THE END

indie & selective multimuse rp blog. written by snicket.

[epilogued]

Pinned Introduction

This is a multi-muse, multi-fandom roleplaying blog that explores themes of identity, personhood, redemption, rebirth, cosmic horror, and unreality, among other things.

If you don’t want to see one or more of my muses on your dashboard, each muse has a master tag that you can blacklist: #muse ― [ musename ]

If we’re mutuals, feel free to check out my interest tracker!

[epilogued]

🏹 @killsfirst​ 🏹

Okay, she had to admit it to herself: working with Slade was weird.

Artemis had heard a lot about Slade throughout her childhood. Her father had been single-minded about preparing his daughters for the “family business” of killing for the League of Shadows. If you wanted to survive in the world he lived in, you needed intel on all the big names. He even incorporated many of Slade’s moves and known strategies in his mandatory training sessions. It was ostensibly to make Artemis a better fighter, but she always had the feeling that he was preparing her to kill Slade one day, provided that he or Jade didn’t get to Slade first. No pressure or anything. Thanks, Dad.

After all that, to not just meet him, but to work with him? Even forgetting the whole “I very publicly faked my death and entered deep cover as my pretend killer’s right-hand woman” thing, it was strange as hell. Watching him fight in person was so much different than the footage implied. There was almost flawless fluidity to his movements, a graceful brutality. He made killing into something tantamount to a new form of art, in her eyes.

She’d learned a lot, fighting alongside him. More than she wanted to admit. They worked well together.

So here they were, crouched on a rooftop in Star City, two hours deep into a stakeout that was liable to last for far longer. Artemis glanced at Slade out the side of her high-tech binoculars, never completely breaking her gaze from the target of their watch. “Tigress” was, if anything, a professional.

"Hey, Deathstroke. You ever been to Star City before?”

It maybe wasn’t the best idea to make small talk with someone she knew to be dangerously intelligent— but it would be far more suspicious to act like someone with something to hide. Besides, they’d been doing missions on and off for months now. Small talk was to be expected.

[epilogued]

👁 @crimefightr 👁

“I am a good person.”

Jon didn’t need the pseudo-omniscience of the Beholding to know that that statement didn’t apply to him. Good people didn’t alienate everyone who tried to help them. Good people didn’t force others to relive their most traumatic experiences for their own hungry gratification. Good people weren’t monsters. Hell, he wasn’t even a person, much less a good one.

Jon wasn’t a good person— but even at his lowest, he never imagined himself as the sort to rob priceless historical artifacts from museums. Yet here he was, in the Gotham Museum of Antiquities at 2 AM, stumbling over a rope barrier like some shitty, discount cat burglar to steal a 16th century-era quill pen.

It hadn’t been particularly hard to get in. Though the Magnus Institute’s connections couldn’t acquire the rifle legally, the Web had taken a more overt move to allow his passage. When he arrived, someone had already left a service door ajar. The man stationed at the security station had, by pure coincidence, found himself incredibly distracted by urgent personal texts. Every motion sensor in his path was webbed over by swarms of unsettlingly large spiders, which seemed to have appeared overnight. (What was happenstance and what was meticulous design? The Web existed in that space between, an ambiguity that could leave a person second-guessing everything.) 

Jon was free to walk through the museum unseen, Knowing exactly where the gaps in the guard patrol were. (Really, they were less gaps and more holes large enough to drive a bus through. If all Gotham institutions had security like this, it was no wonder that they were always getting robbed.)

Jonathan Sims didn’t exactly fit the image of a museum burglar. He was a slight, bespectacled man with graying hair, a massive amount of strange scars, an “I ❤ Gotham” hoodie from a gift shop, and a complete lack of physical grace. Hardly the stuff of crime legend. It was fitting that his motivation for the theft was equally nonstandard: he needed it to stop a ritual. The quill, though it lacked supernatural properties, held symbolic power that would counteract the Slaughter perfectly.

With gloved hands, Jon delicately lifted the quill from its resting place. It was time to go.

[epilogued]

👁 @playedhero 👁

Something was very, very wrong with the Town.

Wrongness was hardly unfamiliar to Jon. The strange, terrifying, and downright incomprehensible had, over the course of his employment with the Magnus Institute, become considerably mundane, in a way. The fear was fresh each time, but it was a fear he’d come to expect. A fear that he understood.

Jon did not understand this place, this nameless, disease-ridden village of the eastern steppe.

So many entities had touched this place, separate yet inextricably singular in the influence they held over its doomed inhabitants. The Corruption’s presence was the most obvious, plainly seen in the supernatural plague that tore through the Town. The Stranger was there too, in the masked figures, the mysterious Theatre, the feeling that so much of this was being controlled, each citizen a bit player in some horrible play. In that control, that impossibly intricate plan, lurked the Web. Beneath, Jon could See an impossible beast, a mass of Flesh lying on the butcher’s table. Above, he saw the Polyhedron, which held the Vast, Beholding, and Spiral in a contorted balancing act. For reasons he could not yet discern, Jon had witnessed the Beholding in two other places: sitting behind the eyes of Artemy Burakh and Daniil Dankovsky.

If there was ever proof that Smirke’s Fourteen was oversimplified categorization of truly incomprehensible forces, it was this vile, beautiful place.

