hey there!! my name's spade and i go by they/them pronouns. i'm 24 and i've been writing stories since i was seven years old.
this blog is a collection of my writing through the years (but mostly 2019-present because my pre-2019 writing was super cringe,,, like i could barely read it 💀). this blog works best on desktop.
if you want writing on a specific character, check the sidebar (on desktop) for a link to writing involving a specific OC.
roleplay blog > @spademuses
please read my rules which can be found under the cut before you interact with this blog
IMPORTANT!!! here are a few things to keep in mind:
1. i am not a professional and this writing has a LOT of flaws. i've pretty much copy-pasted it from my google docs without editing in the slightest. i apologise for any mistakes!!
2. most of this writing was done for roleplays with very specific plots and pre-planned interactions. i've done my best to include short summaries so you can follow along, but i understand that without proper context, it might not make a lot of sense.
3. i have not included triggers in each individual writing piece.
4. triggering topics will be mentioned blog wide and these include but are not limited to: childhood abuse, drug abuse, addiction, alcoholism, mentions of death, suicide, depressive episodes, homophobia, and more potentially upsetting topics along those lines. please do not read through my blog if these topics might be hard for you to read. As usual, I do not condone the actions of my characters.
5. these characters mean the whole world to me. please don't steal them.
with that out of the way, i hope you enjoy my writing :> feel free to send me anon feedback!! (all i ask is that you try to be constructive)
Short summary: This is set in an alternate reality earth in the 1800s. The names of multiple different kingdoms, continents and countries have been changed to reflect that. This starter focuses on Kainaat Ansari, an adventurous princess who escapes her ancestral home for the first time with her body guard and personal friend, Himmat Mohal.
Kainaat’s breath catches in her throat at almost everything she takes in. Bandonese culture is absolutely enthralling, she thinks, as her eyes drink in the complex architecture and the stunning clothing worn by the most prosperous of aristocrats in the magnificent ballroom. Gatherings of the most affluent in society is not a foreign concept for her; having lived her entire life in a palace a hundred times grander than this charming room, Kainaat has grown quite accustomed to such ostentatious displays of wealth and opulence as a normal part of life.
Despite this, the Chatron finds that she often needs to collect her jaw off the polished floor. So many new and wonderful rarities for her to behold in this room alone— if she weren’t so awed by every little detail, from the type of alcohol being served to the style of makeup being worn, Kainaat would surely feel small and out of place here.
/That/ is a feeling she’s slowly familiarising herself with.
When Kainaat had been planning her escape from the high-walled prison that was her ancestral home, she had mentally prepared herself for the fish-out-of-water feeling; after all, she would be leaving all that was familiar and known, all that was /safe/— only to travel to a location that she’d only ever read about in her favourite lessons. Kainaat hadn’t so much as left her home city of Iravat. It was where she’d been born twenty six years prior, and most likely where she would die, unless she took matters into her own hands and broke free from the royal family’s ironclad hold on her.
Himmat Mohal, a stoic old ex-seaman and her closest royal advisor, had been the only one she’d trusted to help her get out. He had taken her aside before the journey to explain how different her life was about to be. Himmat had tactfully made Kainaat aware of the fact that she’d never left the safety of Khalsa Palace; she had no real exposure to new culture; many foreign practices would come as a shock to her. Kainaat had been adamant on pressing forward with the voyage anyway.
Clearly she’d underestimated /just/ how different everything would be.
When she had arrived at Bando’s shores posing as the daughter of a Chatran diplomat (Himmat Mohal had such excellent acting skills, who knew?), she couldn’t stop herself from gaping at all the brilliant new sights and sensations, much like the fish from the aforementioned fish-out-of-water idiom. The bustling port itself was filled with so many new things for her to explore that she spent the first six hours of her life as a runaway animatedly rushing from one loud vendor to the next, sampling the various items they had to offer.
Iravat isn’t close to the ocean at all, perhaps that’s why it’s the capital of the Chatra Empire— less risk of invasion from hostile enemies overseas. Unfortunately, it also means they don’t get to sample the kind of seafood delicacies denizens of coastal cities get to enjoy on a regular basis. The first time she had tried Yeoneojang at the port, and the flavours had burst to life on her unsuspecting taste buds, a dazed and overwhelmed Kainaat had wondered how she could ever go back to eating regular Chatran chicken dishes ever again. How she envied the Bandonese!
By the time the sun began to kiss the horizon and the ocean started to reflect the gorgeous orange-red canvas painting the sky, poor Himmat Mohal had started drowning under the various items of clothing she’d purchased. All the vendors had retired that evening with much heavier pockets (and Himmat Mohal had retired that night with severely sore arm muscles).
Kainaat could barely get herself to sleep that night; partly from the excitement of exploring the famous city of Cheonsang the next day, and partly from the dread of being found out. She had lived a remarkably sheltered life within the Iravat palace walls; Chatran tradition mandated that she remain hidden behind a veil until her wedding day. Kainaat’s unobscured face had never been seen by anyone who did not already live within close contact of the royal family, or men who were potential suitors, a fact that she would use to her advantage to extend her stay in Bando for as long as possible.
Of course, there was always the threat of the Chatran Council sending envoys to bring her back by force but they’d have to find her first. She had left a goodbye note in flawless Chatran script on the satin sheets of her bed but had never mentioned where she would be going, or with whom. While she shudders to think what would happen if she and Himmat were to be caught, Kainaat believes the risk is worth it.
So why Bando, of all places? For one thing, it’s far away from home— at least according to the maps Kainaat had poured over in the royal library. She liked to study maps of foreign lands and distant territories, imagining what her life might be like if she were a sailor like Himmat Mohal used to be. Her favourite destination to dream about had always been Bando.
Kainaat still remembers her first history lesson— back when she still had baby teeth and could barely reach the top of her study table— she would sit and listen to her tutors talk about the kingdom and its refined cultural traditions. As she grew older, Kainaat would listen in on chatter from the maids and traders frequenting the palace, excitedly conversing about the growing ethnic diversity in the city of Cheonsang. She would spend her days in the royal library, absorbing all the scrolls available on Bando— there weren’t many, but she liked to read the ones available to her over and over again, never getting tired of them.
Besides the constant tours of the royal library, Kainaat also liked to sit in the courtyard with Himmat Mohal and listen to tales of his travels to the far away land. She would pester him with questions about the food and the people and his favourite landmarks to visit— to his credit, he’d always answer with patience, no matter how many times she would ask.
She doesn’t know when it had happened but after a certain point, she stopped going to the library to pour over the map and imagine herself in various different locations— Kainaat’s wishes of seeing the world dissolved and she soon began to imagine her life purely in Bando; in Kai’s mind, the kingdom became a place where cultures from all corners of Endal gathered and made a name for themselves. She wanted so desperately to be one of those people too.
Now that she stands in the impressive ballroom, Kainaat breathes a gentle sigh of deep contentment. Dark eyes drink in the vibrant colours, barely-blinking so she doesn’t miss a single thing. The lively, upbeat music acts as fuel to the spirited energy radiating within the Half-Moon Hotel, vivacious characters dancing to instruments she has only ever seen in pictures. Hearing them in person feels surreal. The patrons engage in pompous discussions in various languages left and right, some she recognises and some that sound completely bizarre. Servers in sophisticated looking maroon waistcoats carry trays of exotic dishes, offering beverages and snacks in exquisite silver platters to guests without a drink in hand.
Kainaat herself hasn't yet touched a drop of the stuff— Himmat Mohal hasn’t imposed many restrictions on her on the trip but the one decree he remains firm on is the ‘no alcohol’ rule— though judging by the way many of the members seem to stumble while they dance, or slur their words when they speak, she supposes she’s not missing much.
She can’t seem to get enough of the different clothes adorned by the various guests representing different cultures. Kainaat herself is wearing a deep red chiffon saree adorned with delicate golden embroidery and decorative gold lace stitched onto the hem. It had been a little difficult to explain to the local tailor how to get the style right but with weeks of back and forth, he finally designed one to her liking.
Kainaat’s extravagant accessories include matching gold and red chooriyan bangles, a gold bindi and red jhumka drop earrings, of which the left connects to her nose ring in an elegant arch known as a ‘naath.’ She wears an extravagant white neckpiece meant to draw attention to her collarbones and completes the look with various sized matching rings.
Though she is no longer in Iravat, she is determined to represent her own culture to these foreigners too. The colour and quantity of a young woman’s jewellery in Chatra is meant to signify protection and prosperity, so while it is a little heavy wearing all this and walking around, Kainaat does her best to hold her head high and appear regal.
She still can’t believe she’s here in Bando, taking in an ambience that far exceeds her expectations and transcends the boundaries of her wildest imagination. It’s truly a dream come true.
Just when Kainaat thinks she can’t possibly feel any more excitement, a strange loud noise ripples through the room, startling her. Kai jumps and accidentally bumps into Himmat, who shoots her an amused look in response to her spooked expression. He’s wearing an ivory-coloured Sherwani with a matching plain turban and a metallic Chatra seal.
“What was that?” She asks in native Chatran, patting down her crimson saree as a deep embarrassed blush colours her cheeks the same colour.
“Look up there, rajkumari,” Himmat replies, pointing up to the mezzanine, where a man stands holding a mallet. “It’s called a Chau gong. Used to get attention.”
“Well, it seems he has my full attention now,” she scoffs, trying to focus on the man’s words— Rubandic, she realises— instead of the feeling of her racing heart thundering against her chest.
Kainaat considers how refined he sounds, the velvety notes in his tone delighting a part of her that had always wondered what the language sounded like in its pure form, without her Chatran tutor’s accent.
Short summary: Set in the Old West, this starter is about Amir's struggles with moving to America as an immigrant. He was unfortunately sold to a power hungry capitalistic company that experimented on him until they managed to make him a super-powered killer. He escaped his containment facility and has since joined a bunch of rebels that are trying to take the company down one hit at a time.
It’s a cold and desolate night in the shithole he calls home. Colorado weather has never agreed with him, almost as unwelcoming as some of his neighbours. Funny how some people still consider this new world a land of opportunity— if you ask Amir, this new world isn't anything but a place of death and misery.
