Just a stupid French in their twenties who loves fantasy, horror and video games. Occasionally author and illustrator, you may see my OCs hanging around. If you want to talk about them (or yours if I love them), I'm probably available.
My username is Paleuni, but most people just call me Pal.
I am french, and I was born in October 1999.
Iâm a little writer, and I mainly use this blog to post illustrations of my OCs, sometimes with short text excerpts to go with them. I absolutely love my OCs with all my heart.
For now, there are three stories featured here. Theyâre easy to tell apart because the genre is always in the title : POST-APO for Fox and Solsticeâs story, SLASHER for Roryâs, and the exception is my fantasy story, listed simply under its main title, âNERWALâ â since thatâs the story people first knew me for, and itâs been about ten years now that the OCs from that saga have been wandering the internet and meeting people (Licaros, the one and only).
Iâll probably make a post with a short summary of each story one day.
As youâve probably guessed, I love fantasy, horror, drama, post-apocalyptic settings, slashers, psychology, gore, villains, morally gray or complicated characters... Youâll find plenty of that here.
I don't read a lot of manga, but my favorite one is Pandora Hearts, by Jun Mochizuki.
Iâve been watching horror movies for years â Iâve seen a ton, and yet there are still so many left to watch. As for more âclassicâ stuff, Iâve always had a soft spot for The Lord of the Rings trilogy, the first three Pirates of the Caribbean films, and the Star Wars universe.
Regarding TV show, I would cite Game of Thrones, Hannibal, The Walking Dead, Gotham, Elementary and maybe some American Horror Story as my favorites.
When I like something, I tend to hyperfixate on it. Sometimes that even happens with other peopleâs OCs â sorry not sorry.
I donât really watch much sports on TV, but I have a definite soft spot for WWE (and sometimes F1).
I like art swapping ! If you ever want us to draw each other's characters, you can ask. If I'm in a good time for that, I'd be happy to. I love seeing my little babies in other people's styles. Bonus points if it's between similar characters.
Thatâs it for my little introduction â I guess thatâll do for now. Feel free to reach me via the question box. If you have any questions about my characters and their story, this is the perfect place to ask.
Before the end of the world, there was no hot-headed survivor and no tyrannical fake prophet yet. Just a slightly lost girl trying to figure herself out, and an overly emotional truck driver with a talent for terrible life choices !
Itâs crazy how one of them lost all his cheerfulness in the apocalypse, while the other one somehow got theirs back.
(Fox is so sooo pretty when she isnât covered in mud !)
Look at them. Just a small, ordinary family, long before the Apocalypse (way before.)
And this dumbass managed to lose both of them before the world even ended. Not to death. Not to disaster. They were perfectly fine and alive when he walked away. He divorced his wife. A few years later, he had one stupid fight with his teenage daughter.
Thatâs it. No monsters. No collapse. Just regular, painfully human mistakes.
A photobash of my girl, because I love her with my whole heart and she suffers way too much in her own story.
Consider this emotional compensation. đ
OC : "FOX", post-apocalyptic heroine forced to survive while pregnant, on a quest to find the father of her unborn child who vanished into the void. Along the way, she makes a series of truly terrible life choices (hello, đSolsticeđ).
Christmas had survived the apocalypse in the worst possible way : by becoming a bad joke.
The sky hung low, the color of dirty pewter. The sea, farther out, moved sluggishly like a sick animal. Between two gutted buildings, someone had let a small tree die. Not really a Christmas tree, actually, more like a scrawny conifer that had made the poor decision to grow there before the end of the world. Its needles were dry, brownish, brittle. A ghost tree. Perfect.
Fox arrived with her treasure.
â âŠFox.
Solstice hadnât even raised his voice. He watched her approach, cautious, arms stretched out in front of her as if she were carrying a nuclear baby.
In her hands : a massive starfish, or something vaguely like one. Yellowish, dirty brown, swollen. Bloated nodules dotted its surface, and above all, a deeply inappropriate detail, eyes. Everywhere. Different sizes. Some half-closed, others wide open, shining with a wet gleam. At the center, a triangular mouth with serrated edges pulsed gently, as if the thing were chewing on a memory.
â Tell me thatâs not what I think it is, Solstice sighed.
â It is, Fox replied without slowing down.
â Tell me youâre going to burn it.
â No.
â Tell me youâre going to throw it back into the sea.
â Even less.
She set the thing down on a crate, vaguely wiped it with her coat â mistake â then stepped back to admire the dead tree decorated with dried seaweed hanging like garlands. A few old, dulled Christmas baubles, scavenged God knows where, clinked faintly in the wind.
â Merry Christmas, she said.
The star made a wet noise.
Solstice dragged a hand down his face, scratched his beard :
â For fuckâs sake, my little bug. What exactly did you find ?
â An infected starfish. Some abyssal thing. Possibly sentient.
â Possibly.
â Definitely.
â Fox.
â It was alone. Like us.
He stared at her. For a long time.
â You project a lot onto marine abominations, you know that ?
Fox shrugged, grabbed the slimy star with both hands. It squirmed slightly. One eye rolled toward her. The mouth snapped shut.
â Itâs festive, she declared.
â Itâs alive.
â Donât look at me like youâre the local wise man when most of the dumb ideas usually come from you.
She stepped toward the tree, raised her arms⊠and froze.
Silence.
â âŠShit.
The top of the tree was way out of reach. Way. Fox jumped once. Then twice. The tree lost a needle in the process.
â Want me to build you a ladder ? Solstice offered, mocking. With corpses, maybe. A nice little step stool, with a handrail, perhaps.
Fox turned toward him, the star still in her arms.
â Carry me.
He burst out laughing.
â Excuse me ?
â Carry me.
â Aw, she wants a hug, so cute. But no.
â Solstice.
â Absolutely not.
â You finally get the chance to lift me, enjoy it.
