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cinebration · 3 years

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Water-breather (Din Djarin x Reader) [Request]

I saw that at your request were open and was wondering if you’d do a mermaid au of din djarin x female mermaid reader ? — Requested by anon

Fun fact: Star Wars has an actual mermaid-like species known as Melodies. They are native to Yavin 8 and are known in the Legends “canon” of Star Wars.

Warnings: creature violence

Gif Source: djarsdin

The Mandalorian hadn’t expected to chase his bounty clear to Yavin 8, a tundra moon orbiting a gas giant. His bounty, a human by the name of Cornelis Offkin, had taken a beating from the Mandalorian’s Razor Crest, forcing the man to crash-land on the arid moon near the purple mountains ridging the surface.

Din didn’t have time to appreciate the dry beauty of the place. His bounty was somewhere here, his tracks plain in the scanner built into Din’s helmet. He followed the illuminated footprints through the dense wood at the base of the mountain range, rifle slung over his back, blaster at his hip. Strange, cloying smells wafted up into his helmet as he stepped on dense underbrush.

As he neared the base of the mountain range, Din slowed beside a small pond, confused by the footprints he was seeing. Offkin had seemed to stop, then spun around quickly, scattering dirt and detritus. Then a mad scramble deeper into the trees before sprawling to the ground.

Din scanned the area. Had Offkin been attacked? The ground beside the bounty’s footprints had been smoothed by something that had either remerged or entered the still pond. The surface of the water remained smooth.

Din reached for his blaster.

Water sprayed in all directions. Din glimpsed green-black eyes and large fangs before he was on his back, half in the creature’s mouth. Rearing back, it dragged him off the ground easily. Pain lanced up Din’s thigh, excruciating. Stifling a scream, Din tried to pull free his blaster.

The serpentine creature tossed its head back, opening its jaw wider. Din felt himself slipping further into the creature’s throat. He had never considered that he might die to a creature rather than some bounty. At least he knew the fate of Offkin.

An ear-piercing screech blasted the Mandalorian’s ears. The serpentine creature writhed, hissing.

Din glanced up to see huge wings spreading from behind the creature. Oh great, it flies, he thought.

A giant beak peered over the top of the creature’s head, followed by the predatory eyes of a raptor. Din caught his own reflection in the volucrine creature’s pupils before he was suddenly falling.

The serpentine creature rose above him, borne aloft by the avian animal.

Din hit the water hard.

Din gasped for air, choking up water in his helmet and inhaling it in again. Sputtering, lungs screaming, he shoved the helmet up a fraction and spewed the water out and down his chin, breathing air. It burned in his throat, but he sucked it up greedily, only distantly noting the musty mildew smell and taste of it.

When his lungs stopped aching, he breathed easier and took stock of his surroundings. Dimly lit by bioluminescent plants, the cave in which he sat appeared endless. Stalactites hung down from the ceiling, reflected vertiginously in a dark pool to his right.

Eyeing the water warily, he slowly rose to his feet, checking his weapons. Everything was where they were supposed to be. He tried to make sense of how he had arrived in this place, the last thing he remembered being the water engulfing him.

The stalactite reflection rippled. He tensed, ripping out his blaster from its holster. The ripples slowed near the edge of the pool. Din aimed, ready to kill.

A head tentatively emerged from the water, humanoid. Din found himself staring into your eyes as your chin lifted above the waterline. In the bioluminescent light, your face was limned in soft green.

“Hello.” It was all the Mandalorian could think to say.

“Hello,” you echoed. Your voice sounded like a trickling waterfall.

“What is this place?”

“Home.”

“Okay. How do I leave?”

You shook your head. “The reels are out. They hunt.” You spoke in Galactic Basic haltingly. “Not safe.”

“I have to get back to my ship.”

“Wait here.”

Din frowned. He wouldn’t be able to collect the bounty on Offkin, which meant he needed to find a new bounty as soon as possible. He couldn’t wait around losing credits. “How did I get here?”

“One of young ones found you. Brought you here to safety. The reel was not alone in the water.”

He pictured the serpentine creature writhing in fury and pain above him. Shivering, he suddenly remembered the wound in his leg. Glancing down, he found it wrapped in some kind of plant, covered thickly in a dark paste. The latter smelled atrocious, but the wound felt cool, his leg flexible.

“How long do I have to wait?” he asked.

“Sunrise. Reels and avrils sleep.” You made a motion with your hands, imitating wings.

Sighing, Din sat back down, trying to think his way out of the problem. The snake-like thing—the reel, he corrected—had caught him in the water. Looking around the cave, all he could see beside the smooth rock walls was water.

“How do I get out?” he asked again. “How did I get in?”

You patted the top of the water’s surface, sending ripples across the water. “Through lakes.”

It took him a long moment to realize what you meant. One of your people had dragged him through a system of underground lakes to this hidden cave. The only exit was through the reel-infested water.

Sighing again, he leaned up against the rock behind him and gently massaged feeling back into his wounded leg. He felt your gaze on him trying to bore through his helmet.

She may think it’s my actual face, a little voice inside him said.

“Why here?” you asked, propping your arms on the shore of the pool. He watched in disbelief as something crested the surface of the water behind you: a fin.

“I was…tracking someone. The reel got him.”

You frowned but nodded. Din was mesmerized by the fin, watched it slowly move back and forth like a woman moving her legs.

“Rest. I come later to take you to your ship.”

“Thank you.”

With a smile, you pushed back from the edge and slipped back into the water, your fin flashing. Din thought about it for half an hour before sleep took him under.

He wasn’t confident about being dragged through interconnected lakes. He didn’t have a water-breathing apparatus built into his helmet, and he wasn’t sure he could hold his breath long enough.

When you reemerged from the water, the water hovering just below your collarbone and no further, you hefted up a handful of blue-green algae.

“What is that?”

“To help breathe in water.” You mimed placing it over your mouth and nose. “Breathe little.”

Anxiety slithering up his spine, Din took the algae and turned away, lifting the helmet to plaster the slimy material over his mouth and nose. His heart stuttered in his chest, telling him he couldn’t breathe through the pond scum. Fighting it, he resettled the helmet over his head.

He found you had searching a hand from the water, reaching for him. Hesitating, he looked into your deep eyes, looking for deception. He found only an open and honest expression. Taking your hand, he let you lead him into the water. The chill sent a shiver through him as he went deeper into the water, his clothes and armor weighing him down.

You held onto him easily, wrapping your arms around his torso. Panic seized him again as you kicked hard, sending you both careering through a hole in the cave wall beneath the water. He blinked against the burn of it in his eyes as you maneuvered through the tunnels connecting the lakes.

He fought the urge to breathe despite the ache in his lungs. The algae stayed firmly in place despite the water sloshing up under the helmet. He felt stuck in a fishbowl, watching as the world rushed by, dragged along in a current with you acting as pilot and rudder.

At last, he gasped in a breath. No water entered, only a small puff of oxygen pulled off the slimy algae. He held his breath again, focusing on the feel of your arms around him, trying to lose himself in the comfort of being held for the first time since…ever.

Then you were breaking the surface, emerging into a sunlit glade. Kicking gracefully over to the shore, you pushed him onto the ground. Din turned and yanked off the algae, breathing fresh air. The Razor Crest stood a little ways off, its surface gleaming dully in the morning light.

“Safe,” you assured him, gesturing up at the sky. “No avril.”

“Thank you.”

You nodded. “Travel safe.”

He almost laughed. “I try.”

You flipped back into the water, your finned tail arcing behind you. The light glittered off your scales in a flash of brilliance.

Din didn’t leave until the water returned to stillness. The image of you disappearing beneath it would haunt him for years.

#Din Djarin x Reader #Din Djarin #Din Djarin imagine #Mando x Reader #Mando #Mando imagine #Pedro Pascal x Reader #Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal imagine #The Mandalorian #request

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chaseatinydream · 3 years

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pirate king (2) || atz

“All the dried fruit has been accounted for.”

You fight down the yelp that had almost left your mouth, trying to quieten your breathing as much as possible. Two men, from the sound of their voices, are inspecting the food stocks. You’re going to be found.

“How much salted fish?” The deeper, lower voice you heard giving commands earlier asks his partner, and you pick up the sound of a pen scratching across paper.

“Enough to last us two weeks, if Jongho doesn’t eat them all by the first.” The second voice, softer and gentler, quips and they both share a laugh.

“That kind smile hides a darker mind beneath, Seonghwa-hyung.” The speaker with the deeper voice comments with a rolling chuckle. You’re still frozen in fear as they continue to take inventory, but them finding you is inevitable.

“How much alcohol did we get?” The person she assumes to be Seonghwa asks and you hear the sound of barrels shifting. “San needs some of it to treat the wounded.”

“Enough rum to last us till Tortuga and some wine and beer on the side.” His partner replied, writing some more things down. “I’m sure we can spare a barrel or two, not many of them got injured.”

“That’s a relief.” You can hear the worry leave Seonghwa’s voice, but your panic levels are jumping as you hear them move ever closer to you. “I heard Yunho didn’t have a scratch on him.”

“Neither did Jongho.” The other man snorted. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already down here, chomping his way through the apples. Look, the sacking fell. I’ll get it.”

And suddenly the sackcloth is pulled away from your head.

You don’t have time to think. Lunging forward, you headbutt the man who removed the sackcloth from you in the face and you hear him let out a howl of pain, letting go of the sacking to clutch his bleeding nose. Your eyes dart around desperately for an escape route, but before you can move, someone slams you against the wall, the tip of a razor sharp knife pressed to your throat.

“Don’t move.” It’s the softer man, Seonghwa, although his grey eyes are hard as stone now. You can’t look away, transfixed, and he continues to speak, eyes never leaving yours. “Mingi, you alright?”

The man he addresses has a long, face with strong, defined features and narrowed eyes, tiny braids done in his cerulean blue hair. He’s tall, taller than you by about a head. He gives you a resentful scowl. “I think he broke my nose.” The words come out thickly as the man you now know to be Mingi cups both hands over his face, trying to stem the flow of blood.

Then it hits you.

He?

It’s true you’re not especially curvy and your chest has been bound by strips of cloth, but you didn’t expect to fool people so easily.

“I’m sorry.” You manage to choke out. Seonghwa and Mingi exchange surreptitious glances.

“You should get San to look at that, Mingi.” Seonghwa advises, worry written all over his face. Mingi nods wearily, blood falling through the cracks in his fingers and staining the ground.

“Let’s get this kid to Hongjoong-hyung first.” The taller man sighs, grabbing you by the shoulder with a bloody hand and pushing you towards the stairs you had tumbled down from. Pain lances up your ankle, but you steel yourself and step on it anyway.

It’s excruciating, but you don’t dare to show any weakness. They might toss you overboard. Or feed you to the sharks. You don’t know and you really don’t want to find out.

You bite on the inside of your cheek so hard you taste blood, but you manage to make it onto the main deck. Many faces turn and look upon you with surprise, then they see Mingi bleeding from the nose and their expressions turn threatening. One even draws his sword.

You flinch back into Seonghwa, who steadies you by the shoulders, while Mingi addresses the crew.

“I’m fine!” He shouts through his bloody nose, which obviously isn’t fine. “Everyone back to work, please.”

There’s a disconcerting silence as if they’re still planning on how to kill you in every way possible, but they eventually turn back to their work cleaning the cannons and securing the sheets. Mingi turns back to you.

“This way.” He says gruffly, pulling you up another flight of stairs, Seonghwa at the rear. You bite back another whimper of pain, but Seonghwa hears it.

On the quarter deck, you catch sight of a man at the wheel. He’s young, almost your age, dressed all in red with patchwork black pants. His ash blonde hair falls into his eyes and the back is done in a neat mullet. But the most eye catching thing about him is the black eye patch he has over his right eye, the confidence he stands with despite his age and how he’s steering the ship as if the oceans bow at his feet.

Something in him calls out to you.

“Hongjoong-ah, we found a stowaway in the cargo hold.” Seonghwa calls over you shoulder as Mingi forces you to your knees. The man at the wheel doesn’t take his eye off the sea for a moment, pulling a length of rope from around his waist and lashing the wheel in position. Only then does he turn around.

“Mingi, take the helm- What happened to you, Mingi?” The helmsman’s voice is almost an entire octave higher than Mingi’s, almost too cute to be a pirate’s. His eyes rake over the bloody nose on Mingi’s face, before his expression settles into a frown.

“Got headbutted by our stowaway here.” Mingi jerks a thumb at your face and Hongjoong’s one eye follows it down, coming to rest on you. His fingers dance on the hilt of one of the two cutlasses hanging at his hip.

You gulp. “I said I was sorry.” You mutter under your breath.

Hongjoong’s eye drills into you, a calm, unbothered smile on his face that terrifies you more than if he were furious. “Well, I guess I should introduce myself, shouldn’t I?” The side of his lips pull up in a smirk. “This ship is the Treasure and we’re the pirate band ATEEZ. I’m Kim Hongjoong, the helmsman and captain of this ship.”

At that, your mouth falls open. This man can’t be any more than twenty two, but he’s the captain? Hongjoong nods at the dumbstruck expression on your face, the chilling smile never leaving his face. “What about you, Royal Navy scum?”

Seonghwa and Mingi’s expressions change to shock in seconds and Seonghwa even begins to draw that wicked long kitchen knife from his belt.

You pause at that. “Royal Navy?” Your lips pull downwards in a frown. What is the Royal Navy?

“Don’t play dumb with me.” Hongjoong’s not smiling now and you feel the air drop several degrees. Your teeth want to start chattering but you force a terrified smile on your face. Hongjoong’s eyebrows lower into a frown.

“The coat you are wearing is of Royal Navy make. An officer’s, I might add. It may be beaten and torn up, but I’d recognize that rose insignia anywhere.” He jerks his chin at the red patches on the shoulders. Sure enough, you can see the rose stitched into the fabric. “So what is your purpose here? If you answer truthfully I might simply shoot you instead of having you flogged to death.”

He doesn't sound like he's joking.

Goosebumps race along your skin and you know that your face has drained of colour. You don’t even remember your own name, how are you supposed to remember where you got this stupid coat? So you start rambling.

“Okay actually I just woke up this morning in the prison of the town you guys just looted like a while ago and I kind of don’t remember how I got there so like they were talking about bringing me to the gallows for some kind of public hanging and I don’t really know why they wanted to hang me so when you attacked I just tried to escape and ended up in the harbor so I ran up the first ship I saw which was your ship and tried to get away from the fighting so I went into the cargo hold and fell asleep there so yeah.”

There's a pause.

“What?” Mingi blinks. You open your mouth to repeat it when Hongjoong holds up a hand. You close your mouth with a clop.

“Seonghwa, go help San take care of the wounded.” He orders and Mingi stiffens as if they’ve breached some kind of taboo conversation topic. The other man visibly relaxes and exhales shakily, nodding. “Yes, captain.” Then he turns around and makes his way down to the main deck.

Hongjoong turns back to you with a calm gaze. “So, according to you, you can’t remember why they would throw a Royal navy officer such as yourself into prison?”

“I’m not a Royal Navy officer.” You retort with a scowl, meeting his gaze angrily. When he raises an eyebrow, you catch yourself, swallow and lower your head. “I’m sorry.”

“Well this is certainly the most interesting story we’ve heard from a captured Royal Navy officer, haven’t we, Mingi?” Hongjoong muses to himself, running his tongue across his lips. Mingi nods apathetically.

“He’s also the youngest.” The quartermaster adds on to the back unhelpfully.

“Tell me, what exactly did you intend to do after escaping onto my ship?” He leans back with a smile, as if expecting some silly answer. You don’t have any smart ones, so you answer honestly.

“I really wasn’t thinking that far.”

Sighing dramatically at your lackluster answer, Hongjoong nods again. His one eye is a vivid green, like a poisonous snake’s that could sink its fangs into you at any moment. He seems to be contemplating something. Then he lifts your chin with a finger so that you meet his eyes even as you try to squirm away.

“Well then, Mister I’m-Not- A-Royal-Navy-Officer.” The young captain wears that same chilling smile again, and it doesn’t make you feel any better. “How about this? We’ll tie you to the mainmast so everyone can keep watch over you and we’ll feed you enough to survive, but the moment we stop at Tortuga, I’m tossing you onto shore. If I find out that you’re one of the Royal Navy swine at any moment...”

There’s a click and suddenly there’s a musket pointed at your temple. Your body seizes up in rapid panic, blood freezing over in your veins. You hadn’t even seen him move.

“I’ll gut you like a stuck pig.” His voice is warm and smooth, right next to your ear. You don’t even realize you’re trembling until he steps back, holstering the musket in his belt with an amused smile on his face. “I’d shoot you for breaking Mingi’s nose like that, but I suppose that it won’t matter if I’m going to kill you in the end anyway. Mingi, secure the boy to the mainmast and make sure not a single man on board touches him, then get San to look at your nose.”

“I got it.” Mingi sounds almost annoyed at being babied with the repeated advice, but Hongjoong just laughs.

“I’m interested to see how long you can keep this facade up, pretty boy. Don’t worry about anything.” Hongjoong’s grin is terrifying, wild like the raging sea as he strides back to the wheel, boots clicking on the deck.

“When it finally breaks, I’ll be the one to end it all for you.”

That’s the last thing you hear before Mingi marches you down to the main deck.

You’re still freezing from the chilling encounter with the young pirate captain as Mingi pushes you towards the main mast. Even the pain in your ankle doesn’t seem to compare with the numbing terror of Hongjoong’s threat. You slump in shock against the main mast as Mingi looks upwards into the rigging.

“Yunho-ah, toss me some rope!”

Seconds later, a coil of rope slithers down the mast and Mingi wraps it around your upper torso securing your arms and torso to the mast. It’s loose enough not to cut off the circulation in your arms, but tight enough to ensure you won’t be going anywhere. And honestly, where can you go? As far as the eye can see, it’s all ocean.

You thought that escaping the gallows had been a smart move. Now it seems like you threw yourself from the frying pan into the flames.

Go home, the voice in your head whispers. You tell it to shut up savagely.

Mingi finally announces to everyone that they are not to make eye contact with you, speak to you, or have any form of interaction with you as he finishes off with several skillful knots at the back.

“That includes physical contact like beating or throwing things at him.” Mingi adds on and there’s a collective sigh of disappointment from the crew.

“You sure, quartermaster?” One of the men at the cannons pulls out his musket. “An eye for an eye, he did make you bleed!”

The rest of the crew shouts agreement, but Mingi shakes his head firmly.

“We’re pirates, not barbarians.” He chides, wiping his nose once more. The blood flow seems to have slowed to a steady trickle at least. “It’s my fault for being unprepared. Besides, these are Hongjoong’s orders. Any of you want to answer to captain?”

“Absolutely not!” The crewman declares and the deck breaks out in carefree laughter. Mingi gives a tiny smile as he straightens up from tying your bonds.

Something in your chest tugs painfully.

“Well then, don’t get me into trouble with captain.” He waves them back to their work and they do so cheerfully, all the tension in the air gone. Then Mingi turns back to you with a stern scowl.

“From what you can see, the crew isn’t exactly happy with you.” He gestures at the deck with one of his long arms. “I’d suggest you keep your mouth shut if you want to make it to Tortuga alive.”

And then he turns and leaves you alone with your thoughts, a lonely stranger on a foreign ship.

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daikaijupro · 3 years

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so i wrote this for english and i guess ill post it here because i kinda like it

the first is sci fi, the second is fantasy because im a nerd like that

tldr depression and impatience are bitches

It was a calm and quiet night on the southern hemisphere of Astoria. It could even be described as ordinary, by any stretch of the word. Alien insects softly sang, and the stars cast a soft smile across the street. I paused to take in the night, and my heart soared as I saw the great city walls of the settlement. My thoughts lost in space, my rover slowly drifted to a halt. I snapped to attention. This was odd; I had refueled it only yesterday. Vexed, I exited the vehicle, puzzling over what had happened. That was when I felt it. A chill passed through me, as if I had been stabbed in the heart with an ice dagger. My muscles tensed. Suddenly on edge, my eyes darted from shadow to shadow. There was nothing there except shadow itself, and yet the shadow felt oddly ethereal. It wasn’t quite alive, but it wasn’t quite dead either. I stared at my shadow as it solidified, and began approaching me. It was like me, but simultaneously the opposite of me. It was as if I were staring at myself, if I didn’t exist. It was me, without my life energy. The horrible realization of what I was facing came to me. I was staring into the void that was the Depression Monster. My mind protested at its presence. This was a safe area; one that had been long settled and well defended from the great beasts of the Unknown Regions! In my heart, however, I knew the truth: this monster was different. It could live among us, silently, undetected. It was one with the shadows, moving undetected. No wall would keep it out. It could strike at any time, no matter how well fortified the city might be. I could feel the cold seeping into my core, and I became distinctly aware of how alone I was. I knew that it wouldn’t be long before it had drained me beyond the point where I could face it alone. I had to find allies; I had to find support. As the monster reached out, my soul pounded at the inside of my chest, as it was slowly ripped out in excruciating numbness. Panicking, I desperately sent a distress call. The signal would be weak, but the monster could not stifle it entirely. As the Night overtook me, I faded away from the world. I could only hope that my call would be heard, and that any passing patrol would even bother to heed it.

