Is it tasty?

Posting drabbles, imagines, and plot bunnies because, as the saying goes: In for a penny, in for a pound. So here we g o . . .

[shadowwalkerimagines]

『 The State of Unreality: Drabble 3 - A Roadside Motel 』 Resident Evil/Biohazard (Gameverse) | You; Reader Insert; Second-Person Point of View; Female Reader Rating: M for source material and future content | Warnings: Canon typical violence, Unreality, Alcohol Use, TBD Summary: Whoever could that be, sitting outside his motel room?

Unlike the first dream, this one has lingered with you. You chalk it up to actually having devoted the time to document every little detail you could remember about it the second you woke up. Revisiting the memory of it has likely helped as well. You can’t help it, really. The clarity of the picture, that curious report—it was all quite fascinating.

Sure the end of the dream had ramped up to a rather alarming, life-threatening situation of sorts, but a dream is a dream, guns in your face or not.

This is something novel and new and completely safe. It would be a lie to say you aren’t looking forward to another similar experience. You have to admit it all left you rather excited.

Sure, the Resident Evil universe isn’t exactly the ideal place to experience such lucid dreams but the novelty of it all…

You’ll take what you can get.

So when you find yourself coming to awareness inexplicably walking along another desolate mountain road some days later, you nearly begin vibrating in your enthusiasm. It must not be the same location, however, as street lamps stand stark against the evening darkness this go around.

For a while you simply carry on walking, passing the otherwise uneventful time just existing in the moment and inspecting every little thing that pops into mind. You take in the detail of the gravel on the road, the blades of grass and the fine little hairs on each one, the heavy clouds that threaten rain drifting along the evening sky—all the way to the lint in your pockets and the contents of your shoulder bag, all exactly as should be.

Who knew your mind could create such intricately detailed scenarios. Where is this creative detail when you need it?

Eventually, just as you are beginning to wonder if there is anything more to this dream than incredibly detailed foliage, you make out a building cutting through the tree line. As you grow nearer, you’re able to make out an illuminated “MOTEL” sign posted at its entrance.

The area is lit in a dim warm glow, with a quick glance around showing a single room open, door cracked as golden light spills into the night. There is a man sat on the curb just outside the room, hunched forward, his elbows propped on his knees. What looks to be a beer bottle is held loosely in one hand as he clutches at his forehead with the other.

Do you dare approach?

You bite at your lip and mull over the thought. Realistically, that is not a smart move—who knows what kind of man he could be, what sort of danger he could pose—but you remind yourself: none of this is real; you are not in any actual danger.

And so, you make your way towards him.

"Lookin' a bit rough there, buddy.” Your voice cuts through the otherwise silent night, soft but with a jovial lilt. “You alright?”

The man chuckles drily without looking your way then takes a swig from his bottle. As you step closer you note how his hair curtains his face; it is a bit hard to be certain given the lighting, but he looks to be a dirty blonde. He is dressed in blue jeans and a dark jacket, and as you catch sight of his footwear, you find yourself questioning his choice in white chucks. Surely those get soiled easily.

“Guess I’m just wondering if I made the right choice.” comes his eventual reply. His shoulders bounce as he lets out another dry laugh, his head dropping to rest on the meat of his forearm. "Dropped everything for this new job only to get a call tellin’ me to stay away.”

Something tickles in the back of your mind—this sounds kind of familiar, and this guy’s outfit… Judging from the theme of your last couple dreams, could this be… surely not? …maybe?

“Well that’s a little odd,” you admit, taking a tentative seat beside him on the curb. You try to sneak a closer look at his face but his hair and the angle obscures your view too much. “Sounds like you could use a friend right now.”

He laughs, “What, you offering?”

Puffing out your chest and pounding it proudly, you huff, “Of course! I’m an amazing friend. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity I’ll have you know!”

You can see his shoulders bounce as he chuckles. He turns to face you, finally, and amicably replies, “I’m honored.” His smile is a goofy one, lopsided and messy in his inebriation, but the way his eyes crease—it’s genuine nonetheless.

Caught off guard by the disarming smile, it takes you a moment to really register his face. The lighting isn’t in your favor, but you see enough to confirm your suspicion.

The man sitting beside you, drunk off his ass, is none other than Leon S. Kennedy in all his baby-faced glory.

"Guess I'm just wondering if I jumped the gun…" Leon sighs out.