The star opened its mouth a little wider. A wet, impatient sound.
Solstice sighed, gave in as always, with carefully theatrical reluctance. He stepped closer, bent down, grabbed her abruptly by the thighs, and hoisted her onto his shoulder like a sack of grain.
â Youâre heavy.
â Youâre weak.
â Youâve put on muscle.
â Youâve put on confidence.
She settled in, one hand gripping his head, the other holding the dripping star. From up there, she towered over the pathetic little tree like an absurd queen.
â A little closer.
â Fox, if that thing drools on meâ
â Move.
â You owe me a beer. Or something else.
â Shut up.
She stretched out her arms and placed the star on top. The thing contracted, all its eyes snapping open at once. The mouth clacked, revealing rows of translucent teeth.
â Itâs not dead, Solstice noted.
â Itâs adapting.
â Itâs looking at me.
â It wants to eat you.
Fox shoved it down anyway. The star hissed as the tip of the tree pierced its flesh, then clung on by itself, its viscous arms wrapping around the dead wood. It shuddered, then steadied.
Silence.
Then, very slowly, one of the eyes blinked.
â Perfect, Fox said.
â If we die because of this, this time you wonât be able to blame me.
â Maybe. But itâll be aesthetic.
Solstice grabbed her by the waist to set her back down. His hands lingered just long enough for her to notice. She didnât comment. She noticed something else.
â âŠWhatâs that ?
He was wearing a sweater. A real one. Blue, black, and white. A huge red candy cane sat in the center, with an embroidered caption: âITâS NOT GOING TO LICK ITSELF.â
Subtle.
Fox blinked.
â Where did you find that?
Solstice shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
â Looting.
â And what did you loot ? The van of an alcoholic banned from going within 200 meters of a school ?
â An old mall. Holiday aisle. There was worse.
â I donât even want to imagine. If thatâs some subliminal message youâre trying to send me, Iâll knock your teeth out.
She looked at him, then up at the dead tree crowned with a living horror.
â I decorated a tree with a sentient monster at the end of the world.
â Yeah, Solstice said.
â And youâre wearing a redneck sweater.
â A very nice sweater.
He smiled, far too proudly for what it was.
Behind them, the starfish blinked again, its mouth twitching as if in approval.
Christmas could go fuck itself.
Theyâd done the best they could with what was left.
JORDANE : Foxâs boyfriend. The baby sheâs carrying is his. He disappeared, and she has no idea where he is.
SOLSTICE : Local tyrant. Militia leader. A big sadist with a big ego and a very questionable humor. Fox made a deal with him, and since heâs an idiot, he wonât leave her alone anymore. Heâs a vulgar, smart, trashy dude.
BILLIE : A coworker from Foxâs old refuge. They used to do guard shifts together. Lots of flirting âbecause itâs funny.â
VESPER : Kind of like Solstice, she rules over her own chunk of territory. Fox wronged her, and Vesper is not the forgiving type (she has an axe and really enjoys chopping off hands).
That Girl From the Refuge : It might be that Fox is a dishonorable sellout who manipulated a poor Refuge before handing it over to the bad guys. Naturally, this girl â who works for that Refugeâs head of security â has hated Fox ever since and constantly insults her, convinced Fox is sleeping with the boss of the evil militia. đŹ
He is canonically the Sunâs Messiah in his original story, a false prophet, cult guru, militia leader, a well-known madman with a big grin and a silver canine, scourge of the Apocalypse.
In Fallout 4, heâs more of a mercenary type, with 11 Charisma. He scams everyone, always asks for as many caps as possible, lies, mocks people, fights, shoots anyone who disrespects him, and is absolutely idolized by Cait (the short-haired redhead who insulted him at first; funny he chose her as a companionâŠ). Heâs ridiculously fun to play. His second-best stat is Strength, so in melee heâs a blast. He bullies everyone and laughs the whole time. Hilarious gameplay.
Not a drawing, but I play my post-apo OCs in Fallout 4 and I really, really want to show them a little.
First one, FOX :
In the canon of her original story, Fox is a lone survivor with a green coat whose shelter complexâand everyone living in itâwas destroyed. She sets out to search for her partner, Jordane, who went missing, and only a few short weeks later⊠she realizes sheâs pregnant. Which complicates things a lot.
Fox is a quiet, sarcastic, solitary woman⊠and she bites. A lot. People often compare her to a rabid rodent.
In Fallout 4, her personality is exactly the same. Her partner/husband didnât disappearâhe diedâand her son was kidnapped. To play her as accurately as possible, I focused on the main quests tied to finding her son, and only took side quests that could give her resources or money/caps. She only formed bonds and alliances when absolutely necessary andâwithout spoiling the gameâIâll just say that betraying her allies for her family is absolutely something sheâd do without hesitation. If you know, you know. Basically, she ends up with her dog as her only real emotional attachment.
She mainly uses long-range weapons : rifles, snipers, anything she can shoot from a distance.
I love her very, very much, even if sheâs a little feral creature with sharp teeth. :3
Fandom : Original / Post-Apocalypse / The End Began With a Smile
Characters : Fox & Solstice
Rating : Mature
SUMMARY :
Fox tracks down Solstice after he disappears into the ruins again. She finds him sitting across from a corpse wearing a blonde wig, speaking to it like an ex-lover. She stays hidden long enough to hear more than she ever meant to. When she finally speaks, it goes badly.
WARNINGS :
Corpse imagery, implied emotional abuse, domestic trauma references, guns held to head, implied violence, mental instability, no romance resolution, unhealthy dynamics
(reader discretion advised)
The rain had started again in thin, almost soundless lines, like the sky had decided to seep into the world rather than crush it. Fox moved up the collapsed street, muttering under her breath, hood soaked and plastered to her hair, eyes sharp and restless.