Memories of his life before this infernal landscape are almost as hazy as the air in this town, the sands of time corrupting what used to be the clear alcoves of his mind. Once clean recollections of his childhood, his hometown, and his friends have now become contaminated, overwritten by unspoken trauma and a series of truly funereal days.
All of this Amir can bear with relative ease.
Sometimes he might need an extra drink or two in order to drown the agonising squeeze of notalgia, but Amir is fine otherwise. He tells himself these wistful moments of the past are nothing but residual sentiments that he must leave behind in order to get stronger, and most of the time he lets these maudlin emotions pass over him like a malevolent desert storm that leaves him coated in a layer of sand.
He dusts himself off and moves on.
The only thing he can’t bear is the loss of his father, Zamaan. Amir doesn’t much care for the ‘why’ of it all; he knows if Zamaan were here, he would chastise him for questioning his fate. Zamaan would have told him this new path he’s taken with the Black Birds was written in the stars long ago; that all the torturous years of experimentation at the hands of these ruthless colonisers was preordained by the Divine. Zamaan isn’t here to tell his son that one cannot escape their destiny.
Only the thing is, Amir’s not looking for escape— he’s looking for revenge.
Nineteen years ago, Cavor Corp took Zamaan away from him, and to this day Amir has not heard back from his father. Expensive tailored suits had showed up to his door one night, not unlike this one, and had told him it had been an accident and that his father had died but Amir didn’t believe them then and he certainly doesn’t believe them now. The suits had taken Amir away to protect him but he would soon come to learn the extent of their compassion.
”It’s only temporary, until we can contact someone from Egypt to take you in,” they’d said.
That day would never come; they’d no intention of letting him go. Amir had spent countless nights in his holding cell, the remote controlled collar permanently marking his skin raw from where it rested around his neck. Amir had always hated the cold, in fact, it had been the first thing he’d complained about back when he’d first moved to Colorado.
Not a day went by in sub level 127 where Amir didn’t long to feel the afternoon sun’s warmth on his lifeless skin. Back in Cairo, the sounds of wild hyenas would keep him up at bedtime, the ghoulish noises scaring him witless, but he far preferred them to the chilling choir of screams that would be his only lullaby most nights at sub level 127. The experiments were indescribable but worse, still, was the boredom. Every second Amir spent in the four walls of his enclosure further added to his caged tiger tendencies, so that when escape finally became possible after fourteen years, Amir was able to claw his way out with fervent determination.
Now he’s with the Black Birds, a violent organisation led by a violent leader, Brynn Oldmire. If Amir is fire, Brynn is the fuel. She is just as wild as the lands they ride on, and twice as feral, proving her mettle time and time again on perilous missions.
Zamaan would disapprove, but Amir isn’t taking his feelings into account; all he cares about is finding his father and getting him out of wherever they’re keeping him. There were 130 basement levels in the Cavor Corp building, any one of them could be holding him. He hopes that’s all they’re doing— the thought of his father being subjected to the kind of cruel tests they’d done on Amir makes him physically ill.
“I’m no science hick but if my star-watchin’ proves right, that train can’t be any more than ten minutes from crossing the bridge.”
Brynn’s voice cuts prompts Amir to look up to the vast blanket of night, painted with stars he still doesn’t recognise after six years of freedom. Six years spent training himself with a gun, six years spent looking for clues of the man who’s become a ghost story in Cavor Corp, six years spent grasping at straws and fighting frustration. Amir has never missed a mission and he doesn’t plan to stop, they’ll have to kill him to make him give up. Whenever things get too heavy, he thinks back to Zamaan’s last words to him before his disappearance, ”Be brave, little lion.”
And just like that, his heart hardens against surrender.
To his left is their newest recruit, a kid called Griffin, pale as the moon and quiet as stone. Though it’s been six years, Amir can never forget the horrors of that basement— for Griffin, those horrors are like a fresh wound that have barely begun to scab. He still thinks it’s a mistake to bring the kid along; these missions aren’t a game, the Black Birds are all flirting with death and often spill blood in the process. If it comes down to it, will Griffin be able to pull the trigger? Is it even ethical to let him join?
Amir supposes it’s not up to him to decide these things. If Griffin says he can fight, let him fight, who is he to stand in the way of someone’s mission? Perhaps Amir only hesitates because Griffin is painfully reminiscent of the young man he himself had been when he’d escaped— terrified, but stubborn and unyielding.
To his right is Arabella, about the same age as Griffin but worlds apart in personality. What she lacks in courage, she makes up for with her superior abilities, and while Amir admires her, he’s happy to keep his distance. He isn’t a talkative individual, the less people know about him, the better. The last thing he wants is for someone to invade his mind; it’s a private space that he retreats to when he needs time for introspection— it’s not there to be read like a journal. Part of him knows it must be a curse for her to have everyone’s thoughts in her head but Amir can’t help and wonder how often Arabella fights the urge to tap into other people’s consciousnesses to poke around their conceptions.
He knows he wouldn’t be able to resist.
“Easy, old girl. Jus’a few more minutes,” she muses, trying to ease her steed.
“She can sense your apprehension.” He tightens his grip on the reins of his own horse, one he hasn’t bothered to name. “Calm yourself, the trials are yet to begin,” he reminds her, heavy words carried on the gentle breeze.
Amir almost never speaks with authority— he’s more than happy to leave the commanding position to Oldmire, who does a much better job of keeping everyone in line, despite her lack of apparent supernatural abilities.
The land begins to rumble, the shaking suddenly reminding him how real this is— the train approaches much faster than anticipated and Amir looks up to the sky one last time, wondering what his destiny has in store for him tonight— will he get another chance to hurt Cavor Corp or will he meet his ancestors instead? Shadows dance across the barren ground until they manifest in the form of black sands and obscure his face with a bandana.
Amir becomes the Wraith, ready to haunt this hell.
Short summary of plot: Set in the Alderwood universe. This particular starter begins with Caesar's past.
—in girum imus nocte et consumimer igni.
—❝We enter the circle at night and are consumed by fire❞
He’s lost in a maze of evening fog, mossy rocks, and an endless sea of green pine trees. The sun kisses the horizon, and night quickly descends on the forest. Lost and alone, the young man calls out, asking for help but his pleas fall on deaf ears, swallowed by the haunting sound of hooting owls and bare branches creaking in the wind. Emerging from darkness is a mass of fur and brute strength, staring him down with eyes that sparkle with a lust for violence.
A coyote.
Caesar freezes. He stumbles backwards, inching away from the slow advancing creature until his spine makes harsh contact with the rough pine trees. His blood runs cold as the coyote approaches, drawing out this slow torture, almost as if it’s enjoying this. If Caesar could form words, he’d beg it to kill him quickly.
Its padded footsteps are soundless against the freshly fallen snow. There’s no place to run when it traps him there, like the seasoned predator it is— Caesar knows all too well that he doesn’t stand a chance against its skilful advance, one it’s mastered through millennia of perfection.
The coyote is close now. Its foul breath is cold on his cheek. In the moonlight, he can see the blood on its stained teeth and his panicked expression reflected in its yellow eyes, sharp and calculating. Caesar can’t hear anything over the sound of his own pounding heart. It never occurred to him that he’d die like this— he always thought he’d die peacefully at the age of eighty-something, in a multi-million dollar mansion in the most glamorous city on the planet. More importantly, he always thought he’d carry the Deitrich name and show the world that he was capable of living up to his famous name. Caesar’s aware that he brags about living fast and dying young but somehow he always thought he’d eventually get his act together and leave behind a legacy that rivalled his Roman namesake.
In the chilling silence he swears he can hear his late mother’s soothing voice, calling him her fearless leader, saying he’s destined for great things. She was the one who’d named him after the Roman ruler, certain that the name would bring him luck and prestige. “Mi jefe chiquito,” she’d call him. (*My little leader.*)
I let you down, mama.
Surely this can’t be it, can it? Is this how Caesar Dietrich, first born son and heir to the Dietrich fortune goes out? Not with the blaze of glory he’d desired, but with a pathetic whimper? The coyote gets closer and closer but all Caesar can do is struggle to fight back tears, not born of fear but of disappointment— his father had been right. Caesar wanted to prove him wrong, to show him that he’s more than just the irresponsible boy that always seems to let him down, but now that chance is as good as gone. It can’t end like this. He hasn’t cemented his place in history yet, hasn’t fixed his faults, hasn’t reached the potential he knows he can reach.
Now all he’s left with are heavy regrets.
In a way it’s almost fitting that this is the way he goes out. Caesar’s only here because of his own mistakes and now there’s nothing he can do but accept the consequences— it was *his* idea to sneak out of Catholic Camp past curfew with a few of his closest trouble making friends. Just like it was *his* idea to go deep into the woods to have a midnight party where he and his buddies could all take PCP and trip without getting caught by Vicar Dacian. Tears sting in blue eyes when Caesar realises he’d left the cross his father had given him on his nightstand. He’d never believed in god before but now, in a last ditch effort to save himself, Caesar promises to devote his life to religion— any religion— if a benevolent god protects him from this ravenous beast.
Maybe god has already turned his back on him.
Just as the coyote’s about to pounce, a hair-raising scream pierces the eerie silence. It sounds like a cross between a shrieking woman and a demon’s war cry, high-pitched and otherworldly. Part of Caesar thinks he’s imagined it. PCP flows through his bloodstream like a poison— for all he knows (or hopes) this entire encounter could be happening in his mind. The other part of him, the one that has resigned itself to its gruesome, miserable end, thinks the sound is the Grim Reaper, here to collect what’s left of his worthless soul, severing him from this world. It’s only when he sees the coyote’s ears flick back, the creature turning its head fearfully towards the sound, that Caesar registers the existence of a third entity in these dark lonesome woods.
He hears the noise again, then the harsh brush of hooves against the ground. . . then the world slows down as the cowering young man blinks, trying to capture the turn of events as they unfold before him.