You can't help it—you snort. “Well, you do strike me as the kind of guy to make hot-headed decisions.”

He quirks a brow at you as he lets loose a dry chuckle—an invitation to go on.

“What, don’t wanna admit it?” You lean in with a devious smirk and bump his shoulder. “Bet you didn’t even tell your girlfriend why you were breaking up with her.”

He reels back, mouth dropping open. You let him flounder for a minute as he struggles for something to say before ultimately settling on, “Is it that obvious?”

You laugh. No, if it was anyone else, anywhere else—if this were real—you would never dare to make such bold assumptions.

“Oh yeah. Pathetically so, man.”

Leon groans miserably, dragging a hand down his face in embarrassment or frustration. You chuckle but don't say anything more, unsure where to go from here—what to say next—before Leon speaks first.

“So why’s my buddy walkin’ around so late at night all by herself anyway?” He politely offers his bottle but you shake your head and raise a palm in protest.

“No real reason,” you admit, “I just find night walks pretty comforting.”

Leon takes a swig from his bottle before casting a heavy look towards the dense tree line across from the motel. You catch the corner of his mouth dipping in a frown.

“We’re not all that far from where all those strange disappearances have been happening, you know.”

“What, worried about me?”

Leon chuckles, “What else are friends for?” It’s played off as a joke but knowing him, knowing this world, there is no doubting the implied message.

“I’m a big girl; I’ll be fine.” You dismiss with a bump to his shoulder.

A beat of silence passes, and you fear you have treaded into awkward territory, before he eventual sighs, “If you say so.”

"Mhm," you affirm with a pat to his back. “But with that being said, I guess I'd best be on my way. Make sure you don’t drink yourself blackout silly, alright?” You nod towards the nearly empty bottle—it’s a hollow warning since you know Leon drinks himself under the rug into the next afternoon, but it doesn’t hurt to say. He just huffs, raises his bottle in cheery acknowledgment, and to just be a little twat, chugs the remainder.

You roll your eyes at the immaturity but the smile on your lips is wide as can be. Stupid, cheesy, adorable man.

A familiar fuzz starts to creep along the edges of your vision, leaving you to suspect you are waking up. Of course this happens now. Is it some kind of unwritten rule that you have to wake up when things start to get good in a dream?

It's too soon—always too soon.

As you watch Leon, hunched over as he is eaten away by insecurities and knowing the horrors he will face in the very near and distant future, you want to give him some kind of encouragement.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Leon," you say with a firm pat to his shoulder and using him to leverage yourself to stand. Dusting yourself off, you continue, "The world can be a really ugly place but it's people like you—that're willing to do good and fight for what's right—that make it a world worth living in."

Leon remains silent and unmoving, seemingly mulling over your words.

You turn away and leave him to his thoughts, tracing your steps back into the darkness of the night. The world blurs and fades into nothing and the next thing you know, you're registering the clunking of tracks, a subtle jostling of all-surrounding movement, and a female voice announcing the next stop from an overhead intercom.

[shadowwalkerimagines]

『 The State of Unreality: Drabble 2 - The Laboratory 』 Resident Evil/Biohazard (Gameverse) | You; Reader Insert; Second-Person Point of View; Female Reader Rating: M for source material and future content | Warnings: Canon typical violence, Unreality, TBD Summary: Is your subconscious trying to tell you it's time to see the doctor? Last you checked, doctors didn't have heavily armed security on-call though.

You don’t count the days that have passed since the dream with that lone mountain road, eerie green glows in the forest, and vicious dogs. The dream has all but faded from memory when you have another.

You come to awareness in some sort of science lab that reminds you of distant school courses. It appears to be a legitimate set up, like something one would expect from a hospital or research facility.

What’s with this setting?

You let loose a thoughtful hum as you walk along glass cabinets filled with labeled vials and unfamiliar equipment. Counter space that isn’t taken up by beakers, miscellaneous equipment and microscopes are covered in layers of folders, papers with data tables and indecipherable formulas, and pictures that remind you of things you’ve seen in biology textbooks.

Another hum escapes from your lips.

You pick up one of the pictures.

It looks kind of familiar—black and white and full of cell clusters—though you struggle to place why. Microbiology had been interesting in school and all but you had not devoted any more time studying it than anything else, so why is this piquing your interest?

With a dismissive hum and a shrug, you place the image back amongst the paper pile and shift your attention. Snatching up a scrap of paper that seems oddly out of place amongst its more pristine counterparts, you scrutinize it. You recall having heard text is indecipherable in dreams but...

