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dottiechan · 3 years

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ICEBREAKER Pt. 7

Read on AO3 (link in bio)

Pairing: Crosshair x Reader x Hunter

Wordcount: 2325

Summary: Bracca is nothing more than a blur. But in the midst of this chaos, there are flashbulb memories, vivid snapshots of moments that will be etched into your mind for the rest of your life.

Warnings: cursing, anxiety, injuries

You're sitting in the corner, mute. Everyone is tired, exhausted beyond belief in the belly of a rusting Republic warship, decommissioned just like you should be. You're all waste, fighting for scraps of individuality in a world that only values witless cooperation. Tech once called the Empire "the very death of critical thinking," and you wonder if he meant it literally. If he meant himself too, and his army of identical brothers, those ticking time bombs with switches sewn inside their heads. If he meant Wrecker grabbing him by the throat before trying to kill you. If he meant Crosshair's blind obedience to an Empire that could never love him back as you do.

Your hand glides over your tender arm, and you wince. You will be bruised, the imprint of Wrecker's hand will bloom purple on your skin, like a strange flower. Your back will be painted blue and black and purple too from where it kissed the ground after he threw you across the med bay. You don't know how many times you will be traumatised before you can find some semblance of peace in this godforsaken Galaxy.

And when you look at Omega - sweet Omega, struggling not to fall asleep, holding Wrecker's hand, hoping the man who tried to kill her a mere hour ago would wake - you somehow manage to feel even worse.

...

It takes time, for them all to undergo surgery. You look at their shaved heads, their confused faces as they look around. They won their own freedom, fought for it too. You want to imagine him here too, in the middle of this quiet victory over the unconscious, silver hair shaved on one side, shaking fingers placing a toothpick between soft lips, uncertain eyes searching for yours amongst his brothers. You want Wrecker to put an arm around those sinewy shoulders only to evoke a scowl on that beloved face.

Wrecker gazes back at you sadly when he notices you staring.

"On your feet, soldier," Hunter extends a hand to you with a small smile on his face. But you know him well enough now, and you see through his façade. You know just how shaken he is, shaken down to his very core. You take his hand and let him help you up. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, don't worry about me."

"You know that's not something I can do."

"I'm fine, I promise. Completely functional. I'm not the one who's just had surgery," you tut gently, taking his bandana from him when he tries to put it back over the bandage on his head. You're as careful as you can be, ignoring the stabbing ache in your arm as you fix Hunter up, gently brushing his short pieces of hair in the front back over the red fabric once you're finished tying a knot. "There. Good as new."

He catches your hands before you could withdraw them, and upon realising that most are distracted by Rex's and Echo's conversation, he holds them to his heart for a little while. His forehead comes to rest against yours gently, but at first you're not sure if he meant to do that, or if he just bowed under the great weight on his shoulders. But his eyes are searching your face now, and his breath ebbs and flows in harmony with yours. You've seen many soldiers do this before, brothers sharing a peaceful moment together before facing death on the battlefield. The Mandalorians call this a Keldabe kiss. But in his mind, Hunter just simply calls it arriving home.

"We'll be okay," you swallow thickly when he pulls back, placing a hand on the side of his face.

"We'll be okay," Hunter echoes, pressing his cheek into your palm, but if there's anything he's learned today, it's that he can never truly be sure of that.

...

"This is it, boys."

Rex almost looks reluctant, as if being around the Bad Batch has rekindled fond memories he's not eager to part with. This used to be his life, being surrounded by his brothers, saving the day. And while he feels satisfied, this victory leaves a bitter taste in his mouth when he realises that in the grand scheme of things, he's barely changed anything. One family saved, but countless others lost. Like his own brothers, for instance; his own stupid, stubborn, loyal brothers, buried on a bare rock of a moon. Their loss left a hole in his chest bigger than the crater their crashed ship indented on the planet surface, and saving your squad is like a bandaid over a blaster shot to the heart.

He allows his gaze to linger on Echo for a while, the last man he's known well to survive, the last nail in the coffin of his grief. He looks so different now, and yet for a moment he expects Fives to materialise behind him. Dominos attached at the hip, his very own double trouble, the dual curse that followed him everywhere. He used to grumble about how they behaved all the time. But he loved them, he loved his little brothers with all his heart. And look where that love got them.

Fives is not here, of course. Rex never dared ask where they buried him. He's heard rumours of unmarked clone mass graves, but he was never brave enough to accept that truth. That's why he and Ahsoka buried their own dead with dignity, marking an extra grave along the rest, empty but reserved still.

His gaze finds you then, eventually. The only one who isn't a clone here in this rusting medbay, the sore thumb sticking out, the lost one with sad eyes who's seen too much for a civvie. He saw the way Hunter held onto you just now, how you shared a quiet moment in the corner when you thought no one was watching. He promised himself he would do this for Fives, that he would tell you if he ever saw you again that he talked about you even months after that one night at 79's. That he called you the one that got away, that he jokingly said he was saving himself for after the war when he could ask you to marry him. Fives was always full of shit, and no doubt half of what he said were just jokes, but he knows he cared about you still. It's apparent that you're a remarkable person, easy to grow attached to, but twice as difficult to forget.

He wants to do this for Fives. He wants to tell you, he wants you to know that the man who ultimately saved the ones you love loved you in turn. But you already seem like you've been through enough and he hasn't the heart to put you through this as well.

You catch him looking at you, and you muster a small, tired smile. "Take care, Captain."

"Ma'am."

I'm sorry, Fives, he keeps repeating over and over in his head as he turns to leave.

...

The deck is about to collapse. It is the only way you even have a slight chance of survival, you know that. And yet you feel stuck in this very moment, unable to move, deer in the headlights, shaking from head to toe.

The squad is whole again.

You'd like to believe you wouldn't know what would happen if you approached him, if you tried to pry his helmet off and look into his eyes. You'd like to believe he'd let you, you'd like to believe he would listen to your pleas, that he would stop this madness. Order his troops to stand down. Come home with you.

You'd like to believe. But all you can think about is Wrecker, out of his mind and yet still so terrifyingly present somehow, grabbing Tech by the throat and throwing him against the wall before coming for you.

And you know Crosshair would gun you down without hesitation.

"Crosshair... Please don't do this. We can help you." The plea escapes your lips before you could stop it, however. Crosshair tilts his head towards you, and even though you can't see his gaze, just knowing that his eyes are on you is like being struck by lightning. How long was it since you last saw him? How long was it since he last gazed at you, and you at him? He seems almost as frozen for a moment as you, and you allow yourself to believe he's still in there, raging against the control of the Empire. You don't know what it was that you two shared back on Hoth, but you know it meant something. It had to. And judging by his consideration, and the hesitant way he shuffles a step closer to you, you know he must remember too.

But he moved too quickly for Hunter's liking, and he's by your side, trying to shield you as much as he shields Omega. Whatever moment you and Crosshair just shared is over. You can tell, by the tightening of his shoulders, by his stance turning defensive once more. You got through to the real Crosshair for a second. But the menace - like some demon possessing his body - is back in control once again.

"Crosshair, wake up! You're being controlled by an inhibitor chip." Hunter's reasoning falls on deaf ears now. It is over. You should accept it, but you can't. But at least you're not the only one who can't admit defeat.

"He's telling the truth. The Kaminoans put chips in all the clones. Remember what I told you in the brig?"