A bull elk appears from behind the thicket of tall trees, charging horns-first, straight for the predator and its prey. The coyote decides it’s not worth the risk of being impaled and scrambles from the scene, flicking snow in Caesar’s face in its haste. He watches it disappear into the night, leaving Caesar to deal with the larger and arguably more dangerous threat.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
The elk doesn’t show any signs of stopping and all Caesar can do is watch as it gets closer and closer and closer until—
Searing pain, white hot agony is unleashed upon the blond as he screams out. The elk’s antlers easily stab his soft flesh, impaling him and pinning him to the tree. It manages to free itself, then turns and vanishes back the way it came, leaving Caesar writhing in pain, struggling to breathe. He runs his hand over his chest, feeling for damage. The elk has perforated his lungs— his breaths are numbered. So *this* is how it ends— not quickly at the hands of the coyote, but slowly at the mercy of his punctured lungs. *Suffocating to death, what an insignificant way to go.*
In his final moments, Caesar thinks of his mother, hoping her departed spirit will keep him company as his soul trickles out of his body. He cries when he thinks of his father— despite their arguments, Caesar knows the man has always loved him unconditionally— now his son is leaving him just like his wife did all those years ago. Wolfgang buried his grief and replaced her by remarrying. *Will you do the same to me?*
“Vergib mir, Vater,” he whispers, though whether this is directed to his father or to God, he can’t tell.
The last things Caesar hears as his eyelids flicker and close are the faint sounds of people calling his name in the distance, though louder, still, is the tragic pitter patter of his blood smearing droplets on the pure white snow.
*Drip, drip, drip.*
—
*Drip, drip, drip*
Caesar opens his eyes, exhaling raggedly as he takes in his surroundings. His naked form lies in the gold-plated bathtub, wisps of steam rising from his body and the hot water. He’d made this ritual of hot baths a necessary part of his monthly routine, both as a way to relax himself and as a way to keep him connected spiritually— nothing purifies the soul quite like a baptism.
Caesar takes a moment or two to collect himself, to lower his racing heart rate and to steady his breaths, before brushing slender fingers over two faded round marks between either sides of his chest— the sole imperfection he allows this body to bear. This nightmare-memory is one he’s had ever since that fateful night in the woods, and these scars are a souvenir from his rebirth. Looking at them calms him; they are a sobering reminder of the faithless, immature boy he used to be, the reckless fool who thought himself untouchable, invincible.
He used to hate the sight of them— they used to be nothing more than hideous blemishes on his skin, physical scars on his body that went hand in hand with the night terrors as relics of his trauma— but they eventually became something special to him.
He isn’t proud of them, but he isn’t ashamed anymore, either; while Caesar doesn’t go around showing off the scars to anyone with eyes, he doesn’t sink sharp nails against skin in the hopes of desperately scraping the marks away. He thinks of them as extra birthmarks, a testament to the naive boy who died that night and the new life that was breathed into him ever since.
Ego natus sum rursus. (I am born again).
A gentle sigh escapes soft lips as Caesar glances at the time, indicating he’s behind schedule. Curse this mortal body and its seemingly infinite need for sleep. He longs to free himself of its infernal repetition, yearns for the day he can rid himself of all its tedious demands.
The only dripping heard now are droplets of water falling from perfect porcelain skin as he removes himself from the tub, reaching for the towel to dry his hair. Once dried, Caesar takes the opportunity to inspect his reflection of any flaws in the matching gold-plated mirror. Faultless pale ivory skin greets him, devoid of any wrinkles or frown lines, thanks entirely to the various anti-ageing creams that line his marble vanity. Caesar gently touches the warm skin under compelling blue eyes, checking for any eye bags but finding none. Good. The sloppy boy he was all those years ago would never recognise the fine young man he’s become today; with sharp sculpted features, a symmetrical face shape, and the impeccably aligned jaw structure that took three years of braces to fix.
An appearance fit for a god.
As Caesar drinks in the sight of himself, he tries not to think too hard about the undeniable fact that this body of carbon and flesh will dissolve into nothingness one day. Time is his enemy and if he does not adhere to a strict schedule, it will win. What will become of his consciousness then? Caesar’s breathing becomes shallower once more as the weight of his mortality presses mercilessly against his chest, the marks between his ribs searing with phantom pain. Many alarming theories have plagued him since the fear of death first took shape in a dark corner of his mind all those years ago, of which only one is most plausible: if this body dies, his divine soul will be doomed to roam the void until he completes the tedious task of finding another body worthy of hosting his heavenly spirit.
Humanity might be damned by then and he will have been much too late to do anything about it.
My purpose is to save these pathetic creatures.
Humans need a supreme deity to lead them towards salvation, a creator to shape their fates, to forge the path ahead away from eternal condemnation and a perpetuity of hell.
Without providence, without god, evil will succeed and I cannot allow this to occur.
Caesar grips the sides of the vanity until his knuckles go white. He must guide them all towards truth but in order to do that, he must secure his position in this world and ground himself to this earth by any means necessary. The invisible ropes tying his consciousness to this realm weaken with every revolution around the sun, with every death of his cells. Sometimes he swears he can *sense* it's happening. He has already lost so much valuable time— if he continues ignoring his responsibilities, this body will age and age and age until it returns to the dust from which it was created.
His panicked breathing slowly returns to normal while he repeats a powerful phrase in latin under his breath, rocking on his heels as though the words are travelling through his body.
“Per Angusta Ad Augusta, per angusta ad augusta, per angusta ad augusta. . . ” (through trial to triumph).
I will not allow myself to die. Not now, not ever.
Caesar must find the Immortal Cup soon or risk losing his treasured godhood forever.
He lifts his head up and meets his eyes, determination burning behind those hypnotic blue irises.
It doesn’t take him long to change into appropriate attire for the cold autumn day; a white button up, black tie, and a dark brown sweater on top. Caesar despises the school’s dress code; fitting in with the rest of the regular students feels unnatural to him.
Why should I dress like the ordinary when I deserve to stand out? I’m better than the rest of them.
Despite his hate for the mundane, Caesar bites his cheek for now and dresses in these awful bland colours to serve his own interests, of course. As a student teacher well on his way to becoming a full professor, Caesar knows he must always stay in line in order to gain management's trust. Once acquired, he can put his plan in motion and finally rid himself of these hideous designs. He will dress as a god should: the picture of exceptional beauty and utter perfection.
Something as simple as a dress code seems like a trivial thing to obsess and upset oneself over, but such things matter when one is an esteemed corporeal being trapped in a dying body. He must always carry himself with the kind of regality and authority worthy of a powerful immortal such as himself— even if he is stuck in this unforgiving human form, prone to decay.
Decay.
“Per Angusta Ad Augusta,” he repeats softly, donning the bronze plaid blazer that ties his outfit together.
With one final look in the mirror, Caesar sets off towards the dining hall.
He carries himself with poise and grace, his head held high, but not too high as to seem conceited; he may well be above the rest of these insignificant students in spirit, but Caesar is still mortal and must carry that burden with humility until he gains full godhood.
Until then, I am but another servant of the Lord.
Caesar doesn’t pay much mind to most of the student body but he likes to think he can tell the unexceptional ones apart from the extraordinary. The insignificant students are the ones who are simply biding their time, the ones who will follow whatever footsteps their parents have taken before them, whether it’s running Fortune 500 companies, working in Silicon Valley, or just living lavish lives on their private islands. These people don’t want to make a name for themselves, they want to profit off the achievements of others.
These are people Caesar wants nothing to do with.
The opposite, however, are the kinds of students Caesar is interested in. These kids want to carve their own path, fight their own fight, and choose a direction that will see their names in the history books. These students aren’t like the others; they are an ambitious type that want more than just to take advantage of their last names.
Caesar’s watchful gaze lands on each of those select few students individually, silent and subtle. He has prepared the invitations and will have Ethan distribute them tonight, the first of the month, the start of their rebirth. He will sound the call to these chosen ones and the trials will begin.
Will you live up to my expectations? Show me you're worth my fascination.
He takes a seat at the faculty table, waiting patiently for Ethan to arrive. The gentle rain he’d walked through two minutes ago is now an angry downpour, with students complaining about their wet hair and clothes as they step into the Hall. 'Serves them right for being late,' Caesar thinks, taking a bite of his salad and trying not to feel disgusted with himself. He used to like eating before the encounter in the woods— now it’s but another reminder that he’s mortal, that he’ll die if he cannot sustain himself.
Short summary of plot: This is a continuation of my Welcome to Night Vale roleplay. Nikolai is a scientist from the outside world who’s fallen through a portal into this new and confusing reality. He refuses to believe that what he is experiencing is in any way supernatural— meanwhile, his vampire friend, Kainaat, tries to explain otherwise.
“I ran the tests like you asked,” Kainaat says, retrieving a clipboard and absentmindedly clicking her pen. “Nothing unusual, just like the last six times.” She sounds bored but there's pity in her voice that she doesn't attempt to conceal.
Nikolai tries not to resent her for it.
“We're not running the right tests,” he replies, rolling down his bandaged sleeve and setting his jaw. “I'm /telling/ you, something is wrong with me. I want to catch it in time before it gets worse.”
Kainaat fixes him with her sympathetic gaze once more, brown eyes swimming with concern. “Nikolai, for the last time, the tests are showing /nothing./ You said it yourself: I'm the best doctor here—”
“Correction,” he interrupts grumpily, “I said you're the /only/ doctor around here, therefore you are the best by default.”
“Right.” She rolls her eyes, lips pressed into a thin line as she continues. “Like I was saying, there's nothing else we can test for. When will you accept that things in Paradise Valley are just different?”
“Never,” the blond declares, defiant. “I thought you were a woman of logic, I expected you of all people to look past this supposed supernatural delusion and see it for what it truly is: unexplored science.”
Now Kainaat's eyes widen slightly as she looks around, lowering her voice. “You shouldn't be mocking the forces of nature so openly here. How many times have I told you, Nik, they're always—”
“Listening. Yes, you've mentioned it a few times.”
“So what is it going to take for you to get that through your skull?” Kainaat throws her hands up in exasperation, shooting him an annoyed look. “It's /because/ I'm a woman of logic that I can see this place for what it really is— unexplainable. Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, there are certain things we'll never understand, certain matters we'll never know the answers to?”