With furrowed brows, you scan the document. You have to admit it is a bit of a strain—some words seem to double up or move around but you can definitely make sense of it.

Shouldn’t this be completely incomprehensible nonsense? And much like the image, the contents tickle something familiar in the back of your mind.

Wanting to test things further, you rifle through more papers and though the technical stuff makes no sense nor does anything else trigger that curious sense of familiarity, you find everything else may not be perfectly readable but readable nonetheless.

How curious. What if you check out what's in the cabinets, maybe there will be something in there?

“Who are you?”

You jump, whipping around in surprise to come face-to-face with a blonde, middle-aged man. His striking blue eyes are narrowed, thin lips pressed in a frown—a clear display of suspicion and distrust. His white coat and smart looking attire clue you in to the likelihood of him being a resident researcher.

“How did you get in here?” he continues at your silence, his tone low and accusatory. You want to ask him the same thing (you hadn't so much as heard him come in) but notice him fiddling with something in his pocket and, not wanting to press your luck, quickly raise your arms in surrender.

“I dunno.” You admit because honestly? You don’t.

He clearly doesn’t believe you, however, if his expression is anything to go by, and proceeds to fish whatever it was from his pocket. And oh man, is that-

“A pager?” Tense situation or not, the appearance of the archaic device has you belting out a laugh. “Really?” Where in your subconscious did that device get drudged up?

Your reaction seems to catch him off guard, a perplexed expression flitting across his face. He levels you with a glare but doesn’t probe, instead electing to type something away on the device.

You purse your lips and furrow your brow, arms dropping as you realize he had not been reaching for a weapon.

“So where is this anyway,” you nonchalantly ask, electing to lean back against the counter, arms crossing over your chest, “some kind of hospital?”

He gives you a skeptical look and you offhandedly notice that he’s very clearly blocking the door. “Playing dumb isn’t going to get you out of this,” he shoots back.

“I’m not playin’,” you sigh out, “I really have no idea where I am or how I got here.” Dreams don't often cover the logistics of that kind of thing, after all.

“I find it hard to believe someone would just so happen to stumble this deep into an Umbrella facility through sheer coincidence. Though…” and here he pauses to scrutinize you, making a very clear display of looking you up and down, “…I must admit that’s a very curious choice of attire for espionage.”

“Wha-? Espionage?” And what’s wrong with what you’re wearing? A quick glance down at yourself shows that, much like your last lucid dream, you are wearing what you had fallen asleep in. But what’s wrong with that? Comfort before all else!

With a harrumph you tell the man as much, “It’s comfy. Besides, you don’t see me judging your science nerd getup and choice in old school tech.” A petulant, petty response, but you couldn’t help it.

It takes a beat, but something he said finally registers and you jolt forward.

“Wait, Umbrella?”

Before you can gather any sort of reply, however, a loud beeping cuts through the room—a clear signal—that prompts the man to reach behind himself and fiddle with a keypad connected to the door. It slams open and in no time at all the room is swarming with men clad head to toe in black tactical gear, guns leveled directly at your head. Your arms fly up in surrender once again because dream or not, the thought of getting shot isn’t exactly enticing.

Damn, this dream went from zero to a hundred real quick.

The guards don’t say anything to you—no ordered commands or demands. Instead, they stand between you and the blonde, seemingly awaiting his orders but more than ready to take you out should you so much as blink wrong.

You watch as the blonde says something—a command to you or the guards, you can't say—but for some reason you are unable to make out a single syllable. You try to strain your hearing but nope, nothing.

That's when you notice the finer details of the laboratory are fading into an incomprehensible fog.

Oh, you think, is the dream ending already? And it was just getting to the action...

You can only watch as the guards all seem to meld into one nebulous blob of black, a single splotch of white breaking from it and moving towards you. A quick flash of light and then the next thing you know, you're registering the darkness behind your eyelids, the pillow clutched tight against your chest, the light blanket over your figure, and the droning hum of the fan you had fallen asleep to.

