand richer.

It won’t last for long, but perhaps he’ll hold onto it tonight.

He moves through the grand hall with graceful fluidity, wending his way through diamonds and furs, gently steering around patrons with a hand to their shoulder, their elbow, the small of their back. Many of them know him, and the ones that don’t assume he is worth knowing; the very same phenomenon that warns others of his ilk away from him lures humans close to his side, and it is more than just a wealth of charisma.

Yet another modified hunting technique, of course – pheromones drawing flesh and blood and beating hearts to him like moths to flames. It’s simpler to stalk a prey animal when it thinks it has nothing to fear, and even simpler when they come flocking like doves, but he is not hunting tonight. Hunger curls in his chest like a gaping wound, the sharp ache of starvation never far away, but he can forgo for a little while yet.

He only has three more marks left on his license, after all, and it is barely even July. He is expecting a busy summer.

So he leaves the crowds behind and steps into an elevator, manned by a silent, slick-haired man who glances at the sleek black card René produces between two fingers and nods his admittance; classic in build, lined with gilded mirrors and red flocking on the wall inside, but entirely modern in its silence and fluidity as it glides him a floor up and brings him to berth in an élite upstairs bar.

His name is on the VIP list at the Seven Cats – all seven of them, in fact, and that little black card in his pocket vouches silently for his worth. His own booth, free booze, a suite if he requires it, and any number of pleasant little perks that he need only ask for. The staff know him. The girls trust him. There are things he can get away with – the odd line here and there on a sleek black bar, for example, or a croupier who chooses to look the other way for one brief moment – that VIP allows for, and for that reason he is quite willing to spend enough to keep it.

So he sits now in gilded exclusivity – a mezzanine balcony lavishly decorated in a drench of red and gold and deep mahogany, providing a lofted view of the casino below, serviced with its own bar and sequestered from the noise of rabble by a vast glass window; the lights are soft and low, little haloes of amber around the heads of Edison bulbs fashionably scattered around the bar. He is nursing an exquisitely-made martini and pondering whether to top up the next with espresso; his Saint Laurent suit is carefully rumpled, the collar of his shirt open at his throat in an effective display of somnolent contentment. The Cats have the feel of the early 20th century with all the mod-cons of the 21st, and René submerges himself in it – of all the years and decades and centuries he has lived, he holds a special fondness for only a few, and he harks back to the 1920s with wistfulness.

By God, he misses jazz.

It is whilst he is dwelling on this swell of nostalgia that a ripple of blue silk and white furs cascades elegantly into the barstool beside him, settling itself into the icy milk-and-honey façade of a familiar face – Sylvia Rothschilde, socialite of unspecified age and (she insists each time he sees her) newfound debutante, draped in form-clinging charmeuse of a pale periwinkle.

René lights up a devastating smile.

“Mme. Rothschilde! My heart, my soul, my favourite.” He kisses the back of her silk glove; she tuts and bats him away.

“Don’t be a rogue,” she scolds. Her faux anger is belied by a vulpine, rouge-lipped smile. “And where have you been, René Chevalier? There you were last summer, promising to make an honest woman of me, and then right back to New Orleans you went! You made quite the little Daisy Buchanan out of me.” She waves a delicate hand at the bartender, who brings her a margarita without a word; she takes it and hides her smile in its salt-crusted rim. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Ah, Sylvie, you know me,” cajoles René, covering her hand with his. “I’ll say anything in the spotlight of a pretty face.”

“Oh, do shut up, you wastrel,” she scoffs. “Well, fortunately for you, it never would have worked anyway – alas, a girl just can’t get hold of two marriage certificates these days, and I’m afraid you did come in second place.” The frosted diamond on her ring finger glitters golden in the lamplight.

“Not to sound like a tourist, darling, but we are in Vegas.”

“Don’t remind me.” She rolls her blue eyes to the ceiling. “I was promised the Maldives this July, and yet here we are again. If we don’t go in September, I shall scream.”

“Say the word, Sylvie. You, me, a private jet -”

“And at least four other men, none of whom have an interest in me.” She licks a grain of salt from her lip. “I know you, sweetheart. A few more of those martinis and I pity that poor bartender.”

The bartender, polishing glasses behind them, allows himself a smile. The atmosphere is light and pleasant – for now, they are the only two patrons up here, and it is easy to imagine they are privately ensconced. René allows himself to lapse into a comfortable silence, and for a little while at least, he can try to forget the gnawing, aching, crushing hunger that roils ceaselessly in the pit of his stomach. Drowning it in alcohol does not work and never has, but it does help the time pass – it is whilst the bartender is filling his glass for the third time that Sylvia breaks the lull.

“Now then, René,” she says, nestling close to his side with a hand held to her diamond-studded neck and a teasing smile curling across her lips. “To business. Rumour tells me you quite cleared the tables down there tonight. I must say, you’ve been at the whim of ‘beginner’s luck’ for quite some time now. I’ve seen you up and down the strip since I started visiting, and when was that – three years ago now?” She tips him the shadow of a wink. “At what point are you going to confess?”

“Sylvie, mon cherie, a confession suggests I must have something terrible to confess, and it wounds me that you could think I’d hide things from you, my darling.” He swivels on the bar stool to face her, lifting his martini to touch the rim to her glass. “But alright, I admit – perhaps I should finally promote myself from beginner to amateur.”

Her laugh is like champagne on ice.

“You’re a wonderful liar, René,” she says, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “I have a little theory. You’re Louisiana’s household name in the professional game. Their secret weapon at the tables. You have a whole double life playing out in New Orleans, and you come here at the end of each season to make fools of the rabble with falsehoods about ‘beginner’s luck’. Tell me I’m wrong.”

René puts a hand to his heart, reeling back on his seat.

“Large fishes, small ponds, mademoiselle.” His wounded expression gives way to a dazzling smile. “You know I’m a terrible exhibitionist, and besides, the proprietor hasn’t had me thrown out yet.”

They chime glasses once again and sip in momentary silence, watching the casino roll beneath them; the singing of slot machines and the muffled roars of losses and wins batters at the far side of the glass. The bartender returns, a crisp white towelette slung over his starched shoulder, and he refills René’s glass yet again without question or comment. René mouths a thank you, and slips a $50 into his waistcoat pocket. It pays to keep people sweet.

“He’s floating around tonight, you know,” Sylvia says suddenly, gazing out at the crowd neatly partitioned from them. “Mr. Fairfax.” She says the name with a faux shiver, her voice skipping down an octave. The stem of the margarita glass rolls between her fingers. “You’ve met him, I assume?”

“Seen him,” says René, listening with new interest now. He has been trying to get on some sort of terms with the patron of the Cats for several months, without a great deal of success outside a brief glimpse or two. How much money must a man spend? “Haven’t had the pleasure of speaking yet. I assume pleasure is the right word?” He claps a hand to his chest again, as though struck by sudden horror. “Tell me he’s not another Trump, Sylvie, my heart couldn’t bear it.”

Sylvia smiles primly around the rim of her glass, suddenly coquettish. She tilts her slim wrist to regard the gilded face of a Tiffany watch, and pats René on the arm.

“Must go, sweetheart, Forrest arranged reservations for us at nine at Robuchon and I’m already ten minutes late.” She leans in once again, brushing Givenchy-painted lips against his cheek. “But I promise you, he’s certainly no Trump. Tata, darling.”

“Bonne nuit, chérie.” He watches her walk away, because to be fair she does it very deliberately, and then he returns his gaze to the grand hall below the curve of the window. It is a sea of black tuxedos, studded here and there with glittering jewel-toned dresses – this is not the common-or-garden Vegas of the tourist traps. Admittance to the Cats requires the level of financial security that renders carrying cash obsolete – here, the elite gamble directly out of offshore banks, and when they run dry there they wager assets and equity. René has neither – paper trails, you know – but for now until the end of summer he is a loyal customer of the Bank of Nevada; when the season is over, the account will close without comment, employees will forget his name and he will return to the bright swarm of Louisiana for the winter. In a way, it’s the same life he’s lived since his conception (when was that? He can’t remember now) – the world has updated around him, technology has taken leaps and bounds he could never had predicted, but he and his habits have remained greatly unchanged.

But he eats less now, though.

The hunger curls vice-like in his stomach, writhing and twisting like something living and dying all at once.

He swallows the last of his fifth martini, and asks for a bottle of absinthe.

#rene1 #writing1

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accio-ambition · 5 years

Text

No Good Deed (14/15)

Summary: Killian Jones is a gentleman. He and his brother pride themselves on the matter, even if it ends with harm to them. So when an angry ex of Killian’s client bites him, he tends to the wound, watches it heal, and thinks no more of it.Until he wakes up in a closet on his ship with no memory of what happened the night of the full moon.