Solstice had vanished again. No warning, no âIâm gonna piss behind a wall,â just poof, gone, like a father three days into parenthood deciding he needs cigarettes and milk and never coming back. Except he always did, which pissed her off as much as it reassured her.
She walked fast, no worry on her face : expression cold, hands in her pockets, rifle on her back. Her stomach barely ached today, a quiet reminder she wasnât alone in her body, but nothing visible, nothing that slowed her down except for nausea every time something smelled too strong. Which was often.
The footprints led her to an old mall, rotting with humidity. Broken shop windows looked like gaping mouths ready to swallow idiots looking for loot. She slipped inside like a nocturnal animal. No sound. No breath.
Deeper in the structure, she heard Solsticeâs voice. Not whispering. Talking. Conversing.
That alone was weird enough to freeze her in place, eyes narrowing like sheâd just caught someone praying to a spatula.
She crept to an old clothing storeânow a graveyard of broken mannequins, moldy fabrics, dried corpses stuck between racks like customers who waited too long for a sale. The air reeked of stagnant water, rot, guts, and old textiles. Fox lifted a hand to her lips, nausea kicking hard.
Then she saw him.
Solstice sat at a table across from a corpse propped in a cafeteria chair, exactly like it was a romantic date. Not comedic. Not a cheerful bit. His posture was tired, hands on the table, eyes locked on the hollow sockets of a body wearing a long synthetic blonde wig.
Fox blinked. Mouth slightly open. No sound. Too many layers of fucked-up to unpack.
Solstice spoke in his usual voice, but stripped of sarcasm, something almost intimate.
â Youâre still great at listening without answering, huh, Sophie. You used to do that before too. That little smile⊠the one that says âIâll just wait, youâll apologize eventually.â
The corpse didn't smile, obviously. Fox wrinkled her nose. Sophie ? The name rang a bell, one of the rare things sheâd caught in his drunken campfire ramblings, buried between insults and stories. The ex-wife. The raw wound.
He kept talking, eyes locked on the dead face.
â You wrecked me, you know. Put me on my fucking knees. And the worst part ? I still thank you for existing. Imagine the bullshit. I thank you for destroying my pride, because at least you were there, and anyway, I'd already been sniped by the one before you.
His laugh was brittle, closer to a nervous exhale.
â I begged for forgiveness. Me. Me. I cried like a kid in your arms, begged you to stay. And you stroked my hair. Like I was a miserable little thing, like I was at fault.
His shoulders sagged.
â I forgave you. And you did it again. With that asshole from the garage. The one I shared smokes and beers with. Wasnât the world big enough? You had to pick from the immediate circle ?
His voice trembledânot angry, just exhausted.
Fox watched, perfectly still, yet ready to bite. Solstice looked up at the ceiling.
â You never yelled at me. Not once. You killed me with calm sentences, soft voice. A fucking clinical execution. I wish youâd screamed. Hit me. At least then Iâd know how to defend myself.
He fell silent, hands clenched on the table. Then he abruptly stood, pulled his chair back, walked around the table, and wrapped an arm around the corpseâs shoulders.
Almost tender.
Fox shuddered, disgusted. What the fuck is he doing⊠?
Solstice tilted his head, nearly cheek-to-cheek with the dead woman.
â Come on, letâs go to the movies. Like before. Remember ? You loved those romantic flicks with girls crying at windows. Said they calmed you down. They made me wanna strangle the screenwriter. Except Bridget. I always liked Bridget.
He gestured toward a destroyed theater space behind them, the screen nothing but rusted sheet metal.
â Nothing works anymore. But at least no oneâll bother us. Whole theater just for us. You liked it better when it was emptyâŠ
Fox inhaled slowly. Eyes darting from Solstice to the corpse to the ruins. None of it made sense, and yet it made too much sense. She didnât understand everything, but she knew when someone was spilling their guts.
And this wasnât about her, so she stayed hidden.
The silence became almost sacred. Not religious. Just human in its most damaged form. Solstice pressed his forehead to the cold temple and whispered so quietly only a ghost could've heard :
â I wanted it to work. I wanted to be less stupid. Or for you to destroy me clean. But no. You made me believe we were fixable. And I waited. Way too long.
Fox didnât move. She wasnât here to comfort him. She wasnât here to understand. She crouched lower, a predator in the dark, distant from the abyss of others. And against her will, something cold echoed in her chest.
Solstice hadnât made a sound in minutes. No snicker, no sigh, no jab. Just silence. From him, a human wind turbine of words, that silence hit harder than a scream.
She finally stepped forward, a can crunching under her boot. She stopped behind a broken shelf, close enough to see, far enough to pretend she saw nothing. He still sat with the wigged corpse, shoulder to shoulder. It looked like a date in a morgue. For a second she thought he might kiss the damn thing.
Silence, too sincere. Too ugly. Too human. She forced her voice out, dirty and shaky under fake nonchalance.
â Didnât know you were into necrophilia.
The word dropped like a rock into swamp water. Solstice jerked hard, not the playful kind, a real flinch. He turned, eyes wide, searching the dark until he found her. Frozen like an animal hit by headlights.
Then a long, hollow sigh. Like someone knocked the air out of him. Hand dragged down his face as if he could wipe the moment away. Fox waited, jaw tight, expecting a joke. A shit grin. A threat laced into humor. Nothing. He dropped his hand... and in the same motion reached for the gun at his hip. Before she processed it, he was moving toward her, fast and purposeful.
â Heyâ Fox hissed, stepping back.
Broken displays blocked her path. Solstice caged her with one arm, movement too smooth. The gun pressed to her templeâcold metal, painfully real. Her eyes widened, heart spiking, but her face stayed that practiced mask of icy fury.
â Youâve lost it ? she spat.
Solstice leaned close. No grin. No game. His eyes were hollowed by something ancient.
â You think thatâs fucking funny ? he whispered. That entertained you ? You enjoy watching that ?