[shadowwalkerimagines]

『 The State of Unreality: Drabble 1 - A Mountain Road 』 Resident Evil/Biohazard (Gameverse) | You; Reader Insert; Second-Person Point of View; Female Reader Rating: M for source material and future content | Warnings: Canon typical violence, Unreality, TBD Summary: Resident Evil is a series that has always been there throughout your life. You've played the games, read books and fics and countless wikis, watched the movies—gobbled up just about anything you could get your hands on. One thing you never wanted despite being such an avid fan of the series, however, is to have a front row seat to the events of a world full of countless horrors. Good thing it's all just a dream ...right?

It starts with a dream.

Vivid and detailed and very clearly remembered when you wake up.

You’re walking along a desolate mountain road at only God knows o’clock. There are no smells, no sensations of hot or cold or even the barest of lukewarm winds. Just you, the road, the forest, and the creatures of the night.

Or… you assume there to be, though the eerie silence alludes otherwise. Not even the ever-present chirp of crickets reaches your ears.

It is when that realization hits that a sense of dread settles upon your shoulders like a weighted blanket.

Such silence is unnatural.

You pause, and only then, as you take a moment to really focus, do you realize you’re barefoot. Toes curl and uncurl, stretch and rub against the gritty asphalt you are stood atop. Where are your shoes?

Looking down, you notice you’re wearing exactly what you had fallen asleep in that night.

“Huh…” you mutter. Impractical but there are worse options, you suppose.

You don’t question it further (when do dreams follow any sense of logic, after all) and elect to carry on. Where are you and where are you going? Two questions you’re hoping to answer as you make your way along the seemingly endless road.

Time passes as your wandering continues—how much, exactly, you are unsure. Your legs do not tire and no sense of fatigue settles upon you, though the ever imposing silence of the forest certainly feeds a sense of unease.

Unable to ignore it any longer, you call out, “Hello?” A vain hope that someone will answer back. “Anyone there?”

And yet, no bushes rustle, no twigs snap—nothing to indicate any sort of life. You sigh, unsurprised but disappointed all the same, and continue forward.

How interesting, you find yourself thinking some time later as you stretch your arm in front of you, alternating between splaying your fingers and not, that you’re able to so clearly make yourself and your surroundings out. It is clearly the dead of night and yet you have no trouble seeing in the darkness—each finger clearly visible as you continue to flex. A glance to the tree line gives a clear and defined visual of the foliage, from the leaves and branches of the bushes to the knots and whorls of the trees’ bark. Dream logic, you suppose.

A sudden snap cuts through the night, jolting you to attention. Your head whips to where the sound rang out, eyes squinting.

“Hello?” you call, wondering if this dream is finally ramping up.

Like your first attempt nothing answers back, not that you expected anything to. You do make out an eerie green glow just within the tree line, however, and narrow your attention. Trying to focus on the curious sight, you miss the sound of grass rustling and gravel being displaced; paws thunder towards you, joined by subtle growls and the heavy panting of several large quadrupeds.

Something collides with your back, immediately knocking the breath from your lungs and pitching you forward, tearing your gaze from the forest. There’s a pressure at the back of your arm as something clamps upon it, the sensation increasing exponentially. You catch a flash of black and tan and a vibrant, fleshy red out of the corner of your eyes as you try to glimpse what has set upon you. The image isn’t clear but the barking, the biting—a pack of wild dogs?

The dream starts to lose definition before you even hit the ground, time seemingly slowing to a crawl and the definition of everything growing foggy and unclear. Good, you don’t fancy the experience of being mauled to death.

You don’t jolt awake, merely flutter your eyes open as the last few moments of the dream replay in your mind’s eye. Inhaling deeply, you hold the breath for a beat and then with a deep huff blown it out your nose, lips pursing in a frown.

What a shitty dream.

You didn’t get a clear view of what attacked you but with the awareness of a waking mind, you know it had been Cerberus—those iconic zombie dogs from the Resident Evil series.

Sluggishly, you pat around your bed for your phone, squinting when the screen illuminates the dark room.

7:05 AM

Mm… might as well get up, you reason. Your alarm will be going off soon anyway.

With a heavy sigh you roll yourself to the edge of your bed, push yourself up, and-

“Ah,” you hiss, core tightening as you immediately remove the weight from your right arm and hug it close to your chest. Holly hell, why did that hurt?

Padding off to the bathroom, you flick on the light and quickly gaze at your reflection. Your brows immediately furrow at the palm-sized bruise blossoming along the back of your arm, an ugly purple-blue.

Did you bang into a doorframe or corner of the wall again?

Another heavy sigh (this time laced with frustration towards your annoying clumsiness) blows past your lips. What a way to start the day.

