(A/n: She's BAAAAACKKKK! didja miss me? I missed you guys TT, but I'm back now, and so is the next installation of WAYSOWM, enjoy! ;) a little late, but dang was this one hard to write.)
Why's your family trying to connect so hard with you after so many years of neglect? Well . . . I guess its not all that bad- why are they staring so hard???
(Masterlist)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"From the top, no bullshit, no lies, what happened? Who are 'they'? And what do you mean lose me?"
No one answered, but you only had your eyes on one person.
Bruce met your stare head-on.
You kept your gaze on Bruce, mouth set in a firm line. You'd be getting your answers tonight, no matter what it took.
"So? You all were so loud just a second ago, what happened?"
Dick cleared his throat,"(Name), calm down, you're gonna strain yourself and push back recovery if you don't breathe. We'll explain," he swept a look across the table, "promise, but not at the expense of your health."
Your patience was wearing thin, "Okay then explain, fuckface." It was clipped, just as short as your current sanity.
Bruce raised his eyebrows in surprise, you didn't often speak like this to anyone, let alone your family. But most people didn't irk you like they currently were either, so you felt like you had a pass.
Jason snorted, looking at you withâŠwas that pride? Tim just furrowed his brows, eyes flicking between your own, scanning for fog or fatigue. Damian scowled, but didn't lose the appraising gleam in his eyes.
And Dick just winced, continuing on, "Okay, do you remember anything from a few days ago? Around Thursday night? You might not have been awake, but your lights were on when I came around soâŠ"
He came around your room on Thursday night?
Why?
Your room was out of the way, there was no reason for him to be around there. But there was also no apparent reason for anything that had happened recently so you pushed that question to the side and probed hard for anything that stood out from a few nights ago.
The concussion definitely wasn't helping you with your search, and neither was the stubborn silence from the others while you thought, eyes fixed to the basket of rolls at the center of the table.
You sighed, irate and impatient, "No Dick, I don't. Why don't you enlighten me?"
Sue you, your head hurt, no one was making any sense, maybe you were getting a little cranky, it was your right.
Tim jumped in now, so you would either get the most convoluted or dumbed down explanation possible. For your sake, you hoped he chose the latter.
"You don't remember any loud sounds? Maybe some loud whirring or a mechanical clang?"
You shook your head slightly, frowning. You did hear some thumps, but that wasn't any cause for concern in this madhouse.
Tim pursed his lips, "Okay, that's fine, maybe something to check out if its related to the concussion butâŠ"
Now the fucker was mumbling to himself. Why couldn't these people just give you straight answers, honestly?
Bruce finally opened his big mouth, "That night, we were visited by versions of ourselves."
You pulled a face, "Like clones? Or like ideal versions of yourselves? Or is this more like a metaphorical thing where you all just had really similar dreamsâŠ.I'm not following what that has to do with me."
Bruce didn't show any signs of annoyance at the interruption, instead continuing to just stare at you, tense.
"Versions of us from other worlds. They had been sent here by a rogue from their world, and needed our help getting back and catching the man. The inter-verse transport machine made a fair bit of noise while charging, I'm slightly concerned that you don't remember hearing it."
You remembered suddenly that you had been watching something that night, headphones in and sobbing into your pillow when the main character's dad started taking drugs to understand his son better.
There were layers to that you didn't want to unpack, but the main point was that even if you should have heard something, it was plausible that you just missed it.
So you nodded, following along with his story thus far.
"I was doing something, move on."
He just paused for a second, clearly filing that away for later.
"Alfred had come down to check injuries for the group before we sent them back and I'd asked him if we'd woken you up from the sound of the machine. At thatâŠ."
Bruce didn't often leave his sentences unfinished, but here he left space for one of the others to fill in.
Surprisingly, it was Damian that stepped up to bat. Perhaps not so surprising, since Damian had never shied away from the harsher truths.
"At that, they stopped completelyâeven the other me." From the way he said it, you got the idea it was specifically his own reaction to the news that had stuck with him.
"Their world runs slightly ahead of ours. Eight days, to be exact. When the rogue sent them to another world, the idiot messed up and sent them backwards in time, too."
Tim piped up again, "It's an easy mistake, one we had to be careful about when making our own version of the transporter. We had to figure out sending them back not only to the right world, but also to the right time."
Why did they always choose to go on every tangent except the one you were interested in?
"That's great, what does that have to do with me?"
Jason sighed to you right, sounding just as exhausted with the conversation as you felt. But his voice had a different quality to it, something much more hushed than you'd heard in years.
"In their world, you died on Friday."
Oh.
Well that sucked.
You sat there, stunned, letting the scene at the table just wash over you.
You were meant to die on Friday? The Friday that just passed? The Friday you had plans to go get a haircut and visit the park again afterschool?
If you died on Friday how could you study for finals next week? How could you beat the Enderdragon or finally gotten better at Ultrakill like you'd promised yourself months ago?
You still had so much to do, how could you have died on Friday?
And with that you drifted, mind reeling, trying to grapple with the idea of your life cut so short. Death was scary, and to think that it had grabbed you in another world, when you had so many hopes to fulfill and regrets left to settleâŠ
Bruce was snapping his fingers in front of your face when you finally connected your body and mind again. He had knelt down next to your chair, face pulled into something distinctly concerned.
His voice came back to you like waves crashing on a beach.
"(Name)âŠ."
"(Name) sweetheartâŠ."
"back to meâŠ."
"care of youâŠ."
"(Name)?"
"(Name)?"
You came back to yourself with the last call of your name, slightly louder than the others, only one question on your tongue.
"H-How did I die?" It was quiet, wavering so unlike the tone you'd had before.
You felt Jason's solid palm on your shoulder, a grounding weight as he answered somewhere above you.
"Scarecrow attack on the subway, you were one of the casualties. You were on your way to school when it happened."
Now things started to make senseâthe impromptu breakfast, Bruce's insistence that you miss school, the whole family coming together that night for dinner.
"But I didn't see it on the news?"
Dick's voice, so gentle, so forlorn, from across the table, "Nightwing and Red Hood managed to capture Scarecrow before sunrise. We had enough evidence of his plans to put him away before he could really hurt anyone."
Oh, well that made sense too.
The only thing that didn't make sense was why they were still taking care of you like this. Stopping the attack was one thing, and you could find it in you to be grateful that they saved your life. But then what was with the museum visit and the special dinner from Alfred and the careful nursing you back to health?
Maybe if they'd cared about you before, you'd understand, but they didn't.
Did you have to die for them to start caring?
That thought was devastating, like a big black hole opened up in the bottom of your ribcage and pulled your heart down down down. Your throat was tight, your eyes started to burn, your food churned uncomfortably in your stomach.
"I don't understand." God you felt like a little kid again, so far out of your depth, unable to keep up with the family you'd once considered your own.
Bruce was rubbing circles on the back of your hand, another grounding point.
"What don't you understand, sweetheart"
He'd called you sweetheart as a child. Among other pet namesâhoney, darling, bugâgod was it weird to hear them again.
"So what?" you really wished you could project confidence into your voice, desperate not to bear your neck to the world so easily.
Bruce's face contorted again, and your father looked so, so sad.
"Ask, honey, ask me what it is you're thinking. Let me in, let me fix what I've broken."
The others shuffled out of the room silently as you shook in your seat, leaving you and Bruce alone in the dining room. Later you'd appreciate it, but currently it felt like being trapped in the bullpen.
"You don't care. You never cared," you were parroting what you'd already said, but they meant something different now, something less cynical and more raw.
"Why is it that I had to die for you to speak to me. I-I don't know you anymore, not since you left me." The tears were flowing freely now, headache pounding at the pressure of your emotions, cascading over your cheeks.
"You left me! I was so young, and I needed you, and you left me! Why wasn't I enough? I would have done anything for you. I would have gone anywhere, worn any cape, been anything if it meant that you would just look at me."
Bruce was crestfallen, and it was with shocking clarity that you realized you could read him. You still knew him and after all these years you'd never forgotten what it felt like to understand him.
"I've been so alone in this house. I don't know anyone here. I fill the gaps myself, but god, Dad, I'm so tired. And I'm so alone."
Not many people could read Bruce Wayne, and you thought you'd left that club long ago, but evidently not.
It was in the pull of his brows, so alike your own.
It was the open grief in his eyes, ones you'd seen in another color in the mirror.
It was in the slump of his shoulders, the same ones you used to fall asleep on after galas.
"(Name)âŠI'm sorry. I'm sorry for a hundred things. I wish I could go back in time and beat some sense into myself. I wish I'd listened to Alfred when he told me I was doing the wrong thing."
Alfred? Alfred knew? Alfred cared? Another thing to unpack later.
Bruce continued on, determined, "But I have the rest of my life to offer you apologies, tonight I'm going to give you promises, ones I intend to keep."
You just kept sniffling, focusing on a spot on his collar instead of meeting his eyes.
"I promise I'm going to be there for you from now on. I'm going to fulfill my responsibilities as your father, and I will never let you go again."
Pause. Never? What an odd thought.
His words were constricting instead of comforting.
You wanted a father, but not one born out of guilt.
Your death had been thwarted, so why was there still the feeling of a collar tightening around your neck? You wanted to rebuild your relationship with Bruce, not be thrust into whatever echo of the past he saw when he looked at you.
"You're mine, not in the way that the others are, but in the way that you are. Do you understand, sweetheart? It's okay if you don't right now, it's been a long night."
No you didn't understand. What did that mean 'not in the way the others were'? It was a little strong for a promise made so easily.
You shook your head, uneasy with the 'promises' you'd been made.
He just pulled you into his chest, cradling you with one large hand on your neck, "Lets get you to bed, you're due for another round of painkillers soon."
"Don' want them," you groaned, the few times you'd woken up after taking Bruce's meds you'd felt a syrupy tug at the corners of your brain, hard to shake off.
A thought struck you, one you kicked yourself for not realizing before. And then you kicked yourself again because there was absolutely no way you were right about what you were thinking.
Bruce held you tighter, almost trying to fuse the two of you together, "I promised I'd take care of you, didn't I? That means not letting you neglect your health. You're taking medication tonight, and tomorrow when you wake up, we'll have a long conversation about certain changes that need to be made. But that's for when you're a little more up to it."
Medication schedule, huh? Two little pink pills that made you oh so sleepy? Blame it on the concussion addled haze in your head, but that was real fishy.
But Batman? Bruce Wayne? Doing what you thought he was doing?
NoâŠright?
And changes? What changes?
Warning bells, the same ones that rang when you'd first gone to brunch with your father, started ringing again, cutting through the rest of your thoughts.
Yes, you wanted changes, but not like this. Yes you wanted to reconnect with your family, but not like this. You didn't want to die. You didn't want to be concussed. You didn't want to feel like you couldn't breathe, caged in Bruce's arms.
"No more pink pills," you rasped out against his sternum, testing at the hold of your new restraints, "make me feel gross."
You might not be a Bat, but it was common sense not to willingly take sedatives, no matter how carefully presented to you.
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(A/n: Again, in all honesty, this chapter gave me a newfound appreciation for angst writers because omg is it hard to write a scene where a character's bearing open their heart without squirming uncomfortably in your seat. Anyway, as always, all feedback is appreciated and well loved!!!)
Synopsis: Waking up in one of your favorite shows is a dream come trueâ even if there are zombies everywhere. Hey, at least they donât seem to notice you AND you found an old Walkman with a ton of tapes!
By the time the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, you had developed a reluctant rhythm.
The herd moved.
You followed.
Part of it was practical. The walkers moved with surprising consistency, and keeping track of them was easier when you werenât constantly lagging behind. The other part was something that you were considerably less eager to acknowledge.
Curiosity.
You were terrified of the walkersâ that much hadnât changed.
Every instinct still recoiled at the sight of them. Years of consuming zombie-based media and basic common sense had thoroughly convinced you that standing anywhere near the undead was a bad idea.
However, the longer they ignored you, the more difficult it became to sustain that fear at its original intensity.
Only a few hours ago, you had been convinced that getting within twenty feet of a walker meant death. Now you found yourself walking close enough to distinguish individual faces.
It was a little concerning just how quickly youâd adapted to this⊠condition of yours.
You kept expecting your courage to fail. Every time you drifted a little nearer to the herd, your body tensed in anticipation of disaster. Yet the disaster never came.
The walkers just kept moving forward.
Eventually, you found yourself matching pace with one of them.
The corpse was an older man, or at least it had been at one point. Wisps of white hair still clung stubbornly to his scalp. A faded plaid shirt hung loosely from his frame, stained with dirt and other things you didnât want to think too hard on. One sleeve had been torn away completely, revealing a skeletal arm mottled with decay.
You couldnât stop staring.
On television, walkers always seemed interchangeable. Up close, individual details emerged.
This man had once chosen that shirt.
Someone had probably bought it for himâ a wife or a child, maybe.
Someone had known his name.
The thought settled like a stone in your chest.
Your gaze drifted to another walker nearby. This one appeared much younger. A woman in what looked like a nurseâs uniform shuffled through the grass some yards away. The fabric was soiled beyond recognition, but fragments of a hospital logo remained visible near the collar.
You wondered if she had worked during the outbreak, whether sheâd stayed behind trying to help people.
Whether she had family somewhere.
The questions came too easily and none of them had answers.
For the first time since arriving in this world, you found yourself studying the walkers for reasons unrelated to survival.
One limped badly on a ruined leg.
Another dragged a foot behind him.
A little girl wandered near the center of the herd clutching a filthy stuffed rabbit against her chest.
You looked away immediately.
All the knowledge in the world couldnât have prepared you for this. These werenât props covered in makeup, or people excited to be in the background of their favorite show.
They were the remains of human beings whose lives had ended in one of the worst ways imaginable.
As the herd reached the outskirts of a neighborhood, the sun had reached its final destination.
The light had softened considerably since the brutal heat of midday, painting the landscape in warm shades of gold and amber. Long shadows stretched across the ground, weaving between the walkers as they continued their steady march forward.
You found yourself paralleling them without consciously meaning to.
At some point, the herd had stopped feeling like an immediate threat and started feeling like a strange sort of constant. They were still unsettling to look at, and the smell lingered in the air whenever the wind shifted. Every now and then, you would catch sight of an especially gruesome injury and have to force yourself not to stare.
And yetâŠ
There was something oddly reassuring in their proximity.
There was no arguing, or demands made, or questions asked.
They simply moved.
Hour after hour, they shuffled onward with the same mindless determination, and after spending most of the day among them, you had begun adjusting to their presence.
It was something that probably should have alarmed you more than it did.
You walked alongside a woman who had likely been in her forties before her death. Most of her dark hair had fallen out, leaving uneven patches across her scalp, and the floral pattern on her dress had long since faded beneath layers of dirt and weathering.
She didnât acknowledge you.
You wondered if that would ever stop feeling strange.
Your gaze drifted ahead as the neighborhood came into view.
Rows of houses emerged beyond the trees, their rooftops visible above overgrown hedges and neglected lawns. Even from a distance, the place carried the familiar appearance of suburban America. Mailboxes stood beside cracked sidewalks, driveways stretched toward garages, tall trees lined the streets.
The sight stirred something unexpectedly painful in your chest.
They reminded you of home.
Not because they looked exactly like your own neighborhood, but because they belonged to the same world. The same civilization. The same life that had existed before everything fell apart.
The herd drifted into the neighborhood without hesitation.
Walkers spilled across the streets and sidewalks like a slow-moving river, weaving around abandoned vehicles and overgrown yards. A rusted bicycle lay forgotten near a driveway. One house still displayed the remnants of holiday decorations that had somehow survived months of exposure to the elements.
Your stomach growled.
The sound startled you enough that you glanced downward.
Right, food.
You hadnât eaten since arriving in this world, and your body was beginning to remind you of that fact with increasing urgency. Your throat remained dry and your muscles still ached from earlier. The initial surge of panic and adrenaline had faded hours ago, leaving behind a very tired, very hungry human being.
The houses surrounding you suddenly seemed far more interesting.
Some had broken windows while others appeared untouched. A few still had vehicles parked neatly in their driveways, as though the owners might return at any moment.
The sight sparked a thought.
If the herd had been moving through this area regularlyâ or even if large groups of walkers simply wandered nearbyâ then many survivors would likely avoid the neighborhood entirely.
The risk just wouldnât be worth it.
Clearing a house was one thingâ clearing a house while multiple walkers roamed the surrounding streets was something else entirely.
For the first time all day, genuine hope lightened your frame.
If you were right, there might still be supplies here. Food, medicine, water. The possibilities seemed almost too good to believe.
Your steps slowed as the herd continued onward.
Immediately, a surprising feeling tugged at your heart.
Reluctance.
The emotion caught you completely off guard. Objectively speaking, you should have been thrilled to leave.
You had spent damn near the entire day surrounded by flesh-eating monsters! Normal people did not become attached to zombie herds!
Yet as you watched them continue down the street, you felt a faint sense of unease.
The herd had become familiarâ safe.
At least, as safe as anything in this world could be.
Leaving meant stepping back into uncertainty. Leaving meant being alone again.
You paused before laughing softly.
Nope, you werenât going to think about it. If you didnât acknowledge the sinking feeling in your gut, it didnât exist.
Food first, mental breakdown later.
Drawing in a steadying breath, you stepped away from the herd and crossed the street.