“No,” Nikolai answers quietly, the very notion of not being able to understand something leaving a terrifying feeling in the pit of his stomach. Knowledge is control, so if he can't have knowledge, he has nothing. “We can get all the answers we need through careful testing and analysis. You're familiar with the scientific method?”
“Really, Nik? I'm a /doctor/.”
He disregards her vexation. “Then you're aware we simply need the right theory and we can explain everything. Do you want to hear mine?”
Kai lets out a long suffering sigh. “Not really, but I get the feeling you're going to tell me anyway. Go on, Mr. Fancy Scientist. What's your big theory on how we all got ourselves here?”
“One word: wormhole.” He crosses his arms and leans back on the soft armchair, a triumphant look in his grey eyes, as though he'd just solved the world's most difficult puzzle.
“Physics was never my strong suit, Nik. Besides, everyone knows Biology is better,” she shrugs. “Could you elaborate on this /brilliant/ theory of yours?”
Nikolai pauses for a moment, pulling a face at her for dissing his area of expertise. “With all due respect, biology isn't going to solve this mystery, Kai. It's a matter of physics because we're not even on Earth right now.”
A beat passes as she processes his bizarre words.
“So let me get this straight,” she says, raising a brow, “You think we're on an alien world?”
“Yes, in a sense. I think everyone here stumbled across some sort of wormhole in space time, which would account for the difference in our time periods.” His words spill with so much confidence but it's clear that he's mostly trying to convince himself more than her.
“As I'm sure you're aware, Miss Ansari, wormholes can present themselves at any point in time, anywhere. So someone from the 1920s who stumbled into one could theoretically exist at the same time as someone who stumbled their way into one tomorrow.”
Nikolai demonstrates by picking up a piece of paper, folding it in half before puncturing it through the middle with a pencil, creating two holes. He then borrows a thumbtack from her desk and begins to explain.
“The paper represents spacetime. Everything above the paper is our universe, Universe A. Everything below the paper is another universe, or Universe B, if you will.” He unfolds it and keeps the paper flat. “This—” Nikolai says, holding up the thumbtack in Universe A, “was us.”
Kai blinks, following along.
“This is what I believe happened: we were walking through the universe we're familiar with, but we fell into this—” Nik hovers the thumbtack over the hole before folding the page until the holes are aligned, pointedly dropping the small object through the holes. It falls through to the other side, signifying the person's journey from Universe A to B.
“And that's how we ended up here. The multiverse theory backs up my claim. Einstein-Rosenberg bridges.” He can tell the smug look on his face is driving Kainaat up the wall but he doesn't relent.
“I think we've travelled through spacetime through a wormhole and we're on a version of Earth where different evolutionary processes took place, hence the slight anomalies.”
“Slight?” Kainaat scoffs, shaking her head. “How do you explain the different creatures?”
“High levels of radiation leading to genetic mutations.”
“What about the weird colour of the sky?”
“Changes in the noble gas composition that makes up the atmosphere on this planet. Higher concentration of Argon, I suspect.”
“Unbelievable,” she mutters. “Okay, here's a biology-related one for you: how do you explain the changes in people here?”
“Our atoms are being changed on the fundamental level to fit this new universe,” Nikolai replies without missing a beat, clearly anticipating her skeptical response. “The laws of physics and biology are different here; they allow for different limitations. What we perceive as 'powers' are just the norm for creatures in this universe. If they somehow made their way into ours, their atoms would change to fit our laws of physics, chemistry and biology too and I expect they would lose their so-called abilities.”
Kainaat sighs, defeated. She knows she can't change his mind so she just accepts that he needs time to come to the same realisation she had had all those years ago. Everyone eventually did.
“Sounds like the only thing you've figured out is how to continue to live in your comfortable bubble of denial. Now are you done pestering me for tests today so I can enjoy the rest of my day in peace?”
Nikolai huffs indignantly, frowning. “And here I was, beginning to think you enjoyed my pestering.” He extends his arm out for her to extract her payment.
“The only thing I /enjoy/ about you is your blood,” Kai grins wickedly, sending a wink his way before she inserts a syringe into one of his blue veins, extracting a vial's worth of blood for her to consume whenever she's feeling parched. She carefully removes the syringe and leaves it in the sink to sterilise, patching Nikolai up with a small bandaid.
“All done, Nik. Keep bringing me this premium-level blood and you're free to pester me all you want!”
He watches her wave at him cheerily from the window as he leaves the vampire's clinic, her eyes glowing red with anticipation for the next time she gets to taste his blood. Nikolai is almost certain she's going to snap one day and drain him of it entirely.
He makes a mental reminder to lock his doors with reinforced padlocks, especially during blood moons.
Short summary of plot: I wrote the first half of this as a present for a friend. Set in the PS5 game universe where Peter comes back from vacation after Roxxon almost destroys Harlem. Written from Miles’s perspective.
Miles has spent most of his summer break swinging from skyscraper to skyscraper, taking down petty criminals and small-time neighbourhood crooks as he tried to take his mind off the Holiday fiasco with Roxxon and the Underground. Christmas feels like aeons ago, but the wounds from his last fight with Phin are still fresh as day, and they hurt like it too. So while his friends at Brooklyn Visions Academy had been on their internships, or working hard perfecting their robotics project or introductory thesis, Miles had been on Neighbourhood Patrol every night, trying to figure out ways he could stop webbing up his ceiling every time he had a nightmare.
Waking up to his Ma sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders sagging, brows knitted together in concern, her face crumpled into an expression of pity— it was too much for Miles to bear. It reminded him too much of the way she’d looked after his dad had passed. After one too many times of that, he’d had enough. Since then, every night after she went to bed, Miles would sneak out his Abuela’s old apartment and put on the mask, letting the sounds of the city take him where he would be needed most.
He couldn’t sleep, so he might as well have helped out where he could, right? Doing something good was always better than sitting around in his thoughts.
Dealing with Simon Kreiger’s army of thugs and the Underground’s young mafia had taken a toll on him— and that’s putting it nicely. Finding out his uncle is the Prowler and his best friend is the Tinkerer? Well, that really had been the icing on the cake, hadn’t it?
Miles isn’t one to dwell on things; when his dad had died, it had broken him up inside in a way he could never explain, but he’d always found some peace by following in the man’s footsteps and lending a helping hand to his community. F.E.A.S.T. had helped him work through a lot of his grief.
He’d made the mistake of thinking he could do the same thing after Phin but soon realised just how wrong he’d been. Everywhere he went, he remembered time capsules he’d hidden with Phin and the conversations he’d shared with her, each recovered postcard or statue bringing back memories that were now soured by the hands of time. How is he supposed to work through his grief now? It’s gotten so bad, some days he can’t even Patrol near Trinity Church, or anywhere near her brother Rick’s shop.
Losing his father had been hard enough but losing /her/? Watching the person he’d grown up with choose a path of vengeful violence, only to be ultimately destroyed by it? That’s a different kind of pain because Miles isn’t just mourning the death of the person he once knew, no, he’s mourning the loss of what she could have been— he’s mourning the loss of the person he’d one day hoped to see on TV, winning a Nobel Prize.
Miles is lost in his thoughts— something that happens too often these days— when his phone vibrates.
A text from Pete.
> Hey, Miles. Pizza isn’t getting any warmer up here :)
Shoot. He’d told Pete he’d meet him there twenty minutes ago.
> sorry dude im omw now!
A few minutes later, Miles catches up to where Pete’s sitting on the roof of a building overlooking the newly reconstructed Braithwaite Bridge, his legs dangling lazily off the edge.
“Miles!” Pete greets him from his position with a warm smile and an enthusiastic wave. “Just the guy I wanted to see. I got us a half and half from Papa John’s. . .but there’s only a quarter left. MJ’s got me on this new healthy diet, and I gotta tell ya, no amount of avocado on toast beats the pizza cravings.” He gestures to the box beside him.
Harlem’s Spider-Man laughs at that, finding a heavy weight already lifting off his tensed body as he takes a seat next to him, inspecting the box. He’s so glad Peter’s back in town; having him here makes Miles feel like he isn’t so alone in all this superhero stuff— which is still pretty new to him, considering he’d only gotten his powers a year ago.
/So much has happened in a year./
“The view from up here is great! Best place to rest before patrol, don’t you think? And hey— Braithwaite Bridge, good as new! Sometimes I wonder what this city would be without Stark Industries’ deep pockets.”
“Probably a dystopian hellscape,” Miles offers in response, as he digs into the pizza and tries not to think about all the people he’d had to rescue at the explosion that day. So many lives could have been lost— he could have hurt so many innocent civilians with his powers. Miles has forgiven his mistakes and has since learned not to be so hard on himself, but the lack of sleep and the nightmares are really starting to get to him. Every time he skips out on rest, the eye bags grow and he leaves the door to his subconscious open, leaving room for self doubt to creep in.
Peter must have noticed Miles' smile drop because he shifts gears and rests a hand on his friend’s shoulders, squeezing it gently.
“Listen, as much as I love good pizza with good friends,” he starts, playful tone melting away, “I didn’t bring you up here for Papa John’s. I’m worried about you, Miles.”
Great. Is there anyone in New York who /isn’t/ worried about him?
First his Ma, now Pete— if there’s one thing Miles /hates/, it’s being a burden on people he cares about.
“I’m good, man,” he replies, but the lie leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “Just tired, I guess.”
Peter’s never been good at hiding his emotions— Miles has always been able to read his expressions clearly, and this one looks like he’s struggling to find the balance between being a concerned parent and a friend. Miles can see the conflict in Pete’s eyes.
In the end, he decides not to push it.
“You know you can always come to me for help about anything— doesn’t even have to be Spider-related.”
“I know,” Harlem’s Spider-Man replies with a weak smile, biting into his pizza. It’s cold now.
Peter’s mouth is pressed into a thin line. “Just do me a favour, Miles.”
He looks up, brown eyes meeting Peter’s worried gaze.
Peter takes a deep breath. “Take some time off patrolling— not that you’re not doin’ a great job— but I think with the new school year starting tomorrow, it’ll be good for you to let me take over Spider-Man stuff for a while.”
Miles stops eating. His heart sinks.