A sharp pain shot through my leg as I hit the mast of the ship. Shaking off the injury, I only barely stood up again before another wave tossed my ship like a piece of discarded trash. As another wave crashed across the deck, my heart turned to steel. I would make it to land. I would not die out on these seas. Scanning the skyline, a spark of joy rose in me. A small island reached out to me. Hauling in the sail, I noticed that the ground was less than hospitable. Angry rocks covered the land, and the whole place was an alien and hostile world. It was no matter. It would have to do. As the sea roared violently, I landed my ship ducked into a dark cave. The place was the inside of a coal mine, with a sharp path of battered and weather stone guiding my gaze into a pit of swirling darkness. I felt uneasy. I shouldn’t have come here. In my moment of stress and panic, I had brought myself to an even worse threat. The sudden realization I wasn’t alone struck me, and I drew my sword, poised to launch into a flurry of slashes and stabs at any horror that may leap at me from the depths of the dark. Slowly, a form took shape. It was humanoid, but decidedly alien. It was a mountain, towering several heads above me as it clanked impatiently forwards. Reaching over its shoulder, it drew a fiery double bladed staff. Each blade jutted out from the central handle with palpable hatred. I could tell each was itching to jump at me and strike me down. I scanned my opponent. Aside from its stature, great sheets of armor like that of an ironclad ship covered it from head to toe. A similarly fashioned helmet, which radiated a cruel hunger, pierced through my soul with a horrible glare. Raising and spinning its staff, everything about this monster screamed a barely contained urge to attack. I was struck by what I was facing. This monster would beat me through a burst of pure power; I could not face it down in the same way. No, I could not win by attacking this Agitation Monster at all. I would have to maintain my calm, and fight a drawn out and defensive war. I could not be tempted into trying to end this engagement quickly. If I were to overcome this trial, I would have to outlast it. Only after the beast had exhausted its irascibility, only after hours upon hours of focused parries and dodges of its powerful swipes, could I finally strike down this challenge and walk away victorious. Shifting into a defensive stance, I readied myself for a long fight.

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turtle-steverogers · 5 years

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Hero Complex

lmao hi IM BACK i wrote a fic pfffff it’s kind Shit cuz i started writing at midnight and now its 2:40 am so excuse the BAD WRITING dajfdslkfjalsdkfs

warnings: fire, mentions of death (kinda graphic ish, sad), crying

ship: ralbert

word count: 2762

Earlier

“Just- don’t try to be a hero, dumbass.”

Albert’s fingers freeze on the top button of his uniform, eyes darting up to study Race’s face. He bites back a sigh, something weighing down on his chest as the fear in his boyfriend’s eyes grows.

“That’s the whole point of my job,” He says softly, “But I’ll be careful.”

Race nods, wordlessly handing him his helmet. Albert takes it, drawing in a deep breath to steady his hands. Queso lifts his head from his paws, looking at the two of them questioningly before padding across the room and nudging Albert’s knee. He lets out the breath he’d been holding and bends over the slightest bit to scratch behind Queso’s ears. No matter how many calls his squadron responded to, his nerves still managed to run high.

“That’s all I ask,” Race responds, gently tilting Albert’s jaw and kissing him intently. Albert presses back, heart kicking double time as adrenaline starts to overcome him. He pulls back, the need to move overtaking him.

“I gotta go,” He says, shifting the helmet onto his head, “I’ll be home later…”

The unspoken, ‘hopefully’, rings loudly in the air. Albert really hates this part of the job.

Race nods, dropping his hand from Albert’s face and squeezing his bicep briefly, “Go. Be safe. I love you.”

Albert smiles, but it feels strained, “I love you, too.”

Now

“Dasilva, get that room on the right! Some kid’s in there!”

Albert swears under his breath, shooting a quick nod to Finch as he hurries past him, carrying an infant in one arm and shielding a young looking mother with the other. He grimaces, adjusting the mask on his face as the building gives the second unsettling creak in as many minutes.

In the three years that he’s worked for the FDNY, he’d never seen a building fire this destructive. Details were still being investigated, but from what had been gathered, an apparent fireball had formed on the 14th floor, engulfing the top four floors of the building and spreading quickly to the lower levels. The casualty count was already tragically high, but between the first responders and following squadrons showing up to the scene, the fatality rate was going down.

That didn’t make it any less gut-wrenching.

Albert crosses to the apartment Finch had pointed him to and easily knocked the handle off the door. He knocked once, calling a loud warning into the room before shouldering the door, which gave way easily thanks to the heat.

In the corner of the room, a young boy sat cowering against the wall, arms wrapped protectively around an even younger girl. Panicked breaths were coming vehemently from the pair and as Albert gets nearer to them, he can see the tear tracks that cut through the soot. He crouches down, trying to seem nonthreatening.

“Are your parents here?” He asks, raising his voice over the roaring flames.

The little boy lets out a sob, pointing a trembling hand to the room adjacent to them. Albert glances to the side, nausea rolling in his stomach as he takes in the flames licking under the closed door. Whoever is in there, sure isn’t getting out.

“Okay,” Albert takes a deep breath, turning back to the siblings, “I need you both to take your shirts and pull them over your mouths and noses, okay?”

He waits for them to do so, then scoops them both up easily, ensuring that they have secure grips on his shoulders, before moving swiftly out of the room. The building lets out another threatening creak and Albert falters, trying to map out the safest route in his head. He settles on running to the stairs on the southside of the building, opposite of where the fireball had started.

Five excruciating minutes later, Albert is able to exit the building, immediately seeking out some paramedics and dumping the kids in their care. He turns back around, taking a deep breath before running back towards the building.

“People still up there?” Spot, another commissioner, calls.

“I don’t know!” Albert calls back, “But we can’t risk leaving anyone!”

“This building’s ‘boutta go down, man!” Spot shouts, jogging up to him.

“I don’t care,” Albert says, firmly, tightening the strap on his helmet, “If I can even get one more person out, that’s one more life saved.”

“Alright,” Spot concedes, “But I’m coming with you.”

Albert nods, steeling himself.

“Don’t try to be a hero…”

Race’s words echo in his head and he bites his lip, casting a hurried glance in the direction of their apartment complex, across the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Sorry, Racer,” He murmurs, hesitating for a short moment before running back into the building.

A recently opened beer bottle sits forgotten on the table as Race paces anxiously in front of the TV, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. He’s not entirely sure why he’s smoking. The thing that usually eases his worries only worsening the sick feeling in his stomach as smoke rolls over his tongue, parallel to the cloud of smoke he’s watching climb higher and higher from the building until it billows off-screen.

This routine is familiar, but it never gets easier. Letting Albert go will never fucking get easier. It feels like he’s dumping him into the jaws of death, fire biting at his ankles every time he leaves through their apartment door.

But he does let him go, allowing himself to grow sick with worry as he immediately searches for whatever information he can find, usually settling on the local news and popping open a beer or lighting a cigarette. Maybe both. More often than not, they remain unfinished.

He lets out a frustrated hum, stubbing his half-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray they keep on the coffee table. He forces himself to sit down and drags a sweaty hand down his face. Albert had been gone for a good two hours by now, but the fire doesn’t look like it’s getting any closer to being put out. If any, it looks worse.

Every time a firefighter passes by the camera, Race’s stomach does a violent flip. He can’t really tell who’s who underneath their face shields and helmets, but it doesn’t stop him from trying to differentiate them.

Once, the news caught a clip of a firefighter being wheeled into the back of an ambulance looking very much not alive and Race had been violently sick for an hour before Albert came home and assured him that it was not him and he was okay.

That had been a bad fucking night.

Suddenly, the face of the reporter on screen morphs into one of sheer terror and the camera shifts sideways to show the building, crumbling in on itself. There’s a moment where no one seems to react and Race scrambles to unmute the channel. Screams ring through the speaker as the reporter and the cameraman run for shelter.

Race feels his eyes go wide, but he can’t look away. Somewhere to his left, Queso lets out a whimper, but he can’t find it in himself to look. A second later, he feels Queso hop up next to him on the couch cushions and settle his weight against his side.

A million frantic thoughts crowd Race’s mind, eventually settling on the horrible debate of whether Albert is in the building or not. Part of him wants to believe that he got away in time, but logic tells him that the idiot was probably in the building until the last second, searching for straggling survivors. Fucking dumb shit. Always has to be a fucking hero.

Sometimes he really hates Albert’s lack of self-preservation over others.

Scratch that.

He always hates it.

He runs his hand through his hair, pulling it almost painfully as his chest tightens. Taking a deep breath, he presses his knuckles to his eyes, trying to stave off the oncoming panic attack. He has to stay calm. If Albert is alive and got out of there unharmed, he’s going to need Race to be a rock for him tonight.

Race takes another deep breath, letting it out slower this time as the vice that previously gripped his lungs loosens a bit. He can do this. He just needs to be patient.

He watches the news for another few minutes, picking at his cuticles distractedly as shots of firefighters and paramedics work to reign in the newly charged chaos. Then, he clicks off the TV, heaves himself off the couch and begins to prepare for Albert’s (hopeful) return back home.

He puts some more food and water in Queso’s bowls, then crosses to the bathroom to take a quick shower. The water is too hot and he drops the bar of soap three times before he can steady his hands enough to use it.

He dresses himself mechanically, then digs through their dresser for Albert’s favorite pair of briefs, sweatpants, and a hoodie, setting them neatly on the end of the bed. As an afterthought, he grabs a fresh towel and washcloth from the closet and sets them on the toilet in the bathroom.

It’s doubtful that Albert will want to eat much of anything if- no, when he gets home, but Race busies himself in throwing together a quick pasta primavera nonetheless. If anything, the cooking helps to settle his own nerves a bit.

Another hour passes and Race has managed to finish cooking, eat a little, and clean up the kitchen, all the while forcing down the ever-growing wave of dread.

He’s starting to run out of distracting things to do, so he picks up the book he’s been reading and settles on the couch, eyes scanning the pages, but not comprehending a thing.

45 minutes later, the front door unlocks and opens.

Race is off the couch before it can swing back closed.

Albert doesn’t look at Race as he hangs his helmet on it’s hook, but Race can already tell that it’s going to be a rough night. Despite the gear protecting every inch of Albert’s body, his face and hair are covered in a thick layer of ash. He’s still dressed in his turnout pants, but his uniform top has seemingly been abandoned at some point on his return home. The sharp tense of his shoulder has rendered his movements stiff and Race watches in carefully masked concern as he tugs off his boots.

Once they’re dutifully lined by the door, Albert straightens up, looking at Race for the first time, a dull, haunted look in his eyes.

For a moment, Race is scared that he’s going to breakdown then and there, but Albert only clears his throat and croaks, “I need to shower.”

Queso is lingering by the kitchen entrance, but he seems to sense that his company would not be very well received right now. Race nods at Albert, bending down to pluck one of Queso’s toys from the ground and tossing it in the direction of the kitchen. He hears the slow patter of Queso’s paws on the tile and sees him pad out of the room in his peripheral.

“Let’s get you out of those pants before you do anything else,” Race says in a measured voice, working to sound easy, but firm.

It’s a testament to how fucked up Albert must be feeling that he doesn’t make a dirty joke at that.

Albert barely moves as Race unbuttons his turnout pants and eases them down his hips. His gaze is unwavering as he stares blankly across the room. Race can hear his slightly erratic breathing and it seems as if the adrenaline has yet to wear off.

“Lift up for a sec, love,” Race says, tapping at Albert’s socked feet and waiting for him to lift his legs one by one, allowing for Race to fully remove his pants.

“You can go shower now,” Race says, standing back up, “do you need me to come with you?”

Albert shakes his head, “No, I’m-I’m good.”

“You sure?”

Albert nods, “Yeah, just- yeah, I’m good.

“Okay,” Race smiles a little, trying to look encouraging, “Shout if you need me, though.”

Albert nods again and makes a stiff beeline for the bathroom. A few minutes later, Race hears the shower turn on. He crosses to their bedroom to find that Albert took the clothes he’d set out in with him.

He smiles a little more genuinely as he crawls into bed. Rolling onto his side, he busies himself with his phone while he waits for Albert to finish up, turning up the brightness to keep himself awake. Albert was bound to take a while in the shower tonight. He always does after missions.

A half hour later, he hears the bathroom door open and close and a moment later, the bed behind him dips as Albert joins him under the covers. Race clicks off his phone and sets it on his bedside table, shifting onto his back as Albert settles into his arms.

“Want me to keep the lights on or off?” He asks quietly, pressing a little kiss into Albert’s now clean hair. It’s still a little wet and smells strongly like the coconut shampoo he likes to use.

Albert nestles closer, pressing his nose to Race’s neck, “Off, please.”

Race extracts his arm momentarily to flip off the lamp switch, then draws Albert in protectively. The silence between them stretches on for what could be hours, but Race knows Albert is still awake.

This is also part of the routine. If Albert wants to talk, he will, but if he’d rather just lie quietly and process, Race wasn’t going to push him.

But he’d stay up with him either way. There’s no way in hell he’d leave him to handle this alone in any capacity.

Eventually, the silence is broken by a soft whimper, then a short sniffle and Race feels Albert tuck his face further into his collarbone. He feels his heart break in his chest, but he wills himself to remain steady as he tightens his hold on Albert.

A moment later, Albert begins to cry in earnest and Race presses a firm kiss to the crown of his head, shushing him.

“I’ve got you,” He murmurs as Albert fists his hand in his nightshirt, holding on like a lifeline, “I’m here and I’ve got you.”

“There-there was a little girl on a fire escape,” Albert hiccups, “and she was screaming for her mom and I was about to go back in to get her, Race, I was about to go get her! But the building…” he trails off, an awful keening noise sounding from his throat.

Race blinks back his own tears, rubbing a hand up and down Albert’s back, “You did what you could, baby.”

Albert shakes his head, “But it-it wasn’t enough.” His words are stilted- broken- and his breathing is harsh and heaving.

Race maneuvers them so they’re lying side to side, facing each other. He cradles Albert’s head with one hand and rests the palm of his other hand on his cheek, brushing away his tears with the pad of his thumb.

“It wasn’t your fault,” He whispers firmly, “There’s nothing else you could have done. You can’t save everyone.”

Albert closes his eyes, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood as he tries to take slower breaths.

“I wish I could,” Albert says after a lingering pause, “It’s fucked up.”

“It is,” Race says, “But you helped a lot of people get out of there today, you did a lot, Albert.”

Albert doesn’t answer, just tucks himself closer to Race, breathing in his warmth.

“Rest, baby,” Race mutters, knowing that neither of them are really going to sleep that night, “I’ve got you, you can relax now.”

Albert lets out a shaky sigh and Race feels his heart grow heavier still. The concern, grief, and anger at the world for plaguing Albert with the fucked up trauma that accompanies his job are indiscernible from one another. He wishes more than anything that he could take away his pain, but he also knows that’s as naive as wishing he’d quit.

The most he can do is be there for him, even if there’s nothing he could say to truly make it better.

But he can be there and maybe that’ll be enough.

“I love you,” He breathes, lacing their hands together, “I’m here.”

Albert squeezes his hand, “I know,” he pauses, “I love you, too.”

And for a second, things are a little okay.

yeah, so im still alive!

anyway

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

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#newsies #newsies fic #albert dasilva #racetrack higgins #ralbert #sad bois #chaotic bois #sorRy its sad #like maybe ill write something happy soon but this is just sad #sdkfjalsdkfj #yeahhh #yell at me for not posting #you're allowed to #i give you permission

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galionne-vibin · 4 years

Text

Welcome to Earth - Chapter 1: The Voice

Title: Welcome to Earth

Chapter: 1/3 (Next Chapter)

Summary: Gigan, Megalon, Jet Jaguar and Godzilla: four giant kaijus fighting for two opposing sides… Until Gigan is accidentally (and painfully) freed from the Nebulans’ control. (First installment in a series centered around Gigan, Megalon and their growing relationship)

Warning(s): Bloody kaiju fight, Descriptions of some nasty wounds (bleeding, broken bones,…), Description of a seizure-like episode

A/N: Took me long enough but here it finally is! Fixed a few things compared to the version I posted yesterday, namely the part describing The Voice. Not much Gigalon in this one but don’t worry: it’s coming.

Read on Ao3 or below.

—

Gigan let out a loud cry of mixed surprise and pain as he felt another punch connect with the side of his head. He clumsily stumbled back, ears ringing from the hit as the silhouette of his mechanical opponent danced at the edge of his vision. Somewhere behind him Megalon’s shrieks were filling the air, accompanied by what the cyborg could only guess was Godzilla’s triumphant roar as the king of monsters repeatedly kicked his already downed adversary.

To think they had been doing so well merely moments ago…

Through their impeccable teamwork and unbeatable strategy (which definitely was a coordinated set of actions and not just Gigan and Megalon screaming and trying to hit whatever came within punching range) they had managed to get both Godzilla and Jet Jaguar cornered ; surrounded by a thick wall of flames as the pair stood trembling and exhausted. All they had to do was sit back and watch as the metallic husk of a kaiju and the radioactive reptile were slowly burned alive and reduced to ashes before their very eyes… Or so they thought. Because somehow ; somehow ; by some unfortunate miracle Jet Jaguar had not only managed to fly out and away from the flames- he had done so while carrying Godzilla on his back. Stunned by this sudden turn of events Gigan and Megalon had taken just a little too long to react accordingly, giving the opposing team enough breathing room to recover. And it seemed as though their near death-by-incineration experience had also revived their will to fight, because the two had then come back at the Nebulan-Seatopian duo with renewed energy and strength and completely overturned the situation.

Things had gone from bad to worse and needless to say, this was not good…

Gigan heard running steps rapidly approaching him from his right and jumped out of the way, barely avoiding another punch from Jet Jaguar. He tried to retaliate and swung his bladed arm at the robot but his head was still ringing from the previous hit and he missed, stumbling forward and crashing ungracefully into the ground. He groaned and tried to get up again but his energy was quickly burning out…

A sudden high-pitched cry from Megalon made the cyborg jerk his head up to look at his partner in crime.

The cybernetic beetle was standing between him and Godzilla, clashing his metal drills together in an apparent act of defiance. The king however stood his ground, taking a fighting stance as he simply roared back without advancing. This seemed to greatly anger Megalon as he -much to Gigan’s annoyance- suddenly seemed to forget all fighting common sense and charged head first at Godzilla. He shrieked as he got closer, lifting his drills and readying a strike. That was however, until the radioactive reptile opened his maw and unleashed a fiery beam of radioactive energy right into the other kaiju’s chest. The Guardian of Seatopia shrieked in agony as he was pushed back several feet. He crossed his drills in front of him in an attempt to shield himself from the blast ; only for the radioactivity to melt away part of the metal and cause even more searing pain. Concentrating more energy into his gut Godzilla increased the intensity of his atomic breath, finally causing Megalon to fall over onto his back. The cybernetic beetle’s breathing was ragged and wheezing as a large, dark scorch mark was left on his chest.

Gigan panicked as Godzilla began stomping over to the wounded beetle. He needed to help Megalon- and he needed to help him quick. But as he attempted to stand again he felt a pair of cold, metallic hands on his right arm. He barely had time to react before a sudden, sharp pain exploded in his limb and shot up his entire right side. Jet Jaguar had just slammed Gigan’s arm down onto his knee so hard he had essentially obliterated his elbow, causing the limb to limply bend outwards.

The cyborg shrieked in agony and reflexively swung his other arm at the robot ; only to have it grabbed and pulled as Jet Jaguar spun on his heels and launched him over several feet, right into a large pile of jagged rocks. The sharp edges sliced into his back and the Nebulan war-machine howled again, his head ringing as his entire body pulsated with excruciating pain. Gigan felt himself begin to shake as the intense suffering overpowered him. Amidst his miserable condition his mind barely registered Jet Jaguar leaving the edge of his blurry vision- most likely to go torment Megalon instead.

The cyborg groaned and whimpered, swallowing in a raspy breath. His mind was racing with so many thoughts at once it was painful. And hearing his partner in crime’s cries for help in the distance only made it worse… He had to get up and help him ; of course he had to! But his body was in such a sorry state… He could barely move without wincing, let alone stand up! And his arm… How could he fight anyone like this-?

A voice suddenly cut through his veil of panic.

[Physical state critical. Abort mission. Return to mothership for emergency repairs.]

Gigan sighed softly as he felt a sudden wave of calm wash over him and his whole body relaxed at once. His trembling ceased and he regained control of himself as he took in a long, deep breath. Slowly, he felt his mind clear itself of all his previous worries until nothing remained but soothing, undisturbed peacefulness. He was still in great pain but somehow it felt… Distant, as if it was someone else’s.

Of course, this was all thanks to The Voice. To think he had started to worry it wouldn’t come to his aid…

Ever since he was a hatchling and as far as he could remember, it had always been there. A genderless, toneless, languageless voice that arose from the very depths of his mind in every crucial situation… It guided him through fear and panic, kept him going through any and every pain he suffered… He knew it wasn’t his conscience ; it didn’t sound or even ‘think’ like him ; so it must have an outside source. But it had been there for so long now that it felt like a part of him.

Focusing on The Voice’s words, Gigan pushed himself up with his valid arm into a kneeling position. The rocks he had been thrown against were dripping with thick, silvery white blood and he could feel the fluid gushing down his back as he sat up. And although he could’t turn his head enough to see, he could only guess his back sails were in a rather pitiful state as well…

[Subject Gigan-01. Abort mission. Return to mothership for emergency repairs.]

Right, right.

Get back to the ship. Get patched up. There was nothing to worry about.

He took another deep breath as his doubts were once again sucked away by The Voice. He didn’t understand quite how it did this, but whenever it spoke he instantly felt infinitely calmer… It was as though it shielded him from any negative thinking. Even when it gave him instructions that sounded counterproductive or that he would have never followed on his own, like abandoning an ally or fleeing from a fight, any rebellious thoughts he might have held were dissipated and lost to the calm abyss The Voice instated in his brain. He never had any desire to defy it, to find its source or to question it, really. He was content with simply letting it take control and mindlessly following its orders.

With a groan Gigan forced himself up and stood on shaky legs. Megalon was lying a few feet away, both Godzilla and Jet Jaguar kicking at him every time he attempted to get up. Seeing Gigan he cried out for help but his plea fell on deaf ears- or rather on ears that were already obnibulated by another voice. The Nebulan cyborg raised both of his arms in front of him and swiftly took flight, ignoring the searing agony in his broken limb. He figured the Nebulans were probably going to have it removed anyway, as they had with every other part of his body he had damaged. Cut off flesh and bone and replace it with yet another robotic part… Gigan felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach, but it was quickly dissipated by another wave of calm that made all emotions hazy and distant. His thoughts were cleared again, leaving him to focus on only one: getting back to the Nebulan mothership.

But even this single thought was disturbed when Gigan suddenly heard Godzilla roar again, followed by the unmistakable sound of the king firing his atomic breath.