The neighborhood lacked the obvious signs of repeated scavenging. There were no doors hanging from hinges, no smashed-in wallsâ no evidence that desperate survivors had stripped the houses bare.
Hope fluttered in your chest again.
Carefully, you made your way up the driveway of the nearest home.
The house itself was modest but charming. It was painted a soft shade of blue that reminded you of the sky on a sunny day. Flower beds bordered the front walkway, now overgrown with weeds and wild grass. A wooden rocking chair sat abandoned on the porch.
You lightly trailed your hand against the armrest of the chair, swallowing thickly as you did so.
Someone had once considered this place home.
You forced yourself to keep moving. You reached the front door and grabbed the bronze doorknob with a shaky grip.
The front door stood unlocked.
That fact alone told a story.
You couldnât imagine leaving your house unlocked under normal circumstances. Whatever had happened here had happened quickly. The owners had likely rushed out with only the things they could carry, fully expecting to return once the emergency ended.
Nobody had returned.
The interior was quiet as you crossed the threshold of the house. Not eerie, exactly. Just empty.
Dust coated the interior in a thin gray layer. Sunlight filtered through the windows, illuminating tiny particles that drifted lazily through the air. Family photographs decorated the walls of the hallway, smiling faces frozen in moments of happiness that felt impossibly distant now.
The pictures made this harder.
It was easier to think of abandoned houses as resources.
It was much harder when confronted with evidence that real people had once lived inside them.
The kitchen became your first target.
Mostly because food was your immediate priority, but also because focusing on a practical task prevented you from dwelling on everything else.
You gently pried the door to the pantry open and froze, your mouth falling open in shock.
The shelves were still stocked.
Rows of canned vegetables sat neatly arranged beside boxed pasta and bags of rice. Soup cans occupied an entire shelf. Crackers, peanut butter, oatmeal, and various other non-perishables remained untouched.
A smile stretched across your face before you could stop it.
âOh my god.â
Relief washed over you so suddenly that your knees nearly gave out.
You had prepared yourself to find scraps, a few overlooked items. Maybe enough food to survive a day or two if you were lucky.
Instead, you were looking at enough supplies to last for weeks.
âNo sane survivor would willingly search houses surrounded by walker herds.â
For the first time all day, you found yourself genuinely appreciating your absurd decision.
Following the herd had actually worked.
You quickly began removing items from the pantry, placing them in neat piles across the kitchen counter. Cans went together. Boxes went together. Anything remotely useful was carefully sorted into groups.
It wasnât until youâd accumulated an impressive mountain of supplies that a new problem occurred to you.
You had absolutely no way of carrying any of it.
You stared at the collection.
The collection stared back.
A loud groan reverberated from the back of your throat. You dragged a hand down your face, your eyebrows pinching together in frustration.
Of course it couldnât be that easy.
Leaving the food behind felt physically painful, but there was little point gathering supplies if you couldnât transport them.
You stepped away from the kitchen and began searching the house.
The living room yielded little beyond dusty furniture and more reminders that people had once lived here. A blanket remained draped over the arm of a recliner. A few books rested on a side table beside a pair of reading glasses.
You hurried past both.
The hallways led to four rooms. You chose the first one and stepped in.
The bed remained neatly made. Family photographs occupied the dresser. Sunlight spilled across the carpet through partially opened curtains.
For a moment, you just stood there.
There was something uniquely unsettling about bedrooms. More than every other room in a house, they felt personal. You pushed the discomfort aside and began checking the room.
It didnât take long for you to find what you were looking for.
Tucked near the back of the closet sat a large duffel bag.
The bag looked sturdy enough to carry a significant amount of weight. It was larger than anything you could have hoped to find.
You unzipped it and discovered a collection of colorful envelopes, folded paper decorations, and greeting cards stacked neatly inside.
For a moment, confusion replaced your excitement.
Then understanding followed.
Birthday cards.
Years worth of them, judging by the quantity.
You could have read them but you quickly squashed down the thought. Taking the bag already felt uncomfortable enough. Reading the cards would be crossing a line.
Carefully, you removed the contents and placed them in a tidy stack on a nearby shelf. You avoided looking too closely at the writing. A few colorful envelopes slipped loose during the process, revealing fragments of cheerful handwriting and cute stickers.
You ignored them.
Some things werenât yours.
The cards remained where you left them as a monument to people you would never know.
Once the bag was finally empty, you slung it over your shoulder and headed back toward the kitchen.
As you began carefully packing the cans and boxes into the duffel, a reluctant thought surfaced.
Maybe following the herd hadnât been the worst decision youâd ever made.
ââââââââââââââââ
Your shoulder was beginning to ache from the weight of the duffel bag.
The discomfort was worth it, though.
The bag was stuffed with canned food, bottled water, batteries, flashlights, spare clothes, and enough miscellaneous supplies to make you feel almost optimistic. Considering youâd arrived in this world with absolutely nothing, the transformation felt borderline miraculous.
Youâd already searched most of the houses.
The first had been terrifying.
The second had been awkward.
By the third, youâd accidentally started developing a system.
Kitchen first, medicine second, anything useful afterward.
Somewhere around house number five, you had also realized youâd begun talking to yourself.
Quite a lot, actually.
The discovery had been prompted by a walker wearing a wedding ring.
Youâd spotted it while crossing a driveway and spent nearly ten minutes wondering about the personâs life before abruptly catching yourself speaking your theories out loud.
The walker hadnât cared.
At one point, youâd even found yourself walking alongside a woman in a tattered yellow cardigan while discussing the merits of canned ravioli.
She didnât respond, obviously, but youâd like to think she agreed with you.
The house at the end of the street finally drew your attention away from your silent walking companion. You bid a quick farewell, to which she only groaned. Rude.
The house sat slightly apart from the others, partially hidden behind a collection of mature oak trees whose branches stretched over the roof like protective arms. The yard was overgrown, but less so than some of the neighboring properties. Ivy climbed one side of the house, softening the structures edges and making it feel oddly secluded.
Something about the place tugged at your memory. For a few seconds, you stood in the driveway trying to place it.
Then you shrugged.
Youâd spent years watching The Walking Dead. You were beginning to suspect that half the state of Georgia felt familiar now.
The front door was locked.
The discovery should not have been surprising, yet it frustrated you all the same.
You rattled the knob one last time before stepping back with a sigh. The windows proved no more cooperative. Whoever had lived here had made damn sure the place was locked tight before they left.
Alright then.
Improv has always been one of your strong suits.
Your gaze drifted toward one of the decorative rocks lining the porch, already weighing whether it was worth sacrificing a window, when something else caught your eye.
A squat little stone frog sat beside the front steps, grinning at you with the vacant optimism only lawn ornaments seem capable of.
Well⊠it couldnât hurt to try.
You crouched and lifted the statue.
Sure enough, tucked neatly beneath its stony ass sat a small brass key.
Thank god for cliches!
Sliding the frog aside, you snatched up the key and returned to the front door. It slipped into the lock with an almost disappointingly soft âclickâ.
And just like that, youâre in.
The door creaked open as you peeked your head inside.
Two walkers occupy the foyer. Neither seemed particularly interested in you. They barely spared you a glance before returning to⊠whatever it was walkers did when they werenât trying to eat somebody.
Fine by you.
You let them to whatever depressing hobby occupied the undead and headed straight for the kitchen.
Throwing open the pantry door, you fully expected to find shelves lined with canned food like the rest of the neighborhood.
Instead, a pair of spiders and several enthusiastic dust bunnies greet you.
The spiders scattered as you stared into the empty pantry, thoroughly betrayed.
âGuess I got too cockyâŠâ
With a sigh, you shut the pantry and started opening cupboards instead. No matter, surely there had to beâ
A single can of dog food on the shelf.
It somehow managed to look smug.
Huh.
Alright, so the kitchen is a bust. Go figure.
You trudged back through the foyer, brushing past the walkers with an exaggerated groan when one of them happened to turn its head in your direction.
âOh, donât start!â
Couldnât they see you were in the middle of a crisis?! Who knew when youâd stumble across another neighborhood this untouched?
Your footsteps echoed through the house as your search continued, each room somehow more disappointing than the last. By the time you climbed the stairs, your patience had all but vanished.
The second floor wasnât any better than the first!
Bedroom, bathroom, closetâ all useless!
Finally, you stopped in the doorway of what looked like a teenagers bedroom, your foot tapping impatiently against the hardwood floor.
Band posters plastered nearly every inch of the walls. Some you vaguely recognized, but most you didnât.
None of them held your attention for long.
NoâŠ
What caught your eye was the bulky old computer sitting on the desk beneath the window.
Your eyes lit up.
The thing was practically a museum exhibit! It still had the giant monitor box and everything!
You wandered over, looking it over with open curiosity. A tape-recorder sat precariously on the edge of the desk, while the keyboard was surrounded by multiple cassette tapes. A few had handwritten labels, but most were left blank.
You picked one up.
Across the faded strip of masking tape, someone had scribbled:
âPops Mix :Pâ
A smile tugged at your lips.
Your dad used to ramble for ages about how much of a pain making mixtapes had been back in the day. Sitting by the radio for hours, finger hovering over the record button, praying the DJ wouldnât start talking halfway through the songâŠ
So for some moody teenager to make one for their dadâŠ
They mustâve been close.
Carefully, you set the cassette back on the desk before sifting through the others. The labeled tapes followed much the same patternâ Momâs Road Trip Mix, Summer Songs, a few dedicated entirely to individual bands.
A whistle pushed past your pursed lips as you took it all in. This kid had been obsessed with music.
Then something else caught your eye.
Nestled innocently among the chaos sat a Walkman
A delighted squeal escaped before you could stop it.
You knew what a Walkman was, of course, but only because your dad had brought his old one out for you to gawk at. Theyâd gone out of style before you were even born!
You snatched it up like youâd just discovered buried treasure.
A pair of worn headphones was already plugged into it. You settled them over your ears, then spent the next minute squinting at the buttons with growing determination.
âCâmonâŠâ
The thing couldnât be that complicated!
Eventually, stubbornness won out and you pressed Play.
For one long, agonizing moment⊠nothing.
Then the cassette whirred to life and the blessed sound of music flooded your ears.
Your eyes widened when the song was something you knew.
â⊠The Wanderer?â
Youâd know that song anywhere!
Sure, it was decades older than you were, but after sinking an embarrassing number of hours into Fallout 4, hearing it felt strangely⊠comforting.
The familiar tune washes over you, filling a silence you hadnât noticed until now. Ever since you found yourself stranded in this nightmare of a universe, there had been no music.
Just groaning walkers.
You hadnât realized how much you missed it.
By the time the chorus rolled around, there was an undeniable spring in your step.
You gathered up the remaining cassettes, carefully slipping every labeled one into your duffel bag.
Your hand hovered over âPops Mix :Pâ.
Would taking that one be crossing a line? You didnât take the letters from the other house, why should this be any different?
You stared at it for a few quiet seconds before sighing and picking it up anyway. These tapes had been made with love. Leaving them here to gather dustâ or worse, rot away with the houseâ felt like the greater tragedy.
Once the cassettes were safely tucked away, you turned your attention to the rest of the room.
The closet was stocked with graphic tees and faded band shirts, but one in particular caught your eye.
A nearly pristine Transformers T-shirt.
You couldnât help but grin.
The Walking Dead never nailed down an exact year for the outbreak, but most fans agreed it kicked off sometime around 2010. If that theory held trueâŠ
The first couple of Michael Bayâs Transformers movies would have already been out.
Across the black cotton, Bumblebee posed triumphantly in bright yellow. Childlike glee fills your form as you grab the shirt. Little you would have killed for a shirt like this!
âIâm just gonna⊠take this.â
Your voice filled the empty room, but itâs not like you were expecting an answer. Still, your next words come out all the same.
âThank you.â
It felt silly talking to an empty house, even sillier thanking people who were almost certainly dead.
StillâŠ
You hopes they wouldâve understood.
Setting your duffel bag onto the floor, you peeled off your sweat-soaked shirt with a grimace. It clung stubbornly to your skin before finally coming free.
You send a silent âthank youâ to every god that you can think of that you decided to wear a sports bra instead of going commando.
The clean shirt slipped over your head a moment later, and you practically sighed in relief as fresh cotton settled against your skin. It wasnât just cleaner, it felt⊠normal.
For a few precious seconds, you could almost pretend you werenât scavenging through the apocalypse.
You clipped the Walkman onto the waistband of your jeans, settled the headphones over your ears once more, and slung your duffel bag back across your shoulder.
One room left.
You nudged open the doorâ and immediately stumbled back with a startled yelp.
A massive owl stared back at you, its golden eyes never blinking.
âOh.â
Your heartbeat slowly drifted back down from your throat.
The owl remained perfectly still, save for a slight puff of its feathers that managed to convey mild irritation.
ââŠsorry.â
You couldnât help yourself.
Owls had been one of your favorite animals ever since third grade. You still remembered sitting cross-legged on the classroom carpet while your teacher explained how silently they could fly. Eight-year-old you had been completely obsessed.
Standing only a few feet away from one now feltâŠ
Weirdly familiar.
Like there was something important sitting just beyond the edge of your memory. A frown tugged at your lips.
Slowly, you raised your hands in a placating gesture and crouched a little lower, trying to make yourself appear as unthreatening as possible.
âHey, buddyâŠâ
The owl regarded you with all the enthusiasm of an exhausted customer service worker, but it didnât fly away.
Small victories.
Music continued humming softly through your headphones as you closed the remaining distance one careful step at a time.
When you were finally close enough, you hesitated before slowly reaching out.
Your fingertips brushed impossibly soft feathers and you smiled.
The moment lasted exactly two heartbeats.
Something hard pressed into the center of your back.
Every muscle in your body locked and your breath caught in your throat.
Not a walker.
The ones downstairs wouldâve been moaning long before they reached you, and if theyâd somehow wandered up here, the bird wouldâve caught their attention first.
ThisâŠ
This was a person.
Before you could react, the headphones were ripped from your head. The music died, and a rough, gravel-worn voice spoke directly behind you.
âStay still.â
Cold metal dug harder between your shoulder blades.
Finally bringing the main cast into play! I was going to start with Reader finding Hershelâs farm, but I got lazy and decided to just jump headfirst into season 3 đ
You hummed softly as you brushed your hair in front of your vanity, setting the brush down once you were satisfied. For a long moment, you stared at your reflection, smoothing down the imaginary out of place hairs before skipping over to your wardrobe. A smile tugged at your lips, so wide your cheeks were beginning to ache. Caleb had called a few hours earlier to tell you he had planned a date for the two of you. Since then, youâd been tearing through your walk-in closet, trying on outfit after outfit. âToo simple⊠too flashy⊠trying too hard,â you muttered, sighing as you peeled off yet another dress and tossed it onto the growing pile of clothes littering the floor. In the middle of your fashion crisis, Alfred stepped into the room and took in the disaster. âMiss (Name), may I ask why your clothes are all over the floor?â You whipped around, clutching two dresses to your chest. âAlfred, which dress looks better?â
You turned around and held up two dresses for him to see. Alfred sighed softly before a small smile appeared on his face. You lifted the first one. âMiss, you look beautiful in everything.â âAlfred, not nowâwhich one?â you whined before holding up the second dress instead. âAre you trying to impress someone?â âNoâŠâ You answered a little too quickly. He raised an eyebrow at you. âHeâs just a friend,â you quickly deflected. After the last incident, Alfred had practically drilled you for the name of the person who left the âparting giftâ on your neck, but eventually dropped it because of your stubborn and secretive nature like father like daughter. You didnât want Alfred knowing you were going out with a boy. Honestly, you didnât want anyone in your family to know. It wasnât that you were embarrassed by Caleb. You just didnât want people questioning your relationship, especially with how popular he was compared to you. âThat (Outfit) looks beautiful,â Alfred finally said. You smiled brightly and turned toward the floor-length mirror, admiring your reflection. âIâm assuming youâll be out late?â he asked. âUh- yeah. Iâll be home before midnight.â âI believe you meant 9 PM sharp.â âNo? I saidââ âIf there is nothing else, Miss, I will be in the kitchen.â You rolled your eyes lightheartedly as he calmly walked out of the room.
After changing into your outfit, you applied a layer of lipstick/lip gloss and grabbed your purse. Just as you reached the door, you paused and turned back toward your vanity, opening your jewelry box. Your eyes lingered on the pearl necklace inside as you debated whether to wear it. After a moment of thought, you sighed softly and clasped it around your neck. Carefully making your way down the stairs in your heels, you headed toward the front door, only to stop when you saw Jason walking in. He looked you up and down, a frown settling on his face. âWhereâre you going?â You stared at him wide-eyed, caught off guard by the fact that he was even talking to you. âWhat?â âIâm asking where youâre going this late.â You sighed in annoyance and walked past him toward the door. âDoes it matter?â you muttered bitterly. â(Name), Can you stop being a fucking brat for one second?!â Jason snapped, his glare hardening as he grabbed your wrist tightly. Your face scrunched up in pain. âLet go! Whatâs wrong with you?!â
He snapped out of his trance and immediately let go of you, guilt flashing across his face. His heart dropped into his stomach the moment he saw the venomous glare in your eyes. âI-I didnât mean toâŠâ Before he could finish explaining, you hurried out the front door. âFuck,â he muttered under his breath. âJason? Why are you just standing there?â Tim asked as he walked into the room. Jason rubbed a hand over his face. âNothing⊠actually, do you know where Bruce is?â
Bruce stared at the large screen in front of him in the dreary Batcave, the harsh glow from the screen casting shadows across his tired face. His eyes stayed fixed on the photos from this weekâs crime scenes as he sighed in exhaustion. The patterns frustrated him to no end, whoever was behind this had managed to slip away the limited amount of evidence didnât help either, leaving almost nothing behind, and the inability to predict their next move was slowly driving him insane. Barbara wasnât doing much better either. She hadnât slept properly in days, endlessly clicking through files and footage while trying to piece together the breadcrumbs left behind. Suddenly, she paused, narrowing her eyes. âHey, Bruce⊠you might want to see this.â She pulled up footage of you on the massive screen. Bruceâs expression twisted in confusion before hardening. âWhat are you trying to say, Barbara?â âBefore you misunderstand,â she started carefully, âIâm saying maybe (Name) saw someone. From what weâve gathered, three days ago the body was alreadyââ
"Bruce!"