There was something else, beneath it all. A force beyond fear. He could See it, but it defied any form of understanding. It was as if the Beholding refused to look. Jon only knew its name: 

“The Powers That Be”

👁👁👁

Jon wandered the streets, not concerned over the risk of infection. He was an outsider— he didn’t belong to the Town or its story, its predetermined paths. Its dangers couldn’t truly touch him, not without potentially derailing it all. In a very real sense, Jon was more of an unwelcome contaminant than the plague was.

Jon wasn’t entirely sure where he was going— today, the Eye charted his path. Though he did not know his destination, he knew what lay at the end of it. An individual with a statement which, if harvested, could lay the mystery of the Town bare. Jon had to Know, and not just for the sake of sating his ravenous curiosity. It would be exceedingly easy to carry out a ritual in a place saturated with so many different fears— he needed to be sure that none were in progress.

[epilogued]

gildedruins​:

so  it  is  a  third  death,   then,   grieved  for  naught.   thor  lets  out  a  little  humph,   but  releases  his  (  much  )  younger  brother.   ❛  and  do  you  think  you  could  tell  me  of  your  plan  to  cheat  death  the  next  time,   loki?  i  do  not  wish  to  grieve  you  again  without  reason,   and  it  seems  that  my  search  for  you  has  been  unnecessary.   communication,   brother.   it  is  not  so  much  to  ask.  ❜   

at  least  in  the  last  decade,   he  has  learned  to  listen  to  loki,  even  if  he  still  hasn’t  quite  rid  himself  of  the  habit  of  talking  over  him.  loki’s  words  sink  in,   and  —-  well.   maybe  thor  still  has  reason  to  grieve,   and  damn  loki  for  putting  him  in  these  situations  to  begin  with. 

how  can  you  mourn  someone  standing  in  front  of  you?   but  how  can  you  not,   when  they  are  not  who  they  are,   never  will  be  again?   it’s emotional  whiplash,   but  thor  supposes  that  that  has  never  been  new,   when  it  comes  to  his  brother. 

nor  is  his  faith  in  loki  new.   this  may  not  be  the  brother  he  has  come  to  blows  with,   time  &&  time  again  ;  the  brother  who  stood  beside  him,   as  their  planet  crumbled.   but  this  is  still  his  brother,   and  perhaps  this  is  better.   thor  will  carry  these  memories  forever,   but  loki  will  not  have  to.   is  it  too  much  to  wish  for,   that  he  does  not  hurt,   as  the  loki  thor  had  known  had  hurt?  

thor  is  determined  to  protect  him,   this  time.   whatever  the  cost.  

❛  of  course  it  is  enough,   loki,  ❜   he  says,   so  gently,   a  warm  smile  resting  upon  his  face.   ❛  all  i  have  wished  for  is  to  have  you  back  at  my  side.   you  must  have  heard  me  calling.  ❜ 

“Yes, that must’ve been it.”

Loki grins, the hint of pleading sliding his face like water rolling off a pane of glass. Its source remains in Loki’s heart, a dark seed of fear and loneliness that refuses to show itself to Thor.

“I certainly don’t intend to expire anytime soon, brother. Though dying young would be the thing to do if I wanted my story to be all edgy and cool —and I am very cool— I’d much prefer to perish when I’m absolutely ancient— like thirty.”

Loki steps away from the thunder god, pacing carelessly around Thor’s room. He casts his eyes about his surroundings, giving it all a good once-over. He’s not looking to see if Thor’s hidden away any neat magical artifacts or technological wonders in his chambers. Of course not! Loki would never steal from Thor out of boredom— good children only use action figures with kung fu grip and smartphones as toys, never anything dangerous. (Wink winkedy wink.)

Okay, maybe he’s doing that a little. But Loki also examines the room for academic reasons. A bedroom can tell you a lot about the person who lives in it — and Loki knows so, so little about his brother.

“In fact, I’m thinking of abandoning my dangerous lifestyle of wanton mischief. Perhaps I’ll take on a more responsible profession, like a tax accounting or Twitch streaming. Did you that some humans get paid to play video games all day?”

[epilogued]

pcrticlvcid​:

The bustling life of Night Vale had fizzled to a single spark, deemed inextinguishable with the here-and-there shrieks — courtesy of the half-risen sun, peeking from parted clouds —  the distant sound of machinery roaring to life. As is standard, the portable radio equipment was taken along for its daily leisurely (the word being marked out once and underlined three times; then punctuated with the last few notes of Ave Maria) stroll, allowing the release of stuffy office air to be replaced with dry, slightly less stuffy air. Then came greeting the newest intern, with welcoming grins and open arms; then a closed hand, as the radio equipment was starting to get restless and began insistently tugging at its leash, eager to start the day anew. The sight of the newcomer had renewed its drive, led to a rather rambunctious end to one radio host’s morning routine.

With one hand picking off bits of clumped hair and the other pushing open the door to his office, the stranger’s presence went vastly unnoticed – the muffled sound of shoes against carpeted floors went unheard, desk drawers sliding open and closed were regarded as typical at this hour. The voice that followed was a curious visitor, it was an abnormality in his routine. Having thought this, the broadcaster cautiously rose his head upward, keeping his slumped-over position near the doorframe. What greeted him was someone’s back — which appeared frightening at first, a breathy gasp leaving his lips — unmoving as their hands grasped onto anything that intrigued them. More confused than afraid, Cecil raised a hand, signaling their attention… and then lowered it, forgetting that it would go unseen by the very person he wanted to see it. 