There was no time to avoid it. The cyborg heard the loud snapping of fire before his shoulders and the back of his head were engulfed in radioactive heat. He shrieked and was about to try and shield himself when the smell of smoke suddenly filled the air. He heard the sharp pop of electrical sparks behind him- and then his body was overtaken by levels of pain he had never experienced before.

It started at the base of his neck ; like a burning hot needle being pushed deep through his scales and into his flesh ; before shooting down his spine. The torturing agony then rippled throughout the rest of his body ; through every bone, every muscle and every vein down to his organs -but the worst had to be his head. It felt like an explosion tearing apart his skull. His mind rang with a terrible high pitched screech as his temples pulsed with unbearable pressure. His teeth began to chatter uncontrollably as a blinding white light filled his vision, burning everything in its path. He didn’t realize he was falling until he crashed hard into the ground, the impact knocking the air out of his lungs. He choked and let out a strangled cry as his body was overtaken by violent tremors. A thick mixture of foamy saliva and silvery white blood began pouring out of his mouth and pooling onto the ground.

Godzilla and Jet Jaguar took a step back and stood in silent horror and awe, staring at the seizing cyborg. The king of monsters in particular was rather… Shocked, to say the least. He had used his atomic breath against many kaijus before. He had even hit Gigan with it before- multiple times, even! But he had never witnessed such a violent reaction… Had the damn thing finally fried a circuit?

Godzilla’s thoughts were interrupted when he received a violent strike to the back of the head. He roared in anger and turned to see Jet Jaguar stumbling back with his hands on his head (having presumably received a similar blow) while Megalon half-limped half-hopped towards Gigan. The giant beetle clumsily grabbed the still shaking cyborg and threw him over his shoulder. He clasped his drills together, fusing the two metal appendages into one before swiftly punching it into the ground. A thick cloud of dust immediately formed around the duo as rotors spun to life, dissipated only slightly by the occasional projection of soil. By the time it had disappeared, so had Gigan and Megalon.

Godzilla and Jet Jaguar stood at the edge of the newly formed tunnel for a moment, before silently turning to each other. What the hell had just happened?

#godzilla #jet jaguar #gigan #megalon #godzilla fanfic #gigalon

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etherian-affairs · 5 years

Text

Reinstatement

Hera and Mirak woo. Oops it’s Angst.

The Herak Masterpost.

ESS-1172 was about to set off in the small ship to ship transport shuttle when Madame stepped inside. The specialist was initially rather confused by that, had Madame forgotten something in the shuttle? When Madame Hera explained she was coming along ESS-1172 immediately tried to protest. Of course she was overruled. Madame Hera was coming along for this and there would be no saying otherwise.

It is not often those from outside the Executive Solutions Department enter one of its Blackships. It worried the specialist for some reason she couldn't quite place.

Madame seeing the sort of place 1172 grew up in felt somehow, very personal. It made her feel very vulnerable.

They took off, and the Madame simply sits quietly in the back while the specialist watches the shuttles instruments. There is not much to say. Usually Madame starts their conversations.

So as the shuttle approaches the Blackship the feeling of unease in 1172s core only grows. Madame does not know what these places are like. Madame has never needed to know. It has been better that way. ESS-1172 understands that those of Madame's station have a very different idea of breeding and the environment that the young should be brought up in.

Their ideas have led many to consider the ESS a lesser breed, despite their physical prowess.

Nihila does not want Madame to think of her as lesser.

The shuttle docks and ESS-1172 moves to the back of the shuttle, offering a hand to help Madame Hera up. "You do not have to come." She tries one last time.

"I am aware, but I wish to." Madame replies as she takes the specialists hand and rises.

There is a moment of pause, only a moment, before ESS-1172 nods and replies, "Of Course, Madame." Then she heads to the rest hatch of the shuttle, opening it and stepping through into the Blackships airlock.

On the other side the gravity increases, Hera actually lets out a small sound of surprise. ESS-1172s own modified musculature compensates without issue. She glances back "Do you require aid Madame?"

"No." Hera replies quickly, almost harshly, standing back up tall and proud. "I am perfectly alright."

"Very well." As the hatch to the shuttle closes behind them the cameras in the airlock focus on them. An electronic voice speaks out.

"Remove your helmet."

The specialist complies, pulling off the entire two part unit at once. She looks directly into the camera now. "ESS-1172 Formerly MIA reporting for reinstatement."

There is a moment of pause. The camera turns to Hera. "State the reason for your presence, Madame Hera."

Madame stares back for a moment before replying cooly. "ESS-1172 was in my employ before her disappearance and has returned to my employ. I wish to observe her reinstatement on those grounds."

Another pause. Then the door across from them opens. "ESS-1172 report to maintenance and processing. Madame Hera is to remain with ESS-1172 at all times."

Without a word the Specialist begins to walk.

The corridors of the vessel are low lit, though the guiding lights leading them to their destination adds to the dark ambiance of the whole place rather well. ESS-1172 can feel the Madame staying close, her eyes looking over everything.

"You were raised in a ship like this?" Madame Hera asks plainly as they walk. The question almost hurts for some reason.

"Yes. Though the trainees are kept in separate wings from this area."

"And the crew?"

"These ships are largely automated. Command and instructors are aboard. Maintenance. These areas are kept barren however."

"Interesting…"

"It is so the ship can be decompressed as needed. Those that do not wear void gear, such as yourself, will be easily removed that way." She keeps her voice matter of fact, and almost cold because of it. Aboard the Blackship there are ears, and Madame must be nothing more than the noble she is employed under.

They turn into a large round chamber. The voice speaks again. "ESS-1172, step onto the platform. Madame Hera, remain behind the yellow lines at all times."

Madame seems to momentarily tense, but remains stoic and complies.

ESS-1172 steps forward, and from the ceiling a large machine descends. A thick mechanical arm, with a robotic apparatus that seems to be a hive of smaller manipulators and sensors. Optics shift and examine her. Another arm moves to take the helmet she's still holding from her.

The machine begins to list information on her. Information long expunged from records beyond these Blackships. Speaking to her as it rotates around and examines her. ESS-1172 has been through this before. Though only a handful of times. It's taking the measure of her, ensuring she is her, and ensuring she can remain composed before her masters.

"Verifying Mental Space." It speaks as suddenly another limb descends down and slams interface jacks into the ports behind her ears. ESS-1172 screams at the sudden jolt. At the test of her endurance and resolve. She feels it's manipulators grab her, lifting her up and beginning to remove her armor from her. This is in part what ESS-1172 was afraid of. Madame seeing this, Madame seeing her in this state. Madame looking at her in the future and just seeing this moment.

She can hear Madame shouting. The sound of the machines moving down to stop Hera from approaching, the impassive voice stating flatly that Madame Hera lacks authority here.

"Unauthorized physical modifications to ESS Designation 1172 detected. Proceeding with analysis." The large machine declares, it's many manipulators shifting.

ESS-1172 manages to makes out Madame's shout of "Do NOT hurt her!" Before the tools are plunged into her chest and her world goes white. She's only half aware but half is more than enough. It digs inside of her, through her. Everything the Madame has given her examined and scrutinized. Noted and catalogued.

The pain is excruciating. It is endless. She screams in agony despite herself. The machine could render her unconscious, it could spare her this. It does not wish to.

Testing. Always testing. Since birth always testing.

She does not know how long it is before she's dropped back to the floor. No wounds are left to betray the examination done to her. All flesh is sealed perfect and pretty once again. "Physical modifications catalogued. Mental state catalogued. Deviation from last logging… acceptable."

As ESS-1172 begins to sit up she sees metal arms release Madame Hera. The Madame runs over to the specialist, kneeling down to help her up.

"Request for reinstatement accepted. Glory to The Horde." As the machines retract Madame speaks in a panic.

"Are you alright? Did it do any lasting harm?" ESS-1172, Nihila, can feel Madame trying to examine her.

"I am fine." She almost hisses out. Too harsh, but Madame cannot show such emotion. Not here. She cannot show emotion here either. Always testing. She must be Mirak here, she must be something detached from this world. "It's done. We should return."

Madame seems momentarily taken aback, but nods. Mirak silently pulls on her body glove and her armor plate. As if nothing happened. She is operating on automatic. The pain still lingers, the gasping horrible pain and fear.

The trip back to the Samos is not as quiet. Madame insists on examining Nihila. She insists on sitting in the cockpit this time. When they board the Madame's flagship she insists Nihila return to her Chambers with her.

And when they arrive Madame pulls Nihila's clothing back off. Though unlike so many other times this is not a carnal act. It is worried, deliberate. The Madame wants to make sure Nihila is okay. She wants to hold her close.

When the blanket is wrapped around Nihila, Madame's favorite blanket, she suddenly feels so heavy. Her body sinks, slumping down. She's exhausted. She feels Madames arms around her, holding her tight.

"It's okay Nihila. You're safe here. You're safe with me."

Nihila isn't sure how to respond. So instead she leans over to rest against Madame. Then after a moment speaks simply. "Hera."

Hera jolts at the sound of her name from Nihila's lips. "Yes?"

"I am sorry you had to see that." Nihila finally says.

Hera only squeezes tighter now, beginning to let out soft "No."s, assuring Nihila that nothing is her fault.

Hera does not let her go.

And Nihila is terrified that Hera will only think of this day when she looks upon her.

#my writing #h e r a #t h e m #nihila #mirak

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qobiin · 5 years

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weekly fic rec hoard

here's what i've been enjoying reading (and re-reading) this past week for different fandoms across the board! this week features: atla, bnha, good omens, harry potter, marvel, naruto and stranger things ♡ means: all-time fave, (m) means: 18+ themes

avatar: the last airbender

♡ first rule of earth kingdom fight club... series by ohmygodwhy zuko, his stubborn inability to die, and finding himself thru getting his ass kicked

The Most Ragged Edges by twinfinite In hindsight, Zuko really should have seen this conversation coming. He can almost hear Li and Lo chanting wickedly about the magic of Ember Island, about waves smoothing away rough edges…

♡ ribs by ohmygodwhy The first thing Zuko tells him during their first lesson after the whole Sun Warrior ruins ordeal, is “Fire comes from the breath.” a lesson in learning, and re-learning.

♡ see your son rising at last by aloneintherain When Zuko dashes into the sitting room, it is with the same wide-eyed panic that he ran from Azula’s smoking hands when he was a child. Iroh bites down on a smile. Zuko looks the same, even now, a decade later with a scar blossomed over one side of his face, green and brown robes replacing the solitary reds of his childhood. His hair is puffed up around his face. He looks like a very frightened, very windswept turtle-dove. Zuko dives behind Iroh just as Aang breezes to a stop in the doorway. Five times Zuko hid behind Iroh, plus one time Zuko stood proudly in front of him.

♡ the beginning of a new and brighter birth by aloneintherain “I’m so proud of you, my nephew.” Uncle cups Zuko’s face in his lined hand. The gesture is so tender, his palm so warm, that Zuko has to take a fortifying breath against the sudden swell of emotion in his chest. “I want to be a good leader, Uncle,” Zuko says. “I want to look after my people.” “You will,” Uncle says. “You are, nephew.” In a new era of peace, Zuko works to be a very different Fire Lord than his forefathers.

boku no hero academia

the stars are floating and we are flying by lunalou Aizawa starts walking towards the exit, obviously expecting Shouto to follow him, but Shouto's feet are frozen in place. His eyes flicker from the distorted reflection of himself in the ice to where All Might is giving him a long look, eyes kinder than anything Todoroki has ever been deserving of, and he feels sick. “Todoroki-kun,” Midoriya says gently, squeezing his arm in what Shouto presumes is meant to be a reassuring gesture. “It’s going to be okay.” He doesn’t think Midoriya is in any place to tell him what okay is, all things considered, but he chooses to keep quiet on the matter.

♡ I’ll share this with you, so leave it behind by yabakuboi For the sake of the story, All Might is never in need of a successor, and, when Izuku saves Katsuki from the sludge monster, encourages young Midoriya down a different path. Thus, Katsuki and Izuku part ways after junior high, as Katsuki enters U.A. and the Midoriyas move overseas. It’s later that Katsuki realizes that there’s something missing, that he drove that something away. Years after, Katsuki finds him in the last place he looks, in the cereal aisle at the local grocery store of their childhood neighborhood.

Loose lips Sail ships by Yousayhun Bakugou is at war with his own fucking mouth and everyone else just seems to be having the time of their lives.

♡ flare guns go off in my head saying not to call you this late by youreanovelidea Midoriya beams at him and Tokoyami is suddenly hit with the urge to look away. “So bright,” he mutters under his breath, low enough that Midoriya can’t hear him. (or, Midoriya is a problem child who just really loves his friends)

(m) The Devil Blues by iknewaman The 78th precinct's police captain, Toshinori Yagi, has volunteerd his squad to help implement the mayor's wish of increasing the successful cooperation between the city police and active Pro-Heroes. Each detective is to be assigned a Pro-Hero who will shadow them for two weeks, and the operation has been dubbed the 'Station Cooperation Operation'. Although it is not well-received by those involved, Izuku Midoriya, current detective at the 78th precinct and loyal follower of captain Toshinori's ideals, believes that the operation will be a success. If his captain says it will succeed, there isn't a doubt in Izuku's mind that it will. That is until he meets his assigned Pro-Hero.

♡ someone is wrong on the internet by rhenna It’s been a long day. By all rights, Izuku should be falling into bed, half dead. But instead of sleeping, he’s hunched over his laptop at 2 in the morning writing a dissertation about why exactly Ground Zero’s pecs are the best pecs to ever pec, and how dare anyone insinuate that he should lose some of that muscle because don’t you even understand what kind of physique a quirk like that requires? Amateurs. (Izuku has two jobs in this world: pro-hero and anonymous president of the Ground Zero fan club. What could possibly go wrong?)

good omens

♡ Divine Intervention (aka God ships it) by TheLadyZepher There’s a battle strategy devised by humans many millennia ago that's designed to overcome an adversary who is particularly well entrenched. Some walls are too tall and thick for a frontal assault, and must instead be bested through sheer dogged stubbornness. Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t know it, but they were about to be put under siege. Fed up with an angel and a demon who are still avoiding any talk of Feelings, God starts to interfere. When it comes to the ineffable plan, sometimes things need a bit of a push.

♡ Slow by write_away It started like this: A boy with the ability to warp reality met an angel and a demon and he made assumptions. You might say it started like this: An angel and a demon found a marriage contract hung on the wall of the angel's bookshop. They didn't question it. It also could have started like this: Once upon a time, the angel told the demon he went too fast. The demon took it to heart. Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves somehow married. Crowley fears going too fast. Aziraphale forges ahead. Neither know how to ask questions of each other.

♡ Eziraphael’s Gifts: A History of Queer Faith and Longing, by Natasha Marie Johnson (Beacon Press, 2019). by actualbat "If Eziraphael has come to be known--in today's language--as the 'guardian angel of sad queers,' then it makes sense for him to have shown up more regularly in the past once that became a recognizable historical category." Natasha is really glad that she's given this talk enough times to be able to do it on autopilot, because those two funny-looking men in the back just made the most absurdly astonished faces. (Or: Not all historians ignore gay subtext, and not all immortal celestial beings have their shit together. Also, voodoo.)

harry potter

♡ Apple Slices and Cocoa by FeathersMcStrange Harry Potter is an abused kid with not an adult in the world on his side when Molly Weasley meets him. She decides right then and there that if nobody else is going to try and take care of this boy, then dammit, she's going to.

hello goodbye (’twas nice to know you) by tamerofdarkstars Draco Malfoy thinks he might know whose thoughts are scrawling themselves on his skin, but that's crazy. Impossible, even. It has to be a mistake. - Self-indulgent soulmate AU where the thoughts of your soulmate inscribe themselves on your skin in a shifting magic tattoo

♡ (m) Men Who Love Dragons Too Much by fencer_x, IDoodleForNoodles ‘Kill Albus Dumbledore’ is less a challenging task and more a suicide mission, so when Draco Malfoy is presented with the option to either dispatch his Headmaster or suffer an excruciating and most ignominious death of his own, along with his parents, he reaches deep into his black little Slytherin heart and manages to scrape together enough courage to go with option C instead: Spend Sixth Year secretly studying Animagecraft in the hopes he’ll turn into something sufficiently imposing even the Dark Lord himself won’t be able to keep Draco under his thumb. But just his luck, his Animagus form turns out to be a dragon, and a rather randy juvenile at that, intent on finding its mate: one Harry James Potter.

marvel

♡ Hard to Love by Gruoch If someone had told May that Iron Man himself would one day occasionally show up uninvited to her quiet little apartment and intrude into her quiet little life, she would have laughed them out of the room. But then her life seems chock-full of unpleasant surprises these days. Or, Tony Stark wants a bigger piece of the pie. May Parker learns to accept help. Peter just wants to keep the peace.

♡ Mr. Parker Declined to Comment by apisdn The events leading up to the embarrassing moments during the Doomed Field trip, and how Peter Parker accidentally ended up in charge of things. All the while the political machine moves on, the Avengers do not kiss and make up, and the future draws ever closer.

Another No-Good Field Trip by Muimor Peter Parker is not having a good day. AKA, Where Peter's decathlon team take a field trip to the Avengers Compound, Vision's a menace, and Peter really doesn't want to go.

naruto

(m) Resonance by flailinginlove After being hit by a missing-nin's jutsu, Kakashi's chakra is never the same again.

♡ (m) What Otter Nonsense by DarkAuroran “Is that an otter?” Iruka asks as large, sable eyes blink at him and a little whiskered nose twitches curiously. “That’s an otter. Why do you have an otter?” “I can’t tell you,” Kakashi says with a great amount of dignity for a man cradling a baby otter in armoured gloves. “Classified Jounin mission business.”

♡ Learning Curve by ishiryoku This is the life she chose: the path of the shinobi. It's either roll with the punches or be left behind by her team—and Sakura's not about to let them go off on their own.

♡ Roots and Wings by ideaoforder When Naruto is kidnapped from his orphanage at age three, Kakashi is so done with this shit. He gets Naruto back, tells the Hokage where to go (politely, because he isn't suicidal), and raises the boy himself. Or, you know, tries and is proud when there aren't too many explosions. Then everybody starts to copy him and it's a whole thing.

stranger things

In Which Starcourt Is a Pun by asexual-fandom-queen (writeordietrying) “Welcome to Scoops Ahoy. Do you know what you want?” Nancy and Jonathan visit the Starcourt Mall and corner Steve at his place of work with their feelings, but in an awkward, this-is-still-the-1980s-so-we-can't-be-too-direct kind of way.

♡ my father comes and he goes by mjolnirbreaker So, for Max, he doesn’t punch Billy Fucking Hargrove. He just sits there in sweltering heat and listens to the C’s being announced, and when parents cheer for their kids he tries not to think about how his parents are currently in Colorado.

♡ it’s a risk, it’s a gamble by nondz (pinkjook) “I think we should pretend to date,” Robin says. "What?" Steve answers.

one of those new wave boys by glorious_spoon It probably should feel more awkward than it does. (Or: Steve and Robin go on a road-trip, drink, listen to music, and look after each other. And yeah, maybe there's some cuddling involved too.)

wanna rec me something? head over to my ask or submission boxes! message me even, i don't really mind (:

and to all my fellow authors who may feel a little down about not getting onto rec lists, this is for you:

#fic rec hoard #bookshelf #fic recs #atla #bnha #good omens #hp #marvel #naruto #stranger things #the gaang #bakudeku #ineffable husbands #drarry #irondad #kakairu #stoncy #mostly gen stuff honestly

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flyswhumpcenter · 5 years

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Found You in the Woods - Chapter 2

PREVIOUS CHAPTER / NEXT CHAPTER [TBA]

Summary: Even if Manon was searching for Alan near some woods yet again, she truly didn’t expect to find him lying on the ground in the middle of the leaves fallen from the trees. (or: Manon proves she’s so much more than some potential burden and Alan is a stubborn idiot, but that’s why we love them)

Fandom: Pokemon (Anime, post-XYZ) Ships: Marissonshipping (Alain/Mairin)

Chapter Summary: Manon scolds Alan for being irresponsible, when she'd have expected it to be the other way around.

Wordcount: 2.5K words

Notes: (insert here line about how I should be studying for my exams currently taking place and sleeping appropriately instead of working on fics) Well geez, that's really not the direction I hoped this fic would take, holy shit. I thought it was gonna be a more traditional "stubborn character pushes through illness, more at 7", but that surely didn't happen. Oh well, happy incidents or something. Why, I don't know. is it OOC? Maybe. May also come back to it tomorrow or later this week. (I need to go back to my other Pokemon fic...) ((The next chapter will be good though, I promise!))

AO3 version available here.

Time has never seemed so slow to Manon before this day. She really has no idea how far that Centre is, much less how long it’s going to take for help to get there. She trusts Charizard, she really does (she has no other choice anyway), yet her impatience is once again getting the best of her. She’s never been the calm or patient type, sure thing, but in such a situation, nobody could blame her for being so upset and wanting everything to go faster, right? The situation was urgent!

That sense of urgency, she mostly feels it whenever she surprises herself glancing at Alan, hoping he’d start waking up or at least show he’s still alive by doing something else than painful, weak grunts. On second thought, the fact she’s able to qualify anything Alan does of being weak, even frail or fragile, is a rift in space and time: Alan doesn’t really go well with either of these adjectives, much less with the idea itself of weakness or vulnerability. Her impatience must steam from this contrast between the last time she saw him, healthy and being cold to her again (she knows it was more of a ruse anyway, maybe a dare to see if she was truly able to keep up with him no matter what), and… whatever this is. A daytime nightmare, perhaps?

With how little she’s actually equipped for adventure, Manon has no way to check anything. Her only thermometer is the clammy palms of her hands, something way past imprecise. What if her hands are too hot to actually evaluate his fever? If that’s the case, she can’t be able to tell if his fever is getting worse! And, if it does, then what? She doesn’t know what Pokemons Alan on him right now, much less if they’d actually obey her like Charizard did. Would the sense of urgency currently raging in her heart spread to them? So many questions, so little possibility to answer them and be sure she’s not getting totally mistaken.