“You don’t want me to be Spider-Man anymore?”
Jeez, is he really doing that bad of a job? Is that why Pete’s brought him up here? To remind him of the explosion he’d caused— to try and gently tell him he can’t be trusted to look after the city?
“No, no, no—” Panic flashes across Peter’s face, “Nothing like that, at all, believe me. You’re doing great.” He pauses, trying to choose his words more carefully.
“I just meant— well, I’ll be honest. Back when I was your age, I would have given anything for a chance at a normal life. I want that for you— a shot at a semi-normal life where you don’t have to fight masked thugs and lose sleep over corporate conspiracies every night.”
Miles can sense the sincerity in his friend's voice, it helps calm him down a little and quiet the Doubt Demon hanging over his head. He takes another bite of the pizza, which encourages Peter to continue.
“I still want you to be my Spider-in-training, but I also want you to focus on school, okay? Focus on your friends, focus on your family. You need to balance Miles and the mask, and it’s not easy, believe me. I don’t want you to think that you gotta save this entire city by yourself, Miles. I should’ve been there for you when this whole thing with Roxxon went down.”
Guilt creeps into Peter’s voice near the end, and now it’s Miles’ turn to offer the support.
“Pete, it wasn’t your fault,” Miles reassures him, his voice firm with his conviction. “You asked if I needed help and I was the one who said ‘no,’ man. That was on me, I was out of my depth, I couldn’t see it, and people got hurt.”
Now they’re both sitting in the quiet as Peter desperately tries to figure out how to help dig them out of this conversation hole. Miles breaks it first because he can’t stand the heaviness between them.
“Which is why I think it’s a good idea— the break, I mean.”
“Really? You mean it?” Peter perks up at that, a mix of relief and surprise colouring his tone, like he’s genuinely amazed that his words have helped.
Amusement dances in Miles’ eyes at his friend’s expressions.
“Yeah, really— besides, you’re kinda right. I’ve been so busy with the Spidey-stuff, I haven’t really been focusin’ on my friends or school. Gotta keep up with my classes if I wanna stay on the Honour Roll, right?”
“This whole Spider thing took me years to get right, and I don’t want you to go through all that when you can just learn from my mistakes. You can lean on me for whatever you need. I’m proud of you, Miles,” Peter pats him on the back.
“Proud of you too, Pete,” Miles grins, “Not bad for your first mentor pep talk. I give it an eight out of ten.”
Peter exhales dramatically, fanning his face with all the theatrics of an extra from Bridgerton. “You have no idea how stressful that was.”
They spend the rest of the evening laughing and catching up, and Miles almost feels like himself again.
Short summary of plot: This was part of a plot where Arseni lost out on his promotion to a coworker he despises. Little does he know, the coworker is about to be assassinated.
Arseni isn’t a stereotypical wallflower type but he’s not feeling particularly chatty tonight. When you’ve been tirelessly working hard each day to reach a certain goal, putting in all the overtime you can, ignoring your social (and possibly romantic) life for the greater good— only for some idiot who can’t tell his left from right to snatch the opportunity that *should* have been yours away from you? Let’s just say it doesn’t leave a pleasant taste in his mouth.
Failure is bitter, after all.
He’s dealt with setbacks before, but something about *Jeremy* of all people getting that promotion feels like a crushing defeat. Arseni isn’t sure if he’s willing or capable to treat that imbecile as his new boss— what was Upper Management thinking? Despite all his vehemence for capitalism, Arseni would have thought it would be a straightforward and logical route to the top; keep your head down and don’t cause a fuss, blend in with the co-workers and engage in polite conversation at the water cooler, never bring fish to the office, and always treat Management like royalty.
See, this is why he hates this system. Arseni had followed each unspoken rule to a tee but the system had failed him. It’s ironic that it both proves his point, and makes him want to rip his hair out at the same time.
The Russian has been fixing Jeremy with death glares whenever he catches sight of him for most of the night but now that he has some time to himself, he starts thinking about the missed promotion and he’s mad all over again. Where’s Jeremy? The last he’d seen of him had been about fifteen minutes ago, when he’d quietly slunk away with a woman. Maybe he should find him and give him a piece of his mind. Then again, perhaps not; Arseni has worked too hard to reach this point. Like it or not, Jeremy is now the new boss that he has to butter up with compliments so he can progress to the next rung of the fucking corporate ladder.
He’s in the middle of his brooding session, debating if he should have another burger (despite Pavel ruining the sauce, Arseni still can’t get enough of beef) and that’s when some incredibly rude woman runs into him. Then she has the nerve to shove him?
"WATCH IT"
All Arseni can do is watch with a dumbfounded expression as she swiftly walks away into one of the bedrooms. Can this night get any worse? He doesn’t know why but that woman’s behaviour is enough to set him off, and as she adds the final nail into the coffin, Arseni decides he doesn’t have to take this. Someone is going to be on the receiving end of his anger and frustration, and this uncivil woman makes an excellent candidate.
When he opens the door to tell her off, he’s met with a scene he hadn’t been expecting— a terrified obese cat and its even more terrified looking owner trying to fend off a knife attack from the woman he’d left with earlier. Lover’s quarrel, perhaps? The newly promoted dumbass is bleeding profusely from his shoulder and looks like he’s about to pass out from sheer panic. Being stabbed will do that to you.
When the initial five second shock passes and his brain sends signals to his limbs, Arseni finds his legs moving automatically, carrying him to poor Jeremy’s side, where he attempts to wrangle the knife away from his new boss.
“Already creating a hostile work environment on your first day, Jeremy, *well done*” he strains against the stranger’s surprising strength. If he weren’t so focused on getting the knife away from his bleeding coworker, Arseni would be trying to unpack why his first reaction to a serious situation like this is *humour and sarcasm.*
He doesn’t realise that there are other unfriendly people in the room with them— truth be told, Arseni’s mind has gone completely blank, his earlier hatred for Jeremy evaporating away as if it were the furthest thing from his thoughts. No matter how cheated he feels, he’s still not okay with the idea of this Сволочь being murdered.
Arseni chances a glance at the attacker. The woman looks like she’s been crying— what has Jeremy *said* to her for her to resort to tears and homicide.
“Stop!” he says, lamely. What else is he supposed to do? Talk about the weather? “No serious harm has been done,” he lies, thinking about Jeremy’s shoulder, “you can still stop this and save everyone a trip to the police station tonight.”
Short summary of plot: Pirate roleplay with my boy, Michael, as the captain of a rag-tag crew!
If there’s one thing Michael Santos hates, it’s being stagnant.
For as long as he can remember, he’s always been in motion— whether it was running from the nuns at Church and dodging Sunday School, or vaulting himself over rooftops to escape naval officers during mandatory service conscription— he’s always enjoyed the thrill of a chase.
And the danger that comes with it.
But for every perilous risk, there was always a plentiful reward, and Michael had developed a certain talent for evening out his terrible odds. Every time he’d find himself in a bind, his quick thinking and resourceful tricks would kick into overdrive, delivering him from his messy situation, *usually* in one piece. Every time the cycle repeated, Michael found himself less intimidated by the danger. In fact, he started to see beauty in the peril.
Don’t get him wrong, Michael has endured his fair share of punishments too— whether it was getting his ears boxed at the hands of the pastors, or receiving lashings for disobeying orders, courtesy of his nautical superiors. In either case, he had come away learning one thing: rules were meant to be broken.
And if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s creating chaos and thriving in the pandemonium that follows, but there’s a significant lack of it these days, and for some reason, that eats away at him.
For months now, his pirate crew, The Crimson Crows, has been docked at the isle known for being a pirate safe haven. They’ve been enjoying the spoils of their adventures and taking a much-needed vacation from sailing. Michael, however, is getting more and more restless with each passing day, he’s been itching for some anarchy, anything to challenge him and satisfy the fire within that craves risk.
Nothing is more chaotic than the high seas, perhaps that’s why he misses it so desperately.
The only place he truly feels at home is when his ship, The Crow’s Nest, is crashing against violent, tumultuous waves and biblical winds. When the Crimson Crew works together to keep their Nest afloat amid the disastrous weather, when it seems like god himself is showering them all with his fury, when the hope of seeing a new day is as uncertain as a dream— that’s when Captain Santos feels alive.
It’s been far too long since his last adventure.
A strong hand claps him on the shoulder, shaking him from his thoughts and causing him to spill his whiskey. Michael’s hand immediately goes to the cutlass holster at his side, annoyed that his drink had been spilt, only to meet Melciya’s exasperated gaze.
“Quit your moping, Captain,” she chides, playfully smacking him as he shoots her a scowl in response and removes the hold on his weapon. “Look around, everyone’s singing and dancing, you’re sticking out like a sore thumb.”
She has a point. Pirates, captains, crewmates, outlaws and island dwellers alike drink and celebrate another night of the Moon Festival, chanting a mix of hymns and sea shanties at the top of their lungs— in horrible singing voices too, mind you. The liquor is flowing, the music is lively, and the chatter is loud enough to stir even the Kraken from its slumber at the bottom of the sea.
Michael takes another sip of his remaining whiskey, refraining from making a face at its subpar taste. They’re running out of money to afford higher quality drinks.
“You’re being a downer,” Melciya points out in an annoying singsong-y voice.
He smiles sarcastically. “There, happy now?”
“It’s a start at least,” she sighs, rolling her eyes.
Michael taps his foot impatiently against the ground, not particularly excited about the prospect of her hovering when he wants to be left alone to sulk. “Didn’t I ask you to keep an eye on Mari?”
“Oh, please, Ghost’s got her covered just fine.” Melciya points to the far end of the bar, where, sure enough, Mariana is seated with a grouchy looking Everett at her side. He has his arms folded, staring down any sketchy soul who dares to even look at her twice. As the youngest member of the crew, Michael worries about her, but he knows she’s in safe hands with Everett.
“That’s definitely the fun table,” Captain Santos remarks, waving at Mariana in a two finger salute when their eyes meet. “What do you think they’re talking about?”
“Here’s an idea”—Melciya grabs hold of Michael’s arm, pulling him up out of his seat as he struggles to hold onto the remaining bit of whiskey he has left— “why don’t we go over and find out?”
