#surviving out of sheer fucking spite at this point
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Local lesbian too angry to die
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I love your writing so much, I’m so excited for this event! How about “Tell me who did this to you” from the protective/loyal prompt list, with Jason and hurt!Dick? Thank you!!
Dick has the absolute worst luck.
Sometimes he wonders if there’s just something about him that screams hit me with a dump truck full of baddies and throw me into the river to drown, because this is the third time he’s been tossed into the water this year.
The moment he’s airborne and heading towards the water, Dick is hitting the panic button in his glove and praying that he’s going to be able to survive this attempted drowning as well as he did the other two.
The tricky thing about this time, though, is that he’s been tied up, and while Nightwing has been in some sticky situations, Dick isn’t sure that he’s going to come out of this one whole and hale.
Because, come on. Chains? Really? The baddies this time had slapped manacles on him and wrapped him in chains and tossed him into the dirty river and Dick is pretty sure he’s going to die if he doesn’t find a way out of this. Quick.
At least if they tied him up with rope, he’d probably have a much better chance of surviving. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a handy dandy pair of bolt cutters in his utility belt. If it’s supposed to be there, then that was a lesson Dick had missed during vigilante lessons.
At some point, Dick blacks out, and as his vision goes dark, all he can think is, “I didn’t get to tell Damian that I love his new suit design.”
—
He wakes up choking on water. Dirty Gotham river water. Gross.
“Breathe, dammit!” someone yells at him, and miraculously, as he’s turned on his side, Dick manages to cough out the nasty water taking up the space in his lungs where the air is supposed to be. Someone thumps his back, and—
well. Eventually, he sucks in a huge heaving breath and coughs out some more. His throat is absolutely ripped to shreds and he’s still chained up.
But! He’s not underwater anymore. Which is a major plus. And Dick can mark a three-for-three on his score of surviving being thrown in the Gotham River. So take that, bad luck.
“What the hell, ‘Wing?!” that same someone—Jason, Dick realizes. No helmet, but anger and spite in spades—bites out. “Are these fucking manacles?!”
“Yeah,” Dick croaks. He’s exhausted, and Jason is leaning over him now, flipping up the lenses in Dick’s mask to check his pupils. “Not my century of style, I know. But I think I pull them off pretty well.”
“You’re a fashion disaster,” Jason mutters. “Who the heck even managed to catch you like this?”
“Oh, you know,” Dick says, very expertly avoiding answering the question directly. “I’m just a magnet for trouble. All the weirdos are out to kill me in the most ridiculous ways. Including manacled river drownings like we’re in medieval times. Gotta love Gotham.”
Jason flips Dick’s lenses back down, and gives him an unimpressed look. Even with Jason’s mask still on, Dick can see the sheer unimpressibility—is that even a word? Dick’s brain is not operating at full capacity—in Jason’s face based on his micro expressions.
“Tell me who did this to you, Dickhead,” Jason says, hauling Dick to his very uncoordinated feet and then swinging him up over his shoulders.
Someone needs to tell Jason to stop growing. Or not. Growing means Jason is alive, after all. Even if he is taller than Dick by a good few inches.
“We gotta tell Oracle that there’s some loser chaining people and throwing them in the river to drown. God, why couldn’t it be ropes? You could have cut the ropes and I wouldn’t have had to save your stupid ass.”
“My ass is not stupid,” Dick wheezes as he hangs from Jason’s shoulders. He’s pretty sure Jason’s dumb body armor is digging into his stomach. “My ass is amazing.”
Dick can practically hear the eyeroll.
“Give me their names, Nightwing.”
“You sound like B.”
“And you sound like someone who doesn’t know what’s coming to him,” Jason says. “The hell are you so reluctant for?”
“So,” Dick says, still kind of sounding like one of those stupid rubber chicken toys if it had gone through ten rounds with Titus and was on its last freaking leg. “I may or may not have figured out who chained me up and threw me in the river.”
Jason groans. “I am so angry at you right now.”
“Cool,” Dick says, and he’ll come back to Jason’s emotions later when he has the brain capacity to actually deal with them. “You got any bolt cutters?”
“Why me,” Jason complains.
“Why me?” Dick throws out, a little offended. “I’m the one who almost drowned.”
“I’m honestly having second thoughts about saving you.”
“No you’re not.”
Jason sighs, finally setting Dick—chains and all—on the ground. They’re a couple blocks away from the river now, and the streets are deserted.
“No,” Jason admits, exasperated. “I’m not. Why are you so annoying?”
“Older brother privileges,” Dick tells him, blinking rapidly to try and reduce the fuzzy feeling in his brain to maybe zero. That’d be great, yeah. Zero is a good number.
Another eye roll. Probably. Dick can feel it in the universe, even if he can’t actually see Jason doing it.
Dick must lose time at some point, because when he blinks next, he’s on the couch in Jason’s apartment, dressed in a t-shirt and sweats, and miraculously unchained.
His head is a bit floaty, but he’ll take all the wins he can get tonight.
“—dumbass who got himself manacled, for fuck’s sake,” Jason is saying as he walks back in the living room. They make eye contact and Jason scoffs into the phone. “He’s awake, so come get him before I throw him back into the river and let him drown for real.”
Jason hangs up and throws his phone onto the coffee table.
“That was mean,” Dick says. “Even if B’s an ass, it’s mean to say things like that.”
“He was pissing me off,” Jason mutters, but he plops down on the floor in front of the couch. “He’s gonna be here in twenty to pick your sorry ass up for a medical check. Pretty sure you have a concussion.”
“I didn’t hit my head?” Dick asks more than says.
Jason snorts. “Yeah, sure. That explains why there’s a knot the size of a walnut on the back of your head.”
Dick blinks. “Oh.”
“That’s the only reason I’m letting you off the hook about not knowing who those guys were,” Jason tells him.
“Sure,” Dick says, eyelids feeling heavy again. “Whatever you say, Jay.”
#dick grayson#jason todd#dc#what is writing again#camryn writes#what was my flipping tag for writing#who knows#not me
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I’ve always hated media interpretations of hope, usually its depicted as an innocent fragile little thing that needs to be protected regardless of what form it’s taken ie inanimate object, animal, human or just a concept. I actually like what they did with hope in the Percy Jackson universe but I won’t into details here for fear of spoilers.
I think Ghost as the God of Hope works really well because he (nearly) always survives regardless or in spite of what it will take to live like when he dug himself out of his own grave. None of it was pretty or kind and there are even moments where he is small and fragile but it feels earnt in the story and hearing still survived Hope has a nasty habit of springing back up even after you’ve squashed it.
I fell like people have a habit of writing Despair as some loud ugly thing that just lashes out and it can be that but it can also be silent and still or even seemingly happy it doesn’t always lead to steaming and crying I have literally seen people so sad they start laughing.
I’ve think Soap as the God Despair works so well as well because people also sometimes mischaracterise him as this happy go lucky guy who not as smart or as good at his job compared to the rest of the 141 and Ghost in particular, he may not be as stealthy as Ghost but he’s more destructive and I would argue smarter in a book sense way.
As Gods I’d say they both have a Grim determination to get the job done the difference being hope fighting for the end and despair fighting till the end.
One of the inspirations for this idea was the story of Pandora and the Alone mission. Soap opens the proverbial jar and lets out the nightmares when questioning graves on his and shepherd’s betrayal. Pandora was curios and opened the jar realising evil unto the world. Ghost stayed to watch over and guide Soap through a city being destroyed by monsters they’d previously helped. Hope was the last thing left in the jar and it stayed to protect and help humanity survive.
When questioned about Ghost staying behind to help Soap in Las Alma’s they both responded together and opposite eachother, Soap in despair felling alone and Ghost resolute always there.
This was supposed to be short lol
Side note imagine 09 Ghost Soap Persephone and Hades
I agree honestly it misses the whole point of hope smh.
OOHHH amazing reasoning absolutely agree with you. God and that is such a powerful connection and example. That even in the worst moments humanity will always succeed and conquer.
I have to it is a sight to see and so telling of the sheer lengths people can go and what they can handle. The amount of respect I have for people who suffer so much and can still smile is beyond words. My mom is disabled and was told she would never work again, but that woman got up and told the world to fuck Itself. She got better It's still hard and there are days she can't get out of bed, but she beat the predictions. She has chronic fatigue and chronic pain with fibromyalgia, she has a heart aneurysm we are keeping a close eye on and just beat breast cancer. She from what I have seen is the embodiment of hope and the strength of the human spirit.
Completely agree as does @azilver we talk about this a lot. People really don't understand Soap's character and it sucks. It's all a mask or if it isn't it is a tool in his arsenal so people don't realize how dangerous he is.
Again, completely agree.
YES, GOD DO YOU HAVE A LINK I NEED TO CONSUME THAT LIKE CRACK!
AGAIN, SPOT ON! That is such a good way to tie that line into the idea as well as a good basis on top of the already solid reasoning!
(HOLY SHIT!!!! OMFG YOUR RIGHT THE LIST IS BEING ADDED TO THAT IS SO BASED)
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Out of curiosity, do any of the iterators in the off the string AU have back problems? I can't imagine the umbilical really gave them that much room to move around resulting in them being kinda stiff.
it'd be easier to ask who Isn't stiff jdkglsmdklcdsk i'm tryin not to do the whole "and they were all very cool epic fight capable machines able to do karate chops and myurder a lizard on accident" (← no shade throwing here) that kinda easily creeps into the stuff
like all of these bitches are lame stereotypical (when it comes to body capabilities) accountants. but i wouldn't say that they have back problems- when that's said i imagine stuff like scoliosis n kush yanno? their spines are some tough things, they are the main things holding the whole puppet together and not coming apart in the middle when the antigravity comes off in the chambers. they don't really have muscles to do that job for them, so it all comes down to the spine
the only Iterators who refuse to be reduced to accountants are Boreas, Orion and Haboob rn (with Notos possibly trying to get better at some point in the future)
and from all Iterators, Boreas manages to also be the stiffest one despite his grouping with the other two. he is Incredibly stiff and incapable of quick movement (the fastest stuff one will get out of him is a punch or a stomp for the sake of inflicting damage from his sheer strength). all as a consequence of the paralyzation venom administrations. he's gon bend over to pick smth up and do the grandpa move of holding his back n going "ugh fuck..." under his breath. man's a tank with the grandpa tax...