Despite how cruel the vision under her eyes is, Manon cannot look away from him. She’d have never imagined she’d ever see Alan, the strong and strong-willed Alan who had risked his life in the battle between two Hoenn legendary giants to save his Charizard, the stubborn Alan who never gives up on anything he decides he’s going to accomplish, the Alan who put the world into jeopardy only to help fix it later as an attempt to atone, be this fragile on her lap, at nature’s mercy, so vulnerable it feels like she could shatter his entire body with merely a misplaced embrace.

Manon wants to cry. Not for her, because she’s doing perfectly fine, but because the situation calls for it. The more she thinks of what could have been, the more she sees her dearest friend (aside from Chespie), the heavier her heart gets. What if Pokemons in the forest had attacked him? What if Charizard had never found her? Wouldn’t he be… No. She’s here to protect him, and so is Chespie. They’ve gotten stronger since he last saw them, she’s going to show the world if said world forces her into doing so. She won’t let anyone, or anything for that matter, endanger him anymore.

Suddenly, breaking through the artificial serenity of the overly-calm forest, resonates a different grunt. With the earring of a Fennekin, Manon turns her head towards the one currently lying with his head on her lap, her heart skipping a beat when she notices his eyes trying to open. Manon shakes her head: he must be stirring in his sleep. Then she shakes it again: he’s waking up! Finally, he’s waking up, he’s alive and he’ll be able to explain to her what happened to him! Everything is going to be okay, thank Arceus, thank Xerneas!

She didn’t know what she really expected from his current condition, but her heart still hurts badly when she notices his eyes. Like everything else, they’re not like themselves and yet so his: his usually sharp and piercing icy blue eyes are foggy, reddened around the ages, unclear like a mirror covered in mist. She should have seen it coming, she knows that, but it doesn’t prevent her from biting her lip thinking it shouldn’t be this way.

A few, heavy moments fly by. There is still no sign Charizard is coming back. The forest is oddly quiet, but it’s been since the very moment she’s arrived there with Chespie. Her companion is also dead quiet, barely reminding the world he’s still there. She wonders if he’s able to talk, if he can hear her if she speaks to him, if he’s waking up for real or if he’s just going to fall asleep right afterwards, if he can tell her how he got himself in this dangerous mess. She wants to scold him, to hug him, to bombard him with questions, to tell him she may have saved him from bigger dangers; but she can’t do that, not for the moment. She painfully needs to wait, and then wait again. Maybe she’s going to wither away before she can do anything about the situation. Goddammit.

Finally, after these excruciating minutes, Alan visibly stirs and his eyes fully open. Well, “fully” may be overselling it… It’s more that she can tell he’s trying to open them fully, but it ends up looking half-closed anyway. Her fight against her own impatience and sense of urgency is turning into a curb-stomp battle with her as the loser of it all: as such, she prefers to focus on him, in hopes it’ll make time go by faster and bring help to them. Charizard must have found the Centre by now… right?

“Ah, you’re awake, finally!” she yells, almost more to herself than to him, a smile making its way onto her worried face. He’s not fine, but at least he’s alive, there’s that.

Of course, she receives no answer immediately. Instead, Alan moves his head around, sighs and finally looks at her. If she didn’t know him better, she would have almost thought this look on his face wasn’t of surprise, but rather his next stage of waking up.

“Ma…” His voice is dry, hoarse, and barely a whisper. “Manon…?”

“Yep, that’s right, it’s me!”

She’s a bit too excited about watching someone wake up.

Alan tries to sit up, elbows against the grass and the fallen leaves, a hand flying to his head.

“H-hey, don’t overdo it!” she tells him, in a moment of panic, trying to see if that’ll get him not to be too stubborn about it. She doesn’t want it to become the next time where he’d break his shoulder for her.

“Where… are we…?”

Oh, good question. She’s got zero idea where they are, considering she’s just followed a Charizard until she was presented with the fainted figure of her friend and desired travelling companion. (Still in her dreams, she guesses).

“I… don’t know, actually. But Charizard’s gone to get help, so it should be fine, just rest!”

She giggles nervously, as if to convince either Alan or herself that truly everything is one-hundred-percent fine when it’s not, while he looks around. Does this dude even stay still for a second? He’s always moving, even when she’s asked him not to and that he’s sick! How’s she supposed to make him behave?

“What help?” Alan asks as he gets up, only for him to stumble and her to quickly sit him down to the ground. He’s terrible, terrible she says!

“The one for you because you were unconscious on the ground with a fever, dummy!”

Manon doesn’t really know why she’s scolding Alan, the thick-sculled and utterly confused Alan who’d never listen to her before. It’s not like she expects any rational answer or reaction from him either, so as long as she speaks, she may be able to keep him grounded until help arrives and he’s obligated to surrender to medicine (and people who actually know what they’re doing, because she sure doesn’t know that).

In lieu of a reply, Alan coughs in his fists, loudly, hoarsely, to match with his voice and everything. All of her grudge against him melts into a tiny puddle of stupid feelings as she hears and watches this, prompting her to rub his back as if that’s gonna make anything easier on him. She got too caught up in her own mind to remember he was still unwell and needing medical attention before he got tremendously ill, so she shuts up for a few moments and waits for the fit to be over.

“Hey… You’re alright? That sounded painful…” she then asks him, trying to get his eyes to look into hers, hands on his shoulders, tone softer than anything she’s ever said to anyone who wasn’t Chespie. Speaking of him, he’s back on her own shoulder, silent, solemn. Probably doesn’t have anything to add, anything to make the situation better. Just like she does, in fact.

“Ah…” He pants first, then clears his throat, coughs again, and finally finds the voice in him to respond. “I’m… fine enough, I guess…”

“That can’t be right! You felt hot and your cough’s super nasty, you can’t be ‘fine enough’!” She wants to scold him like a kid, she really does! He’s such a Tauros-headed idiot sometimes, just like her, if not even worse! Just a pain, a big bad pain for her, but especially for himself!

Alan doesn’t reply again, too busy looking at her confused and being too dizzy to really get up. She sits down next to him, just in case he needs a place where to put his head which, suddenly, seems way too heavy for his poor neck and body.

Neither of them speaks, at least for a while. All the noise around them are breathes, some faraway falls crunching under the weight of small Pokemons and Alan’s cough, which sometimes comes back, sometimes gets replaced or announced by some throat clearing. Manon can hear the birds soaring in the sky, the little things you only hear in a forest, the beating of her stressed heart and what she thinks is Alan’s pulse, sounding almost quicker than her own. He’s usually cold-blooded, she knows it, she knows that, but… But…

“I hope Charizard’s found help and that they’re on their way…”

She can feel her friend slumping on her, head on her shoulder, left side lodged against her right. A faint smile must be on her lips by now: he’s alive, he’s going to be fine once this is all over. He’s strangely not moving much anymore, apparently content with pseudo-resting against her. At least, she’s found him in times, she can now watch over him and, she hopes, she’ll prevent him from hurting himself any further.

“You… mind if I babble about? I’m scared you’re gonna faint again if you fall asleep…”

“I’m not falling asleep…”

Manon doesn’t feel like directly rebutting him. Alan’s feverish, she can sense it through their clothes (he’s sticky too, she knows that from having put her hands on his shoulders), it’d be like hitting an injured Pokemon for the sake of proving she’s right or something. Yes, he’s stubborn and, yes, he still seems to think she’s dumb: but he’s sick, he can barely keep up with a conversation, he can’t get up properly… She needs to be caring and patient, not as jumpy as she usually is. That sucks for her, but it especially sucks for him.

Frankly, seeing Chespie bedridden was way more than enough for her, she doesn’t need to see her other dearest friend falling deadly ill on her watch.

A new silence follows, thicker than the previous one, covering them both in a thick layer of fabric, wrapped around their throats. Manon doesn’t have a single clue as to what she should be saying next, if she should even be saying something too. Instead, she just stares at Alan with his eyes fluttering like broken roller blinds. He seems so out of himself, so unlike his usual tough guy persona, that she cannot help but worry more with each passing second. What if it’s actually already too late? What if he’s sicker than she thinks? How sick is he, anyway? He won’t let her touch him to test out, she knows that, so she’s left with speculating through observations

And, well, she sucks at analysing other humans. If she was any good at it, she’d have been able to tell Lysandre had terrible plans in mind. Perhaps she’d have been able to tell Alan her true feelings, to convince him he didn’t need to cut all ties with her. Everything would be better; she’d be able to know what she can do to help him feel at least a bit better. No, no, instead, she’s just sitting there, her sick friend against her, slowly but surely either falling asleep or losing consciousness again. Where is Charizard when you need it?

So Manon silently prays. The girl who’s always noisy, always nosy, never getting quiet and always asking questions, making remarks and comments, snarking at people, sliding some jokes; is silent and prays. Praying who, she doesn’t know, she didn’t think about it. She just repeats over and over in her mind how she wants everything to be better, for her friend to feel good again, for the illness to go away and the fatigue to disappear. It’s dumb, she knows that, praying Xerneas only work in fairy tales and nursery rhymes. At least, she thinks so? If it works, she’ll get back what she said and be the happiest girl ever for her poor, poor friend.

The complete, too heavy to be serene silence breaks in the snap of a stick from behind her. She jumps, taken aback, balancing Chespie out of her shoulder and making Alan almost land on the ground, barely catching him back with her surprised arms. His eyes try to look at hers, or that’s what it feels like, but they’re too unfocused and glassy to properly do so, and as such it ends up failing. This is still so weird, so unnatural…

However, a smile is soon brought where right before it stood a frown. Charizard is back and, with it, what looks like a medical team. The rest of the rescue mission passes in a flash: the nurse and other people she doesn’t know take her friend away on a stretcher, Charizard still out of its Pokeball offers Chespie and her to fly to where the staff comes from. The sudden change of pace is unexpected, and that surprises her.

As they fly away from the forest, Manon thinks, a lot, much more than usual. Today’s weird, too weird. The changes of pace all over the place are awful, she wants them to stop, she wants today to go back to normal and boring. She wants to get her normal Alan back, the one who gives her snarky remarks, the one who’s too stubborn to ever go back or accept things the way he doesn’t see them, the one who’s worked and fought again Lysandre, the one who almost brought the end of the world before helping fix it. She just wants her friend back, free of illnesses and exhaustion, to travel with him and not be Kalos’s worst nurse ever.

And, well… Is that asking too much from the world?

#pokemon #pokemon (anime)#pokemon xy #sickfic #hurt comfort #marissonshipping #mairin (pokemon)#alain (pokemon)#chespie #alan's charizard #otp: charizard boi and chespin gal #fic: found you in the woods

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vcepsis · 6 years

Note

HI I LOVED YOUR SHIRO WHUMP SO MUCH so here i am to request some more >_> if you're still doing the drabble prompts, D + 10?

AH thank you so much! I’m so happy you enjoyed it!

D (headache) + 10 (at work). I hope you will forgive my loose interpretation of “at work”. You didn’t specify a pairing so I went with my heart and did Sheith. Around 2k (because I don’t know what a drabble is apparently). Big shout out to @feverflushed for reading it over for me!

From this drabble ask (which I’m still accepting requests from!)

The light pulsed across the Black Lion’s screen, and Shiro’s head pulsed with it.

As the screen of his Lion showed the dizzying movements of Galra cruisers, Shiro was glad he’d skipped breakfast. He remembered Hunk’s questioning look when Shiro had handed back his full plate, and the way Keith’s eyebrows rose. Luckily, no one had the chance to say anything when the alarm went off moments later.

Shiro squinted at the screen, as if that would lessen the way the glare hurt his eyes. It felt like someone was drilling into both sides of his head, right at the temples. It hadn’t been this bad when he first woke up, after a mere three hours sleep; just a pulse every now and then behind his eyes. He’d hoped it would go away as the day went on, but it had only grown in intensity until he was on the edge of a migraine.

He bit back a groan as he swung his Lion around to meet the new wave of enemy forces. On his screen, he could only see Keith and Hunk as they beat back the Galra. The Red Lion was swerving through the lines of ships, leaving a red trail in its wake. Wait—was that right? Shiro blinked a few times, willing the image to focus. Hunk was providing cover fire for Keith, the two of them making a surprisingly good team. The Yellow Lion’s cannon would fire at a line of cruisers, while Keith would pick off the stragglers, weaving in between the explosions. It was almost…mesmerizing.

It also hurt to look at. Too many colours and sounds and lights and—

“Shiro, watch out!”

Someone called to him—Pidge?—and he swung his Lion around again, fighting the wave of nausea the sudden movement caused, just as a wayward cruiser smashed into him.

The impact threw his Lion across the battlefield. His head snapped back, hitting the head of his chair, and he couldn’t hold back his gasp of pain. His headache kicked into overdrive at the impact, vision going completely white. Taking his hands off the controls, they flew up to his head, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Shiro!”

Another voice called to him, but all it did was add to the agony that was spreading across his skull. The impact hadn’t even been that bad, and the helmet had absorbed most of the shock, but it pushed him over that edge into a full blown migraine almost instantly. The pain had gone from a dull throbbing to a sharp stabbing, and the noise of the battle threatened to overwhelm him. Distantly, he knew he was dead in the water, and while the Black Lion wasn’t seriously damaged, he couldn’t bring himself to look at the screen in front of him.

“What’s wrong? Why can’t we reach him?!”

Keith this time, voice cracking with panic. Shiro wanted to reassure him, wanted to tell him that he was fine, that everything was fine. But he didn’t have the energy to lie. Instead, he tugged off his helmet, throwing it blindly across the cockpit. The voices were making it worse. It didn’t stop the ones coming from the dashboard, but it eased the pain a bit, to not have them inside his head.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, the sounds on the dashboard stopped, the lights powering down at the same time. The relief was instantaneous, though the pain didn’t stop. There was a familiar purr in the back of his mind, unsure of what was hurting him but trying to help nonetheless.

On some level, Shiro knew this was a problem. Black had powered down for him, but now he was worse than a sitting duck—he was a liability, a deadweight that his team would have to carry. But the purr came again, offering reassurance this time. Shiro was glad the Lion’s noises were in his brain and not physically around him; he wasn’t sure if he could handle any more sound.

Shiro wasn’t sure how long he sat there, curled up in a limbo-like state of pain. He didn’t even know how the battle was progressing. At that moment, his world was condensed to the feeling of his skull exploding between his hands.

Eventually, there was the familiar hiss of the cockpit opening, with boots pounding on the floor around him. When had he gotten back to the Castle? The noise stabbed into him anew, and he couldn’t help the soft whimper that escaped him.

“Shiro? Oh, fuck—”

Keith. Shiro wanted to reach out, wanted to apologize, but he couldn’t bear to open his eyes.

“What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

Lance, now, further away but no less loud. Shiro screwed his eyes shut even tighter.

“Shut up, Lance!” Keith hissed. Shiro was thankful he wasn’t yelling. It seemed like Lance and Keith always yelled.

“Shiro?” Keith said quietly. “Shiro, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Shiro shied away from Keith’s voice. Despite Keith’s attempts to be quiet, his voice hurt.

“Ok, ok,” Keith muttered, voice sounding panicked. “Hunk?”

“I got it.” Suddenly there were hands on him, arms around him, and he was being lifted from the seat and carried out of the Lion. The movement brought the nausea back, but it was nothing compared to the pain the lights of the hangar brought him.

Even with his eyes closed, Shiro felt like his skull was splitting. Instinctually, he tightened his hands slightly around his head, as if that could hold him together. He couldn’t help the noise that came from his throat, guttural and desperate. His breaths were coming too fast.

“Shit, the lights—”

“What’s happened? What’s wrong with Shiro?”

Allura, this time, sounding concerned. And loud. Were they all always so loud? Shiro wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. He almost wished the pain would be enough to make him pass out, just to escape it for a little while.

“I think it’s a migraine,” he heard Keith say in response.

“Is that an injury?” Allura’s voice was even more worried, somehow. “Can it be treated?”

“I don’t think a pod would work for that.” Pidge, voice just a tad shaky.

“He needs a dark, quiet place,” Keith said, sounding a little more calm. Taking control of the situation. Shiro almost felt a spark of pride, before it was drowned out by another pulse of pain.

And then they were moving. Shiro curled further into the arms around him, despite the fact that they were still covered in the armor. They tightened around him. “It’s gonna be ok.”

Hunk shouldn’t sound so frightened. Shiro should have made sure he didn’t sound like that. Or any of the team, for that matter. But right now, Shiro couldn’t do anything for himself, much less for anyone else. Distantly, he knew this was a bad thing, but there was no room in his mind for anything except the white hot pain.

It felt like they were moving for an eternity, but eventually he heard the familiar swoosh of a door opening. Hunk stepped inside, and the light vanished. Shiro let out a shaking breath as some of the pain receded.

He felt himself being lowered, gingerly, onto something soft and comfortable. His bed. Shiro allowed his hands to fall away from his head, half expecting to feel parts of his skull peel away.

There was some quiet murmuring, and then gentle hands were on him, unbuckling his armor and setting it aside. Eventually he was left in his black undersuit. He somehow felt better, even if it was just a little bit, like the armor had been suffocating him. He curled up on his side, away from the others, as if that would protect them from his weakness.

“Thanks, Hunk,” Keith was saying, voice low. “I can take it from here.”

“You sure?” Hunk’s voice was strained. Worried. Guilt cut through the pain again, if only for a moment. “I’ve never seen him like this before.”

“He’ll be ok,” Keith replied, voice farther away this time. “I’ll stay with him.”

The door closed with a hiss, and Shiro was alone. He was grateful, at least, that the others weren’t around to witness him in such a sorry state. Unfortunately, now he had nothing to distract him.

Soon enough, though, the door hissed open again, and there were light footsteps coming towards him.

“Shiro?” Keith asked softly. “Sorry, but can you lie on your back?”

Shiro didn’t want to. He whined softly, curling up tighter.

“I know, I know,” Keith said, voice almost gentle. “It’ll help, I promise.”

If nothing else, Shiro trusted Keith. So he rolled over onto his back, hissing through his teeth as the movement sent new waves of dull pain through his head.

Suddenly, something cool and damp was laid across his eyes. The relief was minimal, but was so very welcomed. Shiro let out a shaking breath at the feeling.

A cool hand appeared on his cheek, the thumb gently caressing the skin. Shiro couldn’t help but lean into it a little; he knew, on some level, that he should be embarrassed, but there was no room in his head for anything as self serving as that.

Time passed in weird chunks after that; Shiro may have slept a little bit, here and there, but he was more in a half awake doze of pain and exhaustion. Every now and then, the cloth across his eyes was removed and replaced, and the shock of the cold helped a little more each time.

Eventually, slowly, the pain faded from excruciating and debilitating to something slightly more manageable. Reaching a shaking hand up, Shiro pushed the cloth from his eyes, squinting a bit in the darkness. There was a strange, soft blue hue lighting the wall, and he turned to find the source.

Keith was sitting in a chair next to the bed, a pad on his lap. He scrolled through it lazily, cheek smushed against his hand propped up on the armrest. The light from the pad drew deep shadows across his face, highlighting the bags under his eyes. Shiro frowned in concern. How long had he been here?

Before he could say anything, Keith’s eyes flickered from the pad over to Shiro’s face. As soon as he did, Keith snapped up, eyes going wide with concern. “Shiro?”

“Hey,” Shiro said in response, voice creaky. He cleared his throat before continuing. “How long have you been here?”

Keith rubbed his eyes. “Dunno. A few hours? Doesn’t matter. How are you feeling?”

“Better.” It wasn’t a lie. The pain was still there, throbbing to the beat of his pulse, but it didn’t make him feel like dying. So, better.

Keith put the pad aside, then leaned over to take the cloth that was slipping from Shiro’s brow. “Coran said he has something you can try to take for the pain. If you’re interested.”

Shiro considered that. His stomach wasn’t as twisted as before, but he wasn’t sure it was stable enough for an alien painkiller. Besides, he’d managed to ride through the worst of it. “I’ll be alright. But tell him thank you.”

Keith nodded, like it was the answer he had been expecting. “Alright. I’m gonna go get you some water though. That’s non-negotiable.”

Shiro managed a weak smile. “Yes, sir.”

Keith blinked, then quickly looked away. It was dark, but the light of the pad illuminated the faint pink blush across Keith’s face. Shiro’s smile widened.

Soon enough, though, Keith’s face turned back to a scowl. “You should have said something. Before we went out to fight.”

Shiro’s smile dropped, and he looked away. “Sorry,” he said, voice quiet. “I just…didn’t see the point.”

“You shouldn’t have been out there like that.”

Keith’s words felt like a slap, and Shiro flinched from them. “I thought I could handle it,” Shiro said. “I usually can.”

Keith made a choking noise. “You ‘usually can’?” he repeated, voice somewhere between worry and anger. “How often does this happen?”

Shiro cursed mentally. He shouldn’t have said that. “It’s fine, Keith. Really.”

The chair scraped back, and suddenly there was another weight on his bed. Shiro looked over to see Keith sitting on the edge of the bed, staring intently at Shiro. He took Shiro’s natural hand in both of his.

“We just want to help you, Shiro,” Keith said softly, looking down at their joined hands. “I just want to help you. So next time, tell us when it gets like this. And if you can’t tell the others…” Keith squeezed Shiro’s hand. “Tell me, at least.”

Shiro felt his cheeks heat up, and hoped the darkness of the room hid it. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

Keith just nodded once before letting go. “I’m gonna get you that water now.”

He got up from the bed, turning towards the door. Just as he pressed the control panel to open it, Shiro spoke again. “Keith?”

Keith turned, eyebrows raised in question.

“Thank you.”

Keith smiled Shiro’s favourite smile, small and soft and genuine.

“Anytime.”

#vld whump #vld sickfic #sick shiro #headache #pain #caretaking #migraine #vcep writes #drabble? don't know her #this was my first anon request #so I'm pretty stoked #hope you enjoyed it #I'm always down to take those good shiro whump prompts lol

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wordsintimeandspace · 6 years

Text

Hidden Deep

Author: @wordsintimeandspace Pairing: Ten/Rose Summary: On one of her jumps across dimensions, Rose finally finds the TARDIS, but the Doctor is nowhere to be found. While she tracks him down, the wolf inside her stirs, sensing the danger ahead of her that threatens her and the Doctor’s life. Rating: Teen Words: ~4300 Notes: This is my @dwsecretsanta fic for @sequencefairy! Jess requested some angst, and I delivered, hopefully.

