hello! my name is alia. im 22 and use any pronouns. i write a lot of whump and hurt/comfort. specific interests include living weapon whump, caretaking and recovery, sci-fi/fantasy setting, weird fiction, and so on.
blog is 18+ please!
=================================
My Writing <3
Series:
Destroyer - A powerful telekinetic serves as a weapon of mass destruction for an evil space empire.
Rubies - Delta’s recovery arc after his captivity. Mostly comfort.
Crash Out - Paris’s ??? arc. Mostly hurt.
Destroyer (Vol. II)
Bonus Features - Extra stuff for Destroyer trilogy! :D
Mini Series:
Shrike - Vague yet menacing government agency captures a living shapeshifter
The Tower
Prompts:
Check out the tag #my prompts for these :D !!!
=================================
i am always open to requests and i will love you forever if you leave comments or ask questions <3
feel free to message if you have similar interests! i like meeting new people.
CW: Minor whump, violence, threats, allusions to institutional abuse
── ⟡ ˙.
It’s the following day and Wren has pushed all thoughts of the events with the trainee out of their mind. He is the very last thing on their mind now, their confidence renewed, because today they are very lucky. They snagged a key card. A high access key card. They’re practically guaranteed an easy investigation in any part of the base. And so, as they march down the wide corridor past the training quarters, there is a slight pep in their step.
They are feeling perfectly confident in infiltrating higher level offices with ease and zero suspicion. In and out, easy-peasy. Well, that is until they round the corner and find themself face to face with him.
They gasp as they nearly ram straight into him and have to swivel on their feet slightly to avoid colliding with the boy. When their stance is steadied, they look up at him for a long moment, eyes wide. So much for no suspicion. Wren stares for a long moment, brain short-circuiting, and then, without a word, turns abruptly and begins to very quickly make their way down a slightly emptier corridor, searching for a door to go through. They can’t help but glance over their shoulder every so often to ensure that the trainee isn’t still looking. They pray to whoever is out there that he isn’t.
They barely make it two metres. Their pace increases as the sound of footsteps somewhere behind them interrupts their worried thoughts. Every corner they round, their feet get quicker, their eyes darting to each passing soldier. Shit, shit. They’re being paranoid. A trainee has no reason to follow them.
With a huff, Wren’s pace quickens again into a light jog. The file room, the file room. Where was it on the map again? Shit, was it two lefts and a right or two rights and a left? They chew at the inside of their cheek, reaching a fork in the hall. They glance down both ways, hesitating.
Oh! Two rights and a left. As they continue down the labyrinth of passageways, the people grow scarcer, only the occasional high ranking officer passing. None of the clutter and bustle they first saw. Soon there’s no one. A good sign. After a few more minutes of creeping down the corridor, a shining metal door comes into view with a panel on the wall beside it. Aha. Wren does one more quick glance down the hall before slipping the key card out of their uniform pocket and pressing it to the panel. The light on the scanner goes green and a ding sounds. Perfect.
They’re relieved when the room they slip into is dim and empty, the only light being the flickering of screens playing camera footage. They hesitantly press their hand against another panel on the inside of the room, the lights flickering on with an electric hum. Upon further inspection, they can see rows of screens, filing cabinets. There are shelves of boxes upon boxes, filled to the brim with what look like hard drives and wires. The air has a faint must to it like the room doesn’t get a lot of airflow. They note that there's not a single vent. Probably a security measure. This is exactly what they need.
They’re quick to pull out the bag stuffed under their bulky vest. With quick movements, Wren surges forwards and begins to sweep hard drives and paper files into it — anything they can fit.
Their hands are quick as they fill the duffle and zip it shut. Get in and get out. If these files have good, solid information then their job is done and they can get the hell out of here and get to work. They try not to let the excitement brewing in them bubble too high but they’re so close to exposing Eden—
“What do you think you're doing?”
The breath on their neck is hot. Wren reels around, slamming their elbow into whatever body part of the person is closest and quickly backing away. Their elbow doesn’t make contact with anything. “What the fuck?” Their eyes are frantic as they scan the room. Nothing. No one is there. But they definitely heard someone there. They felt it. “Hello?”
Wren squawks loudly when a body materializes in the dark. Before they can register the person’s advance, their arms are yanked behind them and they’re pinned back, muscles straining. “Hey, what the hell! Let go!” They yelp, tugging their arms and trying to jerk away from their captor, feet stumbling at the movement.
Before they have the time to react, a boot meets their back, forcing them down against the frigid linoleum. A foot presses down on their head.
“What do you think you're doing in here?” The voice repeats, low and even.
Wren grunts and lets out a whine of pain as the boot digs into the back of their head, mashing their face against the ground. Any attempt to wriggle free only causes more discomfort. Wren gags on their own tongue. “Nothing. It’s none of your fucking business.” They grunt, words out before they can begin to think about what they’re saying. When they are met with a long pause, the pressure against the base of their skull growing threateningly stronger, they writhe in defiance, fear bleeding into their next words. They didn’t think this through properly. “Let me go, man!”