After Omega's spoken up, a stretch of silent tension follows. You're all nervous, weapons aimed, caught in a death trap with no way out but down. And yet you're holding on, you're still holding on to that last shred of hope that your words will finally get through to him. That you can finally put down the cross you've been bearing and rest.

"Aim for the kid."

You don't know how many times you can be traumatised before you finally give in. But you make room for one more, and the day is far from being over yet.

...

You're going to be sick, but you know you can't be. You've treated a thousand gruesome injuries before, but somehow a partial blaster burn to the chest will be your final straw, you can already tell. You gingerly lay the bacta patch across the scorched patch skin and flesh as your fingers tremble like a new recruit's. The internal damage was thankfully minimalised by his armour, but this is still going to take some time to heal from.

You don't know how long it will take for you all to heal from leaving Crosshair behind once more. From losing Omega.

When your breathing starts bordering on frantic, Tech nudges you aside and takes over, but you can't leave. You sit on the edge of the cot, and clutch Hunter's hand in your clammy ones. You can't lose anyone else, you can't, you heart wouldn't take it.

When he finally comes around again, the look in his eyes are so hurt you finally give in to the urge to cry.

"I guess I can't hold the mission on Bracca against you anymore," Hunter rasps through his pain, trying to ignore how choked up and panicked the thought of losing Omega makes him.

"No, you really can't," you agree quietly, wiping at your eyes as you try not to let your anxiety get the better of you. Not when you're supposed to be Hunter's comfort, when you're supposed to reassure him.

"This is the only thing I ever want to wake up to," he whispers, a weak hand reaching up, longing touch ghosting along your features. He's dying a little inside every time he fails, swallowing the shards of every heart he breaks as atonement. They're jarring his insides, leaving him breathless every time he moves. And yet he keeps pushing on, even now, even when he feels worse than he's ever felt - all because of you. You're his only remedy in this fucked up world, the only person who still makes him believe there can be a happy ending for you all. He loves his brothers, but they're just as guilty and cynical as he is. He understands why he can't pin all his hopes on a child, but for some reason, he can't make the same exception for you. His voice is quiet, but it's obvious his head is clear when he speaks next.

"Cyare."

A little to the side, Tech finishes checking the medical scans for the last time. Hunter's condition has been stabilised, and for now, all he can do is look into the bounty hunter who took Omega. He casts one last look at you and Hunter, hand in hand, eyes glued to each other's face, and he sighs.

"How's Hunter?"

"He'll live," Tech answers, placing a hand on Echo's shoulder. "We've been through a lot over a rather short period of time. I think they've earned a moment of peace alone though, wouldn't you agree?"

Echo's face rarely reflects the emotions inside him, but now an endless kind of sadness perches itself on his features as he nods and follows Tech to the cockpit.

"They deserve a lot more than that. Hell, we all do."

...

Crosshair would agree with that sentiment now as he's patched up at the medbay of an Imperial flagship, alone aside from the medical droids. His head is killing him, his thoughts are sluggish, but the pain in his chest is not only from his injuries. He keeps remembering you, over and over again, your beautiful face, the way you said his name as if he mattered, as if he still belonged to you. And you left him behind anyways again.

If he heard Tech's and Echo's conversation now, he'd agree. He deserves better too.

#dottiechan writes #hunter x reader x crosshair #hunter x reader #crosshair x reader #tbb x you #tbb x reader #the bad batch fanfiction #the bad batch x you #the bad batch x reader #tbb hunter #tbb crosshair

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hellothere-generalangsty · 3 years

Text

Gloved hand (Crosshair)

Summary: Crosshair found a way to get rid of his chip, and went looking for his brothers in the depot, fully aware of the confrontation that would follow.

No pairing or reader description, only the member of the Batch

Word count: 2761

CW/TW: ANGST; Death, trauma, guilt, violent memories/ nightmares, burns/scar, some swearing; I don’t know how graphic my style is, so if I forgot anything please tell me!

Tags: @allamarisss @loth-wolffe @imalovernotahater (you all asked 🤧)

@razena88 @m-o-o-n-s-g-o-o-n-s (non of you asked but I thought you'd want to check it out since you reacted to my Crosshair post; if you don't want to be tagged just tell me and I'll remove it !)

Notes: I had to. Because you’re all nice and I love pain, so here is the Sad Hour: Crosshair Edition™; Enjoy! (aka, I hope you’ll suffer a bit)

PS: sorry about the little dots when I skip a line, it’s the only way I could well...skip a line. I’ll try to find another way for the future!

PPS: The Neighbourhood - Roll Call is the song I listened to while writing this 🤭

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He knew they were waiting on him, on the move he would make. They didn’t know about his chip being removed – not yet – and he knew he only had one shot.

How ironic.

He was still wearing the Imperial armour, face covered by his helmet, rifle attached to his back. He could see the way Hunter tightened his fingers around the trigger, and he recognised that look; the one he usually gave to his opponents before he killed them. He could get away; Hunter was a good shooter and his senses did helped for that; but Crosshair was the marksman. He guessed by a simple look at the scenery that the shot would crush through his pectoral plates, and given the distance and the type of blaster, it would surely shake him out, but it wouldn’t kill him.

As much as he sucked at it, he had to resort to words. He wasn’t the Empire’s puppet anymore, and trying once again to threaten them…It was simply out of the question.

Slowly, he raised his hands to his helmet, grabbing the lower part of it. He waited a second, not sure about the short moment where his vision would be obstructed.

Come on, you don’t get to worry about getting shot. Take the damn bucket off.

He pushed it up his head, briefly closing his eyes as a ridiculous way to sooth his morbid thoughts. When he opened them up again, Hunter hadn’t moved an inch. He didn’t know how much time he had, so Crosshair dared to take a step forward. Then another, holding his helmet in one hand, keeping the other one on the plastoid covering his chest, gently taping it with a gloved finger.

He stopped at the fourth step. The Batchers tensed up, unsure of what his next move would be. Crosshair knew what he was doing.

T’s your time to shine, Cross.

“DC-17. Round it down to a 7 meters distance from the target, slightly move your arm to your left.” He taped on a small spot of his chest plate, never breaking eye contact with Hunter. “Make me proud.”

It was a bold move, he knew it too damn well. He forced himself to maintain eye contact with them, with him, as much as it scared the crap out of him. As much as he hoped, deep down, for his brother to take pit-

It was quick, bright. Finger pressed against the trigger, Hunter noticed every wave in the sound of the shot as it echoed in the depot. He followed the blue deflagration as it got spit out of his blaster, sliding the air in a thin whistling, brushing past Crosshair’s left arm, hitting another clone further behind.

He didn’t know if it was the right decision; but he knew enough about Crosshair to try it.

“I said ‘to your left’” was the only thing that came out of Crosshair’s mouth as he turned his head to look at the man lying on the floor a few meters behind him. He wasn’t dead, and now they had to quickly evacuate.

But Cross was alive. For now.

“Tech, get in there and be ready to take off when I tell you to! Wrecker, you cover us. Crosshair.”

The sniper pulled out his own blaster, back turned to the Batchers, ready to shoot any intruder trying to rip him away from his family once again. He soon felt a firm hand grasping his shoulder and dragging him back. He didn’t fight it, didn’t look at it. His focus was on the men running in the depot, on the way he hit them with such precision it almost felt too easy.

He was the last one to get in the Havoc Marauder, still shooting as the door closed shut in front of him.

“…Crosshair?”