“Um,” Cecil cleared his throat, “Is there anything I could help you with?”

His earlier task forgotten, the radio host slid the door shut, the ‘click!’ of a doorknob and a ‘gulp!’ with no comprehensible source promising their privacy before shortly returning to his desk, wrinkling his nose at the mess that adorned it. He didn’t recall leaving it in such disorder, paperclips strewn across out-of-date newspapers, a peek into the contents of his drawers revealed scattered items, though nothing appeared amiss. Seriously, when was the last time he looked in here? Shrugging his shoulders, Cecil left it as it were, deeming it a problem for another day. His gaze then landed on the intruder before him, skeptical although not accusing. Confused, but not questioning. 

“Did my receptionist, Lance, send you up here? I’m sorry, usually he answers any questions we may receive, but lately his mind’s been… elsewhere. He is present, although he is… vacant. His eyes, once so full of wonder, are now hollow and glossy. His skin, once tanned from the desert sun, is now pale and sickly. His words, once insightful, are now mumbles. So. I’m really sorry if you weren’t able to get into contact with him, he’s – going through something. Is there anything that I could help you with?”

Cecil Gershwin Palmer is twelve years old and he is dreaming. It’s a pretty normal nightmare for any child his age. A velvet-shrouded mirror looms, consuming the dark chambers of Cecil’s subconscious. Something horrible is hiding inside the mirror. Something is looking at him. It cannot be seen, not yet, but its presence is tangible.

Icy water pools around Cecil’s ankles, freezing him in place, preventing him from even turning his head. With excruciating, nigh-imperceivable slowness, the velvet sheet, his only shield, begins to lower. Something inches away from Cecil’s ear shrieks like a pipe organ thrown down a flight of stairs crossed with the distinctive buzz of a feral antique.

Bill Cipher sits inside the mirror, watching, laughing, pulling the strings of this tableau. Someday little Cecil will become the watcher, the narrator, the voice of Night Vale. Huntokar’s favored child. But that “someday” is not tonight. Tonight, Bill laughs with a voice that Cecil will never hear.

As Cecil's dream begins to fade, Bill decides to depart— but not before he yanks the kid back into the dreamscape, twisting his nightmare into fresh horror. It’s one of Bill’s favorites: that dream where you’re a poor farmer in 16th century France. There are no monsters in this dream. No sudden shocks or looming terrors. Only the quiet despair of going to bed hungry each night, of watching the light in your daughter’s eyes fade ever so slightly with each day that passes.

Then you realize the big exam is today and you’re late to suddenly falling. As you try to drive the car, you aren’t wearing any clothes in public and your teeth fall out.

Classic.

△△△ △△△ △△△

Stan spun to face the source of the noise, stumbling a little as he did. He leaned on the table he had just been looting in a display of false relaxation. He grimaced slightly as the mass of loot stuffed in his jacket pressed up against his ribs, but covered it up with a sleazy used car salesman smile.

“Heeeeeeeeyyy,” said Stan, shooting Cecil a finger gun. “You’re Cecil, right? The radio host guy? It’s, uh, been a while. You probably, heh, don’t recognize me. I didn’t have a body back then and you were what, an intern? I’m an old buddy of station management.”

Stan’s grin sharpened, slicing away his expression of thinly-veiled panic. As always, the best lies were rooted in the truth.

[epilogued]

bystcrdust​:

Shit. The moment his voice cracks, she knows that she had gone to far with her response. There wasn’t any way he could have known, even if he knew Wrathia. Ava frowns, giving a curt shake of her head. “’S fine. You didn’t know.” For the moments of quiet between the agreement and whatever strange communication device he was using, she closes her eyes to calm down.

My Diamond.

All at once, the headache that had started fades away, and Ava’s able to open her eyes to look over at what Steven was doing. Wrathia had withdrawn, undoubtedly, given that she no longer felt an insistent tug that something was wrong. Something drops into the drawer during the conversation happening between the others, and during that time Ava grows wary of the alley again. She moves to peek out, to make sure no one had found them yet. The crowd moved as normal, no one turned their direction, and there were no guards in the immediate area.

Giving a start a the noise behind her, Ava whips around, eyes wide. “…That’s who you meant with the lion drop?” She can’t help it, a small smile returning to her features as the teen makes her way back over to them. It was nearly as big as she was, which only brought back some fond memories of the few times she had been able to bring her own familiars around without causing the destruction of a city block. She extends her hands towards Lion, just to be polite. “Hello, Lion…” She’d have to go back and pester Wrathia later, to ask how someone with a whole lion knew her and she had withheld that information from her host, who in fact, was entirely partial to people with animals.

Lion lifts its head to match Ava’s gaze, a quiet intelligence behind its dark eyes. It blinks, slow and placid, before lowering its head once more, leaning into Steven’s hand.

“Sort of,” Steven replies, chuckling slightly. Bit by bit, shard by shard, his smile starts to turn genuine again. “The hangar on my ship gets kinda... crowded. I always have to call ahead so Lion doesn’t knock some poor agate over when he warps in.” 