Fox clenched her jaw. Blood pulsed in her ears.
â I wasnât watching. I was looking for you, asshole. Put the gun down and breathe.
He pressed harder, steady hand, and she gasped. Words poured out, not playful, but stormy, messy, jagged.
â Always the cute little fucking predator with your sharp mouth. Always ready to pounce, right ? But when someone bleeds for real, you hide behind shelves and toss jokes. You think I donât notice ? You think you know what you saw ? You think I enjoy talking to fucking corpses ?
Fox said nothing, her eyes in his, fingers inching toward the blade hidden in her sleeve. Reflex, not challenge.
Solstice growled, voice cracking.
â You donât get to mock my family. Not that. When it comes to personal matters, you'd better keep your damn pretty mouth shut. Get it, little fox ?
The words hit like wet stones. Fox stared, stunnedânot by the threat, but by the tone. Cold. Clinical. Far scarier than anger. She breathed out slowly, careful against the metal on her skin.
â Fine, she murmured. No jokes about your wife. Got it.
A beat. The shift was immediate. A switch flipping inside him. The big smile returned, silver canine flashing. Body relaxed, gun holstered like he never doubted pulling the trigger.
â Good girl.
He patted her cheek, almost affectionate. Too familiar. Fox felt a crawling revulsion up her spine. She nearly sank her teeth into his hand, feral instinct snarling through her veins. But some faint logic told her he wasnât stable enough for that. They stayed like that a few secondsâhim already back to swaggering ease, her frozen in the echo of the threat.
She finally slipped away, buttoning her coat like armor. He wandered off, whistling âwell, trying toâ rummaging through shelves like theyâd just discussed the weather.
Fox stared at the wigged corpse and very seriously considered that there wasnât a single sane person left in the world.
After endless ordeals in the flooded landsâconflicts that never ended, degenerate raiders with no limits, and monsters more grotesque than each other, Fox had opted for the lesser evil : a pact with the Sun Messiah. Another lunatic, yes, but somehow more coherent than most of the local crazies. The deal ? He and his Militia would bring her intact to the ruins of a mysteriously destroyed military complex, and she would open the digital portal, giving them free rein over Federation supplies. Solstice, of course, had plans that stretched beyond the deal.
Now, between betrayals, broken trust, unexpected protections, and a strange, uneasy understanding, Fox spent her pregnancy in his orbit. He talked constantly. He pressed himself against her, closer and closer each day. She noticed, but as long as it kept her alive, she restrained her bites and let out only low growls...
That evening, they found shelter in a basement of a house swallowed by the marshes. A miracle : it wasnât flooded, almost cozy despite the damp. Drenched, Fox hung her clothes to dryâher cherished green coat among themâand slipped into the tattered wedding dress, a relic from a grim encounter with yet another band of maniacs. She didnât care where it came from, all she saw was fabric. She was neither sentimental nor superstitious.
The dress clung to her body, outlining the soft swell of her belly. She stared at it, at the life inside, letting herself drift for a moment in the quiet of her thoughts. Pale, soiled, delicate, it was a shield, a reminder that she had survived.
From the corner of the room, Solstice watched. Always watched. Leaning against the wall, drink in hand, he let his eyes roam. That small, fragile curve, the rounded belly, the slight smile she let slip for no reason⊠it was chaos in him. He wanted to look away, he really did, but he couldnât.
She was smiling. Fox was smiling.
Fox, he reminded himself, was a creature of instinct. She should growl, bite, vanish into the shadows at the slightest touch.
She wasnât supposed to be⊠that.
His mind twisted it, turned it ugly to make the feeling bearable. The words came out filthy, defensive :
Look at this makeshift Madonna, with her whoreâs dress and angelâs belly. A church painting that fucked the mud.
That was how he stopped himself from breaking. From admitting she was beautiful like that. From admitting that seeing her calm, human, turned his stomach inside out.
Because she didnât look like the Fox he knew. Not the twitchy rodent, not the scrappy fighter. The one on that mattress looked like a normal woman. A woman from the world before. A woman you could love.
It made him sick, and it made him ache all at once.
So he sank deeper into his thoughts.
And in the murky fog of his mind, Sophieâs face surfaced.
Sophie, twenty-some years ago, with her round belly too, her quiet smile, her slow gestures. Sophieâpolite, gentle, predictable to the point of nausea. Sophie, who never yelled. Who apologized for everything. Who cheated on him twice without ever raising her voice.
Fox was the opposite.
A stray dog that bit before thinking. An open wound with light eyes.
But in that moment, the two blurred together.
The image slipped. Sophie in the dress. Fox with Sophieâs eyes.
It drove him mad.
So he did what he did bestâhe broke it.
He finished the bottle heâd been holding for an hour in one gulp, let the burn scorch his throat, then threw it to the floor.
Glass shattered.
Fox flinched. The little smile vanished.
And he finally breathed again. Relieved.
He watched her fall back into the grime, into his worldâfar from her peaceful fantasies, far from Jordaneâs memory.
That, he could handle.
â Well, there you go, he drawled. Donât start dreaming, sweetheart. What was that, huh ? A little fairytale ? Youâre not the Virgin Mary, you know, youâre just you.
He laughed. Ugly sound. Not joyful. Nervous.
He took a step closer. She tensed. He felt her fight, but only a little. A growl, a twitch. Not enough to stop him. He sat beside her on the mattress and the wood groaned under his weight. The air thickened between them, humid, heavy. Her skin prickled. She turned her head, jaw tight.
â What do you want now ? she muttered.
â Nothing. Iâm just⊠looking. You seem⊠different. Suspiciously different.
â Leave me alone.
She tried to stand up. He grabbed her arm without thinking.
Stupid reflex. Instinct.
She immediately struggled, spat, yanked. He held onâtoo hard.