His heart pounded so hard in his chest that for a moment, he thought it might go through the plastoid armour and crush against the wall. There was the next move. So easy to execute, yet so terrifying.

“Crosshair, look at us.”

It was the tone; too formal, almost polite. He hated it. But he obeyed anyway, slowly turning around to face his tattooed brother.

Don’t look down. Don’t look down and cut that crap.

Hunter remained silent for a moment, examining Crosshair’s face scarred by burns, his new shaved side and white patch on the side of his head. The violent pumping and barely shaky breath told him more than the stoic eyes he was staring at.

“How’d you do it?”

“A droid helped.” Hunter’s nod was the only answer he got.

Keep talking, di’kut.

“I-”

“I missed you.” confessed Wrecker. “I think we all did.”

Now it was his turn to nod. What could he possibly answer? ‘I missed you too, but mostly because my chip made me want to kill you.’?

You didn’t wanted it, you had no choice.

“You didn’t have a choice,” Echo got a bit closer to him, even though he couldn’t tell if it was a good idea. “We know you didn’t.”

“Now that you removed your chip, you’re out of risks.” commented Tech, trying to comfort him a bit.

Each second passing was getting him closer to the edge. He wasn’t looking at faces, he was looking at phantom targets, still feeling the stings stabbing his brain every time he hesitated before shooting at them. Their voices were hardly getting to him, they were so distant, probably a faint memory from a time where he still had control.

“…get you something to eat, and you’ll go take a shower. Works for you?”

“Yes, Sarge.”

He knew the small clap on his shoulder was more of a friendly kind than a brotherly one. He hated it. He deserved it.

He never felt that uncomfortable while eating with someone before. Even lunches on Kamino’s cantina weren’t as awkward. Tech tried to initiate a small talk, mentioning their next mission, the supplies they would need to get, and Omega tried to keep him going by nodding and asking questions he knew were useless.

But really, it was just an excuse to avoid the talk. Given the situation, it would probably hurt less to just… confront him. Tell him he scared them, when he callously ordered Hunter to stand down and surrender, told his troopers to “aim for the kid”. Not that he didn’t know; he found the confession in their eyes every time they would look at him.

He barely ate, rolling a fresh toothpick between his gloved fingers as he weakly chewed on his food.

“I’ll take the first round tonight,” Hunter muttered, mostly for himself.

Crosshair slowly got up from his seat, putting his ration away, trying to avoid the stares. He slid his toothpick between his lips, nibbling a bit harder than usual on the wooden texture. All he had to do was turn around and leave the cockpit. He had done it countless time by the past, what’s one more?

He wanted to lay down and sleep his pain away, get drowned in the pillows and forget all about what happened. He took a few steps, pretended he didn’t flinch when a hand caught his own, but couldn’t bring himself to smile at Omega when she gently rubbed his knuckles.

She didn’t say anything, she simply followed him to the bunk beds. Crosshair could barely look at her, because every time he did he could only see the scared look she gave him when he ordered it.

Aim for the kid.

It was haunting; she was just a child, a mixture of a little sister and a daughter for the Batchers, and he tried to rip that away from them too.

His attention shifted to the beds when he noticed the lights around his. He could also see a glimpse of a plush – oddly familiar – and a soft blanket nicely pulled over the mattress.

“We – she needed a place to sleep, and you were gone so…”

Wrecker, who followed him too, was uncomfortable; he was the one who came up with the idea. As much as he missed Crosshair, he knew he needed to take care of his little one because she was here. But now, Cross was back.

“Keep the bed,” he murmured, “I don’t mind.”

And he meant it. He would have done the same if Wrecker, or Echo or whoever went missing like he had. The kid deserved a comfy place to rest, her life with them already being chaotic enough.

“I can sleep with you, I don’t mind. I can stay at the end of the bed if you’d prefe-”

“It’s fine, Omega.”

He painted a weak, yet gentle smile on his face, hoping for it to convince her. It did, because she nodded and held his arm against her for a few seconds as to hug it. Wrecker – and Echo later that night – offered him to sleep in their bed. “I can sleep with Tech if you want it all for yourself” the 501st vet assured him. But Crosshair declined each time, pretending that he would probably not sleep anyway tonight, just tonight, because he needed to get used to this place again.

In a way, it was true. He needed time to find his footing here, to get back to the way things used to be.

Don’t pretend it will go back to ‘how it used to be’. It could never.

When everyone headed to bed, Hunter returned to the cockpit and found the sniper sitting on his own.

“I’ll take the first round, Crosshair. Go get some sleep.”

“I don’t have a bed,” he barely confessed, his usual sarcastic tone nowhere to be found.

“Take mine for now, I don’t need it before a few hours. Don’t discuss it,” he pursued when Crosshair tried to reply, “I’m not giving you a choice.”

It took him a second to realise how clumsy it sounded, but Crosshair spared him the embarrassment of an apology when he got up and nodded.

“Alright, sorry.”

Hunter grabbed his shoulder, unsure about his next move, but trying anyway.

“It’s…We can’t pretend nothing happened, but we’ll work through this. All of us,” and when he heard Crosshair’s heart pumping harder and his breath getting heavier, he added, “as a family.” Before letting go of him.

Crosshair couldn’t even speak anymore. If he tried, all that would come out would be confused babbling and an awkward throat clearing. He hoped on his brother’s heightened senses to read through him like an open book, throwing back one last look before he got back to the bunk beds. All the Batchers were already sleeping, peacefully wrapped in their blankets or holding their plushie against their chest. He sat on the edge of Hunter’s bed, his blacks still on, eyes locked on the soft lights emanating from his old bed.

Hunter woke up when he felt a soft weight landing on his lap. The smell got him almost immediately, a mixture of gunpowder and iron.

“You should have surrendered.”

His eyes shifted to the slim shadow standing a few steps away, lurking on him with cold determination.

“Crosshair?” He looked down at the soft plush laying on him. Lula. Her head was almost ripped in half by a now barely fuming hole. He couldn’t hide the fear splashing his eyes, neither could he refrain his voice from breaking when he asked “what did you do?”

“I did what had to be done. This is why they put me in charge to track you. I’m efficient.”

Hunter shivered at the sick smile he could hear in Crosshair’s voice. His thoughts ran from the plush to Omega, to the bunk beds at the end of the hallway, to his brothers left unarmed at the mercy of a sniper who had none.

“You should have killed me in that depot.”

“Crossha-”

A quick thud filled the cockpit as a red, bright light stroked Hunter right through the chest. He fell back into his seat, unable to breathe, but way too aware of the burn on his skin, of the nerves flaming up under the chock and the heat, of his heart rapidly pulsing then slowing down in a macabre countdown. He got dizzy, eyes blurring out despite his desperate attempt to get them focused.

He struggled to keep his head up, until a gloved hand grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look up. He could guess the shapes of the helmet, the green and grey shades melting altogether as his eyes barely held open. As he felt his own heart stop, his last breath making him chock, he heard his brother’s voice taunting him, one last time.

“Good soldiers follow orders.”

Pitch black. This is all Crosshair could see when he abruptly opened his eyes. The blanket was rolled up at his feet, his blacks soaked in sweat, and his head aching. A sudden terror grasped him as he held his temple, tripping off the bed as he tried to get up, muttering Hunter’s name. He choked up on the syllables when he realised he was sleeping in his brother’s bed, while the tracker was nowhere to be found. He found himself struggling for air, the same way he would if someone stabbed him repeatedly in the chest. He dragged himself to the refresher, locking the door as soon as he got in.