Crowded was an understatement. Back on the Archimicarus, the hangar had become a popular spot for spending one’s downtime, despite plenty of rooms specifically designed for relaxation and recreation. After countless millennia under the Diamond’s rule, most Gems still felt uncomfortable spending time away from their work stations— the hangar had become something of a compromise for them. It made landing smaller ships or Lion quite a bit more difficult, but Steven wasn’t going to stand in the way of their development.

“C’mon Lion. No time for naps yet, buddy.”

Lion breathes sharply through its nose, a snuffle of pure, feline annoyance, but got up anyway. With practiced ease, Steven swings himself onto Lion’s back, before turning back to Ava. He extends a hand to her, palm open, a wordless offer to help her up Lion’s flank.

“Lion can warp us back to my ship— it’s parked behind one of this planet’s moons. There isn’t a safer place we can go.”

[epilogued]

cxpt​:

This was the last thing he’d ever thought he would do; hunt down someone who had been a friend, a teammate, and someone he’d respected. He never thought he’d see the day when he needed to hunt someone day and unfortunately that day came sooner rather than later.

Each of them had their assignments, each of them had a place they needed to go in the hopes that they could corner this new iteration of the Hulk. The information that came to light had taken all of them by surprise and now that they had someone who literally thought of themselves as a god it was going to be disastrous trying to bring him back in. It was bad enough they had literal wandering around in the form of Thor and Loki. The god of mischief gave them enough problems as it was without adding one who wanted to eradicate all of the human race. Steve didn’t think this was something Bruce would willingly do. Then again, he didn’t think Bruce would cause a lot of the rampage that he’d seen the other do. Everything was changing and none of it was changing in a good way.

Somehow he managed to be the one who found the Hulk and while he wasn’t going to rush him, he also wasn’t going to stay far enough back to lose him. He needed to get through to his friend. If not, they all knew what the alternative was going to be. Then again, he’d heard what happened each time they’d tried to kill the Hulk. He didn’t want to end up like the scientist that had tried to destroy the Hulk by separating his body parts. But he didn’t know what else he could do to stop him from enacting his plan.

News hit him that another Roxxon stronghold had been destroyed and he knew that this was going to get much worse before it got better. Even under the cover of darkness he knew that the destruction would be something everyone could see. But why? What was Bruce thinking and where the hell was he heading to?

He didn’t know and following him wasn’t giving him any answers. Not even those who’d gone to the other locations could give him more information. And that was what he needed most of all. Without it he felt like he was running blind. He couldn’t even reach Bruce without the information he could get from the others. Someone had to find something that would tell him what it was Bruce was planning. From what he could tell they seemed to be heading towards a town and towards the centre. More destruction. Not what Steve wanted to have. If possible he wanted to use his words to get through to him. Anything but violence.

Unfortunately, he knew that he might not have a choice. It would’ve been better to take this fight to the outskirts of town. But he didn’t have that choice and slowly, he followed him into the park. Hopefully with it being the dead of night no one would be around. The less people that were out the less casualties would come from whatever battle broke out. And  given the fact that he’d already destroyed a handful of places, he knew that there was going to be a battle. Unless…

Bruce didn’t bother searching for his tail as he neared the park. There was no point. Anybody skilled enough to track him down likely had the skills to remain outside of his range of sight and hearing. Honestly, it wasn’t exactly difficult to do so. He had always been more suited to the laboratory than the battlefield. It was the Hulk that was truly suited to warfare. Bruce took no real pleasure in the destruction he now sought out. He destroyed— he smashed, because he had no other choice. He wasn’t a hero. He was a thing of necessity.

Bruce wasn’t alone in this belief. A massive social movement was rising around him. He was giving voice to the injustices of the world, emboldening protestors by offering the protection of the Hulk. It was clear to all of them: the world needed to change. The world as it was couldn’t be allowed to exist, not when they had the power to tear it to the ground.

“I believe in Bruce Banner,” said the graffiti on countless walls.

Bruce strolled through the shadow-drenched park, looking for all the world like your average wandering insomniac. The air was cold and the moon cut a thin, crescent-shaped hole in the sky. Passing by a small pond, Bruce stopped for a moment. In his reflection he saw, as always, the Hulk staring back at him. He looked rather pissed off— he was on a timetable, after all. Though the Devil had recently gained the ability to manifest during the day, he was still at his strongest during the night. They were burning moonlight. Bruce shot him a look that said “wait just a few minutes more” and continued onwards.

Finally, Bruce arrived at a wooden bench that was roughly in the center of the park. He sat down, drumming fingers on his thigh in an impatient, rhythmless pattern. Not waiting for his pursuer to reveal themself, Bruce spoke to the empty air.

“You have two options. Either you stop hiding... or I let him sort you out. I think you’ll find that I’m far more agreeable.”

An understatement. The Devil Hulk rarely killed but wasn’t afraid to maim those he knew were deserving.