“I think it is my business.” There's a beat as the heel of the person’s foot digs more harshly into the back of Wren’s neck (if that’s even possible) before the voice says, “Who sent you?”
Wren grits their teeth. There is no way they’re getting out of this. They were so close. “No one. I’m doing my job! You have the wrong person.” They bark back, tense, trying yet again to lift their head to no avail.
“Stealing files? That's classified information.”
Wren huffs and jerks their arms again. It does nothing. “No. I was collecting things for the high general.” They hiss. “Now let me go.”
Their wrists are twisted painfully, skin stretched beyond its limit. Wren bites down on their tongue to stifle their scream. “Lie to me again and I'll cut out your tongue.” The man spits. The growl in his voice tells them it’s not an empty threat.
“Let me go and I’ll tell you the truth, asshole.” They snap back, wriggling their arms uselessly. He doesn’t give in.
“I don't think so.” The attacker keeps one foot firm against their face and they have to angle their eyes in a way that makes their head ache to watch him in their peripheral vision. Pausing his questions, he moves to stoop over and pick up their bag. “Where were you planning to take this?”
Dread settles heavy in Wren’s chest — and at the back of their head. This cannot be happening. All of that work can’t go down the drain now. Not after everything they’ve sacrificed to get here. “Nowhere, okay?” They admit, voice hollow. They’re only able to register their own fear. They can’t die here. Not by the hands of an Eden brat. “I don’t work with anyone, I was taking it for myself!”
“What were you going to do with it?” The man asks, grip tightening against their wrist, fingernails digging into their soft exposed flesh. Blood bubbles underneath his grip.
Wren gasps, writhing defiantly. “You know, I was just gonna sit back and watch some footage for fun!” They snap, baring their teeth and rolling their eyes. They can’t help themself. Is this guy really an idiot? “No, I’m going to expose this shitty corporation.”
The boot lifts off their head for just a moment, giving Wren hope of escape until it stomps down again, smashing their face into the floor.
They let out a cry of pain as their nose makes a cracking noise and an instant gush of blood pours out. They cough, eyes watering, grimacing at the taste of blood in their mouth. A violent gag escapes them. “What the fuck,” they wail.
“‘Eden is eternal.’” The man recites in a robotic way that makes Wren’s skin crawl.
Wren scoffs, blood smearing against their lips. Their head throbs. “Yeah, bet they’ve been carving that into your brain since you were in diapers.” They mutter under their breath. They let out a grunt and curse silently as their face explodes with pain and they are pushed down further, each retort earning them another kick.
“There's no point in trying to fight us. Who sent you then? Are you one of ‘God’s Chosen’?”
Wren’s expression twists into a scowl, annoyed at his accusatory tone. Like they’d ever belong to them. “That fucking crazy cult?” They snipe, twisting to try and look in his eyes. “I hate them just as much as you.”
“You know, you should really learn when to close that big mouth of yours.” He presses down harder on their head, Wren’s nose popping with the pressure; his glare burns into the back of their neck. “I could always just kill you now. It's not like anyone here would object to it. Or I could take you back to be questioned. I'm sure that'll put a stop to your smartass comments.”
Wren gasps and winces, squirming in pain under the force of the attacker’s foot. “No! Please, I'm being serious. I’m telling the truth, I don’t know what more you want from me! Just ask me your questions now and let me go.”
“So you can go spread lies about Eden? I don't think so.”
“They aren’t lies, it’s the truth and I’m going to prove it! Why would I come here looking for evidence if I was just going to spread lies.” They huff and shift slightly on the ground, the hard floor pressing against their body uncomfortably. “Do you know the truth? That your leaders, your CEOs are lying to you. And the Elites? Just more of their lies. Do you really know what they’re sending those children off to?”
“Shut up.” The man’s response is instant, defensive. “You don't have any clue about Eden.”
Wren snorts, wincing when the action sucks blood up into their nose. “Oh yeah? I know that they’re lying to the public and apparently to you guys too. They’re raising you to be monsters and then taking advantage of your skill. Puppets, the lot of you. You’re all puppets.”
“I’m not.”
“I’m sure every other one of their toy soldiers would say the same thing.”
An idea graces them, stupid and reckless. Much like all their other plans so far. And yet, it may be their one shot out of this complete disaster. They’re physically out-matched. Though they don’t think they’ve ever not been. This is their only chance if they wish for those files to see the light of day.
“You wanna check those files, don’t you?” They manage to move their head just barely, wincing in the process. Their eyes shoot over to the bag. “Go ahead and have a look. If what’s in there isn’t enough for you, I've got more.”
There’s a long pause and Wren begins to fear he’ll just shut them up by killing them. But then they hear a suspiciously file sounding rustle. And another. They would smirk if it weren’t for the throbbing pain in their face.
They listen silently to the sound of pages in a file flipping. “See anything interesting?”