And in the scuffle, she lost balance, fell against him.
He caught her. And kept her there.
There it was.
He was holding her.
A clumsy parody of a hug, too tight, not quite wanted, not quite forced. His hand slid along her back, the other pressed against her neck, nudging her face against him. He felt her nose brush his throat.
He didnât think. He just wanted to feel her, alive, warm, real.
She growled again, half trying to bite. Her teeth scraped his skin, pinched a little, and he growled back, then laughed :
â Damn⊠even now you don't stop. You seriously canât stay still for two damn minutes.
She huffed, annoyed, tense, but still. He felt her heartbeat against his chest, fast, urgent.
Eyes closed, Sophie came back. The same soft round belly, arms around him, a gentle smile, golden hair. Years before. For a moment, it wasn't Fox he was holding, not really. Not the sharp, gnawing animal heâd learned to fear, to control. Just everything heâd lost. Everything he couldnât hold because heâd been too much : too loud, too reckless, too himself.
Fox, with her damn belly, awakened it all.
It wasnât love. Worse. It was longing. A craving for everything and nothing alike.
In his neck, Fox sighed, exhausted :
â You done now ?
He opened his eyes. His hand tangled in her short, rough-cut hair. He rocked her slightly without noticing.
â Donât worry, ma puce. I wonât hurt you.
She growled at the lie, as usual. He ignored it. Rocked her anyway.
â Tell me I matter, he whispered, like a fool.
No answer.
So he tried again, voice lower, rougher :
â Say it. Say Iâm not just a monster.
Silence. Then, cold, sharp, clipped :
â You are.
He smiled. A broken, almost tender smile.
â Yeah⊠maybe I am.
He didnât let go. Not yet. Arms locked around her, heavy, hard, almost trembling. Fox, pinned to his chest, gave one last reflexive shiverâthe cat caught off guard. She pulled, scratched, but it changed nothing. She could have bitten, could have stabbed. She did not.
His breath hit her temple, hot, ragged. Eyes closed, he murmured against her hair :
â Stay here a while longer.
Fox stayed silent, chin tucked, lips tight, jaw twitching. He continued, unable to stop :
â Just a little longer, yeah ? Youâre here, youâre real. Itâs stupid, but it feels good. When I close my eyes and youâre quiet, I can pretend youâre anyone.
He laughed. A hollow, cracked, strangled sound. Then whispered against her hair :
â Youâre important, Foxy.
She stiffened, barely noticeable. Forehead furrowed, eyes darting. He felt it. Always felt it. Her wary pullback, silent disbelief, the way she folded her shoulders like a stone she refused to carry.
â You listening at least ? he murmured.
â âŠ
â Good. Donât speak. You wouldnât understand anyway.
He loosened his grip just enough for her to breathe. Eyes sliding to her, he saw the war on her face, the âI wonât playâ expression. Yet she trembled slightly. Not fear. Discomfort, maybe. Mostly fatigue.
He whispered again, lower, softer :
â Funny, huh. Iâve seen dozens of guys die. Watched kids choke on their own blood. Didnât even flinch. But you⊠you frown, and I feel like an idiot.
A shadow of a smile touched his mouth. Not his eyes.
â Youâve made a mess, ma puce. A big damn mess.
Fox snorted, exasperated :
â Youâre insane, you know that ?
â Yeah. Big time. But Iâm insane around you, thatâs different.
She tried to move away. His hand on her neck held her, lightly, just enough.
â Donât worry. Iâm not gonna eat you, alright ? Just⊠stay a little longer. Till it stops spinning in here.
Two taps on his temple.
â Weird, huh, to fear losing something you never really had.
She didnât answer. Her body relaxed just a fraction. Not surrender. Resignation. She muttered a sound, maybe a curse, then stopped resisting.
Eventually, she leaned against him. Not because she wanted to, but because it was easier : he was warm, broad, and as long as he raved, she could save some strength. Eyes half-closed, listening to his breath, the creaking frame, rain on tin. Almost calm⊠if his scent didnât remind her constantly how wrong it was. Her clear eyes fell on his fingers pressed into her reddened arm. Blood under his nails.
Solstice murmured to himself, a mix of whisper and monologue, thick with fatigue and other things. Fox said nothing, only letting her fingers slide over his worn burgundy sleeve, before muttering hoarsely :
â Iâm not your wife, or your lover, or your friend, or your daughter. Iâm nothing, Solstice. A stranger.
He frowned, surprised by the flat, cutting tone :
â Nothing ?
â Yeah. Just a deal, remember ? Your men for my skills. Your shelter for my passage east. Thatâs all. We use each other, and thatâs fine.
â FoxâŠ
â No. Not âFoxâ like that. Weâre not close. Thereâs no us. We found each other in the middle of a bloodbath and made it work, thatâs it.
He muttered. She felt him stiffen behind her :
â Shut up, ma puce.
â No. You want me quiet because Iâm right. I donât even know what youâre playing at with your twisted pseudo-affection. Think I buy it ? That you have a heart ? Stop.
He didnât answer. Just a brief, joyless laugh through his nose, a quiet threat. She persisted, jaw tight :
â Youâre not honest, Solstice. You lie all the time, you twist everyone around you. So go on, whatâs your angle this time ? Trying your luck with me âcause youâve had no one lately ? Your hand not enough anymore ? Or maybe you just need someone to mess with so you donât go crazy ? Well, newsflash : Iâm not playing.
He moved abruptly. Hands on her shoulders, flipped her toward him. Fox barely resisted, tense, limp with exhaustionâa cat trapped but knowing claws wonât change a thing.
Face to face, she met his gaze. Dark, dilated, the kind of eye that wants to control everything because nothing is tolerable anymore. He stared, silent. Then his voice fell, slow, rough :
â You donât get it.
He tightened his hold. Again. Always.