[epilogued]

palevein​:

BLOOD IS THE COLOUR OF LIFE.   a potent,  bursting pigment which bubbles until it foams,  until it pours over and pools below the jagged stone and dampens the cool earth.  what euphoria !  to witness a spilling so free and so vibrant.  scarlet droplets splatter and spray like a snapped garnet necklace all along the cobbled street.  he feels enveloped like this,  though night’s curtain still held sway and burdened him with its encroaching gaze.  he feels  …  lighter,  and in that lightness there is no shame,  no regret.    

dub it a moment of weakness,  or perhaps indulgence.  the knife tucked away in the pocket of his boot is brandished in absolute certainty,  drawn and catching what moonbeams are still lingering in the open air.  the act itself is swift and the veins are left bare.  if anything it would only be a waste,  so,  he indulges and satiates that throbbing pain in the back of his skull.  the hunger. 

when all is done the body lulls to the side,  cold though still clinging onto some last,  lingering threads of warmth.  however,  even that is not meant to last.  for the cold comes again in a chilling rush that even catches him off guard.   out from the ebbing darkness do twin eyes glisten like small red giants opposing.  narrowing his gaze he speaks to the air and darkness.   ❝  i’m afraid you missed all the fun.  ❞  

Still hidden by night, Jeannette smiles to herself. A vampire. What fun. She’s always felt a sort of kinship with the children of the night— so many of their number share her passion for unabashed hedonism. For what is a vampire, if not a creature of passion, of violent excess? So many midnight balls, each elegant, blood-drenched, and exquisitely debauched in equal measure. She cared not for the vital fluids they so craved but luxuriated in the death left in their wake.

Yes, death is here. Freshly drawn from the cooling corpse and wrapped about the vampire. His own demise and all those he had caused, clinging to him like a shroud of fog. It’s not his first time.

“My, but you are mistaken,” says Jeannette. “The fun has, as they say, only begun.”

Jeannette draws her hood back as she steps into a beam of moonlight. It reflects off her hair; stark white, tall, and perfectly coiled. Her irises are two dark pits, abandoning their natural green to reflect nothing. The banshee smiles.

“Who might you be, my fine, fanged friend?”

[epilogued]

🦇 Headcanon ― [ Bruce Wayne ] 🦇

Does Bruce Wayne pretend to be Batman, or does Batman pretend to be Bruce Wayne?

Both are masks. Both are his real face. Bruce is very good at compartmentalizing― but not perfect. Certain aspects of both personas leak into one another.

Batman is less humorless than he appears, making jokes whenever an appropriate moment (to him) arises. His deadpan tone, general lack of expression, intimidating appearance, and very particular sense of humor cause many of his witticisms to go unnoticed. On more than one occasion, Batman has defeated the Joker by predicting the demented clown’s punchline long before its intended delivery.

Bruce Wayne isn’t grim like Batman, but he’s known to occasionally lapse into moments of solemnity or deep sadness, an after effect of seeing his parents die so violently. All the money in the world can’t fix that kind of trauma.

――

Bruce Wayne is known not just as a playboy philanthropist, but as something of an eccentric. It’s his most effective method of hiding his vigilante activities; any suspicious behavior as Bruce tends to get waved off as more Wayne-brand eccentricity. Like all good lies, it’s based in the truth.

Bruce Wayne has strange hobbies. He’s known to possess an eclectic mix of seemingly random skills― knowledge of the mating habits of endangered birds, for example, or expertise in close-up magic. He claims that he had a lot of free time in his twenties, being an excessively rich man with zero responsibilities. Such free time, he says, no longer exists: Bruce is too busy with Wayne Enterprises, his philanthropic work, and raising his children.

Bruce Wayne is far more sociable than Batman, but he’s still not the best with people. Where Batman is brusque and rude, Bruce is uncomfortably honest. He acts like someone who never really developed a filter, thanks to his unbelievably affluent lifestyle. There’s a YouTube compilation of Bruce Wayne interviews, wherein he derails them with unexpected answers, tangents, or by interviewing the interviewer right back. It has 3+ million views and is over twenty minutes long.

Bruce, generally speaking, only has proper social skills when he’s pretending to be an entirely different person.

An example of his “eccentric” reputation in action: Bruce was once caught with an extremely powerful camera on his person, the sort that wasn’t even commercially available yet. His excuse? He had bought it for birdwatching. To Gotham, buying an outlandishly expensive camera to take photos of birds sounds exactly like something Bruce Wayne would do between fundraiser galas and dates with supermodels. As a precaution, he had already set an array of well-composed bird photos in the camera’s storage, should anyone question his claim.

――

Who is he, if Bruce Wayne and Batman are both mixes of honesty and fiction?

The “truest” Bruce, perhaps, is the man he is when he’s alone with his family and closest friends. A person who lies somewhere between the two extremes of the Bat and the man.

[epilogued]

🦁 @hrdsell​ 🦁

Blake knew two things with utmost certainty:

John Constantine was in his house.

He was completely lost.

The rooms and halls of the House of Secrets moved. He had been warned when he first arrived, not yet knowing it would become his new home. Not yet knowing that the motley assortment of mercenaries and monsters that walked beside him would become his family— most of them, that is. Cheshire had ended up betraying them, Parademon sacrificing himself shortly afterward. But the rest? The rest he’d die for, no hesitation.

The rooms and halls moved, but certain portions of the House did not. So long as he kept to this territory, Blake knew that he’d always find his way. Almost always. The House was a living thing, after all, with strange moods that came and went at odd times. There was a very, very small chance that, even if he kept to the main pathways of the House, it would still lead him into its depths. Over the many years of his stay in the House, it had only happened twice before. The first time had left him wandering for a good twenty minutes. The second time, he was lost for almost three hours.