They take the answering silence as a good sign and when their attacker finally steps back, their suspicions are confirmed. With a grunt, they push themselves into a sitting position, wiping blood from their face with a grimace. “Some not so great stuff in there, huh? That’s why I’m doing what I’m doing. I need to know more. I’m going to expose them for their lies.”
“No...” The man takes another unsteady step back, eyes dilating. “There has to be an explanation for this. They wouldn’t— they wouldn’t do this for no reason.” Unlike before, where his voice was unwavering, he now sounds very unsure of himself, words coming out hoarse. “You don’t— you don’t know anything.”
Wren slowly pushes themself up onto their feet with a sigh. They don’t advance further, wanting to prevent being attacked again, now by someone who is clearly more unstable than previously. “It’s the truth. Why would they have to keep this a secret if it wasn’t exactly what it looks like — if it wasn’t evil?”
The man gapes at them, face pale. He swallows roughly, fingers gripping the paper. “To… to reach our goal there has to be sacrifices. It’s for the greater good of all mankind.” He recites again, the words slightly easing his doubts.
Wren crosses their arms, eyes narrowing as they fix him with a scowl. Only now, looking at their attacker in better lighting, do they realize that it’s him. Not a man-
That boy.
“So you’re going to justify their crimes?” They scowl. They’re not sure why it comes as a surprise. What else could they expect from a brainwashed soldier like him? “You’re being trained for the Elites too aren’t you? They’ll do the same thing to you.”
The boy’s face hardens. He closes the file, holding it tight to his chest. “You won’t say a word about this. About any of it. You’re lucky that I don’t take you to the lead director right now.” He takes another step back, avoiding their gaze.
Wren dares to take a half-step forward, not yet advancing into the trainee’s personal space. “So you’ll let it keep happening? Even now that you know? Even now that it’ll happen to you?”
The boy doesn’t respond, slowly inching further backwards. “Don’t let me catch you in here again. You’ll regret it.”
“Fine. Keep hiding from the truth. We’ll see where that gets you.” Wren grits their teeth and reaches forward to grab their bag when suddenly the trainee snatches it before they can take it, abruptly disappearing into thin air. The door slams shut behind him.
Wren gasps and makes a grunt of protest. “Asshole,” they grumble. They take one last look at the emptied file room before stomping towards the door and slipping away, headed for the maintenance elevator.
They’re not giving up.
They can’t be done with Eden until they get those files.
Characters // Atlas (he/him), Ira (they/she), Wren (they/them)
Masterlist › Previous
CW: Light violence
── ⟡ ˙.
Ira lets out a grunt as one of the mechanical training dummies slams into her from behind, a blur of sleek metal crashing into her with its full power and force, knocking the breath from her lungs. She stumbles forwards, a short wheeze falling from her lips.
But the hesitation is only momentary. Within seconds she’s spinning around, fingers locking against the ridges of its face, grip denting the metal. With one quick thrust she flips it over her shoulder, sending it flying in the other direction.
Three more training dummies are instantly at her heels.
They corner her, moving slowly, as if about to pounce. Ira doesn’t allow them the time, a swift flick of her wrist sending a bar of pure iron swerving through the air, spearing each dummy with precision. The light in their eyes flickers, splutters, and fades, the red shine of the screen suddenly engulfed by darkness.
Panting, they wipe the sweat from their brow, eyes fixed up on the screen: 4.43. A new personal best. With a content smile, they turn and make their way over to the sideline bench, joining Atlas as he passes them a neatly folded, pale gray towel. “Your turn,” she huffs at him, out of breath, as she dabs at the back of her neck.
Atlas stands up automatically, straightening his back. He pushes the bangs from out of his face with a swift jerk of his head, moving towards the weapons rack opposite to them. It’s really a glorious thing, rows and rows of sleek steel weapons, hanging on their various ledges, glinting dangerously. He opts not for one of the sharper blades, but instead his usual staff, unhooking it from its spot with ease. His hands close around it with comforting familiarity, the gentle weight in his hands one that is as close to home as he will ever feel.
He spins around sharply, taking a deep breath to steady himself. With a ready stance, he approaches the platform, a line of new training bots already standing in a row, waiting for him.
There is a sharp tick that resounds throughout the gym as the timer resets, and at once Atlas spurs into action. His power activates with a blink, bringing on the familiar feeling of strength surging through his limbs. He delivers a well-placed kick to the first dummy, quickly striking its neck with his staff. Spinning around to greet the next two, he plows through them with just as much ease, the sounds of crunching metal following him as he moves past them, face a mask of complete concentration.
He twists and turns throughout the platform, movements light yet powerful, as he knocks down bot after bot, defeating them almost effortlessly. Finally, as his staff leaves the last of the training dummies decapitated, the body tumbling to the ground with a resounding crash, he drops his weapon, piles of metal collapsed into piles near his feet.
