Resonant Exile

Lee | male | 30 | writeblr | You'll find flash fiction, novel excerpts, and the occasional prompt or quote here.

[lockejhaven]

05.07.2020

“Dance with me?”

“Not today, Ghost.”

“But… it is Asu. You always dance with me during Asu.”

Solace sighs, “You danced with Kythis, did you not? Surely that should suffice.”

Ghost fights the disappointment worming its way into her stomach as he leads Ros toward the door, on his way to his room, no doubt. She clenches and unclenches her fists in an uneven pattern, her tail whips around behind her, wild with a mind of its own as disappointment quickly ebbs into rage.

“He flirted with me, danced with me, and you didn’t even care! You still don’t care! You- you just watched! If I hadn’t stepped away, would you have even done anything?” Rage escapes into a desperate plea; one that goes unanswered as silence fills and envelops the room, Solace’s presence fading as if he had never even visited at all. A voice rasps dryly from her lips, one she hardly recognizes, begging for a response even now that he has left her once more.

“Why do you even visit me?”

A loud sound of breaking glass startles her and she flinches, curls her tail close to her side, turns to stare blankly at the bottle now lying shattered on the floor. She understands why Solace can trust Ros and not her. He had lived inside Ros’ head for years, understood Ros’ every thought and intention. Trust had never come easily to him, not without that kind of connection.

It doesn’t come easily to Ghost either. She is fully aware that it’s childish for her to be upset with him when he refuses to dance with her, especially when she rarely sends a good word or thought his way, nevermind appreciates his visits. She is fully aware that she’s just as selfish as he, if not more so, in her self-imposed prison of extravagance and locked doors. The shards glittering on the floor remind her of that.

Even if Solace had left her people to be slaughtered, even if he had vanished without a trace, she had no right to be angry with him when she had hardly been around. Her birth had come long after his supposed betrayal; she had never known what it was like to live with his presence, and her people had lived in fear and spite, refusing to understand. Ghost suspects they had never known the entire story. The raw pain in Solace’s eyes is clue enough that he’d never truly meant to leave them. To leave her.

Ghost breathes in slowly, reminds herself of her purpose, and steps over her fury to snatch the next bottle within reach.

Perhaps Solace would dance with her tomorrow.

~ • ~

Tag List Below the Cut…

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[mastermasochist]

Hey all! I just wanted to pop in and invite anyone who is interested to Author’s Cove, an established discord server with the purpose of bringing together like minded people.

https://discord.gg/ZxGUpvK

Join the Authors Cove Discord Server!

Check out the Authors Cove community on Discord - hang out with 119 other members and enjoy free voice and text chat.

Author’s Cove is a supportive community where people can share and discuss their work, find resources, and connect with fellow writers. We welcome all genres and styles of writing, as well as everyone from published authors to those only just beginning.

Our server also sports a leveling system based on the number of messages sent. At level 10 you are given control of a stack folder in google drive that can shared with the people of AC, and at level 20 you are given a “cubby.” A channel of your own that can be used as you please for things relating to your writing.

We pride ourselves in being an open, safe, and interactive community. Our administrative team consists of Toffee (Maximilian), Ren (Renee), and myself (Lee). Should you have any questions or concerns we would be more than happy to speak with you.

Hope to see you there!

[mastermasochist]

The Beginning Of An End

Death comes to all, eventually. And how pitifully the mighty fall when tossed from their thrones. Meeting the same dirt in which their subjects once groveled. When kingly soul fled its fleshy vessel, it curled away and vaporized the same as any other.

They did not pass to the chorus of violins strung in sorrow. Nor to the weeping of angels. If a heaven or hell existed neither quivered at the lost life. It was in silence that they drifted through the veil that not even He in all his glory could crawl back from.

Gone, vanquished, deceased, there would be no more opening of realms. No fabric those ghostly fingers could grip and tear asunder. For by now He was and would forever remain well and truly dead.

A smile flickered over Amadan’s lips. Like the bulb of a dying flashlight, unable to decide if it could remain alight. When he passed a hand across his face it left a crimson smear in its wake. Loose in his grip, the knife wept red tears that rolled languidly down the blade.

Inflated with the atavistic glee of one who has conquered, he paid no mind to the blood as he shifted. Pooling out from her, it was sucked with greed into the carpet. She had pitched forward when she fell and lay prone, one cheek pressed to the fibers covering the floor. Prodding her with a stained boot elicited no response. Eyes gone glassy stared at the wall they could no longer see.

How easy. Humans were such fragile things.

[mastermasochist]

Isabell had always set the wants of others above her own. Her wellbeing the likeness of a dust covered oak trunk, laying forgotten beneath the high shelf where she placed the polished needs of the people around her.

The type who would cut herself on the shards as she picked up the parts of a person gone to pieces, and make no complaint of the pain it caused her.

It was more than a desire to fix the broken. It was a need, driving her as ruthlessly as any whip to a horse’s flank. Endlessly galloping over unstable terrain to seek out the damage and try to mend it.

Chase, who was selfish in comparison, figured he would never understand.

Fine sand slipped beneath the soles of his shoes as he left the sidewalk and hit the beach. A stained bag slung over one shoulder, holding all his worldly belongings.

The late autumn breeze teased the coils of brown hanging untidily about his face. The odor of the ocean thick in his airways.