[shadowwalkerimagines]

『 Wanderlust 』 The Hobbit/LOTR | You; Reader Insert; Second-Person Point of View; Gender Neutral

Rating: T | Warnings for this fic: Prejudice

Summary: Found an old notebook with an old plot bunny involving a reader that finds themselves in Arda. Curiously, they appear to be immortal and have found themselves in a time well before the events of The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings. The story was meant to lead up to the events of The Hobbit but I just never got around to it. Regardless, I really enjoyed this drabble so I decided I might as well share it!

It's peculiar. Foreign and unknown, yet familiar. You know these places, its people. But only as fantasy—as beloved fiction, its words printed upon pages spread between a multitude of books. Its people and places have flashed across video screens; music and song played for the ears of countless people.

Sometimes, when you're surrounded by the sheer splendor of the world around you, you forget that you don't belong here. That you're a stranger in an even stranger land.

Sometimes, you can fool yourself into believing that you belong.

When you stand before the bubbling brooks and streams that stem from the Anduin, the Great River, or when you find yourself winding beneath and between the ancient trees of forests with even older denizens, you're able to lose yourself. Perhaps it's best that you do, in those brief, fleeting moments. You can forget all that you have lost; all that is missing—that is so vastly, indescribably different. And all of it you will likely never see again.

You don't know how long you have been wandering these lands—stopped counting when you came to the startling realization that over a year had passed. You had been leaving little more than tallies scribbled in an old notebook, so weathered and clearly showing its age.

You don't count anymore. You're too freighted to.

You fear what the numbers might say.

Sometimes you draw people's portraits. Or peddle images depicting your strange, unfamiliar world to those that find them interesting.

"Wherever do you come up with such strange imagery?" they ask. You smile and tell them it's a place you often see in your dreams, a place that your dream self calls home and is always in search of.

They always laugh at that—call you a queer, interesting fellow. You joke and laugh along, agreeing it is a strange vision, is it not? If your voice or face give way to your melancholy, none have ever commented, though you have seen the fleeting looks of pity they give (you dare not try to decipher the others).

The people whisper about you. They used to be friendly—often toeing the line between concern and wary suspicion. Now, however, you find the former to be in short supply.

The Men—your own kind (though often you pause and ask yourself: are they really?)—are the worst. What had started as concern, as sincere worries for your safety, have long since turned bitter. Now they hide from you—turn you away with hissed curses, calling you "witch" and saying your "kind" are not welcome.

You don't understand what they mean by that, no matter how many times you hear it—don't know who your "kind" are supposed to be. You try not to dwell on it when they call you a witch. It goes without saying that the moniker is no term of endearment.

[shadowwalkerimagines]

『 Outsider: Ch. 2 - Thinking | [Ch. 1] 』 Mass Effect | You; Reader Insert; Second-Person Point of View; Gender Neutral; Female Shepard

Rating: Upping to M for future content and themes | Warnings for this fic: Existential Dread

Summary: What else is there to do in space?

Unsurprisingly, it is impossible to tell the passage of time in space. How long has it been since they rescued you from that slaver’s den? A day? A week? You’re pretty sure it couldn’t be anywhere near a month’s time but everything feels so slow and crawling aboard the Normandy that you’re not confident you can completely discount the possibility.

There’s a conspicuous absence of any clocks, you have noted …or perhaps you’re just not looking in the right places? Or do people rely on their omni-tools for timekeeping? Short of such a device, you're sure of at least one clock's location: Shepard’s cabin. But like hell you’re going to ask for access just to check the time. The absurdity of the thought has you belting out a laugh and you don’t miss the way a couple of the faceless crew nervously glance your way.

It quickly sobers you back up.

God, what are you even doing here? Why are you even here? You’re not some soldier, not some super powered biotic, nor are you some all-knowing deity. You’re just you: a simple, everyday human being from a time and reality away who likes to play video games. Just an average, every day civilian that knows a little too much about a very particular video game.

You actively try to keep the brunt of your knowledge hidden—no way do you want to draw that kind of attention on yourself, to paint yourself with fluorescent neon paint that screams “look at me! Pick my brain for ways to get the upper hand of a lifetime on your enemies!” But too many people around you are way too damn smart—way too god damn observant. You know Shepard has already read between the lines and suspects you know something; it’s why she so adamantly refuses to hand you over to Cerberus and the Illusive Man, you’re sure.