He turns to the screen expectantly, allowing himself to smile a little. 4.17. “Beat you.”
Ira lets out a little grunt of protest, tossing the towel down at her feet. “Okay smartass,” they say with a huff, a faint smile flickering across their face. “Beat 4.17 then.”
Atlas huffs out a laugh, swiftly stooping down to pick up his staff again. He straightens, a rustle at the doorway suddenly catching his attention.
His gaze flickers, eyes locking on a rather disgruntled-looking trainee standing there, slouching in on themselves. He blinks. No, not just any trainee. He could recognize that startled, wide-eyed look anywhere. It’s the soldier from before.
With an abrupt spin of their heels, the kid tears their eyes away from Atlas, sprinting straight out the door before Atlas has the chance to think to offer them a go with the new training simulation. The door slams shut, cutting through the silence like the pierce of a gunshot.
Atlas furrows his brows, staring at the spot the trainee had once stood, his mind lingering. Once again, an unknown emotion has settled over him. It’s odd, pushing and prodding at him relentlessly, unweaving the calm he has worked so hard to put up. So very unlike himself, he can’t help but acknowledge it, his thoughts still resting on the trainee despite all the warning signs he’s seen in just their few short interactions showing him that this kid is trouble. There is something about them that pulls him in, his usual logic and obedience almost forgotten — nonexistent.
“You know them?” It’s Ira’s voice that snaps him out of his trance. They move behind him, gaze focused on his face intently, eyebrow raised in question.
“No.” He states flatly, forcing himself to look away, grip tightening around his staff. “They’re just another trainee.”
He forces himself to shrug it off, turning his back towards the door and planting his feet in a fighting position as the timer resets.
The trainee is the least of his problems right now. With training, his upcoming finals, and Evaluation Day in only a few short weeks, it would do him some good to completely forget about them. No use in being distracted by some clumsy, skittish recruit. He has been training his entire life for his upcoming evaluation, there is no possibility where he can squander that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a kid that really is none of his concern. What good would he be, if he allowed himself to be pulled away by something as inconsequential as a new recruit? An Elite certainly wouldn’t allow themselves to be so absentminded.
He meets Ira’s gaze again. “I bet I can get half your time.” He challenges, his eyes glinting.
“Half?” Ira scoffs at Atlas’ words, her brows raising half an inch higher. “Alright. Get half my time in one go and I’ll pay for all of your meals this week.” They declare with a daring smirk.
“You’re on.” Atlas turns back around, facing the dummies, staff raised.
The sharp tick of the timer starting rings in his ears once more and at once he’s jumping into action. He quickly moves through their ranks, staff a blur of silver as he plows through robot after robot, taking them down swiftly and efficiently. He twirls his staff through the air with expertise, moving faster than before, as sweat builds up at the nape of his neck, muscles straining with effort.
It is with a kind of demon-like speed that he finishes off the last dummy, pouncing on it and sending his staff straight through its chest. Electricity crackles as it deactivates, the glow of its eyes flickering out.
Proud, he pushes himself off of it with an exhausted huff, wiping the sweat from his forehead and turning back to the screen, out of breath. 3.27. He sighs, eyes flickering back towards Ira, but instead landing on a person rushing towards the doors across from him.
Them.
Bustling with a kind of mad energy across the gym — almost as if their life depends on it — is the recruit from before, beelining straight for the far east doors near the end of the gym. They have their head bowed low, hands stuffed inside their pockets, hair falling in their face, obscuring it from view. They look disgruntled and panicked, quiet as a mouse as they cross past Atlas and Ira. Atlas has never seen anything like it.
Although he is used to the fear and nervousness that radiates off of younger recruits whenever he walks by, this behaviour is like none other. Only having seen them a short number of times, there should be no reason for this kind of genuine avoidance — they’ve barely said more than five words to each other.
He doesn’t understand what their deal is. It’s not like they’ve trained together, or really interacted with each other at all. They certainly aren’t on the path to be an Elite — there’s no way they’re anywhere near his rank. That’s evident enough from their clumsy demeanour and brash attitude.
He’s positive he’s never seen them around before. He would remember them, his memory is excellent. It’s helped him throughout numerous tests and pop quizzes, no chance it would fail him now. Yet for some reason this supposedly “new trainee” seems to be popping up everywhere he goes. There is something so strange about it.
He knows he shouldn’t pay attention to it, knows there are far more important things to his mission than some scrawny, random kid, but he can’t shake this feeling that they don’t belong here. Something about their appearance, so mundane and hard to place, as if they’re just trying to blend in; and the way they’re moving towards the door, avoiding going anywhere near him or Ira, as if scared of coming into contact with them. Their gaze, focused pointedly at their feet, posture slouched as to protect themself — the clear opposite of how a soldier should stand. All of it is just so very…..
Odd.