Dark clouds loomed on the horizon, blowing in with the tide. Misty tendrils of the storm rolling one over the other in an eagerness to break against the shore. He eyed it a moment, savoring the vista, before his gaze flicked to Isabell.

As ever desiring the feel of earth under her feet she went barefoot, walking the line where ground met water. The waves lapping against her toes, swirling and receding.

He couldn’t fathom the pleasure it gave her to go without footwear. He had asked after it, once. But the reply she had offered had been as cryptic as ancient Egyptian runes. Unable to read them any better than he could her answer.

Finn circled around her legs, the German Shepherd’s bassy bark easily transcending the gentler sounds of the rhythmic ocean. When Isabell threw the ball she held, the dog tore off after it.

Catching it on the second bounce, Finn carved gouges in the sand with the force of his halt. Triangular ears pressed forward as he caught sight of Chase, tail giving a single wag before the dog shot across the span between them.

Further back, Isabell smiled. Unable to match it, unable to feel worthy of it, Chase dropped his eyes to Finn as the canine reached him.

Dirt kicked up as the dog danced, only just containing himself to keep from jumping. Chase passed a hand between Finn’s ears, scratched affectionately at the Shepherd’s scruff.

When eventually he moved to meet his only friend, he did so reluctantly, with Finn matching his slow stride.

“Chase.”

A warmer voice he had never heard. It always startled him, the depths in which her care for him descended.

She embraced him immediately, arms sliding easily around his too slender frame. He hesitated before gingerly returning the gesture.

Moisture welled in his eyes, but he had blinked it away by the time they separated. The warmth of her against him was snatched quickly by the cool air, stealing from him the undeserved comfort of her.

When she studied his face concern lit her expression, and he loathed himself for thrusting his problems onto her.

And that’s exactly what it was. It was not in him to visit casually, to seek her company socially. Only ever did he find his way back to her doorstep when he had hit rock bottom, again and again.

“What happened?” Reaching out she ran her fingers featherlight over a bruise on his jaw, yellowed now with the beginning of age.

The usual, he thought. “Nothing,” he said.

Worry pinched her features, brought her eyebrows closer together. “It looks like someone hit you.”

The intensity of her stare had him breaking contact. Easing out from beneath her touch, he set his eyes on the horizon, where the storm was eating its way across the sky.

“Who hit you?” Voice gaining strength in determination, he knew she wouldn’t let it go. Stubborn, as always. Unwilling to back down until she had wrested the information from him.

“A man.” Though well aware that it was a battle he would lose, it was not his way to disclose his hurts so easily. Unable to lay himself bare in the manner that she so easily could.

A step to the side, and she forced herself back into his line of sight. “What man?”

“Just a man.” Refusing to meet her gaze, he stared over her shoulder at the ceaseless motion of the waves. “Luke.”

Luke. The latest of a long line of hurricanes to blow into his life. A whirlwind of intense passion, of emotions as deep as the sea. And just as violent as when one clashed with the other.

“Have you called the police?” she demanded. Often slow to anger, her temper never failed to flare each time he came to her. And it was almost always the same story. It was a wonder she even asked anymore; she should know the answers by now.

“No.” Pushing the hair from his eyes, he forced himself to meet her gaze. “It’s not worth the trouble.”

“Not worth..?” By all rights, the glare she gave him should have set him aflame. “This is serious.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s abuse, Chase.”

“It’s not-“ He rubbed a hand hard against his face, grounding himself with the pain his bruised jaw issued. “It’s over with him. I just need a place to stay,” he said. “Just for a few days, while I get back on my feet. Please.”

And as he knew it would, her expression softened. A plea working better against her than any argument he could make.

“Of course.” She took a breath, held it a moment. Anger dimming beneath the weight of that need to prioritize others, to make them safe. Comfortable. “Of course you can stay. Come on.”

Beckoning him with a hand, she turned for the parking lot. The last of the sun glinted off her red Toyota before the clouds overtook the sky.

Casting a look at the rolling sea, he tried and failed to soothe himself; he had few options, but to burden her with his presence.

With Finn roaming ahead of them, Chase followed in Isabell’s wake, feeling every bit like the stray he was.

@scribuary

[mastermasochist]

“Mason!”

Paintings lined the corridor he bolted down, frozen faces of his ancestors following him in silent judgement. Pursuit echoed behind him, the threat of one man terrifying enough without the walls doubling the footsteps, tripling them.

Slipping on the tile as he darted around a corner, he threw himself headlong at the door leading out onto the balcony. Glass cracking in the frame when it struck the exterior wall.

Racing across the polished wood, he gripped hard at the railing as he pulled himself atop it. Suffering a moment of hesitation he stared down at the night dark lawn. A second calling of his name had him kicking off.

The ground rushed up to meet him. When he landed, he did so wrong. Pain shot up his leg as he rolled, flattening blades of untended grass.

Sucking a sharp breath between his teeth he pushed back to his feet, favoring the limb as he made hastily for the tree line. Shoving through the vegetation, he aimed to lose himself in the forest. To leave behind the prison masquerading as a house.

Shadows reigned, with only slivers of moonlight penetrating the canopy.