The third time was right now.

Blake rubbed his neck, trying to get his bearings. He had only wanted a quick midnight jaunt to the kitchen to make some eggs. He had gotten the eggs, it was the return trip to his room that had become problematic. So here he was, dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts, wandering a labyrinthine mansion from before the beginning of human civilization. Again.

His woes were forgotten in an instant when Blake noticed three things simultaneously:

A subtle shift in air pressure. Something to ignore, that happened from time to time in the House.

The sound of footsteps in the distance. Now, Blake knew what his family’s footsteps sounded like. The weight of their tread, the pattern of their stride. These footfalls matched none of theirs.

The scent of a particular brand of cigarette smoke. He had smelled it once before, when Black Alice, a former teammate with the ability to temporarily steal the powers of any magic-user from any distance, had swiped the spells of one John Constantine. Whenever Alice stole magic, her clothes would morph into a replica of the magic-user’s costume. That specific fragrance had been woven into the trench coat cast about Alice’s shoulders.

Blake had never met Constantine before, but he knew his reputation. If anyone could bypass the House’s all-encompassing anti-surveillance wards, it would be a bastard like him. A magician of his caliber could accomplish some pretty nasty things in a place of power like the House of Secrets. Blake, on the other hand, knew less than nothing about magic.

What Blake did know, however, was how to hunt. He was the greatest tracker in the world. Provided that Constantine wasn’t using magic to scan his surroundings, Blake would have the drop on him— thanks to Blake’s near-superhuman senses, he knew that he had heard Constantine well before Constantine could hear him.

With the quiet tread of a honed killer who had spent the bulk of his 20s cat burgling and his early 30s hunting alongside wild lions, Blake sped stealthily through empty halls. It was going to be an ambush.

[epilogued]

⚰️ @palevein ⚰️

Jeannette woke with the chill of the grave in her veins. It was that abominable time between night and morning. Her time. Moonlight carved bright lines into the floor of her chambers and along her bed. If she were to return to sleep, her dreams would be long and treacherous, with destinations that she perhaps would not return from. Best to avoid the risk altogether.

Jeannette clothed, then slipped away from her home, casting herself into the dark. She traveled aimlessly, only seeking to while away the hours until the sun rose. Then, and only then, would she be free to sleep once more.

Then, coming from the east: the scent of death, heavy and fragrant. A distinct odor that only the bean sidhe knew. Jeannette followed it. Perhaps it would lead her to someone interesting or deserving of killing. In either case, her curiosity was piqued.

[epilogued]

☢ @cxpt ☢

Someone was following Bruce. He hadn’t seen or heard them, but he was certain. A hunch, solid in his gut. Pure intuition.

Bruce had been following his gut a lot over the past few months. He’d follow spur-of-the-moment bursts of instinct, throw darts at a map to determine his route, made choices based in magical thinking. A far cry from the logic-driven man that he used to be— that he still was. It was the Devil Hulk, newly freed from the depths of his subconscious. This Hulk, though fiercely intelligent, was a thing of magic, of mysticism. He didn’t need all the facts to point Banner in the right direction.

So. Someone was closing in, as proven by a buzzing sensation at the base of his skull. They didn’t feel particularly dangerous, whoever they were. Or rather, if they were dangerous, they weren’t actively hostile, not an agent with “shoot to kill” orders or a government-engineered gamma monstrosity. And they said Hulk was the one endangering the public.

Bruce had left his HQ to follow a lead regarding a rumored new gamma mutate, a welcome reprieve from his schedule of attacking Roxxon strongholds and leading protests. Smashing a repugnant megacorporation, doing what the law refused to do, was spiritually fulfilling but emotionally exhausting. 

Bruce couldn’t afford to reach his destination with a tail on him. In the small town he had found himself in, losing them would be nearly impossible— he needed to force an early confrontation. Bruce quickened his pace, directing himself towards the nearest, onliest public park in town. Ideally, the conflict would be resolved with words, but if things got violent, the open space would minimize risk to civilians.

Inside, the Devil raged. The night was his time, but he would have to wait. Dealing with the mission and his tail required subtlety, stealth. Not an easy task for a 10-foot muscle monster. At his urging, Devil Hulk quieted for the moment. He, unlike the others, was eminently reasonable.

In the moonlight, Bruce’s eyes gleamed green.

[epilogued]

◊ @wasdiamond​ ◊

Steven, what would you do if you met your mother?

Pink is here. The world closes in.

Steven, age 13, wanted nothing more than to meet her. His Gemsong, the self-translating omni-language of their species, would’ve been an overwhelming, exuberant cacophony. He’d have so much to ask, so much to tell her about his life. Flushed with joyous tears, he’d do everything he could to share his universe, his song of Steven.

Pink is here.

Steven, age 17, would be crying too, seeing her. A briny flood of sadness, fear, rage. His anger would be a righteous one: She had hurt so many Gems in so many ways. She had hurt him in so many ways. Every crack, every hairline fracture in his heart was by her careless design. She had shattered him completely— how dare she return, when there was nothing left to do but pick up the pieces? When the war was already over? When he had finished bleeding on the altar of her mistakes?