Michael makes little effort to protest, deciding that he’d rather not waste his energy fighting against her whims. He knows full well that once Melciya gets an idea in her head it’s difficult to stop her, she’ll keep pestering him until his mood lightens up.
“Pirates these days have no respect for their captains,” he laments jokingly, as Melciya marches him across the bar over to their crewmates, where they take their seats.
“Keep pouting like that and it’ll be hard to tell you apart from Carlos,” Everett scoffs, leaning back against his chair, nodding at Michael in greeting.
“That’s low, Smith,” he mutters in reply, shaking his head in mock disappointment as Melciya erupts in a fit of giggles. Her face is red from too many sips of sherry but it’s next to impossible to get that drink out of her hands now that she’s begun.
Such a lively environment is always sure to bring out her inner party animal. Seeing her and the rest of his crew at ease softens Michael’s expression, temporarily dousing the fire within— maybe being compared to Carlos had also played a part in helping him loosen up.
“Did you say something to him, Ghost?” Mel asks, Caribbean accent thickening from the drink swirling within her. “Why does he look like a man headed to the Gallows?”
“I hardly spoke to him all week,” Everett says, uncrossing his arms to raise his palms in surrender. Then he turns his attention to Mariana. “We were in the bazaars before this. He was like that when we came in, isn’t that right, Maria?”
Short summary of plot: This short story is a continuation of a plot I did with a friend ages ago. It’s based in the DC comics-verse and features dark themes. The Justice League and Watchtower was destroyed and the entire League was wiped out in one go. With no protectors to keep their city safe, Detective Grayson Parker is left to deal with the fall out in Gotham City. Lower case is intentional.
grayson drags himself up the creaking staircase in a daze, his body aching with every heavy step taken to his apartment. the old elevator had broken mere hours before the attacks on the watchtower, and with nothing but radio silence from the building managers in the weeks following the disaster, grayson had assumed the worst.
he still pays his rent on time, mostly out of habit than upholding some sort of moral code.
morality was hard to come by in gotham, but now it's rarer than ever.
he's breathing heavily by the time he makes it to the twelvth storey, taking a moment to rest in front of the entrance, sweaty forehead pressed against the faded paint of the door. he's itching for a drink. with some difficulty, grayson reaches into the shallow depths of his dwindling energy reserves to unlock his apartment, the last surviving sanctuary in this unforgiving city.
his boots track in traces of dirt, blood and the foul stench of death from the night's patrol into his entryway—not that it bothers him anymore. once upon a time, back when he still had the luxury to believe in a work-life balance, grayson would have liked to keep his work and home life separated. Now, however, he has no choice but to accept that this is all part of standard routine. as depressing as it sounds, he's used to it by now: stay up all day cleaning gotham's mess, drag himself home, drink to suppress trauma, collapse into bed from exhaustion, wake up, pour a drink as breakfast, go to work, repeat.
grayson can't remember the last time he had a decent meal without feeling the urge to throw it up. he can't recall the last time he'd showered without sobbing his eyes out from the horrors witnessed on the street. he can't think back to the last time he'd had a full night's uninterrupted rest.
the nightmares keep getting worse with each day, their haunting tendrils wrapping around his thinning frame tighter and tighter, squeezing every last bit of strength left within the broken man.
‘how did it come to this?’ grayson thinks for the upteenth time, kicking his boots off and unbuttoning his shirt as he makes his way to the kitchen. once upon a time, in a memory that seems too good to be true, someone special had cooked him breakfast here.
he tries not to think of him.
back in reality, grayson opens his near-empty fridge, ignoring the day's designated rations and reaching straight for the whiskey he'd seized from a raid. under normal circumstances, he'd have to report the goods so police precincts could store food and drinks for emergencies— unfortunately, these aren't normal circumstances. other officers steal food but grayson only steals alcohol, which functions as his main source of sustenance— probably why he's lost so much weight.
‘how did this happen?’ he still can't seem to wrap his head around how order had unraveled so quickly— all he knows is that this new hellscape is everyone's reality.
first came the riots; ordinary citizens rebelling against peace because they were afraid the world was coming to an end. grayson cant really blame them — seeing his heroes explode in a ball of fire had stirred up feelings of defeat within him too.
the riots were difficult enough to deal with on their own, but they were nothing compared to the chaos that followed. the real problem didnt start until the city was carved up by gangs, each claiming entire neighbourhoods for themselves like greedy pigs, ravenous for their share of the violence. cops from each precinct began disappearing, their heads placed on spikes in grim warnings for any person with heroic sentiments brewing in their hearts.
grayson hadn't exactly made many friends in his time at the force, but something about seeing a dead officer's wife breaking into harrowing wails, holding nothing but the badge of her deceased husband— the only piece of him that remained— it filled him with a sense of despair he hadn't ever felt before.
the final nail in the coffin came when the state department got involved. some hot shot prick in washington took one look at the wounded city and decided the best course of action was to cut it out of the united states *permanently.*
what followed was something straight out of a bad apocalyptic zombie movie: all bridges leading into and out of gotham were blown by the government, the infrastructure collapsed and quite literally broken off the mainland. the message was clear: gotham was a cancer and the united states government was ridding itself of its sickness.
grayson watched the bridges drown in the river from his terrace. he had drowned himself in a bottle not long after.
he takes a heavy swig of the whiskey, barely wincing as it travels down his throat, stinging and biting on its way to his empty stomach. sometime later, he finds himself out on the terrace again, leaning against the railing as he brings the glass to his lips once more. fires burn in every direction, filling the air with ash and smoke that leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth. a nightly lullaby of screams mixed with sirens used to make it near impossible to sleep most nights— now grayson finds himself well accustomed to the eerie ambience.
minutes tick by but gray barely moves from his spot, save for the drinking. his eyes remained fixed on the sky, on the exact point in the stratosphere where the justice league once towered above them all, standing guard and protecting them from all threats.
benevolent gods, blown to bits.
even now, months after the world had turned on its axis, gray tries not to think about that day too much, choosing to keep much of it buried in a special compartment in his head where his conscious mind cant reach it. easier that way.
the only thing he can't erase? how small he had felt that day. it follows him even now, lingering like a spectre he can't get rid of.
speaking of ghosts from this past.
grayson chances a glance to his left, and sure enough, his drunken mind conjures a near perfect image of lume standing beside him. the phantom glares at him with his usual blended expression of vexation and disappointment that grayson had come to grow so fond of.
he's not a complete idiot; of course he knows this isnt real but his treacherous heart skips a beat anyway. it's been so long since he'd last seen him in the flesh, or heard his soft voice utter sarcastic remarks under his breath. grayson hates himself for taking those moments for granted. despite his better judgement, he reaches a shaky hand out for him, lonely and desperate for a familiar touch to bring some colour back into his monochromatic life.
his hand passes through lume's face and the image fades away, leaving grayson alone once again, the darkness of the terrace suddenly suffocating him. he sits there in his own bubble of silence, hearing nothing but the sound of his own strained breathing and the rush of blood to his head.
it's night's like these where it gets unbearable, the weight of his crushing despair sowing the seeds of temptation in his drunken, reeling mind. grayson looks over the side of the railing but instead of feeling fear, the twelve storeys below him seem like a small jump and a short trip to his lume. sometimes grayson swears he can hear him calling his name from the bottom, pulling at his heartstrings, begging him to leave it all behind.
that's usually his cue to get up and head inside before he does something stupid. but lately he's found that lume's voice gets louder every night, harder to ignore, and gray lets his mind wander to dark places a little longer, his thoughts replaced by the drink, his rationale replaced by the poisonous promise of escape.
he lets himself imagine the jump, imagine the brief moment of weightlessness and euphoria, followed by a fall into lume's waiting arms. grayson doesnt believe in heaven, but thats as close to a peaceful eternity as he can dream of.
tonight he grips the railing as hard as he can, his heart thundering in his chest as he looks down, trying to find reasons not to do what his tired bones ache to do so desperately.
in the end, it's the neighbour's yowling black cat that pulls him out of the trance. it hisses at him for daring to invade the space it deems as its territory and grayson finds himself laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. it hurts his bruised ribs to laugh this hard but the irony of the moment leaves him in drunken hysterics.
‘and to think, black cats are supposed to be unlucky.’
when he finally heads inside to pour himself another glass, grayson finds himself stumbling on a painting he'd left by the corner of the sofa. it had been months since he'd last painted anything— it seemed the more he'd try to put his emotions onto the canvas, the more he'd be met with disappointment. eventually he simply couldn't bear to face his own descent into creative apathy any longer and he'd withdrawn himself to the drink.
several colourful british curses fall from his lips as he trips and falls, knocking himself and the painting to the ground. grayson lies on the floor for a minute or so, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
he doesn't remember moving the canvas— then again, he spends so much of his time in this apartment drinking himself to death that he barely remembers anything. the dissociative spells are getting worse with every passing day but he doesn't think they're cause for major concern.
so when he misplaces something, only for it to turn up three days later in a spot he hadnt placed it in, grayson doesnt think much of it. the way he sees it, there's two parts of him in this apartment; the drunk version of him that moves around the place in a daze, disturbing furniture and moving things unexpectedly; and the less drunk version of him that attempts to keep himself alive.
gray's sober self had died when lume did.
once his body is done protesting, he pulls himself to his feet and attempts to pick up the painting to put it away but when he turns it over to place it back, grayson finds himself overcome with emotion. it's an old painting he'd done of lume, depicting him leaping off a building against the backdrop of a full moon, his body in brilliant agile motion as he flees from the crimescene.
gray had been a rookie cop looking to work with vigilantes to clean up the police precinct, and lume's grace had caught his eye. he'd gone home that night and captured the cat's likeness to the best of his ability. the hero's effortless expertise in skirmishes with cops and thugs alike had kicked off gray's obsession with him, although his lethal methods always put the two at odds.
grayson's starting to see his point now— lume had always seen the justice system for what it was: inherently flawed. police put criminals away only for them to end up on the street a day later; if they'd only put a bullet in their skulls the way lume's justice worked, maybe gotham's police wouldn't be so overwhelmed right now.
too bad he's not around to say ‘i told you so.’
gray leans the artwork against the edge of the sofa's side as he sinks against the wall directly opposite to it. he runs a hand across the vigilante's blood stained cheek. the red paint remains. grayson closes his eyes, withdrawing his hand and resigning himself to the silence that follows.
