Inspired by @greenekangaroo's excellent Mr. House AU (there's a second tag which is now more up to date here) which I have been OBSESSED with, especially the latest fic in the series Five Minutes To Midnight. (Note: this has taken me what you might call um. A While. this was true at the time I started writing) This fic is not 1:1 with the original AU itself largely because it is Wels-centric and based off my own general Wels characterization as well as his Mr. House AU counterpart.
Wels no longer considers himself a particularly religious man. Evident by his choice of name for his villainous persona - 'Helsknight' is not exactly subtle in its theming. But that is certainly not stopping him from murmuring the Lord's Prayer in the bathroom of a certain private room above the Angel Heart casino. He had darted for it the minute the person he had begged the illustrious Mr. House to talk to started to stir into consciousness. He can hear the conversation through the door, the moment that an old friend makes a realization about a new one.
There isn't much of a point in staying here. He'll have to come out eventually, and gripping the bowl of the sink isn't doing any good. He splashes cold water on his face as if his problem isn't being entirely too awake, and pushes the door open as quietly as he can manage.
It isn't quietly enough. Not by a long shot. Eyes are on him immediately - blue, green.
He isn't sure if he's relieved or not that the green ones don't show any spark of recognition, but either way he thinks he might be sick.
Mr. House - Skizz - is up and beside him before he can figure it out.
~
The thing about Wels was, of course, that he was cursed. He'd made the mistake of saying that around Doc once, back when he'd first told Ren they'd known each other before, and he'd gotten an earful about his appraisal of the situation.
Wasn't like Doc had a better one, though. Not when the same damn thing has happened three times, not when it doesn't link to anything else he can do.
Ren had been the first time it'd happened, back when Wels was just out of his parents' house and making friends with a similar flair for historical fantasy and the dramatic. Everything was normal, and then Wels took a nap one day in March and woke up in November and nobody whose number he had would pick up his calls. When he had seen Ren next, the man hadn't remembered him at all. None of his friends from before had.
At first, Wels had thought he was going crazy. He tried to put himself back together again, rebuild his life. Got into college. Made a few friends again, but not too many this time. He'd been unable to pick what he wanted to study, and was taking pre-law and English classes. He'd struck up a friendship with the only other guy who seemed to be in the library as often as him. His name was Cub, and the two of them may not have been the best of friends, but it was still good.
The next time was from April to August, and it left him forgotten again.
The third time, he knew what to expect. But it was the worst cycle by far. The two of them had gotten along better than Wels had with anyone in his life, up to that point. He prayed - actually prayed, like he hadn't done since he'd moved out of his parents' house - that it wouldn't happen again. But of course it had. And it was just so fitting, wasn't it, that the wound he wasn't sure would ever heal had come from a man named Scar?
~
"Woah, buddy," Skizz says, a steady hand placed on Wels' shoulder. It doesn't help, not with Scar looking at him like that. "You sure you can handle this?"
That, at least, snaps Wels out of his thoughts for the moment. A tired, quiet chuckle is the first response he gives, involuntarily.
"Better to get it over with now," he says, voice far steadier than he feels, "Should've led with it for Ren, too."
The air of the room shifts with confusion. Wels sighs softly before getting on with it.
It comes to the Knight Champion’s mind, vaguely, that he has never seen someone with feathered wings before. It hadn’t registered before - hearing the faintest noise of a swoop from the air above had him focused on far more important things. But now that his opponent is… subdued? Can he really call the cackling winged man clutching his bleeding arm subdued? Regardless, the active danger has passed for now, and he can take stock of him. His sandy hair hangs in his face, which is fully obscured to the Knight Champion just now. The man is notably shorter than him, bent over slightly at the strength of his laughter. His wings have sandy brown and pinkish white feathers. He seems to be wearing mostly red.
The man’s head snaps back up to look at him, and the Knight Champion raises his bloodied blade in warning. There’s something wrong with his eyes. Matte black, flat - like thin discs of blackstone had been placed into empty eyesockets. He sees the Knight Champion’s slight grimace at the thought, and a smile of needle sharp teeth is flashed at him.
“So you are as sharp as he says,” the winged man says, and the Knight Champion feels something ugly twist in his gut, “Had to see for myself.”
“As who says?” the Knight Champion asks, though he knows the answer that will come. The winged man’s laugh is crueler, this time.
“Is there more than one man who claims you in this city? Should I tell our dear Master Trader?”
The Knight Champion’s glare is withering, but the winged man stubbornly stays unphased.
“No. I thought you might be smarter than crossing him. That’s all.”
His clipped speech just sends more amusement through the winged man.
“He won’t mind. He likes me.”
He knows when he’s being toyed with. He’s been too obvious with his feelings. It stands to reason that any of his oldest friend’s business partners would be the type to play like this. He turns to look at a window of the manor house - a very specific one. He can’t see inside, but that isn’t the point. He can practically feel the winged man’s smugness, and as the Knight Champion looks back he’s just opened his mouth, about to say something else-
A spectral arrow hits the ground at his feet. Clearly shot through the window.