The rather desperate plea you made not to be left on any human colonies, the cryptic comment about kidnappings and disappearances… Shepard has always been sharp.

Once again you count your blessings for the paragon commander, ever thankful of her skepticism for the extremist group despite them literally bringing her back from the dead. 

But where Shepard is distrustful of Cerberus, Miranda is the polar opposite. She’s lovely, and you grew a fond appreciation for her character during the course of the second game, but you know where her loyalties lie at this point in time. You know she would not hesitate to sell you out and that this is no longer just a game. So you avoid her, and it’s so painfully obvious how uncomfortable she makes you despite the minimal interactions the two of you have had to warrant such a reaction. You’re practically broadcasting you know something… some things you shouldn’t.

But what else are you supposed to do? You’re certain anything else would give far more away, invite too many openings.

No one has confronted you about it yet, so you simply continue to run.

And even the characters people you trust not to betray you… well, EDI is always listening, and she’s no doubt reporting all she hears to the Illusive Man. She’s still shackled after all.

Who knew sitting around and doing nothing could be so stressful?

[shadowwalkerimagines]

『 Outsider: Promise 』 Mass Effect | You; Reader Insert; Second-Person Point of View; Gender Neutral; Female Shepard

Rating: G | Warnings for this fic: Existential Dread

Summary: When it stops being just a game, that’s when the fear and uncertainty kicks in. You’ve somehow managed to find yourself isekai’d into the world of Mass Effect and you’re pretty sure that triggers some sort of flag.

You sigh, hold yourself tighter, and you’re feeling less than comfortable in this position but the ache in your back and the strain in your arms reminds you that this is real. You’re not dreaming this impossible scene.

Shepard is discussing (arguing?) with Miranda and Jacob and you hope and pray that they won’t hand you over to The Illusive Man. Sure he’ll already know about you—that’s just how he and Cerberus and this whole game works—but you know about him, too. Know that no matter the outcome you won’t be safe because there is just so, so much yet to come for Shepard and her team, for the Normandy and this entire Galaxy. And it’s that very knowledge that has painted you one of the biggest, brightest targets.

If anyone got hold of what you know… it could spell the literal end.

You dig your nails into the flesh of your wrist—the biting sensation distracts you from your anxiety—and don’t even register that Shepard has ended the discussion.

You don’t know what decision they came to but Miranda and Jacob are filing out of the room, leaving just the two of you.

“Hey…” comes Shepard’s husky voice, low and careful, like she’s speaking to a frightened animal ready to flee. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep you safe.”

You can hear the conviction in her voice, how sure of that she sounds (she must be on a paragon route, your mind intrusively supplies), but you know better than to trust promises that can’t be kept. Especially in this reality full of so very many possibilities.

You lay your head against the back of your knees and close your eyes. “Sure,” you mumble, knowing she believes her words and will do anything she can to hold true to them. But you know reality isn’t as kind. 

[shadowwalkerimagines]

Lucky Charm: [You seek out Boys ‘n Grills]

You ultimately decide that you might as well see this to the end. You reason that maybe once this is all over you’ll wake up to reality—you’ll see that this has all just been a strangely vivid, lucid dream.

Without a way to check time you’re not sure how long it takes but you eventually manage to find yourself standing across the street from the infamous (to you) Boys ‘n Grills. It looks like you’re a bit late, however, as there is already a crowd gathered and you can see the tell-tale flashing of red and blue.

It’s a bit hard to make out but you think you can see everyone gathered in the back of the police car, Jack and John standing outside the vehicle as they talk amongst themselves (probably bemoaning all the paperwork this night has brought them). Something ugly and unidentifiable clutches at your chest when you spot Bob laying in a shallow puddle of his own blood. He didn’t heed your warnings.

You turn away, unsure what to make of the tumultuous vortex of emotions spiraling within. Shouldn’t you be happy—relieved—that he can no longer threaten you? But what is this feeling of bitterness and regret?

Sure, you enjoyed his character but that was just it—his character. It’s a whole different story when you find yourself face-to-face with the cannibal live and in person!

...right?

Lord, what is wrong with you? Why are you even questioning this?

In something of a stupor, you let yourself aimlessly wander, leaving the crime scene in your wake, unwilling to see the rest of this pre-written story write itself out.