Stumbling over the uneven terrain he went down hard, scraping his palms against a tangle of upraised roots. Forcing himself up and back into movement, he jogged another dozen strides before the ground fell out from beneath him.

When his body hit the water, his muscles seized in protest. The frigid river stole his breath, and when he kicked for the opposite bank he found the mobility of his limbs affected. It stung against the split on his cheek where a fist had found him earlier that night, hurt the abrasions on his hands.

Dragged downstream he fought the current, and when his shoes touched solid ground it was with great effort that he hauled himself up the slick slope.

Chest heaving, he collapsed to his hands and knees. Liquid streamed from his sodden clothes and the air assaulted him, raising goosebumps.

Wracked by violent shivers, he made to rise - and went still at the sound of an approach.

A moonlit lawn crowded up against the riverbank and across it a pair of figures strode, disappearing behind a blinding beam as a flashlight switched on.

Jerking a hand up to shield his eyes, Mason was set back on his heels at the issuing of a metallic click. The hammer of a revolver cocking back.

“Don’t move.” The light in her hand played over him. A tiny microphone was clipped to the collar of her coat, and into it she said, “Mr. Grant, we have an intruder on the south side, by the river.”

“I... I’m not-“ Mason made to rise, but the barrel of the gun swinging up to stare him in the face had him stilling.

“I said don’t move.”

Behind them a house loomed, a dark silhouette against the star strewn sky. From the back door a pair exited. Heart thundering, Mason scarcely dared to breathe.

When they reached him one continued on, bypassing the security and dropping to a crouch in front of him. Under light of moon and flashlight, they studied one another.

“I’ve seen drowned cats in better shape than you, kid.” The man - Mr. Grant? - said. “What are you doing on my property?”

“W-went for a swim.” Teeth chattering, he wrapped his arms around himself to hoard what little heat he could.

Mr. Grant arched a brow. “I can see that.”

“Would you like us to escort him back across the river, sir?” The woman asked.

“No, please. I didn’t mean to trespass. I’m just trying to.. to pass through.” The trees swayed ominously when Mason cast a glance back at them. “Please, let me through.”

“Strange choice of path.” Mr. Grant eyed the tree line across the river. “The woods, at night?”

“No, I-“

“Are you going to try to lie to me?”

Mason cut his gaze to the side, keenly aware of the weight of their stares.

“Do you know who I am?” Mr. Grant shifted, stripping out of his jacket.

“The... mayor?” Mason mumbled. Dimly it occurred to him that he had begun to lose sensation in his extremities.

Genuine laughter met the suggestion. “No, not the mayor. Although I do have her in my pocket.”

Mason shied away as Mr. Grant edged nearer.

“Easy, now.” Leaning in, he draped the jacket over Mason’s shoulders. “I’m no politician, not officially. But I have this city under my thumb.”

A hand found Mason’s arm, and it took more than a little encouragement to help him find his feet. His leg kicked up a protest, and an arm around his back kept him from returning to his knees.

Panic chased some of the accumulating fuzziness from his thoughts. “What are you going to do?”

“Now?” A fingertip whispered across Mason’s cheek, just above the cut. Flinching at the contact, Mr. Grant gave a thoughtful hmm before guiding him across the lawn. “Get you warm before you catch hypothermia, if you haven’t already.”

The security fell into step behind them as they made for the house. “And tomorrow. Well, that depends on what story you decide to tell.”

[mastermasochist]

People go, but how they left always stays.

- Rupi Kaur

[mastermasochist]

Autumn air ripped through the cemetery, whipping the coat about his knees. A cascade of colored leaves rained down around him as he walked the familiar gravel path. Neatly tended, as were the trees, and the marbled grave markers dotting the landscape.

Tucked just beneath the horizon, the sun emitted only a glow. Giving way to the shadows as they gathered in increasing number. Though the light had halved in strength, he didn’t remove his sunglasses.

Hands thrust into the pockets of his coat, he paid little mind to the other people paying their respects. Strangers, all, for most of those he had counted as friends had moved on from that life already. Beyond his reach. At peace, he hoped.

Boots crunching over the tiny stones, he navigated the area almost without thought. So many times he had visited, he knew it just as well as his own humble home.

In the waning light he found his destination. Like the others, the marker was well taken care of. Polished and smooth, looking every bit as it had when first planted in the soil.

Standing before it his eyes traced the engravings, long since burned into his memory. So still he could have passed as stone himself, he lingered a time before moving down the line.

There were too many. Too many friends laid to rest, gravestones standing sentinel over them. Too many lives assaulted by unforgiving time, or cut short by the wrath of war.

He knew the count. Knew how many he visited, but he tried to push the numbers from his mind.

After a time he reached the last. The least important. One corner of his mouth edged up, though behind the tinted lenses his gaze reflected a soul deep sadness.

“He was a good man.”

Startled into turning, his breath caught in his throat when he set eyes on the elder. Aged now, with deep creases in his weather worn skin. But nonetheless recognizable.

It was in the shape of his face, the kindness of the smile that expanded as he examined the headstone. More likely than not with eyes that did not see as well as they once had.

“Always saw us through, Richard did.” The elder stepped up to the stone and laid a hand gently atop it. “Would have given you the clothes off his back.” He chuckled at some long ago memory. “I couldn’t count the times he gave up his rations to his friends.”