Jason stormed into the cave with Tim trailing behind him, confused and trying to calm him down. He slammed his fist onto the desk in front of Bruce. âI donât have time for this, Jason,â Bruce said coldly without looking up. âWhatever the problem is, it can wait.â âI didnât know (Name) was considered a problem now,â Jason shot back sarcastically. Bruceâs eyes snapped toward him sharply. âWhat now?â âCanât you see whatâs been happening? Sheâs been running around late at night with some boy!â he shouted. Tim stared at him like he had grown two heads. âDid you hit your head? Thereâs no way someoneâs actually willing to be her boyfriend. Sheâs gloomy all the time, and the way she smiles is sometimes kind of creepyââ His laugh was abruptly cut off when Jason grabbed him by the collar of his hoodie. âFinish that sentence. I dare you.â Barbara quickly stepped in before things escalated further. âLook, Jason, (Name) is at the age where sheâs going to start dating and meet other boys,â she said, âbut I have to agree with Tim. Thereâs no way sheâs secretly dating someone, or Damian wouldâve mentioned it by now or one of us wouldâve seen it by now.â
âI can confirm master Jasonâs words, master Barbra.â
Alfred entered the cave with Damian beside him. âWhatâs going on here, Father?â Bruce sighed tiredly. âItâs nothingââ âOf course youâd say that,â Jason snapped. âYou never gave two shits about (Name) before, did you?â Bruceâs expression darkened. âI am not having this conversation with you.â Jason let out a bitter laugh. âFor all we know, that guy could be dangerous or using her.â Damian raised an eyebrow slightly. âIs this about the new transfer student?â âYou know who Jasonâs talking about?â Tim asked. Damian crossed his arms. âThe new student has been suspiciously keeping an eye on (Name).â Bruceâs eyes narrowed instantly. âDefine suspiciously.â Damian tilted his head slightly.
<9:07 PM>
"C-Caleb," you moaned against his mouth, your back against the brick wall. Caleb had left purple bruises on your shoulder and neck. His hand reached up and gently tilted your chin, bringing your face toward his. "God, you're so beautiful," he whispered calmly, gradually closing the distance between you two. His arm wrapped around your waist, while the other hiked up to his upper thigh. He pulled you closer to deepen the kiss, slipping his tongue in. You tapped his shoulder, begging for some breathing room, which he reluctantly granted. He stared at your face, lipstick/lip gloss smudged across your delicate lips and a little on your cheeks, your hair disheveled, as were your clothes. You were almost terrified someone would identify you in such a scandalous predicament last thing you needed was to be on the headline of every new article and broadcast. Unfortunately Caleb couldn't care less whether anyone saw you; he could always get rid of them if it worried you so much, but right now his gaze was fixed solely on you. He thanked every being in the universe for sending the most ethereal women into his twisted, filthy hands.
You looked away shyly, but your gaze slowly drifted toward the back door of the restaurant, where the waitress had disappeared only moments ago. Your mood instantly soured as memories flashed through your mind of her shameless flirting with Caleb while acting like you didnât even exist. The thought alone made your stomach twist. Part of you wanted to follow her outside into the alleyway, with the steak knife she had handed you earlier for your meal. You imagined stepping quietly behind her before driving the blade into her heart with her blood squirting out and covering your face and dress, imagining the horror on her face and the pain in her eyes before the light disappeared from them completely, sinking into darkness. But heâd stopped you before you could act on your impulse. Last thing he needed was for his date to be ruined by someone dying here, especially their server, youâd be the first to be questioned afterward, it was obvious you didnât handle pressure well when your emotions took over. You tore your eyes away from the door. âCaleb, itâs getting late⊠Alfred will be mad if Iâm any later,â you murmured, remembering Alfredâs strict curfew. âNow?â Caleb asked, giving you a pathetic puppy-eyed look. You glanced at him apologetically. With a soft sigh, he finally loosened his hold and gently set you down before carefully fixing your hair, his thumb brushing over your lips.
You huffed out a breath and wiped the ruined lipstick/lip gloss from your lips with the back of your hand before trying to fixing your hair. Your glare lingered on the empty space as you zoned out, thoughts spiraling in your head. Caleb watched you carefully from the corner of his eye. âAre you jealous?â he teased. You blinked twice. âMe? Jealous?ââYou know, itâs okay if you are,â he teased softly, a small grin pulling at his lips. âNot that you have anything to worry about anyway. Youâre the only person I look at like that.â Your frown deepened. âIm not jealous!â you snapped loudly. Caleb stepped back slightly, clearly caught off guard by your sudden outburst. âA-alrightâŠâ he tried to comfort you. Your chest heaved with every sharp breath, âDonât patronize me! Not everything is about you!â The words spilled out from your mouth in one rushed breath. Caleb tried to calm you down, but you werenât having it. âIâm going home first. Donât you dare follow me.â He stood frozen in the alleyway, half shocked and half confused as he watched you storm off. Once you disappeared, he buried his face in his hand and let out a loud groan why did he even open his mouth.
You walked through the city on foot, not even bothering to call an Uber or wait for a bus. Calebâs words kept replaying in your head, refusing to leave you alone. Are you jealous? Pfft. Was he out of his mind?! ofcourseyouâretotallynotjealous! You bit the inside of your cheek raw as you aimlessly wandered down the sidewalk, your handbag loosely hanging from your shoulder while your other hand carried your heels. Crowds of people brushed past you, hurrying toward their next destination, some sparing you brief glances before continuing on with their lives. After what felt like forever, you finally reached the manor. Over two and a half hours later than you were supposed to be home, you cursed Caleb inwardly for taking you somewhere so far from home. You dragged yourself through the massive front doors, the soles of your feet aching as your toes curled slightly against the soft carpet after hours of walking on harsh concrete. Slowly, you made your way toward the grand staircase, only to freeze when you noticed your father standing at the top.
He took in your slightly disheveled appearance, his gaze lingering on your smudged makeup and the heels dangling from your hand. âDo you understand how late it is right now?â ââŠâ âGo to your room.â You rolled your eyes and muttered something under your breath as you walked past him. Once you reached your room, you tossed your heels onto the floor and stumbled toward your vanity, collapsing onto the cushioned stool with your head buried in your arms. A knock sounded against your door, but you stayed silent. Another knock followed before you heard a muffled, âIâm coming in!â Through the mirror, you watched Dick step into your room. You groaned quietly, inwardly rolling your eyes at the sight of him. âDo you need anything?â you sneered, already irritated from the night. Dick awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, clearly unsure of how to talk to you. After your mother died, he slowly distanced himself from you, throwing himself into being a vigilante at night and a police officer in BlĂŒdhaven during the day. Everything between the two of you changed after that your once tight knitted bond shattered although he likes to think differ. After all, she had been like a second mother to him, too. Catching your glare through the vanity mirror, he awkwardly coughed into his fist.
âHey⊠you okay?â ââŠâ Your eyes followed him as he sat down on your bed, staring at your disheveled figure with concern. âYou really shouldnât be outside right now⊠You know, with the new murderer going around.â Your heartbeat quickened for a split second, and you instinctively looked at Dick through the vanity mirror, only to quickly look away the moment your eyes met his. But your expression softened as your thoughts drifted back to the fight with Caleb. Guilt twisted in your chest. You knew he had only been trying to protect you, yet you threw a tantrum instead. He was right. You were jealous. You hated when other girls flirted with him at school, hated that you couldnât openly call him yours, hated the lingering fear that one day he might slip from your grasp and into someone elseâs. âIâm fineâŠâ You muttered quietly. â(Name), Iâve known you since the day you were born. I donât wanna watch you end up likeâŠâ His voice trailed off. You let out a slow sigh, knowing exactly who he meant, but stayed silent. The room slowly fell into an uncomfortable silence, neither of you knowing how to continue the conversation.
A faint knock echoed against your door. âWe need to talk. Now.â You already knew who it was and gave a small nod. Dick got up from your bed and stepped closer to Bruce, trying to mediate the situation. âBruce, give her a break.â âShe can speak for herself.â Heat crawled across your skin as your palms grew sweaty. âWhy did you go out without informing me, (Name)?â âI told AlfredâŠâ âAnd it seems he trusted you too much.â You blinked back your tears rapidly, desperately trying to stop them from falling. âI-I didnât mean to come home so late⊠I just⊠walked home andââ âYou walked home?!â Dick interrupted, staring at you in disbelief, while Bruce somehow looked even angrier, his expression turning cold. Realizing you had only made things worse, you immediately went quiet. âDo you understand how dangerous it is for you to walk home alone?â â...â âAnswer me when I'm talking to you.â ââŠYes.â âThen why did you do it?â Silence filled the room because even you didnât have an answer. âAs much as I want to defend you, (Name), Bruce is right,â Dick said quietly. You bit down harshly on your lip, trying to suppress the sob threatening to escape. âAnother student was found dead while you were outsideââ
âthey found Lizzy? but how...I thought Caleb got rid of herâ
You whimpered softly, struggling to find your voice before finally breaking down into tears. ââThat couldâve been you!â Bruce snapped. âFrom now on, youâre being homeschooled.â âY-You canât do that! Then I wonât be able to see him!â you cried out desperately. Bruce sighed in disappointment at your words he didnât believe Jason or Damian but to hear it from you made it worse were you really going to throw your life away just to go on a date with some guy? With your high status youâd be the first person to taken as a hostage or get killed. He couldnât wrap his head around the fact you had made such a reckless decision, you were never like this before where is this behavior coming from? Did the boy corrupt your innocent mindâ âYOU NEVER CARED ABOUT ME BEFORE!â Dick visibly flinched at your words. Deep down, he knew there was some truth behind them, but hearing them out loud felt like a knife being driven straight through his chest. Bruce didnât look any better as he stood there, staring at his daughter sobbing in front of him.
âGet out, get out, get outâGET OUT!â you screamed out in one breath. â(Name), breathe. We can talk this out after you calm down a little, okay, pipsqueak?â Dick said cautiously. You gritted your teeth at the nickname. How dare he use that name after everything heâd done? That name didnât belong to you anymore⊠no, it belonged to Damian now. A choked laugh escaped your throat as you grabbed the hand mirror from your vanity and swung it straight at Dickâs head in anger. The glass shattered on impact, pieces scattering across the floor while shards embedded themselves into his skin, blood immediately trickling down his face. Dick stumbled back slightly and touched the side of his head, staring at the blood coating his fingers in shock. Bruce eyes widened slightly in shock quickly moved toward him to make sure he was alright before turning toward you, but he didnât yell or even react. Instead, he silently guided Dick out of your room. He didn't even bother to look at you before leaving your room with dick.
You let out a hollowed-out chuckle before it turned into hysterical laughter. You never felt so alive, that shock on his and Bruce's faces made you feel better in a sickly twisted way. If this was their reaction to something so small, you wondered how much worse it would be once you finally got rid of them for good. Bruce on the other hand who heard your psychotic laugh from the distance couldn't help but be reminded of the Joker, who has the same manic laughter echoing in his mind ever since he started terrorizing Gotham, a pit formed in his stomach but he didnât know why there was nothing to worry about this was just a phase. While dick looked shocked that his baby sister would raise her hand against him of all people. Sure he couldâve predicted that any of his other siblings would be bold enough to harm him, especially Damian, whoâd covered him in stab wounds from his katana when they first met...but you? Why would you do that unprovoked...Sure, he hadnât been there for you lately, but between being a vigilante and working in BlĂŒdhaven, he convinced himself he was trying his best. At the end of the day, he was still your brother. Nausea twisted in his stomach as he hurried toward his room brushing off Bruce, leaving him standing alone. âMaster Bruce, are you alright?â ââŠwhat am I doing wrong Alfred..what would she do in my placeâŠâ
A/N: OMG FINALLY I FINISHED THIS CHAPTER, be warned (Name might start to become more unhinged and unstable later on. I also want to thank everyoneâs patience and support for this story, it really means a lot to me that people are enjoying my writing. Whenever I wanted to quit writing this story, I always remembered that some people are really looking forward to seeing the story progress, which gets me motivated.
A/N: Again, I will not have a set schedule, so I have ZERO idea when the next one is coming out since I didnât even start writing it lol.
A/N: As always, please comment your thoughts and comments. I love love love reading them, it motivates me A LOT. Idk if some of you guys read my announcement post, but Iâve been hit with writer's block, and Iâm slowly, but surely getting through it. Iâm finding myself itching to write more and quickly finish this before moving on to a new story. I will absolutely not start a new project until I finish this one, so I wonât have any distractions or be overwhelmed with writing multiple things at the same time.
A/N: As for the face for Caleb, I'll leave that to your imagination. I won't go into too much detail, so I don't shatter the fantasy of whoever you're imagining, but I will be describing basic stuff.
A/N: Also, let me know what some of YOUR predictions for the future chapters are
A/N: like always I hope you guys have a wonderful time scrolling, and I hope to see you sooner or later!
PreYandere!Prince was completely blinded by his own narrative. He fancied himself a tragic hero, a romantic rebel forced by his kingdom into an arranged marriage with you, while his "true love," a beautiful, sweet-natured court lady, was forced to watch from the sidelines. He decided from day one that you were the villain of his story, a parasitic royal who was actively stealing his freedom, and he treated you with absolute, freezing contempt.
You tried so hard in the beginning. You brought him his favorite tea during his strategy meetings, learned the history of his duchy, and genuinely tried to bridge the gap between you two. But he didn't just ignore you; he made sure everyone else knew you were unloved. Whenever you spoke to him in public, he would look right through you, turning his back to talk to his court lady instead, leaving you standing alone under the whispers of the entire aristocracy.
The turning point happened at a grand ball. After a princess purposely stepped on the train of your dress, causing the fabric to rip and sending you crashing to the marble floor in front of foreign dignitaries, you looked up through your tears at him. He didn't offer a hand. He just looked disgusted by the "scene" you were making. That was the exact moment something inside you snapped. You realized you were bleeding yourself dry for a man who enjoyed watching you suffer.
You didn't cry on the carriage ride back. You went straight to your father, the King, knelt before his throne, and begged him to cancel the engagement. You confessed everything: the bullying, the public humiliation, the total lack of respect. Your father was absolutely furious. The political alliance was instantly severed, and a formal declaration was sent to the princeâs kingdom, effectively cutting off all ties and declaring that you were completely free from him.
The day the alliance was dissolved, PreYandere!Prince thought he won. He finally had his "true love" sitting right next to him at his private tea table, no longer hidden in the shadows. But as the hours ticked by, a sickening, hollow feeling started to settle in his chest. His court lady was speaking to him, smiling her usual sweet smile, but he couldn't focus on a single word she was saying. His eyes kept darting to the empty chair across from him the chair where you used to sit, quietly enduring his coldness just to be near him.
The regret sets in like a slow-acting poison, and itâs quickly twisting into a dark, unhinged obsession. He goes to the training grounds, but you aren't there waiting with a towel. He walks the palace corridors, but there are no clumsy, anxious footsteps trying to keep pace with his. He sits through a boring council meeting, and for the first time, no one brings him his specific tea. He realizes, with a sudden, terrifying spike in his pulse, that your warmth wasn't an annoyance it was the only thing keeping his cold world alive. And he threw it away.
PreYandere!Prince tries to find comfort in his "true love," but the illusion has completely shattered. When she spills a drink by accident, his mind instantly flashes back to the way he watched people pour water on you, and a wave of violent, nauseating guilt hits him so hard he has to leave the room. He doesn't want her anymore. He doesn't care about his rebellion. His mind is completely consumed by the memory of your tear-filled eyes looking up at him from the ballroom floor. The yandere switch is officially flipping; he doesn't care that the marriage is cancelled, and he doesn't care that you hate him. He is going to get you back, even if he has to drag your kingdom into a war to do it.
Yandere!Prince completely loses his mind the second he realizes your absence isn't temporary. The cold, empty silence of his palace drives him into a frantic panic. Within forty-eight hours of the engagement being canceled, he sits at his desk and begins writing. He doesn't just send an apology; he sends three letters a day, every single day, bypassing the standard royal couriers and hiring private, high-speed riders just to force his words into your palace.
The content of his letters shifts from desperate apologies to unhinged, possessive gaslighting. He completely rewrites history in his head. He writes pages upon pages detailing how the bullying was just a "test" of your devotion, or how he was only being cold to "protect you from political enemies." He will write things like, "I only let them spill that water so I could see how gracefully you would handle adversity, my love. You must understand that it was all out of adoration."