The bright light forced him to close his eyes for a few seconds, but once he got used to it he reached the tap. His hands, usually so precise and steady, where uncontrollably shaking, to the point of him getting cramps.

The cold water did nothing to help; he shivered to the wet contact, lightly gasping when he splashed his face, but did it again, and again, trying to wash off the pain of his body.

Did I killed them? Did I? What if I did, what will I do, what if I killed them, I can’t- I can’t lose them, not again, not this way, I-

His head was buried in his hands, and it demanded all his strength for him to look up in the mirror. He quickly regretted doing so.

He hated those scars. Mostly, what they represented, what they meant.

It means you tried to get them burned alive; you ordered for them to be burned alive by an active propeller. This is what they mean, this is what you did.

He hated his reflection, lurking and haunting him the same way his memory did. A phantom pain none of them could imagine.

You like to pretend they don’t get it, but they do. Their own brother tried to kill them. You did that, Crosshair; don’t put the blame on your victims.

“Kriff,” he bitterly chuckled, tears burning his eyes.

You did this to yourself. Take some responsibilities.

He tried to maintain eye contact with himself, fingers gripped so tight around the edge of the sink he could feel his muscles quiver. He didn’t have a choice, he knew that. The chip forced him, the Empire used him to do these terrible things.

If a gloved hand kills you, will you blame the glove, or the hand?

You’re the hand, Crosshair. Nothing you will ever say or do will change that.

Nothing.

“Shut the kriff up,” he gave up, angrily pushing himself away from the sink, but still catching a glimpse of tears running down his cheeks before he turned his head, defeated. “Keep the snide to yourself.”

He jolted when someone softly knocked on the door. He took a few deep breaths to calm down his pumping heart, wiped away the tears with the back of his hand, and opened the door.

“I didn’t find you in the bed,” Hunter explained while analysing his expression, “I thought you’d be in here.”

“I can take the next round.” Crosshair calmly responded.

“Mine’s not done yet.”

“Hunter, please I- let me take the next round.”

He couldn’t say which of the two, his muffled “please” or his begging eyes, convinced Hunter; but it worked and that was enough for him. He didn’t flinch this time, when his brother gently patted his arm; he even wished for a quick, warm embrace. But he doubted Hunter was ready to get affectionate with him so easily. Truth be told, he didn’t feel that comfortable either. It was a crave he couldn’t fill.

He still cracked a weak smile as Hunter nodded and returned to his bed to get some rest.

Crosshair dragged himself to the cockpit, his stomach twisting at the sight of the empty seat on his right. He fell into his own, a long sigh slipping from his lips.

Don’t fall asleep.

#I hope you're sad now #I am #crosshair feels #crosshair #tbb fic #the bad batch writing #the bad batch #tbb #tbb crosshair #angst #Sad Hour for Crosshair #poor lil sniper #mesa writes #sad crosshair #sad batch

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darksides-dutchess · 3 years

Text

And now the sides as thing my friends and I have said

Virgil:*sends a long and felt message on how he cares about his friends*

Janus: Are you being held at gunpoint?

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Everyone: *baking a cake*

Remus: Let's write dilf on the cake.

Virgil: WHY?!?!

Remus: cause Patton said to write something you like on your cake.

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Logan: I have never felt more joy since I was in high school and the teacher said that my work was the best among everyone and that was the confidence boost I needed to realise I am the baddest bitch ever.

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Remus: I want a spicy chicken sandwich actually two with no fries and plain water.

Janus: I will strangle you

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Patton: From now on I will now be known as the Frog King bow down to your new ruler and hold fear in your hearts about the power I withhold.

Everyone: ALL HAIL THE FROG KING!!!

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Virgil: WHO THE FUCK MADE ME A FLOWER CROWN IM ALLERGIC TO POLLEN.

Janus: I did.

Virgil: Of course you fucking would.

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Roman: *watching a movie* what is this platonic or romantic? I genuinely can't tell the difference.

Remus: Honestly who cares. We can't let some guy for old England tell us the difference.

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Janus: All in saying is that we should at least fuck our friends once just to understand the feel of it.

Logan: I'm not having sex with you.

Janus: >:(

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Roman: if there is one thing you need to know about me is that I am a sad queer kid that romanticises everything in his life but has never been held in the arms of anyone who genuinely loves me.

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Patton: Is it just me or does the Khan Academy guy actually sounds kinda hot?

Remus: FINALLY SOMEONE FUCKING SAID IT. IM NOT ALONE ANYMORE!!

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Virgil: WOULD YOU STOP PLAYING NOBODY BY MITSKI ON REPEAT!!

Janus,through tears: I've bEeN BiG anD sMalL, AnD bIG aNd SmAll aGAin......

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Logan: It's times like these where I wish you could just shut the fuck up.

Remus: What I just said that doctors can perform brain surgery while the patient is awake.

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Virgil: Remus we aren't friends anymore, you're going in the DNI section of my tumblr bio.

Remus: SHAWTY IS GIVING ME A FREE SHOUT OUT!!

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Janus: Okay patton you had your turn with the kitten now its our turn.

Patton: NO!

Logan: Give her to us Patton.

Patton: If any of you dare to take Luna (the cats name) I will not hesitate to place a lego peice after ever step you take.

Everyone:*slowly backs away*

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Roman: if you ever met a straight guy and he says he does musical theatre, that man it the biggest liar known to our generation and is living in a closet made of glass.

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Virgil: I feel like you were a lesbian in your past life.

Patton: Oh definitely 100% agree.

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Remus: The reason I am so disappointed in myself is that I am a whore living in a virgins body. I have been fucked 78 times in my head but never in reality.

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Logan: I would rather get stabbed 54 times in the chest by a toothpick and pour lemon juice into my eyeballs than to share a bed with you.

Roman, who snores way too loud: Understandable, have a good night, hope you sleep with one eye open.

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Janus: OMG!! I love the look you are going today, the eyes bags from crying yourself to sleep over a boy that doesn't care about really compliments the I didn't get enough attention as a child and now I get overly attached to people way too quickly, you're killing it!!

Virgil: 🖕😐🖕

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Remus: I would eat the communist manifesto.

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Virgil: I'm not saying I wanna die but if I was in a dark alley and someone just stabbed and left me there to die............. I wouldn't be disappointed.

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Comment if you wnat to see more of the weird shit my friends and I say

Reblogs appreciated

#sanders sides #logan sanders #remus sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #janus sanders #sanders sides incorrect quotes

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schleierkauz · 4 years

Text

The Color of Revenge: Chapter 3

This chapter burned my house down but here it is. You probably know the drill by now - please tell me if you find any mistakes, share your thoughts and enjoy! :)

Chapter 3: It’s not easy to find a Glass Man

It’s not easy to find a glass man, especially one that doesn’t want to be found. The Black Prince, who had only just returned to Ombra with his following of strolling players, musicians and acrobats, started a search party with all of them.

Meggie’s mother Resa drew portraits of Ironstone that they showed around. Mo and Doria took turns inside the tavern Rosenquartz favored (after the innkeeper had made it very clear that she had better things to do than watching every glass man who sat down on her counter).

Meggie took her brother Dante on long walks through the streets of the neighborhood where Rosenquartz had seen Orpheus’ glass man. She hoped Dante might spot him more easily since he was so small.