Read it on AO3!

The console room was cold when Rose slipped into the TARDIS, but it was the too dim light and the too quiet hum that sent a shiver down her spine. Something was wrong. She hesitated in the doorway, the unusual silence startling her, before she slowly stepped inside. The door fell shut behind her.

Her rapid breath came out as white puffs in front of her mouth and she rubbed her leather-clad arms, shuddering as the cold crept into her bones.

“Doctor?” she called, her voice high-pitched in fear. The words echoed from the coral walls of the console room, but there was no answer. It didn’t surprise her.

In a rush, Rose crossed the room towards the console, pressing her hands against the controls. She let out a breath of relief when she found the metal warm under her fingertips. The TARDIS was alive. Her gaze wandered up the central column towards the ceiling. The lights flashed in greeting, just for a second.

“What happened to you?” she whispered, stroking her fingers along the console. “And where is the Doctor?”

The hum of the ship changed, so faintly that Rose wasn’t sure if she had imagined it. She gulped down the tears burning in her eyes, refusing to let them fall. After all these years in a parallel universe and all these months travelling from one dimension to the next, this wasn’t how she had imagined to come home. And she was sure this was it - home. Not a different parallel dimension, another universe, but exactly the place she was supposed to be. It just felt right, the air around her, the ground beneath her feet, the soft tingle of the TARDIS in her mind. Letting out a long breath, Rose lowered her mental barriers and welcomed the ship in her head.

The change was immediate: the lights brightened around her and hum of the TARDIS turned from a faint whisper into a familiar buzzing. Rose grinned, relishing in the way the consciousness of the TARDIS wrapped around her mind, as if the ship was as starved for mental contact as she was.

Rose’s mind whirled as she tried to figure out what this meant. Not only was the ship physically abandoned, but apparently the mental link between the Doctor and the TARDIS had been affected as well. The Doctor had to be in serious trouble. The fear inside her made it suddenly hard to breathe. The thought that maybe she was already too late crossed her mind, just for a second, but the TARDIS quickly responded with a wave of reassurance. Rose pushed the emotions aside that welled up inside her. She might not be too late, but the urgency in the ship’s answer made it clear that there wasn’t much time left. She had to find the Doctor.

“Any help?” Rose asked desperately, looking up towards the ceiling. The TARDIS hummed, and a second later a beep sounded from the other side of the central column. In a rush, Rose rounded the console, letting out a breath when a screen lit up right in front of her. It showed a map, she realized after a few seconds. There was a dot in the middle - their current location, she assumed - and at the edge of the screen a small square that pulsed in time with the beeping. Rose wasn’t sure what it was. She had found the TARDIS in the middle of a forest, no sign of civilization as far as she could see. But apparently, this was where the TARDIS wanted her to go.

“Is that where he is?” Rose asked, a little breathless. The lights flickered and Rose took a deep breath. There was no time to waste.

Snow crunched under her feet as she stepped back outside. The TARDIS was parked next to a small clearing. Fog hung in the air, and together with the snow covering the ground the whole forest was painted in shades of white and grey, completely devoid of any colour. Although it was the middle of the day barely any sunlight made it through the thick clouds. Rose walked around the clearing, staring into the dark forest ahead of her. Every side looked the same, but there was something inside her insistently pulling her into one direction. Without contemplating where this feeling came from, Rose decided to trust her instincts and started walking.

The way led her deeper into the forest, over uneven ground, the thicket and the slippery snow making the hike difficult. Over and over again Rose feared to lose the track, to get lost between the trees where everything seemed to look the same. She struggled to push through a narrow path between some bushes when suddenly the trees cleared in front of her.

The ground sloped down right beneath her feet. Startled, Rose stumbled a step back, letting her gaze wander over the area in front of her eyes. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw a building at the end of the clearing. It was a large, rectangular house with two floors and a flat roof, barely any windows, the walls build out of grey concrete. Even from the distance it looked uninviting and daunting. There was no doubt that she had found the right place.

A high fence was surrounding the area, but it didn’t take long until Rose had found a hole to slip through. She hesitated just for a second, her eyes scanning the open plain in front of her. It was completely deserted. No guards, no patrol, no sign of life at all. An uneasy feeling spread in the depth of her stomach. Her mind tingled in alarm, but she had to keep moving. As quickly as she could, she dashed towards the house. There she slowed down, sneaking around the building until she reached the front.

A metallic door waited for her. Rose reached for the handle, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise when she pushed and the door actually opened a gap. Throwing one last glance over her shoulder towards the empty square in front of the house, Rose slipped inside.

She let out a yelp when she suddenly faced three creatures, standing in a semicircle in front of the door, as if they had been waiting for her.

Eyes wide, Rose let her gaze wander over the figures. All three of them were tall, looking vaguely humanoid, but their skin was a sickly grey and their eyes were huge and dark. Definitely alien. All three of them stared at her, unmoving. The door fell shut behind her.

“Hello,” Rose said, breathless, attempting a smile no matter how hard her heart was thumping against her ribs.

The aliens barely acknowledged her words. The first one simply tilted its head to the side and stepped forward. Instinctively, Rose took a step back, reaching for the door handle. One of the aliens hissed and the lock clicked behind her. The door didn’t budge, and with the three creatures cornering her, she was trapped. Panic rose in the depths of her stomach.

“I’m warning you. I’m armed,” she threatened, her hand wandering to her hip. As much as she hated Torchwood’s weapon policies, in moments like this she was glad to have a stun gun on her. But before she could wrap her fingers around the handle, the aliens were attacking her. Long, thin fingers closed around her neck, and in the next second, the alien’s mind invaded hers.

Rose let out a helpless scream as it plunged into her head without any resistance. It burst through every last barrier protecting her thoughts. Too powerful was the presence in her head, too vigorous the onslaught. Thoughts and memories flashed in front of her eyes as the alien scanned through them. The Doctor’s face popped up, and Rose watched in horror how the alien followed the thread, burrowing deeper into her mind, accessing every last bit of information about him. Starting with “run” and ending with the terrifying white wall in another universe.

The pain was excruciating, paralysing her, but the alien just kept going until black spots were dancing in front of her eyes. Deep in her mind something stirred, as if it sensed the attack. A golden entity, both familiar and frightening, rose from a deep slumber. Protectively facing the alien’s consciousness. The wolf howled, fletching its teeth, and leaped towards the attacker.