Yandere!Prince treats your lack of a response as a playful game of hide-and-seek rather than a total rejection. When your fatherâs royal guards intercept his letters and burn them, he just sends more through black-market contacts or smugglers. He begins attaching expensive, rare gifts to the wax-sealed envelopesâantique jewelry, your favorite tea leaves from foreign lands, and vials of his own cologne so you "don't forget his scent." He writes, "I know you are just hurting right now, but a princess should not keep her future king waiting for too long."
Yandere!Prince "true love" has completely discarded the court lady and now terrifies her. She tries to comfort him or sit at his desk, but he will literally snap at her, his eyes wild and bloodshot as he shoves her away to continue writing to you. He looks at her and feels nothing but disgust because she isn't you. If she speaks, he tells her to be quiet because he "needs to concentrate on making amends with his real spouse."
Yandere!Prince starts sending letters directly to your father, the King, offering insane, highly unfavorable political concessions just to get the marriage contract back on the table. He offers to give up disputed territories, pay massive tributes, and sign away his own kingdom's rights to its resources. His own councilors think he has lost his mind, but he doesn't care about his kingdom anymore. He tells his father, "If we do not secure this alliance, there will be no kingdom left to rule, because I will burn it down myself."
The letters get progressively darker and more threatening as the weeks go by without a reply. The elegant cursive font becomes messy, frantic, and stained with drops of ink (and sometimes his own tears). He starts tracking your daily routine through spies he placed in your kingdom, writing things that prove heâs watching you: "I saw that you wore the blue silk dress to the garden yesterday. It suits you, but it would look better on the balcony of my estate. Do not make me come drag you back myself, my sweet."
Yandere!Prince final letters stop asking for the marriage to continue and start stating it as an absolute, terrifying fact. He writes to you with the chilling certainty of a man who has completely detached from reality. "The priests have already set the date. The chapel is being decorated with your favorite lilies. Your father thinks a piece of paper canceled our souls, but you belong to me. Pack your things, my love. I am coming to collect my bride, and no army on earth is going to stand in my way."
"I know you are just hurting right now, but a princess should not keep her future king waiting for too long."
"I am coming to collect my bride, and no army on earth is going to stand in my way."
This is so good!? Enemies to lovers, except she doesn't want him and he's obsessed.
He's so going to get her back with a whole army, ready to destroy whatever gets in his way and I love it.
Summary: One day Earving leaves and a stranger comes back wearing his suit.
(implied kidnapping, non con touching, yandere, dark content, delusional behavior, i had this idea since the fourth season came out and im finally able to put it on paper so sorry if this doesnt make sense i wrote this all in 20 minutes, takes place before after s3 but before s4)
You know heâs back from the dull thump right outside.Â
Itâs the longest heâs been gone, you muse to yourself while you hear the keys jingle through the door. A little more than a month, if you counted the days right. Usually, his missions were barely a week or two long before he was right next to you, silently staring and watching.Â
Youâve been with Earving for years now. You should be used to it. And yet, it takes a while to calm down your heartbeat and settle your nerves. You silently practice your smile as his footsteps get closer and closer.Â
Despite your unease, you were glad he came back. You were starting to run out of food.Â
The front door gives a dull creak and heavy footsteps echo across wooden floors. You fix your hair and prepare to step out and greet him. You already know whatâs about to happen. Heâs going to stare and not speak and stare and stare. For the rest of the evening, you will feel eyes rake down your back and your skin and you will pretend it will be fine like always.Â
You step out of the bedroom and into the living room. Earving is standing, fully masked as always, delicately holding a scarf youâd left out the day prior. He looks like heâs seeing it for the first time even though he was the one who gifted it to you.Â
He jolts at your voice.Â
âWelcome backââÂ
âWho the fuck are you?âÂ
Five minutes later, youâre starting to piece together this Black Noir isnât Earving.Â
Even before he spoke, you should have seen the signs. Heâs usually so quiet when he comes inside, you barely hear footsteps before heâs right next to you. He never jolts or flinches or sways. Earvingâs movements are often robotic and machine-like.Â
The talking however, is the biggest giveaway.Â
â-So, this guy lives in some creepy-ass bunker and he also has some random living with him, too? The lack of direction in this role. Iâm telling you.âÂ
You quietly sit on the sofa as Not-Earving paces around the living room. You hadnât spoken, partially because you were trying to figure things out yourself and why this Not-Earving was in the role your captor once had.Â
âYouâre an actor?â You finally decided on. It was the first thing you pieced together from his ramblings.Â
He pauses his pacing. You can feel him stare at you through the mask. Instinctively, you shift your eyes down.Â
âUh, yeah,â he finally says, seeming to calm down. âVought hired me to replace him butâŠI gottaâ be honest. The more I learn about the guy, the more confused I get andâhold on do you mind if IââÂ
He pulls off his mask with a relieved sigh.Â
You stare. You didnât mean to stare. You couldnât help himself. Earving was always so secretive of his face. He never took off his mask, not even with you. Some nights, when the lights were off and you were half-asleep, you swear the face pressed into your neck was unclothed and marred on one sideâlike a bad burn.Â
âThatâs so much better,â he says. âNo idea how anyone breathed in that thing. I still canât believe they made me cover up my face. Itâs the money-maker.âÂ
He was handsome. You couldnât deny it. If you saw him in the street, you might have wanted to track him down and beg for his phone number. You wondered if Earving was that type of handsome.Â
âDo you know what happened to him?â You ask. âTo Earving, I mean.âÂ
He looks at you. âThatâs his name?â He makes a face. âI didnât even know he had a name. Everything about this guy is a complete mystery. No one told me why he lives in a Dojo apartment at Vought. Is he Japanese? Am I supposed to learn Japanese?âÂ
âIt was a marketing tactic,â you find yourself saying, âVought thought his brand would be more cohesive, with the suit and all that.âÂ
You used to live at the Vought apartment, in the beginning. You should have appreciated how nice you had it back then. It was a cage, just like this bunker, but you had a semblance of freedom. You would see hints of people that werenât just your captor. The city would glow right underneath you. Earving moved you when Homelander complained about hearing you cry through the walls at night.Â
Compared to the apartment, the bunker is plainer, sparser. Itâs like an empty dorm that hasnât been decorated yet. Plain and sterile and so much like Noir once acted.Â
The Noir II stares at you. You fiddle with your thumbs.Â
âYou know a lot about this guy,â he says. âTell me about him. Whatâs he like? What are his hobbies? What does he do for fun?âÂ
âWhat?â You say, dumbly.Â
âI have no idea who this guy is.â He complained. âI need some type of guidanceâsomething to know Iâm doing the role justice.âÂ
You want to ask for his help. You want to ask him to get that chip Earving put in your neck all those years ago. You want to ask him to call the police.Â
When you glance down, you see the dagger Earving liked to play with strapped right on Noir II hip. It was bloody.Â
You swallow.Â
âOkay. IâŠokay.âÂ
~Â
Noir II was more punctual than Earving.Â
He was typically back in the evenings, unlike his predecessor, whoâd often spend nights away. Perhaps itâs because Noir II wasnât a trained assassin sent around the globe to carry out Voughtâs dirty work.Â
That thought gave you more relief. If he was a lot less dangerous than Earving, you shouldnât be as afraid, then.Â
Noir II was more friendly. This should be easier then, right? Noir II was constantly talking and talking, and he consistently said he got berated for it by the other Supes. He was nicer.Â
Truth be told, you tried to have this discussion with him numerous times. Each time youâd try, your words would fail, your throat would simmer back in your chest. Noir II would talk about how annoying Ashley was or how he hated the newest team up and you would sit there and nod.Â
A part of you tried to dismiss his avoidance of the topic as obliviousness. Maybe he genuinely didnât realize what was happening? Maybe he didnât know you were here against your will? He never once asked what Earving was doing keeping you down here, if you wanted to go outside. After all, itâs not like you were kept in chains or screaming for help.Â
Yeah, he was just oblivious. Youâd talk to him about it, today.Â
You wouldnât fumble around anymore. Tonight would be the last night you stayed in this damn bunker.Â
âI really gottaâ thank you,â Noir II says later that night. âI think Iâm finally reaching a breakthrough to really get this character.â
His mask was off, but he was in his usual black armor as he talked to you. You were in the kitchen, working on dinner. Earving preferred less strenuous foods. Plain, for nourishment only. Canned beans, slightly stale bread. Something he can eat and get energy from.Â
Noir II liked richer foods. Some days, heâd bring home pizza or take out. He brought groceries on other days. You were able to play around with fresh fruit and vegetables rather than canned food and nearly expired bread.Â
It is a nice gesture, but you want to buy your own groceries and make your own purchases.Â
You want to go home.Â
You steel your nerves and place down the knife. The onion rests on the cutting board, abandoned.Â
âSeriously,â he continues, âHomelander hasnât yelled at me in likeâŠa month. Thatâs crazy.âÂ
You feign a smile.Â
âIâm glad,â you respond, âIâmâŠhappy things worked out for you.âÂ
He's saying something about how he finally worked things out with upper management, when you canât hold back any longer.Â
âNoir?â You ask. It felt wrong on your tongue.Â
âJustin.â You speak his real name. He stills at your voice.Â
You adjust your shoulder, baring your neck.Â
âThereâs thisâŠchip right below my neck.â You werenât awake when Earving put it in, but you could feel it in the weeks after. Even your body knew how foreign it was. âIt shocks me if I get close to the door. Could you maybeâŠremove it?âÂ
He says nothing. For once, youâre the one rambling.Â
âIf you canât, thenâŠcould you call my family? The police? Orâor maybe the people at Vought. Iâll sign as many NDAs as they want me to. Iâll never breathe a word about this. I justâŠI just want to leave. Please?âÂ
You could almost taste it on your tongue. Freedom was a door away, and NoirâJustin could make it happen for you. He wasnât like Earving, he wasnât likeâ
âWhy?âÂ
His head was tilted like a child with idle curiosity watching an ant.Â
Something dies inside your chest. Your smile becomes more forced.Â
You give a helpless shrug. âI want to leave,â you finally say the words out loud, âI want to go home back to my family. IâI donât even think they know if Iâm alive. JustâŠâÂ
He cracks his neck. You can hear the pop, clear as day inside the still and silent bunker. Â
âBut, why?â He repeats. âThings are going so well for us right now. My career is skyrocketing. People love our act.âÂ
âAct?â You repeat. âButâbut Iâm not acting this isââÂ
Kidnapping, torture, dehumanization. Whatever words you wanted to say died in your throat the moment he took his first step to you. Then another. Then another. Youâre forced to press up against the counter, shrinking against him.Â
Heâs taller than Earving. Not by much, but itâs easier to see when heâs inches away from you like this. A gloved handâEarvingâs glovesâ reaches out to softly touch your face, tracing the side of your cheek.Â
âBack at God U, my favorite performing arts professor had this really neat trick to get us warmed up. He told us to have a thing that kept us grounded, but something your character would also keep. It could be an eraser, an action figure. I think for meâŠthat thing is you.âÂ
Your vision blurred, but you think he started to smile.Â
âI think you were that thing to him, too. I mean, why else would he keep you? This shithole has nothing but a few drawings and then..you. Thatâs got to mean something, right? I think it does.âÂ
You can hear your heartbeat. It pounds through his ears. You wonder if he can hear it too. You wonder if he can see every emotion flickering through your eyes as you silently plead him to let you go.Â
âI think Iâm starting to get it now.â Fingers trace down to your throat. A thumb pressure just below where the chip would be. âI thinkâŠIâm really starting to get it.âÂ
Thereâs a hitched breath before heâs turning away. He shakes his head with a laugh. You remain in your position, curled up in the counter as you stare at him.Â
âFuck.â He curses, but he doesnât sound upset. âWe messed up the scene.âÂ
âThe sceneâŠ?â You ask, warily.Â
âIâm not supposed to speak, remember?â He reminds you. âAnd you arenât supposed to call me that name.âÂ
Black Noir dons his mask, straightening it across his face. He backs away.Â
âOkay,â he says, âWeâre gonna redo that part
if infinite monkeys on typewriters will eventually write shakespeare then surely 100 million americans with pistols will eventually successfully assassinate the us president
Every time your thoughts started to form, they spiraledâ fast, sharp, and unforgivingâ straight into you are not in your world anymore and you gave yourself Superman powers like an absolute idiot.
So, you didnât think. You just breathed, slow and steady, like that might somehow anchor you in place.
âThis is fine,â you said out loud, because apparently saying it made it more believable. âPeople wake up in alternate realities all the time. Totally normal. Happens everyââ
Your reflection moved.
You froze mid-sentence, your body going rigid as your eyes slowly drifted toward the wardrobe mirror across the room. There you wereâ standing exactly where you should be with that âdeer-in-headlightsâ lookâ but something about it felt⊠off.
â⊠thatâs not rightâŠâ
You took a cautious step closer, as if the mirror might betray you if you moved too quickly.
It didnât, just like the floor didnât crack when you moved. Still, better safe than sorry.
The mirror just stood there, reflecting you back with quiet, unwavering honesty.
Except⊠it wasnât quite you.
You were taller. Not dramatically so, but enough that it threw everything off. Your eye level sat higher than it should be, your proportions just slightly stretched in a way that made you feel like youâd been shifted half an inch out of alignment.
Your shoulders were broader, too. Your posture naturally straighter, like your body had decided slouching was no longer something it tolerated.
Which was something you dreaded if you were to pull off the whole âClark Kentâ persona thingâ
You looked stronger.
Not bulky, or exaggeratedâ just built.
Like every part of you had been refined into something sturdier, something denser. Something that could take a hit and keep standing.
For the second time in an only a few minutes, your stomach dropped straight out of your ass.
âOh my god, I got buff.â
Your hands came up immediately, patting at your arms, your sides, your waist, like you were checking to make sure everything was still attached properly.
Spoiler alert: you were not pulled apart and put back together again like some sort of Frankenstein experiment. Your nose shape was still the same, your lips still had the same pull as before, shitâ even your hip dips remained!
Still, it was unnerving to see all these familiar features on an unfamiliar body.
Everything felt solid (R.I.P to the soft pudge on your stomach, you will be missed). Real. Warm beneath your touch.
ââŠOkay,â you said faintly, trying to keep your voice steady. âOkay, thatâsâ fine. Thatâs fine, I can work with this. I canââ
Something brushed against your brow.
You stilled.
And finally, your gaze rested on the one small thing that really drove the âoh-my-god-Iâm-fucking-Supermanâ idea home.
A single curl of hair, resting perfectly, deliberately, across your forehead.
You stared at it.
You pushed it back. It fell forward again.
You blinked, then pushed it back again, harder this time. It bounced right back into place like it had something to prove.
âNo,â you said firmly, like this was the one thing you could not stand with. âAbsolutely not. I refuse. I reject this. I did not sign up for branding.â
The curl, evidently, disagreed.
It stayed exactly where it was, like it paid rent.
After a stunted pause where you had to heavily resist the urge to march into the kitchen to grab a pair of scissors and snip this damn thing offâ
You leaned closer to the mirror, narrowing your eyes at your own reflection. ââŠOkay, butââ you tilted your head slightly, studying yourself from a different angle. ââwhy does it kind of work?â
You straightened a little, almost unconsciously. Your shoulders squared, your posture shifted, and something about the way you held yourself changed in an instant. You plastered on a brilliantly bright smile, andâ oh my god, are those dimples?!
âHold onââ
You turned slightly, then the other way, taking yourself in from different angles. There was something undeniably different about your presence now.
Something that made even standing still feel intentionalâ like you occupied space in a way you never had before.
ââŠI mean,â you said slowly, âif Iâm going to be stuck like thisâŠâ
Your gaze drifted downward as you shifted to see yourself from a side angle. A smug grin pulls at your lips once you see the buff increase also applied to your ass.
â⊠it could be worse.â
The moment lingered for just a second too long before your expression flattened entirely.
âFocus,â you told yourself sharply. âThis is not the time to be hot and mysterious! This is the time to panic correctly.â
With that, you tore yourself away from the mirror (not without sending one last look at your behindâ holy shit, even your back is ripped!) and started pacing the room. Every step was carefulâ you didnât trust your own strength not to betray you if you got careless.
âOkay, so,â you muttered, ticking points off on your fingers. âNew body. Super strength. Super senses. Probably the rest of the package too. Thatâsâ great. Love that. Big fan.â
Your gaze swept the roomâ and then stopped.
There, sitting on a small desk near the wall, was a phone. Plugged into a charger. Completely normal. Completely out of place.
Your breath caught.
You rushed toward it, then forced yourself to slow down halfway there, visibly reining yourself in. âCareful,â you whispered under your breath. âGentle. You are no longer allowed to run.â
A bit strict, yeah, but you canât run (ha) the risk of accidentally slamming through the wall and giving the neighbors a fright.
You pick up the phone like it might explode.
It didnât.
(Maybe you should stop being such a pussy and realize that not everything is going to crack under youâ maybe. Hopefully.)
The screen lit up instantly. No lock screen. Not even a password.
ââŠSuspicious,â you muttered, eyeing the thing like Cecil-fucking-Stedman might pop out and ask threaten you to join his team. That obviously doesnât happen so you allow yourself to relaxâ only slightly though, because that old man is more slick than a greased up eelâ
Your thumb hovered for a moment before tapping the screen. The display flickered to life, showing the time, the batteryâ and then the date.