Atlas tries to put the thought to the back of his mind. This probably — no, definitely — has to do with the conversation he had with Cato after his training session today. Maybe the recruits were finally beginning to give him the respect that he longed for for so long. The respect that he has tried so desperately to earn, with every glare that found his way in the halls, food and other miscellaneous items tossed to the back of his head when he wasn’t paying attention, too absolved in his studies.
But now he wonders if he really wants this respect so badly anyway. If he’s just going to be treated differently, treated like an outsider, no matter what he does, is it really worth it? If being an Elite means being feared, does he—
Stop that.
He quickly shakes the thought off, not even allowing himself to continue. That is foolish; a lunatic’s thinking. He’s been fighting all his life to be considered for the Elites, there’s no chance he’ll back down now. He’s being stupid, getting too caught up in his head. This is the respect you deserve, he reminds himself, Cato’s voice now clear in his head. This is the respect you have fought for.
Being at the top requires sacrifices. And if it meant that the lower, weak minds around him would avoid him instead of jeer at him, that was a sacrifice he would gladly take. Soon, he’d be surrounded with like minded people, soldiers of his own skill. And then, none of it would matter anymore. He would be completing his duty, what he was born to do. The confines of the warehouse would no longer hold him hostage.
This was good.
The kid glances back at him once, brown eyes darting towards his face. They go wide when they notice him looking, the trainee almost jumping out of their own skin before they hastily scramble towards the exit.
It is with one wide arc that the gym door slams roughly behind them.
Atlas furrows his eyebrows, turning back to Ira and frowning slightly. That was weird.
“You sure you don’t know them?” They ask. Their eyebrows are turned upwards, confused. “They seem like they’re…. avoiding you?”
Atlas grabs the towel from beside them on the bench, sitting down next to them and patting at his face. Training has been forgotten, this new encounter leaving a million new questions pulling at his brain. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, voice gruff. “Maybe it’s all the stuff with Cato. Not everyone is very happy about the rumours that she’s considering me for the promotion.”
At Atlas’s words, Ira shrugs, leaning back in their seat, head hitting the other side of the bleachers with a resounding thunk. “That makes sense. Still hella weird though.”
Atlas nods, once again attempting to push the mysterious trainee out of his thoughts. Whoever they are, they aren’t important. Nothing else matters besides making the Elites and impressing the other leaders. This is what he was made for, what he’s trained for. This was his purpose.
Wren stands in front of the sleek, metal double doors that stretch up to the high ceilings. They thumb at the smooth card of thin metal in their pocket. So much work for such a tiny thing. They’d nearly lost their damn head getting past the security system in that toad’s office to get this key card.
It’s a necessary risk though. They’d gotten around the lower floors with no problem but that wasn’t where they needed to be. No, this key card was about to unlock what they’d really come here for.
With a quick glance over their shoulder Wren determines they are in the clear. They produce the black metal card from their pocket and press it to the panel in the wall on the right side of the door. The panel glows blue for a short moment as it scans and Wren bites down hard on the tip of their tongue. The light gleams green and with a breath of relief, they shove the card back into their pocket as the thick metal doors slide open with a hiss.
Whereas the hallways previous were quiet, the lobby on the other side of the doors bustles with the noise of busy workers. Squads of soldiers march in formation together, faces stone-still and the heavy footsteps of their boots hitting the floor in perfect time with each other. Other soldiers appear slightly, only slightly, more relaxed as they stand around with what looked to Wren like an unnecessarily fancy water dispenser conversing quietly.
Sprinkled amongst the dull colors of servicemen uniforms are people dressed in stark white lab coats. They dart from room to room, some holding clipboards, other pulling carts or carrying mysterious cases under their arms.
Wren notes that the air, exactly like all the rest of the building, has no scent to it at all. Even with all of the people filling the space, coming and going through smaller hallways (exits should Wren need them), the air smells of nothing. There isn’t even a whiff of cleaner in the air. Noticing this leaves them slightly disturbed.
Breaking the orderly bustle of dozens of worker bees is a collective gasp from the far side of the lobby. Their head snaps to the side, focus narrowing in on the crowd of soldiers that are swarming what looks to be a large, floor to ceiling observation window.
They finally step through the doors, and with a march that makes them look like they belong, Wren makes their way to the crowd. Upon reaching the window, Wren stands on the tips of their toes but is unable to see over the hoard of heads. Even with the illusion, their height betrays them once again. With a grunt, they begin to weasel their way through people, ducking under arms and squeezing between firm bodies. Reaching the front of the crowd, Wren is now pressed closely to the window and watching intensely.
On the other side of a window is a vast gymnasium, sleek and plain just as all the other rooms are. What is happening inside seems to be a training match or maybe a competition of some kind. Two soldiers fight hard, slicing and charging and punching and darting around each other with precision. Though before the match even is close to ending, Wren can see a clear winner.
And when the soldier does, in fact, win, there is loud conversation amongst the crowd around them. According to a soldier whose elbow is pushing uncomfortably into Wren’s side, this match is continuing the soldier’s “unbelievable” winning streak. Wren’s eyes narrow as they turn their attention away from the crowd and back towards the glass. Standing victorious is the soldier they all are chattering about.