Suddenly, the pain was gone. There was only gold in her head, numbing and reassuring and powerful. Rose vaguely registered how the alien’s mind was pushed out of hers. The alien let go of her neck as if it had been burned. And then, there was only blackness.

~~~

”Rose!”

A voice pushed through the fog in her head, making her stir. The ground was cold under her cheek, and her head was aching so much all Rose wanted to do was slip back into unconsciousness. But before she could drift off again, the voice sounded again.

“Rose, come on. Wake up. Please!”

Pleading, desperate, full of affection. And most importantly: strikingly familiar. Rose’s breath hitched. She knew that voice. The Doctor!

It took some effort, but eventually she managed to pry her eyes open, blinking into the dim light. She was lying on her side on the hard ground, and all she could see from her current position was the wall opposite of her. With a groan she rolled on her back, gasping when the movement made her head spin and nausea rise in her throat. She took a few deep breaths before focusing her vision. Above her was only a grey ceiling. No sign of the Doctor.

“Rose!” he yelled again, and this time she realized he wasn’t right beside her. “Are you- can you hear me?”

Rose winced.

“Stop shouting,” she mumbled, rubbing her aching forehead. Taking another deep breath, she gathered all her strength and finally pushed herself into a sitting position. The world spun around her, just for a moment, before her vision cleared.

She was in a small, dark cell, the area separated from the corridor by thick bars. On the other side of the corridor was a cell that looked exactly like hers - but inside it, gripping the bars as tightly as he could, was the Doctor.

Relief flooded her all of a sudden, tears pooling in her eyes. She actually did it. She had finally found him - although the circumstances were not what she had hoped for.

“Rose,” the Doctor said, his voice a soft sigh of relief. Their eyes finally met.

“Doctor,” she whispered, wiping the tears off her cheeks. The Doctor swept his gaze over her, concern clear in his features.

“Are you all right?”

“Been better,” Rose admitted, pushing down the nausea churning her stomach. She let out a long breath. “Give me a minute.”

The Doctor’s gaze darkened. He gritted his teeth, his eyebrows drawn together into a frown.

“What have they done to you?” he growled.

“Could ask you the same thing,” Rose replied, running her eyes over his dishevelled form. His suit jacket was missing, the once white shirt he was wearing streaked with dirt. His face was pale, his hair a mess, his eyes dulled by exhaustion.

“How long have you been in here?” Rose asked as she got up on shaking legs.

“Oh, not too long. About three weeks, four days, six hours and twenty minutes.” He watched her in concern. “Rose, maybe you should sit back down.”

Rose swayed on her feet, bright spots dancing in front of her eyes. Gritting her teeth, she made her way to the front of the cell before sinking down, leaning against the bars. This was as close as she could get to the Doctor. The Doctor mirrored her position, sitting down at the front of his cell. There was only the corridor separating them, but it still felt like he was a whole universe away. Rose ached with the desire to embrace him, to hold his hand in hers. From the pained expression in his eyes, Rose suspected he was feeling the same.

“What are you doing here?” he finally asked, disbelief in his voice. “How can you be here?”

Rose smiled weakly. “Found the TARDIS,” she started slowly. She leaned her head against the bars, the cold metal soothing the ache in her skull. “Thought you got yourself in trouble and wanted to get you out. Rubbish without me, you are.”

The Doctor gave her a lopsided grin. “I definitely am,” he confirmed. “Is the TARDIS all right?”

“She was better once I was there. She missed the telepathic contact with you, I think.”

The Doctor nodded grimly. “Yes. I had to close off my mind completely. The Cronians, they’ve been trying to break through my barriers ever since they caught me.“

“Cronians? Is that what these charming grey blokes are called?”

“Yep. We’re on Cron, their home planet. Very similar to Earth, but it’s right on the other side of the galaxy. Did they attack you?” the Doctor asked.

“I think so,” Rose said, rubbing her forehead. The events before her capture were still a bit hazy in her mind, the memory still blurred. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember. Gold swirled in front of her eyes, just for a second, making her breath hitch. When she opened her eyes again, the Doctor was watching her with a concerned expression.

“I… I think they went into my mind, to look for information,” Rose explained. “Couldn’t stop them.”

The Doctor’s gaze darkened and Rose let out a sigh. “Stop that.”

“What?”

“Blaming yourself. It’s not your fault. I knew that it could be dangerous, right from the beginning when I first started jumping across dimensions.”

“We’ll have a chat about that,” the Doctor said, his frown deepening. “But not now. I’m afraid we’re getting company.”

He jumped to his feet in one swift movement, burying his hands in the pockets of his suit as he glowered at the door at the end of the corridor. Rose managed to get up just in time to see the door open.

Three of the Cronians stalked into the corridor. While one of them remained at the door, the two others went to the cells. The locks clicked open with just a glance of their black eyes. Rose let out a breath, hesitating for a second.

“You will come with us,” the Cronian at her cell hissed. The other one was already pushing the Doctor down the corridor. Rose hurried after him. The Doctor whirled around, reaching out to her. Just before Rose could grasp his hand, she was roughly pulled back.

“Leave her alone!” the Doctor yelled. Rose let out a grunt as the alien finally eased its grip on her, but it still towered in front of her, effectively separating her from the Doctor. Her shoulders trembling, Rose blinked away the tears of frustration that burned in her eyes.

“You can walk on your own,” the Cronian said, narrowing its huge eyes at her. Rose simply glared at him.

Silently, they were led away from the cells, through a long, narrow corridor and into a large, bright room. The sudden light stung in her eyes. Rose blinked as she let her gaze wander through the room, but she barely had time to look around. Curling its long fingers around her arm, the Cronian dragged her to the back of the room, forcefully shoved her down a chair, and let the manacles on the armrests snap shut. Opposite from her, the second Cronian was doing the same to the Doctor. Rose tried to pull her arms free, but it was no use. The cold metal painfully cut into the skin of her wrists.

The Doctor gritted his teeth, his chest heaving. “Don’t hurt her,” he said with barely concealed anger. “I know you brought her here because she’s important to me. But I’ll give you everything you want. Just let her go.”

“No!” Rose yelled in protest. “Doctor, you can’t let them do this!”

“I will not allow that you get hurt because of me! Just because-”

“Silence!” the Cronian standing between them shouted, its voice booming. “We are not interested in you any more, Time Lord.”

It turned around to Rose, focusing all its attention on her. Its eyes were dark and cold, and a shiver went down her spine. The Cronian tilted its head, regarding her with a careful look.

“Why would we want your mind when we have something much more powerful right in front of us?” it finally said, the thin lips curling into something that resembled a smile. Rose’s breath caught in her throat. She shook her head, confused.

“But, I’m not-” Rose started, the words dying on her lips.

“We have seen the wolf inside you,” the Cronian said. Her blood ran cold. “We’ve seen its power.”

Bad Wolf. Rose felt her breath quicken. No, it couldn’t be. Bad Wolf was gone. Blood rushed in her ears while she stared at the alien, too shocked to respond.

“But that’s impossible,” the Doctor said, gobsmacked. “I’ve removed the Vortex from her.”

The Cronian ignored him and only took a step closer to Rose.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rose said, her voice trembling in fear. Panic rose in the depths of her stomach, making her head swim. Last time, Bad Wolf had killed the Doctor. She couldn’t let that happen again.

The alien simply smiled. A second one walked up to the Doctor, pulling out a gun. It raised the weapon to the Doctor’s head and pressed a button, the gun letting out a terrifying buzz as it charged. Electricity prickled in the air, making the hair on the back of Rose’s neck stand on end.

“No!” Rose cried, struggling against the handcuffs. “Leave him alone!”

“I’m sure you want to reconsider your answer,” the Cronian next to her said, its voice suddenly hard. Without mercy. “You will grant us the powers of the wolf, or the Doctor will die.”

Rose saw the Doctor gulp, his eyes wide, gaze jumping from her to the gun and back.

“I… I don’t know how,” Rose said desperately. “I don’t know anything about Bad Wolf!”

“You defended your mind with the help of the wolf!” the alien next to the Doctor cried. It pressed the barrel tight against the Doctor’s temple. The Doctor’s eyes widened in horror. “Give us access to this power!”

“I can’t!” Rose gripped the armrest of the chair as hard as she could. A sob ran through her chest, but she quickly gulped down the tears gathering in her eyes. For the first time, the alien in front of her showed any kind of emotion on its face. Pure anger was burning in its eyes.

“You will regret this,” it said, the words clearly a threat.

“Rose-” the Doctor started, wiggling in his chair and away from the gun, but the alien cut him off by roughly pulling his head back. Rose watched in horror how it adjusted its grip on the gun, one long finger curling around the trigger. Ready to shoot any second.

“Is this your final answer?”

Rose wanted to speak, but not a single word left her lips. All she felt was fear and hopelessness, but suddenly, something else bloomed in her chest. It burned in her veins, making her body tingle, from her toes into her fingertips. An overwhelming power. She knew that it should terrify her, but in this moment, she clung to this new thread of hope. Welcomed it. Gold swirled in front of her vision and she blinked, trying hard to keep her focus on the Doctor.

She barely registered how the alien huffed in front of her and finally took a step back. Breathing hard, Rose let the power flood through her body. The wolf growled within her, readying itself for the attack.

“Shoot him,” the alien commanded, and Rose let the wolf take over. Gold blinded her vision, dancing in front of her eyes, streaming out of her body as if she was the sun. With one flick of her wrists, her bonds were gone. The alien yelped as the gun dissolved into golden light right in its hands.

“No,” Rose heard herself say, but she didn’t know if it was her voice or Bad Wolf’s. All she registered was the endless energy coursing in her veins. All of time and space, at her mercy. Timelines flickered in front of her eyes, but Rose forced herself to focus on the Doctor and the two aliens in front of her. She let out a breath, letting Bad Wolf guide her movements.

The Cronians and the Doctor stared at her in shock and fear as she stepped forward.

“You will not harm him,” Bad Wolf said through Rose’s mouth. “You will harm no one else, never again.”

She raised her hand, and around her, the whole building dissolved into golden dust. The Cronians barely had the time to let out a scream before they were wiped from existence. In front of her, the Doctor sank to the ground, suddenly free. The horror in his eyes made her heart ache, but she couldn’t stop. Now that the power hidden inside her for so long had been unleashed, she was brimming with energy, unable to let go. It burned in every cell of her body, and while it had first been pleasant and warm, it was now excruciating. Her shoulders trembled.

“Rose,” the Doctor pleaded, desperate. “You have to let go.”

Rose shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. Gold still swirled around them, illuminating the night.

“I can’t,” she croaked, the power of Bad Wolf taking her breath away. Helplessly she stood in the dark night, the energy overwhelming, untamable, killing her slowly. With a few quick steps, the Doctor was at her side. Rose let out a sob as he was finally within reach, for the first time in years after their separation. The Doctor ignored the gold swirling around her body, prickling on their skin, and determinately cupped her face in his hands.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he begged, raising his fingers to her temples. He gently brushed against her mind, the sensation a stark contrast to the entity of the Bad Wolf in her head, and without hesitation Rose welcomed him inside her head. He wrapped his consciousness around hers, calming and soothing. Rose kept her gaze fixed on his, drowning in his eyes. She desperately pushed through the power clouding her mind to focus on the feel of his fingertips against her skin, his shirt beneath her fingers, his whole body pressed close to hers.

With every breath the gold swirling around them ceased while the Doctor calmed her mind, extinguished the energy burning inside her. The wolf howled, fletching its teeth as if to rebel, but the Doctor didn’t back off. Gently, he calmed the wolf until its growl quietened. With his mind singing in hers, the wolf slowly retreated, back into the corner of her head where he had been hidden all this time. Every soft touch of the Doctor’s consciousness eased the pain in her skull. And finally, it lulled the wolf back to sleep. The golden shimmer that had illuminated the night and had been reflected in the Doctor’s eyes was suddenly gone.

Rose’s legs gave out underneath her as the power of the Bad Wolf left her body. The Doctor caught her before she could touch the ground, his strong arms holding her upright. Rose let out a shaking breath as she slumped against him.

Worry resonated in her mind through their telepathic connection. Breathing hard, Rose relished in the feeling of having the Doctor so close to her, not only mentally, but also physically. He was still embracing her, holding her close, while she wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest. She took in a shuddering breath and let out a laugh.

The Doctor’s concern peaked and she rushed to reassure him.

“I… I’m fine,” she managed to get out, her voice wavering. “It’s just- you’re here. You’re really here with me.”

“I am,” the Doctor said, his voice full of awe. He pulled back, enough to see her face. Rose smiled and he smiled back, so wide and carefree it made her heart stumble in her chest. The Doctor cupped her face in his hands, waited for her nod of approval, and finally pressed his lips down to hers.

Rose melted into the kiss, love and adoration and wonder pouring through their mental link into her body, making her knees weak in the best possible way. They both laughed, a little breathless, when they finally pulled back.

“Am I all right?” Rose eventually asked, tipping a finger against her temple to show the Doctor what she meant. The Doctor took a deep breath.

“I believe so,” he said. Carefully, he trailed his fingers over her skin. “Bad Wolf is back where it was all these years without causing any trouble. It was the Cronian’s violent invasion that triggered it to resurface.” His expression softened, a gentle smile on his lips. “As long as you don’t repeat anything like that, you should be fine. More than fine. You’re perfect.”

He pressed his lips back down to hers and Rose smiled into the kiss, pulling him closer by the lapels of his shirt. His cheeks were flushed when they pulled apart. Rose grinned, running a hand down his chest. Reluctantly, she stepped out of his embrace, immediately linking their hands together. The Doctor beamed at her, love and adoration shining in his eyes. Around them, snowflakes tumbled through the air. Rose squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, before they started their way back to the TARDIS. She was finally going home.

#ficandchips #dwsecretsanta #sequencefairy #ten x rose #my fic #this is... not very Christmas-y I think :'D #but I hope you like it!#although I'm too much of a softie for heavy angst and unhappy endings

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bethabunnywrites · 7 years

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A little on Nak’tah

Okay, so a few months ago I wrote about my warrior, Nak’tah, and I actually liked it enough that I haven’t since deleted it. That’s quite a feat for me. This was back when he almost sort of kind of had a boyfriend (that didn’t work out), and he was still staying in Orgrimmar. So, I dunno, have some PTSD. Tagging with trigger warnings, because suicidal thoughts and other not at all lovely stuff.

The quiet little room with hardly more than a cot and scattered armor was bathed in the soft sunlight of the late morning, a few soft rays poking through the drawn shutters of the solitary window, but more than enough to set the meager room ablaze. Still, it was not enough to wake a warrior from a deep sleep; or at least, it had not yet pierced through the pillow pulled over his face.

The sleep was far from restful, however - his hooves kicked and tangled in the blankets, his breathing was harsh and quick, with even a few muffled whimpers escaping his throat. Whatever terror disturbed his rest was cut short as he sat bolt upright, his breath catching in his lungs as the pillow fell forgotten to the floor. Steel grey eyes scanned the room urgently, searching for a threat that he was certain would be there, only to find nothing but the few things he could actually call his possessions. Still, the bull trembled as he pulled the sheets free of his hooves and brought them over the side of the cot to touch the scuffed wood of the floor, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, a futile attempt to gather himself. He could recite that it was only a dream until he had forgotten all other words, but it simply did not dispel the knots in his stomach, nor bring the air back to his desperate lungs.

Gods, when had he ever been this afraid, before? He had nearly forgotten what true fear felt like - anxiety, yes, but this was something new. He had not been this frightened since…

That dream. It was the same one he had a few nights ago, one he was becoming increasingly familiar with as it came with more frequency. Simply attempting to recollect it made him ill, and he reached for the flask on his bedside table as if it held the very key to life itself. Key to life or ticket to an early grave, it was no matter. The lid screwed off and the mouth of the bottle pressed to his lips yielded naught but an exasperated groan as only air touched his lustful tongue. His pulse began to slow without the liquid courage, though, his breaths becoming deeper and slower. This was not the first time that he had been left with his unclouded thoughts, and he had some confidence that he could at least make it down to the inn despite the utter torture of sobriety.

He stood to do exactly that, tugging a worn and moth-eaten shirt over his scarred chest. He was desperate enough to consider leaving without even dressing in his armor, but for some reason the thought of being bare in the city caused another flutter in his abdomen, his hands still not alleviated of their shaking from before. Practiced and precise, if scarred and calloused, hands dressed him in the plate composing his second skin, buckles snapping and straps tightened before he reaches to the axes leaned against the wall. His hand paused, hesitating between the larger and the smaller, but finally settling on the second and scooping up a shield to be strapped alongside it. The presence of the blade on his hip brought him some comfort, at least; enough to get him down to the tavern for the rest of his throat-burning relaxation.

Heavy hoofsteps carried him to the door with two beats of bone on wood, but the gauntleted hand he raised to the latch paused there. He willed it to move, but to no avail, and the palm pressed against the worn wood was quickly followed by his forehead as he leaned against it. It was just a staircase, then a street, then a tavern that would have little to no other business at so early an hour. His stomach churned, the serpents of his anxiety writhing around and hissing their disapproval of such a simple activity. The deep breaths he took in an attempt to settle them did no good, that open palm against the door curling into a fist that beat against the wood, dust cascading from the frame inside and out as it strained against its hinges. He had not meant to hit it so hard, but that phrase alone could explain much of his life.

Another deep breath and he uncurled the hand, having to command it to do so and to come back to rest on the latch. He tugged it with his eyes closed, the light of the morning warming the umber fur of his face as his nostrils took in the unmistakable odor of the Horde capital. A focused effort brought his lids up and the city gradually into focus, his tongue dragging across his dry lips as he remembered his reasons for leaving the quiet of his rented room. His long strides carried him quickly and easily to the tavern, his entire will bent on putting one leg forward, then the other. His pale eyes scanned from side to side as he walked, narrowed suspiciously as he tried desperately to control his breathing. Something was wrong, he could feel it - they must have found him, it could not have been hard. Would the Horde even protect him if they came to claim their property?

He shook his head in hopes of knocking that thought loose, this breath shuddering in his lungs as he tried to will the fear away. He had not been this paranoid about it in so long, but that dream...That dream brought it fresh to the surface of his mind, so vivid that he could almost feel the shackles on his wrists and ankles, rubbing gauntleted fingers over the bracers that had never before felt so constrictive on his flesh.

His steps were gathering speed as he resisted his panic, moving quickly as if to somehow escape his very mind, or at least in hope that the booze would allow him to do so. The bartender started at the sound of the plated bull all but storming into the darkened room, but he saw the far too familiar face and pulled a bottle from beneath the bar. Coins were exchanged with looks their only companions, and the warrior turned on a heel without so much as opening his mouth. He knew. They all knew, really. All of Orgrimmar probably knew his face by now, which was about the least comforting thought he could bring to mind.

Mindless steps carried him toward the rear exit of the city as he yanked at the cork of the bottle with his teeth, a practiced motion that quickly yielded him the spoils of his journey. He tipped the bottle up without a moment’s hesitation, paying no mind to any who stopped to stare at the overlarge bull trying his damnedest to achieve drunkenness before afternoon tea. His tolerance was building far beyond what it had ever been, but that came as no surprise as he gradually eased his way from one bottle a day to two and three. Whatever it took to stop thinking about it, to stop looking around for signs of attack, signs that a random passerby may be more than that. He had not taken a deep breath since he had left his room, and his chest and lungs began to ache beneath the weight of his breastplate.

He turned outside of the gate, walking almost subconsciously toward the cliffs overlooking the sea. His steps came with more ease outside of the city, but far less than he needed to function like a normal, living, breathing Shu’halo, his muscles tensed and the fingers clutching his bottle far more fearfully than affectionately. This was the worst it had ever been, by far, his night terrors typically something dismissed upon waking and not thought of anymore for sake of his sanity. Worrying about worrying was a damned stupid thing to do, but he supposed he must be damned stupid, at this point.

The sound of waves breaking on rocks brought him some relief from the din between his ears, and he quickened his already fast pace, nearly jogging until he reached the very edge and causing himself to skid to a stop just short of going over. Somehow the thought of that terrified him worlds less than anything else had that day, and he found himself pondering it again. Sure, his sister would miss him, if she ever found out. His brother would, of course, once she passed the news along. But, really, what else held him in this life? Family that he was estranged from? What had the Earthmother blessed him with in his twenty years, aside from physical and emotional torture to the point that it was still excruciating several years later? The bartenders would miss him practically handing over his wallet, but who…

He closed his eyes as ebony fur enters his mind’s eye, the hoof that had lifted itself from the rocky edge to move forward suddenly remembering itself and planting itself back a step, the other quickly following it. Of course he would care, wouldn’t he? That thought only seemed to worsen the clenching of his stomach, and he let his knees buckle and bring him to the ground. Once there he at least had the presence of mind to make himself comfortable, scooting forward just enough to let his hooves hang over the ledge as he nursed his bottle. Gods, some days those blue eyes had been the only thing that kept him from coming here, for this exact reason...so many times he had considered it, but not once had he had the balls to do it. Whether he still had some vague sense of self preservation or he simply could not inflict more pain on himself, he was unsure, but neither had stopped him today.

He could not tell the other bull, of course. That would get him nothing but a constant watch, or some sort of calfsitter for drunken suicidal adults - if such a thing existed, he would definitely know of it. But, then again, there was always the war. He didn’t even care where he was shipped off to, at this point, if there was a chance to swing an axe with the less and less secretive hope that another would be swung at him with more skill. Letting that thought flow through his mind so clearly, so unashamedly felt odd, being so typically one that he shoved to the back of his conscious in strict denial that he actually did want to die.

Impending doom or not, it would not occur today. He gave himself a little nod in agreement as that decision was set in stone, the bottle raised to his lips once more. Not today, nor tomorrow. Perhaps not even anytime soon, and certainly not of his own hand. He was too damn proud for that.

But...perhaps he could sit a bit longer.

#tw suicide #tw suicidal thoughts #tw suicide mention #suicide #anxiety #ptsd #my oc #my ocs #naktah #naktah longhoof #nak'tah #nak'tah longhoof #horde #wow #world of warcraft #warrior #tw #alcoholism #Bethany's writing again

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silvokrent · 7 years

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Gears in Motion - 2

Ashes, ashes. We all fall down.

He never forgot the day Crystal City fell.

Turret fire and laser shots broke the sound barrier. Great, piercing spires crumbled to the ground in a chorus of groaning and warping metal. Shards of glass glinted in the air as they rained upon the city, the shimmering clouds of crystal dust like something out of a fairy tale. Or a nightmare.

Over the roar of jet engines and collapsing buildings he could still pick out the screams. The screams of the dead and the dying, their last act of desperation and defiance against the end. It was an elegy only The Fallen could have loved, a cacophony of bloodcurdling noise that no creature should have been able to make. Fear personified, death incarnate.

He started to run.

Bluestreak knew he was going to die. Knew with a deep-seated certainty in his core that there was no way he could escape. Everywhere around him Cybertronians were pushing in a hive mind scramble, searching for safety in buildings whose structures had already begun to collapse. As the dark gray mech blindly pushed past other fleeing 'bots he felt the futility of it like a weight across his plates. He understood, on some abstract level, his place in that moment: a single 'bot among thousands, one individual swept away in a sea of faceless individuals just like himself. All their names would be lost, buried alive in this city of collapsing crystal wasteland.

Bluestreak knew he was going to die with the rest of them.

Yet that knowledge did little to stop him from scrabbling beneath a wedged gap between the collapsed overhang of a building and the road, cowering in what protection the makeshift shelter could afford. At least there was the faintest chance he could avoid getting gunned down by the 'bots with red optics as they tore through the streets, opening fire on civilians.

Another explosion shook the infrastructure. Massive craters marred the streets from where bombs had hit. Those who hadn't been shot or immediately killed by the detonations could be seen crawling away. One femme had only her upper torso left as she weakly dragged herself by the elbows. A mass of sparking entrails and gushing Energon was all that remained of her legs. The femme was bleeding out on the pavement before his optics, her own half-shuttered ones scanning the vicinity for refuge.

Suddenly, their gazes met.

Every part of his processor screamed at him to run out and help her. At least give her a pair of arms to die in, an embrace to hold on to as her spark slipped into the ether.

Bluestreak couldn't move.

When he tried jerking a foot forward he only managed to half stumble, crashing to his knees at the entrance of the crevice. Paralyzing fear constricted tightly around his spark, anchoring him to the spot. It was either die saving a stranger or save himself. And as the two 'bots watched each other, Bluestreak realized with a sickening jolt that he'd already made his choice.

When the femme registered the refusal her jaws parted—perhaps to beg him. Plead for help. Energon bubbled up from her throat from ruptured internal lines, the fluids frothing around her slacken mouthplates. White noise spilled out from her malfunctioning vocalizer as her systems shut down, one by one. Try as he might Bluestreak couldn't look away.

A shuddering spasm moved across what little left of her mangled frame. Despite the excruciating pain the femme must have felt she continued to try to reach him. He half hoped she wouldn’t.

Unshuttered optics held his before her frame finally gave away. The stranger collapsed, chin sinking to the pavement as her CPU stopped. Even death couldn't take away the panic, the pain, the carnal fear engraved into her features during the last second of her life. Postmortem and her blank optics still somehow retained a wild light to them—the final struggles of a dying animal.

Had his tanks not already been empty he would have purged.

The trance-like spell that settled over Bluestreak was abruptly shattered by the sudden shouts and sounds of transformation. Peering out and upward from his shelter, he watched as the previously-grounded mechs with red optics rocketed up into the air. Nearly all of them were Seekers. Triangular formations ripped through the sky, vapor and carbon trailing from their thrusters. Their sleek aerial choreography gave them the appearance of angels of death, beautiful, deadly creatures with enough firepower to level a city.

Within moments the sky was clear.

Had they retreated? Was it over?

What pathetic hope remained was snuffed out by the massive, heavier silhouette darkening the sky. Only as the ebony shuttle's cargo bay slid open, and a shell plummeted toward the earth, did Bluestreak realize what was about to happen.

Lightning-fast survival instincts had him scrabbling from beneath the overhang before his mind could process the actions. With adrenaline-fueled speed Bluestreak grabbed the dark green carcass belonging to the lifeless femme. He had just enough time to drag the dead husk back into his shelter and cover his body with it before the bomb hit.

Ashen-gray smoke projected outward from the center of the city, the shockwave alone nearly strong enough to offline him as it ripped through the broken infrastructure. Even with the collapsed granite walls and dead femme shielding him the blast stilled managed to slam him against the wall.

Then came the fire.