But there was no trace of Ironstone anywhere. The futile search and the fear they all felt brought back dark memories. Memories of the reign of the Adderhead and the sinister role Orpheus had played back then. After five years of peace, the past seemed almost unreal. But everyone who searched the city for the glass man remembered all too well the fear and pain of those days. When the sun was setting and they still hadn’t found Ironstone, even her Ugliness’ soldiers joined the efforts. But they couldn’t find him either.

Only one of Orpheus‘ old foes wasn’t in Ombra when Rosenquarz’s discovery disrupted Ombra’s peace. Farid had spent the last year or so at the courts of South Lorraine, being celebrated for his fire shows. It was a long journey there but Doria’s brother, the Strong Man, agreed to go to find and warn Farid after Dustfinger asked him to.

“Well, you seem very sure that Orpheus is still alive,“ Fenoglio said to Dustfinger as they stood at the city wall with the Black Prince and watched the Strong Man disappear down the road. Despite his size he had, as always, chosen a donkey to carry him.

“I never believed he was dead,“ Dustfinger replied.

Another day came and went. One by one, everyone got back to work, even though the unease stayed with them and they knew that from now on, their eyes would linger on any glass man they saw.

“Hell, I just hope Orpheus doesn’t hear about all this chaos,” Fenoglio grumbled as he rested his sore feet in Minerva’s kitchen that night. “That scumbag would probably take it as a compliment.“

“I still hope he’s dead,“ Rosenquartz chirped “and that his glass man will join him soon.“

Dead… As if that meant much in this world. Fenoglio simply grunted and held his empty glass out to Minerva.

Dustfinger had been dead, so had Cosimo the Fair. It was all too easy to come back from the dead in this world. No, he wanted a more permanent end for Orpheus and his toxic silvertongue.

Minerva filled him his glass with obvious disapproval and put the bottle back in the cupboard. Yes, yes, he was drinking too much – he always did when something was worrying him. Oh, hell, why had he ever invented tiny men made of glass?! Of course, he didn’t say that out loud. If Rosenquartz heard, he would dance over at least five pages of his new manuscript. After dipping his shoes in fresh ink.

Not that it would have mattered much. Fenoglio wrote strictly for fun these days, for Dante or Minerva’s children, but he was still attached to his stories. Resa illustrated them with beautiful drawings that could have competed with the paintings of the great Balbulus – even though he was so full of himself that he strode through Ombra like a puffed up bullfrog.

“Do you want me to make you some hot milk with honey?“ Minerva asked when Fenoglio sighed into his wine. “You’ve barely slept for days. Wherever Orpheus is hiding, you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of killing you from afar, do you?”

No, surely not. For inky heaven’s sake! Just why was it so much easier to believe in impending misfortune than a happy ending? They’d had such good years. He hadn’t thought of the other world for one minute. Well, he missed his grandkids from time to time, but Dante and Minerva’s children were excellent substitutes. Hell, he was a heartless old man!

The dogs started barking down in the yard. Visitors so late at night. Minerva looked just as surprised as Fenoglio – and just as worried.

But it was just the bookworm woman who stood at the door. Ombra’s good bakeries had made Elinor Loredan even rounder whereas Darius, as always right behind her like a living shadow, was as spindly as a locust despite all the cakes he shared with her. Truly enviable. He didn’t look as melancholic as usual. Maybe the rumors were true that he’d fallen in love with the girl who dusted Loredan’s bookshelves. She was very pretty. “Stop it, Fenoglio, you could be her grandfather!” he silently scolded himself.

“You won’t believe it!“ Elinor spluttered as she followed Fenoglio up the steep stairs which led to Minerva’s kitchen. “Darius! Go on, tell them! Can’t you see I can barely get out the words?“

Books were still being written by hand in this world, which made them very expensive, so she had found a new passion. Loredan attended the performances of each and every troupe of actors who performed in Ombra, no matter how raggedy. Some of them had started bringing along an armchair for her.

“Tell me what?“ Fenoglio asked. After all these years, Elinor Loredan still managed to drive him up the proverbial wall. He wasn’t sure whether he admired Darius for his patience with her or thought him a fool.

“We had an unexpected visitor today.“ Hearing Darius‘ gentle voice, no one would have suspected that he was a very talented silvertongue. “Orpheus’ glass man showed up at our door.”

Fenoglio’s heart stopped long enough that for a moment he was sure it would never beat again.

“Just walked right in!“ Elinor shook her head in such outrage that it started raining hairpins out of her gray hair. “That disrespectful glass head! I have no clue how he managed to get past the dog!“ The Black Prince had talked her into getting said dog, even though she didn’t like dogs. She couldn’t deny the Prince anything. Fenoglio suspected that she was in love with him. Anyway – it was such a gigantic creature that Mortimer had already proposed the theory that it wasn’t a dog at all but a small bear. Which would in turn explain why he got along so well with the Prince’s own tame bear.

“Great Heavens! Elinor Loredan, who cares how the glass man got past the damn dog?!“ Fenoglio blustered. “What did he want? What did he say? I hope you caught him?“

“Caught him?“ Elinor pushed back her messy hair (it was always messy) and took a sip of Fenoglio’s wine. “The pipsqueak carries a sword! Not much longer than a toothpick but I’m sure he would’ve stabbed me in the hand! Altough he was very polite. Right, Darius?”

“Exceedingly polite,“ Darius agreed. “He told us his new master, a troubadour, was so confused about all the excitement they caused that he told him to visit all of us and explain that Orpheus died four years ago. An avalanche, he said, near Trent if I remember correctly. After visiting us he planned to go find Mortimer and then Dustfinger. His new master apparently has a lot of respect for his fire.”

“Really?“ Fenoglio frowned but Rosenquartz cut him off.

“Lies!“ he shrieked. “That smoky gray miscreant lies as soon as he opens his mouth! A troubadour? The man I saw him with looked more like a professional murderer!”

Fenoglio stepped to the window and looked down at the empty street.

“I don’t like this,“ he murmured. “I don’t like this one bit. I hope he shows up here as well. I’ll get the truth out of him. After all, I invented his kind.”

Rosenquartz rolled his eyes but said nothing.

“He wanted to go to Mortimer next?” Fenoglio turned around with a sudden jerk that signaled determination and impatience – and a hint of fear. Maybe a little more than that. “Alright. Then I will wait for him there.“

“The Folcharts aren’t home,“ Elinor said. “I already told the glass man the same. They’re all with Doria’s mother to discuss the engagement.”

“Engagement, what engagement?“ Fenoglio exclaimed. “Don’t I get told anything anymore?“

“Meggie’s engagement to Doria. I told you last week,“ Minerva said while she handed Rosenquarz a thimble filled with lentil soup. “But of course you don’t remember. You only ever remember things that concern yourself.”

Fenoglio ignored the comment. He was very good at ignoring comments regarding his character.

“But… Meggie is way too young to get married!“ he shouted, very cross that the story had taken yet another turn he’d neither written nor foreseen. “How can Mortimer allow that?”

Elinor abruptly stood up from her chair. “Don’t be an idiot! Meggie’s life isn’t some book you’re writing!” she snapped. “Have you forgotten what she went through? She hasn’t been too young for anything for a long time. You’re just very very old! Good night, Minerva!”

And with that she was out of the door, followed by Darius who had looked very sentimental upon hearing the word “engagement”.