A boy with red and black hair, standing lonesome amongst the fallen bodies like some sort of killing machine.
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ───────── · ·
Atlas swings through the air, sweat slicking to the nape of his neck. He can feel the piercing gaze of each of the training officers locking onto his back, practically burning into him as he spins his staff, jabbing it into the gut of one of his opponents’ while delivering a harsh blow to the jugular to the other. They both go flying, one crashing into the wall with a yelp while the second bulldozes through two unsuspecting trainees, sending them all tumbling to the ground like bowling pins. Although he doesn’t dare lower his guard to check, he can already see the nods of approval he is undoubtedly getting from behind the observation glass, trainees and trainers alike watching in awe at his indupitable form, his unbeatable strength, his quick wit. His perfect score.
Each training session prior has gone like this: Atlas’s unmatchable skills, next to his less-than-satisfactory classmates, each who are desperate to finally rise above lucky number 792 — the golden boy. And each training session, he easily overpowers them, knocking each opponent that dares to cross his path to the ground, his movements so swift and light that it appears to be effortless, the boy hardly breaking a sweat. The only one who is still left standing by the end of the hour, his figure radiating power above the bruised bodies all fallen at his feet.
Today is no different. Atlas takes on opponent after opponent, not allowing himself a second of rest, as the crowd continues to gape at him in complete astonishment. It is only when the sharp whistle from the lead director cuts through the thick atmosphere does he finally allow himself to lower his guard. Relaxing his posture, staff clattering from his grip, the trainee he had in a tight headlock plummeting to the ground with it. It is only then, as he turns his attention away, that he is able to see the amount of people gathered outside, watching.
A large horde of people stand in front of the observation glass, eyes all trained onto him. More faces than he can count are pressed close to the glass, trainees all excitedly trying to push their way to the front to see what all the fuss is about. Quite the turnout, he thinks dimly to himself as he steps past the rows of crumpled bodies and outstretched limbs, making his way outside.
This isn’t unusual, of course. It seems that at all times there is someone or somebody watching him, inspecting. As much as he doesn’t like it, he has to get used to it, being at such a high rank now. It came with the territory. But a crowd this size, well, it is definitely not what he was expecting to see. He slides the door open, eying the rows and rows of eager, nervous faces anxiously before tipping his head down, averting his gaze. It wouldn’t have bothered him so much, if not for all the whispering. It is hard to all make out, in a crowd of this size, more a dull buzz of reverence, digging under his skin, turning his stomach to a mess of jitters. He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, pushing down the nervous tension and muttering a quiet apology as he pushes his way through the crowd.
He only makes it two feet before he is very rudely interrupted by someone crashing into him. They stumble back, letting out a loud huff of annoyance — like they hadn’t been the one to run into him — and glare up at him, eyebrows knit together. Their expression quickly morphs into one of panic, fear flickering between their eyes, as they realize exactly who they are looking at. It’s a look he knows well by now.
He clears his throat, albeit a bit awkwardly. “Uh, excuse me.”
The trainee scrambles away from him, patting off their uniform and staring down at their feet sheepishly. They fumble with their hands, twisting and intertwining their fingers together, their entire body tensed up at once. “Sorry. Wasn’t paying attention.” They grunt, not sounding very sorry. They’re already disappearing back into the crowd before Atlas can even register their rushed apology, cutting off any other conversation.
Atlas watches them go, unmoving for a moment, a small frown tugging at the corner of his lips. Strange. Although he is used to the weird looks or the whispering or even the intimidation at just talking to him, something about this particular interaction stands out to him from the rest. Something about how the trainee behaved was just… completely unlike any other soldiers he had the privilege of speaking to. Most of those at Eden, not unlike himself, were level-headed, calm, and respectful. While this trainee in particular was none of these things: Running into him, not paying attention to where they were going, even looking like they were about to fight him. It wasn’t like anything he had seen from another person inside the warehouse before. How very strange.
If he was to actually think about it, Atlas couldn’t remember ever seeing them around before. All their features were plain, with pin-straight jet black hair cropped short, dark brown eyes, and pale skin. Nothing to make them stand out in a crowd. Still, Atlas was sure he would have remembered seeing them around at least once. He’d been here for ten years, he would have remembered someone like them, so rude and scatterbrained. Unless they were new. It would explain away the attitude, and why he didn’t recognize them. But such a low rank, how could they have found their way to this level? Someone like them certainly wouldn’t be allowed to oversee training…
He quickly pushes those thoughts aside, briskly continuing through the crowd and ignoring the odd feeling that still pokes at him from their interaction, as short as it was. It wasn’t any of his business. Maybe they’re a special case, like him. Granted access to the higher levels due to their powers. Maybe he would find them in training soon. A proper opponent, now that would be nice.