Orion is still relatively stiff like an usual Gen 1 can be expected to be with being an old model, but before he left his structure/Terminus, he first tried to get some hang of fighting. found himself a shield and a sword and did his best to do exercises that the soldiers during the war used to do and figured out how to move effectively with or around his physical limitations
Haboob is the only Iterator i'd say wouldn't have any physical issues concerning Any of this. her puppet was changed to be able to wander in Sabulum during the Ancients' time and after all of them were gone, she tinkered with it further out of spiteful determination to be useful even though it was dangerous. she's survival ready! so athletic to hell n back, no ouchies in the backies
here's all the fighters (for now) side by side for height ref purposes!
#spot says stuff#rw#oc tag#tryin So hard to keep to my ''better make chars lame in a funny way than generically epic in fights'' philosophy so much </3#boreas could wrestle with a bull and win n stop a bus but the moment he has to lean forward hes gonna die#boreas could pick up haboob by the waist with one hand n i think das so fuckin grghrughuuuuhghghhuuhuhuhuhuuuu#sparrows' markings be like ''-pulls up- do you want a bonus 30 minutes of work? no? too FUCKIN bad.''
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Venting to you because you seem like you’d understand. Feel free to just delete this.
Sometimes life just gets to the point where, if your options are continue or quit, you might as well continue because if shit doesn’t work out you’re gonna wind up in the same place eventually anyway. Jumping off a cliff when you’re not sure if you can stick the landing without breaking your neck isn’t stupid if your only other option if you don’t jump is to starve up there.
Maybe that’s the whole point of this, showing me that it’s not my fault if I have to do stupid, potentially dangerous shit in order to survive. I’m not in this position by choice, life and shitty circumstances and shitty people fucking put me here. All I can do now is try to survive it, and hope I can come out the other side in one piece.
There’s some comfort to be found in that, I think. The thought that I have no fucking choice in this now, because I never had any choice in any of it. There’s no path I could’ve taken that didn’t lead here, because I was never fucking well in charge of where I was going until it was too late to make a difference, and the people who were supposed to look out for me dropped the ball so bad it isn’t even funny.
My life is fucking hard and painful as shit, and maybe it’s supposed to be that way. Either way, I don’t get any say in what’s happening right now. So I’ll carry on, and try to push through it, and if I break myself even worse than I already am it won’t be my fault. There won’t have been anything else I could’ve done, so I won’t need to hate myself for it. It’ll just be what happens to me, independently of anything I’ve done or haven’t done.
I don’t know how this ends, but if there’s even a chance for things to get better, I have to stick it out. Might as well, might as well cling on until the last out of sheer fucking spite. If life is determined to break me beyond repair and then kill me, it can and will do that, and I will have no say. But I’m gonna fight it every step of the way, because at that point I might as fucking well make as big a nuisance of myself as I can. I might not get a choice in how I go down, but I’ll always get a choice in how I meet that.
Sometimes all your options are shit, and you just have to choose whatever is the least shitty one. There's no point in beating yourself up about failing to choose better options that weren't even available in the first place - it's not a failure to fail to do something that was never an option. No part of choosing from the only options that you had available is your fault. You choose whatever has the highest odds of an outcome where you survive.
And if there are people who consider your mere existence, the fact that you are alive at all, to be a problem, it's not just permissible to make yourself as annoying to them as you can. It's a moral obligation. If someone hates you for being alive, surviving just to spite them is the most noble way to live.
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uhh
here's my take on a bit of (game) michael afton lore
tw: depression, thoughts of suicide, poor mental health, and the rest of the warnings that go with fnaf
mike was once more or less a good kid - he had good grades (he was an afton, of course) and while he caused a bit of trouble here and there he was usually an agreeable kid and a pleasure to have in class.
after the bite, he couldn't cope with the grief of literally killing his baby brother, and he fell into depression. he became horribly introverted, his grades dropped quite quickly, and he started rebelling and lashing out a lot more. he would hang out with the very wrong people just to gain some semblance of control over his life, and once he tried drugs and smoking, he just felt like shit, which just threw him into an even deeper spiral.
mike's relationship with his father crumbled quickly, both from the fact that mike had literally killed his brother, and that now william was busy killing kids.
elizabeth's death hit them both extremely hard - william officially gave into insanity, and michael, slowly putting the pieces together, saw william as a monster. he vowed he would never end up like his father.
he eventually moved out, any relationship between him and his father gone - hell, mike was scared of him at this point. he lived alone and depressed, and his mental health was not improving whatsoever. he couldn't keep a job if he tried, and suicide was actually attempted and failed. henry had reached out to him a few times, but michael never accepted. he doesn't know why - maybe, if he did, things would've gone differently.
however, when he heard of his father's disappearance, he connected the dots, and assumed death.
somehow, this snapped him out of everything. his father had gone down the dark path, destroying everything he touched, causing so much pain and suffering, and eventually died. michael had sworn to never be like william.
and thus, he vowed to turn the afton legacy around. he'd carve his own future out of the stone placed around him, live.
mike got a job at freddy's and actually kept it! once he figured out the existence of golden freddy, he realized who exactly the robots were. he freed them all, and after saying goodbye to his brother, was fired for messing with the animatronics.
he was doing a lot better mentally, actually, after finally addressing his past. he finally contacted henry, and lived with him for a good bit. they grew close.
he went down to circus baby's next. he wanted to do something similar - free her from her eternal cage. however, it had been ten years. she didn't recognize him, and whether she assumed him to be william or a random security guard, he never found out.
he was scooped, and had his organs ripped out, effectively killing his body. however, powered by the curse of being an afton and sheer sickly spite, he never vanished.
for thirty years he lived like this, a fucking corpse. he hadn't gone back to henry, as the man had disappeared, and mike instead stayed in town like a damn boogeyman.
he jumped from jobs, managing to afford rent and a decent life, never aging due to the nature of his situation.
one day, he heard about fazbear's frights. his past years had blurred and it was hard to remember where he had heard the name fazbear before, but it came back quickly, and with it, his need to take down his father.
he managed to snag a job at the location and was quickly recognized by father - from one corpse to another.
michael couldn't set his father free, that much was clear. but he would make sure he would never harm another soul again.
thus, he burned down fazbear's frights, hoping to take his father down with it.
of course, he failed. afton survived the fire, and though michael had no way of knowing it for sure, he had a feeling it would happen. but his father was nowhere to be found, so micheal continued his corpse life.
evidently, henry was still alive, to michael's surprise - a new fazbear location popped right back up in town. michael saw yet another chance, and he couldn't miss this one, not after all of this. he took the job.
he recognized everyone. his sister, his father, hell, even lefty felt vaguely familiar.
when henry first started his speech and his own fire, michael had.. a time.
he was scared at first. was he finally going to die? he had managed to evade it all this time, and now it was coming to bite him in the ass?
he came to terms with the situation quite quickly. it was finally happening, what all them had always wanted. they'd be free, and the fazbear legacy would finally be closed, locked, and lost to history, finally put to rest.
he felt a bit of petty anger at henry for taking michael arson idea, but it was short-lived.
they all died happily ever after, one murderous fursuit being tormented in eternal hell by those he tortured
and then security breach never happened
the end
hope you enjoyed
sorry for the long read, if you made it down here, congrats! you get some exotic butters!!
#fnaf#five nights at freddy's#william afton#fnaf 1#fnaf 2#fnaf 3#fnaf 4#fnaf 5#fnaf sister location#fnaf pizzeria simulator#henry emily#theory#au#headcanon#fnaf headcanon#fnaf au#ugghhghfhcjdsooex tags#fnaf sl#fnaf 6#fnaf pizza sim#fnaf afton family#afton family#michael afton#mercy writes
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I keep thinking about how the pacification of the Twisted Hair is Dry Wells. Ulysses spoke like it was a quick death of his tribe, a brutal trap orchestrated by Vuples. (Given Nipton I don’t doubt it.) In that moment, I wonder about how many proud warriors of the tribe, members, he would have looked up to died... refusing to surrender their identity and accept subjugation, a totalitarian dictatorship. Accepting they were tools for Caesar to use to and discard as he saw fit.
Ulysses survived because he accepted the legions demands of him, became a tool for them. It broke eventually him and he decides to try and do some fucked up shit lashing out by the time our courier meets him. Which isn’t good but he’s super traumatized by this point but luckily we can talk him out if it.
Hecate on the other hand….(The lone survivor of the twisted hairs tribe of a cancelled van buren so not exactly canon. But some things were recycled for FNV) she survived out of sheer spite and insanity. Hecate learned about genetics about medicine and bided her time. She returned to the those that had refused to shelter her hidden with war paint, and acted as a midwife gaining power and popularity based on what she had learn. She stole healthy infants and switched them with weak an sickly ones sabotaged crops and livestock and bred stronger crops/livestock for her worshippers until she had an army she gains so loyal and big she could strike back those that refused her then eventually against Caesar himself. Hecate thinks she’s a god and will not backdown because in my opinion people in the positions seldom ever do.
Caesar, who is responsible for the death of the twisted hairs. A man who wants to be worshipped as a savior, the son of Mars, the bastard bastion of civilization in the wasteland.
Hecate parallels Caesar in her demands for total fervent loyalty, the uses horrible tactics to take control of an army.
So many things could happen if Hecate met Ulysses. I suspect however only one of them would survive, because Ulysses would compare her to her enemy. And because she’s delusional af from trauma that happened prior to meeting Diana.
#ulysses#fallout#discourse#i’m just talking#don’t mind me#fallout new Vegas#fallout ulysses#van buren#i talk sometimes
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fallen gabe and reconstructed v2's descriptions under the cut for those who arent on artfight and wanna know about these guys
Gabriel:
he/him
After killing the Council and leaving Heaven for the final time, Gabriel was sure he was destined to die, and he was fine with that, feeling as though he had made his peace with his upcoming bout of mortality.
He and the Council were both wrong, however.
Now permanently severed from the Light of god, he effectively sealed his fate as a fallen angel, though what he (and the rest of Heaven) did not know was what exactly that meant.
In Treachery, he would encounter V2, half-dead and unwilling to fight, rather it would go on to strike an initially-begrudging alliance with the angel, bound over a shared goal: to hunt down V1.
While much of the driving force behind this plan was provided by V2, Gabriel still tagged along as it drove the two of them back up through the layers of Hell, and as he did, he would notice his body changing.
Angels, especially fallen ones, are more like strange arthropods than anything else, especially resembling insects. An angel will typically not just outright die when stripped of their light; as an inherently divine entity they still retain a small amount that's enough to keep them alive, however they do end up "falling"--the tight control god once had on their physical form is lost and begins reverting to a more natural and organic state. Gabriel would be no exception to this.