Fleeing from the unknown, the brothers Jones find Storybrooke, and with it, Emma Swan, who is a lot more familiar with their situation than anyone could expect. And when an old foe comes to their new home, Killian has to rely on new talents to keep those he loves safe.

Rating: M for language, violence, some sexual content. (better safe than sorry)

Content warnings: violence

Thanks to @killiarious, @wellhellotragic, and the mods at @captainswanbigbang for all that you’ve done. hope what's left of 2018 treats you all well and that 2019 sets you up for the best year yet!

Ao3

Chapter Fourteen

When he’s calm enough to change back to human form, Killian digs out his phone and calls Liam down at the station. Bless his elder brother, Killian can hear the sob he holds back when he hears that Emma’s alright. He feels emotional in the same way, just can’t have the breakdown Liam might be having right now.

As he hangs up, Killian searches for his Swan. Emma’s sitting under a copse of trees at the end of the drive. She’s beautiful in the crisp evening air, her eyes closed as if she’s taking a nap. Which, in all likely reality, she probably is. It’s been a long and trying day for the both of them. The three of them, he mentally corrects himself. They’re all safe.

He reaches her side just as the lights of first responders break through the spaces in the forest. Their sirens startle him slightly, but Emma merely opens her eyes and relaxes further into the earth beneath her. Four police cars lead the pack, followed shortly by an ambulance. “You shouldn’t have,” Emma says sarcastically. Killian knows without looking she’s holding out a hand, silently asking for his help to stand. He grants it to her - as if he would do anything else - and watches as she brings herself up. “To be fair, I didn’t,” Killian says with a shrug. She squeezes his hand, gaining his attention and begging the question hanging between them. Shrugging again, Killian supplies, “I told Liam you were okay.” “And he apparently didn’t listen.” “As much as you wish you weren’t, love, and as much as you can pretend that you’re invincible, you are pregnant,” he gently reminds her. His arm comes around her shoulders. Emma tilts her head until it rests on his shoulders. Connected like this, he can definitely feel the fatigue wafting off of her, the stress stretching her muscles. Both pairs of eyes watch the investigation unfold before them; Liam, of course, is heading up operations. Killian kisses the top of her head. His eyes follow his other hand as it comes to rest on Emma’s belly. “There’s a pup in there who needs looking after.” He can feel her eyes roll as her hand comes up to slap him in the sternum. “Trust me, she’s fine,” Emma assures him. Exhaling heavily, she straightens up. “Well, let’s get this over with.” She leaves him to his own thoughts, approaching the EMTs already unloading an unnecessary gurney. Killian, however, feels starry-eyed and struck with awe. A lot has happened in the past, oh, 48 hours, far too many conversations and revelations to process in a timely matter. His mind’s probably just filed away Neal agreeing to come to Storybrooke and discuss matter with his father. But this is the coup de grace. Because as his Swan nonchalantly revealed, both of his girls are fine. Both. His eyes widening, Killian scrubs his hand over his face. Then he rakes it through his hair. And then he stands there, watching Emma reluctantly accept the ministrations of the EMTs from afar, hands on his hips. She can’t have said that and meant it, right? She’s tired and coming down from an adrenaline high, not to mention any potential mental or physical trauma she might be experiencing. It was a mere slip of the tongue. It had to be. Slowly, Killian makes his way to the ambulance, its sirens gone quiet until its next emergency, muddling his way through the brink of a mental breakdown as he dodges officers taking evidence and such. Emma’s sitting on the metal ledge on the back of the medical truck, one of those silly aluminium blankets wrapped over her shoulders. She looks frustrated with the medics asking her questions, her eyes on the verge of rolling out of her head. Still, she sits and nods until he comes up to them, catching the tail end of their conversation. “Just watch how much you exert yourself for a couple days,” the EMT says, patting Emma on the shoulder. “Take a day or two off, catch up on your Netflix queue.” “You sound just like him and his brother.” The medic shoots Killian a glance. “Sheriff Swan, I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure they want the best for you, just like we all do.” Emma sighs. “I know, Craig. Thank you.” Unable to say anything, Killian nods to the EMTs. They take their leave, heading back to report Emma’s condition for the police report. He scratches behind his ear, unsure of how to address the entire situation that’s presented itself to him. “I’m fine,” Emma reassures him, grabbing his hand. She smiles softly, looking up at him. Sure, he was worried for her, he always is, but that’s not his main concern at the moment. It takes him a couple more seconds to formulate the question he wishes to ask. When it comes out, all he can say is, “She’s fine?” Emma hums in confusion for a second. “Yeah. Was that something I didn’t tell you?” Killian laughs, straight up chortles, releasing all the nerves he’s had pent up for days. “I thought you told the doctor, and I am quoting you directly, ‘This kid was a surprise, so might as well hold out to the end.’”

Inhaling through her teeth, Emma responds, “I did.” She squints, her nose scrunching up in the adorably recognizable way that she does when she’s feeling a bit guilty. “I don’t know, call it instinct or something, but we’re having a girl.”

Brow raised, Killian nudges her, swinging their hands gently. “How sure would you say you are?”

Emma winces again, her head swaying from side to side. “Like, 99 percent sure.” Killian feels his jaw drop and hang perilously close to the ground. Shrugging, Emma continues, “I don’t know! It’s just sort of this vibe, sort of like our bond. There aren’t any words, but I’m confident that the pup here,” she gestures toward her stomach before looking him straight in the eye, “is a little girl.”

“A girl.” It’s unbelievable. Every day since Emma told him, Killian’s had to reconcile with the fact that they’ll actually be parents in a matter of months. But now, armed with the knowledge that he’s most likely going to be father to a daughter, he’s gobsmacked. He grabs Emma’s cheeks and all but yanks her into yet another passionate kiss and embrace. When he pulls back, she’s got this smile on her face that he’s sure is even dopier on his face. “Thank you, my love,” he whispers. Then he sits up straight, his face serious. “She’s not dating until she’s 30.”

Laughing out right, Emma caresses his cheek, the scratch of her nails comforting through his facial hair. “She’s not even here yet and you’re a mess.”

Their conversation is put on hold as Liam, official sheriff’s office face on, comes over. He brushes off his hands and sticks his notepad in his back pocket. “So he’s injured, but under arrest for kidnapping at least,” he explains, looking at the pair of them. “Probably something else like reckless endangerment of a child or something. EMTS will take him to the hospital and then we’ll book him.” Sighing, Liam rubs at his brow and then reaches for Emma, gently holding her forearm. “Are you okay, Emma?”

She shakes her head, an exasperated chuckle issuing from her mouth. “As I told your brother here, we are fine. Even the professionals say so,” she assures him. “A little shaken up and a little sore because I don’t bend that way anymore, but otherwise still healthy on all fronts.” Pointing at her stomach, Emma adds, “Still pregnant.”

“Yes, I deduced that,” Liam laughs. Then he glances at Killian. His mind isn’t keeping up with the conversation completely. He’s still stuck on the fact that they’re going to have a daughter and how he isn’t going to allow her out of the house with a boy ever. “Killian? You there? Would you like us to rehash the conversation there, little brother?”

Killian shakes his head, breaking himself out of his thoughts of the future. He looks to Emma, whose hand has, at some point, slid into his. “Does he know?” he asks.

With a small grin and a scoff, she shakes her head. “Do you really think that’s something I would tell Liam before I tell you, the father of this child?”

“Tell me what?”

Cocking his brow, Killian squeezes Emma’s hand. “May I tell him?”

“Tell me what? He asks again, this time a little more concerned. “What’s going on? You said you were alright.”

Emma nods in response to Killian’s question and he is helpless to the bright smile that rocks his face. He looks to Liam as he moves his arm to wrap it around her shoulders and pulls her close. “Despite telling the doctor she wanted to keep it a secret, Swan here has just informed me that she’s quite sure we are going to be the proud parents of a daughter.”

“A daughter?” Liam repeats breathlessly. “A little girl?” His smile is identical to Killian’s when he claps his hands over his mouth and laughs into them. Then he grabs his brother’s free hand and pumps it up and down enthusiastically in congratulations. Together, they all laugh in happiness.

And then Emma’s face falls a little bit as her laughter turns into expectant surprise. “Oh no,” she mumbles.

Killian’s hands fly to her stomach and Liam goes to hold her as if she’s about to fall. “What’s wrong?” Liam asks as Killian asks, “Are you okay? Is it the baby?”