The winged man’s laughter ends in a scoff, and he takes flight.
“Sentimental about all his pets, then,” he says, seemingly to himself, and the Knight Champion wishes it were easier to ignore that.
In a way, his wish is granted when the winged man throws a fire charge as he departs - the Knight Champion deflects it easily, though he doesn’t care to see if it hit the winged man. Instead, he makes his way to the doors.
Notes under the cut. See masterpost for world lore.
We are starting off weak with the guy who has possibly the least relevance of anyone in the story these meetings come from! I am not sure I'm happy with this characterization for Hels!Grian. I went with a crueler edge to his tricksterish nature, and given the way that the Knight Champion and Master Trader are entwined I decided that this sort of situation is the most likely way for them to encounter each other. And in case it is too vague, the Master Trader's identity can be found in the tags.
Several important facts about my iteration of Hels before we begin:
Nobody in Hels remembers being a young child. It is unclear whether Hels denizens come into being in their older teens, or if they simply do not remember anything before that point. It is widely accepted by those who believe the latter that the instinctive knowledge and fear of the spawn warrens are tied to this forgotten childhood.
The world spawn of Hels is deep underground, and the tunnel system known as the spawn warrens must be navigated if you are unlucky enough to be sent back there. Without exception, that place invokes deep fear in Hels denizens - even the most curious will not intentionally set foot in them.
Hels denizens do not, by and large, have names. They are far more likely to hold certain titles based on their accomplishments or skills - but those who don’t have any to speak of are referred to by any notable physical characteristic, if they are referred to at all.
The Knight Champion of Hels is perhaps the highest title one can hold, and certainly the one that commands most respect - it is not known when, how, or why the order of knights formed. The title of Knight Champion is determined via tournament - anyone who is able to inflict a violent enough death upon the previous as to prevent a respawn will gain the title for themself.
Speaking of - yes, it is possible in Hels to kill someone so violently they are incapable of respawning. This does not have any known impact on the player they are modeled after.
Hels denizens refer to themselves as the ‘shadow’ of the player they emerge from - all the dark and none of the light. A shadow may resemble their player’s behavior very closely should that player indulge their darker instincts, or they may seem almost wholly unrelated if the player ignores the temptation to.
Shadows can see what their player sees if they enter a trance state. However, they are only capable of planting suggestions that many players ignore, and the shadow themself is left vulnerable while they do this. As such, one almost never sees a shadow in trance.
The scenes written here are all from Helsknight’s perspective, but they jump around in time - each scene is a first meeting, and those did not all happen near each other. As such, the name used for him will vary - he becomes the Knight Champion after he meets a few of our cast.
a poor method of dealing with hating your coworker
Do You Copy? (Podcast) | Blair Whitfield/Dakota Maxwell | Rated M | 283 words
This is probably, definitely, a bad idea. That's never stopped Blair before.
or: at an indeterminate point before main canon, Blair and Dakota argue, kiss about it, and resolve to never speak of it again.
Discovered the Yuri Shipping Olympics. Feeling normal about them. Anyway read Still Here on Ao3 for podcast yuri!
Do You Copy? Podcast | Blair Whitfield/Reese Williams | Rated T | 442 words
@uncooked-glass made some amazing art and I got inspired to write a snippet based off it. Perhaps someday there'll be a larger storyline this snippet settles into, but for now it stands alone.
Garden Dweller
He didn't notice it at the start - couldn’t even tell you when it started, really. Maybe it started from the moment he set foot here. Maybe his thought to depict himself as a ghost for his base was influenced by it. But he’s noticed now, of course. There’s something funny about it taking growing a new eye to really see the changes. He can’t ignore them anymore, not like he could when he felt the changes.
He doesn’t feel them anymore - roots and vines don’t squirm under your skin in the same way once it has hardened to bark. The only part he does still feel is the constriction of vines and resin around his heart - it’s still trying to beat, unaware that there’s no blood left to pump. He shouldn’t be able to think. There’s no blood carrying oxygen to his brain, he doesn’t even breathe anymore. Sometimes, out of instinct, he still tries to, but the creaking noises that come from his chest are unwelcome reminders of his current state.
He’s making the best of it. Of course he is. This game they’re playing is fleeting, transient. He’ll be somewhere else again as soon as it ends, somewhere that anything that happens in these worlds can’t follow him. He isn’t really dying, he won’t find himself growing roots and joining the garden for good. He’s not going to fulfill some self-prophesied haunting, building himself as a ghost for his home won’t matter after this.
So when he isn’t alone - when he’s talking to his friends, or to those curious eyes that he lets follow him to get a better look at the show - he can act like himself. When someone is watching, the transformation doesn’t progress.
But it is in his nature to slip off on his own and do simple things that those curious eyes tire of quickly.