Like earlier, you are ignorant to the passage of time as you walk down the once again eerily empty streets of the downtown district. Absently, you notice you’re passing a (familiar?) home goods store. There’s a nice, fancy set of knives on display and isn’t that just hilarious? you think with a dry, humorless laugh.

You stop and glare at the window display and allow yourself to get angry—at this stupid night, this stupid non-sensical situation, this stupid everything. What the hell are you doing and what the hell is even going on? What if you don’t wake up? What if you’re stuck here? What are you supposed to do?!

A low chuckle breaks the silence that has settled around you.

“Guess I owe ya one, dumplin’.”

The hair on the back of your neck rises and a jolt of... fear? races down your spine. There’s a heavy hand on your shoulder.

“Shoulda listened to ya...” There’s another hand snaking around your waist. Bob is pulling you against him, you numbly register, as the hand on your shoulder slithers across your neck to lay over the opposite shoulder. He must be laying his head atop yours as a heavy weight bears down on your crown. He completely engulfs you. “My little lucky charm.”

A confusing tingle radiates through you at those words. Is it fear? Excitement? …arousal?

He squeezes you tightly—possessively—and your breath hitches as you realize he isn’t going to let you go. He nuzzles into your neck, his own breath heavy and hungry.

Just like he promised, he had found you.

“Now why don’t we getcha home.”

. . .

. . .

. . .

[ E N D ]

[shadowwalkerimagines]

Lucky Charm: [You stay longer]

Maybe you can just... take a little nap. You’re so tired, after all; so burnt and worn out from the chaos of the night.

You let your eyes slip closed and before you know it, you’re drifting off into a stygian abyss.

. . .

. . .

. . .

[Wake up]

[shadowwalkerimagines]

Lucky Charm: [You run (again?)]

You can’t deal with this. You need to get out of here.

With herculean effort you manage to pull yourself to your feet, the wall serving as support as you stumble once, twice, and then you’re off. The surrounding buildings become a blur as you blindly race from the alley, down the street, across an intersection and so many turns. You’re well and truly lost when you slam into something—something that yelps out at the collision—and then you’re falling.

With a groan you pick yourself up from the ground and offer panicked apologies to the person as you extend a helping hand. They mutter something unintelligible but grab your proffered hand all the same. It’s as you’re pulling them to their feet that you are able to take in their attire: red robes, red hood, golden amulet.

A cultist.

You try to pull your hand from theirs only to realize they’re gripping you tight.

“Let go!” you exclaim, though the cultist merely laughs (what the hell is so funny that everyone’s just laughing their ass off tonight?), their grip tightening further yet. There is something off—something twisted—about their laughter that causes goose flesh to erupt across your skin.

“A curious pile of flesh,” comes an ethereal, raspy voice. Why does it seem familiar? “How did you come to be, Outsider?” And that’s when it hits you—

Is that... The Eyes of the Universe?

An entirely different brand of fear than Bob elicited washes over you at his words (he knows who—what—you are). Your will to escape is reignited and though it is a struggle, you ultimately manage to pull yourself free.

Once again, you run and you don’t look back.

[Do you really think you can escape the eyes that see all?]

[shadowwalkerimagines]

Lucky Charm: [You stay]

You stay there, sat on the filthy ground with your head cradled between your arms, propped up on your knees.

An inner voice tells you that there is no time for this. You need to get up! You need to go—to do something! But it’s just so hard to find the motivation, the drive, to get back up.

What if Bob hadn’t let you off? Would you have died in this body that isn’t yours, in this world that you don’t belong to?

You...

[Stay longer] [Seek out Boys ‘n Grills]

[shadowwalkerimagines]

Lucky Charm: [To the alley]

The alley Bob leads you to is no more and no less remarkable than any other. Garbage cans and dumpsters stand vigilant along the pavement, missing posters are spread haphazardly along the walls, and litter rolls in the lazy night wind. The devil leads you deep into the alley, likely to minimize the chance of anyone stumbling upon the two of you (and hindering any chance at escape).

“Alright,” he drawls out, turning on you with a threatening smile. “How’d you know about the amulet, dumplin’? You workin’ with them?” And here he looks you over—from the tippy-top of your head to the very soles of your shoes—though he gives no clues as to what he is looking for and whether or not he likes what he sees.

You vehemently shake your head as you try to ignore the way you shiver in anxiety. “I’m not part of the cult!” you declare, “But I can’t tell you how I know either.” Because surely not even he—nearly immortal cannibal that he is—would believe something so outlandish.