Shaking her head and chuckling, Emma waves them off. “Nope, still good,” she reassures them. “No, I just realized that you two are going to fight for her affections from the moment she’s born.” Looking to Liam, she says, “Are you going to keep her from dating until she’s 30 as well?”

“Of course,” Liam says vehemently. “But if and when she decides to go behind your backs, Uncle Liam will be there to help hide their relationship and be there to pick up the pieces of her broken heart.” He holds up his hands, conceding to getting ahead of all of them, frankly. “So long as I am her favorite uncle, I’ll follow your lead.”

“I have a feeling that won’t be too difficult to swing,” Emma says, resting her hand on her stomach.

“I don’t know,” Killian jests, quickly scanning the scores of first responders, all who know Emma and care for their sheriff. “This town has quite a few contenders.”

“I was gonna say, I might have to concede to Craig,” Liam jokes.

“Yeah, but Craig doesn’t have an in like you do,” Emma reminds him with a smile.

Liam steps forward and gently hugs Emma as best he can. She presses her lips to his cheek before he pulls away. Then he slaps Killian on the shoulder and pulls him into a tight hug. “Congrats, little brother,” he says quietly before addressing the both of them with, “Congrats to the both of you.”

Emma and Killian barely have enough time to utter a thank you before Liam’s fellow officers are calling him back to the scene. He waves them away for another minute, his face one of obvious undesire, and looks back at Killian.

“I’ve got to get back to the station and tell his son. Might as well drop him off at the hospital as well while I’m at it. You guys want to catch a ride?” he asks.

Even if he weren’t standing next to her, still looking her over for any sign of harm, and even if they were connected by a bond that immediately floods with the feeling of no, Killian knows Emma’s answer would be “Not if hell had frozen over.” However, with recent events and a knack for not censoring herself lately, Killian squeezes her shoulder and responds to his brother’s offer for her.

“No, that’s okay, we can ride with someone else.”

Nodding, Liam gives them both one last hug before returning to his official duties as acting sheriff. He departs them with a warning: “I’m still going to be favorite uncle. Don’t let any of these blokes here convince you otherwise.”

Killian chuckles and Emma merely smiles. Her one hand cradles the bottom of her belly as the other strokes over it. Watching her do so makes a stupid silly grin grow on his face. One that she spots easily.

“You want to feel her?” she asks. WIthout waiting for his answer, she takes the hand that isn’t wrapped around her shoulders and places it on her stomach. Killian watches as she closes her eyes and leans her head on his shoulder. Their little girl wiggles around beneath his hand, a welcome relief.

(It’s not that he didn’t believe Swan. It’s just comforting to feel the evidence himself.)

“Talk to her,” Emma insists.

Of course, he does as she asks. Killian kneels before Emma, his hands carefully and precisely framing her stomach. He rests his forehead against her shirt, the pup scent wafting around ever so slightly at this distance.

“Hello there, little one,” he whispers. A foot reaches out and knicks the tip of his nose. He chuckles. “I'm so relieved you and your mum are okay.” He feels Emma’s fingers slide into his hair, scratching at his scalp, and he sighs. “You aren’t even here yet and you’ve already had quite the adventure, haven’t you?”

The longer he talks to her - no topic in particular gripping their interests - the more an overwhelming sense of love consumes him. If he weren’t already on his knees, he doesn’t see how he wouldn’t collapse. It leaves him breathless. There’s something off about it, something fluid but all encompassing. It’s as if he’s struggling to remember a word he knows exists and coming up empty.

“That’s her.” Emma’s voice still shows small signs of her trauma, harsh around the edges, but it’s strong. Killian stops talking for a moment and looks up at her. Despite her fingers in his hair, he half thought that Emma had fallen asleep standing up. Her eyes ease open and match his. “That feeling you don’t understand. That’s her. Every time you talk to her, that’s what I feel.”

It’s amazing. Incredible. Extraordinary. That their daughter loves him so much at this time in her life and he gets to feel it through nothing less than a miracle. Moved, Killian stands quickly and wraps his arms around Emma. He pulls her into his embrace and kisses her soundly. Her laughter vibrates wonderfully against his lips. Her smile tastes of sunshine.

“Already daddy’s little girl,” she remarks.

“Just like her mother, aye?” Killian bends down slightly as Emma laughs. He means to speak only to his daughter, knowing that Swan will hear him, but hoping she doesn’t choose to address it. “I love you, too,” he says to her stomach. “But we aren’t going to tell Uncle Liam that yet. Let’s let him think he’s going to have a fighting chance, aye?”

(Bless her heart, Emma tries to cover her laughter with a cough and fails.)

#csbb #csbb fic #cs ff #captain swan #captain swan big bang #ouat #my words #storytime #no good deed #im posting this from the past #because im no longer in wifi signal #whoops

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madscientistjournal · 5 years

Text

The Parts of Him That I Can Help With

An essay by Stephen L. Thayer, as provided by Gordon B. White Art by Errow Collins

My younger brother Cameron never understood what working from home meant, so when he called me at 2:30 pm, I was wrist-deep in a twitching half-cadaver. Normally I wouldn’t have answered, since I was practicing stitching a double set of lungs for an upcoming necromodding commission, but I’d been stymied by what to do next, and I also had to pick Dylan up from school by 3:30, so it was as good a stopping point as any. Besides, what is family for if not to answer your call?

I pulled my hands out of the writhing thoracic cavity and peeled off my surgical gloves. The talc inside always makes me squirm when I rub my fingers clean, so I grimaced beneath my paper filtration mask–which I never remove while in my garage laboratory–and swiped my cell phone to speaker.

“Cam,” I said. “What’s up?”

“I need your help, bro.”

“Are you drunk?” I asked.

He paused. “A little.”

A little was fine. We’re brothers, so how else were we supposed to talk?

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Do you remember my last serious relationship?”

I had to think back. I was pretty sure that was Brandon and that had been a year before? Two? Cam had never been good at relationships, but I’d forgotten how bad he was.

“Sure,” I said. “Tall, dark, possibly rheumatic.”

“You make him sound so sexy.”

“Not my type.”

“Anyway, I was out with Tyler.”

“Who?” I asked as I walked across the room, away from the twitching body and the faint burning smell rising from the wires in its cranium.

“Never mind with who,” Cam said, too quickly. “The point is that I ran into Brandon.”

“With your car, I hope?”

“Nice dad joke, bro.”

“Speaking of, I have to get Dylan soon.” An hour wasn’t really soon, but anything to give Cam a ticking clock. He’s the kind of guy who if you ask him what he did last night, he’ll end up telling you what he did this morning.

“Bro, this is serious,” he said. “Seeing Brandon reminded me of how terrible I am at everything.”

“What about this new guy?” I said, desperate to deflect the conversation. “Clearly you’re not completely unlovable.” Since launching my necromodding business, I’d had enough people calling me up for freebies that I was hoping to stem this off before it escalated. That double-lungs commission was the first paid job I’d had all month, although given how poorly it was going, I worried it might be the last, too.

“It isn’t going to work out,” Cam said. “I’m not good enough.”

“I’m not disagreeing,” I said, but I immediately regretted that brotherly sarcasm as I heard a glass hit the bar on Cam’s end. I could just about smell the booze through the phone. If I were there with him, maybe he could have seen on my face that I didn’t mean it, but what could I say?

“I need your help to get a boyfriend,” he said. “A serious one. A real one.”

“One who calls you back?”

“One who thinks I’m hot.”

“I don’t know any blind and deaf guys,” I said, unable to help ribbing him further. “Besides, I haven’t dated anyone in, well, forever. I really can’t help.”

My wife Cynthia and I had been together basically forever. We’d dated for almost a decade, been married for something like seven years, and Dylan was five, so contemporary hook-up culture or any online presence more than my freelance necromodding website were absolute mysteries. Despite the skills at my disposal and the bodies in my garage, I didn’t know what I could do to help Cam.

“Bro,” Cam said, “I don’t need your dating advice.”

Oh thank god, I thought, although I was also a little offended.

“Then what?” I asked.

“I need to be a different person.”

“Can’t help you,” I said. “Try therapy?”

“I mean, I need a new body.”

The half-cadaver twitched on the table, the crown of electrodes in its skull stimulating it into smearing its coagulating intestines across the metal gurney as its torn throat wheezed through the half-sewn double-set of lungs. Seeing how helpless it was, twitching there in the approximation of life, made me feel bad that I hadn’t had Cam over in a while.

“Fine,” I said. “Come by tonight after dinner. No earlier than seven.”

“Look who it is,” I said to Dylan as we opened the door.

“Uncle Cam!”