The elder shifted, surprise coloring his expression when he looked properly at the man beside him. His mouth opened, and closed again. It took him a moment to find his words.

“You look just like him,” he said in a voice so soft that the breeze near carried it away. “A spitting image.”

The urge to embrace the elder bordered on overpowering. He went as far as removing his hands from pockets, before forcing himself to stillness.

“I’m Charlie,” the elder supplied, unknowing that there was no need for introductions. Holding out a hand, the man gave it a tentative shake.

“I’m...” He had to catch himself before using the name that no longer belonged to him. The name etched into the stone that overlooked an empty grave. “Thomas.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Thomas.” Charlie withdrew his hand, returning his eyes to headstone. “Your grandfather?”

Amusement contended with sorrow as he answered with a quiet, “Yes.” Had nature been kinder, there would have been no cause for the lie. He could have stood side by side with Charlie, both naturally aged. Could still have been Richard.

“A good man,” Charlie said again.

‘Thomas’ offered a smile, even as moisture gathered at the corners of his eyes. Looking back along the line of headstones, he said, “Not as good as some.”

[mastermasochist]

Each roll of the ocean rocked the floundering vessel. Tipping the deck to the rhythm of the restless sea, and on their knees at Edith’s feet the captives subtly swayed.

Smoke billowed from stacks at the stern, staining the oceanic air. Perfuming it with the odor of the boilers death. With mast and wings broken, the ship had run its last course.

“You won’t get away with this.” Twisting at the rope binding her hands, the woman spat the words with all the venom of a cobra.

Edith pulled her eyes from her own ship, bobbing serenely off the port side of the broken craft. Fingers resting on the hilt of her sword, she pinned the woman with a stare.

“The Commodore is just behind us.” Raven hair dominated the woman’s head, the sea breeze stirring the unwashed strands. Brushing greasily against alabaster skin that had taken on a grayish pallor.

“His fleet will see you to the ocean floor.” Had her glare been a dagger, it might have cut the pirate to ribbons.

A smile quirked up one corner of Edith’s mouth. “I’m sure he’ll try.” Of that, she had no doubt. She had thwarted enough of his operations to warrant his attention.

But a glance upward deepened her suspicion; where the Baron’s colors should have flown, there was nothing. It was the absence of a flag that had drawn her to them. Even pirates flew a banner.

Thuds and clangs echoed from below deck, where half her crew searched the hull for valuables.

Scanning the line of prisoners, she weighed the appearance of each. Thin and haggard, only a handful had made a stand against her. The fallen had sunk swiftly beneath the hungry waves. And those that had surrendered made for a sorry sight.

“Which of you ranks here?”

The uniforms were near universal, and in similar states of disarray. None hinted at any hierarchy that she recognized.

The question was met with silence, not a one of them stirring. Heaving a sigh, Edith kicked hard at the nearest captive. A whimper rose from him as he was sent sprawling, a pathetic noise that did nothing to ease her mounting ire.

“Captain’s dead.” A woman - no, girl, for she could not have been more than fourteen at most - supplied. Her cheeks flushed when Edith set eyes on her. “Died three days ago,” she continued timidly.

“And your first mate?”

“We don’t have one.”

“Than who’s in charge here?” What sort of ragtag crew was manning this ship? It was no wonder Edith’s people had overtaken it with such ease.

“Shall I appointment someone for you?” Taking up a tighter grip on her sword, she drew the blade and let its point rest against the wooden deck. “Or will severing a few digits loosen your tongues?”

Mouth gaping like a fish snatched from the sea, the girl tried for a reply but found none. Several of the crew paled. A few heads turned, each eying their neighbor in dismay.

“Captain.” From the bowels of the ship, Imari emerged. Ebony skinned, handsomely built, Edith might have courted her first mate had she not had a preference for woman.

Trailing behind him were several more of her own, carrying armfuls of fabrics and spices. Of actual food, there seemed to be none.

Three more survivors had been rounded up; shepherded into the sunlight, they blinked at the chaos of the ruined vessel. One of them broke out in a smile when he spotted her, though it did not reach his eyes.

“Edith,” he greeted. And grunted when her first mate set a boot to the back of his leg, dropping him to his knees.

“It’s Captain, to you,” Imari growled.

Grimacing as he landed, the grin returned in short order. “My apologies, Captain.”

Imari made to loose his sword, but Edith waved him off.

“Martin.” Sauntering across the deck she stood before him, rather enjoying their respective positions. A far cry from their roles when last they met. “Strange of you not to fly your father’s colors,” she said, indicating the barren pole with a dip of her head.

The smile faltered. “They were hard on the eyes. Had to take it down before it struck us blind.”

“Oh, I agree.” Touching the tip of her sword to his thigh, she delighted in his discomfort at the gesture. “I never much liked his flag.”

“Edith,“ - behind him, Imari stirred but did not strike him - “I’m no longer with the navy.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Fingers tapping against the cutlass, she cocked her head.

“It doesn’t matter what you believe.” Martin’s attention drifted from her to appraise his shipmates. “I’ve been dishonorably discharged, I think.”

“You don’t know?”

A smile ghosted over his lips as he returned his eyes to hers. “Son of the Baron or not, I imagine being caught freeing people from jail is a cause for employment termination.”