(Next chapter)

#the color of revenge #inkheart #cornelia funke #inkworld #my laptop crashed THREE TIMES while i worked on this #unbelievable #anyway #my favorite detail of this chapter is that apparently dogs are legal now #i have to get up early tomorrow so i'm gonna go #oh i mean the 'share your thoughts' part btw some of you seem a little shy #which is fair #but i do read and appreciate tags so don't hold back alright?#cool #and i do love my active target audience of like 10 people lmao you are the best #good night #ly dont look

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raeliyah · 5 years

Text

Exalted Secret Santa 2018

First, snippet -- with full descriptions, reference pictures, and links under the cut. Anon-asks should be enabled so feel free to ask me anything if you need more info!

If none of these guys strike your fancy, I also have the rest of my exalted characters, with reference images and descriptions, here:

https://refsheet.net/redkite7

Caleb “Wraithshot” Raith Dawn Caste Solar Exalt of the South, longrider lawman, Righteous Devil gunslinger, Badlands Gentleman with a heart of battered gold, giant flirt

Qismet ibn al-Nusar, The Veiled Eagle Night Caste Solar Exalt of the west, self-appointed judge and executioner of corrupt supernaturals, leader of the Brotherhood of the Righteous Death, terse and broody

Zaela Tokari, Queen of Adrelith, of the Meridian Isles Zenith Caste Solar Exalt of the East, friend of Dragon Kings, precious cinnamon roll, youngest daughter, too young to be queen, too young to be Exalted, mousy and self-effacing but will stand up to everything from Deathlords to Elder Lunars in defense of her friends (no art yet)

Caleb “Wraithshot” Raith

Dawn Caste Solar Exalt

Caleb’s Pinterest Inspiration Board

Caleb’s easy. Think of every western trope and smash them all together. He’s a cowboy bounty hunter; a self-proclaimed lawman in a land where there is no law, riding circuit on a handful of towns in the South he considers his and protecting them from whatever evils lurk in the desert.

Physical Description

Caleb stands at 5′11″ and is on the leaner side at ~185 lbs. He’s fit, like a brawler (been in significantly more than his fair share of bar fights) or a ranch hand - someone who works at hard physical labor most days.

Caleb looks like he’s in his early 30s

Being the son of Northern immigrants, Caleb’s complexion is mostly pale, a reddish-burned tan anywhere the sun would shine - arms to the elbows, back of the neck, face mostly.

He’s also freckly across his face, shoulders and upper back, mostly from sun.

His eyes are clear honey-colored brown, more gold towards the pupil from the influence of exaltation.

Hair is black at the roots, growing out into sun-streaked brownish blond. He usually keeps it cut pretty short but if it goes too long without a trim it gets curlier. He likes a clean-shaven face but given his lifestyle he’s pretty much always got a day or three of scruff.

Caleb… basically looks like Chris Pratt.

He’s always got a smile of some stripe - warm, mischievous, leering, insincerely-wide - something.

He’s also very mouthy, and usually has something to chew on, whether it’s a piece of straw, a match, a toothpick, a cigarette (50% chance of it actually being lit), a twig - something. He’s never met a lollipop or chewing gum but he would love them.

Scars, see reference image: He's got a fair few that have never healed all the way. Added to that a nose which was broken in some bar brawl and never healed straight.

Left arm, from wrist to elbow: long nearly parallel white lines.

The remnants of pressure cuts through his right eyebrow, right side of his lips, and the left side of his chin, leaving gaps in the scruff.

A bullet-scar just above and to the left of his navel.

The remains of various slashes and stabs decorate his ribs. Most of these fade to nothing quickly, but he’s in fights often enough there’s always something.

The upper portion of his back is a mess of scars look like they were left from him getting dragged quicklike backwards over rock (because he was). A stylized rattlesnake tattoo on his right shoulderblade is only half-seen through the scars.

Caleb dresses in layers - shirt sleeves, a vest/waistcoat, and either a faded blue or red serape tossed over his shoulders or a brown longcoat. Pants are either canvas or faded denim, and boots are less cowboy-style and more combat- or motorcycle style with a heel for riding. He does wear spurs, but they’re blunted. He’s usually covered in trail dust and sweat, sometimes blood, despite efforts at cleanliness. Feel free to embellish the standard Cowboy gear with arabesque/middle eastern ornamentation, because it is Exalted…

He always carries two modified flame pieces (six-shooters… he’s got six-shooters) on his hips, and the belt’s buckle is large and obnoxious, mostly because he keeps a couple extra rounds of ammunition within it. He also has an artifact rifle (based on a Winchester M1873; lever action, but otherwise unspecified) named Medicine Man that is either slung across his back or is in a sheath on his horse’s saddle. He makes his own ammo for all his weapons. He is a student of Righteous Devil Style, having mastered up to the form charms, but his sifu disappeared and he’s not found another, nor is he skilled enough to pick it up without tutelage.

He does own chaps but whether or not he wears them on any given day depends on how hot it is and how much hard riding he’s anticipating. He has a hat he’s rather fond of, but it’s not anything truly special.

There may or may not be a bandana around his neck/on his person at any given moment, and he often wears a chip of blue crystal with an antelope petroglyph etched on it around his neck on a leather cord. It’s a token from his friend, a springs goddess named Rivela, and a reminder of a partner he lost.

He rides a buckskin warhorse named Dirt who he pretends not to be particularly attached to, but in fact he really really is. Dirt is his horse. Dirt adores him and is always trying to steal his hat. Dirt will also steal anyone else’s hat nearby, but he prefers Caleb’s.

Anima: Caleb’s anima banner is a hailstorm of bright burning metal, like large forge sparks, raining down on him and even appear to bounce off his skin and clothing. Golden smoke and flame rise from the ground at his feet wherever the sparks fall.

Full Description including Personality, History, Art, and links to Fic and Character Playlist Here.

Qismet ibn al-Nusar

Night Caste Solar Exalt Revenge-driven assassin, self-appointed judge jury and executioner of supernaturals who prey on innocents. Leader of a band of mortal assassins with the same motives.

Qismet's Pinterest Inspiration Board

Qismet's Character Playlist

Physical Description:

Qismet is shorter than average at 5'9" built lean and tough like an acrobat at around 150 lbs

he’s kinda touchy about his height

Qismet looks to be in his mid-to-late twenties.

He's darker complexioned, bronzed from a lot of time under the Western Sun

Examples: (Oded Fehr)(Cristian Codrin)(Avraham Aviv Alush)(Francisco Randez-also his face inspiration)

His hair is so dark brown it might as well be black, cut close but still has a bit of a wave to it.

Style example:(One)(Two)* Eyes are the same: so dark brown they might as well be black. Tend to go lighter, almost honey-colored, when he's channeling essence.

Qismet has fairly narrow features, a generous mouth with cupid's bow lips (see reference images) and a crooked nose, somewhat overlong. He would look great if he smiled but he hardly ever does. Eternal Brooding Face

Face Inspiration: Francisco Randez (One)(Two)(Three)(Four)

He has a thin blade scar vertically through his lips on the right side

Tattoos: One, on his right shoulder, the symbol of his assassin's order. Two, on his left bicep: a greenish kraken crossed out by two black swords (indicative of his vendetta against the Lintha).

Clothes and Accessories:

Qismet has two distinct "modes" -- his working guise, as The Veiled Eagle, equal parts vigilante super hero and feared villain, depending on who's looking, and his regular everyday self. The Veiled Eagle's identity is an open secret on his home island but if he's not in 'costume' the folk there know not to bother him as anything more than Qismet.