As Cam hoisted Dylan up, I took a moment to do my pre-clinical once over. Cam and I shared a party mix of the same genetics, so I didn’t think he’d been too let down, especially because if I’d received our parents’ brain Chex, he’d gotten the pretzel bits of good physique. Decent shoulders and long arms, a full head of hair that was mostly not gray as he pushed into his thirties. While beer had softened him up, his spare tire was a bike wheel at worst, not a full radial. I was noting that his glutes were adequate if not extraordinary when I realized that he was airplaning Dylan into the kitchen with Cynthia.

“Hey, Cindy,” he said, using a nickname she hates, perhaps accidentally.

“Hey, Ron,” she replied, purposefully using a nickname Cam hates. “Can you not steer my child into the Bolognese?”

“Into the Bolognese!” Dylan squealed, and I could envision the downward arc occurring in the other room. Suddenly, I was hit by the pungent tomato sauce simmering over the sweet fat of the beef. It’s funny how you don’t recognize some comforts until you’re just on their periphery.

“Ron,” Cynthia said.

“Cindy,” he said.

“Bolognese!” Dylan yelled.

I joined the family circle just in time and took Dylan from Cam’s outstretched arms. Dylan pouted, but Cam ruffled his hair and then turned to me.

“So, what’s for dinner?” Cam asked.

“Let’s talk in the lab,” I said, steering him towards the mudroom and the locked door to my lab in the garage. “We’ll give Cynthia some room.”

As Dylan latched onto Cynthia and I escorted Cam out, she gave me that look that asked “Are you really skipping dinner?” I shrugged in apology and hoped my eyebrows, wriggling like caterpillars on a hotplate, said “What else is family for, right?”

Out in the garage, the overwhelming smell of antiseptic spray is deceptive at first, but I offered a full respirator to Cam, which he wisely accepted. Whenever I open the storage drawers, the smell usually overwhelms the unprepared. It’s the primary reason that Cynthia made me spring for airtight locks, because while she’s fine with me being a stay-at-home dad doing freelance necromodder work, she doesn’t want to be known as that family.

“How’s business?” Cam asked, looking around at all the shiny equipment.

“Honestly, not great,” I said. “It’s really tough starting out. So far mostly just cranks and perverts.”

“But this is all so, so cool,” he said.

“Clients don’t trust necromodders without a deep portfolio.”

“I trust you, bro.”

“You have to say that,” I said, but I smiled beneath my paper mask. I didn’t know if Cam was being sincere or just trying to butter me up, but it was working.

“What’s that?” Cam asked, pointing to the halo of electrodes I’d been using to reanimate the half-cadaver with the double-stitched lungs. Cam had been in the lab enough to recognize new equipment, even though he didn’t know what any of it was.

“Sort of a test drive system for bodies so I can try new mods before putting them in living clients,” I told him. “The hope is to one day use it to amp up living brains, too, but that’s a long way off.” A very, very long way off, in fact, and not being able to get it to work stuck in my craw as yet another failure.

“No chance you can fix this then?” Cam thumped himself on the forehead.

“Nothing can fix that,” I said. “What’s Option B?”

“Bro,” he said, “I need a boyfriend.”

“Believe me,” I said, “that would make all of our lives easier.”

He ignored that comment, which was bigger of him than I expected. As the older brother, it was always both surprising and fulfilling to see sparks of maturity in Cam. Perhaps I sometimes pushed him too hard to find them–spraying his pants with water in middle school to teach him an ill-defined lesson about humility, for example–but whenever those moments emerged naturally, I could just about cry.

“I want someone to love me like Cynthia loves you,” he said.

I didn’t tell him that sometimes it takes a lot of work, but I was a sucker for romance. If I could help him, at least a little, wasn’t that my brotherly duty?

“So I need a new body,” he said.

“It’s expensive,” I said.

“It can be my birthday present.”

“It comes out of my pocket,” I said, but Cam looked pointedly at me, and I knew what he was being too nice to say about Cynthia in the other room. “Our pockets,” I corrected myself. “Do you really want to take the Bolognese out of your nephew’s mouth?”

“Birthday and Christmas.”

I stared at him.

“For two years,” he added.

I sighed. “And I can use pictures for my website.”

“Fine,” he said, “if I can also use them for my dating profile.”

“Fine,” I said. “I love–”

“Me?” Cam interrupted.

“A challenge,” I concluded. “So of course I will help you.”

There’s a sort of code that we necromodders undertake–whether it’s a full-time modder doing celebrity jobs in a fancy foreign clinic, or just a dedicated freelancer who left the hospital’s daily grind and whose wife supports him while he builds up a portfolio on low-paying commissions–that we’ll do our best to bring our clients’ visions to fruition, despite our own preferences. I’d seen plenty of things on the professional message boards–literal eyes in the back of heads, third arms in places arms don’t usually go–that I personally didn’t think looked good, but which somehow made the end users feel complete. Although I think of necromodding as an art, most clients see it as design, so far be it from me to deny anyone their aesthetic preferences. As a medical professional, however, I did have one other complicating factor.

“I’ll do it,” I said, “but as your doctor–” I trailed off, hoping to prompt him.

“Really?” Cam asked. “Again?” He knew what was coming, since I’d given him a new middle toe a year or so ago.

“Tell you what,” I said, as I punched in the codes to the cold storage. “If you can paraphrase the warning, I’ll consider that informed consent.”

“Let me see,” Cam began as he joined me to watch the various hunks and chunks of cadavers slide out of the freezer. “As my doctor, you have to warn me of potential health effects related to body modifications using deceased tissue.”

“And?”

“There’s no guarantee.”

“That?”

“That the process is effective or reversible.”

“And?” I asked.

“And what?” he asked

“You’re of sound mind to make decisions that could result in your death.”

He swallowed. “Yeah, bro.”

From inside the coolers, corpses and extra bits peered out. I didn’t keep a lot on hand, but I always had a few stock bodies–inoffensive types that were easy to cut and shape for after-market mods–so I could easily do a head swap, then touch Cam up afterwards. With our health care system, there was never a shortage of parts.

“Finally,” I added, “as your brother, and not your doctor, I think you’re great and have a great personality. Don’t fix a thing, blah blah.”

“I love you, too, bro,” he said.

“I never said that.”

I cut off Cam’s head and stitched it to the stock body that most closely matched his skin tone. He’d asked me about maybe trying out a different one, but that would just open up questions of bodily appropriation that I hadn’t the energy to parse with Cam. Nevertheless, we had gone over the alterations he wanted and, once his original body was safely wrapped and secured in Refrigerator B and his head was hooked up to the new one, I was ready to start.

He wanted bigger muscles, and although the stock body was fairly normal, Cam had picked out globs of the red ropey fibers for me to put in. The sizing was ridiculous, but the more I’d warned him, the more he resisted. Then he said it was okay if I didn’t know how to do it, which I’m pretty sure he did just to egg me on. Sure, a procedure of that level was just a smidge outside of my comfort zone, but I wasn’t going to give Cam the satisfaction of thinking he’d asked for something I couldn’t do, so I went to work snipping out the default tendons at the muscle heads and reattaching bigger ones. It was like trying to overstuff a batch of viscera dumplings, but I finally got it done.

When I finished, I brought him back out from sedation and rolled the full-sized mirror over to where he lay on the table. He grinned and flexed, and I worried that the glue in the skin wouldn’t hold, but although he bulged, he didn’t pop. I’d had my doubts, but seeing it finished, I swelled with pride, too.

“Isn’t this a little excessive?” I asked, even as I snapped a picture for the portfolio section of my website.

“You just don’t understand the male gaze,” he said and kissed his bicep.

“Come again?”

“Like, looking at stuff.” He paused. “Also, that’s what he said.”

“That’s so juvenile.”

“You’re the older brother,” he said. “I’m not supposed to be too mature.”

“I need to look more mature,” Cam said, back in my lab after less than a week. “I have a baby face.”

“You have a childish face,” I said. I was already twisting his face this way and that under the light, though, figuring out what I could do with the soft tissues. Normally I wouldn’t have been doing more work so soon after the first procedure, but working on Cam had really energized me. Prospective clients were contacting me, and in a spurt of inspiration, I’d finished the double-stitched lungs and even improved the corpse-animating electrode helmet. Besides, Cam seemed to enjoy coming over for the post-op check-ups, even sticking around to come with me to pick Dylan up from school.

“What do you want this time?” I asked.

“Thinner cheeks,” he said. “And maybe a beard.”

From Freezer A, I pulled out a box of frozen samples. Inside the compartments, little swatches of hair curled like sleeping gerbils in multiple hues of blonde, auburn, ginger, and black.

“You can have a beard of this, this, this, or this,” I said, pointing out some.

“What about that?”

“That’s a dog.”

“That?”

“Pubes.”