You nearly gagged at the sudden information presented before you.
February 26th, 2021.
One month before the events of Invincible start to take place. One month before Mark Grayson gets his powers. One month before Nolan Grayson murders the Guardians of the Globe and breaks the trust of everyone around him.
Youâre gonna be sick.
You lean closer, as if the proximity might somehow change what youâre seeing.
It didnât.
The date remained exactly the same. One month before everything.
Your thoughts came too fast now, tumbling over each other.
Cities reduced to rubble.
Blood stained concrete.
That trainâ
You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head like you could dislodge the images.
âNope! Nope, weâre not thinking about that.â
But you already were.
Because you already knew how bad it would get. You knew who was coming, what was comingâ and now you were here, with powers that practically screamed Viltrumite-Level-Threat! Might as well write it across your forehead in bright red marker.
Worst of all, you have no idea how to use your fucking powers! Youâve been dropped in this absolute hellscape with no control, no training, and absolutely no clue on what youâre supposed to do.
Your breathing quickened.
âI canâtâ I canât do this,â you muttered, your voice unsteady. âIâm not a hero, I watched this from a couch. With snacks. I didnât sign up toââ
A sharp ping cuts through your thoughts.
You suppress the urge to send your head through the nearest wall.
The air at your right side shimmered.
âCome the fuck onââ
Light fractured across empty space, assembling itself piece by piece until the now-familiar screen snapped into existence.
But this timeâ
It looked different.
Not just a floating messageâ a full interface.
Clean lines. Structured panels. Soft glowing borders that felt less like something divine and more like something ripped straight out of a video game HUD.
Text scrolled in smoothly, accompanied by a quiet chime.
[SYSTEM ONLINE]
USER SYNCHRONIZATION: Complete
POWER SET INTEGRATION: Stable
Welcome, PLAYER
You stared at the word.
ââŠPlayer?â you echoed faintly. âOh, thatâs notâ no. I donât like that. That implies mechanics. I donât want mechanics.â
The interface did not care.
A new panel slid open to the side with a soft, satisfying click.
[PRIMARY DIRECTIVE INITIALIZED]
The text beneath it appeared one line at a time.
Objective: Establish Hero Identity
Time Limit: 30 Days
Requirements:
Gain Public Trust
Gain Recognition from Active Heroes
Achieve Positive Standing with Global Defense Agency
Your pulse spiked.
ââŠExcuse me?!â
Another line appeared.
Failure Condition:
Classification as Unregistered Threat.
Silence filled the room.
Your mouth opened slightly.
Closed.
Opened again.
âOh, so youâre not even pretending this is optional.â
A soft ding responded as another panel slid into place.
[DAILY QUEST: HEROIC ENGAGEMENT]
Description: A hero is defined by action. Passive observation will result in failure.
Objectives:
Intervene in 1 Civilian Incident (0/1)
Prevent Property Damage or Injury (0/1)
Maintain Controlled Use of Power (0/1)
Optional Bonus:
Positive Civilian Reaction Recorded (0/1)
Rewards:
+1 Reputation (Local)
+1 Control
System Guidance Unlocked
Failure Penalty:
Negative Reputation Modifier
Increased Surveillance Risk
You blinked at the screen.
ââŠYou want me to go outside?â
[CONFIRMED]
ââŠAnd do hero work.â
[CONFIRMED]
You let out a short, breathless laugh, dragging a hand down your face. âIn the Invincible universe. The one where people get obliterated. Thatâs the one you picked.â
The interface remained perfectly still.
Unbothered.
Unmoved by your plight.
Your hand slices through the air, the screen only flickering briefly in response. Your lips curl up in a snarl as you continuously try to swipe the screen away, the words remaining unchanged.
Your other hand came up, swiping harder, more frantic. Again. Again. Again.
âGo awayâ!â
Your voice broke completely now, rising with panic as you tried to shove it aside, to push it out of your space, your life.
âStop itâ justâ stop!â
Your hands cut uselessly through light.
The interface didnât move.
Didnât even react.
[QUEST TRACKING ACTIVE]
âSTOP!â
The shout tore itself free from your throat, raw and desperate, echoing off of the walls.
Silence.
Your arms dropped.
The fight drained out of your body like someone had pulled a plug.
You stood there for a second longer, shaking, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Your vision blurred, the room warping at the edges as tears spilled over before you could stop them.
âIâm notâ Iâm not supposed to be hereâŠâ
That was the worst part.
Not the powers.
Not the System.
Not even the month.
The quiet, suffocating realization that everything familiar was gone.
Your home.
Your life.
Your mom.
Even the person in the mirror didnât feel like you anymore.
âI donât evenâ,â your breath stuttered, shoulders starting to shake as you pressed a hand to your face, trying and failing to hold it together. âThis isnât my bodyâŠâ
The words came out in a broken whisper.
âI donâtâ this isnât mine.â
Your knees gave out before you really registered it.
You sank to the floor hard, catching yourself just enough not to crack the tile beneath you, curling in on yourself like you could somehow make all of this smaller.
Manageable.
It didnât work.
Tears slipped freely now, hot and relentless. Your breathing uneven as panic bled into every inhale you took.
Fear.
You were scared.
âI donât want to do this,â you whimpered, the words barely audible even to your sensitive ears. âWhy me?â
The question hung in the air.
Your fingers curled weakly against the floor, your body still trembling as everything finally set in all at onceâ the reality, the responsibility, the impossible expectation sitting just inches from your face in the form of that damned screen.
It didnât care.
Of course it didnât.
It just hovered there.
Patient.
Waiting.
[OBJECTIVE REMAINS ACTIVE]
ââŠYeah,â you whispered hoarsely, tears still slipping down your face. You make no move to wipe them away, your hollow gaze fixed on the glowing screen. âOf course it does.â
You let your head fall forward to rest against your arm, eyes squeezing shut like that might block it all out.
It didnâtâŠ
Nothing did.
After a whileâ seconds, minutes, you didnât knowâ your breathing started to slow. Not steady, your throat still caught every so often.
Just⊠less jagged.
You didnât get back up.
Didnât argue again.
Didnât try to swipe the screen away.
You just laid there on the floor, feeling small in a body that felt too strong for you, staring at nothing as the weight of everything settled in.
You didnât bother denying it anymoreâ this was real, and no amount of screaming or crying was going to change that.
âââââââ
The System had the decency to let you wallow in self pity for another half hour. You stayed slumped on the floor, your tears having dried out a while ago. A petulant pout stuck itself to your face as your body trembled just enough to remind you that you were still alive.
You let yourself breathe, small, shaky breaths, trying to convince yourself that the world hadnât completely collapsedâ just your personal world, your body, your future.
A sharp ding cut through the quiet.
You raised your head, fully prepared to cuss the System out for interrupting your little pity party.
The HUD glimmered again, impossibly bright in the dim room.
[SIDE QUEST ASSIGNED]
Your stomach lurched.
Objective: Prepare for Your First Day at the Daily Planet
Description: You are to integrate into your designated occupation to establish a cover identity.
Requirements:
Don professional attire suitable for office duties.
Arrive at workplace before 9:00AM
Maintain composure during first interactions with colleagues
Rewards:
+Reputation (Local)
+Public Recognition
+ [DAILY PLANET] Fondness
Your jaw dropped.
The world snapped into sharp focus. Your pity party evaporated instantly, mind racing as adrenaline floods your veins.
âNo, no, no, no, no!â you shouted, scrambling to your feet. The room seemed impossibly small all of a sudden, furniture threatening to block your path as you made a mad dash towards the wardrobe.
Your hands gripped the glass knobs of the doors and flung them open, eyes darting across hangers and drawers.
Clothes. You needed clothes. Work clothes.
Your fingers flew over shirts, jackets, skirts, slacks, your mind moving faster than your body as you tried to find something professional. Fuck, you worked as a god damn librarian in your past life where the only dress code was to be dressed! You had no idea what shirt went with what skirt, or if heels are the only acceptable footwear.
You needed to find something professional, something you could survive wearing. Something that wouldnât scream alien monstrosity disguised as human.
You yanked out a crisp white button-up and froze, staring at it. ââŠI⊠can I wear this? Is this evenâ does this even fit this stupid body?!â
Of course it fit.
Your new body was built differently, and the shirt clung in all the wrongâand rightâ places, but there was no time to freak out over it. You shoved it on, fumbling with the buttons, muttering curses under your breath the whole time.
You grabbed a blazer next, a pair of slacks, shoesâ black flats that looked fairly comfortableâ and tried to assemble an outfit that wouldnât stick out too much.
All the while, the Systemâs screen stayed stubbornly by your side. It displayed a clock that was slowly ticking down to 9:00AM.
One hand mussed up your hair as the other adjusted the collar of the shirt for the third time in thirty seconds.
You carefully played with the strands to hide the pronounced curl that still fucking refused to blend in with the rest of itâ
âOh!â
A pair of light red glasses stared up at you innocently, like they werenât the one thing that pulled this whole thing off. You paid no mind to how perfectly they were placed or how they fit the curve of your faceâ you were just happy that this whole thing might not go up in flames yet.
The System made sure to have you grab a lanyard and a briefcase, both tucked neatly by the front door.
The door slammed shut behind you as you rushed out into the hallway, almost crushing some poor guy against the wall.
âSorry,â you called out over your shoulder, already speed-walking down the hall. âIn a rush!â
The man grumbled some curses after you but you couldnât make them out properly over the racing of your own heart.
Synopsis: You wake up in the bloody world of the Iliad, a fate youâd never wish upon your worst enemy. Though youâre desperate to go back home, being the captive of Lord Achilles makes your journey a bit harder than necessary (Dark!Iliad Isekai)
credits to @somewhatsunshiny cuz she cleared up so much stuff about the greek mythos. ty bestie youre the best<3
(Warnings: Misogyny, mentioned rape/noncon(not done to reader), reader has colored hair, kidnapping, slavery, murder, sacrifices, violence, child labor, dark content, yandere, terrible greek translation, Achilles is a bad person) You don't need to read the Iliad to read this....mostly cuz i butcher both the illiad+greek mythology
Part four: Death Song (WC: 11.3k)
Previous Chapter All Chapters Next Chapter(coming soon)
When you wake up, it all feels like a bad dream.Â
You never fell into a 3,000-year-old story. You were never captured and forced to witness men slay hundreds in the name of glory. A demigod with golden hair remained behind inked words and pages, unable to touch you.Â
Sunlight wakes you up; you probably forgot to close the blinds last night. You languish against bedsheets that oddly feel heavier than usual. Itâs instinct to reach out for your phone, eager to reconnect with the rest of the globe.Â
Your hand remains empty, and you finally open your eyes.Â
The tent remains the same. Expansive and filled with armor and weapons that glint and shine with danger. Outside, you can hear the murmurs of Achaean men as they carry on their day. Your nightmare slowly ebbs back into your vision, real and just as terrifying as ever.Â
It takes you a minute to recognize the two figures hovering beside the mountain of pelts. They sit side by side, heads and arms resting on the bed. They were so still, you wrongly assumed they were asleep.Â
You gently tap Naaryaâs shoulder. She startles with a jump.Â
Her face is a mess of snot and tears. Before you can wipe them away, sheâs jumping up, hands outstretched to examine your face. Warm palms cup your face with gentleness you cannot expect from a child.Â
â΀ÏÎ±Ï ÎŒÎ±ÏίαÏ?â She calls with a scratchy voice.Â
âIâm fine. Iâm not hurt.â You respond, reaching up to rub calming circles into her wrists. âÎÏÎčâŠÎ€ÏÎ±Ï ÎŒÎ±ÏίαÏâÂ
Her question about injuries reminds you of the pain in your feet. You ran barefoot last night, too panicked to grab shoes, too panicked to think about anything. You were reduced to the thinking of your rodent-like ancestors, running away even if it didnât make sense, even if you ran straight into a fire, run away.Â
And now, you were definitely fucked.Â
Naaryaâs crying again. You coo her into your embrace, uncaring if she dampened your chitons. She crawls into your lap, as you gently pet her hair. Beside you, Pysusâ face remains dry and grim, but her eyes are shiny. When you reach out to offer her your hand, sheâs quick to grab it, almost like itâs her only lifeline.Â
When you go to move, something stops your legs from stretching out all the way.Â
Chains. Glinting metal clung to your feet. You bent your foot forward, then backward.Â
You reach down to touch it. Itâs cool against your fingers. The chain did not budge.Â
You were still here, however. Stuck with the Myrmidons, not with Agamemnon and his men. It meant you were either wrong about your place in the story or someone else had taken your place.Â
Briseis was nowhere to be seen.Â
You can always count on her to say the right things to Naarya, to make the scowl on Pysusâ face brighten. All four of you were trapped here, but she always made things a tiny bit better. She made the flame's burn hurt less.Â
Agamemnon must have taken her when you fled, or he always had his sights on her. The method didnât matter. She was gone now, youâd failed to escape, and the story had righted itself despite your collision.Â
You still want to ask, even though you already know the answer. Naarya sniffles into your shoulder as you cradle her. You lean to Pysus.Â
âBriseis?â You ask. âWhereâŠ?âÂ
Pysusâs head glances down. Her voice is shaky, and she refuses to look at you.Â
âÎΔÎșÏÏÏ.â Her voice comes out muffled, but you hear her clearly. Itâs one of the few words you recognize.Â
âWhat?â For a moment, you forget they canât understand English.Â
âPysus, what do you mean?â You demand, pushing on her shoulder. âWhat do you mean sheâs dead?âÂ
Pysus does not answer, even as you continue to shake her, your voice growing more and more erratic. Naaryaâs cries ring in your ears.Â
Dead. She is dead. You clutch onto Naaryaâs body. Pysusâ nails dig into your soft skin, but you hold on anyway. You should be screaming over the grief, but maybe your brain hasnât gotten up yet.Â
All you can think is that death doesnât suit Briseis.Â
~
With both the language barrier and the girlâs reluctance, you still donât know the details of Briseisâ death.Â
It happened shortly after Agamemnonâs men took her away. There was some type of attack. Numerous men died. A handful of women died, too.