As a proper fallen angel, Gabriel is an even taller (over 8'6") and imposing figure. His halo has become a set of horns and his wings are shattered and split into four long limb-like appendages (think malicious face spider legs but more weaponized). His armor, or rather, carapace is duller and tarnished looking, with the segmentation between plates being more organically divided. He has a pair of sharp, hooked raptorial limbs (like a mantis) connected close to his waist and his legs are completely rearranged into an insectoid form. The front plate of his helmet is largely missing to reveal what at a glance seems to be a void, though also revealing several spider-like eyes around the still completely intact (and untarnished !) cross that once decorated the helmet. The golden spike has split into wasp-like mandibles and large, wing-like lamellate antennae often cover his face in spite of everything else. The [name for whatever the skirt armor plates are] are fused together in the back and extend into a scorpion tail. also his fingers are clawed.
bro is fucked up !!
optionally, at some point well into the future a few more changes happen over time:
- his bodyplan gets a little less strictly humanoid. playing fast and loose with it
- exposed "skin" gets a layer of fuzzy scales like a moth
- at least one set of the appendages that used to be his wings finally heal into a new set of cicada- or mantis-like wings
- he no longer has the cross from his helmet embedded into his face
- just generally seems way healthier if you know what healthy would look like in an angel ("normal" angels are like god's unethical dog breeds as is)
V2:
it/she
Just barely surviving its second fight with V1 out of nothing short of sheer luck or a miracle, V2 was left to drag its utterly broken body out of the scorching heat of Greed in order to try and piece itself together again, physically and mentally.
It did not believe it should have survived, only having done so out of chance. It started to see itself as something of a ghost, and there's only one thing your average ghost is after: revenge.
Delving deeper into Hell in search of parts and fuel, it, at some point, got ahead of V1 once more and found itself in the frozen wasteland of Treachery, where it would encounter Gabriel.
It knew about him, and could accurately guess what they had in common with each other, leading it to try and forge an alliance with him in order to take on V1 one last time, leveraging the fact that both of them had been defeated individually by it previously.
It was going to kill its predecessor at any cost. Even if it was taken down with it.
Heading back up through Hell, it would form a bond with Gabriel as it tried its best to help him handle his...situation the best it could, going from simply allies to eventually friends (and then even later...uh. great question lmfao). The two would become nearly inseparable by the end of their shared journey.
qpp more like the inseparable warrior's bond
V2 is fairly short in comparison to Gabriel, only around 5'6" or so, even with the height boost its legs gave it. It's new legs were salvaged from a sentry, and are bird- or dromaeosaurid-like in their anatomy. It's left arm replacement is a tethered saw that can be launched and swung around, built into a swordsmachine-like arm. It's right arm remains intact but it has an extra "skeletal" arm on the same side. All but two of its wing blades are broken off.
V2 is also very expressive, having modified itself for the purpose. It has small blade-like structures on the sides of its head that can be moved to convey its emotions, as well as a metal "eyelid" over its optic. Its wings often move and change color in accordance with how it's feeling (red = angry, green = scared, yellow = positive/neutral, blue = negative/neutral)
After killing V1, it has a few differences:
- its wings are repaired, with all 8 blades intact
- it replaces its saw arm with V1's feedbacker (this actually happens before it dies lol) and also reobtains it's knuckleblaster and whiplash
- it replaces its skeletal left arm with V1's left arm, giving it anywhere from 3 to 5 arms total
Optionally, well into the future:
- it builds itself a raptor-like mechanical tail for better balance with its legs. the "feather"-like structures are built to match its wing blades
- if you go REALLY far ahead it eventually develops some synthetic angel wings for itself after studying angel anatomy for a long ass time
it is strong enough to pick up gabe. just so you know.
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Heart-To-Heart (What Heart?)
BINGO Post
It's said you can feel your soulmate's heartbeat. In the quietest of moments, when you're completely alone, during your darkest times.
Char A wants to believe there's someone out there for them. That there is a light at the very end of the tunnel.
If there isn't...then what really is the point?
OR
Tommy's not that butt-hurt he doesn't have a soulmate. After all, who needs the comforting knowledge that there's someone out there meant for him? That someone will always wish that he survives the next encounter with the Syndicate?
Pfft, big men don’t, that's for sure.
Content Warnings: Cursing. Violence. Near-death experiences.
Word Count: 5704
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"What does it mean to have a soulmate?"
It was a question that'd always been flung around the city of Manberg, closely followed by entourages of cameras and influencers subjecting the public to their latest attempts at becoming famous.
"Work" - April 14th, 5056
"It's coming home after a long day of work," one person had grinned, a fond expression on their face. "And being able to tell the moment your soulmate knows you're home, their heartbeat getting faster and faster until you open the door to their smiling face."
"Cute Comparisons" - April 9th, 2057
"To be an animal who's too young to see anything," another confessed, abashed they'd yet to meet their soulmate. "You can't see them, but the drum of their heartbeat is enough to know they're still there, just waiting for the moment you can finally open your eyes."
But to Tommy? To Tommy, it was all bullshit.
Even still he's shocked how much the public swoons over each response, eager to judge whether someone's response was too dull or far too poetic to be original. He'd lost faith in humanity the moment he noticed the uptick in influencers bothering the elderly, hopeful for a story about a soulmate they'd outlived.
Sorrowful speeches paid the bills- the sheer amount of views proved that -even at the expense of morality.
The only interaction that seemed to perform better than tearful grandmas were the "Bitter Ones": people who were heartbroken, pissed, and milked endlessly by the media for clickbait titles.
"Influencer Assaulted by a Bitter One!" - June 17th, 2058
The video opened on a two-minute chase sequence between some prick of an interviewer and a well-dressed man. Even the editor's choice to blur the man's face didn't stop the sheer amount of hatred radiating off the man's expression, waving the young girl off in spite of her never-ending, "Sir! Excuse me, sir!"
It was almost disappointing when the interviewer got what she wanted, the man whipping around to furiously shout at her.
"Could you fucking stop? Some people don't want to talk about how, 'Oh, my soulmate? Mine was a piece of shit that cheated on me with my own best friend-'!"
What wasn't disappointing was the girl being shoved aside as the cameras faded to black.
It'd been a well-deserved response if Tommy had anything to say about it.
Just about anyone would grow pissed over being harassed, let alone being demanded to broadcast their pitiful story to the world. The icing on the cake, however, was the implication that the poor bloke could still hear the heartbeat of his cheating soulmate.
Shit like that was just another reason as to why everyone had grown to favor platonic soulmates in place of romantic ones. It was easier to venture through life's bipolar mess with a best mate versus a partner you felt obligated to marry.
At least, that'd been the opinion of one of Dream's shitty magazines.
"Prime's Attempts at Arranging Marriages is Soooooo Last Decade..."
Tommy had just barely poked his head into his mentor's office when he noticed the headline, eyes wide as he found Dream at his desk and engrossed by an article some poor writer had probably killed to get a spot on the front page.
The scene was more interesting than awkward, especially considering Dream's original hesitance over divulging in anything soulmate-related. Tommy had practically had to strangle the name "George" from Dream's throat when he'd first started his apprenticeship at the Tower.
Shame Dream's attempts at secrecy failed the moment Tommy knew their Number-One-Hero's guilty pleasure was cheesy gossip meant for preteens.
"Trouble in paradise?"
The room had burst into chaos, Dream flinging the magazine into an adjacent wall as mindless paperwork made its home back in the man's hands. If the magazine hadn't practically framed itself on the wall, Tommy would've assumed he imagined the whole ordeal.
"Y'know, usually we get offices only for shit like paperwork."
It'd been hilarious to watch Manberg's Number-One-Hero burrow his face into his desk with a muffled plea of, "Don't tell Schlatt."
It wasn't like Dream would get fired over a little bit of soulmate talk, but the fear was well-deserved considering the Tower's manager would never let Dream live it down.
"I dunno, Big D. He'd give me an office for finding out about this one."
Dream's head lifted, faux hurt in his expression. "Tommy, c'mon-"
"An office, Big-Man."
Dream's eyebrows pinched.
"I can't fucking believe this- done."
Tommy grinned.
"Aaaaand an invite to you and Gogy's wedding?"
"We're not having a- y'know what. Fine. But this-"
The magazine flopped uselessly to the ground.
"-this never happened."
"I don't even know what you're talking about," he agreed with ease.
Life wasn't quite the same following the "Magazine Incident Circa 2060". Yeah, life would never be the same after getting his own office, but something changed in the way Dream progressed their trust in one another, training sessions interrupted by Tommy's curiosity over George and Dream's sudden willingness to let details about his soulmate slip.
Trust had already become mandatory when Tommy first became Dream's apprentice- it demanded they their life in one another's hands amidst combat for fucks sake- but this crawled beneath the surface of contractual agreements.
Dream had once coined it as "friendship", a thought which instantly earned the hero teasing remarks over how George would be jealous.
There'd only been a handful of times Dream had tried to dip into the subject of Tommy's own soulmate, attempts that'd been dismissed with a shrug of "I haven't met 'em yet."
Not everyone was lucky enough to meet their soulmate in second grade, Dream.
It wasn't long before even other heroes amidst the Towers warmed up to the idea of discussing their soulmates. Even in spite of Schlatt's decade-long policy prohibiting it, it seemed the strict dickhead grew to agree that passing comments and stories were more beneficial in trust-building amidst coworkers.
"Long as media shit-heads don't find out, it's fine."
It was an easy catch.
Not so easy for Fundy, apparently.
The hero had barely been around for a couple months before he took his first interview, selecting TMZ of all fucking media outlets. Sure, the network did well to spark publicity for new heroes, but if Tommy noticed anything about the redhead amidst their first battles with one another, it's that the man can't see a trap to save his life.
"Soulmates in the Tower?" - August 8th, 2060
"Well," the interviewer had begun, quick to soothe her previous bout of laughter. "I'm sure you've heard the trends going about in regards to soulmates."
To give credit where it was due, Fundy did hesitate before shaking his head. "Ah, no. Soulmate business has never been a strong suit."
The woman's smile twisted into that of a shark's as she leaned forward. "You must have at least some input when it comes to the big question on the streets. 'What does it mean to have a soulmate'?"
There'd been a beat of silence, one that'd originally elicited hope that Fundy hadn't fucked up and instead cut the interview there and then.
But there's a reason the holler of reporters had changed from, "Hey, Karma! Karma! How'd you manage to evade the Angel of Death?" to irritating parrots of "-soulmate? How do you feel about them? Surely the Big-Man himself wants to speak about his soulmate-"
"To finally feel complete," Fundy replied lamely. "To rush into battle with your heart racing, and feeling the pound of theirs following."
Tommy's phone slipped back into his pocket.