He considered it for a moment longer than I’d have liked, but then finally pointed to a nice normal brown swatch. “I’ll take that one,” he said.

“You sure?” I asked.

“Stop second guessing me.”

So I put Cam under again. I made incisions beneath the zygomatic bones, then slit all the way down the jaw and back around. I took extra time to stencil out around Cam’s lips before I peeled away his lower face, leaving him raw from closed eyes to throat. The yolk-colored globs of baby fat clung to his cheeks as I peeled them away, then laid them in the “Base” box to store in Freezer B alongside his original body. We were getting into alterations that weren’t as simple to undo as a head swap, but I’d given him the spiel and, since he’d used up his allotment of gifts already, he’d promised to pay in cash–just later, of course.

I unfurled the main roll of beard and skin, measured off a swatch, and then snipped it. The surface was itchy, and I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting it on their face or anywhere else, but according to the message boards, it was popular among other modders’ clients and, of course, the customer is always right. It was a pain to smooth down and arrange all the follicles the right way, but it felt good getting into the granular work again. The bliss of losing myself in the details reminded me why I’d fallen in love with necromodding in the first place.

Once everything was perfect, I woke Cam up and rolled the mirror over. “This is good,” he said, rubbing his new hirsute jawline while I took a picture for the site. “This is will be the one that does it.”

“The beard isn’t doing it,” Cam said at dinner. He’d shown up unannounced but had become a regular enough intrusion that Cynthia had a plate ready. He was still adjusting to his beard, though, and the egg from the fettuccine carbonara glistened in the hair.

“My problem is that I get too drunk,” he said as he took another swig of Primitivo. He was still adjusting to the muscles, too, and so all of his movements were outsized and reckless. “I need the alcohol to open up, but then it hits me too hard.”

“Drink less?” Cynthia recommended.

“Or he can give me a bigger liver,” Cam said.

“An enlarged liver isn’t healthy,” I said. “It’s pretty much the opposite.”

“I know that,” he said, although clearly he didn’t. “Then give me more livers.”

That might work and, if nothing else, would hopefully keep Cam away for a while. My work had been picking up recently–at first it was new clients looking for muscle and beard work after seeing Cam’s pictures, but referrals and repeats kept rolling in. Besides, I’d been working on my electrode helmet and was on the verge of a breakthrough. Cam just didn’t understand my need to work during the day or the importance of family time with Cynthia and Dylan afterwards. His continued interruptions at dinner and frequent calls just to chat during the day were reminders as to why I’d stopped hanging out with him so much.

“Fine,” I said to Cam. “Whatever you want.”

After dinner, I took Cam to the lab and sliced him open, then clamped the flesh apart to root around. I wasn’t shocked to see the paces he’d already put this current liver through. It looked scaled and pebbled, and oozed like a pickled beet. Even through my ventilator, the rich, briny smell hit me. Gagging, I took the extra livers–my Burke and Hare men had been coming through like gangbusters recently–and started wedging them in. The healthy organs were more pliant, but as I sutured them together, the knot of muscle got less and less manageable. In the end, I had to lean on them like I was packing a suitcase while I stapled the wound together. Despite being pleased with my innovation, this one wouldn’t get a picture on the website. Probably just a text description.

As I brought Cam back around, I told him, “Be careful.”

“I always am, bro.”

He sat up on the gurney, swaying under the new imbalance.

“Should we do shots to celebrate?” he asked.

Cam banged on the front door on a Thursday night at 12:30 am. Cynthia and I were in bed, with Dylan down the hall asleep, and she was none too pleased at the interruption.

“He needs to learn boundaries,” she said.

“I don’t disagree,” I said, but I was already out of bed and pulling on a robe. She wasn’t wrong, of course, but it’s hard to ignore family even when you want to. Besides, if I had to choose which one to deal with at that moment, Cam was probably the easiest.

Downstairs, I barely recognized Cam as I let him in. His body was getting strange; the muscles bulged in odd ways and all the livers seemed to be throwing him off balance. The beard hadn’t been trimmed in days.

“Do you know what time it is?” I asked, dragging him into the garage laboratory. At least the insulated walls would keep his disturbance to a minimum.

“I need one last one,” he said.

“Are you drunk?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he responded. “So? You going to judge me for that, too?”

“Someone has to.”

“Too bad it isn’t someone who ever has something nice to say.”

That stung. It took me a moment to respond. “I can’t,” I finally said. “It’s too late.”

“Please, I need it. You sort of owe me.”

“For what?”

He didn’t answer. “Just please. Do it and I’ll leave you alone. Forever.”

“Don’t be such a martyr,” I said.

“I just need you to make me taller, bro. Just an extra vertebra or three.”

“You dope,” I said. “It’s not your height. It’s not your muscles or your beard. It’s just you.”

“What do you mean?”

There are conversations that need to be had, and there are conversations that need to be had in a particular way. I knew this was the latter, but I was too tired. Besides, someone had to tell him, right?

“You’re a weirdo,” I said. “It’s not how you look or how big your liver is; you’re the kind of person who gets people’s names wrong. You don’t understand that you can’t show up late or that you talk a lot or ask too much.”

“Then fix that.”

“I can’t fix that,” I said. “That’s just you.”

“Zap me then.” He pointed at the electrode crown I’d been working on, the one that let me reanimate half-cadavers enough to test out mods before using them on paying clients. It had come a long way recently and I was sure it was going to launch me out of necromods and into actual biomodding, but it wasn’t ready to supercharge a living brain. Probably.

“I don’t care,” he snapped. “I already agreed you’re not responsible if I die.”

“It’s untested,” I said.

“I believe in you,” he said.

“It’s not about believing.”

“I don’t care,” he snapped. “I already agreed you’re not responsible if I die.”

“You moron.” I’d reached my limit, too. “Of course I’m responsible. I’m always responsible for you.”

“Stop treating me like a child,” he said. “If I could do this any other way, don’t you think I would?”

What was there to say?

“Just zap me,” he said again.

“Stop being so dramatic.”

“I’m sorry I’m not perfect,” he said. “Maybe if you didn’t leave me behind after you went to school, after you got married, I could have learned from you.”

“What was I supposed to do?” I asked.

“Help me,” he said.

“I didn’t leave you behind.”

“I feel like you did.”

“Fuck your feelings,” I said.

We didn’t talk as I put him under. Stewing, I drilled into his skull, then attached the headgear and pushed the little wire skewers in. That was it. If it killed him, well I’d warned him, right?

I pulled the lever, hard. Because he’d asked for it.

The lights dimmed like I expected as it warmed up; but then it hitched. The lights flickered, then everything surged, bathing us in the miasma of green and red LEDs. All the shifting colors made me nauseous and I shaded my eyes, squinting at Cam’s body under the waves of putrescent light.

Then it exploded.

Everything went black. As all the machines whirred to a stop, I couldn’t hear or see anything. I sat there, in the silent dark, wondering if I’d killed my brother. Wondering how I would explain it and wondering, afterwards, just how much worse it could feel.

Those were my first thoughts. My next was that the brain-charger was also an obvious failure. My equipment was a failure. My skills were a failure. Sitting there, unable to see anything, the whole necromodding pursuit felt like a vain delusion. I was a dinner theater actor, alone in the dark among the empty tables and the cold buffet.

Then the red emergency lights came on, but all the monitors were still dead. I wondered if Cam was, too. I couldn’t bring myself to check for life the old-fashioned hands-on way, so I waited by the machinery. Maybe by refusing to check for myself, I could wait and blame the instruments.

It was the longest thirty seconds of my life.

Then the backup generator kicked on. One by one the monitors popped back up, flickering open like eyes. They ran through their reboots. Cam’s heartbeat came up. His breathing levels stabilized. I brought him back around and he opened his eyes.

“What happened?” he asked.

“What do you think?”

He looked around at the red room and then down across his body and all the changes we’d been making.

“I gotta go,” he said, sitting up. “I’m late.”

And that was it. I glanced at the emergency report printouts and data, but I was too tired to deal with any of it, so I sealed the lab and went back to bed.

For the first day that I didn’t hear from Cam, I was fine with it. I needed some space and figured he probably did, too. I took Dylan to the park after school and just avoided the lab all together. After the second day without hearing from Cam, though, and then a third, I was worried. He didn’t answer his phone. He didn’t text me to ask for additional procedures or anti-rejection drugs. The kinds of modifications we had been doing had a fairly a short active life without follow-ups.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Cam. I’d really failed him, and not just as a necromodder–although that blow-up had me wondering if I should just give up, sell everything, and get a regular job again. No, I’d also failed Cam as a brother. It wasn’t the things I’d said, since I stood by those, but that I’d said them in that way. That I’d made him feel that way. That he was willing to risk dying with my half-baked brain overcharger rather than have to deal with me as a brother any more. That I’d been too proud or too stubborn to stop him. It was a dark time.