It was like nothing he'd ever experienced. Even with the femme's frame negating the worst of the direct contact, he still felt the heat. It blistered across his plating like magma, hot enough to melt the exoskeletal armor of the femme partially to himself. A scream tore itself from his vocalizer as the fire seared him. Warnings lined his HUD and obscured his vision, barely able to keep up with the onslaught of internal and environmental data. Bluestreak heard himself cry, heard the roaring in his audio as the bomb scorched the world around him.

And just like that, it was over. As suddenly as it came it left. A brief internal alert informed him of the massive damage: melted and burned armor, broken Energon lines, deep gashes and cuts, an open wound on his left leg from a laser shot, and a doorwing dislocated at the hinges, half torn-off. What he didn't see in the message he felt across his neural net: Every wire, every gear burned as if someone had taken a flamethrower to his protoform, had drained his body of Energon and replaced it with acid. The effort it took to ventilate air sent waves of raw agony through him.

Despite the heavy frame pinning him Bluestreak could still turn his head to the side, enough to peer out beyond the collapsed overhang.

He wished he hadn't.

Crystal structures lay either shattered in opaque blocks, or in watery pools of liquefied quartz and other precious minerals. The tallest structures standing were only twice his own height. Whatever frames hadn't been instantly vaporized by the heatwave were jagged and torn. Only the vaguely bipedal shapes separated the once-living metal from the rehashed metal of broken buildings. Energon coated the ground like an oil slick, its black-blue sheen mirroring the isolated flames still burning across the city. Fires of every color as cobalt, iron, copper and boron burned. Their reflections blended together, a sky on earth that was as dark and primordial as the soot-stained night overhead.

Crystal City was gone.

As Bluestreak struggled to ventilate, to rebel against the comprehension breaking him down byte by byte, one detail overpowered the rest:

The silence.

Suffocating, oppressive silence. A vacuum, a void, that muffled the crackle of the flames and sparking of circuits. Silence meant nobody was talking. Nobody was talking because they were—

Desperate and frantic to disprove that reality, Bluestreak tried to scream. He drew in a sharp breath and threw his helm back, entire body shaking with the effort to produce a noise, trying to vocalize with energy that wasn't there. Even if it was just him screaming, maybe another survivor would answer him. Chase his doubts away and prove that he wasn't by himself.

He didn't want to die alone.

No matter how hard he tried to cry out he could only summon disjointed static. For minutes he screeched mutely, panting from the exertion. At some point during the attack his vocalizer had gone offline in his frame's efforts to conserve energy and redirect it to more important functions. His injuries were only exacerbating it. He couldn't turn it back on.

His left side went numb. It was all the warning Bluestreak got before his systems began shutting down, one by one. Thousands of errors scrolled through his CPU, accompanied by the downward pull of his conscience toward stasis. In vain he struggled to move, only to wince and cry out when the pain sped up the process. Just before his overtaxed systems dragged him under the frightening realization hit:

He was alone.

Within joors of the attack rescue squads had been dispatched. Once the initial shock had abated the Autobots quickly regrouped, organizing search parties to scour the ruins for mechs requiring medical treatment. The fastest ships were deployed courtesy of the Hangar Master, a 'bot by the name of Azimuth, who had expressed deep concern and personal investment in the matter. At his behest and through the efforts of his crew everything was ready for near-immediate departure.

Yet even with the knowledge that the best trackers had been selected for the task, and the shuttle brimmed with as many medics and supplies as they could spare, Prowl still felt ill at ease aboard the ship.

Amongst the various scouts and demolitions mechs the Second-in-Command felt out of place. Neither his function nor his looks matched those of the Autobots seated around him, all retrofitted with mods—motion sensors, thermal imaging, drills, trackers—for finding and extracting survivors. His selection for the mission had been on the basis that he had served briefly in Crystal City's precinct as an Enforcer. Before the war his captain in Praxus had temporarily transferred him there, as the two cities were relatively close to one another. Serving there had given Prowl innate knowledge of the city's layout—something which was invaluable now.

That, and pride and rank wouldn't allow him to refuse Optimus Prime's request.

So there he sat, forced to endure the uncomfortable silence as the soldiers around him rode out the flight with their heads down.

Sifting through his subspace, he withdrew a datapad specifically prepped with all the information they had concerning the attack. While the act in itself helped distract him from the troops' collective mood, tactically it didn't provide him with anything new as he read and reread the intel. Everything recorded on the slate he'd already memorized: toward the end of the last cycle the Decepticons had invaded the territory in overwhelming waves. Large droves of Seekers had launched aerial attacks, nearly leveling the city within breems of the launch. Said data had been provided by border patrols that had witnessed the bombings from several miles outside city limits. Since then, news had stagnated.

Another reason why he specifically had been asked to go: to collect and update what info they did have on the attack. They were figuratively and literally flying blind toward their destination with only a few witness reports to go off.

Such odds were rarely a cause for hope.

"Roller to the shuttle bay. This is your pilot speaking." Heads perked up as the intercom transmitted: "The Phoenix is approaching Crystal City. Three miles from the intended destination. Our ETA is five minutes. Strap yourselves in and brace for landing."

The last part was script from the docking procedures; everyone on board was already buckled down.

A heavy atmosphere settled over the shuttle bay's interior. One or two 'bots shuffled nervously in their seats. Toward the back exit Beachcomber began flicking one of his particle scanners on and off, much to Huffer's (loud) annoyance. He wisely stopped.

For the most part Prowl managed to pass off his own unease with indifference, staring doggedly at one of the interior walls. More than once several Autobots shot him questioning looks, as if waiting for him to say something. Given that he was the highest-ranking officer present it made sense that they would expect their SIC to do something: brief them, provide statistics, anything as opposed to sitting. The tactician was half-inclined to think that in their turning to authority they were expecting him to provide some form of comfort.

That might have been a bit characteristically over-optimistic on their part. What did they honestly expect him to say? Any sort of data he gave them now would be redundant and pointless. And had he not long ago tucked away his sense of humor into some remote, dark corner of his processor he might have laughed at the thought of them asking him for encouraging words. By no stretch of the imagination was he good at matters of the spark. A mech who couldn't handle his own emotions well, Prowl was more than content with leaving the morale boosters to Jazz. Even Optimus, who could seemingly pull rousing speeches out of his aft, would've been a better candidate than him.

Preferring to experience and express feeling in small doses, he truly believed himself to be the last ’bot alive to turn to for comfort. The best he could offer his troops now was a steady calm to cling to, a role model for absolute serenity in the face of the devastation sure to follow.

With the knowledge of what lay ahead of them, Prowl doubted he could have provided comfort even if he tried. Not when his own spark was clenching painfully in his chest.

"By the Allspark..." He didn't know when Hound had decided to stand up and look out the window. Only when he spoke did he make his presence, and his discovery, known. Hound's breathy exclamation was lost under the rising swell of similar remarks, as several 'bots gathered around one of the portholes.

More voices joined his, a steady tidal wave churning with horror:

"I-It's gone...it's completely gone..."

"Ah can't see a single building still standin' upright."

"Holy Primus! Look at all the bodies!"

Throughout it all Prowl resisted the urge to peer outside with them. There was no point when he'd see the damage up close soon enough.

That thought did little to settle his frayed nerves as his battle computer threw up the worst case scenarios. His expression darkened.

"We're landing now." There was the distinct sound of a vocalizer being cleared before Roller spoke again: "There aren't any flat surfaces to set the ship so the landing's gonna be a bit bumpy. Get your afts in your seats if you haven't done so already."

Troops hastily scrambled back to their seats as if they'd been tasered. The order managed to snap them out of the hypnotic sensation they had been subjected to when peering out to porthole. Yet once seated the fidgeting returned tenfold. More than one soldier was grimacing at was sure to come, while others bore hollow, deadened stares. Those who had restrained their morbid curiosity merely swapped looks, no doubt wondering over the extent of whatever destruction lay waiting outside.

There was a jarring vibration that passed though the hull, followed by the groan of the landing strips erecting atop what was surely rubble-strewn earth. "Shuttle bay doors opening," Roller chimed from the cockpit.

Air hissed from the hinges as the bay doors slid open, depressurizing. Blindingly white light illuminated the interior hatch, cutting through the darkness. Those with hypersensitive optics quickly shielded their faces and began recalibrating the settings.

"Autobots," Prowl called. He slid from his seat, bringing those around him to their feet as well. "I want search party Alpha to patrol quadrants 1 through 5. Beta, you'll be combing through 6 to 10. Gamma, you'll be following me. Delta will cover 11 through 15. The last sector goes to team Epsilon. Aerials, you'll be patrolling over the city. Send out an alert should you happen across survivors or enemies. If anyone encounters Decepticons or other likewise threats, do not engage unless under open fire. Stealth should be your number one priority until reinforcements arrive. Medics, I want one to accompany each search team, with a minimum of at least three remaining with The Phoenix at all times. Keep your channels open. Radio silence will only be utilized if near hostiles."

Thirty pairs of optics stared back at him. Their gazes were a dizzying kaleidoscope of emotions.

Prowl blinked, but the disorienting effect didn't go abate.

"You have your orders. Be thorough, be smart, be safe. Report back at 1500 hours. Dismissed!"

Affirmative nods and salutes answered him, followed by a few yes, sirs as the units began pouring toward the hatch ramp. Prowl held back, letting the bulk of the traffic out before himself. At last the tactician moved toward the shuttle exit. Mentally bracing himself for the worst Prowl stepped out onto the ramp.

Dawn was cold when it rose over the dead metropolis.

Upon adjusting to the harsh glare of the sun his battle computer reeled, taken aback by the sheer magnitude of the damage. Metal beams and crystal structures jutted from where they had been slain, like skeletal forests, charred and blackened by the intensity of the heat. Wispy tendrils of smoke rose from some of the more flammable metals, such as lithium and titanium, with embers still struggling to reignite. As Prowl descended the ramp and padded over the ground clouds of ash and dust stirred at his pedes.

Only when he caught Beachcomber glancing in his direction did Prowl realize he'd been gaping. Hastily clamping his jaw shut, the Second spun around until his optics fell on his teammates. "Hound, Blaster, Compass, First Aid, Trailbreaker, let's move out."

The first hour of the search garnered little. The bulk of their time was spent pausing to scan frames for spark pulses, or turning over debris in hopes that there were Cybertronians pinned and trapped underneath. Hound and Trailbreaker alternated between visually inspecting trails that might lead them to refuging survivors, or switching through various settings in their optics to distinguish heat signatures. Blaster—with Eject and Rewind acting as impromptu amplifiers—had hooked himself up to his symbiotes and tried bouncing resonance feedback across the public channels, hoping someone would hear the signal and bounce back. Meanwhile his remaining cassettes prowled the streets, pushing aside rubble or (in Steeljaw's case) scenting for fresh Energon. Compass, a femme who served under Jazz in Special Ops, was polarizing metal to help clear out obstructions.

As the second joor crept by Prowl found himself succumbing to resignation.

Optimistically, they had hoped to find a few hundred survivors at most.

They had yet to find one.

"Blaster, take your symbiotes and proceed south. Follow toward the end of the street and loop around until you arrive back at the beginnings of the business district. Compass, please accompany him and help remove any debris obstructing his signal. Several of the compounds contained basements—if there were any 'bots sheltering down there then they might hear your call and respond."

By the morose and mentally-exhuasted looks on their faceplates, they likewise felt such efforts were needless busy work. Fortunately they complied without protest. With a grunt the orange Communication Expert unplugged himself from Eject and Rewind, before calling over the rest of his posse. With an equally weary grimace Compass followed, gauntlets crackling with tendrils of electricity as she clanged them together.

"Where do you want us to head?" asked Trailbreaker, from where he had been kneeling amongst shattered glass.

Icy blue optics swept across the area before he settled on a reply: "Have First Aid accompany you south as well, and head in the opposite direction of the others once you reach the intersection. Your odds might increase, given that district of Crystal City was a major traffic zone. Follow any Energon you cross; with luck, there's a chance that the fresher spills might have come from still-alive civilians needing medical assistance."

"Like that thought didn't already occur to us," Hound sighed.

Trailbreaker regarded the tactician. "What about you, sir?"

"I'll follow the street we're currently on and backtrack down it. This road comes to a dead end. I'll proceed to the business district and we'll rendezvous there."

Trailbreaker nodded. "Makes sense," he murmured, more to himself than anything. Unfocused optics stared out over the sea of rubble and corpses. For a klik the defensive strategist merely stood rooted to the spot, looking for all the world as if he couldn't bring himself to keep searching in vain.

Just as the Second began wondering whether or not to repeat his order, Hound spared him of the effort. A hand gently yet firmly placed itself on his friend's shoulder, shaking him from his haunted reverie.

Quietly, the tracker urged, "C'mon, 'Breaker. Let's keep moving. We're almost done."

"Yeah..." His voice was distant when he at last found the strength to respond. "I don’t understand.”

"Understand what?" Hound asked.

Gesturing with an emphatic hand, the black mech swept his arm across the wasteland before their optics. Neither mech noticed that behind them, while Prowl gave the illusion of appearing immersed in a data slate, his attention was diverted to them. "You saw all of the supplies in the rubble. Things that the Decepticons could've pillaged and ransacked to help fuel their army. Why'd they bomb Crystal City, and take nothing? What was the point of wasting ammo on leveling this place if they didn't gain anything from it?"

"Because Megatron is crazy." Hound gave a disgusted snort and shook his helm. "Maybe he just woke up one morning and decided that he was in the mood for a little massacre. Isn't that pretty much what he did in the Senate?"

"I suppose so," Trailbreaker agreed, his uncertain tone replaced with one of immense dislike for the tyrant. His footsteps echoed eerily over their surroundings as the scouts resumed walking with First Aid in tow. "I just hope that this rescue operation wasn't for nothing. Primus, can't we luck out and find at least one..."

And just like that Prowl was by himself. Their conversation drifted off in the wind, the formerly eerie stillness now amplified without the presence of his comrades. Apart from himself and the makeshift graveyard, he was utterly alone.

Unnoticed by the teams scattered throughout the city, a lone shiver ran down his spinal struts. Whether from the sudden chill the wind carried or the emotions crowding in his spark, he couldn't say. Either way he dismissed the errant reflex and proceeded on his course. While keen optics roved across the landscape dexterous fingers typed into the datapad, jotting down every bit of intel he could gather.

Apart from looking for survivors Prowl was taking inventory of any valuable materials lodged in the debris. Trailbreaker had been right—there was a massive amount of supplies here, fit to be salvaged once the initial search-and-rescue was concluded. Supplies which they desperately needed. Anything not irreparably damaged in the assault could be dug out of the ruins and recycled, or broken down for parts. The engineering division was burning through supplies (no thanks to Wheeljack), while medical was in near constant demand for tools and gear. Never mind the requisition list sent by Elita One from the Axiom Nexus base…

Gazing quietly down at the empty frame at his pedes, Prowl couldn't help but agree with the black mech's earlier observation. Crystal City was more than just a tragedy—it was a waste. Nearly everything here held some sort of value, either in utility or economically. Yet here it all was, either damaged or destroyed, not a servo seized.

Why didn't Megatron simply conquer this place and use it as an outpost?

Sharp clicks and squeals drew the black-white mech out of his thoughts.

With a start the tactician drew back a foot, in time to watch several glitch-mice dart between his legs. The tiny scavengers whistled and squealed at each other as they scampered over glass and metal. One of the tiny creatures paused in the middle of the street, its wire-whiskers twitching, before it darted beneath a lean-to structure formed by a caved in building wall. Three more glitch-mice converged on the location from different sections of the area, their faces coated in Energon from gorging on corpses.

The part of Prowl not so heavily desensitized to the carnage balked at the thought of where those vermin were heading, and what they intended to do. It was illogical, the thrill of disgust and revulsion that churned in his tanks as he watched them scurry beneath the overhang. But for some inexplicable reason, in that instant he couldn't bear the thought of listening to them feed.

Swearing viciously under his breath, the Praxian marched over to the lean-to and dropped to his knees, making sure that the charging whine of his acid pellet rifle could be heard. From within the shaded structure he could see several of the creatures already making a meal out of a dark green frame. Two others were prodding and sniffing at open gashes on a winged mech's side.

Scooting inside had the desired effect. With a terrified squeal the swarm took off running through cracks in the building walls. A breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding eased past his mouthplates. Drained, Prowl's doorwings sagged low on his back, taking a moment to let the weight of the destruction finally catch up to his processor. For a long moment he stared at the dead 'bots in front of him. Something about being inside the shelter-turned-tomb caused the numb feeling over his spark to alter, enough for the gravity to finally catch up. He felt...unease. Grief for the pair in front of him, who had obviously thought they would be safe inside the structure. Only to die so horrifically.

It was only when his doorwings scraped against the back wall did Prowl realize he had rocked back on his heels to sit. Unfortunately, the motion disturbed the ash collecting in the crevices. A shower of dust rained down over his head and poured in through his vents. He coughed, his throat tickling from the grime clogging his intakes. Air hissed from his internals, followed by dust as he flushed his vents in an effort to clear them.

He activated his scans to run a brief diagnostic on himself. Better be sure he hadn't inhaled dangerous particles mixed in with the ash. As he scanned himself, an EM field he hadn't expected to feel brushed against his own. Frail. Flickering.

Alive.

His optics widened in shock. Whirling to face the two still forms, Prowl hastened to their side, liberally scratching his knees in the process. Shaking hands struggled to tear the half-melted green frame from the gray one beneath. A wrenching creak-snap signified the break between the two 'bots as he lurched back with the momentum. Throwing the half-warped frame to the side, Prowl inched closer, running his palms over the dented and gouged out metal of the gray mech's chest. Sure enough, his hands confirmed what his scanners had already detected: a shaky, sputtering pulse beneath the metal panel. A spark.

First Aid, he hailed over the comm. lines. Report to my coordinates immediately. I require medical assistance at my location.

Did you injure yourself? the Protectobot radioed back.

No.

There was a static-laced pause. Did you find a—

Yes. One.

I'll be right there, sir! Give me a moment to gather the IFAK and meet you there. First Aid, out.

Satisfied that the medic would be there soon, Prowl returned to mapping out the damages on the survivor's frame. He was a gunmetal gray, his frame fairly sporty in design, accentuated by a set of doorwings jutting from his back. Only a few splashes of color helped break up the overall gray layout, like the dark red chevron firmly mounted to his helm. Not unlike his own, Prowl mused.

Carefully, the SIC reached over his side to begin pulling him out from under the collapsed building. Just as his fingers tightened around an armor slate the mech's optics came online. Dimly lit, the white lenses spiraled, trying to focus on his surroundings. The 'bot blinked once before his gaze finally fell on Prowl's astonished face.

The Neutral came alive. Weakened limbs lashed out. White noise crackled from his vocalizer as he struggled to crawl away.

Prowl pressed his palms against the survivor's chest, gently yet firmly holding him down. The last thing he needed was for the 'bot in his confusion to hurt himself, or his rescuer. "Easy," the tactician said, hoping his tone came across as non-threatening. "Please, desist with moving or you'll only exacerbate your wounds."

Something in his words caused the gray mech to pause. Seizing his chance, Prowl pressed on:

"My name is Prowl. I'm an Autobot. My comrades and I are searching for survivors to administer medical treatment and provide them with shelter. I'm here to help." He hesitated. "I promise, I will not hurt you."

The last dregs of uncertainty drained from the gray mech's face as he let his helm fall back. Tremors passed through his marred, broken armor. He gave a long, excruciating blink, the emotions in his optics warring between fatigue and blind trust. A long swallow forced the cables in his throat to clench tight. For a moment he seemed to linger on the verge of speech, his panic-filled face transitioning through several different pained expressions as he labored to speak.

Prowl let his hand stroke down the stranger's side with the awkwardness of someone who knew he was supposed to do something, but wasn't quite sure what. He had never been particularly adept at administering comfort, and could only keep petting his side in a hope that the gesture was doing something.

A whimper, the first true noise he'd made, escaped him.

Fearing his touch had caused the distress Prowl made to remove his hand, only to stop when an unexpected burst of strength had the gray mech grabbing his arm. The violently shaking appendage held his arm in place. Unsure what to do, Prowl waited.

A wrenching gasp escaped the 'bot as he moved Prowl's hand back to his side.

"Please..." The word was so garbled that Prowl could barely make it out. Static clicked furiously in his vocalizer as the stranger all but clung to him, clearly struggling to online his vocal processes. White optics locked onto blue optics, the intensity in them blinding. Prowl refused to look away.

Finally, he managed to choke out: "Please...don't leave me."

Surprised by the request, the black-and-white froze. He was doubly surprised when he heard himself speak before he could gather his thoughts. "I won't leave you."

The promise did it. Real, honest ease soaked into his face as his grip on his hand slackened. Through the panic and horror brimming in his optics a flicker of gratitude broke through, like a ray of sunlight piercing darkness. Seemingly safe in his rescuer's hold, the young 'bot slipped back into stasis, the emotional drain finally taking a toll on his injured frame.

When the field medics arrived they found Prowl still crouched beside him, holding his hand.

#transformers #transformers: g1 #transformers fic #gears in motion #my posts #bluestreak #prowl #roller #beachcomber #huffer #trailbreaker #hound #first aid #blaster #eject #rewind #ramhorn #steeljaw

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turtle-steverogers · 5 years

Text

Fugitives- chap 10

AAAAAAND WE’RE BACK! WELCOME TO ‘SHIT GOES DOWN’ THE CHAPTER. THIS is major fucking plot so bare the fuck with me, chiefs. IT GETS INTENSE heres chapter nine if you need a refresher

most of the chaps are on #masterlist and ALL of them are somewhere under #fugitives lol,,, its also now on ao3 if that’s easier

thank you as always to my fugitive ;) in crime @technically-whizzy for helping me raise this fucking awful baby of ours

OKAY LETS GET ON WITH IT ship: eventual ralbert

warnings: gunshots, blood, violence, drugging, cursing, the fucking works, death, yeah its not pretty now and it will never ne

word count: 6792 OHMYGOD

editing: a little bit, actually. i gave it some lov

He pulled his hood up further, bowing his head to the cold Winter air. His hand grasped the rubber handle of his crutch tightly, palm slipping as it shifted under him. He watched his feet, waiting until the road slanted upward, a familiar bridge slipping into view.

Another hooded figure was waiting by the railing at the start of the bridge, the bold tattoo that was brandished on his bicep glinting in the moonlight. Crutchie’s eyes scanned the familiar symbol, the sharp lines of the tattooed bridge almost exactly replicating the real thing behind them.

The other figure looked up, hood falling off his head as he stepped forward, beckoning for Crutchie to join him.

Crutchie reached into his back pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He silently handed one to the shorter man, offering his lighter as well. They leaned against the railing, watching the view of Brooklyn in the distance. The city at night was an eerie kind of beautiful. The sky was still bright from light reflecting off the buildings, the water underneath the bridge flowed ominously, the black, inky waves threatening to engulf one’s mind. The sounds of the city could still be heard at full volume, only barely masking the horrifying secrets it also held.

“Did you hurt him bad?” Crutchie asked, smoke blowing out of his mouth and getting caught in the cold, Winter air.

“Mmm, only as much as necessary.” The other man said.

“What should we do about it?”

The man twitched the cigarette between his fingers, “I think we need to do it. Tonight.”

Crutchie nodded, “Okay. I’m on it,” He stubbed out his cigarette on the railing, tossing it over the side and watching as it was drowned in the darkness. He pushed off the railing, adjusting his crutch back underneath his armpit, “Take care of yourself, Conlon.”

Spot saluted, placing the cigarette back into his mouth, “M’counting on you, Charlie.”

Earlier

“I want in.”

Albert forced himself not to look away from Spot’s intense glare. He could feel the handle of his switchblade pressing against the small of his back and his arms ached to reach back and grab it- arm himself in some way. But it didn’t seem like any sudden movement from him would work in his favor as far as Spot went.

Spot hadn’t moved, his eyes trained solely on Albert’s. Albert resisted the urge to shrink in on himself. He had to maintain his act. He couldn’t crack now, but Spot looked like he was reading him like a book.

Could he see through him? Did he know?

Suddenly, Spot took a step forward into Albert’s space, eyes squinting further as his gaze flicked to Albert’s hair. Albert clenched his jaw, trying not to shiver as Spot observed him.

“Higgins.” Spot muttered, only barely audible.

Albert’s eyes widened for a moment as cold fear shot through his entire body, “What?”

His answer was a fist to the temple. The world seemed to silence for a moment and he was barely able to recover before he was hit again. Then, everything went black.

XXX

Sounds returned first. Voices echoed somewhere close to him, making his head throb more intensely than it had before.

He lifted his head, wincing as a stinging pain traveled through his temple to the rest of his head. It felt like someone was poking his nerves with a white hot rod. He groaned, fighting the urge to be sick as pain moved through him in waves, making his muscles ache.

He was definitely concussed. Brilliant.

He cracked open his eyes, only to find it didn’t make a difference. It was pitch fucking black. He assessed himself, taking note that his hands were bound behind him and his ankles were tied together.

His back was against a wall. Or what he assumed was a wall. He couldn’t really tell what anything was.

His face felt sticky and he licked his lips, blood seeping onto his tongue. He gagged and spit aimlessly, trying to rid his mouth of the metallic taste. Apparently, his nose was bleeding. What the fuck happened?

Light flooded whatever room he was in and he flinched, turning his head away from the source. Footsteps approached him and he folded in on himself as his arms started to tremor. He was going to die. He was literally going to die.

The person crouched in front of him and Albert could feel their eyes boring into his being. He whimpered involuntarily as cold fingers made contact with his jaw, turning his head to face his captor.

“Open your eyes, bitch.” Spot’s unmistakable Brooklyn accent sent shockwaves of pain through his head.

Albert shook his head, “Fuck you.”

His cheek stung as Spot slapped him and he cried out, his headache intensifying almost impossibly.

“Do as I say.” Spot growled, tugging the hair on the back of Albert’s head sharply, making him hiss in pain.

Albert forced a chuckle, gritting his teeth, “Getting kinky on me, huh, Conlon?” he managed, his voice sounding strained.

His neck cricked as he was jolted forward, the cool metal of what Albert presumed was a gun handle pressed to the back of his head. He fought the urge to vomit as waves of excruciating nausea rolled through his body.

“Who are you.” It was a demand, not a question, whispered close to his ear. Spot’s breath was hot and smelled distinctly like cigarettes and Albert winced, scrunching his nose involuntarily.

“Mmmm, your mom,” Albert said, his words looping together groggily.

There was no reply for a moment, then Albert heard Spot growl, the noise sending chills up his spine. He tried to maintain eye contact as Spot forced him to his feet, watching him with a wolflike stare briefly, before sticking his gun between his teeth and placing his hands on Albert’s biceps. Albert held his breath, not daring to move as Spot began to pat him down. He felt down his arms, then moved his hands to Albert’s chest, patting vigorously. Albert bit his tongue, refraining from making a crude, biting comment about their current closeness. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be well received.

Spot turned him around slowly, starting the process over at his shoulder-blades. With a jolt, the presence of his switchblade at the small of his back returned to his cognizance and he fought the urge to tense up. Spot was going to find it and take it and then he’d have lost his last bit of security. The one thing linking him to safety.