“And them?” she asked, sweeping a hand toward the prisoners.

“Innocent people, who’s only crime,” - he spat the word - “is being related to members of the underground. They were going to be hung.”

“Seems I’ve missed a lot, since last I was in your port.” Edith scratched thoughtfully at her chin, casting the sickly woman a dubious look. Indeed the Commodore might be behind them, though not for support.

Redirecting her attention to Imari, she asked, “Have you taken everything useful?”

“Aye.”

“Then let’s be gone.” Sheathing her sword, she studied the passengers of the dying ship. “Bring them.”

Martin surged to his feet. The step he made to take toward her was arrested by Imari, grabbing his arm in a rough grip. “What are you going to do with them?”

“Criminals, bound for the noose? Might be they’ll fetch a good price back home.” She had no intention of returning them to the Baron. But the lie was worth witnessing Martin’s distress. Lord knew he had caused her enough, over the years.

A few words of protest kicked up from the prisoners as the pirates hauled them to their feet, but most went meekly as they were led to her ship.

“And me?” Martin asked, anger coloring his expression.

“Don’t worry,” she said, patting his cheek. “I’m sure we’ll find a use for you.”

[mastermasochist]

Cold and relentless, the rain struck off his jacket as he crumbled to his knees. Rough cobblestone rose to meet him, biting into his palm when he threw it out to arrest his fall.

To his left lightening crackled, not from the heavens but from an outstretched hand. It forked across the road, kicking up steam where the heat of it hit the wet ground.

It fell short of him, and from the corner of his eye he caught his opponent’s approach, but made no move to rise.

Tinted red where it washed off his shoulder, the water swirled around his legs as it made for the gutter. Falling noisily into the underground.

She stepped near, a threat hovering at the edge of his peripheral. Power vibrated in the air between them, lifting the hairs on the back of his neck.

Shifting her weight from foot to foot she flexed her hands, eying him with deeply rooted caution. She had every reason to be distrustful. She was not the first of her family to cross paths with him; though she would be the first to live.

“I’m done.” His voice fell flat. Bowing his head to remove her from his vision, he watched the way his blood swirled through the water.

For a moment there was silence, save for the downpour pummeling the city.

She barked out a humorless laugh and circled round behind him. “You’re not serious?”

“I am.” A chill rolled up his spine, old instinct warning him against having her at his back. But he remained unmoving, breathing deeply of the rain fragranced air. Doing his best to ignore the increasing burn issuing from his ravaged shoulder.

“You’re lying.” An emotion he could not fathom thickened her words. A boot scuffed against the stone as she closed on him. “I won’t be tricked so easily.”

“Think what you want.” Angling his head back, he let the rain caress his face. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

So many years spent sewing discord in the city. Reaping a harvest that had never once belonged to him. He was done. Burned out. Defeated.

“You don’t just get to stop!” Her shriek was accompanied by sparks that flew from her hands, bouncing off the sidewalk beside him. “You don’t just get to get away with what you’ve done.”

“I never said I would get away with it.” Pivoting his upper body, he tried to bring her into view. When their eyes clashed she took an unintentional step back.

Her hands fisted at her sides. “I’m going to kill you.”

“I know.” Breaking contact, he looked out along the sodden street.

Behind him energy gathered. And an odd serenity stole over him. What more could one ask for, than to die on their own terms?

@scribuary

[mastermasochist]

Peace overtook chaos at the sight of her. Shadow shrinking as she came, huddling about her feet as she passed beneath the yellowed glow of a lamppost.

A sidestep carried him to the alley wall, the shrouds absorbing him. Sliding a hand over the bricks he bent his knees, settling into a patient crouch. Hardly daring to breathe.

The silence of the slumbering city was punctuated only by the rap of her boots over the sidewalk. A lone person on a lonely street.

And him, hidden. Watching, following. Dogging her steps as loyally as any cur. Leeching off her presence, which served to still the fester of his thoughts.

Eyes tracking her progress, the monster went quiet. Her proximity lulling it.

But oh, how it rankled. To breathe the same air, to walk the same streets, and still live worlds apart.

When she passed out of view his heart knocked harder against his ribs. Like a siren the lure of her had him rising. Edging to the mouth of the alley, he leaned out to watch her retreating form.

A familiar conflict ensued. Desire warring with logic. One rule he had set in place to keep the both of them safe; don’t be seen. And as ever, he struggled to maintain it.

His want was a vicious thing, worrying at him like a dog at a bone. It was times like that where he lost the divide, the blockade he had built between himself and the monster.

Where did it end, and he begin? Her presence eased it - but it longed for more than mere vigilance. More than quiet creeping, and secret watching.

Nibbling at the inside of his cheek, he scanned the deserted street for people and found none. They were alone, two souls in a dormant city.

Rolling his feet to soften his footfalls, he set off after her. Cautiously working to close the gap that had widened between them.

Two blocks apart. One. Excitement thrummed through him and he picked up the pace, fingers twitching at the thought of reaching her. But he was thwarted.

Out of the night her apartment building loomed. Lights set high up on the exterior wall spilling over the steps leading to the front door.

With a sharp exhale he stepped into the shadow of the neighboring building, equal parts frustrated and relieved.

Shuffling his feet he tracked her as she ascended, fumbling a moment in her purse for the key.