So I did what I always do when I have serious doubts and questions about life.

“What’s going on?” Cynthia asked as she answered her cellphone. I’d expected her voicemail, but apparently I’d caught her in-between meetings.

“It’s Cam,” I said.

“Not Dylan?”

“No,” I said. “Cam.”

She didn’t hang up. She paused, though, but then continued, “What’s wrong with your brother?”

“I don’t quite know,” I said. “I mean, I know you don’t like him–”

“I like him,” she cut me off. “I think you two have issues, but he’s family.”

“Right,” I said.

“Your family,” she said.

“Right.”

We waited for a second there.

“What about him?” she broke the momentary silence.

“I’m worried,” I said. “He hasn’t called me since that last thing.”

“Maybe it worked?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Regardless, there are these anti-rejection drugs that he knows he needs.”

“Shit,” Cynthia said.

“I know,” I said. “What should I do?”

“Go find him, of course,” she said.

I shook my head, even though she obviously couldn’t see it. “He hasn’t asked for my help.”

There was silence on the other end. Then Cynthia said, softly, “What do you think all of this has been about, then?”

“I mean–” I began.

“Go help him!” Whatever pristine office halls she was in must have echoed, because the reverberation carried onto my end of the phone

“But he might–”

“He’s our family!”

She was right.

So I drove to Cam’s apartment complex on the other side of town. I’d been there a few times before to pick him up for family events or to visit someone in the hospital, but it took some poking around and checking mailboxes before I found his building again. The door to his unit was unlocked, yet even before I entered I could smell the rot.

Cam was sitting in the dark, sagging in the center of his rent-to-own couch. The putrescence seeping out from around his midsection was soaking into the fabric. The muscles I could see–biceps, triceps, traps, and pecs–were purple and mustard yellow clots beneath the skin. The edges of his beard were peeling down.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I said. “Let’s get you back to the lab.”

“It’s not worth it.”

“Don’t start,” I said. “Not now.” I picked my way around empty silver tallboys swimming like fish on the stained blue carpet.

“I’ve just been thinking,” he said. “I can’t do anything but think after what you did.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I said. I grabbed his arm and began to pull, but it was slack and, without his assistance, I worried my fingers would sink in and tear out big chunks.

“You broke my brain, bro,” he said and sunk down deeper. “All that zap did is made me depressed.”

“The machine didn’t do that, you dolt,” I said. It was true: when I’d reviewed the data that night, it was clear that the machine hadn’t worked. It had fried during the warm-up and although it blasted everything in the lab, there’d been no sign that it had any effect on Cam. “If you’re thinking about how shitty things are, then that’s on you.”

He had nothing to say to that.

I sighed. “And on me, too. I guess.”

Cam grunted.

“I’m sorry I said those things. For now, though,” I said, “as your doctor, I need to get you back to the lab before you have catastrophic organ failure.” I pulled again, but although he didn’t actively resist, he didn’t move his bulk to accommodate me either.

“What do you want from me?” I finally asked.

“You could tell me you love me.”

“Well, I won’t do that,” I said. “But, as your doctor–as your brother, I’d be pretty upset if you had caststrophic organ failure.”

The lab door is triple-sealed so that smells don’t seep into or out of the house, which is why it wasn’t until Cam and I opened the door that the wave of rot pushed out past us. The sweet and sick burst curled into my nostrils and even Cam–decaying from the neck down–winced at the ripe odor.

We stumbled into the lab, but I already knew what had happened. The power surge had blown the freezers and they hadn’t reset with the other equipment. When I opened Freezer B, as the smell had foreshadowed, everything was ruined. Cam’s original body was beyond salvage.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

Somehow in this tragedy, Cam had found equanimity and so he shrugged, one of the seams around his neck popping loose and green pus oozing out. For a moment, I felt that swell of pride in how mature he was acting.

We moved over to the table and I sat him down. All of my lab equipment seemed to be working fine, but there was nothing in the freezers I could use. What a pair our mismatched reflections in the full-length mirror made–me standing there slicked with gore and my younger brother falling apart like a poutine. I was trying to be strong, holding it together, but then Cam had to go and get sentimental.

“It was really nice spending time with you,” Cam said. “But I feel like you’ll be better off without me.”

“I never wanted to lose you,” I said. “I just wanted, you know, less of you.”

“Well, you’re in luck. There isn’t much left.” He tried to laugh, gesturing to the pile of meat festering below his neck.

“Oh shit,” I said.

“What?”

“There might be a way.” Less of him. “It might be too complicated, though. I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Bro,” he said, and flopped a mushy hand onto my shoulder. “I believe in you.”

“You kind of have to say that,” I said, wrestling the tears back as best I could.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I feel like you know it’s true.”

I sniffled, just once. “Fuck your feelings.”

Then I cut off Cam’s head.

“Swipe right,” Cam said.

“Don’t yell in my ear,” I said.

“I’m not yelling.”

“Well it sounds like it.”

That was because his head was attached to my shoulder, so his mouth was right next to my ear. Normally he didn’t get this excited, but while we were sitting at the dinner table with Dylan, waiting for Cynthia, Cam had decided he absolutely needed to show me this new dating app. I didn’t really want to see, but I’d been trying to be more supportive lately. It was his life, after all. Mostly.

Cam whispered, “Swipe right.”

“Fine,” I said. “But I’m not taking you on any dates. Wait until your replacement body gets in.”

“Then I’m not doing any more surgeries with you.”

That wasn’t okay. Ever since I’d posted about our successful head graft, the commissions were rolling in. Not only that, but with Cam by my side, I finally felt like a true professional.

“Fine,” I said. “But just one date. Make it count.”

“Fine,” he said. “Now swipe right.”

I swiped right, and the next image popped up. I gasped.

“Can I see?” Dylan asked from across the table.

“No!” Cam and I said in unison.

Cynthia came out of the kitchen, bringing out a bowl of salad. “No phones at the table,” she said.

“Sorry, Cynthia,” Cam said. Over the past week, he’d been making a real effort to get her name right and to be a better houseguest in general. For her part, Cynthia had been much more understanding about all of this than I’d had any right to expect. Of course, she rightly insisted that Cam and I sleep on the couch downstairs. It’s funny, but you never realize how much you might miss some people until you’re just on their periphery, I guess.

“Dinner time is family time,” Dylan chimed in.

“That’s right,” I said, but as I went to put the phone in my pocket it rang, playing “Sunshine of Your Love.”

“Whose ringtone is that?” Cynthia asked.

“Tyler,” I said, reading off the Caller ID.

“Who’s Tyler?” Dylan asked.

I suddenly felt light-headed as the blood from my body rushed to Cam’s face. He’d turned bright red, and I felt the heat of his ear next to mine. I worried for a moment that our sutures might spring a leak.

“Just some guy I was seeing before all this,” he said. He swallowed, and the movement of his esophagus shook my collarbone.

“Just some guy, Cam?” Cynthia said. “I’ve never seen you this flustered.”

“I’ll call him later,” Cam said. “Dinner time is family time.” I could feel him straining, though, as he looked at the phone. I admired his attempt at impulse control, but then I looked at Cynthia, and she smiled wearily.

“What else is family for?” she said.

“No really,” Cam said. “It’s okay, I–”

I swiped the phone open and held it to Cam’s ear. I rose from the table and as we walked out Cam began, adorably, to stutter a hello.

Cynthia was right: What else is family for, of course, if not to answer your calls?

Stephen L. Thayer is a freelance necromodder operating out of his home laboratory in a discrete, secure suburban neighborhood. After receiving his MBA and spending several years in corporate finance, Stephen left the rat race to follow his passion into the burgeoning field of functional and aesthetic bio-enhancement utilizing cadaverous tissues. Although he performs standard cosmetic, muscle, organ, and/or bone alterations, Stephen considers his necromodding a blend of art and science striving towards transcendence. He is always eager to discuss exotic and/or custom commissions. A representative portfolio and anonymous client testimonials are available upon request.

Gordon B. White has lived in North Carolina, New York, and the Pacific Northwest. He is a 2017 graduate of the Clarion West Writing Workshop, and his fiction has appeared in venues such as Daily Science Fiction, A Breath from the Sky: Unusual Stories of Possession, Nightscript Vol. 2, and the Bram Stoker Award® winning anthology Borderlands 6. Gordon also contributes reviews and interviews to various outlets. You can find him online at www.gordonbwhite.com or on Twitter at @GordonBWhite.