â If I stay, itâs not for your shitty deal. Not for your precious Jordane either. Itâs âcause youâre still here. And at least with you, things move, bite, live. Get it ? The others, they follow, obey, or die. You piss me off. And I think I missed that.
He laughed. As always. False. Broken. Too loud. Too long. Fox didnât react. Her eyes were two bright sparks in the dark.
â Yeah, Iâm not saying itâs healthy. But I donât care. Weâre already dead, arenât we ? Might as well mean something.
She stared. Nothing moved on her face. Just that faint nod, that barely audible breath.
â You talk nonsense, Solstice.
â Maybe. But at least I say it looking at someone.
The silence was heavy. Only the drip of a leak kept rhythm. He didnât let go. She didnât push away. She was too lucid to think it mattered.
In that muteness, everything blurred. Two worn souls trapped in a space too tight, unsure whether to flee or cling a little longer before the end.
A monster trying to convince himself he isnât. And a rodent too tired to bite.
đThere's Poetry in Pain, If You Know Where to Look đ
-Post-Apo-
â Context â
When Marius, twenty something, tries to slip away from the Sun Militia for the second time, rumor reaches the one man you never run from : the Messiah. Solstice doesnât send others to fetch his deserters. He goes himself.
Now the swamp holds its breath as the cultâs leader drags the frightened kid into the mud for a private lesson â an intimate, brutal reckoning meant to break whatever stubborn hope still lives in him...
The marsh gulped at their footsteps with a wet sucking sound, like the ground itself wanted to keep whatever it was about to witness.
Solstice had Marius by the back of the neck. Not a hand. A clamp. It was a gesture that pretended to be paternal, almost tender if you forgot how his fingers squeezed just a little too hard, enough to leave a mark, enough to force the neck to bend and remind who was in charge. It hurt like hell. Marius whimpered.
â You tried to play ghost again, huh ? Solstice said, voice calm, almost quiet, the tone of a disappointed father more than an executioner.
Marius didnât answer. His breath was already short, his eyes darting away. He already knew how this would end.
â I swear, Solstice muttered, you give some people a second chance and they shit in your hand.
He pulled harder, forcing him to walk through the ooze. Marius squeaked. Each step the kid made sounded disgusting, like the wheeze of someone dying. Suddenly Solstice shoved him with a quick movement. Mariusâs body smashed into the mud, splashing up to the Messiahâs trousers. A vile sound.
â Christ, look at that... the militia chief sighed, almost amused. Looks like a pup that never got the leash lesson.
He crouched slowly, rolled a cigarette, lit it, drew a long drag, and blew the smoke straight into the kidâs face. The smell, strong and acrid, made him snort.
â Whatâre you scared of, Marius ? Huh ? Getting hurt ? Getting put to work ? Me looking you in the eyes ?
Marius trembled, mouth half-open, breathing fast. He tried to speak, but nothing came out.
â No, âcause I want to understand. I take the trouble to listen. You run from my militia once â I find you, I let you live, which between us was a miracle. And you, little shit, you do it again ? You start over ? I killed all your mates last time, wasnât that enough for you ?
Solstice laughed. A real, hoarse laugh that echoed through the marsh. The cigarette flew from his hand as he made a sharp gesture.
Then he struck. The fist came without warning, rough and brutal. The sound of cartilage and dirty water cracked out.
A frog jumped somewhere. Mutant or not, nobody cared. Marius fell on his side, blood in his mouth, teeth crunching.
â Seems you only learn from boots. Solstice sighed.
He grabbed him by the collar, lifted him a little, just enough so he was forced onto his knees.
The kid whimpered, jaw burning.
â Say "sorry".
Nothing. Just a gurgle.
The Messiah threw the young man to the ground, landed another blow, and another, knocking out one or two of the traitorâs teeth, then slammed his hand on Mariusâs throat and squeezed. Not to choke him out right away, just to hold him, just to let the fear rise. Marius, crushed under his bossâs weight, felt water and mud flood his cheek, seep into his nose. No chance of getting back up on his own.
And Solstice repeated :
â Say "sorry".
Still nothing. Stunned, Mariusâs eyes rolled, panic climbing. His fingers clawed at the wrist that held him; the grip tightened in response, unrelenting.
â S... Sorry. He finally managed to force out in a strangled breath, a red, pathetic gurgle.
Solstice raised an eyebrow, raised his voice, and hauled him close :
â What ? I canât hear you.
â Sorry !
â There. See ? You could talk. Turns out you just needed the right button.
He released him with a sharp yank. Marius collapsed, headfirst into the mud. The blood from his nose diluted into the stagnant water, making red-and-gray arabesques. Solstice watched, fascinated, for a second.
â I swear, thereâs poetry in everything, you just gotta know where to look.
He grabbed Marius again and stood him up with the same ease as straightening a scarecrow. The young man stumbled, teeth missing, lips split, eyes avoiding everything.
â Look at you, young man. Solstice joked. Like some expressionist painting. All thatâs missing is the signature at the bottom.
Then, in an absurd, almost affectionate gesture, he smoothed the kidâs collar. The fabric was crusted with blood, mud and spit, but Solstice smoothed it with care, as if he were dressing his son for a class photo.
â You gotta keep up appearances, yeah ? Weâre not going back to camp looking like bums.
He slapped him on the cheek, a small sharp clack on the forming bruise and the oozing wound. Marius, in tears, clenched, trembling, terrified, let out a whimper despite himself.
â Come on, walk. And donât make that face. Iâm not killing you. This is just bonus, kid. Iâm keeping you because youâre funny when you whine.
Marius didnât answer. He moved forward, trembling, mud up to his calves. Obey. Donât antagonize him. That was all there was to do. Solstice walked beside him, whistling badly, spitting more than anything else, satisfied.
â You know what ? If you wanna run again, do it properly. Because next time, Iâll find you the same â you can be sure of that â but I wonât wear gloves. Next time you run, youâll eat mud until you choke.