Spot’s hand landed on the handle of the blade and he let out a small, triumphant, ‘aha’. Albert squeezed his eyes shut as Spot lifted his shirt and took the blade out, his cold hands ghosting horribly against his skin.

“Jesus Christ,” Spot muttered and Albert couldn’t help but turn around. Instead of pocketing the knife as Albert had expected, Spot was squinting at the blade where Albert’s name was engraved. He held it closer to his face, recognition flitting through his eyes. Albert watched him, confused.

“Where’d you get this,” Spot demanded, suddenly, “Who made this?”

Albert shook his head, “I-I-”

“Nevermind,” Spot spat, “I know what I need to know.”

A moment later, a crack echoed through his brain as Spot slammed the hilt of the gun into his head and once again, the world darkened.

Time passed at an indiscernable pace. Albert felt himself shifting unsteadily in and out of consciousness. People were discussing him nearby and he could make out bits and pieces of hushed conversation, but none of it made much sense.

At one point, he found himself able to stay awake for longer than a few harried seconds. He kept his eyes closed, the pain from his evident concussion making it difficult to do much besides sit solemnly and pray for his rescue. Oh well, at least he wasn’t dead.

People were speaking hurriedly now- desperately. Albert could make out Spot’s angry voice, rising above the rest. It sounded as if he were organizing something, spitting demands from person to person and only being answered by mumbles of ‘yes, boss’ or ‘you got it’.

But the most gut clenching, perhaps, was a command, hissed in a harsh, yet loud whisper sending jolts of cold fear through Albert’s body.

“Get Crutchie over here, I need to speak with him.”

Albert swallowed, trying not to panic as the possibilities of what Crutchie had to do with this wormed into his brain and seized hold of his lungs. He had to warn someone, he had to-

Ow.

He clenched his jaw, willing himself to stay awake and think of an escape. But it seemed as if fate had other plans as he was pulled under once more.

12 hours later

Jack sat with his legs propped up, absentmindedly cleaning his gun as he sat in the rec room, watching the local news. Davey was upstairs, taking a nap and Race had gone out to meet Albert to discuss any further Prospect information he might have gained, so Jack found himself alone in his relaxation. A luxury that was rare to find in Empire.

“Mind if I join you?” Jack looked up to see Les stroll in and take a seat in one of the chairs next to him, propping his legs up to mirror him.

Jack chuckled, “I guess not,” he said, placing his gun down on the table in front of him and picking up a pack of cards that lay nearby, “Gin rummy?”

Les shrugged, “Sure.”

Jack dealt out the cards, mentally preparing to be beaten by Les, who was scarily good at most card games. He’d gone on a rampage a few years back, claiming that he was going to beat Race in every card game known to man at least once, and in his endeavors, he’d gained great skill.

“How’s Albert?” Les asked, accepting his pile of cards and looking up at Jack.

Jack took his own pile and hummed noncommittally, “dunno, Racer’s out checking on him right now.”

“You think he got into Prospect alright?”

Jack sighed, making a questioning gesture with his hands, “We can hope so.”

“Jack, I need to talk to you,” Jack and Les glanced over to see a breathless Race, standing in the doorway to the rec room, bouncing nervously on his toes, “Now.”

Jack pursed, setting down his cards, “What’s wrong?”

Race’s gaze passed over Les briefly, “Alone.”

Jack twitched his nose and placed down his cards, standing, “Alright, one sec squirt,” he said, ruffling Les’ hair.

Les squawked indignantly, “Stop calling me squirt!”

Race led him out of the room and a couple paces down the hallway until they were right in front of the drug storage room. He turned towards Jack, the worry in his eyes evident up close.

“Something didn’t go right with Al,” he said, the words coming out rushed.

Jack’s stomach dropped, “What? What do you mean? How do you know?”

Race ran an anxious hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. It was obvious that he was fighting the urge to work himself up.

“I, uh, I went to where me and Al planned to meet up, over on Frankfort Street by the bridge and he wasn’t there-”

“Okay, don’t panic yet, maybe-”

“Let me finish,” Race continued, “he wasn’t there, so I decided to wait for a bit, because, you know, sometimes shit takes time, but it was getting a lot later than when we had planned so I decided to look around a bit and I found another one.”

Jack cocked his head, “Another one what?”

Race let out a frustrated noise, “Another ‘Less is More’ thing! It was fresh, too.”

Jack’s eyes widened, “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Race grimaced, “Seemed a little too coincidental that a new one popped up right where I was supposed to see him.”

Jack leaned against the wall, overwhelmed, “We gotta tell Davey,” he said after a moment.

Race nodded, breathing out a sigh, “I’m scared for him, I-” he clicked his tongue, looking at Jack, “Prospect can get real bad...Spot can get real bad,” he averted his gaze, trailing off.

Jack examined him for a moment, concern pooling in his stomach, “Hey, we’ll get Al out, okay?” Race didn’t answer, haunted eyes trained on the ground. Jack reached forward, tapping his chin.

“Okay?” He repeated once Race met his gaze.

Race shifted his jaw, “Okay.”

XXX

Albert stared at his feet, scuffing his shoes across the carpet underneath him. Sometime in his unconsciousness, he had been moved to what appeared to be Spot’s office. His wrists, ankles, and torso were bound tightly, holding him to a small wooden chair. Upon waking, he’d tried for a few feeble minutes to free himself, but to no avail. Whoever had tied the rope knew what they were doing.

The office was small and neat and somehow nothing and exactly like what Albert had expected. There was a singular mahogany table in the middle of the room, a tall, leather office chair pushed neatly in behind it.

Everything in the room was carefully placed, as though Spot had put a lot of thought into the layout of his room. Nothing was out of line. Pencils were pristinely sharpened and placed eraser-up in a shiny, glass pencil holder. The rug was dust free and perfectly centered. The two bookshelves that stood opposite each other at one end of the room were stacked end to end with books, which seemed to fit almost too well on the shelves themselves.

The meticulousness of the room seemed almost out of character for Spot, not that Albert would know. But he wouldn’t have pegged him for a neat-freak kind of guy. The obvious attention to detail sent a shiver down Albert’s spine.

He scanned the room, unsure exactly what he was searching for. Something out of order, perhaps. Something to clue him into the enigma that was Spot and Prospect.

However, nothing caught his eye. The room was too damn cookie-cutter to hold any glaring secrets. Which, admittedly, was a clever strategy. Anything that could be of importance was hiding in plain sight.

But Albert was in too much pain to look too hard. He sighed loudly, allowing his head to drop lazily to the side, pain surging through his temples once more.

He was about to close his eyes briefly when a small glint of polished wood on Spot’s desk perked his attention.

A wave of cold washed down his legs as he realized that it was his switchblade, perfectly unbroken. Something was propped haphazardly next to it, the only visible attribute of the unknown object being a large crack in its glossy, dark green exterior.

He squinted, trying to get a better look. He could see something etched into the side of the other item, but its distance from him made it impossible to make out.

He blew out a breath, steeling himself for a moment before bracing his feet on the floor. With a grunt, he shifted his body weight forward, using the momentum to move the chair a few inches towards the desk. The wooden legs scraped the ground loudly and Albert winced, holding still

for a moment before heading another few inches forward onto the carpet.

Albert hummed triumphantly, pleased with himself. His view of the desk was unobscured now and he leaned forward, curiosity peaking when he realized that the object next to his knife was a lighter. As his eyes focused, Albert realized that the etching on the handle was a faded ‘R’. The curve of the lettering was oddly familiar and as his gaze shifted sideways onto his knife, a small gasp left him.

The lettering style was the exact same.

He frowned, his bottom lip worrying its way between his teeth as he tried to work out why that was unsettling. He blinked a few times, lips parted slightly as he continued to inspect the lighter. The damage was clearer up close, showing that the crack on the handle stemmed from a large chip out of the metal where the green plastic met the metal lighting mechanism. It looked like someone had hit the lighter against something hard. Or thrown the damn thing.

A pair of footsteps echoed outside the door and Albert tore his gaze away from the lighter, wishing for a moment that his hands were free so that he could grab his knife. Briefly, he considered hopping his chair back to where he’d been left in case Spot grew suspicious as to why he’d moved, but the thought left him as the door to Spot’s office opened.

Albert winced, bracing himself. Though, he was unsure as to what exactly he was bracing himself for. Spot soaking him again, probably.

“Ah, so you’re the brat who tried ta trick us.”

A voice Albert didn’t recognize rang out and he opened his eyes. Across the room from him stood two men, both sporting sleeveless henleys. The Prospect branding was visible on each of their biceps, tattooed non-discreetly into the skin facing outwards. The one on the right looked to be around Albert’s height with longer, brown hair that curved at the nape of his neck. He had a wide face, a permanent scowl set on his features. Albert wrinkled his nose, feeling slightly intimidated by his piercing stare. The other guy stood a fair few inches taller than the first, muscles bulging through his shirt. He had tan skin, his beady eyes glaring at Albert. His hair was jet black and looked a good bit greasier than the other guy’s, giving him a rat-like composure.

Albert’s gaze traveled from the first guy to the second, hesitating a moment before flashing a smile, “Hey there, gents.”

Neither looked amused.

“I can’t fuckin’- ugh, why’d Boss nail us with the annoyin’ one?” The first guy complained.

“Dunno Bumlets, but I already wanna punch him,” The second guy said, eyes shifting between Albert’s, “Whatever, he’ll be outta commission soon.”

Albert’s smile faltered, uneasiness leaving a vile taste in his mouth. He vaguely recognized his voice and with a jolt he realized that this was the guy Spot had been with when he and Race had gone to Queens. He didn’t look anything like Albert had expected.

Bumlets strode over to him, pulling a knife from his boot and bending down. Albert sucked in a breath as the ropes that previously bound him down were swiftly cut away, allowing blood to flow normally through his body. He wiggled his fingers, willing the tingling feeling to go away.

Bumlets grasped the back of his collar, yanking him to his feet, “Got the cuffs, Hotshot?”

Hotshot grunted, producing a rusty pair of handcuffs from the inside of his jacket.

“Right ‘ere,” He said as Bumlets pushed Albert forward.

Hotshot grabbed hold of Albert’s bicep easily, keeping one hand firmly on his arm as he secured the handcuffs around his wrists, locking them tightly. Albert tried to jerk away, hissing when the sharp metal cut into his skin.

“No use in fightin’ too hard,” Bumlets sneered, pushing past Albert and Hotshot towards the door, “You’re outnumbered.”

Albert swallowed, jaw shifting as he was lead out of the room, Hotshot still holding him firmly, “Is there any point in asking where you’re taking me?”

Both men ignored him, pushing him through the dark building and down several flights of stairs. As they ventured on, Albert looked around, noting the dinginess of the place. It was significantly grimier than the Bowery, the damp, cool air giving it a dirty feel. The ground was coated in dust and grit, and there were several places in which Albert swore he saw bloodstains. It smelled of mildew, causing Albert to gag if he breathed in too deep. As they ventured to the main level, the corridors seemed to darken even more and Albert ground his teeth, trying in vain to remain calm.

“Did boss leave the truck ‘round back?” Hotshot asked, coming to an abrupt halt near a door.

Bumlets nodded, fishing what looked to be a car key out of his pocket, “All parked an’ ready for us to ride.”

Hotshot hummed, jerking open the door and thrusting Albert into the night. For a moment, the grip on Albert’s arm vanished, but before he could make a move, a bag was being placed over his head. He tried to duck away, only for his hair to be yanked harshly underneath the bag.

“Behave,” Bumlets snarled, knotting the bag in the back to keep it in place.

“Mmm, but that’s boring,” Albert said, aiming for a cocky tone, but wincing when his voice cracked slightly. Why couldn’t he have Race’s poker face?

His heart twanged briefly as he thought of the other boy. It had only been a day, but already the plan was going to complete shit. His fingers itched for his switchblade, the one thing meant to ground him to some semblance of security. A vague part of him longed for the night previous, when he and Race had shared that moment on his cot- when things were still safe and calm.

He felt himself being dragged again, trying his best not to trip as they descended down a small slope. Albert felt the ground under him turn to pavement and a moment later, the sound of a car door opening came from beside him. He tensed his shoulders, sensing what was about to happen.

“Behave.” Bumlets repeated, roughly shoving him against the car.

Albert grunted as his shin made hard contact with the metal step that led to the backseat. He stayed still, knowing that he wasn’t going to get out of this, but still refusing to make it easy on his captors.

“Climb in the goddamn car,” Hotshot snapped, stomping harshly on his heels.

Albert grimaced, “Can’t climb anywhere while my hands are cuffed behind me. Is everyone in Prospect so damn kinky? Ya know earlier, Spot-”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Bumlets cursed, gripping him by the elbow and boosting him upwards.

Albert smirked to himself as he settled into the backseat. As screwed as he was, he was getting a rise out of them. And that felt pretty damn good.

He heard the door slam next to him and he rested his head against the headrest behind him, trying not to let the claustrophobic feeling of the bag suffocating him consume him. He stretched his neck, wincing when he felt the joints crack.

The car started and Albert frowned, “Y’all better be buckled up there. Someone in this car has got to conform to the New York safety measures and I sure ain’t.”

Hotshot sighed, “Why can’t we shoot him now again?”

“Because Conlon’ll kill us if we get his car bloody,” Bumlets grumbled, “Usin’ his car at all has got us on thin ice.”

The rest of the drive was spent in silence, save for the staticky hum of the radio playing old rock music. They drove for what could have been hours and as time stretched on, Albert grew more anxious. He’d known their intentions from the start, but the reality of the situation seemed to settle on him in sickening waves. He wasn’t going to make it out of this alive.

Last time ever driving through New York and I can’t even enjoy the view, he thought cynically, huffing a laugh, although his heart was in his throat.

The truck screeched to a halt and Albert held his breath as Hotshot and Bumlets exited. Cold, night air gusted at him as his door was opened and he was pulled out. He was guided on numb legs for a few minutes, only noting the change in the ground underneath his feet when his shoes began to echo on concrete. They walked for a few more feet before he was shoved downwards, knees hitting the ground roughly. The bag was yanked off his head and he involuntarily whimpered as his eyes crossed, focusing on the barrel of a gun that hovered directly in front of him. Out of his peripheral, he could see mass amounts of scaffolding that seemed to climb to a high ceiling. Machines protruded from the wall in front of him, but they looked worn and broken. It was unclear exactly what kind of establishment he’d been brought to, but it seemed to be out of use.

The smell was awful, as if something were rotting in the walls and Albert shivered, feeling strangely uncleansed.

“So, we’re gonna kill ya obviously,” Hotshot said, his voice low and unnerving, “But there’s shit we gotta know from you first.”

XXX

Race sat on the floor of the rec room, leaning against a leg of one of the card tables. His arms were draped lazily around his knees as he tilted his head back, allowing it to thud into the cheap plastic tabletop.

He was mad at himself, angry that he’d allow someone else to slip from between his fingers. Guilt pooled in his stomach, threatening to choke him. Every time he had something good, it fucked him in the face, usually resulting in people getting hurt or killed. Or both. Usually both.

He blew out a breath, head rolling to the side to look towards the ratty book cabinet placed awkwardly in the corner. On the bottom shelf, stacks of old, dusty newspapers lay unceremoniously, rarely to be touched by anyone in the gang.

It had been awhile since he’d sifted through it, only venturing to that dark corner when he needed a reminder of...who he was, but now seemed good a time as any.

He scooted out from the card table, standing on sluggish limbs and crossing blindly to the bookshelf. He knelt down, tremoring hands reaching forward to extract a worn, obviously used newspaper article from the bottom of one of the piles.

Swallowing, he unfolded it, blinking a few times as he scanned over the head of the article.

Bombing at the Rockefeller Center Leaves 12 Dead. Culprit Still Unidentified.

He breezed through the article, eventually focusing his gaze on the blurry picture on the bottom of the page, showcasing the damage. His eyes bore into the image, lips parting slightly as shouts echoed through his memories.

He stayed frozen, losing himself in the picture until the shaking in his hands became too much and he closed his eyes, anxiety rising in his throat and slowly morphing to panic. He jerked, anticipation shooting through his arms as he crumpled the newspaper in both fists, feeling the wrinkled paper rip underneath his fingers.

“Antonio?” Race opened his eyes, becoming acutely aware of himself once more, but failing to drop his tense position, “Are you alright?”

Race rolled his shoulders, taking a measured breath before calmly dropping his arms to his sides, tossing the newspaper in a nearby trash can. He turned around, putting on a tight smile as he faced Davey.

“M’great,” He said, knowing full well that neither of them were convinced.

Davey eyed him warily, “Well, I’m ready to go when you are,” he busied himself in unbuttoning his his dress shirt sleeve and expertly folding it up, “Romeo is going to join us.”

Race nodded, “Perfect, yeah, okay.”

Davey studied him for another moment before briskly turning, “I’ll be by the stagedoor, be hasty.”

Race watched him leave, taking another moment to compose himself before hurrying out of the room. He froze in the hallway, running a mental checklist of things he might need while retrieving Albert from whatever hot shit he was in. His knife was in his boot and his gun was resting snugly against the small of his back, held in place by the waistband of his jeans. His jacket was in the entrance hall and he’d stuck an extra pack of cigarettes in the inside pocket of that earlier. He was set.

He nodded once to himself, erasing the last holds of unsteadiness from his mind as he crossed to the stage door, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on along the way.

Davey, as promised, was standing just beside it, hands clasped behind his back. Romeo stood adjacent to him, fingers curled gingerly around his vape.

He perked up when Race walked in, “Heya Higgins, want a hit?” He held up his vape, wiggling it in front of Race’s face.

Race flinched, rearing back a little, “Mm, don’t do that and no, I’m good.”

Romeo shrugged, “More for me,” he took a long drag, looking expectantly from Race to Davey, “Soooo, where’re we headed, boys?”

“Excellent question,” He said, looking towards Race, “Race?”

Race mulled it over for a moment, realizing that he hadn’t given this any actual thought. The prospects of Albert still being at The Refuge were slim, but that didn’t mean it was entirely off the table. He could still be in one of the holding rooms, but Spot never allowed the dirty work to be done directly in the building. It was his policy: never spill blood where you sleep. That didn’t lead to any clear answers, however. Spot had three designated execution spots, but they were well spread out between Queens and Brooklyn. If they tried to check all of them, it would be impossible to reach Albert in time. If there was even time left. Albert could already be dead.

He shook his head, not allowing himself to go there yet. He had to stay focused.

“Antonio…” Davey sounded like he was going to get impatient and Race shushed him.

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” he ran his tongue over his lower lip, trying to think of each of the locations of each spot.

There was the Bergen Street platform, although Race doubted Spot’d chosen that spot. It was hard to access most of the time and he saved that area for more intense matters, ones that involved several people.

The New York State Pavilion was the closest to The Refuge in relation to the others, but it was the most open of all of them. It was mainly used when someone needed to be taken care of quickly and Race doubted that they’d let Albert off without questioning.

That left the Jumping Jack Powerplant. It was well secluded and a healthy distance from The Refuge- the perfect candidate for their predicted intentions with Albert.

“I, uh,” Race ran a hand through his curls, “I think I have an idea, but it’s a bit of a drive,” he continued when Davey and Romeo raised their eyebrows, “It’s called the Jumping Jack Power Plant? I think that’s probably where Spot would want to take him.”

Davey nodded slowly, no doubt trying to map out where that was in his head, “I think I know where you speak of. We can take the van,” he opened the door, ushering the other two out first, “Quickly, quickly.”

“Shotgun!” Romeo called, hurrying towards where the van was parked in the back of the alley.

Race glanced towards the skyscrapers in the distance, his heart thudding with anticipation, “M’coming Al. M’not gonna letcha down, too.”

XXX

Albert allowed a whine to escape his throat, “Is there, like, a world record or something for the most times a guy has had a gun pointed at his face in a short amount of time? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I could qualify.”

Bumlets growled, rolling his eyes as he pressed the muzzle of his gun to his forehead, “Do ya ever shut up?”

“Ya know? I get that a lot,” Albert said, tilting his head as he feigned deep thought, “I wonder if that’s, like, a social cue or something to reassess myself and change my ways.”

Bumlets expression turned somehow more exasperated, “Can I please blow his brains out now?”

“I fuckin’ wish,” Hotshot sighed, “But no.”

“Mmm sadly,” Bumlets said, “Alright,” he dropped the gun momentarily and stepped behind Albert, pressing it to his neck instead, “I’ll start with the easy questions. What’s your name?”

“Jennifer, Jen for short,” Albert said, keeping his tone light, “Though if we’re really close, or like, fucking or something, I’ll let you call me Jenny.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hotshot groaned, stepping forward and slapping Albert across the face, “Your real name, smartass.”

“Eat my ass,” Albert said lowly, squinting his eyes.

Accepting the fact that they weren’t going to get a proper name out of him, Bumlets pressed on, raising the next question, “Are you associated at all with Empire?”

Albert worked to keep the recognition from his eyes, “Your fuckin’ rival gang or whatever? No, my balls haven’t dropped enough for that yet.”

Hotshot held eye contact for a moment before directing his stare at Bumlets. He suddenly looked down at Albert, something mischievous glinting in his eyes, like a kid who knew he was about to win Monopoly.

“How about Antonio Higgins?”

The gasp that left Albert’s lips was nearly inaudible, but Hotshot caught it. He leaned down, levelling himself with Albert.

“Gotcha,” He grinned, hot breath blowing into Albert’s face, making him wince.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that it was rude to talk about people behind their backs?”

Albert could have started crying as a familiar voice rang across the room. Hotshot’s face contorted into one of confusion and his head snapped to the side. The gun that had still been pressed to the back of Albert’s neck was removed and Albert managed to duck out of the way as the first round of shots were fired.

He rolled backwards, eventually steadying himself and crawling on his hands and knees until he reached the far wall. Once he was out of the line of fire, he peered backwards, heart leaping into his chest as he watched Romeo shoot a bullet at Bumlets, hitting him square in the forehead. He recoiled and shut his eyes tight, covering his ears with his hands until the sounds of gunshots stopped.

He opened his eyes again, avoiding looking at where Bumlets now lay and instead fixating on where Race was shoving Hotshot into the ground, knocking him out.

“Motherfucker,” Race spat, “Never liked you.”

He directed his attention towards Albert, chest heaving as the adrenaline drained from the room.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Albert panted, “That was the most badass thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

Race grinned, jogging over to him and helping him up. Before Albert could say anything else, he was being pulled into a bone-crushing hug.

“Whoa, hey,” Albert floundered for a moment before wrapping his arms around Race’s torso, “Hey, buddy.”

“Thank fuck you’re alive,” Race mumbled into his neck, “I don’t know what I woulda….just, thank fuck.”

“Thank god you should up when you did,” Albert said, the reality of what almost happened hitting him full-force, “My god, I- wow.”

“This is all very touching,” they broke apart at Davey’s voice, “But we really must get back to Empire.”

“Right, right of course.”

Race and Albert pulled away from one another, readjusting themselves and following Romeo and Davey out of the warehouse.

XXX

Jack ventured into the kitchen, crossing to the fridge and humming when nothing worthwhile sparked his appetite.

“Hiya Jackie, you hungry?”

Jack startled, turning on his heel, “Crutchie!” He exclaimed, taking in the sight of his best friend seated at the kitchen counter, mug in hand, “I didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly,” Crutchie scoffed, gesturing to the seat next to him, “Care for tea?”

Jack considered, “Yeah, actually, tea sounds good.”

He padded around the counter, grabbing a spare mug along the way and perching himself next to Crutchie, gratefully accepting the tea he offered to pour for him.

“So, where have you been?” Jack asked, warming his hands on the sides of the mug while he waited for his drink to cool down, “I haven’t seen you, like, all day.”

Crutchie shrugged, “I’ve been out,” he reached out, grabbing the sugar bowl and offering it to Jack, “Sugar?” Jack shrugged, “Sure,” he agreed, spooning a fair amount into his tea and stirring.

They sat in silence as Jack blew on his drink, taking a small sip and grimacing at it’s oddly bitter taste. He wrinkled his nose and took another sip before reaching for the sugar again.

“Does this tea taste weird to you?” He asked, spooning a little more sugar into his mug. He became acutely away of the sluggishness of his movements as he reached for another spoonful. All at once, his eyes turned foggy and suddenly, he couldn’t focus past the heaviness in his head.

Crutchie gently reached out, coaxing the sugar spoon away from Jack’s grip, “Don’t take too much sugar, Jackie-boy.” Jack turned a horrified eye towards him, fighting to stay conscious.

Crutchie’s face contorted into a cheshire-like grin, “After all, less is more.”

Then, everything went black.

XXX

The drive back to The Bowery was spent in relieved silence, save for the pleasant thrum of Race’s ‘Relaxation n’ Stuff’ playlist. The city was oddly quiet, making the ride quick and painless. They pulled into the alleyway next to the theatre, parking the van towards the back. It was a bit tight climbing out of the car, but eventually, they were all trekking back towards the stage door.

“Holy shit,” Romeo stopped abruptly, fixated on something on the wall opposite the stage door.

Albert turned as well, gaze landing on a freshly spray painted message, scrawled largely across the brick.

Les is More

“What the fuck,” Race said, voice frantic, “Why is it missing an S, what?”

“My lord,” Davey had gone a sickly shade of pale, mouth slightly agape as he swayed on the spot.

All at once, the puzzle pieces seemed to fall into place and Romeo cursed, “Davey, where was Les before we went to get Albert?”

“Asleep,” Davey said, looking at them dazedly, “In his cot.”

There was a moment’s hesitation where the air seemed to gain several pounds. Then, Davey cursed, turning to run inside.

The others were on his heels as they hurdled up the stairs, rushing onto the stage. Other gang members were sitting up in their cots, watching the four of them in sleepy confusion.

Albert made it to Les’ section first, blood draining from his face as he took in the scene. The sheets from Les’ cot were strewn across the floor, tangled in a way that indicated a struggle. His pillows were chucked aimlessly around the room, small stains of what looked like blood dotting them.

Davey pushed past Albert, skidding to his knees in front of one of the pillows, shoving it aside as if Les would materialize from under it.

He let out a colorful stream of curses and stood again, “Jack!” He called madly, rushing to his own section. Jack’s bed was vacant as well, although it didn’t look like it had been slept in at all.

They all stood still, completely at a loss of what to do- shock coursing through each of their veins.

“Wait, the kitchen light’s on,” Race said, already speeding towards the doorway that led to it. He disappeared for a moment before they heard a curse sound from the other room.

Race peeked his head back out, eyes wide, “I found Jack.”

By now, the other gang members were out of their beds, murmuring to one another. A small crowd moved towards the kitchen and Albert pushed through to the front, sick fear pooling in his stomach as he took in Jack, unconscious on the kitchen counter.

Race bit down harshly on his lip, shaking Jack vigorously to no avail. He was completely out. Race huffed out a breath, bracing himself before hoisting Jack out of his chair and lowering him to the ground. He carefully lifted his legs, resting them on the chair above them to kickstart his blood-flow again.

“He was drugged I think,” He said distractedly, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Move,” Davey demanded, “Finch, get the counter-shot.”

Finch nodded once, sprinting out of the room towards the drug inventory. A tense minute later, he returned, long needle in hand. He carefully passed it to Davey, who lifted Jack’s arm, feeling around for a vein before injecting the medicine with a surprisingly steady hand.

“That should get his blood pressure up,” Davey muttered, propping back onto his heels and taking a deep breath, closing his eyes, “Give it a minute.”

With an overcompensating gasp, Jack awoke several minutes later, dazed eyes blinking towards the ceiling.

“Jack,” Race said immediately, “Les is gone.”

Jack shook his head, defeat and something deeper dancing across his face, “Shit,” he said, sitting up, lowering his legs from the chair.

He looked directly at Davey, “So’s Crutchie.”

it’s 1 am i have no excuse

who hates me for making crutchie how i did?

ANYWAY YEAH HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEH WE OUT HERE AT MILESTONES

fuck ok ok

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

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