Errow is a comic artist and illustrator with a predilection towards mashing the surreal with the familiar. They pay their time to developing worlds not quite like our own with their fiancee and pushing the queer agenda. They probably left a candle burning somewhere. More of their work can be found at errowcollins.wix.com/portfolio.

The Parts of Him That I Can Help With was originally published on Mad Scientist Journal

#Errow Collins #Gordon B. White #Necromancy #Stephen L. Thayer

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bioticsandheadshots · 7 years

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Revelations

Also on AO3 and FF, if you prefer

“C’mon, Vakarian. You’re not scared, are you?” Ashley grinned at the former C-Sec officer as she slid the VR headset over her bun.

Garrus copied her movements with his own set. “Of course not. I believe our current score is two to one, in favor of me.”

Her fingers paused over the controls. “Which one this time?”

Pinnacle Station, a special operations training station employed by the Alliance as well as the Council, had gladly parted with some of their tech by request of Captain Anderson. He and the station’s CO, Admiral Ahern, knew each other from the First Contact War. There had been no time to spare for Shepard’s team to go to the station and undergo training as a unit so Anderson had called in a favor with Ahern and convinced the man to send over less advanced, but similar, VR training simulations that could be done while the Normandy was in transit.

There were a number of different simulations they could run, including hunting down and killing as many enemies as possible in an allotted time or capturing various tactical objectives as fast as possible.

“Let’s do a hunt,” Garrus said without hesitation.

Ashley huffed, but keyed in his choice. Garrus was nearly as good with the sniper rifle as Shepard. The last time they’d run through a hunt, he’d set up a blind on top of a freight container and sniped with leisure while she rushed around, taking out as many as she could with her assault rifle. A sly grin spread across her face when the location selection popped up. The volcanic location was what had given Garrus the open views he needed to take out the targets easily. This time, she selected the tropical location. There were more twists and turns in the layout, which would take his advantage away and put them more on equal footing.

“Alright, ready?” Ashley glanced over at him and, when Garrus nodded, she activated the simulation.

When they popped in, his head swiveled slowly from side to side as he took in his surroundings. A smirk crept over her face at the twitch of his mandibles. Refusing to rise to her bait, he wordlessly swapped out his favored sniper rifle for the assault rifle strapped to his back as the timer ticked down.

The loud blare of the siren announced the start of the match. The chittering clicks and hums of simulated geth filled the air and Ashley raced across wet sand, her rifle answering them. Water splashed up her legs as her feet pounded through the softly lapping waves at the beach’s edge. More geth fell before her as she continued her momentous push further into the heart of the map.

The familiar whine of a missile jerked her eyes skyward. With a lunge towards the nearest cover, Ashley managed to duck behind a rocky outcropping just before the rocket exploded a few meters in front of her, sending a shower of sand in the air and shaking the ground around her. She pressed herself against the rough surface and peered around the corner. Two rocket troopers loomed in the path.

“Shit!” Ash had none of Garrus’s tech expertise and no experience with overload to whittle away at their full shields. She pulled a grenade from the belt at her waist and tossed it around the corner. When the boom echoed in front of her, she spun around the makeshift barrier and followed up the blast with short bursts from her rifle.

The extra few seconds it took to rip through their shields before she could chip away at their actual platforms made Ashley reckless. As soon as the simulated geth dissolved into pixels, she rushed across the rising metal platform, not taking note of her surroundings. Three rocket drones rose in the sky above her, firing as they wove patterns in the air. A fuel tank to her left exploded, sending her flying through the air. She slammed into the sand, almost tasting the salty, gritty texture of it as her lungs expelled their air in a loud ummph on impact. She forced herself to roll, ignoring the pain the simulator sent racing up her body, and fired at the drones until they exploded into a shower of pixelated debris.

She hauled herself to her feet and continued her onslaught across the beach. More pockets of geth popped from around corners and behind rocky protrusions in the sand but, lesson learned, she took her time getting through them. She’d never win if they managed to “kill” her before the timer went out.

As she reached a small cove crawling with geth, the timer began its cheerful ding, ding as it counted down the remaining ten seconds of the match. Ashley activated overkill mode and sprayed a heavy stream of fire at the targets in front of her, grinning gleefully as they all collapsed before the match ended.

The air shimmered around them and the goggles deactivated, bringing them back to the Normandy’s bridge.

“In your face, Vakarian!” Ashley’s fist pumped the air as their kill numbers appeared on screen. Williams: 48, Vakarian: 46. She yanked the goggles from head, her bun tumbling messily around her shoulders as it caught on the strap. “Pay up!”

“Shhhhh!” Corporal Lowe turned to glare at Ashley from her seat across the bridge.

Ashley held up her hands in apology. “Sorry, sorry. We’ll get out of your hair.”

Goggles stashed back in their appropriate storage bins, Ashley and Garrus trudged back down to the cargo hold. They had the place nearly to themselves. Dubyansky, the requisitions officer, was off duty so his corner of the bay was empty. Other than the usual hum of the drive core, the only sound in the room was the loud rumbling coming from the corner where Wrex had stashed his cot.

With a resigned sigh, Garrus ran his nimble fingers over the keypad on his locker and popped the door open. Ashley crossed her arms and leaned against Kaidan’s locker, unable to keep the grin from her face as she tapped her fingers against her bicep. Reaching into the small storage space, Garrus pulled out the hyper rail she’d been coveting ever since she’d seen he had one.

“You sure I can’t convince you to take anything else?” He kept his talons wrapped tightly around the mod even as he extended his arm towards her.

Ashley’s grin widened and she shook her head. “Nope. I won that fair and square.”

The heavy weight of it dropped into her outstretched hands. Sure, she probably wouldn’t have many uses for the rail upgrade since it produced massive amounts of heat and recoil. The hypervelocity slugs from this baby could do significant damage, even to an armored vehicle. It almost made her want to go find some geth armatures to test it out on.

“Here. Take this too,” Garrus said as she stashed the weapon mod in her own locker.

Ashley noted the dark bottles in his other hand. “Why Officer Vakarian! Drinking on the job, tsk, tsk. Whatever would Shepard think?”

“The Commander Shepard? CO of this vessel and first human Spectre?” Garrus’s mandibles flared with a grin. “She’d probably be pissed I only have the two. Besides, we’re off duty.”

“Touch��.” The two of them crossed the room and settled on the floor near Garrus’s cot. He checked the labels of the beer, making sure to pass her the human beer while he kept the dextro one for himself. Ashley chuckled as the two clinked the necks of the bottles together. “Never thought I’d see the day I’d be friends with a turian.”

“No?”

“No. In fact, when Shepard first picked you up, I not so subtly suggested barring your access to engineering and the CIC.”

Garrus hummed in amusement. “I’m sure that went over well.”

“Basically, no. Though I assured her it wasn’t going to be a problem. Told her if she wanted me to kiss a turian, I’d ask which cheek.”

Garrus cocked his head to one side and stared at her. “Kiss?”

“C’mon, Garrus,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Kiss. That thing where you purse your lips and press them up against someone else’s?”

His taloned finger came up and pointed at his mouth plates. “Turians don’t have lips.”

“Oh, right.” Elbow propped on one knee, Ashley dropped her chin into her palm with a frown. “Oh, what the hell. Everyone deserves a kiss, at least once in their life,” she finally said with a shrug. She leaned over quickly, meaning to give him a quick peck on the cheek, just like she’d told Shepard she would do. At the same time, he turned to her in confusion and her lips crashed against the front of his plates as their foreheads bumped together.

His face plates were rough and scraped against her lips, not unlike sandpaper, but also not entirely unpleasant. She froze for a moment, eyes wide as she stared into the cerulean blue of his—reminder to tell him that you’re supposed to close your eyes when you kiss—before she scuttled away until she felt the Mako at her back.

“I have to admit, I don’t quite see the appeal.” Garrus finally said before bringing the bottle back to his mouth. His movements were nonchalant, if she ignored his dilated pupils.

Ashley felt a hot flush creep up her neck. “Well, that wasn’t quite what I was going for. I was aiming for friendly kiss on the cheek.”

Garrus laughed. “Deadly with a high powered assault rifle. Piss poor aim with the lips. Got it.”

“Hey! There was definitely interference from your end,” she said, smacking him on the arm as the awkward tension dissipated. Her laughter joined his, the sound filling the cargo bay enough that Wrex’s snoring faltered. The two of them covered their mouths with their hands as they tried to hold back the laughter. Never wake a sleeping krogan, Ashley thought, especially one that sleeps with a shotgun.