(It didn't matter how much his mind screamed to correct such a careless response. To mutter, you feel cared for, dickhead. You know that every time you put yourself in danger, you know damn-well your soulmate's praying for your safe return.)
Prime knows how the fuck Fundy only received a slap on the wrist for his stunt. Schlatt's screams following the interview still haunt his nightmares, with words over how Fundy barely managed to follow the bare minimum of his contract.
Apparently, the policy was meant to stop identifiable details from coming into light, and considering Fundy's lame-ass response had been, well, lame, the hero kept his job after acknowledging the severity of the situation.
Even the careless mention of blonde hair could've put citizens matching the vague description under the surveillance of villains. Killing a hero's soulmate was a one-way ticket to solving a life-long rivalry, a chance that as Tommy mulled over it, explained Dream's original concern for discussing George.
There isn't room for trusting the wrong person when a single soulmate is all someone gets, especially when said someone has an iconic rivalry with the Blade himself.
He definitely didn't preen after putting together that thought, every mindless reciting of George's antics now found to be another support beam added to their undefeated bridge of trust. The bridge's completion arrived only six months following Fundy's fuck-up, when Dream hesitantly invited Tommy out to dinner with him and George.
"Gogy finally get tired of hearing all about me? Don't worry, king; I'll even get my suit dry-cleaned."
First impressions considered: George was an odd fellow. Short, blunt, and- in spite of the very nice restaurant Dream had selected -dressed in pajamas. Tommy can still recall the moment he noticed Dream's limo pull up, the hero stepping out in a suit and dark green tie whilst George stumbled about in a grey t-shirt and plaid-blue sweatpants.
With the apologetic expression on Dream's face, Tommy could imagine this was less of a prank and more-so a typical outing for the duo.
It'd been admittedly odd to be seated in front of Manberg's Number-One-Hero and his soulmate. He tried not to compare himself to nosy influencers the whole night, even in spite of how the answer to the media's, "What does it mean to have a soulmate?" sat mere feet away, etched into reality.
It was written in the way they offered fleeting glances toward one another amidst conversation. How they sat there, endeared by one another's attire as they dined beneath diamond chandeliers. How they laughed and snorted at jokes undeserving of being found humorous, amused only because the other had uttered it.
When the night eventually came to an end, Tommy found himself trapped with an odd pit in his stomach that definitely wasn't jealousy.
If it was jealousy, then why would Tommy go the lengths to torture himself and ask for more stories about George's antics? Why would Dream then fall into a habit of talking about his soulmate unprompted whenever patrol nights got a touch too quiet.
"It's funny," Dream had commented one night, kind enough not to mention the way Tommy's eyes lit up. "How good his poker-face is. His heartbeat will grow erratic, even though his expression never betrays anything-"
Still, Tommy elbowed the hero aside with a groan. "I don't want to hear about your make-out sessions, prick."
"You know it's not like that," Dream laughed. "Besides, you'll have to put up with it 'til you get the balls to talk about yours."
Damn, a rare L for Big D.
Tommy scrambled to dismiss the sudden tension. It was all in vein, attempts vanishing the moment Dream noticed it.
"You don't have to," he back-peddled, almost frantically. "This was never an info-for-info arrangement, I'm more than happy to just talk about George-"
He'd be lying if he said he hadn't considered the offer.
Dream had opened a door that night, one demanding payment of complete vulnerability should Tommy walk through it. He'd have to share the only thing the blonde could truly claim as his secret to own- something that Dream had been openly sharing for over a year at the time.
It was...enticing.
Tommy's mother tongue might be that of a sailor, but there'd always existed an undesirable itch to spout metaphors like Dream did about George. He is, in spite of Dream's shock, a poet at heart. It was his pride that prohibited the publishing of his thoughts.
Well, his pride and the fact he was nothing if not the spitting image of stubbornness. The moment he'd soul his soul on a lie was the moment he refused to depart from it.
"Fuckin' rude," he huffed. "Maybe Schlatt should hear of that magazine incident-"
The topic was dropped in favor of teasing laughter, and Dream never learned that Tommy had spent the following morning pacing his apartment with a question in mind.
What does it mean to have a soulmate?
To influencers, it was to milk them for all their worth, to regard them as winning lottery tickets and divulge in profit.
To Fundy, it was to matter, to seek comfort and validation in his life meaning something in the eyes of another.
To Dream, it was to hold them in the space between his heart and lungs, to immortalize them in the minds of others through childish stories.
And to Tommy-
To Tommy it wasn't just bullshit.
It was to sit on his shitty excuse for a couch, to strangle a notebook and pencil within his hand.
(To etch amidst blurring blue lines:
It is to ask a mentor about theirs,
And for a moment, pretend you have the same.)
It'd been easy to smother the notebook beneath shopping lists and nervous chants of "Just kidding, just kidding-" as though it were someone else he were attempting to convince instead of the lonesome thud of his own heartbeat.
It never mattered how how many times the mantra filled Tommy's empty apartment. He'd always been destined to retire beneath the covers of his bed, an old pair of white headphones glued to his ears as though they could heal the song of mourning that'd torn his heart to shreds.
And they could, ever-so-eager to echo the soft, rhythmic thump of a looped heartbeat not meant for him to listen to.
A part of him hopes the original owner of the audio has long been put to rest, unable to handle the guilt that he'd intruded on two soulmate's heartbeats for the sake of curing his loneliness.
It's pathetic.
But being pathetic wasn't as lame considering how much easier the routine made going about his day without a second heartbeat to contrast with his own.
It was a tiny secret he'd kept hidden beneath the covers of his bed, harmless and easy enough to contain within the walls of the apartment.
But of course, Prime loved fuck-all if not ruining a good system.
Hero work had always been dangerous- hell, he had his own set of previously broken bones to prove it.
Having a brush with Death was bound to happen sooner or later.
Dream and him had been roaming about when a report came in, spouting of how two members of the Syndicate- Manberg's most effective group of organized villainy -were stalking the streets. It hadn't raised too many red flags; with so many members amidst the Syndicate's ranks, hearing only two of them running errands wasn't unheard of.
Especially when the two were Phantom and Blade, names that'd proven they could defend themselves quite well.
It was dumb-luck alone Tommy eventually managed to successfully pin Phantom in place whilst Dream was distracting Blade, his arm pressed against the villain's throat as he attempted to wrestle Phantom's freezing cold hands into a pair of power dampeners.
He'd nearly jolted over the sudden realization he couldn't feel a pulse against his arm, Phantom still very much alive and struggling in spite of the revelation.
"No heartbeat? That's creepy as fuck," Tommy muttered, as though he wasn't panicking feeling Phantom's hands warm in his grasp. He really didn't need the villain dematerializing right as he was this close to success.
"Don't tell me you heroes hold grudges against dead people," Phantom grinned. As if he wasn't about to be sent to Pandora's vault for a CVS receipt of crimes.
"Prime do I have bad news for you, king-"
There'd been the soft sound of scrapping metal before he found himself stumbling onto concrete, Phantom long forgotten as his fingers instinctively grasped the metal feather that'd embedded itself in his chest.
Somewhere to his left Phantom scrambled upright.
Even nowadays he can't grasp together a cohesive description of the events that followed, only recalling how quiet the atmosphere had grown. Phantom and the Angel of Death had to of been talking, right? Shouting if what little of what Tommy could see explained.
But there'd only been the deafening crash of silence, interrupted only by the head-ache inducing pound of his heart.
Suddenly, Fundy's fondness over the racing of his soulmate's heartbeat made sense. Dying alone was terrifying.
He learned two things that day:
The Angel was not a force to fuck with, and maybe therapy was a good thing to invest in.
Tommy would've been back on the battlefield the moment the hospital discharged him if it wasn't for Dream. The man had been relentless, convincing Schlatt to force Tommy on two weeks of paid leave.
Day 18 of being out of commission and Tommy found himself walking through the Tower's lobby, white headphones secured to his ears.
Only Dream questioned it, convinced it was a joke.
"You're not actually taking them into the field, are you?" the man had asked, frowning over Tommy's shockingly serious expression. "Tommy, you just got back from dying. You seriously expect me to let you go out there with these things?"
"Mhm."
A sigh.
"Can you at least let Sam downsize them-?"
"Nope."
Tommy loved nothing if not giving Dream a heart-attack.
"How the hell are you going to hear our call-outs then?"
He shrugged. "I will."
And Tommy had done well with that promise.
Unlike Dream's suspicion that he was blasting music amidst life-threatening confrontations, the soft echo of a heartbeat never did much to phase out barked commands and shouts for backup.
"Tommy- for fuck's sake!"
Said hero can't help but wince as Dream suddenly flies down the street, the man just barely catching himself before his face can greet pavement.
Tommy jerks back, confusion echoing within his brain when a fist doesn't appear to knock him back a few feet as well. Blade and Dream's rivalry might be iconic, but Tommy would be an idiot if he wasn't at least slightly aware how quickly he could become Blade's newest target.
He's only a little wounded that Blade pays him no mind, the villain following Dream's footsteps to land unwavering blow after blow. Tommy's shoulders sag with relief, a grin on his face even as he watches Dream's desperate attempts to avoid getting knocked out.
There'll be a riot if they're both not awarded raises following this shit-show. He'd like to see Schlatt try and fight the Syndicate himself.
"What was that? Sorry, can't hear you over my headphones!"
Despite his words, Tommy finds himself naturally falling into a defensive stance, a knife primed in his hand as he tracks Blade's movements with caution. It's almost comical how much he feels like a dog, prepared to lung into action the moment Dream deems it necessary.
What's even funnier is the fact that this has to be the eighth time they've doomed 180th Street to Syndicate shenanigans.
"Well, isn't that a pity?"
His knife slices through the air at an instant, eyes searching valiantly for the source of the new voice.
The tone hit all the wrong notes- playful, yet screaming of imminent danger.
He'll die before he lets Phantom of all people get an easy hit.
As much as he wants to call the ghost a massive bitch for hiding in plain sight, his mouth feels like cotton, mind far too focused on the steady rise of his heartbeat.
Thump-thump-thump-thumpthump-
A scoff erupts by his ear once more.
Tommy nearly shouts at the asshole who'd managed to sneak up on him again, forcing down the terror that'd begun to creep into his veins.
Panic was never a good mix when trying to locate an essential ghost.
Fuck Prime for giving a villain such an overpowered ability. "Recall" might not be among the worst powers to have, but even Dream's manipulation over gravity is nothing in comparison to walking through fucking walls.
"I thought you would've loved to hear Dream nearly get a face-full of pavement."