Briseis was one of them.Â
You just donât understand why. You donât remember any attack like this happening in the Iliad. It couldnât have been you, could it? Your intrusions have been minimal at most, unless your mere existence alone was causing some kind of butterfly effect.Â
But things have always been off; you noticed this ever since you came into this world.Â
Itâs as though the story was breaking somehow.Â
You donât know why youâre even wondering about this. It wonât change anything. Briseis was dead, and you didnât know how to fix that.Â
You wanted to at least see her body. You wanted to feel her hair one last time, see her beautiful face. Would they burn her, or was that just reserved for warriors? Would her body just be abandoned to the forest, left to rot?Â
You wanted to see her, but you doubt Achilles would let you have such a luxury.Â
You hadnât seen the warrior at all today, something you were eternally grateful for. You can still remember the glint in his eyes as he stared down at you, hands poised, ready to strike. You thought he was going to kill you.Â
You arenât sure why he didnât.Â
You saw Patroclus once.Â
It was a few hours after the girls left, when you were still coming to terms with her being gone. He came in when you were crying, curled up on the pelts because there was nowhere else to go. There was a gentle hand on your shoulder. You startle, before your eyes lock onto soft brown eyes.Â
Thereâs no smile on his face. His face is solemn, completely blank. Out of the two men, you always thought Patroclus was the easiest to read. But maybe that wasnât right. Achilles flares out like fire, constantly burning and boiling, but he wears his emotions right on his sleeve. Patroclus, with a softer tone, isnât as vibrant, and maybe you read that as a clear, shallow river, instead of a murky lake.Â
He doesnât say anything, not that his words would matter. He simply set down the plate he held in his arms. He was serving you, a task beneath the warrior. You know this because it was you who used to serve him.Â
He leaves in that same unreadable silence, and you havenât seen him since. All his presence did was make you more anxious for the arrival of Achilles.Â
He is an inevitable storm. Youâd never escape him, especially not now with the chain that encircles your ankle.Â
The chain links are thick. You can barely wrap your fingers around the width. And yet, it's as light as a feather. You can barely feel it when youâre still.Â
But when you rise, when you make a move towards the tent entrance, it suddenly feels like a weight is dropped on top of you. It presses itself down on your chest, halting your movements. It becomes a struggle to even breathe.Â
Clearly, itâs no ordinary chain.Â
Your mind travels to Thetis.Â
The mother of Achilles. The sea nymph. After he loses Briseis, Achilles goes to her in the Poem and asks her to make sure the Greeks start to lose against the Trojans, just so they know how much they need him. It couldnât be too far off to consider that he might have asked for an extra gift.Â
Briseis. Even when you try not to, your mind always comes back to her.Â
Usually, whenever someone falls into a book they love, they try their best to change the bad outcome. They try to save everyone.Â
You, however, just make things worse. Achilles is even madder than before, the girls have lost their protector, and Briseis is dead. All because of you and your cowardice.Â
You lost Briseis, just as you lost Desmache.Â
You always thought Desmache was the most similar to Naarya, but really, itâs Briseis and Desmache that share the most similarities. They were both girls who held the same curiosity in their eyes when they looked at you. They were both girls who tried to reach out to your heart and understand you. They were both girls who died for it.Â
Desmache was the lesson, but Briseis was the true test. You failed both.Â
The chain rattles as you bring your legs closer to your body, curling up so you can hide from the watchful skies.Â
The funniest thought occurs to you.Â
You never asked Briseis what her favorite flower was.Â
You never asked Briseis if she liked lotuses more than carnations. You never asked her if she preferred bright hibiscus or mild touch-me-nots. You never asked if she enjoyed the smell of honeysuckles in the summer.Â
You never asked Briseis what her favorite flower was, and youâll never find out.Â
~
He comes back, eventually.Â
It was towards the evening. Candlelight became more and more prominent in the tent while the shadows grew.Â
Heâs usually loud when he walks. His armor clinks and jostles. His sword clangs next to his side. His cape makes some type of flutter. Heâs dramatic with his entrances; you can almost always hear him coming from a mile away.Â
Achilles enters the tent in silence.Â
You knew it was coming. You always knew it. And yet, you feel your throat close up when he looks at you. Apart from the pleated chiton, he comes bare. Thereâs no sword or shield.Â
He holds no weapon in his hands, just his lyre.Â
Thereâs no anger on his face. He doesnât hiss any hateful words towards you. He simply takes a seat next to you on top of the soft pelts.Â
His thighs touch your own. You donât move away. Instead, you watch him play.Â
He plucks one string. Then another.Â
You recognize it. Not the song itself, but rather, the meaning. Itâs a happy song, holding notes that depict bright, cloudless skies and wide Great Plains.Â
You can hear the low tones of a mother as she plays with her children. Her youngest son is the easiest to find. She manages to find him under a flowering bush with bright pink flowers. Her second youngest crouches behind the hut, smiling widely as her mother continues to look for her. She squeals in delight when her mother reaches out to grab her.Â
Itâs the oldest that always gave her the most trouble. He always picks the places she could not think of. They find him eventually. He hid behind his father, who kept absolutely still so as not disturb the game.Â
Itâs a nice song, different from anything Achilles has ever played before. Maybe itâs because, this time, he is not playing for himself.Â
The song ends. The laughing family disappears, as do the rolling plains. You blink, and youâre back in the tent, shackled by your captor.Â
Achilles places the lyre down, leaving it propped up by his feet. You suddenly realize he hasnât looked at you since he entered.Â
âÎÎčαÏÎŻ ÎÏÏ ÎłÎ”Ï ÏÏÎÏÎżÎœÏÎ±Ï ÎŒÎ±ÎșÏÎčÎŹ ÎŒÎżÏ ?â His voice is feather-light. You never knew he could speak so softly. âÎΔΜ ÎźÎŒÎżÏ Îœ Î”Ï ÎłÎ”ÎœÎčÎșÏÏ ÎŒÎ±Î¶ÎŻ ÏÎżÏ ?â ÎÎźÏÏÏ ÏÎżÏ ÏÎÏΞηÎșα ÎŹÎŽÎčÎșα?âÂ
âIâm sorry.â You can only say.Â
He responds with nothing because there is nothing to say. Instead, Achilles leans over. He rests your head on your shoulder. His golden hair brushes against your neck, tickling your cheek. His scent isnât tainted by the blood and the death he craves so much. He smells like the rolling sea, like the waves that crash into rocks, like the breeze that gently kisses the shore.Â
He lightly reaches down to your ankle, where your chains remain. Achilles slightly lifts the chains up before dropping them back.Â
A part of you genuinely wants to know what heâs saying.Â
The other part just wants to hear him play again.Â
~
You think you hate the smell of cardamom.Â
Its scent only reminds you of Desmache and that hut you spent a few leisure weeks in. Any time you smell it now, youâre only reminded of the loss you had. The loss you continue to have every day since that massecre.Â
The dynamics of camp change.Â
You expected it. Briseisâ vibrant energy kept you grounded in a way. Now that she was gone, you finally realized how gray and uncolored this world was. Itâs colder now, too.
(It makes you think sheâd like speedwell flowers the most. Their presence in the forest is tiny, but you can feel their disappearance.)Â
Her disappearance hasn't faded away. Itâs a hole within the story, one you keep stumbling over time and time again.Â
When Achilles deems it, the chain lengthens, and youâre able to traverse a small boundary. He must not think youâre sick anymore because youâre given chores again. This time, instead of resenting the work, you embrace it. Itâs the only thing that distracts you from the hole.Â
You work outside the tent, but not often. The looks the soldiers give you have changed. Usually, they wouldnât look at you at all, or you would see terror gleam through their eyes. Today, the tiny glimpses they do give you are angry.
(There are fewer ships in the ocean.)Â
Pysus has also pulled away, to an extent. She greets you, she smiles at you, but thereâs this barrier youâve never felt before. Sheâs farther away now. You think itâs because of the loss of Briseis.Â
If she blamed you, you wouldnât blame her.Â
Naarya is one of the few who remain the same with you. Sheâs even more clingier than before, and it makes sense. Briseis was like a mother to her, soft and kind and gentle. Now, sheâs finding comfort wherever she can.Â
âÎÏΔÏΔ ÎČΔλÏÎčÏΞΔί!â Naarya tells you as you hand her yet another finished pleated cloth. They wilted next to her own, but you have to agree with her. You were steadily getting better.Â
âItâs the only thing I did for weeks.â You tell her. âIt makes sense Iâd improve.âÂ
âÎίλα ΔλληΜÎčÎșÎŹ, ÏΔ ÏαÏαÎșαλÏ.â Naarya reminds you because she doesnât know what English is.Â
âÎșαλÏÏΔÏαâŠÏÎ±ÎœÎŻâŠÏÏÎčÎŹÏÎœÏ.â Youâre cut off by her laugh.Â
No, you agree, your Greek is terrible. You have to smile alongside her.Â
Your eyes catch movement just then. Another soldier walks by. Your gaze shifts back to Naarya because you donât recognise him at first.Â
And then, the world freezes.Â
Naarya stops laughing. Sheâs asking you whatâs wrong, but you canât answer her. You can only stare as he continues to get further and further away.Â
Heâs the one who killed Desmache.Â
You remember it so clearly. She, twitching on the floor, convulsing because the spear broke her back. Her wide eyes refuse to leave yours. The way her breaths grew weaker and weaker as you held tightly onto her hand.
Youâre rising before you even realize it. You take one step, then another. The chains weigh on your legs. Something starts to crush your chest but you donât care.Â
He turns to face you just as you lunge.Â
Someone stops you. Then another. Men are shouting and yelling, Naarya is crying, but theyâre all drowned out by the blood pumping in your ears. Someone grabs your shoulders, pushing you down. Your knees fall against the dirt. You donât realize youâve been screaming until your voice grows hoarse.Â
He clearly remembers you. You can see it within his eyes.Â
He just doesnât remember what he did to her.Â
âIâll fucking kill you.â You repeat over and over as the crowd grows more panicked. âIâll fucking kill you.âÂ
You never break eye-contact with him, even as youâre picked up by a nameless soldier and dragged back to the tent of Achilles. You memorise everything about him: his clothes, his hair, his eyes.Â
The soldiers are yelling over each other as youâre thrown onto the pelts all over again. The chain tightens in response, rendering you immobile. You see Naarya amongst them, trying to push through the crowd, trying to get to you but it doesnât snap you out of it. Nothing does, not even when the soldiers leave, or when Naaryaâs terrified voice dies down.Â
Youâve woken up. The reality is hitting you once again. You can still feel the warm blood of Desmache on your hands, even though you begged her not to go. And then, you were captured and taken by men who see women as nothing more than cattle. Achilles was a murderer. He was a murderer and a killer who gladly drenched himself in the blood of his rivals all in the name of glory. And yet, you sympathised with a murdererâ a rapist. Patroclus who smiled down at you so nicely was also just as monstrous. You were the one who killed Briseis. Her blood caked your skin just as much as Desmacheâs.Â
Youâre stumbling throughout the tent as the voices of you grow louder and louder. Youâd do anything to make it stop, anything to make the pain go away. Your hands reach for the candle still flickering with a flameâ
"I wouldn't do that if I were you." A voice warns. "Burnt hair smells horrible."Â
Your soul crashes back into your body. Your fingers pull back from the candle.Â
Heâs smiling at you, sitting across the pelts, his chin resting on his arm. You donât recognise him, but you know him. A blindfold covers his eyes, but you can tell heâs looking at you. The winged helmet sits perfectly on top of his head. His tunic looked to be made of soft silk, something a mortal would never even dream of wearing on the battlefield.Â
âYouââ Your voice dies. He takes it in stride.Â
âYeah, I know.â Hermes flips his air dramatically. âMost are stunned by my presence. Itâs a curse more than a blessing.âÂ
Itâs emotional whiplash. You felt so much just a few seconds earlier, but now youâre completely blank. Your mind is still playing catch-up, so you manage to blurt out the first thing you can think of.Â
âYou know English?âÂ
The God laughs at that. "I'm the God of language." He grins. "I know all the languages humanity has and will ever create: Past, Present, and Future."Â
And then he scrutinises you. âWell, I donât think we can call you a time-traveler, now, can we? Itâs more like you came from another world.âÂ
âYes!â You lean forward because this is the first time anyone has ever acknowledged it. âIâI am! How? How did youâIâm sorry.â You draw back. âItâsâItâs just been so long since Iâve actually talked to someone without having to mime, orâorââÂ
âI get it.â Hermes cuts you off. He leans back against the pelts, stretching himself out. âMan, these are really soft! Do you sleep on these every day? Lucky.âÂ
You know Gods exist in this world, but you hadnât expected to meet one so quickly. Moreover, you hadnât expected your first meeting to go likeâŠthis.Â
âHow do you know Iâm from another world?â You ask. Your cheeks feel damp. You wipe the moisture away. Have you been crying?Â
âIâm a God.â Comes his answer.Â
âDoes that mean the other Gods know too?â You press.Â
âI wouldnât mention the other Gods, if I were you.â He chides you. âTheyâre still pretty pissed at you for the whole âfaking being Persephoneâs daughterâ thing. But I got most of âem off your back.âÂ
âThe Gods are upset at meââ Wait, did he just say people thought you were Persephoneâs daughter?Â
âButâbut I thought everyone assumed I was Aphroditeâs daughter?â You weakly argue.Â
âCâmon!â He laughs. âDo you really think people would treat you the same if they thought you were her kid? Youâd be gonzo.âÂ
You feel like an idiot. Of course, that made sense. Everyone feared you not because of Aphrodite, but because you were associated with the Goddess of Spring and the Underworld.Â
And that raised more concerns. You know enough about Persephone to realize it's a bad thing to be associated with her. If you were worried about Aphroditeâs wrath on your impersonation, you would highly doubt Persephone would give you a garland of flowers.Â
Speaking of flowers.Â
âThat was you, right?â You ask him. âYou left that crocus flower for me.âÂ
âDing ding.â Hermes chirps.Â
âBut why?âÂ
He flips himself on his stomach to stare at you. The blindfold still obscures his face, so you donât know where to look.Â
âYouâre kind of a mess,â Hermes finally says. âI mean, youâve only been here for a few months, and youâve already managed to derail pretty much everything..âÂ
You wilt at his words and he only laughs.Â
âBut Iâm also impressed.â He continues. âYouâre the only one whoâs made it this far.âÂ
You squint at his words. What did he say?Â
âStill, itâs definitely not ok with how much youâre changing just by existing. Some key people were killed off.â
You think of Briseis and your eyes flutter down.Â
âNot just her, actually.â Hermes interjects your moping. âAgamemnon, Diomede, even the Lesser Ajax all went down yesterday.âÂ
âWait, what?â You never heard of this happening. You only knew of Briseisâ passing.Â
âYeah, itâs pretty bad.â Hermes laughs, absolutely thrilled by the mention of bloodshed. âThe Greeks are supposed to be losing, but theyâre not supposed to be losing this badly. Itâs honestly really impressive youâre able to kill off all these characters like that. Not even the war-mongering one did this much damage.âÂ
He talks past you and you absolutely hate it. Despite speaking the same language you do, you canât catch on to a word he says.Â
âYou already know I donât belong here, right? In this world?â You press. âHow can I get back to my own world?âÂ
The question youâd always wanted to ask ever since you got here. Hermes barely wastes a second.Â
âOh, you canât.âÂ
Your heart drops.
 âWhat?â No no no. âWhat do you mean âI canâtââÂ
He shrugs, clearly not paying attention to your growing panic. âYou canât leave, not when everything is broken. Ripped out pages. Words burned off the page. Itâs all a complete mess and itâd take a lot to fix..âÂ
No, this canât be happening. Youâd deluded yourself into thinking if you could just talk to a God, you could figure out how to escape. All that plan accomplished was proving how futile escape is.Â
You suddenly process Hermesâ words. His smile only grows wider as the silence continues to grow.Â
âWhy are you talking like this world is a book?â You ask.Â
He lifts himself off the pelts. You stay absolutely still as he moves closer, until your noses nearly touch.Â
âWhy are you?âÂ
A switch flips. You jerk back, and Hermes laughs again.Â
âWell, this has been fun, but weâre running out of time.â He makes a face, before brightening up again.âBut, since youâve been so entertaining Iâve decided to give you two gifts.âÂ
You give a blank stare. He ignores it.Â
âThe firstââ He reaches out with his fingers. You receive a harsh flick on your forehead.Â
You scuttle back, clutching your head. âOw! What theââ
ââAnd second.â You crack your eyes open to see what he was holding.Â
A small glass vial. It could fit perfectly within your palm. It carried a purple liquid that shimmered when it caught the light.