“For your information” she continued when they’d finally quieted enough that Wrex’s snoring had resumed a normal pattern, “it can actually be really nice, depending on who’s doing the kissing.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it. I doubt Shepard will make a pit stop so I can learn the art of kissing,” he added, his head turned slightly in her direction. She wondered if it was just her imagination or if the tone of his sub-vocals had dropped a little lower.

Her fingers made a mess of the label on her bottle as, suddenly, Ashley Williams found herself wondering what it would be like to really kiss a turian.

#mass effect #mefanfic #mass effect fanfiction #Garrus Vakarian #Ashley Williams #Garrus x Ashley #rare pair #mass effect 1 #my writing

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morsmanbacklog-blog · 7 years

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No. 2: Fallout 4

When I drew Fallout 4 as my second game I was tempted to revise the conditions of this blog; I had already put over 80 hours into the game, and wasn’t sure I had the chops to write on one so divisive. Besides, the very reason for this blog is that I get around to trying out the games that I let pile up underneath triple A titles like this one. In the end, though, I want this blog of mine to be as much about writing and thinking about video games as it is playing them, and Fallout 4 is certainly one that elicits some thinking.

I went to bed at a decent hour on November 9, 2015, the night Fallout 4 was released. Now, I was just as excited as anyone for Bethesda’s next open-world RPG, but unlike those who stay up for midnight releases, I’d much rather get up early than hold off sleep to enjoy a new game (yeah, I have also been known to find stray Werther’s Originals in my pockets. Why do you ask?). besides, the game was downloading on my PC as I slept and was pretty much ready to play when I awoke. By the time I left for class the next morning I had made my character, lost my wife and child, and had a shootout in Concord. I was thrilled to be back in post-apocalyptic America, and according to critics, so was everyone else.

Well, it has been almost two years since Fallout 4′s release, and it would seem that those initial, positive reviews don’t reflect the current sentiment toward the game. whether it be coming from my gaming friends or lengthy think pieces around the web, the general feeling of disappointment toward Fallout 4 reminds me now of these first reactions to The Phantom Menace in comparison to its standing today as one of the worst Star Wars movies. Many of us, including myself, may have been blinded by the updated graphics and new features that came along with Fallout 4, but the sheen has since worn off, and the game we have now fails to deliver on many levels.

Because Fallout 4 not only had to live up to the rest of the Fallout franchise, but also Bethesda’s long lineup of revered, open-world RPG’s, there is extensive writing around the web about the myriad ways in which the game disappoints. Redditers subscribed to the r/gaming subreddit may be familiar with the numerous infographs or charts comparing Fallout 4 to Obsidian’s Fallout: New Vegas like the one below, usually in order to show how great New Vegas’ story and quests are in comparison to Fallout 4′s. I tend to agree with these critiques, but I also have never heard anyone argue from the opposing side, making it seem like those making and posting these comparisons hate Fallout 4 more than they actually like New Vegas.

Oddly enough, I do not see many comparisons being made between Fallout 4 and Fallout 3, which would seem appropriate seeing as both games were made by the same developer and written by Emil Pagliarulo. Has Fallout 4 improved upon Fallout 3? The latter certainly has its critics, but I will get on with my time with Fallout 4.

Want me to play a game? show me the charts.

I started a new file shortly before beginning this blog, so I went ahead and picked up where I left off, which was right after saving a ragtag group of survivors from raiders at Concord. To spice things up this time around, I have been using the ENB and weather overhaul mod, PILGRIM, which makes the wasteland look and sound appropriately unsettling. I highly recommend the mod given that the game, though it certainly doesn’t look bad, seems oddly colorful and cheery at times.

As far as the story goes, I cannot speak for the whole thing because, despite playing Fallout 4 extensively, I never reached the end, though I believe I got rather close in my first playthrough. That fact in itself may speak toward the quality of the main quest, but I tend to go off the beaten path fairly quickly in all open-world games, including, yes, the apparent gold standard of storytelling, New Vegas. It is the side-quests, hidden journal entries, and environmental cues requiring us to fill in the gaps that give Bethesda’s worlds any sort of narrative edge. This fact makes games in the Fallout and Elder Scrolls series so attractive; they are big worlds that reward exploration. One almost gets the feeling that Bethesda feels obliged to cobble up some mainline quest in their games when the side quests and general goings-on in the world were enough. When there are worlds inside paintings to enter, vampire cults to find, and evil orphanage headmistresses to kill, saving the world once again seems a lot less interesting.

Fallout 4 is no different from Bethesda’s other RPG’s in this regard and is arguably worse due to the fact that the protagonist is not simply a voiceless avatar for the player to inhabit, but a fully voiced character who has had his world destroyed in every figurative and literal way imaginable. I cannot begin to fathom my reaction to my wife being murdered, my remaining family being kidnapped, and my world being nuked, but it probably would not involve returning long-past-due library books. All games like this require some amount of suspending disbelief; a main draw is the freedom of the open world, which almost requires letting the protagonist behave inconsistently with his or her character. Having a protagonist that can actually speak, though, makes it all the more awkward when I am not particularly interested in those goals; I begin to feel like the cordyceps fungus I saw in Planet Earth as I lead my unwitting character away from his own goals and toward my own.

As I said before, I have yet to finish the game’s main questline, but I am fairly confident that the leader of the before mentioned survivors, Preston Garvey, is Fallout 4′s main antagonist. If the player should choose to keep in contact with Preston after Concord (which I strongly discourage), he will soon saddle him or her with seemingly countless settlements to care for. What does taking care of a settlement mean? It could mean nothing. You could clear the designated settlement areas of raiders and then let the place go without food, water, or power. This is the route I take and the one I would recommend. You could let the evil Preston Garvey distract you from finding your son and stopping The Institute by doing his job for him, but why would you do that?

I hate so much about the things you choose to be

Yes, on paper being able build your own buildings, assign jobs to settlers, and generally sprinkle your own creativity into the Fallout universe sounds like a great idea, and it is, just not when crudely put into a completely different type of game. The settlement mechanics, though somewhat restrictive, are not all that bad either; there are some impressive creations to be found around the web, but that is not the point. The point is that this is a huge part of the game that takes up a lot of space on the map, so it detracts from and interrupts the greater Fallout experience. There was something special about being able to afford a house in Oblivion or earning that small home in Fallout 3, but the settlement system takes away that sense of home and accomplishment by drowning the player in it. Oddly enough, I think this problem could be improved upon if there were fewer settlements, and if they were much more difficult to obtain, but as is, the settlement system is, in my opinion, the worst addition to Fallout 4.

Though I stand by all that I have said thus far, I have now put around 100 hours into this game, and no amount of complaining on my part will negate that fact. You can tell me that the story is not compelling, that the settlement system doesn’t belong, that the dialogue choices are needlessly vague, or that the number of quests does not amount to that of New Vegas. Those critiques are all valid and make Fallout 4 the lesser of the three first-person Fallout titles. The key is to accept 4′s faults and enjoy what is great about the game as well as its many, welcome changes and gameplay improvements, such as better player movement and combat, an extensive crafting system, and a more varying and rewarding loot hunt.

What brings me back to Fallout 4, however, is the same gameplay loop that has drawn me to each of Bethesda’s games; there is a huge world and enough rewards and stories strewn about to keep me exploring it. The disappointment of the main quest is not as bad when I have quests of my own each time I play, like when I fought my way to the bottom of an abandoned hospital only to be jumped by a deathclaw, or when a yao guai chased me up a fallen tree in the woods. In the end, we play new installments in series such as Fallout and Elder Scrolls more for what has remained the same rather than what has changed, and those elements remain intact in Fallout 4.

Though I initially dreaded drawing fallout 4, I believe being forced to ponder the game for a while has brought be to a greater appreciation of it, despite its many flaws. In fact, I will probably keep playing it on the side when I can, even after posting this, and perhaps get my hands on the story DLC next time it goes on sale. I will make sure to write if I have any additional thoughts.

Ok, let’s see what we have next...

Blackshadows...What is Blackshadows?

P.S.Before I draw the next game, I have something to say about these types of games in general. Seeing as I was playing more for writing this blog rather than simply enjoying it as a game, I decided to be a bit more reckless with my items. I ate a lot of food, threw a lot of grenades, and generally didn’t play with the “but what if I need this later?” mentality. I ended up enjoying the game a lot more. it was better experience overall to just use what I had and get rid of what wasn’t useful.

P.P.S. I do not plan on all of my posts being this long. Many will be shorter. I am going to write my honest thoughts and opinions on each game I play, that is all I can guarantee, but Fallout 4 has so much going on within and outside of the game that it required a longer post.

#fallout 4 #fallout #bethesda #steam #steam games #pc gaming #video games #game blogging #game review

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