Well now that you mention it-
Tommy's joints lock as the distinct of metal on metal returns, a sound that'd only just begun to disappear from his nightmares.
Phantom's sudden lack of continuous banter only confirms his suspicions that this isn't just a typical Blade and Phantom scenario.
The teenager ducks just in time for a handful of metal feathers to imbed themselves into the alleyway wall instead of his back, breath hitching at the sight of the Angel of Death staring down at him in amusement.
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump-
"Th-That's hardly fair, you fuckin' prick!"
He feels drunk on the adrenaline rush that flows through him, his knife thrown toward the son of a bitch with practiced ease.
There's disappointment in the way his weapon never finds a home, effortlessly batted away and making a near-perfect arch back into Tommy's hand as his power wills it to return.
It's fantastic that he has his weapon back.
Terrible that it'd came whizzing toward his heart point-first.
Shadows loom as Angel's metal wings extend, creating a barricade between them and Dream's ongoing struggle.
Ha, as if two dangerously sharp wings are going to stop him.
"'Fair' isn't exactly in my vocabulary, mate."
"Almost forgot," Tommy grunts. "Blade's the dictionary fuck."
There's a flash of light before Tommy dives forward, metal clashing as his knife meets Angel's wrist-guard.
Satisfaction bleeds into the villain's cruel smile.
It almost makes him miss Phantom. At least with him Tommy isn't forced to look too hard at the bastard's ugly face.
Tommy wrestles the yelp from his throat as Angel's wings fling forward, boots digging into the ground to counteract the sudden powerful gust of wind.
An uproar of debris greets his attempts to stand firm against the violent force, triumph igniting as Tommy stands his ground.
Apparently, his success is a crime straight out of Phantom's book.
The dust barely settled when the heel of the ghost's boot meets his chest, lungs squeezing as he's sent flying onto the pavement of Ox Avenue.
He's unable to swallow back a totally-manly noise of pain- head pounding as the world roars back to life.
It's far too loud, overwhelming at this point.
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump.
He can faintly hear Dream's distinct grunts from the street over.
Fuck, that means-
Tommy's eyes widen as he locks onto his headphones a few feet away, split damn-near perfectly down the middle.
"What a shame, folks," Phantom's voice sings, the villain in all his vintage-glory appearing not far from Tommy.
If he wasn't so pissed, he would've asked whose dead grandpa Phantom stole the trench coat from.
"Looks like Karma's headphones are officially down for the count!"
Live now. Mourn later.
Sweat drips down his forehead as Tommy lurches backward, Phantom's fists connecting with the pavement Tommy had laid upon only a second before.
"Oo, but Karma makes a shocking return!" Phantom cheers. His form flickers once before it returns full-force, much less passive than the ghost's usually fighting stance.
Tommy's teeth grit.
The saying isn't "Karma's a bitch" for nothing.
"You're gonna regret that, fucker."
Phantom flickers back into existence, and Tommy takes kindly to the way their fight falls into hand-to-hand combat.
It's a dance he'd practiced for years, the consistent art of feigning left and dodging right.
The meticulous thoughts firing every time Phantom leans a little too much on his left-side.
Tommy's leg sweeps beneath the villain, fury forever caught in Phantom's eyes as the villain stumbles to the ground.
His power surges as he calls upon his knife, hand reaching out to snag the handle as per usual.
Tommy's grin drops the moment his hands grab something, something that ignites the nerves in his hand aflame.
That...that is not his knife.
He groans as the metal feather rips itself from his grasp, snapping back into position on Angel's wings.
"You mother-"
The world turns.
Tommy flails as his feet leave the ground, eyes widening amidst his attempts to twist mid-air. A quick glance proves that Phantom and Angel have joined his non-consensual ascent to the sky- a very black sky that totally isn't scary as fuck in the middle of the day.
Blinding white strips creep along the avenue's road like veins, the sidewalk now a pale shade of black.
Well, that's never happened before.
Tommy's heart stalls as gravity takes reign once more, the world flashing back to normal in time for the trio to crash onto pavement.
True to his luck, he doesn't land on his feet like Dream always does.
Instead he's left in a tangle of limbs, and silence that definitely should not be there.
"What the fuck-"
Tommy forces himself to his feet as his gaze fires on instinct.
White concrete.
Black roads.
Kicked dust settling.
Still Angel of Death-
Woah, woah, slow that down a bit.
Tommy's brows furrow.
Dust should not be settling whilst two supervillains stand tall.
Oh, and the Angel of Death probably shouldn't be standing in place either.
Tommy almost wilts beneath the odd storm crashing in Angel's eyes as the villain gazes toward 180th Street. If he didn't know any better he would've deemed it an odd mix between panic and possessiveness.
It can't be panic over Dream's abilities, Tommy had spent way too much time combing through his mentor's files to of missed such a crucial detail in the man's powers.
The Angel takes a step back, pupils blown wide.
Oh.
This isn't a Dream problem.
This is a Blade problem.
For once, it seems their Number-One-Hero might just have the upper hand.
How the turn-tables.
Tommy's powers howl as he throws his knife, pride unaffected as the Angel's wings once-more deflect the blade without so much of a glance.
The air freezes as the villain slowly turns his head toward Tommy, leveling the hero with a death-glare.
If this wasn't a such an opportunity, he would've fled the scene in an instant.
But Dream needs time, and Prime will Tommy buy him some.
"Oi, dick'ead! I wasn't finished with you."
Gone are the grins, the playful woes of battle.
This is personal.
"Phantom."
A hand appears to his left and Tommy's lunges.
He barely makes contact with Angel's left wing before Angel staggers back, landing a solid punch against Tommy's cheek in the hopes it'd dismantle him.
Like hell he's giving up this easily.
"Reca-!"
His power dims as a hand clamps around his mouth, the eye-watering scent of gunpowder flooding his senses.
"Oh no you fucking don't gremlin," Phantom grunts, voice heavy with the sheer amount of effort it takes to wrangle Tommy against his chest.
Good, nothing should come easy to that prick.
He definitely doesn't flinch as the wing in his hand dissembles, the feathers following in Angel's hurried footsteps as the villain takes off toward 180th.
Fuck.
Dream better hope Angel and Blade just have an extremely beneficial partnership and aren't two extremely dangerous soulmates.
Tommy's teeth sink into Phantom's hand.
Y'know, for being a classified ghost, Phantom's hand tastes grossly similar to normal flesh.
And like a human, the ghost's hand snaps away at an instant.
Tommy doesn't give Phantom the time to register his fuck-up, the metal feather he'd managed to snag oddly light as he digs it straight into the villain's thigh.
There's a hiss before Phantom disappears, the bloodied feather falling to the ground.
His chest erupts with triumph.
"Haha, bitch! How does it feel to get stabbed-?"
A fist connects with his face.
He's just barely able make out the familiar blur Vintage Road's boutiques as he's sent flying, his hands providing a sufficient block in time for Phantom's next incoming hit.
It's evident that they're moving farther from Dream, Tommy forced backward with every punch Phantom lands.
The ghost really shouldn't be holding this well after being stabbed.
Tommy yanks on his powers, desperation lining his features as he prays for his knife's arrival.
It never comes.
Fuck- this is the last time he tries to recall something on impulse.
He won't even get another chance to recall anything if Phantom's brutality says anything.
A hand grabs his shirt and yanks, pulling the duo onto the unforgiving ground.
Phantom's hands find a home at his neck, squeezing in spite of Tommy's flailing limbs.
"Just stop- struggling!"
You're trying to fucking kill me!
Tommy's breath comes out in wheezes, eyes wide as his mind struggles for some plan.
Phantom isn't supposed to be a lethal threat and the tension lining the ghost's stance proves it. There's an ongoing battle told in the way Phantom's eyebrows furrow with discontent.
His foot kicks out, choking as his feeble attempt only gives Phantom an excuse to add pressure to his throat.
His vision tunnels.
Damn, what a shitty way to go.
"Fuck!"
Instinctively he cringes away from Phantom's hiss, flinching as he expects his small struggle to be reprimanded.
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump-
The hands on his neck disappear, replaced by the violent mantra of, "Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-"
Tommy gasps, rolling onto his side as he forces air into his lungs.
Boots and nervous laughter echo as Phantom circles him. The villain's mouth moves, Tommy straining to comprehend the words.
"Of all people," Phantom was muttering. "Of all people, it's the biggest fucking pain in my ass."
His throat aches at the thought of speaking, and he can't tell if it's from being choked out or being completely helpless should Phantom decide to do something.
Tommy whines as fists tighten at his uniform, briefly registering the fact that they're moving. If the two building rising into his vision say anything, his deathbed is going to be in some dingy-ass alleyway.
It'll be poetic, if he thinks hard about it. Phantom finishing what the Angel of Death couldn't.
Dream isn't around to save him, nor is there a secondary heartbeat to care.
A hand knocks at his skull.
"-hello? Anyone home?"
Tommy forces himself back into reality, petrified as he meets Phantom's irritated expression and neon green eyes so inhuman that his mind prays they're only contacts.
"Welcome back to the land of the living."
Ironic coming from a ghost.
Damn, what a shame he can't deliver that zinger.
"Stop zoning out," Phantom huffs, kneeling at Tommy's side.
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump-
Tommy isn't sure how long they stand there for, his heart slowly beginning to calm in spit of the clear danger still in front of him.
Phantom's mouth is still moving- the villain ever liked shutting up anyway.
"Thump-thump-thump...thump-thump...thump- there you go...just calm down."
Tommy bolts upright, eyes wide as his hand rubs at his throat. Phantom's hand isn't there to stop him.
"Thump-thump-thump-thump."
Phantom's hand isn't there.
"Oh fuck," he grunts, eyes wide as he scrambles away from the villain. "You're my-"
"Took you long enough. Thanks for stabbing me, by the way."
Tommy's jaw twists open to retort, the soft crinkling of paper interrupting him as cold hands land in Tommy's own. A quick glance finds a poorly written note in his grasp.
"Niki's Bakery, 120th King's Rd. 5:55PM, don't be late."
His expression morphs into that of confusion.
Kinda odd to have that on hand.
"I- uh, had a suspicion after y'know..."
I almost died?
At least his soulmate has comprehension skills.
"Karma!"
Both of them flinch at Dream's voice, eyes wide as they scramble away from one another.
This- this would look extremely bad.
There's a soft crackle of static from Phantom's trench coat.
"Phantom?"
"All good on my end," the villain mutters into the speaker. "We may have a Code Blue on our hands, though."
"What?"
Blade.
"Mate, you better have an explanation."
Angel.