A short, joyless laugh. His silver tooth glinted in the marshâs sickly light. The Sun Messiah relit his cigarette, slid it between his lips, and added, casually :
She doesnât save people. She doesnât even try. The world burned, drowned, and tore itself apart â and Fox learned fast that helping others usually meant dying faster. She minds her own business, keeps her head down, and bites when cornered. Literally.
There was a time she had a name, a home, a man she loved. Jordane. Heâs gone now. Maybe dead, maybe not. She doesnât talk about him. She doesnât talk much at all, really. Silence keeps you alive.
Sheâs pregnant, though no oneâs supposed to know. She hides it like everything else â under layers of worn fabric and the kind of glare that makes people step back before they think too hard.
Fox is quiet, sharp, and mean when she has to be. Once, she killed a cannibal who tried to eat her. Then, starving and alone, she ate him back. Survival isnât pretty. Itâs teeth and blood and doing what you have to, even when it makes you hate yourself a little more.
Now she travels with him â Solstice, the so-called Sun Messiah. A deal made out of desperation : his help to reach a ruined military complex in exchange for⊠whatever twisted game heâs playing. She doesnât like him. Doesnât trust him either. But he gets results. And when he smiles that way, half-mad and all too alive, she doesnât bite â not right away, anyway.
Fox hates being touched. Always has. But Solstice never listens. He teases, pushes, tests her limits until she bares her teeth. Heâs learned the hard way that she does bite.
She isnât gentle, or kind, or good. Sheâs just still breathing â and in this world, thatâs the closest thing to heroism sheâll ever allow herself.
Just a patchwork of tin, shipping containers, and patched-up ruins. The air smelled like rust, sweat, and old grudges. The kind of place where everyone knew everything about everyone, except how to survive the next day.
Solstice had smelled trouble the second he passed the gate : people averted their eyes too fast, kids, usually nosy, slipped under the stalls to hide. And that thick silence, that one that always comes before shit hits the fan.
He searched for her for a while, as usual, that girl was always a skittish little rat whenever someone was after her.
Then he saw her.
Standing in the middle of the distillery yard, alone, motionless. There for no apparent reason. Back straight, arms hanging loose. Her green coat covered in dust.
And that face.
Fuck. He noticed it before she even looked up. One eye swollen, purple as a plum. Her nose split, blood down to her chin. And behind it all : rage. Pure, intact, burning.
Tears, sure, but not begging, not asking for pity. Just that look, locked on him.
Solstice laughed.
A real laugh, loud, too loud for the place, that twisted satisfaction of someone about to say I told you so.
â I know someone whoâs been pissing off the wrong people again. Fuck, Foxy, you look gorgeous like that. Maybe I should leave you alone more often, seems you had fun.
Not a word from her.
Just shallow breaths, her jaw trembling slightly. Pride, pain, anger, all balanced together.
He stepped closer, hands in his pockets, that cocky grin still on his face :
â Told you not to run off without me. Seriously, youâve got a gift for getting yourself into shit.
Pause.
â So ? You lose a card game or try to steal something you shouldnât again ?
Still nothing.
Her breathing was rough, blood still dripping. And that stare⊠not pleading. Feral. A wounded animal ready to bite, as always.
He laughed again, softer this time. Nervous :
â Come on, talk to me. What the hell happened ?
Silence.
â Youâre giving me the silent treatment now ?
Nothing.
Then the smile dropped. All at once. The air shifted. It was not funny anymore. He stepped in, close enough for his shadow to swallow her :
â Who did this to you ?
Nothing. Her lips trembled a little. But no words.
He stared.
His eyes traced the bruises turning black, the dried blood, the split lip. And that thing started to rise in him. Not the loud anger he threw around so easily, but the slow kind. The kind that burned like a fuse.
He reached out.
She flinched back on instinct. He let her, raising his palms slightly in surrender :
â Alright, Iâm not gonna touch you. Not without your say-so. But youâre gonna tell me, okay ? Because I swear to you, Iâll make them eat their teeth.
She shook her head sharply.
â No.
â Foxâ
â I donât wanna talk about it.
â Donât care what you want.
â Itâs nothing.
â Itâs not nothing when your face looks like that.
The words cracked out, sharp. Fox didnât flinch. Just clenched her fists.
â You wanna play tough ? Fine. But hereâs the thing, sweetheart : you and I are partners, you see. And it's starting to get out. So picking on you is picking on me. And I wanna know who had the balls to lay a hand on me.
She opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it. A breath, barely a word :
â Drop it.
Solstice stared at her for a long time, then sighed, long and heavy, eyes already elsewhere. When he looked back, the grin had returned, too calm :
â Alright. If you wonât talk, Iâll find out myself.
â Solsticeâ
â No. I know you. If youâre keeping quiet, itâs âcause you donât want me to see you as a victim. Because you're too "proud", too "lone survivor", too "fuck off, asshole, I'll manage on my own".
He tilted his head :
â But thatâs not your call to make, darling.
She tried to speak, but he cut her off with a gesture :
â Youâre gonna sit right here and donât move.
â What are you gonna do ?
â Explain the natural order of things. With my fists. And maybe a gun.
And he walked off.
She stayed.
Alone.
Heavy belly, burning cheek, heart pounding too fast. She wanted to hit him, that cheap messiah, that overly proud, overly loud con man who constantly made everything about himself. God, she should have.
He doesn't do it for me. The thought kept going round and round.
Silence filled the yard.
A scream, far away.
Then two.
The sounds of struggle, things breaking. Gunshots.
Then silence again.
And the wind.
Fox sighed.
She knew he was laughing.
Solstice came back fifteen minutes later.
His hands covered in blood, not his.
Breathing hard, eyes still burning. He found her sitting on a crate, head buried in her arms. She wasnât crying anymore.