The Veiled Eagle:

As the Eagle, Qismet wears long open vests and tunics and leather armor (cuirass, pauldrons, greaves) in shades of charcoal to dove gray, with a hood and mask over his face, leaving only his eyes exposed, though the skin around them is usually darkened with greasepaint and charcoal. This outfit is patterned roughly after the Assassin's Creed styles. (Inspiration Images: (Mayan Armor)(Original AC Outfit)).

There is a single splash of blood red among the grays as a sash: normally wound around his waist or crossed from hip to shoulder.

Weaponry:

As the Eagle, Qismet also carries a lot of weapons. Most notable are his two artifact Moonsilver Bracers, the Eagle's Sheathed Talons. These artifacts are made of black siaka leather and covered with moonsilver filigreed plates making the shape of a mantling eagle. They extrude a long knife in combat and also serve as armor for his arms (they're basically Hidden Blades with Exalted flair).

He also wields the paired soul-steel short Daiklaves, Anguish and Agony (see reference image in refsheet.net gallery). He struck a deal with the spirits within when he took them from their former owner. They spend a night and a day of peace within a consecrated temple on the nights of moon dark every month, and in return he will never be chained by sorcery or necromancy until his Task is complete. If he fails to give them peace, they'll turn against him.

As Qismet:

When he's not 'working', Qismet tends towards sleeveless cross-front tunics and vests, loose-cut trousers and short fitted boots, thin-soled for good climbing. He still wears the red sash around his waist, knotted on one side, and always has the artifact bracers.

He tends towards cool, de-saturated colors (because they're cheap), but isn't picky: if it's free of obvious dirt and won't get in his way, he'll wear it. His lieutenant/lover Samira has been slowly stocking his wardrobe with nicer things since ostensibly he's an important figure in their region of the west and should occasionally look it. Really, have fun with clothing design.

He very occasionally wears a shark-tooth pendant, but he's not big on jewelry or adornment in general.

Anima:

A ghost-white and violet sea-eagle, whose head obscures Qismet’s face and whose movements echo the Solar’s.

Further Reading:

The Eagle and the Marionettist

Infectious - Drabble, features several characters

Silver Sun Era - Storium Game

A History of the Brotherhood of the Righteous Death

Zaela Tokari, Solar Queen

Zenith Caste Solar Exalted - Mousy former-Princess given Divine Power - Too Precious for this world - Too young to be Queen and feels it

Zaela’s Pinterest Board

Physical Description

Slim and willowy at 5′4″ish and 120lbs-ish - built like a dancer or musician

Medium-brown hair at the roots and lower layers, bleached gold by sun (and anima) light, with those instagram beach-style waves. Comes down to about her shoulderblades

Turquoise eyes, that fade to nearly white when she channels essence

Heart-shaped face with expressive eyes

Her complexion is tan with a bit of a copper tone to it

She exalted at 17 and still looks it

Zaela wears draping gowns in vaguely greek or ancient egyptian-esque fashion, in cool greens and blues and golds and white, accented with delicate jewelry wrought from gold and gems and flowers (natural or artificial). They are usually of light materials, silk,mist linen, and brushed cotton, suited for her jungle island kingdom.

She usually wears her hair in multiple loose braids, or half-up and adorned with tropical flowers (or whatever’s in season, if she’s travelling far from her home Isle). Nothing in her appearance would mark her as anything other than the favored daughter of a well-off family, but she does on occasion wear the orichalcum, white, and green jade lotus crown of her kingdom. It’s a little too ostentatious for her tastes.

Anima:

A flock of tropical birds, in jewel tones limned with gold, who spiral and swirl around her.

Fun Fact:

The ghost of her former shardholder, Prismatic Lotus, used to reside in their royal family chapel, trapped there during the Usurpation. Lotus fled to safe harbor within Zaela when the chapel was attacked and Zaela exalted--she now carries the spirit of her ancestress with her. Lotus acts as mentor, guide, sometime-posessor and obnoxious First Age brat in turn. But mostly she is helpful.

tagging @shiftingpath for secret santa organizational purposes -- thank you for all the work you put in to this every year; I very much appreciate it! and you! I will probably be editing this to make sure all the links are working properly and everything’s formatted correctly so apologies in advance

#exalted #exalted rpg #exalted secret santa #exalted secret santa 2018 #shiftingpath #my characters #I really need to make one up for Fiera on Refsheet too #next time #six is certainly sufficient options right #oh gosh and Senka #who else am I missing

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shadowofadalekmightdeactivate · 5 years

Text

BATIM fusions AU

I was gonna wait until I finished the game but buggar it all NOTE: I don’t own any of the characters, they all belong to @fangirltothefullest and their expies of themeatly’s characters. I just couldn’t stop thinking about an AU for them and had the idea for this monstrosity

Joey Drew: Progic Progic grew bitter after a project of his went wrong. One could almost say he went off the deep end. He could often be heard mumbling in his room alone. The appearance of the ink machine only seemed to make him worse. Appearance: He looks generally the same: same long coat, same pants, same boots, same gloves. He dyed his hair red at one point before meeting Moric and it seems to have stained his hair permanently, giving him a ginger-like appearance (when he’s naturally blond). 6’4” with 4 eyes (3 on the right side of his face) and 3 arms. Personality: Progic’s personality changed drastically. The playful, flirty man Moric fell in love with slowly deteriorated into a selfish, dream-chasing egomaniac. It’s unknown what caused him to suddenly reach out to Moric years later. Death: Still lives. (Side note: Progic can’t write.)

Henry: Moric Moric was Progic’s lover, comforting him when the experiment went south and bringing food for him when he started spending hours alone in his office. He was plenty hurt when he was suddenly fired and seemingly cut out of Progic’s life. (And very confused when he got a letter asking him to return.) Appearance: He still wears his blue shirt and dapper dinosaur tie, but switched his red shorts for a pair of pants due to the cold. He still has mismatched socks, but after chapter 2 along his legs are so dark from ink, you’d be hard-pressed to tell. By chapter 4 he winds up with ink up to his waist, elbows and splattered across his shirt. 6’4” with 3 eyes (one on his forehead). His pupils shrink for several seconds when he’s scared, excited or experiencing any other extreme emotion. His hair is brown, the bangs dyed a medium shade of blue. Personality: Ultimate dad, even past his breaking point. He only fights the ink creatures if he’s in terrible danger and prefers to run. Overall a nice guy. Noticeably quieter in chapter 4 due to several factors: a head injury, focus on finding Creatiy and reaching the end of his rope. Death: Still lives. (Side notes: Became a master axe-wielder after having to fight the Butcher gang, Decan and brute Creatiy He found a recording that sounded like the Progic he knew and loved in chapter 4 and now always has it with him. Even sleeps with it. Deceit pokes fun at him for this)

Butcher gang: Lodec, Patteit, Moxie

Sammy Laurence: Lauron Lauron spent most of his hired life writing for ‘Living Marionette’, usually trying to lowkey undermine Progic and ruin his reputation in the process. He managed to avoid the mass firing by simply staying in his office, though it didn’t save him from the gory aftermath that followed. Appearance: Unknown before the ink machine era. Seems to be made totally from ink, with nothing but an ink-stained coat, pants and Vercei mask covering him. 5’7” with no eyes, ears or mouth. Personality: A real piece of work pre- and post-ink machine. Pre-ink machine he was manipulative, back-stabbing and cruel, post-ink machine he was driven mad by the ink and elected himself as the ‘prophet’ for Vercei-sacrificing Moric just to please him (and maybe find a way out of his inky Hell). Death: He was put down by Vercei when he called him up to sacrifice Moric.