"Yeah, yeah," Phantom huffs.
Tommy winces as the villain rises, an odd grin on the ghost's face.
"Guess I'll be seeing you soon, hm Karma?"
"Fuck yeah."
"Karma!"
With a salute, Phantom's figure fades just in time for Dream to come skittering around the corner.
Tommy finds his fingers shoving the note into his pocket.
This was...big.
An opportunity to report Phantom's civilian identity. To finally land the villain a ticket to Pandora's vault.
But this meant Tommy wasn't alone anymore, that he did have a soulmate, even if he couldn't feel the secondary drum of another.
He can be selfish just this once, can't he?
"I'm fine," Tommy grunts before Dream can say anything.
"You look like you just got hit by a bus."
The teenager grins, "What if I did?"
Dreams eyebrows pinch. "Don't make me think about that- lets just...lets get you patched up and home."
"You read my mind, king."
---
Out of all the ways he'd unwilling dreamed of meeting his soulmate, standing idly in front of a café was not one of them.
It felt like the beginning of some cheesy rom-com, especially with the giant ass scarf he'd forced on himself to cover Phantom's handprints. The last thing he needed was his soulmate feeling guilty over it.
Actually, maybe that would be some decent blackmail.
Tommy forces himself to breathe as he pushes the cafe's doors open, dismissive of the anxiety stirring within his chest.
The cafe's tall-ass cashier instantly turns to the door, dark brown eyes following Tommy's approach to the counter.
It's unmistakably Phantom, with dark eyebags and a stylish mess of brown hair. A part of him sighs in relief that the ghost's green eyes had just been contacts.
Oh Prime, unless these were the contacts-
"Hey."
Not the best start to formally meeting his soulmate.
"Hey."
It's awkward, half because the cafe's dead quiet, and half because it's weird as fuck to stand in front of one of Manberg's most-wanted criminals, unmasked.
Gone is Phantom's famous black eye-mask and trench coat, exchanged for a cozy brown sweater and green apron with a weird ass nametag.
This isn't Phantom. This is-
"Wilbur, huh? You don't suppose there's still time to change that-"
"Don't push it, gremlin."
#dream smp#mcyt#fanfic#hero au#platonic soulmates#tommy innit#dream mcyt#wilbur soot#philza#technoblade#dark sbi#angst#hurt/comfort#fluff#violence cw#ao3 fic#ao3 tags#bingo#Damn this took WAYYYY too long to put out there
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Character Gallery Part 2: Our non-astartes support cast!
Again I must thank @rowscara for putting with me and all these designs, but once again I have amassed enough of them for collection post! If you wish to see the three "main characters" of Tepidus Tempestus click here.
Starting off with the highest rank, Lord Castellan Dederik Dunst, the captain of the ship and highest non-astartes authority who due to legal complications cannot be called Captain or Admiral. The rank of Lord Castellan, to which he was promptly appointed by the Chaptermaster as in the Imperial system allows it for a legal loophole including the - supposedly - temporary nature of such rank as well as its lack of specification.
Originally from the Astra Militarum and left to die on a volcanic deathworld after an imperial screw-up. After months of trying to survive the toxic ashen atmosphere and attempting to get an emergency signal out, the Tepidus Tempestus stumbled over them by sheer accident involving several navigators and what would later prohibit the use of caffeine-like stimulants by them for several years.
Out of the dozen or so that were left, he is the only one who did not succumb to the aftereffects. His lungs are severely fucked however, which has him constantly smoking a very specific herbal mix to combat the symptoms. Dunst is probably one of the most loyal to the chapter as he literally owes his life to them - although this loyality does explicitly not extend to Astra Militarum high command for obvious reasons.
It should be noted that he has a slight hoarding problem in that every single console, chair, and work-station around whatever place he works has several lasguns, explosives, rations and fortification materials stowed inside. The fact that he did all that in secret has gotten him into some trouble with the Chaptermaster when it came out.
Following the highest authority on the bridge, here's the absolute tyrant of the machine room, Engine Master Angela Kirrspatt - archenemy of tech priest Daimos-5 (self-proclaimed), and - barring some technicalities - the oldest human on the ship. She's mostly held together by spite and devotion to the vessel - this devotion goes to the point that she has an actual Tech Priest Killcount.
In her younger years she had observed the incompetence of Daimos-5's predecessors that would have almost blown the ship into pieces as well as the disregard the tech priests had for the human workforce, and led a worker's rebellion in response. Chaptermaster Auris was so impressed by her organisational skills as well as pulling it off while keeping all systems running without issue that he promptly promoted her - and politely overlooked the frozen remains of shattered flesh and steel chained to the coolant pipes.
Rising further in the ranks during her service she, in a rather unusual turn of events, became the inofficial vice-captain of the 3rd Astartes Company (Techmarine Specialists). She was the assistant to their Captain Hephaton, but the man is an elusive hermit busy with his work and avoiding other people. Eventually he started sending her out to all the meetings he didn't give a shit about (which was nearly all of them), and so it was established.
The fact that Daimos-5 is still alive and even gets some liberties within her domain goes to show how skilled he is, and that she - even if only begrudingly - respects him. His expertise is Gellar Field tech and the Warpdrive in general, but all the tech surrounding it is her domain. Curiously, Kirrspatt and Dunst were a thing once, 70 years back or so. The lone survivor clinging to life and the barsh mechanic girl... although nowadays they bond mostly by being weird cranky old people.
Often seen with personal Astartes guards of the 3rd, although it is not sure if they are guarding her from other people, or other people from them.
From Engineering back to the bridge here's Communications Officer Liberta - being a lingusitical genius that somehow speaks every concievable dialect of high and low gothic at the young age of "officially" 35 terran years, her job is mostly tuning in to the Vox-frequencies and whatever else goes around that is not an astropathic transmission.
Aside from her foul mood and the - barely concealed undercity gang-tattoos - there's actually not much known about her. In fact there is so little known, that very specific events in the story led to some... complications. Her files regarding her past before joining were clean. TOO clean... but giving away more would spoilers. However the Navigators and Astropaths on the vessel do not like her, but that might be because she sometimes takes some of their drug stashes.
Apparently Liberta has a substance tolerance that - for some of them - goes beyond that of even Astartes, but mostly uses those so she can work longer and harder. Just like Chaptermaster Auris this is yet another case that makes Chief Apothecarius Timidus scream "BY THE THRONE STOP WORKING YOUR BODY IS LITERALLY FALLING APART HAVE SOME REST!"
Mostly gets away with her foul attitude because of extreme competence paired with Dunst and Auris having somewhat of a soft spot for her.
And finally, last but not least for this post, let's hear it for out Medical Ogryn, Nurse Narcosis, Apothecarius Timidus' favourite assistant. As it turns out when you have patients the size and weight of Astartes, you might need someone even bigger and stronger to move them around.
Orginally from the weapons deck, when a mishandlung of ammunition led to many people being injuried, he carried them all to the apothecarium. Then after sticking around and insiting to help, Timidus found use for him.
Although Narcosis started out as dumb as they come, unlike most Ogryn in the Imperium he had something entirely unique: a teacher with the patience of centuries. Timidus was pleased to have an assistant who did EXACTLY what he was told without question or hesitation, assuming Narcosis could understand the concept.
So it started off simple, with "carry this", "hold that", "look scary so the gawkers piss off", and eventually over many, many years the orders became more and more complex ("spray this on the cut" - "put on that bandaid"). While it takes a while to get new knowledge into that massive skull, once it actually is in there, it STAYS there.
Can now perform simple surgery if necessary, but really does not like working on non-astartes. Regular humans are so fragile and it makes him very, VERY nervous.
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Yeah so... ignore me here I just need this outta my head for a bit or I might explode.
Just got word of another death in the fam, my grandma rests easy now and my god this woman earned it. The things she went through and lived through are unreal and lowkey I always assumed she would just outlive us all on sheer stubbornness alone because at some point my brother and mother once stated they would like to be cremated instead of buried when their time comes and Nana was like "no you can't i won't allow it I want to visit a grave not an urn and if I have to put ya in the ground myself you will get buried as is proper!"
And ya know what? With all she survived and with the conviction she said that I just believed her. I believed her to reach an unreal age on stubbornness and sheer spite just so she can make good on her word. Whenever she got sick sick I never worried much because this woman was a rock amidst a raging ocean too strong and willful to lay down and die.
But recently she was kinda faced with the prospect of dying either soonish if she does not get her leg amputated or living longer on one leg and in true Nana fashion she decided to hell with either of that and dipped out today in her sleep.
She can chill now and terrorize the rest of our departed folks on the other side but gosh this sucks.
Like... isolated it would probably suck a little less? Idk. I am on death Nr. 6 now since 2020 and I am a bit tired and a bit concerned because I am running out of relatives here like what the fuck. On each side of my families an entire generation got erased out of the family tree save for one person each and bruh...
And I hate hearing my mom cry because my mother does not cry really, she just.. never could really I can count on one hand how often she cried in my lifetime but.. yeah she's a mess. We all are.
And I am in this weird position that I can help her navigate through all the aftermath of this sad shit because for some reason life decreed that I loose my parent before my mother did. I lost my dad almost three years ago now. I went through all the ugly shit already and all the paperwork and funeral shit and what have you, fighting with different gov offices because so much shit went wrong on their end in the wake of my dads passing it was like a drawn out uphill battle and so I know what to do and what bullshit to expect already and she does not. My mother does not and I can help her with that unfortunately and isn't that just fucking unnatural.
I am not even sure if I can properly grasp the whole thing currently because man this song and dance is too familiar and it has not even been that long since the last death in 2023 and you have 6 people die in a row and like what the fuck is one even supposed to feel at that point? Like.. honestly.
imma raise a glass in Nanas honour today and vow to live to a 120 just because. I am her grandchild and I got all the spite and stubbornness from her and it already carried me far already, time to up the game, got a legacy to live up to now.
Fuck em up in heaven Nana, rest in peace, it has been a blast and an honour.
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The mental image of Tav pulling together the crew and becoming captain expressly because they're the only Alterra employee technically in the chain of command delights me.
Wyll's Alterra, but his department is very much not crew related and had nothing directly to do with the Aurora so even if he does outrank Tav... it doesn't matter. Because not his ship.
Everyone else is either a contractor or was just kinda there in terms of things.
So Tav, "i will try to fistfight a Reaper", is captain. And technically responsible for getting them all off this rock. Well, technically just Wyll. Letter of the overall orders would just be saving anyone directly staked as Alterra. The others surviving is a fringe benefit.