“Atlas.” All thoughts of the trainee are quickly forgotten at the sound of his name being called. He glances up, finding himself face-to-face with Cato, her crisp black badge engraved with silver lettering shining up at him, marking her as the head of the Task Force. She makes her way towards him, the crowd dispersing at her wake, creating a clear walkway for her as they press themselves up against the walls. It is only when she stands directly in front of him that she allows herself to properly greet him, giving him a curt nod. “Training went well, I assume?”
The attention from everyone else is only amplified tenfold with Cato at his side, the wide clearing she has made leaving him out in the open, exposed. All their eyes burn into him as he gives her a small nod and a smile, fingers twitching at his side, tapping against his thigh. He knows he should be used to it by now, but still with every time he is singled out like this, the center of attention, he can’t help but flush and stare down at his feet, silent. He loves his job, loves Eden, but this is always going to be one of those things he wishes to not be a part of it.
Cato smiles, the look of approval lingering in her eyes distracting Atlas from all the attention on him, for only a moment. It is the smiles from her that makes it all worth it. He can take the stares, the whispers, the rumours, as long as he has Cato at the end of the day, eyes shining in pride.
Cato glances around at the gaggle of people gathered in a wide circle around the two of them, and her expression quickly shifts to one of annoyance. Her sharp gaze pierces through each of the whispering, eavesdropping trainees as she raises a brow, as if to say move alone, before nodding to Atlas, motioning for him to follow. “Let’s walk.” She says, not waiting for a response as she moves forwards again.
Atlas quickly scrambles to follow, falling in step beside her, taking extra care to match her sharp pace exactly. “You are on track then?” She asks, gaze trained straight ahead. “To advance.”
“Yes,” he nods, rubbing his thumb and index finger together in a soothing motion as he speaks. “I should be ready for when the rest of the leaders come to observe at the end of the month.”
Even now, as they walk further away from the training room, eyes still linger on them. Some murmur behind their hands, shooting Atlas envious looks before being silenced by Cato’s harsh gaze on them, while others, he can feel watching him, following his every movement, the glare in their eyes saying more than any whisper ever could.
“Good,” Cato says, her voice calm and steady. “I’m sure they will be impressed.”
She falls quiet, letting the words sink in. Impressed. Cato thinks he is something to be impressed by. The thought brings a new type of jitters to his stomach — a good kind, this time. Atlas had been training for so long, restlessly improving his skills, rising above the odds, constantly fighting to be recognized for his talents; the fact that the day where he’d finally be something more than a lowly trainee from the warehouse is actually arriving… Well, it all felt surreal. Evaluation Day is only weeks away. Mere weeks, and he’ll finally have everything he had ever wanted. All of Cato’s lessons, the sleepless nights before tests, the drills and workouts and fights, they were all paying off. Just like they told him they would.
“This will be good for you Atlas.” Cato’s gaze finally lands on him, sweeping him up and down, observing. Atlas goes stiff as a board, his posture straight. He waits for her to pick out an imperfection that he would need to hone in on before Evaluation Day, waits for the criticisms of his form or posture, or the little remarks about his unruly appearance. But for once, no such thing comes. No, for once, Cato is staring at him in nothing but pure, complete pride. “You’ve earned this.”
Atlas’s lips part slightly, the praise — something Cato doesn’t hand out lightly — coming to him as a shock. He instantly brightens, chest puffing up in pleasure. “Right, of course.” He says quickly, the smallest smile quirking the corners of his lips. He had earned this.
A whisper catches his ear, pricking the back of his neck: Look who it is. Cato’s little pet.
The snickers take him off guard. Usually, he is good at disregarding the little snide remarks said behind cupped hands. They are insignificant, in the grand scheme of things. Just words. Harmless, when compared to the blow of a weapon, or the pierce of a dagger; they are nothing. But for some reason, being so out in the open, Cato staring at him so gently, the words almost… hurt. Of course, it isn’t anything he hasn’t heard before. He knows why life at the warehouse is always so lonely, why he gets the glares and looks of intimidation. He knows what they all think, what they say about him.
792 only made it this far because he’s her favourite, he doesn’t know what true hardship is like. Not when he’s pampered by the commander herself. She’ll let him get anything he wants. He’s only ever been special because she dotes over him so much. He’d be nowhere without her.
It was what made working under the Leader so… intriguing. Under her, there would be no judgement, under her they would see him for who he truly is, not just as an extension of Cato. Under her, he’d be surrounded by like-minded people, driven for power, to do true good in the world. They’d be equals.
Unless…
The whispers worm their way under his skin like needle pricks, causing his expression of excitement to fade, eyebrows drawing together.
Despite himself, despite the praise Cato has given to him so softly — praise he could usually never expect from her — he finds himself doubting his place, wondering if maybe they are right. After all, the Elites, the Evaluation – they are hand-picked by Cato herself. If she didn’t like him so much, if she hadn’t kept such a close eye on him, given him personal lessons, allowed him to move up when others couldn’t… would he have even made it this far? Was he truly deserving of this?