‘you should be here,’ he says quietly, aware that lume cant hear him. ‘this is your mess just as much as it's mine.’
his breathing gets shallower as a bitter tone colours his words. ‘so why am i out there alone? why am i condemned to exist while you get to forget everything?’
anguished tears stream fall from tired, bloodshot eyes.
‘you're supposed to be out there with me but you're not! you left me! you left me and now i cant— im not— i dont know—' grayson balls his hands into fists, his voice coming out in a broken whisper. ‘i dont know if i want to live without you.’
he thinks back to lume lying on his couch, vulnerable, at peace. it seems like an eternity ago now.
‘damn you,’ he murmurs, his pent up frustration bubbling and rising to the surface.
‘WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME?’ grayson throws the painting across the room, breathing heavily. he grips the side of the sofa and pulls himself up, storming over to the artwork.
‘WHY DIDN'T YOU CALL ME TO HELP?’ the painting goes flying through the room again, knocking over a vase and shattering it. gray cant control his rage as he closes in on it again.
‘I COULD'VE HELPED YOU! I WOULD HAVE HAD YOUR BACK! WHY DIDN'T YOU TRUST ME?’ each question is punctuated with a scratch to the painting's surface until the canvas is unrecogniseable, torn to shreds right through the middle.
grayson falls to his knees, barely registering the sharp glass from the broken vase digging into his flesh. he holds the tattered remains of the painting close to his chest, yelling in wretched distress when he realises what he's done.
it cant be fixed and it's all his fault.
‘i should've been there for you. i should've— should've done more to make you trust me. maybe if i'd done things differently— god! maybe you'd still be here.’ grayson holds the splintered mess of the canvas as if he were holding lume's body, trembling with the weight of his unspoken grief.
if lume were here, he'd probably tell him to pull himself together. he'd hate how pathetic gray looks right now.
but he isnt here. and gray has no one to blame but himself.
he passes out on the floor sometime in the late hours of the night, pained tears dried onto skeletal cheeks.
Short summary of plot: This was done for a plot inspired by the podcast series, ‘Welcome to Night Vale.’ I wrote this piece with a focus on comedy because I sort of wanted to have fun with it!! Michael falls into an alternative reality when he fucks around with spooky places. Enjoy :>
Heavy panicked breathing is the first thing he remembers hearing. Michael wakes up upside down in some sort of tree, the kind he remembers seeing on the nature documentaries he likes to watch when he gets high. If he recalls the soft spoken words of David Attenborough correctly, he is currently hanging by his legs from the top of an Acacia tree, green leaves lightly tickling his cheek.
’What the fuck is an Acacia tree doin’ in the middle of New York?’
There’s no tree like this in Central Park, that’s for sure. Once the initial shock of his current predicament passes, Michael pulls himself up and takes a second to adjust to this new world, his head spinning from the blood trying to regulate itself in his hurting body. Where the hell is he and how did he land himself in a goddamn tree from the plains of Africa?
Nothing makes sense in this strange new reality he’s woken up in and for a good minute and a half he wonders if he’s experiencing some sort of trip. Why is the sky purple in some places, blue in others? What has he taken this time? LSD? DMT? Those weird experimental shrooms his buddy Luke keeps pressuring him to take?
There’s whispers all around him, voices speaking in hushed tones he can’t understand, wailing and moaning in muted Ancient languages he can’t comprehend. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, goosebumps lining sunkissed flesh. Michael keeps getting the unsettling feeling that he’s being watched. Even his worst drug experiences have never left him feeling this fuckin’ shitty— something’s off.
Michael knows he’s not getting any answers if he stays up here on this tree that clearly Doesn’t Belong, so he makes his way down, careful not to tear his prized black leather jacket as he navigates the slanted branches to the bottom. Slowly and surely, bits of his memories start coming back to him, like water from a jug trickling into an empty cup. Flashes of the past come back to him in hazy images that last for the briefest of seconds before vanishing behind his eyes.
The sounds of cheering and words of caution being shouted at him as he enters the forgotten subway tunnel. . .emerging on the other side of an invisible barrier that had locked him in. . .wild winged beasts with deformed faces rising from the shadows and chasing him until they’d grabbed him. . . his backstreet boys ringtone going off, the demonic creatures screeching in pain and letting him go. . . falling from a great height and breaking his fall in the Acacia tree before blacking out. . .
It had just been a dumb stupid dare. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
He was supposed to go into the closed off subway tunnel 13 to show his friends that it was all just an urban legend, that nothing freaky or supernatural was going on down there. That, like the Parisian Catacombs, New York’s abandoned subway tunnels held nothing but rats and the smell of piss. More than anything, Michael’s just annoyed that the motherfuckers had been right. He hates being wrong.
So all the stories about people disappearing in the infamous tunnel 13 had been true, and now he’s condemned to this place probably forever; cause in all the urban legends he’s heard about this place, none had ever mentioned anyone ever getting out. He's going to be another one of those people, isn't he?
Fuuuuuuuuck.
It’s disheartening but Michael can’t focus on that right now, his only priority is to get shelter from the winged beings that could descend on him from anywhere and take him away. He’d gotten lucky one time but he gets the feeling lady luck isn’t going to be on his side a second time. Adrenaline pumps through his aching body as he runs through the open space, looking for anything that might be able to provide some sort of protection from those otherworldly creatures.
The gravity of his dire situation hasn’t fully set in but Michael is careful not to let it get to him just yet: find refuge now, freak out later— there’ll be plenty of time to scream and be hysterical when he isn’t the main course for bizarre demons with disfigured faces and chilling cries.
As he runs, his legs aching under the pressure of the rough uneven terrain, Michael’s rationale begins to catch up with him and he struggles to keep all the wild questions swimming around in his head in check. Maybe he should make a list of all the insane shit that’s happened so far so he can ask someone about it later. Assuming there is a /later/, or even a /someone/ for that matter.
1. Why had the government kept this place a secret for so long? They must have known people go missing here all the time— why hadn’t they tried to make it safer?
2. How the hell did those /things/ never escape tunnel 13? What was sealing them in?
3. What the fuck is a sunflower field doing here?
Michael freezes. A haunting sound somewhere between a moan and a scream sounds from behind him, one he's unfortunately familiarised himself with— the creatures have returned and judging by the sounds of their anguished screeching, they're ravenous.
Is he going to die here in this open field in the middle of nowhere?
Fuck, not like this—
His fight or flight instincts finally compel him to get a move on, just as the demons advance on him, their open mouths showing off layers of sharp pointy teeth— yeah, /layers/, not rows. He doesn't have much of a choice in what to do next so Michael curses loudly and heads towards the sunflower field. This small field is his only source of protection from the bloodthirsty animals that are about to devour him slowly, his best bet is to lose them in the tall growth somehow.
“Jesus,” he calls out to the heavens, heart pounding painfully in his chest, “I know we ain't got the best relationship—” helplessness creeps into his voice as he feels them gaining on him, their extra legs allowing for faster traversal, “—but if you save me from this hell, I promise I'll go back to Church!”
Michael is enveloped by the tall sunflowers just as he finishes uttering his desperate plea for help, the monsters no longer able to touch him. He doesn't stop running until he's a good distance away from the border of the sunflower field, terrified that the cryptids are following him still. When he doesn't hear them anymore, Michael allows himself to cautiously stop and peek back through the field. Surprise colours his features when he notes the way the creatures burn up the second they touch the flowers.
They can't grab him here.
“That's right, motherfuckers,” he shouts, letting out a loud whoop and giving them the finger. “Can't touch me in here!”
He takes several moments to catch his breath and steady his train of thought which is now running a million miles an hour.
“Thanks, J,” he trembles, kissing two shaking fingers and raising them to the sky because he can't remember which way he's supposed to cross himself. “You came in clutch back there. Guess you're real? F-fuck.”
It's not the most surprising revelation of the day— not by a long shot— but Michael really hopes it's the last; if he has to deal with another reality-altering discovery today, he's going to spontaneously combust. When he exits the sunflower field, his legs are shaking badly, whether it's from the strain from the running or the shock of the traumatic experience, he doesn't know or care. Michael's expression is filled with wonder, however, because what he sees before him leaves him totally stunned.
It's a whole town out in the middle of this topsy-turvy world, complete with what looks like late 50s or early 60s architecture nearly everywhere he looks. There's a milkbar to the left, nestled between a sad looking diner with the words "closed on Wednesday due to scheduling errors" and an abandoned looking motel. The neon sign on the motel flickers ominously, only making his inner alarm bells ring louder and louder.
What's a small town doing here? This place shouldn't exist?
Why the 50s and 60s? Has he somehow stepped through a portal into an alternate universe where the world never progressed past those two decades? And that's another thing— what is all this doing in what had supposedly been just a simple abandoned subway tunnel? Tired and hungry, he just adds it to the ever-growing list of questions he doesn't think he'll get the answers to.
One thing excites him, however. If there's a town here, there's definitely people around; and if there's people around, well he can get help and end this nightmare.
What he needs now is something to eat, fast.
His stomach rumbles loudly on cue so Michael once again swallows the millions of questions buzzing around his head and begins marching towards the colourful diner.
Short summary of plot: This roleplay was based on the movie ‘6 underground.’ One powerful man assembles an elite team of people with specialised skills that take down terrorists and other dangerous individuals. They refer to each other in codenames from one to ten. Michael’s number is #4.
Michael isn’t a huge fan of rich assholes in expensive suits, but as luck would have it, he finds himself mingling with a bunch of them tonight. The cocktail party reeks of evil affluent motherfuckers blowing all their blood money on booze, women, and gambling. Everyone at this party has a net worth in the millions, if not billions, and they’re all tied to shady organisations in some way, shape or form— everyone’s got a connection to a weapons manufacturer or a terror group, or a drug cartel.