Norman Polk/the Projectionist: Viran Viran was probably the happiest employee there. He was allowed to make and research his conspiracy theories as long as they didn’t interfere with his work and was given way too much free access to paper. How he found himself wading through knee-deep ink he had no idea, how the projector got fused to his head even less so. The loneliness and pain of being alone downstairs for god knows how many years left him morally scrambled. Appearance: Pre-ink machine he wore a black shirt with a purple vest, as well as black jeans and shoes. They’re all made of oddly heavy fabrics due to Viran’s Autism-induced touch sensitivity made it hard to tolerate anything else for prolonged periods. 6’2”, 4 eyes and arms. Black hair, bangs dyed purple. Post ink-machine he wound up completely made of ink with a projector for a head. 6’7”. One eye, 4 arms. Personality: Pre-ink machine he was twitchy, jittery and full of ideas for conspiracies. He could be blunt and had a short temper, but overall he was a good guy. Post-ink machine, he doesn’t seem to have any sentience or thoughts other than chase and kill. Maybe he recognizes Moric and blames him for his lover’s actions, there’s no way of finding out. Death: Vercei put him out of his misery by ripping his head off after he caught him loitering in front of a miracle station Moric was hiding in.

Boris: Creaity Creatiy Catt was animated as a friend/almost brother figure to Vercei. With the events of the past he seems to have multiplied, although only one copy remains, the others all brutally dissected like rats. Creatiy will do his best to protect, guide and comfort Moric when he can. Appearance: He seems to have been based off of a superhero, with an elaborate and brightly coloured costume. He could summon a red, heart-shaped shield in the cartoon, but can’t do so in reality-most likely because he’s made entirely of ink. Has cat ears and a tail. 5’10” (11” with the boots). Brown hair. 3 eyes (one on his forehead). Personality: Absolute sweetheart. He’s quite handy and decent with weapons, holding his own for long before Moric’s appearance (the only way Anvity even got his hands on him was because he was distracted!). However, he’s also afraid of the dark and loud noises. Death: Tragically killed by Moric in self-defence, after Anvity got his hands on Creatiy and forced him to attack his friend.

Alice Angel (Susie): Prince Anvity (Roman) Prince Anvity was originally going to be voiced be upcoming voice actor Roman, who may have possibly had a short fling with Lauron (possibly the reason he got the job) before it was suddenly yanked out from under him. He took this as well as expected and threatened to quit until Moric took pity on him and offered him a job. If only he’d let him storm off in a snit, he’d have saved himself and Creaity a lot of grief… (Side note: Mostly Creatiy *COUGH*) Appearance: To say Prince Anvity looks monstrous would be being nice. His eyes are black, with the pupils seemingly just floating in constantly dribbling pools of ink. His right eye is too large, the left side of his mouth is frozen in a constant snarl, his wings end with edges like razors, his fingers end in deadly claws…And to top it all off? He’s taller than Moric, reaching a height of almost 7 feet. 6’9”. Brown hair bleeding to black at the bangs. 2 eyes (right eye taking up almost all of that side of his face) and small wings. Personality: Look in the dictionary for the word “sadistic” and this iteration of Anvity will most likely show up as the definition. He manipulates Moric into doing things for him under the false pretense of giving him freedom, only to nearly kill him and Creatiy by sending the elevator they’re on crashing down to the last floor. He taunts Moric, insults him, teases him and withholds information from him in the hopes of having him killed. There are absolutely no redeeming qualities about him-whatever good things there were about Roman were completely omitted in favour of jealousy and vanity. Death: Prince Anvity was killed by the “pure” Anvity, who impaled him with a sword when he was gunning for Moric.

Bendy: Vercei Vercei’s the main character of the cartoon ‘Living Marionette’. Only one attempt was made to animate him in the real world, and it derailed so badly it was never attempted again. Vercei now stalks Moric around the halls of the studio after Lauron frees him from the ink machine’s room, his motives questionable. Appearance: The animating process did not treat Vercei well at all. His hood melted over his eyes, leaving only the eye in the back to see. Said eye is a washed-out yellow and generally looks unsettling, bulging out to the point it appears it’s going to pop out in any passing chapter. His hoodie-already a mess of patches and stitches in the animation-is fused to his body and seems to make his arms longer. 5’7”. One eye and 4 arms (two wrapped around his midsection). Personality: Vercei’s personality is currently unknown. No one knows what makes him tick, how he thinks or why he does what he does. He hunts Moric for an unknown reason and fought (and won) a fight with the Projectionist when he did the same thing. He gets angry when you destroy any of the varied Vercei cutouts around the studio…And that’s about the only hint we get about his sentience. Death: Still lives.

Bertum Piedmont: Decan Decan was the brains behind VerceiVille, drawing up plans and building the majority of it. He grew very salty over being introduced to people as “DeeDee”, claiming it demeaned him to being like a child. Progic pulling the plug on VerceiVille suddenly drove Decan to possess a ride (possibly by suicide, possibly by a ritual. We may never know). He now lashes out at everything that moves. Appearance: pre-ink machine, he was quite a dashing fellow. He dressed in a trenchcoat, black jeans and shoes, and wore a red scarf and fedora even indoors. He was also often seen chewing on a wooden toothpick. 5’6”. 3 eyes (2 on the right side of his face), curly red hair. Post-ink machine he was little more than a massive head in an octopus ride. Personality: This man adored to speak like he came out of the 1920’s. He only dropped the habit if he was furious or upset, which was rare (but frightening). As an octopus ride he never speaks at all, preferring to wait in silence until Progic comes back so he can smash him to a pulp and be done with it. Death: Less of a death, more of a defeat-Moric took an axe to all the attachments holding his “arms” together, meaning he could no longer fight.

Alice Angel (Alison): Prince Anvity (Virgil) The newer voice actor for Prince Anvity, a man of few words. He had no bad memories when whatever went down regarding the ink machine happened, so he’s regarded as the “pure” Anvity (minus the fact he’s partially crippled and needs to walk via cane). He may or may not be in love with Creatiy. Appearance: A good foot shorter than Roman’s Prince Anvity, Virgil’s Prince Anvity is a sight for sore eyes. He has more horns, holes in his wings and is lame in both legs, having to walk with the assistance of an intricately decorated cane. 5’9”. Brown hair bleeding to black at the bangs. 3 eyes (two on the right side of his face). Personality: Shy and quiet, not as boisterous as Roman’s Anvity. He worries for Moric after watching him break down crying in the hallway-something Deceit has no sympathy for, to his frusteration. Death: Unknown.

Boris (but Tommy): Creatiy (but Deceit) Still silent, still tall, hates Moric for unknown reasons. Anvity has to keep him off the traumatized man’s back 90% of the time. The other times, well…Let’s just say Moric’s not so traumatized he’s lost any and all snark. Appearance: Is just another copy of Creatiy. Often glaring. Personality: Disliked Moric for some reason or other, debatable because he felt he abandoned them. Otherwise he’s a decent man, coming to his and Anvity’s defence when they’re threatened. Death: Unknown.

#BATIM AU #Redhead Creates an AU #Redhead Speaks

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