“They are jealous. You deserve this.” Cato’s voice cuts through again, practically reading Atlas’s thoughts.
He glances back up towards her, but this time her gaze is focused forwards again, not making eye contact with him. He wishes that she still was. He’d do anything to get that soft smile, the way her eyes crinkle up when she is pleased with him. He simply gives her a nod, lapsing back into silence beside her. She has to be right. Cato wouldn’t lie to him, and especially wouldn’t give him a freeride to the Elites. Only the best of the best made it through. And if she thought that even the other leaders would be impressed by his skills… Well then, he had to be the best of the best, didn’t he?
The thought spurs something inside of him, and he turns back to face her, a flicker of doubt passing across his face. “Um,” he says, lowering his voice, almost hesitating. “Ira will be coming with me, won’t she?”
At Atlas’ words, Cato casts her gaze down on him again, but only briefly. Her eyes are laced with something indescribable as she stares down at him, and then the look is gone, her face turned away. “To your evaluation with the other leaders?” She pauses. “Or moving forward to the Elites?”
Atlas stares down at his feet. “To the Elites.” He says, his words suddenly stuck in his throat, as he thinks desperately on how exactly to word his next question. It is a stupid question to bother Cato with, especially when she takes time out of her already-packed schedule to come visit him after training — to make sure he is alright. She doesn’t have time for questions about Ira Mawar. Still, he can’t stop himself from continuing. “You’re considering her too, right? They’ve fought so hard to finally be one of the selected — they’ve even been here almost as long as I have. I don’t know if…” He cuts himself short, the words lingering in the air as he looks towards Cato for her approval.
Cato’s expression is now far from the soft, gentle look of pride. She shoots him a firm stare, stopping him in his tracks. He is sure that the next word from her lips will be a harsh “no” — he already knew the question was wrong to ask as soon as the words left his mouth. But surprisingly enough, Cato doesn’t shoot him down so fast. She hesitates for a moment, before saying in a quieter tone than before, “We are… considering them. Though, I suggest you don’t speak to her about this.” She adds, the ‘if you know what’s good for yourself’ goes unspoken.
Atlas relaxes ever so slightly, relief flooding through him. “Understood.”
The idea of having to leave his best friend behind had been the one problem that had been troubling him as Evaluation Day drew closer. Of course, he’s been waiting for the day to come since he was only a child; it was his one dream, the goal he’d been working towards for years, the thing he wanted the most. But the thought of going ahead and leaving Ira alone at the warehouse is unthinkable. She is always at his side, his rock through it all. They do everything together; an unbeatable duo. When he imagines being an Elite, she is right there at his side.
To hear that Ira might be one of the selected instantly eases his worries. He knows it was foolish to wish to have Ira as his partner, always, but he is glad that there might be a possibility that the two of them won’t have to part ways. Of course, he is never going to tell Ira this. He is fortunate enough that Cato is willing to allow him such classified information. No one knew who the top picks for the Elites were, not even the other commanding officers. Only Cato and the leaders had access to those files. To think Cato trusted him enough to tell him…. He wasn’t going to dare disobey her, not when she thought he was special enough to know. He could never break her trust like that.
Cato nods at Atlas’s affirmative. “You have a good heart… thinking of them like that.” She says slowly, falling quiet for another long moment. “I understand your closeness with Ira. However, you would do well to maintain your own success as your number one priority.”
“Right.”
“Keep training. Don’t let yourself get too relaxed now that you’re finally getting the recognition you deserve.” She reaches a hand up and gives Atlas a brief pat on the shoulder. “I’ll see you at your next training session.” And with that, she disappears down the hall again.
aaaaaa. ok. im actually so frustrated like i need to dedicate real time to learning to draw again i think bc i just dont have it anymore i think. ugh. aaaaaaa.
Beloved, wake up, this is the definition of an emergency. Lush Cosmetics has Minecraft bath bombs. They are only available for a limited time, so we must get there before they close. There are Enderman and Creeper varieties. Do not go back to sleep!! If you accompany me now we can fuck in the tub. Yes, that’s what I thought
minecraft just dropped the news that they're revamping all the baby mob designs and they're all adorable but the new chicks in particular are so cute it makes me wanna frow up
just look at this promo pic, they knew they had to put that diva front and center
idk if you’ve talked abt this but!! what are the markings (scar??) on apollo’s face n neck :?
i was just freestyling on that picrew depending on what looked cool LOL. if anything i think i meant for them to be like…..birthmarks? or more accurately hypopigmentation.
i like the idea of his skin having a kind of sunlight dappling. like this.
I do think the post that's like "when they torture you to insanity and then torture you for being insane 😂🤣" is one of the most succinct and foundational analyses of interpersonal violence and conflict that had ever been written
I do think the post that's like "when they torture you to insanity and then torture you for being insane 😂🤣" is one of the most succinct and foundational analyses of interpersonal violence and conflict that had ever been written