For a wild moment he flirted with the idea of moving in after her. Escorting her to her apartment, basking in her presence. Soaking up the aura of the sacred quarters in which she lived.

And then she was gone, door closing with a click behind her. Running a hand through his hair, he lingered. Agitation rising with the loss of her.

Tomorrow, he promised himself. The evening would see her settle in for her shift, and when her work had concluded she would again traverse the lonely streets.

And he would be there. A silent specter, drifting after her as he always did. Both a guardian, and a threat.

[wolvesofarcadia-archive]

Me, sitting at the kitchen table: INPSIRED! 5 PLOT HOLES SOLVED! SNAPPY DIALOGUE! TEN NEW SCENES FLASH BEFORE MY EYES! THE ENERGY TO WRITE PAGES OF CONTENT!

Me, sitting in front of my laptop: wut r werds

[mastermasochist]

Same goes for when I’m driving. Can’t write down ideas when I need to keep a two ton vehicle on the road. And once I get home? Inspiration has abandoned me.

[mastermasochist]

The world swayed, and Callum with it. And only by throwing out a hand against the wall did he manage to keep his feet. Panic was depriving him of oxygen, breaths too quickly taken aggravating the injury across his abdomen.

Sucking shallowly at the air he leaned heavily against the wall, the brick cool beneath his sweaty palm. The other was tucked beneath his jacket, pressed securely to his bloodstained shirt.

Gritting his teeth he fought for balance. Once achieved he continued on, sticking close to the exterior of the building. Each step an agony that forced him to shuffle.

Grass whispered as his boots passed through it, drops of dew darkening the leather. Inch by inch he progressed, the light of the lamps at the front of the building beckoning him.

When he reached the corner he hugged the turn, eyes roaming the expanse of lawn for security. Lackeys. Anyone.

A breath of wind stirred the grass. Colored autumn leaves swayed on the branches of evenly spaced trees lining the walkway.

Save for the vegetation, nothing moved.

Had the goal been theft or sabotage, no doubt he would have encountered opposition. It was only when he was in need of aid, of course, that there was not a soul in sight to intercept him.

Easing onto the cobblestone walkway he made for the front door. Grabbing at the handle, he half expected to find it locked. When it gave under pressure he slipped inside the home of a man who had once been a friend. And had almost killed him twice.

The corridor was longer than he recalled, though the low lighting was eerily familiar. Veering toward a set of double doors, he did not so much as push them open as fall against them.

His weight sent one swinging hard on its hinges, the thud of it colliding with the wall resonating through the room.

A man and woman, conversing nearby, startled at his unceremonious entrance.

Staggering sideways his shoulder connected with the wall. Hunching in on himself, he growled out his pain in wordless torture. When he made to step forward his legs came unhinged and he went to his knees.

“What the hell?”

Reuben’s voice spiked the pace of his heart. Bracing a hand against the tiled floor, Callum angled his head to watch their approach.

A scowl adorned Reuben’s expression, where a sly smile would have sat with more comfort. “What happened to you?”

“What does it look like?” Callum snapped between ragged breaths.

“Like you made a mistake.” Reuben crouched in front of him, his companion hovering nearby.

Callum snorted, immediately regretting it when pain forked up his side. “Yeah,” he breathed.

Recoiling as Reuben reached for him, they eyed one another warily.

“Do you expect me to fix it?” Reuben asked, grasping the edge of Callum’s jacket and lifting it away from the wound.

“No, I came to steal your money.” The room had begun to spin subtly, robbing his voice of the intended sarcasm. “You owe me for the Burlington job.” A pause, to catch his breath. “And medical bills are expensive.”

Reuben studied him. “Who was it?”

“Does it matter?” Callum dropped his eyes to the floor when Reuben’s expression darkened.

A hand fisted in his jacket, and with an arm circling his waist, Reuben made to haul him up. The abrupt motion wrought a scream from him.

“Get the fuck on your feet, Callum.”

Scrambling to get them under him, he staggered. Kept from sprawling by Reuben’s hold on him.

“Sir?” the woman stepped forward, but Reuben waved her off when she made to help.

“You could just kill me here,” Callum wheezed. “Good a place as any.”

Reuben scoffed. “There’s no victory in killing you while you sit in a pool of blood I didn’t draw.”

“You’re just jealous-“ He hissed as he was forced into movement, and continued through clenched teeth. “Someone else managed what you couldn’t.”

“Shut up,” Reuben said.

“Fuck you.”

Reuben barked out a laugh. “I don’t think you’re up for it right now.”

Callum wrenched away, and was startled when he hit the floor. Stars burst across his vision, and he experienced an odd moment of disconnect between body and mind.

Reuben heaved a sigh. “I could just drag you.”

With darkness encroaching at the corner of his eyes, Callum found himself unable to summon a come back.

Reuben stooped to grab hold of him, but Callum sagged listlessly against the other man. They might have stagnated in the hallway, had they not been accompanied by Reuben’s companion.

“Get over here and help me with him,” Reuben snapped at the woman.

Together they brought him back to his feet, half dragging him into the depths of the building.

“You better not die on me.” Reuben’s voice came as if from a distance. “Killing you is my job. I won’t let you take that from me.”