The world closes in.

Steven, age 35. It’s not a hypothetical anymore. She’s standing right there, in the garden. She’s not a trick, not a hallucination, not a fading dream. He can feel it. Their twin gems resonate on a singular, divine frequency, a mirror facing a mirror facing a mirror. Shining like binary stars. Like polished diamonds.

He doesn’t hate her. He can’t, he never really did. Her joy, her sorrow, her fury, her regret. Her pain. All of it belongs to him. Truly knowing how she felt, what she was thinking every step of the way... he understands her more than she does, perhaps. Steven doesn’t hate Pink, and yet—

She can’t be here. She can’t. Steven Universe isn’t Pink Diamond, but Pink Diamond is Steven Universe. Everything she was is a part of him. Those countless years fighting for freedom on Earth, fighting for acceptance on Homeworld, they are as much his experiences as they are hers. What does that mean now?

Pink is here. Where is her son?

He wonders, numbly, if she even recognizes him. Though he lacks the last few decades of her memories, he doubts she ever imagined him like this.

Tall, nearly at eye level. Broad as any quartz. Pink skin. Dark pink hair in ringlets reminiscent of a Rose Quartz. Gem clothes: deep violet, angular, with a diamond-shaped hole around the navel. He doesn’t look like a hybrid. He looks like a Gem.

For the first few moments, he stands in shocked silence. The turmoil remains safely beneath the surface, only showing itself in the subtlest ways. A widening of the eyes, a slight tightening of the jaw, a quiet hitch in his breath. A hand, moving unbidden, closes over his gem for just an instant. He’s always been good at hiding his feelings, a skill that has only been honed by years of Gem politics. 

“H—” Steven chokes, his Gemsong cracking, the synths unraveling. He stops, swallows. Takes a breath, just like his therapist taught him. Realigns.

Pink is here.

“Hello,” Steven smiles, dazzling, perfect, and entirely false. “I’m so glad to finally meet you. My name is Asteria Diamond.”

It closes in.

[epilogued]

smolderingfire​:

now  that  sleep  has  fully  left  him,   he  realizes  the  weight  of  what  he’s  said,   feels  sick  with  it.   he  cannot  be  so  foolish  as  to  think  that  the  universe  will  answer  his  wishes  so easily  —-  and  with  no  price  paid.   the  norns  will  not  be  so  kind even  to  asgard’s  golden  king. 

but  loki  is  here,   exactly  as  he  remembers  him  from  his  youth.   he  is  touching  him.  it  is  not  an  illusion,  then  ;  has  someone  taken  his  brother’s  form?   but  who  —-  and  why?   there  are  so  few  of  their enemies  that  would  recall  loki  so exactly  as  he  was  ;  thor  cannot  see even  a  hair  out  of  place  compared  to  his  memories.

the  most  compelling  piece  of evidence  is  the  wave  of  calm  that  has  washed  over  thor  for  the  first  time  in  over  a  decade.   it  is  not  dissimilar  to  how  he  used  to  feel  as  a  child,   running  to  their  mother  so  she  could  soothe  all  of  his  hurts. 

also,   what  does  he  have  to  lose?  if  it’s  a  trick,   then  the  trickster  will  have  to  reveal  themselves eventually,   and  his  soul  could  use  the  reprieve  from  grief  in  the  meantime.   (  but  it  is  not  a  trick.   something  in  his  heart  has  finally  come  home.  )

❛  when  did  you  get  so  young? ❜  

“When I died,” Loki grinned, casually wriggling free from Thor’s grasp. Though the thunder god’s strength far outstripped his own, a trickster cannot be held for long. “Resurrection seems to have a way of restoring one’s youthful glow.”

It had taken weeks of research to discern the plans of the Loki That Was. Dozens of sleepless nights spent bearing the weight of lamplight, pouring through ancient esoterica that predated even the World Tree. His discovery: Loki had, through a series of bargains, lies, and outright thefts, convinced the Norns to release him from the bondage of fate. At the end of the road that was Loki’s life, there would be no Ragnarok awaiting him, no predestined demise. His death would be his own— and it had. When he died, neither Valhalla nor Hel could cage him, his soul was free to go where it wished. Free to weave itself a new life: his life.

The trick was not without its costs; Loki was reasonably certain that, should he perish once more, he would not reincarnate again. Death is rarely cheated, and never more than once in the same way. What he owed the Norns for such a tremendous favor also remained to be seen. It was probably going to be something devastating and ironic; the old hags always did seem to have a cruel sense of humor about them.

Loki saw no reason to burden Thor with any of such knowledge. It was Loki who had made this choice, so it would be Loki who would see it through to the end. Still, he would have to tell him something. He owed his brother that much, at least.

“I believe that the Loki That Was swindled Death somehow— perhaps in a game of chess, which I am told is traditional. Rather than departing to Valhalla upon his demise, his soul was free to reincarnate into the winsome young trickster you see before you.”

Loki turned away, suddenly very uncomfortable with the idea of looking Thor in the eyes.

“Note that I said ‘reincarnate,’ not ‘rebirth.’ I don’t have his memories. You see, I am him and I am not. I am new and I am old. I am the stone cast into dark water and I am the ripples it creates. I am the echo of the scream. Loki is dead and gone— but I am Loki too, and I am alive.”