âThis.â Hermes answers before you can even ask. His voice has simmered, but you could almost taste the glee that still resounds within his tone. âPretty effective, in my opinion. All your victim has to do is drink it andâpoofâoff they go to the underworld with the others.âÂ
He leans closer, you can feel his breath on your cheek.Â
âThat little soldier you arenât a fan of.â He murmurs into your ear. âDonât you wanna fulfill that promise to him?âÂ
You clutch the bottle. Itâs heavy underneath your fingers.Â
âPoison?â You ask. He just grins wider.Â
âLetâs hope you make the right choice with that,â he cheerily chirps. âWell, âgotta go! See you later, maybe.âÂ
âWhat?â You panic. He canât go now. You have too many questions. âWait, please justââÂ
âToodles!â He disappears and you grab onto air.Â
Youâre alone, again. For a half-second you wonder if you just hallucinated. It would make sense, considering the mental breakdown you just had.Â
Speaking of, what even was that? Youâd never felt something like that before. Was it a panic attack? You looked down at your fingers. Earlier, they were erratic and shaking. Now, your entire body is calmer than ever.Â
You woke up. You distinctly remember thinking that.Â
The vial remains solid on your fingers. Itâs the sole proof you had that he wasnât a hallucination, but the things Hermes said left you more questions than answers. He knew things you hadnât expected him to, and he seems to be aware this world is a story in your world.Â
He said you were the first one who got this far.Â
Your head hurts. Itâs like your energy was zapped away all at once.Â
You canât rest. Not when Achilles is around.Â
He comes through the tent like a storm, with Naarya and Patroclus by his side. Thereâs anger burned yet again through his eyes. He must have already heard what happened. You wanted to tune his shoutings out like you usually did, but then he spoke andâ
ââTell me what happened with those men.â Achilles demands. âA skirmish occurred with what was mine and yet I was not told immediately?âÂ
âI am filled with apologies, My Lord!â Naarya cries. âBut I am unable to tell what occurred! She had risen so fiercely I was unable to restrain her as she lunged for those men with such vengeance! I had never seen such behavior come from her being.âÂ
âPerhaps the group of men said such an insult which she could not digest.â Patroclus comes through, ever the placater as you read him to be. âWe should call them and ask their thoughts.âÂ
They continue to bicker amongst themselves, trying to piece together the story they only knew fragments of. You wonder if they always did this, stating theories out of feeble observations. You watch them for minutes before your mouth catches up with your brain.Â
âAreâŠare you guys speaking English right now?âÂ
They all freeze. Three pairs of eyes turn to look at you. You suddenly realize how stupid that statement was. They werenât speaking English.Â
You were speaking Greek.Â
You reach up, feeling your lips. Your words, your thoughts all feel the same, yet somehow, they all have changed.Â
Hermes promised you two gifts, didnât he?Â
âYouâŠyou spoke so clearly. As a native would.â Patroclus breaks the silence. âDo you understand the words we speak?âÂ
You nod.Â
âI can understand you.âÂ
Naarya reacts second.Â
She squeals so loudly it nearly ruptures your eardrums. The girl bounds up to you with a glee only a kid her age could have. Her eyes sparkle as she reaches for your cheeks. You wince as she squishes them.Â
âA miracle!â She speaks, pressing into you, her initial hysteria forgotten.âA miracle of the gods! Can you really speak our language now? Say something! Speak!âÂ
âUh, hello?â You try. âNaarya, could you please stop pinching me? It hurtsââ
Another squeal, but it hurts even more because sheâs right in your face. She blabbers even faster, voice going up octaves.Â
For whatever reason, your eyes drift to the two men, searching.Â
Achilles is gone, only Patroclus remains. You donât know how to feel about that.Â
Naarya is urging you off your feet alongside her.Â
âWe must hurry! Pysus would be so pleased with this revelation! As would Briseisââ Her excitement wanes. You almost wished she was back to hurting you.Â
You pat your cheek, trying to distract her. She returns your smile, but itâs stiff.Â
âWho gave you such a gift?â Patroclus wonders.Â
You hesitate, unsure if you should reveal your secret so soon. Unconsciously, you find yourself squeezing the vial hidden inside your fist.Â
Naarya is more than happy to suggest her own theories.Â
âDoes it come from your Mother-God?â She wonders.Â
Itâs not lying if you donât give a verbal answer, right? You smile, and Naarya is more than happy to accept. You donât look up to see Patroclusâ reaction. You already know he wonât believe you.Â
Much to your relief, he doesnât comment on your obvious deceit. Instead, he is silent as he watches you interact with Naarya.Â
Her gaze softens, as does her touch. She pats your shoulder expectantly.Â
âWill you answer me, then?â She asks. âEarlier, when we loomed the cloth needed for prayer, to whom did you show so much anger to?âÂ
You remember the scene clearly now. That warrior was in a group of Myrmidons. To an outsider, it must have looked like you were trying to attack an entire fleet of men.Â
Sheâs clutching at your clothes. âI had never seen such behavior from your body. It frightened me.âÂ
You were screaming, no wonder sheâs so freaked out. You patted her back, bringing her in for a hug.Â
âIâm sorry.â You tell her, as sincerely as you can. âI didnât mean to scare you. That wonât happen again.âÂ
That strange influx of feeling. The rage and dissonance you felt. That couldnât happen again; youâd make sure of it.Â
Sheâs relieved. Children like her are satisfied with a few answers. She leaves the tent with a final glance at you. You wave to her, and then sheâs gone.Â
You canât ignore him now.Â
You try to. You pick at the pelts, looking for invisible lint. You study your nails and fingers, wondering if the calluses you saw were always there. You know he plans to ask you how you really broke the language barrier.Â
âI am sorry on behalf of Lord Achilles.â Patroclus starts.Â
You glance up. His brown eyes are crinkled slightly. A ghost of a smile lingers on his lips.Â
âYou must forgive the way in which he fled.â Patroclus says, âHe has suffered through much these past days and nights. Learning of your fluency was perhaps too much for him to bear.âÂ
âI understand,â You say with a soft voice.Â
Youâve known Patroclusâthis Patroclusâfor months, and yet you feel like youâre looking at him for the first time. His armour is off, tossed away in some unspoken corner. His beige chiton hangs on his body on only one shoulder. It barely covers the muscles across his chest and arms and legs. Your eyes catch a piece of jewellery you hadnât noticed before. A necklace draped across his skin. It glints with gold.Â
âWho gave you that?â You ask.Â
Patroclus reaches up, brushing his hand over the gold. His eyes glimmer, catching light like stars in the night sky at some unspoken memory.Â
âMy father.â He responds, adoration warm in his voice. âIt was gifted to me before I sailed from Opus to Phitia, where King Peleus rules.âÂ
You hum, and a part of you wants to ask what Opus looks like but you hold your tongue. Instead, you smile.Â
âItâs pretty.â You tell him.Â
He eases at your compliment. You watch as Patroclus walks closer and sits right beside you on the pelts. He maintains his distance, but heâs close enough to touch if you reach out. Neither of you does.Â
âIâm sorry.â You finally breathe out, feeling the elephant grow and grow. âFor trying to run. I wasnâtâŠ.âÂ
In another time, it would be silly to even think about apologizing to your captors, but here, it feels expected of you especially when just your blunder ruined so much.Â
âAre you upset?â You ask.Â
You canât remember a single time Patroclus had gotten upset. Heâs always been gentle, matching his epithet perfectly. The closest youâd ever seen him truly angry, was the darkened look he had as he gave you food, when you had been chained to the tent.Â
He hums at the question, and you donât fight him when he takes your hand in his. His fingers are so much longer and larger than yours. His hold eclipses your hands immediately.Â
âI remembered the sorrow when it was revealed of your escape. And then I remember the relief that consumed me when you were brought back.â He squeezes your hand in his. âI felt anger, then, yes, but I felt my emotions to be more vibrant than that. And yet, my feelings are shadowed by those that haunt Lord Achilles.âÂ
You look up at him. He tilts his head, surveying your expression with an affectionate smile.Â
âYou do not realize how much the man sacrificed for you.â He tells you. âI sometimes wonder if I could sacrifice such a thing.âÂ
Your eyebrows pinch together as he continues.Â
âLord Agamemnon asked for you when Dear Chryseis was to be returned back to Chryses for ransom. Achilles had refused his demand.â Patroclus turns away, staring off into space. âI remember being amongst the crowd of warriors and watching as Achilles reached for his sword he kept on his hip. And then he stopped.âÂ
Patroclusâ smile fades slightly. âIt was then when Lord Achilles offered Briseis as well as five of his beloved ships.âÂ
You almost donât believe his words.Â
âWhat?âÂ
He pats your hand. His skin is warm and strong, filled with the callouses of being a warrior and fighting for his own glory.Â
Glory and pride is what Achilles holds more than anything.Â
And yet, he gave up five ships to keep you?Â
âHis heart has been severely wounded.â Patroclus says with kindness.Â
âI pray you do not fault him for his humanity.âÂ
The more you study the vial, the more colors you see.Â
Thereâs a hint of blue; maybe a touch of magenta. When you shake the glass, the colors swirl together, creating that purple gradient. It looked more like a sleep potion than a poison.Â
You flip it upside down, then right up again. Back and forth. Itâs mesmerizing.Â
Hermes gave this to you so you could kill that warrior. His face is still burned into your skull. You can feel that rage that still simmers deep within your rage.Â
He canât be left to live. Not after what he did do Desmache.Â
She wasnât even given a burial.Â
A part of you slugs behind. You were talking about killing a man. How could you even speak about doing something like this? Regardless of how evil this person was, how could you kill a real person?Â
ButâŠhe isnât real, is he?Â
You catch yourself then. You got that same feeling when you freaked out and collapsed in yourself. Itâs pain. Real, tangible pain. And it was all because of that man.Â
But, why donât you feel that way towards Achilles? He kidnapped you and forced you to be his captive. Why donât you feel that way about Patroclus? Heâs just as terrible, in that regard. So many traumatizing things have happened to you and yet you donât seem to be affected by them at all.Â
You arenât having the reactions a normal person should have. Itâs like, your emotions have been stunted somehow, refusing to be any more dynamic than someone who was merely reading a book.Â
Footsteps. You tuck away the vial just as Achilles comes through the tent.Â
Heâs regained his prior composure. His signature scowl is back on his face, and heâs glaring at you.Â
You donât move. His face continues to sour.Â
âNow that you have learned our tongue, you must greet those of higher class than you accordingly.â He demands.Â
That was a thing you had to do? You never saw the girls do that. Still, you better appease him. You hesitantly rose from the bed. You gave a weak bow with your head.Â
â...Greetings?â You finish. It sounds weak even to your own ears.Â
Achilles remains unimpressed.
âYou talk so ugly and crude,â He tells you, âI rather the days where you remained mute.âÂ
You canât help it. You laugh.Â
You canât remember the last time you laughed this hard. It shakes your shoulders, making you lose your breath. Somehow it lightens your heart. The air smells a tiny bit sweeter.Â
At his face, you give: âSorry, I justâŠI always knew you were insulting me. Hearing itâŠâ Your voice trails off.Â
The warrior studies you, eyes searching. He doesnât seem as angry as you thought heâd be over your laughter.Â
âWhy has your hair lost the color of florals?â He demands.Â
You glance at your hair. You refrain the urge to touch them. You sit back down, forgetting where you were, who you were with.Â
It all felt so pointless now.Â
âIâve been here for too long,â You answer.Â
Itâs true. Your hair was only meant to last for a month, maybe two if you were lucky. By now, you think you mightâve switched to blue, or maybe a more neutral color.Â
In just another week your roots will start to show. That would truly be the end.Â
He doesnât like that answer, you can tell by the way his jaw tightens.Â
âIâm not sick,â Maybe youâre trying to comfort. âBut itâs fading because I need to go back.âÂ
But you never will.Â
He doesnât sit next to you. Instead, he kneels, knees hitting the tent floor so he can stare up at you. Itâs out of character. The Achilles of the Iliad wouldnât do anything like this. He would never willingly lower himself for another.Â
This Achilles reaches out. You feel warm fingertips brush against your cheeks.Â
âYou are aware I would never allow an action, correct?âÂ
You feel like laughing again.Â
âI donât think thatâs up to me or you.âÂ
You never really had a choice, that was the real joke here. All this time you worried about these characters and their behaviors as though you had any more autonomy over yourself than they did.Â
Youâd never see your friends and family again. Youâd never have slow mornings where you would scroll aimlessly on your phone.Â
Youâd never have the little things againâlike coffee.Â
You donât know why thatâs the last thought you have, but youâre crying anyway. Theyâre slow, silent sobsâthe ones that make your throat clamp up and your eyes red. It shakes your shoulders,Â
Heâs brushing away your tears. You think it might be the softest way heâs ever touched you. It mimics the way he touches flowers as he ever so slightly grazes fingers over petals.Â
âPatroclus told me of your reasonings to flee.â Achilles starts.
You stare down at him. His eyes have melted, simmered into bubbling honey.Â
âYou are a fool to think I would give up such a value to such a man.âÂ
You donât understand why he tells you that, but maybe you donât have to. This is how a man like Achilles loves. Itâs ruthless and possessive and violent. He canât love any other way. This was what he was created for.Â
His character was meant to be fierce and raging. Even if he wanted to, heâd never know anything different. His love is brash and comes out in spurts like: giving up five beautiful ships, or tying you down with immortal chains.Â
This is what he was made for. This is all that heâll ever be.Â
Heâs lived in this book-shaped prison his entire life.
You donât know who to feel more pity for:Â
 him, whoâs only lived in these pages,
 or youâwho knows whatâs outside the script but can never return.Â
Status quo returns eventually.Â
The chains come off sometime in the next few days. You are let off the hook to work alongside the women. Days pass and things become more or less the same as before. Achilles is still an ass but heâs a bit less of an ass. Patroclus was always the aloe to his burn. Naarya became more talkative as the days went on.Â
Pysus remained distant.Â
You donât fault her. Grief comes to people in many ways. This is how she deals with it. Quieter. Less jokes, Less smiles. You try not to notice how she barely glances at you these days.Â
You havenât done anything with the vial yet. It remains tucked deep inside your chiton, burning against your skin each time you remember it. You havenât had the chance to do anything with it, yet.Â
Rather, you have no idea what to do with it.Â
It was supposed to be for that warrior, but you still hesitate from time to time. Itâs not because of your hesitance to kill, but rather, you werenât sure if youâd come out of the aftermath unscathed.Â
(Sometimes, you see him around camp. You know his name now as well as who he likes to spend time with. Youâve never hated anyoneâs laughter more.)Â
Sometimes, you wonder if you could just ask Achilles to do it. How would he react if you told him you wanted one of his men dead?Â
You could never bring yourself too, if only because you were fearful of the backlash. Heâs sacrificed people in the name of your âsupposed Mother-Godâ, but could you ask him to do the same to his fellow warrior? All for the sake of your vengeance?Â
Speaking of Persephone, thatâs another can of worms youâd have to open soon.Â
Unknowingly or not, you have been parading around as her child. Youâve seen how terrifying other Gods can be when they think theyâve been insulted, but the Queen of the Underworld herself? Itâs a miracle the ground hasnât opened to swallow you whole, yet.Â
Somehow, you managed to summon Hermes. Maybe thereâs a chance you could do the same for her.Â
And then, what? Just kindly explain that it was a case of mistaken identity?Â
âSee here!â Naarya gleefully tells you, holding up the cloth she weaved.Â
You admire the gorgeous patterning. âAmazing! Did you come up with the pattern yourself?âÂ
Pysus only glanced up from her weaving to send Naarya a quick smile. Naarya basks in the praise.Â
âYes.â She beams. âI hope to ask Lord Patroclus if this can be offered to Goddess Athena with bright eyes.âÂ
âIâm sure heâd say yes.â You nod along and Naarya babbles happily.Â
She doesnât notice when Pysus rises with her own cloth. You watch as the girl disappears behind the tents. You wait for five minutes before you abandon your own project to follow.Â
You find her in a small clearing, further away from camp. She sits next to a dying fire. The smell of smoke lingers in the air.Â
âYou look tired.â You offer your hand. âYou can go rest, if you want. I can finish up your work.âÂ
She doesnât even glance up. âYour tenderness pleases me,â she tells you, âand yet I cannot abandon my duties.âÂ
âItâs not abandoning.â You reason. âIâŠI know youâve been having a hard time. I can helpââÂ
âIs this how you give penance?âÂ
Pysus always struck you as quiet, with a soft voice. She was gentle and sweet.Â
Youâve never heard her say something with such venom before.Â
âNo.â You immediately rebuke. âNo, of course not. PysusââÂ
âI see, so it is not guilt that you continue to seek me out.â Her voice hardens. âIt is not that you wish for me to assuage your despair with my assurances. Then what do you continue to pester me for?âÂ
You can only stare as she rises up to her feet. The cloth she worked so hard on for days is left abandoned on the dirt but she can hardly care.Â
Her eyes parallel crashing waves of the sea, and yet, they look so fragile, like thin waterlilies. Her eyes are more green than blue. You donât know why it took you so long to notice.Â
âBriseis called for me when she was taken away by men of Lord Agamemnon,â she tells you, âshe begged me to assure your safety. Even as men with bronze armor led her away, she only wept tears for you. Where were you as she was sent to her deathbed?âÂ
You can see it clearly in the back of your head. The grip the men had on Briseis in as they took her away from you. Her pretty green eyes, red and watery. You can see it so clearly, even though you werenât there, even when you wereâ
(Maybe Briseis would like the fragrant freesia the most. Much like her, their scent is fresh in the air long after the petals have wilted.)
ââGone.â Pysus spits out. âYou fled and abandoned her when she needed your comfort the most.âÂ
Her voice cracks, but she isnât stopping. Tears drip down her cheeks. It doesnât stop her sharp words from cutting deep into your skin, straight into your heart.Â
âShe should not have had such a horrific fate. She stole such suffering from your thread.âÂ
She doesnât mean it. You know her too well by now to know she isnât being sincere. Sheâs angry. Sheâs grieving. She lost her sister. She needs a punching bag and you are all she has.Â
But what lie did she tell you?
âYouâre right.â You tell her because thereâs nothing else to say. âI ran because I was a coward, and Iâm sorry. Even if I thoughtâŠI shouldnât have run.â Pysus is getting blurry. âI shouldnât have abandoned you guys. Iâm sorry. I'm so so sorry, Pysus.âÂ
Pysusâ arms are warm and strong against your back. Itâs reflective, the way you cling onto her, uncaring if your tears dampen her shoulders.Â
âDo not acknowledge my ridiculous claims!â She sobs into your shoulders. âForgive me. I spoke such ill of you and villainized you in such a horrendous way. Forgive me.âÂ
She keeps saying sorry, but you keep telling her she has nothing to apologize for. She doesnât listen, and neither do you. The two of you just cling onto each other. Sheâs so tiny against your fingers, she canât be any bigger than Naarya.Â
Youâre speaking before you can even think.Â
âIâll bring her back.âÂ
Sheâs pulling away to peer up at you. Her eyes are like rippling pools.Â
âWhat?âÂ
âYes.â You nod and for once, your voice is clear and stable. âIâll bring her back.âÂ
You leave her like that. She calls for you, but you arenât listening. You donât stop moving until youâre surrounded by the privacy of the tent. Completely alone.Â
You take out the vial. It swirls with glittering purple and blues.Â
You pray you werenât wrong about this.Â
It burns down your throat, and then your heart stops.Â
Thereâs rapid tapping on your cheek. Your eyes flutter open.Â
âI knew youâd figure it out!â Hermes cheers. âTook a bit longer than I thought you would, but Iâll still give credit.âÂ
You rise up from the hard floor. Youâre not in the tent anymore. You hardly even think youâre on Earth. The cave is dark, only illuminated by torches stapled to the walls. The flames are a fiery pink, creating shadows and shrink and jump.Â
The underworld looms ahead of you.Â
âCouldnât you have told me instead of being all cryptic?â You ask with a scowl.Â
âI canât just give you the answer!â He scolds. "Where's the fun in that?âÂ
If you had doubts he was a Greek God before, they were all gone now.Â
Hermes struts off confidently ahead. You follow him.Â
It reminds you of the catacombs under Paris, except more claustrophobic and more illuminated. Hermes leads you into a tunnel, then another, then another. Various passageways wind and fold against each other. You lose track of your mental map five minutes in. In the end, youâre forced to follow him with blind trust.Â
âSo, that wasnât poison, right?â You confirm. âThen, what was it? Some kind of sleeping potion?âÂ
âMore like a coma-inducing spell.â Hermes corrects. âIt tricks your soul into thinking your body is dead, and thatâs how I was able to transfer you down here.â He trails off like he expects you to congratulate him.Â
You donât.Â
âBefore,â you start. âYou said that the book was broken, and it needed fixing.â
He said nothing. You continue.Â
âWere you talking about the dead characters?â You ask and something breaks within you as you call Briseis a character. âThatâs why you brought me here, right? If we can bring them back, thatâll fix the story.â And then, you could go home.Â
He glances back at you.Â
âArenât you being a little too confident?â Thereâs a teasing lilt in his voice.