@scribuary

[mastermasochist]

Massive flames stripped the building, animating the shadows and sending them dancing across the lawn. The grass was moist where Jesse’s back pressed against it.

Standing over him was the arsonist, cocooned in black bunker gear and holding aloft the crowbar that had sent Jesse sprawling.

If the person spoke he couldn’t tell; the mask obscured their face, and little could be heard over the roar of the fire, and the echoing thunder of his heart in his ears.

When Jesse did nothing but stare dazedly up at his assailant, the tip of the weapon lowered a fraction. The stranger took a measured step back. And another, until they had vanished from Jesse’s line of sight, leaving his view of the tainted sky unobstructed.

A crippling pain ripped through his chest when he tried to sit up. Choking on the agony he rolled to one side and managed to push himself stiffly to his knees.

A sweep of his eyes and he found the arsonist, veering toward the forest that edged the property. Looking over a shoulder they must have seen him. They gave a mocking salute before slipping through the tree line and out of sight.

There would be no catching them. Not now.

With a hand clutching his sternum, Jesse stumbled to his feet and made for the burning house. Perspiration gathered on his face as the heat of the fire washed over him.

People had been in attendance within; he had heard the screams when the criminal intercepted him, during his initial approach. Only silence, now, save for the hunger of the flames. If he was quick, maybe...

With the noisome fire dominating his auditory, he didn’t catch the rapid pound of approaching footsteps. Not until the moment just before arms wrapped hastily around his midsection.

The force of the collision drove him to his knees, and whatever damage had been done to his chest flared with a vengeance, wresting a cry from him.

Struggling against the hold, he brought his elbow back in a blow that made his attacker grunt.

“Stop it.” The man trapped the offending limb in a too tight grip.

A chill shot up Jesse’s spine. On its heels anger followed; he didn’t need another criminal to contend with.

“Let me go, Cameron,” he snarled. Gritting his teeth he thrashed and regretted it. Pain set his lungs to spasming.

“Why?” Cameron readjusted his hold, pinning Jesse against his chest. “So you can throw your life away?”

“I need to help them.” Moisture gathered at the corner of his eyes and he attributed it to the smoke billowing around them. “They’re still in-“

“They’re dead.” Standing, Cameron hauled Jesse up with him. “We need to go.” In the distance, a siren wailed.

“No,” Jesse protested. “We can’t leave, we have to help them.” Half heartedly he tried to resist being spun to face Cameron; he failed.

“You can’t save everyone.” One of Cameron’s hands grabbed roughly at the side of Jesse’s face. The contact made his skin crawl, but it was beyond him to recoil from the touch.

“You tried, but it’s too late, and we need to go.” An arm snaked around Jesse’s back when he sagged against him. “Neither of us can afford to be caught up in this.”

Jesse wanted to argue. Desired more than anything to shove Cameron from him and make toward the house. To save them.

But he was right. Damn, he was right. More than likely, they were dead. And the city did not take kindly to those who took the law into their own hands. Already Jesse was on their radar. Cameron, too.

But still. “I can’t just-“

“You can, and you will.” Cameron towed him in the direction of the street, ignoring Jesse’s protests. “What good will you be, locked in a cell? The people you helped put in jail would have a field day with you.”

Resigned, Jesse let himself be guided away from the blaze. “What do you care?”

“I’m a thief, not an asshole.” Turning a corner, a neighboring house blocked the worst of the firelight. “I won’t see a good man put in jail for trying to clean up the city.”

A resident stood out on the stoop, phone to her ear. She eyed them as they shuffled passed, but her attention returned to the scene as the sirens swelled, then cut.

When she made to locate the retreating pair, she found that they had gone.

[mastermasochist]

“Haven’t you been paying attention? You don’t find the institute, the institute finds you. You open the closet, it’s just a closet. You can never find the monster that hides inside. Not until it jumps out at you.”

- Conrad Kellogg, Fallout 4

[mastermasochist]

Part one.

Part two.

When the storm finally broke it did so with all the fury of a heaven wronged. It threw itself against the stonework of the mansion, rain lashing at the windowpanes in irregular, watery whip cracks that threatened the integrity of the glass.

Slouched against the frame, Blaine’s eyes followed the wind driven beads as they struck and ran, the lamplight of the third story room catching on them.

Being a man of little patience, his ire rose swift as he waited for lightening to illuminate the destruction below. Where the well tended flowerbeds and elegantly trimmed bushes were no doubt being ravaged by the weather.

No such light came. The overcast sky held its forked and blinding tongues, and with the night in ascendence there was nothing to see but the darkness pressing flush against the window

With a creak of unoiled hinges the door swung inward behind him. A flurry of boots treading hard over the carpet had Blaine turning, the pistol holstered beneath his jacket coming easily to his hand.

Two men stood central in the room, forcing a third unceremoniously to his knees. Blaine’s attention slid over his battered employees before dropping to the downed man.

“Tell him what happened.” The reddened bandage wrapped untidily around Blaine’s employee’s arm did not bode well.

The visitor licked his lips. “The meeting with Mr. Kendrick went bad.” The men flanking him had been overzealous; already one eye socket was darkening with the beginning of a bruise and blood trailed a thin line from a split on his cheek.

Blaine pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Bad how?”