Loki forced himself to return his gaze to Thor’s face, examining it closely for any reaction. His own expression was firm but held a note of pleading that sang volumes.

“I hope that will be enough.”

[epilogued]

smolderingfire​:

when  he  sleeps,   his  dreams  are  always  the  same.   he  dreams  that  he  is  in  his  mother’s  gardens,   half-asleep  under  a  tree,  exhausted  after  a  long  day  spent  sparring  at  the  training  grounds.   he  does  not  yet  know  the  taste  of  battle,   only  plays  at  it  with  his  friends.   frigga  &&  loki  sit  on  a  bench  across  from  him,   and every  once  in  a  while,   thor  will  stir  from  his  nap  &&  make  faces  at  his  brother,   trying  to  distract  him  from  their  mother’s  lesson.  he  feels  safe,   at  peace. 

in  this  dream,   he  does  not  try  to  talk  to  loki.   he  thinks  that  loki  does  not  want  to  talk  to  him.  so  he  is  content  to  sit,   and  listen,   and  smile,   every  once  in  a  while.  his  mother  &&  his  brother  are  happy,   in  his  dreams,   and  that  is enough  for  thor. 

when  he  wakes,   it  is  like  a  vacuum expanding  inside  him.   where  there  was  warmth,   now,   there  is  only  loss.   sorrow.   grief.   he  had  been  cautioned  against  loving  a  mortal,   destined  to  outlive  her  a  hundred  times  over.   but  now  he  is  the  last  of  his  family,   so  few  of  his  friends  alive.   he  wishes  he  could  go  back  to  when  he  believed  that  his  heart  would  be  safe  on  asgard  —-  that  his  people  would  live  as  long  as  he.

it  is  only  hope  that  keeps  thor  moving.   hope,   and  a  little  bit  of  wonder.   the  universe  is  huge,  ever expanding.   he  is  in  love  with  it,   he  thinks,   and  all  of  its  mysteries.   and  around every  corner,   there  is  a  chance  that  he  will  find  the  answers  he  is  seeing. 

how  do  i  bring  back  asgard?  he  asks.   and  then,   when  that  task  is  too  monumental,   how  do  i  bring  back  my  brother?

the  universe  has  finally  answered.  

thor  does  not  stir  until  the  first  locks  of  his  hair  have  been  shorn  away.  then,   he  wakes  with  a  start,   grabs  the  small  wrist  leading  the  assault.   the  eyes  peering  down  at  him  are too  familiar,   and  before  he  remembers  himself,   he  snaps,  ❛   what  the  hell,   loki?  ❜  

“I— I, uh,” Loki stammers, excuses piling up and colliding with one another in his throat. “I only meant to—“

He stops short, realizing what Thor said: Loki. He recognizes, he remembers! The scissors fall from his hands, clattering to the floor, already forgotten.

Loki doesn’t remember Thor. How could he? Though they share the same soul, the Loki that Thor knew is, for all intents and purposes, gone. Dead. Obliterated. 

Yet something stirs within Loki. Not a memory, but its shadow. An absence in the shape of a smile, a feeling of warmth like a quiet sunbeam. There’s that gravity again, like a comforting star, like a home. For the first time in his life, Loki feels safe, if only a little bit. He smiles, open and honest. Or at least, as honest as any Loki is capable. (He does not know it, but it is the perfect reflection of the Loki That Was, in better days.)

“Hi, Thor. What the Hel indeed.” A pause. “When did you get so old?”

[epilogued]

✒ @smolderingfire​ ✒

It hadn’t been difficult to trace Thor’s path across the greater universe. If there was one thing the thunder god wasn’t known for, it was subtlety. Stowing away on great starcruisers and hitching rides from the easily swindled, Loki didn’t have to look far to find rumors of his brother’s latest exploits. Even from light-years away, Thor seemed to have a gravity about him. Perhaps it would’ve been more difficult to stay outside of the god’s orbit.

As Loki traveled, a dreadful thought occurred: what if Thor wouldn’t recognize him? If he did recognize Loki, would he believe his brother to be alive again? There were plenty of beings in the Nine Realms that could’ve disguised themselves as another; there were doubtlessly more in the cosmos beyond. He had neither the memories nor magics of his previous life, with which he could easily prove his identity. What would prevent Thor from simply smiting Loki, believing (not unreasonably) that someone had come to manipulate him through his grief?

A conclusion was reached: Loki could not simply introduce himself to Thor, that would not do at all. He would need to approach Thor in such a way that would leave no doubt in his brother’s mind. He would need to do something that was entirely, unambiguously Loki.

And what was more Loki than a bit of mischief?

Loki crept aboard Thor’s ship under the cover of night. Whatever sensors the ship had for security glanced over the godling, his presence shrouded from digital eyes by a nifty little gadget he had stolen borrowed.

Slipping into Thor’s quarters, Loki silently retrieved a pair of scissors from a pouch on his waist. It gleamed in the darkness, wicked and sharp. Shearing another god’s golden locks while they slept was a classic trick, one previously enjoyed by the Loki That Was and Sif.

Trembling slightly, the scissors began to slowly inch towards Thor’s head. This was to be a delicate procedure.