âIâm willing to do anything.â You answer. âNo matter how tiny of a chance I have, I want to try.âÂ
âThatâs exactly what the others said too.â He muses. âItâs kinda funny how alike you all are.âÂ
âOthers.â You repeat. âAre more people like me here, too?âÂ
âYeah, loads.â He shrugs. âI stopped counting after the first hundred. Itâs interesting how different their paths were. This one guy managed to usurp Agamemnon and took over the entire Achaean army. Uh, this other one tried to play both sides and it didnât really end so well for him. Oh! One person actually managed to beat the Achaeans and flipped the entire war! That guy was my favorite.âÂ
âWhat happened to them? Did they return home?âÂ
âNo.â He grins with teeth. âNot a single one.âÂ
The shadows across his face make it sound even more off-putting. He leads you into another tunnel. Itâs even smaller than the last one. You can barely fit through without your shoulders brushing against the walls.Â
âTo get to the end, you have to make sure the story stays in place and you survive. Not many were able to achieve both. Readers derail a lot. They push Gods to act in ways they otherwise wouldnât, or they create new problems all together. They always create a shitshow, but at least itâs entertaining.â Hermes studies you.Â
âThenâŠwhy me?â You ask, and you suddenly realize that your voice echoes through the caves. âWhy was I chosen to come here?âÂ
He loses it. Heâs laughing so loudly, he clutches his stomach, nearly falling to the floor. You flinch at the mockery.Â
âSorry, you thought you were chosen?â He says when heâs finished, rising back up to sneer. âA little narcissistic, donât you think?âÂ
âThere was never a choice,â he tells you. âYou read the story, and now youâre here. Simple as that.âÂ
âBut what does that meanââÂ
âI meant what I said last time.â He cuts you off. âYouâre the only one whoâs got this far. Out of all the people whoâve come here, youâre the only person whoâs survived this long. Granted, it was mostly due to lots and lots of luck, but hey! Still a win in my book.âÂ
He grabs a torch from the cave wall. The tunnel was starting to open up.Â
âWhich means, you still have a chance to put everything back.âÂ
You think of Briseis: gone and dead.Â
âNothingâs been cemented, yet. Knowing those three, I bet they arenât too keen on cutting the thread. So, if you can convince her to let those souls go, you might have a shot of re-righting the story.âÂ
You already know who heâs referring to. It makes you deflate.Â
âIs that even possible?â You ask, voice small. âShe must be furious with me, right now. What if sheâŠâ Kills you on the spot? Demands your soul as penance?Â
Hermes smiles.Â
âDo you have a choice?âÂ
Right. Thatâs the harsh lesson you keep learning over and over again.Â
You never had a choice. In this place, you were nothing more than a character.Â
The only power you had was knowing the script beforehand.Â
Hermes stops walking.Â
âThe throne is right through there.â He gestures at the rest of the tunnel. âIf you keep walking, youâll find it. Itâs kinda hard to miss.âÂ
When you stare at him, he continues.Â
âNot a big fan of people down here. Everyoneâs so depressing.â He complains. âDonât worry, Iâll be waiting right here for emotional support.â He flashes a thumbs-up.Â
A part of you wanted to beg him to come with you, but you know you wonât get far with that. That chance you kept begging the Gods for was finally being given to you. Youâre taking it, no matter how small it is.Â
âThanks.â You tell him. âFor getting me this far.âÂ
He just smiles. âDonât thank me, yet.âÂ
You turn back to the cave. You take a step. Then another. You keep walking as the cave gets wider and wider and it spits you out into a large expansive room. Itâs brighter than the cave, pink flames flickered and licked at the rocky walls. Gloomy shadows jump and flee at the sight of you.Â
The rock is oddly smooth and damp beneath your feet. You walk along the surface, feeling the floor dip and bend in places. It mimics nature.Â
You see them then.Â
You expected more dramatics. Or maybe thatâs yet another assumption you had for this world. They sit quietly together, side by side. They look human, but thereâs something off about each of them. Their eyes are far too big for their face. Their fingers are thin and spindly as they move around the loom. Their skin is sickly, almost green.Â
The Three Fates pay you no mind as you step forward, continuing on their project. You swallow, feeling your throat drying up. You were finally here, but now what?Â
âNot many are bold enough to ignore me so brazenly.âÂ
The voice is feminine, dark with humor. Your eyes travel up and up the rock.Â
Not a rock. A giant throne.Â
She sits with one leg crossed over another. Her cruel smile shines on plush, painted lips. Sheâs easily the most beautiful woman youâve ever seen. You feel your voice die in your throat the more you stare. Your eyes burnâ no mortal should be gazing upon such beauty. Among the dread, she stands out like a rose in full bloom, daring to be plucked.Â
Oh.Â
Thatâs why so many assumed you belonged to her.Â
Her hair sat in beautiful curls, draping over her neck and chest towards the edge of the throne. Strands spill out like the sea.Â
The brightest pink youâve ever seen. The exact same shade yours once was.Â
~
You donât know how long you stood like that.
Entrancedâutterly captivated.Â
Thereâs a subtle tilt of her head. Your body moves before you can think.Â
You drop. Your knees hit the ground. Itâs not a bow. Itâs more like you are begging for mercy.Â
She laughs. Itâs soft and delicate. Pretty. Youâve never felt so cold before.Â
So this is what itâs like catching the attention of a Goddess.Â
âAt the very least,â her voice is amused, light. You donât know whether thatâs good or bad. âYou arenât entirely foolish.âÂ
You donât know that much about the Goddess. Her descent into the underworld is the only tale that comes to mind. In that story, she was depicted as sweet and frail. The loving daughter of the Goddess Demeter.Â
The woman before you now cannot be described as any of those traits.Â
Thereâs a sigh above you. She sounds impatient.Â
âSpeak now, mortal of faraway lands.â She speaks your name. Forgetting yourself, your eyes shoot up to look at her.Â
She takes your stunned silence as the rightful question it was. âIt would be strange not know your name. After all, your presence has shaken the mountain and heavens of Olympus.â Her lips quirk. âAnd you in particular have been so daring as to use my name.âÂ
You are trapped in a maze; each route leads you straight into the claws of the cat.
 The cloak of death pins you down to the ground.Â
âIâm sorry.â Your forehead presses into the rough rock floor. âIâm so sorry. IâI never meant toââÂ
âEnough.â Amusement vanished from her voice. She sounds bored again. âIt appears your brazenness was your sole trait of redemption.âÂ
She doesnât allow you to speak any further, beg any further. She continues onward like the force she was. Unrelenting. Continuous.Â
âYou are not here for pleasantries, are you? Come. Remain in your daring nature and coerce me into giving up what I rightfully own.âÂ
Of course, she knew why you were here. You wouldnât be surprised if she could read your mind. Her knowledge of why youâve come doesnât make it easier to talk to her. It just makes everything that much harder.Â
The ground is so cold, but you remain in your pliant position. She may have mentioned that she liked how bold you appeared to be, but you know well enough how much of a warning that was.Â
âThe soldiers, the men who died. Briseis.â Itâs hard not to crack at her name. âIt was not their fate to die. TheyâŠthey need to be brought back for the sake of the story.âÂ
Sheâs laughing. It startles you. Sheâs laughing so loudly it echoes off the caves.Â
âStory?â She repeats. âWhat story do you speak of?âÂ
You blink. And then something clicks. Â
She doesnât know about the poem.Â
Persephone either doesnât notice your silence or takes it as something else. Nails drag themselves through rock as she lifts her hand up to examine perfectly manicured fingernails.Â
âI do agree it is unwise to keep these souls at this time.â She sighs. âYet, I have no true desire to relinquish them. You understand how undesirable it will be if mortals of the upper realm realize how easy it is to raise their dead.âÂ
Sheâs asking for a price. A trade. Your pockets are empty. You have nothing to offer that you havenât given already.Â
You clear your throat. The fates have yet to acknowledge you. They continue around their loom, stretching the thread. You wonder which one is Briseis.Â
âI donât have anything to give.â You admit, and her brow quirks. âI can only beg that youâll listen.âÂ
âYou admit defeat readily,â she says, âdo people of your lands do the same?âÂ
You say nothing. It gets too much to look at her, so you pull your gaze down.Â
Another sigh.Â
âI accept.âÂ
What? Your head shoots up to look at her.Â
âI cannot say I have not benefited from your presence in the mortal world.â She tells you. âThe Myrmidons have pleased me with their meat and fresh fruit. I will consider that enough.âÂ
You almost canât believe her words. The Goddess is actually accepting your audacious request. It feels almost like a joke. A trick.Â
âYou are luckyââ she sits up from her throneâ âto have such loving allies. One in particular was quite vocal. Had they not, I highly doubt your own skills would be enough to get you this far.âÂ
The insult is scathing, but it doesnât cut as deeply as it should. Your mind is still searching for who she could possibly be talking about. Whoâd care for you enough to plead your case to the Goddess of Death?
You hadnât noticed the shimmer of light surrounding her left ear until then. Itâs a tiny orb that glows a bright pink. It hovers above her shoulder. It looks like a fairy, dancing and giggling in the Goddessâs ear.Â
The smell of cardamom nearly makes your heart stop.Â
Desmacheâ
âI will release the souls.â The Goddess says, âHowever, I will need one more thing in return.âÂ
You look at her and immediately understand what she wants from you.Â
You want it too.Â
You donât respond. She grins more openly.Â
âThen it is done.âÂ
She taps her fingers. The fates barely glance up from their weaving. A silk string is carefully coiled onto skeletal fingers before it is dipped into pink flames. The string shrivels into nothingness.
âYou can continue the ritual in the land of the living.â The Goddess calls. âI have done all that I can.âÂ
You did it. Your legs feel like jelly. You can barely stand upright. You did it. You did it.Â
âThank you.â You breathe.Â
She smiles. The venom is sweet on her lips.Â
Hermes is still waiting.Â
You expect more applause. More sarcasm.Â
Heâs quiet until you step closer.Â
âI didnât think youâd come back so soon.â He finally admits. âNo, thatâs a lie. I kindaâ expected you to never come back at all.âÂ
You didnât expect it either.Â
âIâm surprised she didnât keep you with her.â Hermes continues. âYouâre a lucky one.âÂ
Your laugh startles even you.Â
Youâre practically crying. Hunched over. Shoulders trembling. Your laughter bounces off the walls of the cavern, against the flickering lanterns. Hermes is silent even after your voice dwindles. Youâre heaving. Maybe you were crying.Â
âThatâs what she said, too,â you say, not to him, not to anyone. âIâm lucky.âÂ
You were lucky to make friends with people who loved you and who you loved in return. You were lucky to have those you loved enough to pave the way for you so your trek up the mountain could be just a bit easier.Â
You donât think thatâs so much of a bad thing.Â
You walk past Hermes. He doesnât follow. After a few steps, you stop too.Â
âShe mentioned something else, too.â You donât turn back to face him. Youâre almost afraid of what youâd see on his face.Â
âShe didnât know.â Your heart feels like itâs in your throat. âShe didnât know she was in a book. Iâm starting to think the other Gods donât either.âÂ
All Persephone knew was that you came from a different place. Itâs what all the characters knew. Hermes, just Hermes, was the only one who ever mentioned the story specifically.Â
You steel yourself, slowly turning to face him.Â
Heâs not smiling. His face is still, and you hate that you canât see his eyes. Youâre not used to seeing him so monotone. Itâs like heâs dropped the act.Â
Or maybe heâs dropped his character.Â
âWho are you?â You ask.Â
He swallows. You catch a single tremor down his throat.Â
He says nothing. Itâs the only answer you need.Â
~
The next time you open your eyes, you're surrounded by wailing.Â
You sit up in Achillesâ bed. Immediately, Naarya is on you, clinging onto you like a Koala. Sheâs sobbing and blubbering something you canât decipher. You had to stop doing this to the poor child. You might end up aging her 20 or so years because of your antics.Â
There are others around you. Pysus stares at you with glimmering eyes. You wish you could explain things to her. Comfort her. Maybe another apology. Patroclus says something, perhaps pleads for another explanation.Â
You canât stop. Thereâs a script running through your head. Gentle words of Dread Persephone, only you can understand.Â
You only have to search for a second before you find him. In the dim light of the tent, his eyes resemble the color of warm honey. His golden mane shines like a bright flag.Â
A Myrmiddon who gave up five Myrmiddon ships for you.Â
A man, characterized by pride, who unhesitatingly ripped his to shreds for you.Â
You want to know if he will do it again.Â
You know what his answer will be.Â
Heâs still screaming when the warriors continue to tie him down.
Heâs crying. Heâs begging his fellow warriors to release him. They ignore his begs. He then begs Achilles to release him. The manâs face is bare. His sword is firm in his grip as his men continue with the ritual.Â
He looks different now. With his armor and spear gone, he resembles a scrawny man. The rope that binds his arms and legs barely gives as he continues to struggle.Â
Itâs a bit strange to think of it now, but before he almost resembled a monster. Once, he towered over you and a dying little girl. His spear was coated in the blood of innocence.Â
Now, as you stand above him, heâs just a man.Â
He sobs louder as Achilles lifts the sword. You briefly wonder if he had a family. A wife. Children. These thoughts mean nothing. The hatred you feel for him isnât one you may have for a human. Itâs not dynamic. Itâs just as flat as the pages he exists on.Â
To you, heâs just a character.Â
Achilles brings the sword down. Everything stops. The crowd remains silent.Â
Blood seeps into the Earth.Â
Itâs nearly dusk. The sun continues to dip further into the ocean. Soon, the only light you have will be the torch you holdâtiny orange flickering flames.Â
You watch as Achilles lifts the corpseâs head to chop off a lock of hair.Â
You remember he did this a couple of months ago. Offerings, he thought, the Goddess you stood for would like. Before, you would squeal and heave with disgust.Â
Tonight, your thoughts are filled with royal green eyes flecked with gold. Eyes unfit for a corpse.Â
You accept the lock Achilles presents to you. You drop it into the flames.Â
Orange turns to fiery pink.Â
You can hear Persephone laughing somewhere beneath you. This was what she wanted. Not a single soul to replace the 24 she would soon lose.Â
It was your vengeance that she craved for.Â
Pink flames light the pyre. You watch the corpse disappear as the fire gets higher and higherâappetized by flesh.Â
You abandon the torch, letting it hit the sand and naturally smother out. You feel empty as you leave the flaming pyre, heading towards the sea of still bodies.Â
Each one is laid on the sand. Eyes closed. Untwitching. Unmoving. Your eyes remain solely on her. She looks as though she could be sleeping. Despite the days that have passed since her departure, her body remains fresh and clean. Nothing is rotted or dissolved.Â
As though even fate knew to keep her until you could come for her.Â
You donât know how long you sit with her. Watching. Waiting.Â
Around you, the soldiers start to awaken. Corpses fill with life. Soldiers with life-ending injuries sit up as though theyâd just woken up from a coma.Â
You just continue to wait.Â
Green with flecks of gold peer up at you.Â
Her face is still like uncracked porcelain.Â
She smiles. Itâs so beautiful it breaks your heart.Â
She speaks first. Her eyes crinkle.Â
âYour hair,â she rasps, voice soft, almost a whisper.Â
She reaches up, and you let her. She brushes over a single coil of hair.Â
âIt is the color of florals once again.â A crystal tear trickles down her face.Â
You follow her gaze. Your hair, once dull and washed out, resembled the shade you once had all those months ago. No, it was even brighter than before.Â
Dread Persephoneâs final gift.Â
You want to laugh. Even at deathâs door, Briseis still only looks at you.Â
You pet her cheek. Her eyes flutter at your touch.Â
âWhatâs your favorite flower?â You wonder.Â
She smiles, confused.Â
âMy favorite flower?â She echoes. You nod.Â
âIf I had to chooseâŠit would be roses.âÂ
You actually laughed that time. Itâs wet, the kind that sticks to your tongue. She smiles up at you. A hand reaches up to cradle your own.Â
âThatâs soâŠnormal.âÂ
Itâs not any of the flowers you thought of for her.Â
She tilts her head. âShould I choose another?â She asks.Â
And yet, you canât think of another more perfect answer for her.Â
âNo.â You tell her. âYou shouldnât.âÂ
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i miss fandom before ai. there was no risk of accidentally reading an ai generated fic based on stolen material. i don't want to stumble upon ai generated videos my ship kissing and see comments like "this is what ai should be used for". i don't want to see gifs of those ai generated kisses when i browse for fun reactions gifs of them. i don't want ai generated photos and definitely not ai generated art. i don't want ai to be part of my community and i definitely don't want to hear anything about anyone using it because they "can't write" or they "can't draw".
there's no valid excuse for anyone to use ai. use your imagination.
hello. I would like to play a game. in front of you is a computer and you have to log into your account and if I see chatgpt in there regularly Iâm gonna blow your fingers into smithereens
It might just be me but Iâm tired of people coming into the slasher community and asking âbut why??? Theyâre killers you must have ââ SHUT UP!!!! ITS NOT REAL!!! NOBODY HAS TO EXPLAIN THEIR REASONING TO YOU!!!! Theyâre always trying to diagnose you, like, if youâre not into it then youâre not!!! Move on you donât have to understand
gracieabrams
ellievsbear
yousharknotpass