They parade around in public cutting checks to charities, and secretly use those charities as tax write-offs. Point is, as much as these fuckers pretend to be angels for the cameras, Michael knows different— not a single person here has a single atom’s worth of morality left in them.
Jesus would weep at the sight.
Number Four is already tense when he enters the party, though you would never guess it judging by his looks and the confident way he carries himself. A master at masking his emotions, Michael flows through the exquisite party like a natural, working the room and the people by making conversation, cracking jokes, and flirting where appropriate. Women with seductive flashy dresses, men with imported cigars blowing their toxins into the air, waiters dressed in suits more expensive than most people’s yearly incomes— it’s truly a rich person’s playground and it makes him sick to his stomach. So far, none of the lowlifes at this party have offered any sort of valuable information that’ll help them get their target.
Their coy smiles and arrogant words ignite venomous fires in Michael’s veins, who wants nothing more than the opportunity to sock each of these power-hungry pigs in the throat and watch them choke on their ambitions. Their conversations consist of stock prices, corporate gossip, and the occasional mention of their visits to their favourite country clubs.
“Ted and I just bought our third property. The Hamptons estate is lovely but I wanted my private island and Ted doesn’t say no to me.”
“That dress is gorgeous, Martha. Who’s your designer, I need to fly them in to design one for me.”
“My son just graduated. We celebrated by buying him his second Lamborghini— but you know Rudy, he’s a businessman, just like his old man. He negotiated with us until we agreed to buy him a yacht too. He’s gonna take Wall Street by the balls when he’s old enough.”
Social climbing, materialistic, capitalistic fucks.
Watching the light leave their eyes wouldn’t make Michael lose any sleep at night, that much he’s sure about— if anything, he knows the world would be a better place without them in it. It’s a wonder how he manages to maintain his own dazzling smile and charming facade when all his thoughts are running around the idea of somehow bringing back guillotines.
He’d always been partial to violence; growing up a rowdy kid with no father figure and an abusive mother with substance abuse issues rubbed off on him as a child. It was easy to be angry towards everyone. Michael seemed to resent the world for everything. Fifteen years later and that dissent hasn’t changed one bit, in fact his resentment has only grown— however, his hate’s focus is now directed towards the world’s most corrupt. What Michael wouldn’t do to teach these modern-day Lex Luthor’s a lesson.
That’s exactly what he’s doing here. Tonight, it starts with Nathaniel Warren.
‘The mission is to isolate Mr. Warren. Ladies… I assume you can handle that pretty damn well. If we can isolate him. . .”
“We can teach him a lesson he won’t fuckin’ forget,” Michael mutters under his breath, finishing One’s sentence as he takes a sip from his vodka martini. The drink burns his throat but he welcomes the stinging rush, it keeps him alert.
If One needs him to isolate the rich asshole, that’s exactly what he’ll do. Michael has never been a fan of authority; if a person’s in power, it’s usually through fucked up means and therefore they don’t deserve to be respected. His mistrust for authority stretches back to years upon years cycling through the foster care system, being juggled from institution to institution. Teachers had always hated him, social workers thought he was a headache, and the young man always found himself landing on the wrong side of the law. So it’s truly a wonder that One’s influence is the only exception to the anti-authoritarian code of conduct Michael governs himself with.
The most frustrating part is he doesn’t even know /why/. Why is One’s approval so important to him? Why is Michael’s primary objective staying in One’s good graces? Why does he feel the need to respect the billionaire that seemingly doesn’t give a shit about any member of this fuckin’ team? It drives him crazy that he can’t— no, that he /won’t/— bring himself to go against the man’s demands, no matter how outrageous they may be.
Deep in the far corners of his mind, buried under layers and layers of denial, in the crevices of his cracked soul, Michael knows the answer. He’s too afraid to even /think/ about it out of fear that he might somehow screw it up with nothing but his wishful thinking.
Dean’s the closest thing he has to a family.
Number Eleven’s annoying voice cuts through his morbid thoughts like a knife, and for once, Michael is glad to hear it. This ‘team’ —a loose term for a bunch of professionals with specialised skillsets united under an umbrella of serving justice to the elite— has a bunch of people he can’t stand on a good day, however, out of all of them, Number Eleven takes the cake. Out of all the unlikeable shitstains in this ragtag group, Number Eleven is the one he would easily punt off the side of the building, if given the chance— not that that would ever happen.
Michael can only hope.
One of the last members to join, Michael hated her from the start. For one thing, she seemingly came out of nowhere with a skillset extremely similar to his own, and for another thing, she just has the kind of voice that makes Michael want to strangle her. The rational part of him knows she’s just another person trying to do some sort of good for this world that doesn’t deserve it, and that she’s probably got a decent moral compass— hell, she might even be a better person than he is— it still doesn’t change the jealous part of him that despises her with the entirety of his being, down to the molecular level. Maybe it all comes down to their expertise being too identical.
And maybe he feels like Dean doesn’t believe in his abilities enough, and that he’s expecting Michael to fail so Eleven can take over his role.
“Great. What’s the move? Because I swear if I hear another story about a singer compliment a greasy dude’s wealth and hair we will have one target more.”
“Here’s an idea,” Michael hisses into his earpiece, “get out there and do your fuckin’ job. You heard One: isolate the target. Didn’t think he needed to spell that shit out for you, Eleven.”
Is Four the unofficial asshole of the group? Yeah. It’s no secret that he dislikes everyone on the team, or at least he acts like it enough to give the impression that he can’t stand any one of them. While his hatred for Eleven is as honest as it gets, that doesn’t necessarily mean that his negative attitude towards the others is as sincere as he tries to make it out to be.
Someone with more than a shred of emotional intelligence could probably dissect the fact that he only pretends to detest everyone to keep them at arm’s length. The last person Michael had allowed past the iron walls he’d created in his mind had been Dean, and now he can’t stand how vulnerable he feels around the man. No one should have that kind of control over him, especially not the people that could die in missions with him— the last thing Michael wants is to feel the pain of losing anyone he cares about. He’s experienced enough of that shitty feeling to last him a lifetime.
So the more he pretends to hate these people, the more he can convince himself that he doesn’t care about them, and the less it’ll hurt when one of them inevitably dies. Because if he’s being honest with himself, there’s no way all of them are going to get out of these life or death situations One has planned for them.
Nathaniel Warren isn’t the only cocksucker they’re taking down.
Michael has never been good at math, but even he knows the statistical probability of one of them dying is fuckin’ high. Personally, he hopes it's Number Eleven— he’d have no issues with her losing a few limbs, or her life— either works for him.
Number Three’s voice pipes up next, sultry and smooth like the velvety wine many of the partygoers are drinking tonight. Michael hopes they all choke on it, take their pretentious bullshit with them all the way to hell.
"Well, I’m off to keep my cover up, y’all don’t start the party without me, okay?”
“Typical,” Four rolls his eyes. “There are other ways to keep your cover up, you know— ones that don’t involve bein’ a whore.” Even as he says that, Michael allows a tiny amused smirk to play at his lips. There’s significantly less malice in his voice when he addresses Three, as opposed to when he’d addressed Eleven, but a tiny bit of annoyance still creeps into his tone.
“Leavin’ the rest of us to pick up your slack, as usual,” he chides into his earpiece. “Some of us are better at our fuckin’ jobs than others, I guess.” Three probably won’t take his reprimands seriously, and he doesn’t /have/ to, either.
Four has personally seen what the guy can do with a good gun.
Maybe it’s a good thing Three doesn’t have Michael’s violent tendencies, and that he carries himself with humour instead of fury.
Michael continues to mingle with the guests a little while longer, taking his time to subtly map out all the places with security cameras and guards, in case they need to make a clean exit. He spends what feels like centuries engaging in meaningless mundane conversation with these insufferable loaded morons, trying to get any sort of intel, until he finds himself within earshot of the conversation one of the drunk partygoers is having with Ten.
“Oooh you smell so nice, Spencer.”
Of all the names to choose, why would you go with Spencer? Dumb fuckin’ name if you ask me.
Michael makes eye contact with Ten, raising a brow as if to say, “Seriously?” He’s personally seen Ten take down three guys at once, but his weakness is a drunk woman throwing herself at him? The situation is a little funny, he has to admit. Four has half a mind to leave ‘Spencer’ to the mercy of this intoxicated woman but he rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his martini, dropping the empty glass in a nearby waiter’s tray before strolling over to the chaotic pair.
God, the woman’s perfume is almost potent enough to be the cause of her intoxication.
Two pumps did the job just fine— jeez, lady, did you break open the bottle and shower with it?
“Spencer, /there/ you are,” Michael says, putting on his best grin. His cheeks hurt from smiling all night, facial muscles screaming out in agony from this prolonged shitshow. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure yet.” He shifts his sharp gaze towards her, projecting hostility and disdain her way. “Domenico Fernandez at your service.” The name isn’t at all creative; his middle name and mother’s maiden name is what he’s chosen as his alias tonight but Michael doubts anyone is smart enough to piece that together. No one here knows his real name, besides Dean— it’s better that way, less attachments.
He takes Ten’s hand in his own, making a big show of it in front of Perfume Lady. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything here. If you’ll excuse me, my fiance and I are going to get ourselves a drink— I would ask you to join us but you look like you could use some water, mi querida.”
Michael Castaldi is a Brooklyn-born Italian to his core, but tonight he is Domenico Fernandez, a gay socialite with a Spanish accent, who’s engaged to a man named Spencer, apparently. What a tragedy.
“You should get in your fancy limo and go home,” he dismisses her with a wave, walking off in the direction of the balcony and pulling Ten along with him. Once they’re out of earshot, he drops the other’s hand and shoots him an annoyed look, folding his arms.
“Well, did you learn anythin’ important yet, /Spencer?/” Michael asks, his own Brooklyn accent more discernable now that he isn’t pretending to be someone he’s not. “There’s three guards near the south exit, two security cameras mounted on the east wall closest to the bar, and someone suspicious hangin’ round the dance floor.” He takes a moment to breathe and take in the warm summer air around them.
“God it’s nice to get away from them,” he mutters. “Took everythin’ in me not to kick ‘em in the balls every time they mentioned golf.”
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