â Itâs done, he said simply.
â What did you do ?
â Cleaned up.
â Solstice, I swear toâ
â Shut up.
He crouched in front of her, gently tilting her chin up this time. She didnât move.
â Itâs over, alright ? You donât have to look over your shoulder anymore, I took care of everything.
She looked at him, long and quiet. And in her eyes, no anger, not really. Just exhaustion. A mix of disbelief and guilty relief. The raw realization that he would do anything to be seen, heard, admired. Even beat up some worthless market slob that none of them would ever see again.
He smiled, crooked :
â You really gotta stick close to me, sweetheart. Without me, you end up in pieces.
â And with you, what am I ?
â Alive. As promised.
She exhaled, lowered her head, and for the first time, when his hand brushed her cheek...
He was only nineteen, Solstice -well, Yann back then-.
Just a kid who thought he had life figured out because he could drive, smoke, and talk back to adults now that he was older, that he had a man's body, after a teenage years of being bullied by some older kids who didn't like the way he was.
Nineteen, and already convinced he was a man.
He got married.
Because he thought thatâs what grown-ups did. You find a woman, get a job, pay rent, say âmy wifeâ during lunch breaks. He thought that made him somebody.
She was nine years older. Nine years. A canyon at that age.
Beautiful, confident, free. Too free, probably.
Yann looked at her like you look at a star : unreachable, fascinating, a little too bright to touch.
And she, she saw him as a toy. Something shiny to play with while she drifted through her late twenties.
He didnât want to see it.
He told himself she had chosen him. The cocky kid writing dark poems, all attitude and charm. That made him special, right ?
Wrong.
A year later, it was over.
A year of shouting and yelling, empty looks, lack of understanding. Then nothing. Curtain down.
And the worst part : he never really knew if it hurt. Maybe a little. Maybe not enough. Maybe he just didnât care anymore.
At twenty-one, he did it again.
Because Yann was that kind of guy, the kind who keeps running into the same wall, hoping itâll move this time. And sometimes, itâs the wall that wins.
The second marriage was supposed to be the one.
Sophie was pregnant when they tied the knot. He took it as a sign, fate throwing him a bone, telling him this time itâll work.
Sweet Sophie. Twenty-three. Heâd known her back in high school, when she was graduating and he was just starting. The prettiest. The kindest. Never raised her voice, never said too much. They never really spoke at the time, but he ran into her by chance after his divorce.
He loved her, or at least he tried.
He wanted to be enough. But he never was.
Eva was born six and a half months after the wedding.
His daughter. His sun. His mistake in human form.
He loved her, he really did, and she adored him. For a while, he even believed he could be a good dad, or at least his own flawed version of one. Generous, permissive, too much of a buddy, not enough of a father.
He thought it was âcool.â
He and Sophie divorced when Eva was ten or eleven.
Sophie had cheated on him.
With a coworker. "Kinder", "calmer", "because I love you, Yannick, but you're always too much..."
She apologized. He cried in her arms. He forgave her.
A year later, she did it again.
With the neighbor this time, a cool guy with a motorcycle, the guy heâd had beers with.
That time, he saw red. He smashed the coffee table, threw the picture frames. Not at Sophie Never at Sophie. Just at everything theyâd built together.
Eva chose to live with him, âbecause Mom ruined the family.â
He thought that meant redemption, but he wrecked that too. Because you donât stop being yourself just because you want to.
Teenage years hit like a storm he never saw coming.
Eva got pregnant. Too young, with some idiot a bit older, a bit dumber. She made almost the same mistake he did.
Yann lost it.
Too loud. Too cruel.
He said things a father should never say. He judged, he yelled, he condemned. And she left.
Back to her motherâs.
And that was that.
No more wife. No more kid.
Just a man alone with his bitterness and the taste of bile in his throat.
So he kept going.
Truck driver. Years on the road, hauling other peopleâs crap across the country.
Crap bosses. Crap pay. Crap everything.
But at least, in his truck, he was free. It was the only place where things made sense. Just him, the road, the static hum of the radio, the empty sky. No reproaches, no eyes judging him, no one asking for more.
The world stayed quiet out there. The problem was when he had to climb back down, when he had to deal with real life. The ex-wife, the silent daughter, the bills, the bullshit.
Thatâs when it fell apart again. Thatâs when everything turned ugly.
Yann spent his breaks dreaming of somewhere else, a world where he didnât have to apologize for his anger. Where everything, finally, would just burn down. It was pathetic. But it was honest. He smoked. He drove. He waited.
And one day, it happened. The world drowned.
The apocalypse hit like a blessing.
No more bosses. No more debts. No more rules. No more pretending.
Just silence. Fire. Freedom.
Thatâs when Yann died, somewhere in the ashes.
And Solstice was born.
The trucker turned into something else, a man who could talk, lead, lie, charm, command, a man with nothing left to lose.
He killed his first man after only two or three days. His boss, who kept the resources without sharing. No regrets. He took the food and decided he was the boss now.
He gave himself a new name, a new face, a myth to hide behind.
The Sun Messiah.
A joke that got out of hand. He gathered followers. A militia. Enemies. Stories. Horror. And somewhere deep down, he knew it was all smoke, that under the gold paint and the swagger, there was still that same lost kid, a furious boy trapped in a manâs body, a failed husband, a failed father, a failed son, a king of ashes with a cigar, too much noise in his head and too much blood on his hands.
Today, everyone knows who he is. Today, evereyone looks at him. Today, everyone wants his approval.
Sometimes, he still sits on a rooftop, cig between his teeth, legs dangling into the void, the stars above him, and that little voice inside whispering :
You had your shot. Twice. And you blew it.
He takes a drag and smiles. Because hell, heâs still here, isnât he ?
And sometimes, when he closes his eyes, heâs back in his truck. Just him, the road, the hum of the radio.