Tense silence, until one of Blaine’s men gave the captive a sharp kick to the hip. “Mr. Kendrick thought your people had the hardware on them. He... ambushed them.”

The man fidgeted as Blaine tapped the muzzle of the .45 against his thigh in thought. “Jason would think me so foolish as to send them with it, without having struck a deal?” What irked him more he couldn’t say; that the prospective buyer had tried to screw him over, or that the man thought so little of his business prowess.

“Who is this man?” Blaine asked of his underlings.

“John,” one of them supplied. “He was at the meet. Works for Mr. Kendrick”

“I can fix this,” John blurted. “I can go to my boss, smooth things over and-“

A bullet to the chest stymied whatever else lay ready to fall from John’s tongue. The weapon’s discharge in the close quarters was near deafening, and both of Blaine’s men shied away.

John issued a repellent gurgle as he fell back. The lightly shaded carpet would need replacing; red dotted the fabric and a pool was fast spreading.

“Get rid of that.” Blaine waved a hand at the prone man. “And bring me Ethan. Why isn’t he reporting this?” Having been charged with the negotiations, it was only fitting that his second be relaying the failed transaction.

While one of his lackeys hurriedly stooped to grip the body, the other rubbed at the back of his neck. “About that...”

@pen-for-sword

[mastermasochist]

The padded walls absorbed the sounds of screams. The hero took a moment to appreciate the privacy, before driving his foot into the downed man’s stomach.

“You’ll never learn,” he said, when the noise tapered off into labored breathing. His eyes flicked critically over the villain, vulnerable on the concrete with his hands bound behind his back. “None of you stop to think about the consequences.”

“I’m the bad guy.” Blood flew from the villain’s lips as he spat the words. “Hurting people is what I do.” Six people dead during a heist, two being collateral damage; it happened sometimes.

“I don’t mean them.” The hero waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t care about them. Do I look like someone who cares if people get hurt?” He used a sharp kick aimed at the villain’s ribs for emphasis. “I’m talking about you.”

The villain gasped, curling in on himself. Body protesting inflation with the broken ribs. “Some hero,” he wheezed. “Aren’t you supposed to be righteous?”

“You’re stereotyping.”

“You’re a monster.”

The hero cocked his head. “Virtue is for the weak. It’s limiting.” Crouching, it pleased him to see his captive shrink away.

“Pretending to be something you’re not is limiting,” the villain countered. Talking less for the sake of understanding and more for staving off whatever was planned for him. “Why not join us?”

The hero smiled. “This city doesn’t give villains what they want. Me, now,” a sweep of his hand to indicate himself, “I’m a hero.”

“You sacrifice people for your own gain and call it heroism.” The villain smiled. It was almost flattering; two lives lost because catching him had taken precedence over them. “Putting on an act is for clowns.”

The hero punched him, three times in quick succession. Grabbing the villain by the chin, he forced their gazes back together. “What do you know about heroism?”

The edges of his vision were darkening, but he forced a smirk. “More than you, apparently. Go figure.”

Wondering if it would be his final act of defiance, the villain spit a mouthful of blood in his capture’s face. It wasn’t long after that he lost consciousness beneath the false hero’s violent attention.

[pen-for-sword]

F I R S T! Ooooh more hero / villain—this stuff is great!! I really love what you’ve done with this, giving us a new perspective on the hero and their motives.

I wonder, could this be related to your first hero/villain post? Does it occur in the same universe?

[mastermasochist]

This reply is way overdue, but yes! It does occur in the same universe. Although this pair is somewhat removed from the other two. I imagine them as being in another part of the city, which I always picture as a sprawling metropolis.

[mastermasochist]

A body blocked his egress from between the buildings, face cast in soft shadow with the light of the dying day at the man’s back.

“Step aside.” Lacking the strength of a proper command, it was near drowned by the cheering of spectators on the street.

The criminal did nothing to hide his amusement. “Or what?”

A performer capered by the mouth of the alley, flamboyant clothing a stark contrast against the grey stonework.

With the eyes of the city turned to the festival, they two stood in unsettling privacy. Shaking his escort seemed less an adventure and more the foolish act of the child he had been, not so long ago.

“I could have you put to death.” Alexion’s fingers strayed to the hilt of his sword; they both knew he wouldn’t use it.

“Ah.” A stride brought Sammir near, a twist of his expression turning his smile sly. “I think you’d miss me too much.”

“The void of my bowels would be a sorer loss than you.” The exotic patterns tattooed along Sammir’s arms never failed to draw his gaze. There was a tale there, but one Alexion always refrained from asking after.

A laugh brought their eyes back together, the sound a richer timbre than those drifting off the street. Emotion budded beneath Alexion’s breastbone and he took a step in retreat. If only physical distance could remove himself of feeling.

“I doubt that.” Sammir pursued him, an invasion of space that should have been met with a reprimand. “You came here to find me, didn’t you?”

Warmth flushed beneath Alexion’s skin, brightening his cheeks. He narrowed his eyes at his body’s betrayal. “You presume too much.”

“I think not.” With a hand stenciled in permanent black, Sammir pushed Alexion’s grip from his weapon. The action found no resistance.

“But I wonder,” he said, work roughened fingers sliding across the smoothness of the prince’s knuckles. “What could a little lordling want with me?”

— Random snippet from an unnamed story.