Which makes the whole "we need to save Karlach because her tech is fucking with her heart condition" thing more wild because like. Subnautica is very cyberpunk about things. There's neural uplink college classes and simulations and crippling debt and megacorps that run the whole galaxy. Shit like that.
My point is that the cultural norm would very much be looking at Karlach and going "sucks to be you ig" and like... Shadowheart's whole cult upbringing would support that-- but she's attached at this point and deep down does want to help people. She had being a doctor beamed into her brain after all.
But then there's Tav.
Who very much is like "nope not dying today, what do you need to save her? I will go get it. Astarion, get some fresh batteries into the Seamoth if you would-- Gale, Halsin, I want you two to do whatever Shadowheart needs. I don't care if it's holding shit or boiling water. You're hers now. Lae'zel, I need you on fishing. The pda says Stalkers can be used if we strip the blood out of the protein and we need their teeth anyway."
Because Tav is a good person in spite of the capitalism and general suck of the corporate dystopia they live in. Most people are.
But no i'm just imagining it gets really bad after they've worked out the cure and the khara has taxed her body so bad that even with the tether on-- i figure she has the black box tied to it or she'd just die tbh--it stops working as well. Like they can't focus on getting out of there until she's stable because of the sheer amount of resources needed to make a rocket that can support that many people at once.
Im ponder
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Thinking about hs^2 and the idea of an Ultimate Self - what are your thoughts on it? How would the Ultimate Self play out for the kids, alpha or beta, that aren't Ultimate yet?
*cracks knuckles* fam this shit is so interesting to me i hope you’re prepared for a bit of a rant
Something that a lot of people (including the writers of post canon themselves) seem to forget is that at one point during HS Proper, Rose was her Ultimate Self! During the first doomed timeline, shortly before we meet Davesprite, Doomed Rose goes to sleep and the Rose in the alpha timeline absorbs the full knowledge and memories of Doomed Rose. it’s so cool. hashtag just seer of light things
Unlike in post canon, she didn’t physically deteriorate because at the time there was only one other Rose, and she merged with her no problem. Theoretically, if someone has very few doomed timeline splinters, they should be physically fine. Time or Heart players? Players in games that went wayward multiple times before succeeding? Not so much.
That means pretty much everyone we know of (except for Caliborn and Calliope since there are so few versions of them) would probably physically die if they became their Ultimate Selves unless they had a robot backup. Either that, or they could become so in tune with themselves as a person like Ult!Dirk claims to be* and somehow avoid the deterioration of their body and mind.
Roxy, for example, is someone I think could figure out how to survive the process. They’re very in touch with themself as a person no matter the timeline. They could probably turn out just fine! John/June would also probably survive. They’re literally the breeze, they’re kind of meant to just go with the flow! If they started becoming their Ultimate Self, they might have a small crisis about it at first, but then they’d probably shrug and be like yeah ok i guess this is just happening now
Other people I could see becoming Ultimate and coming out the other side are Vriska, due to sheer spite and stubbornness, and Terezi, as she’s very in tune with herself, being a Mind player. I feel like the rest of the beta and alpha kids would need some sort of backup to put their soul into in order to preserve their memories. Ultimate Selves are a really interesting concept to me, but tbh I’m still not sure how it would work for all of the players!
*Obviously Dirk is an outlier in terms of Ultimate Selves because he’s got all these fucking splinters, i still think Ult!Dirk is not his ultimate self bc of Brain Ghost Dirk but yk w/e I digress
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In an AU where your MC from your ORV fic, where her regressions were in sync from the very start, there’s only pain and lost chances for Joonghyuk— It would have taken far, far longer for a more jaded, murderous, cold Junghyeok than 3rd regression Junghyeok to believe/mellow out/trust/care for MC. And.
(Also because this is what I thought would happen when I first read your ORV summary. You know. Two regressors having a messed up but clingy relationship. Before realizing that MC is only regressing in the 3rd turn, which, nice. She doesn’t have to struggle so much with later regression JK because OH BOY HAHAHA that man gets so so so fucked up.)
Because at the start it might not be anything. At the start, he continues killing her and threatening her and being general “Joonghyuk” to her, but MC is a vengeful spirit that WILL survive -from sheer spite-the murderous bastard that keeps killing her. Only problem is that he keeps getting stronger and colder and more brutal but that means more skills for her, does it not? It would take more than a few dozens or maybe JK also realizes that he has kept giving her skills so he stops killing her earlier than expected, but their relationship isn’t as “chill” as it is right now. They’re only separated by 2 regressions; it restarts when both of them die. But because JK kept killing MC she’s WAAAAY behind and it is as if they’re separated by a dozen regressions.
Anyways. Hostility. Anger. They become tentative comrades because JK is wary of her (and he might have been in denial of how thrilled he was, but in denial because if he is betrayed then fuck) and because MC is a furious maelstrom that is bitter, angry, a tenacious bitch (always) and wants either to live or to have, at least, a victory. In the earlier regressions, she keeps dying and JK goes on without her, as far as he can, before he, too, dies. And they start from the bottom. Eventually, she gets better, stronger, dangerous, and JK is acknowledging that having THIS fellow regressor is a huge help.
(he is not alone there is someone who will leave him through failed chances he is not alone and—)
Eventually, he realizes that he has fallen in love with this infuriating woman.
(Eventually, perhaps, he starts considering killing himself and restarting over whenever MC dies earlier than him. What’s the point of continuing on when he - THEY - can restart as easily as they die?)
(Eventually, perhaps, he DOES kill himself. Maybe after he’s gone on a rampage and figured out what went wrong. But he does. Or maybe he does it right away. Maybe.)
And Joonghyuk is utterly, completely, devastatingly FUCKED.
Because in a world where MC’s regressions are only separated by two from Joonghyuk’s, where she keeps meeting a worse and more broken Joonghyuk — they are not happy regressions. Joonghyuk would have (inevitably and understandably) hurt MC way, way more than he did as a 3rd regression.
Well. Yeah. Anguish and pain. Only the best for Joonghyuk. :)
She doesn’t have to struggle so much with later regression JK because OH BOY HAHAHA that man gets so so so fucked up
this is BEAUTIFUL oogh always being two regressions apart, never quite being on the same page, trying so DESPERATELY to make it right!!!!!!!! and he just accepts the idea of dying with this pink goblin he's fallen for, who's so full of life because she's so mad all the time, and he's trying so hard to rectify the things he's done but he CAN'T, he's already DONE THEM!!!!!! she's mad and it's a cycle that keeps going and he loves her so much but boy does he keep fucking it up!!!!!!!
#ren speaks#free dinner fic#keeping an eye on that sentence anon#and i have a shot glass ready and waiting
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Cant stop thinking about how, upon relaying how fucked shit is with multiple emergencies in my family and that I'm heading home to help sort everything out, a very good friend told me that I am very calming in a crisis.
Because chances are Ive had to deal with something similar before. So i can assess the situation at a glance and start working on mitigating and/or fixing the damage or evacuating everyone from the radius.
And like. Im glad of the experience. I wouldn't change that. I think its fucked that Ive had that experience and have learned from it since I was seven. I'm one of the only people that I know that can seize the panic and fear reaction and wrestle it down in under ten seconds, most of the time under five.
I am still not okay. And Im so goddamn bad at showing it. And now i get to go back to my parents and not be human for a month. I dont have the luxury of panicking or crying. I havent even left my house yet and i want to come back.
One of my best friends called me in the middle of a panic attack at one point, a couple years ago. In tears. Asked me how and why couldn't she be as strong. And me and my other best friend, whose friendship is best described as "baptized with hellfire and welded with the same", looked at each other. Two people who went through utter hell, who have both been through extensive therapy, who have loved and lost and raged?
"Because I had practice, darling," i said down the phone line at the time. "Because you had a neglectful family. Not familial and medical trauma, not surviving the birth of a new era of destruction through sheer, dumb luck, not muscling your way through bigotry and prejudice at school for almost two decades, and certainly not things randomly self destructing around you in spite of your best efforts. Your crime is being mildly traumatized and well adjusted in spite of it."
"Well adjusted? Never met her," muttered my best friend, my hellfire-shaped steel.
The people that are my normal support system are the people I'm going to help. And the people that want to help me dont know how.
And now i just have "you're very calming in a crisis" running through my head on a loop.
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More is more
I'm spending the next three months reading about writing. I was hoping to spend it writing. I'd still like to spend some of it writing.
Truthfully, a fair bit will be spent playing Zelda. I'm weak like that. I'm going to limit myself. I have to. Otherwise, I'll spend all day and night playing that game. It's a compelling game.
I don't know if it's a good game or not yet. But it's compelling, that's for damn sure. I do think that fusing items to your weapons is awfully tedious, though. I honestly don't find that nearly as enjoyable as I think I'm supposed to. Maybe I will like it more later, once I start plumbing the depths and finding non-decayed weapons and so forth.
I could, and likely will, write an entire post about how I think the fetishization of the Master Sword has become a problem that I don't think the series has figured out how to handle. But that's for another time.
I've been reading about writing.
I understand most of the ideas in the books. What I need are examples. One of my favorites is this one from "Techniques of the Selling Writer:"
Here's an example from a student manuscript: "The girl, in spite of her confusion and the hazard offered by the razor-edged shards of glass from the shattered window, somehow broke free."
Girl is the subject in the above sentence; broke the verb. Yet they're separated by twenty words of modification, and the separation renders the sentence distracting and confusing.
Is the separation needed? Or could our reader perhaps survive a different version: "Confusion seemed to overwhelm her in that moment. The razor-edged shards of glass from the shattered window offered an added hazard. Yet somehow, the girl broke free."
Fuck, I love that example. Break down that sentence! Show me what's wrong with that sentence, word daddy! I crave those sweet, sweet lessons! I need them!
I've gotten pretty good at writing stuff like this, this thing that you're reading here, over the last twenty-one years. That's how long ago it was when I first took up the name "Ratralsis" and began writing under it, on a site called "Conniving Pete" that hasn't existed in many years and never paid me a dime for anything I wrote.
I don't mind mentioning the name of the site, because you'd have to do a lot of work to find anything I wrote there. The site's gone! Good luck! It might be doable! I used to be able to do it! Haven't tried in a while!
I've been reading about writing fiction.
I want to get good at writing fiction. I don't want to take a reader by the hand and gently guide him through my world. I want to grab the reader by the collar and drag them, kicking and screaming, through it. I want them to hate how much they want to know what's going to happen next. I want them to hang on every word, wishing they already had answers to the questions I'm making them ask me, questions I'm not even asking, I'm just implying.
And I think that the worst lesson I've learned is that "less is more."
The idea is sound. It makes sense on paper, which is, incidentally, where I also want my stories to go. I wrote about it at length in my 14,000-word essay on Death Stranding, where I said this about Kojima's writing style:
…Kojima’s work is not a shoe with a narrow heel or a broad heel. It is a steamroller. It is gigantic and broad to the point of absurdity, but it is so heavy and so powerful that it will crush your entire body into a smear on the pavement if it rolls over you. It’s the difference between stabbing someone with a knife or stabbing them with a baseball bat: the knife, having a narrower point, is going to penetrate their body more easily. Kojima stabs with a high-powered cannon. The projectile is bigger, blunter, and heavier than either, but its sheer power makes up for it.
Less is more? No, says Kojima. More is more. Think about it. It just makes sense. This, I believe, is the great lesson that Kojima wished to impart with his game Death Stranding.
That's, and I'm being serious here, the way that I want to write. And I've been reading Discworld, as I've said, and I recently read a passage from my favorite standalone novel, The Last Unicorn, by Peter S. Beagle:
“I dreamed about her last night,” he said.
Molly cried, “So did I!” and Schmendrick opened his mouth, and then closed it again.
King Lír said hoarsely, “By our friendship, I beg you—tell me what she said to you.” His hands gripped one hand each of theirs, and his clutch was cold and painful.
Schmendrick gave him a weak smile. “My lord, I so rarely remember my dreams. It seems to me that we spoke solemnly of silly things, as one does—grave nonsense, empty and evanescent—” The king let go of his hand and turned his half-mad gaze on Molly Grue.
“I’ll never tell,” she said, a little frightened, but flushing oddly. “I remember, but I’ll never tell anyone, if I die for it—not even you, my lord.” She was not looking at him as she spoke, but at Schmendrick.
King Lír let her hand fall as well, and he swung himself into the saddle so fiercely that his horse reared up across the sunrise, bugling like a stag. But Lír kept his seat and glared down at Molly and Schmendrick with a face so grim and scored and sunken that he might well have been king as long as Haggard before him.
“She said nothing to me,” he whispered. “Do you understand? She said nothing to me, nothing at all.”
Then his face softened, as even King Haggard’s face had gone a little gentle when he watched the unicorns in the sea. For that moment he was again the young prince who had liked to sit with Molly in the scullery. He said, “She looked at me. In my dream, she looked at me and never spoke.”
He rode away without good-by, and they watched after him until the hills hid him: a straight, sad horseman, going home to be king. Molly said at last, “Oh, the poor man. Poor Lír.”
“He has not fared so badly,” the magician answered. “Great heroes need great sorrows and burdens, or half their greatness goes unnoticed. It is all part of the fairy tale.” But his voice was a little doubtful, and he laid his arm softly around Molly’s shoulders. “It cannot be an ill fortune to have loved a unicorn,” he said. “Surely it must be the dearest luck of all, though the hardest earned.”
This is one of my favorite passages, and here is another, because FUCK IT, THAT'S FUCKING WHY, MORE IS MORE:
Schmendrick must have carried her for a time, because she was definitely not walking and his green eyes were ringing in her head. “That’s right. Nothing but magic matters to me. I would round up unicorns for Haggard myself if it would heighten my power by half a hair. It’s true. I have no preferences and no loyalties. I have only magic.” His voice was hard and sad.
“Really?” she asked, rocking dreamily in her terror, watching the brightness flowing by. “That’s awful.” She was very impressed. “Are you really like that?”
“No,” he said, then or later. “No, it’s not true. How could I be like that, and still have all these troubles?” Then he said, “Molly, you have to walk now. He’s there. He’s there.”
These passages, long as the first one is and nonsensical as the second one is, are perfect examples of my love of "more is more" and when it's appropriate to "tell, don't show."
"A straight, sad horseman, going home to be king."
"Oh, the poor man. Poor Lír."
"His voice was a little doubtful, and he laid his arm softly around Molly's shoulders."
"That's right.[…]It's true.[…]No, it's not true."
Sometimes, you have to tell the reader things. Important things. Things they can't be trusted to deduce on their own. To piece together like detectives. Sometimes, the reader needs to put on their deerhunter cap and put their pipe in their mouth and raise their magnifying glass to their eye and examine the text for clues, but that is not the way I ever want to write and it is not the kind of thing that I ever want to read.
Spell it out for me.
Here is a passage from Discworld's eleventh book, Reaper Man, another of the Death books:
And it suddenly dawned on the late Windle Poons that there was no such thing as somebody else’s problem, and that just when you thought the world had pushed you aside it turned out to be full of strangeness. He knew from experience that the living never found out half of what was really happening, because they were too busy being the living. The onlooker sees most of the game, he told himself.
And another:
BECAUSE YOU’RE ALL YOU’VE GOT, said Death.
So.
What do I do with this dark and secret knowledge? The idea that it's okay to say things outright? That if what you're saying is worth something, then it's worth saying it?
I guess I'll have to say things, too.
I need to learn how to write like that. To hit hard.
Sometimes you have to use adverbs, even though you shouldn't use adverbs. You shouldn't say that "he laid his arm softly around Molly's shoulders" like that, what are you DOING, Beagle? He can place his arm around her shoulders the way you'd place a priceless antique onto a silken pillow, maybe. That way the reader knows he's doing it softly without you going and saying he does it "softly." Drop those "-ly" words, you fool!
Or… don't, actually. Keep it. It's perfect the way it is, and no other word than "softly" will work as well.
Use a metaphor! Use an image! Describe the man as something the reader can understand, not as a "straight, sad horseman," Beagle! What are you THINKING, just coming out and throwing a string of adjectives at me like that? You stupid, stupid man!
Or… leave it just like that. No metaphor is necessary. Hitting us with adjectives like that is, in fact, hitting us. It's swinging a baseball bat directly into our skulls, hammering home the truth of the moment: a man is sad that the woman he loves is gone forever and she left him without even saying goodbye, though she could have. Though she did say goodbye to Molly and to Schmendrick, and neither of them can help him. He is a straight, sad horseman. He is strong. He is a hero. He is injured. He will never feel the love of that unicorn ever again, and he knows it, and that is the saddest thing.
Even calling it "the saddest thing" is bad writing, isn't it? Shouldn't I use some flowery metaphor? "It will hurt him more than any physical injury," perhaps?
No. It is the saddest thing. The hero's reward at the end of The Last Unicorn is that he goes home to be king, and to be the saddest man.
Windle Poons's reward (yes, that is the name of the main character of the secondary plot of Reaper Man, who, I would argue, is the main character of Reaper Man) is to die. But he dies well, doesn't he?
And, with great relief, and general optimism, and a feeling that on the whole everything could have been much worse, Windle Poons died.
A 130-year-old wizard who needed to fail to die and return to life as a zombie to learn that, in this life, we're all we've got. And he learned it, and then he died.
What do I do with this? What do I say in my story?
That's the question.
For one thing, I think I need to get over any foolish notions of "less is more" and "show, don't tell." There's a time and a place for those things. There is. There absolutely is. Here is a passage, the opening passage, from "The Legend of the 10 Elemental Masters" by Nick Smith (aka ulillillia):
Knuckles glides north 1500 feet above Lake Sakakawea at 800 mph following Highway 83. A small thunderstorm is somewhat visible to the south. The sky is 3/8 scattered with cirrus clouds and 1/8 scattered with altostratus clouds. The wind is 15 mph with gusts to 20 mph. A few small patches of snow in ditches, some with water, are visible but hard to see due to the speed. A 40-second pause in speech occurs while credits display on screen.
Knuckles resembles a human, but with differences. Knuckles is neither male nor female, though referred to as a “he”. Three-quarter-inch-thick dark-violet-colored (FFA000E0) fur covers his entire body. He is only 25 1/3 inches tall, 4 inches wide, and 2.5 inches deep. Knuckles gets his name from his large hands, 40% bigger than a human his size would have. A reflective, glittery, greenish (FFA0FF00) haze a half millimeter across borders his pupil. Knuckles has no nose and a mouth 2/3 as big. Every other aspect of his is that of what a human would have for his size. For details on the numerical colors (in parentheses), see appendix 5.
I will never, and I emphasize this as strongly as I can, NEVER say a single bad word about ulillillia. That man deserves nothing but kindness and respect.
But his writing? By his own admission: not great. The man is not a fiction writer. At the time he wrote this book, he wasn't much of a fiction reader. So he wrote the way he wanted things to be written. With extreme detail. It wasn't enough to tell us that Knuckles was a bit over two feet tall. He needed to know his precise dimensions. ALL of them.
That's too far for me, I think. There's a happy medium between Hemingway and Nick Smith, I think.
But I'd like to do more of my main character's inner thoughts in the third draft of my novel. I'd like to reference the physical descriptions of him and of the other characters more than I do now. Talk about the architecture of the buildings they see in the towns that they visit. The food that they eat. That kind of thing. I think it can be done.
If nothing else, I think I learned from Wyrd Sisters that I can hammer home the idea that Katia, the main heroine and an orc woman and a veteran of a major war from ten years before the story takes place, is big and muscular and has blue-gray skin with orange eyes and numerous disfiguring scars. Yet, by the end of the book, our hero William still thinks she is as beautiful as she considers herself to be, and he is right. She is. When he confesses his love to her and hugs her close to him, he rests his head under her chin, because she's so much taller than him. He feels her familiar warmth and smells the smell of her leather armor and her sweat, because she's not exactly showering every day and putting on perfume. When she smiles at him, her tusks glint in the light, and she has a stump for a left ear from where half of it was torn off in a fight.
But that doesn't matter.
As for him, he doesn't have as many obvious physical characteristics I can point out, but he's still a wiry guy who wears a lot of furs that he acquired himself the hard way, and he carries around a massively heavy backpack with things like a tightly-rolled up canvas tent, a bedroll, and a cooking pot so that they can sleep at night in relative comfort. He also has his longbow and his broadsword and his knife, and he looks like a patchwork packmule on two legs with all of his burdens. He slowly grows a beard over the course of the story and he hates how it itches. His eyes dart around a lot, and he stalks instead of walks, out of habit. He stammers and pauses mid-sentence to gather his thoughts because he's spent the last ten years living by himself in the middle of the woods and has gotten worse at talking to other people. Yet, by the end of the story, he's a hero who's willing to put his life on the line to protect someone else, a thing that he was never willing to do before then. He was well-known for his self-preservation skills. They're how he managed to self-preserve for so long.
Are they the same? No, not really. But they're what I've got, for now, at least.
These are just some thoughts.
I'll keep on reading. I don't know what else I can do.
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