His dark eyes narrow and as his grin grows tight you are quick to continue speaking. “If you keep following the kids tonight, you’re the only one that’ll wind up dead,” you explain, and the cold jolt of fear that pierces you as his grin morphs into a frown further spurs you on. You warn him not to eat the floor candy when he chases them into the Candy Club, tell him not to waste time playing hide and seek with Skid and Pump in the meat freezer, and that he should really look both ways before crossing the street. You tell him how the cops fill him with lead and run him over, over, and over again until eventually he doesn’t get back up; the medical examiner finds the beaten and dented remains of the amulet in his chest.

You take a deep breath and look at Bob. He appears pensive, stroking at his chin in thought. Then he laughs—a deep, rumbling sound like thunder across a darkened sky.

“Alright dumplin’.” Wha-? He’s smiling wide again. Why does he look so excited? At least he doesn’t have a knife in hand... and-?! Is he... is he patting your head?! “Let’s give it a go.”

You’re still struggling to make sense of what just happened when you realize he’s already walking away, rumbling laughter and thudding footsteps trailing in his wake. Abruptly, however, he pauses and you jolt, frozen in place, as he turns to look at you. His dark gaze locks with yours and it’s like a hungry wolf staring down a frightened rabbit seconds before jaws latch around its prey’s neck.

“Go ahead ‘n try to run, darlin’,” the devil all but growls out in a taunt, “I’ll find ya later.” And with that promise, he turns and resumes his exit, heavy footfalls fading with his monstrous presence.

. . .

You step back until you hit the wall. You slowly take in a heavy inhale... hold it for a moment, and then slide to the ground as you exhale. You survived. You’re alive... but for how much longer?

You...

[Stay] [Run] [Seek out Boys ‘n Grills]

[shadowwalkerimagines]

Lucky Charm: [You head down the street]

Where the hell is everyone?

A chill unrelated to the environment overcomes you and you can’t help but shiver, pulling your arms close in a tight embrace. Your footsteps echo against the pavement the further you go; you feel even more isolated and alone than ever before.

It’s as you are passing a storefront for home goods that you feel it—the unsettling gaze of a predator. You pause, try to locate where the feeling is coming from, only to realize... it’s snuck up behind you.

You...

[Turn around] [Scream]

[shadowwalkerimagines]

Lucky Charm: [You run]

You’re in danger.

The panic is irrefutable and your base animal instincts tell you to get the hell out of here.

Not needing any further convincing, your muscles tense as you prepare to launch yourself down the street. There are enough people out, the cops are somewhere nearby, you can surely slip away!

You give no warning as you launch yourself away from the beast behind you and you dare not look back to see what you have left in your wake. You hear a growl, feel air displace as something just misses connecting with your body, but push on. You run and run and run, pushing yourself until you taste copper on your tongue and can push your legs no further, lungs feeling as if something holds them in a suffocating death grip.

You brace yourself against the wall of the nearest building, doubled over as you try to catch your breath and calm your pounding heart. It looks like you’ve managed to find your way into the heart of downtown.

It takes a few moments to calm down and catch your breath but when you do, you can’t help but notice just how empty the streets are around you. Being so out in the open doesn’t seem safe.

You...

[Head down the street]

[shadowwalkerimagines]

Lucky Charm: [You scream]

Overcome by primal fear, you belt out a bloodcurdling scream.

You need to get away—you need to get out of here!

But before you’re able to take so much as a step, you feel a searing, burning pain bleed across your neck. Your scream quickly devolves into a bubbling gurgle. A strange chill begins to creep its way throughout your body despite the heat spilling down your chest, and as everything starts to grow dark and fuzzy, you hear a deep, heavy laugh.

Then the world goes black.

. . .

. . .

. . .

[Wake up]

[shadowwalkerimagines]

Lucky Charm: [You turn around]

Turning around, you come face-to-face with an all-encompassing wall of red. You trace your gaze up, up, up and see the smile of a devil. A jolt of fear races down your spine as you immediately recognize who it is dwarfing you: Bob Velseb.

Oh no. Oh no no no no no. You can’t ignore the truth standing before you.

“Now what’s a cute li’l morsel like you doin’ out here all alone?”

Oh god... he’s drooling. You catch movement out of the corner of your eyes (he’s reaching for the knives on his belt, isn’t he?). Not good, not good...

Faced with your own mortality, you shrink in on yourself, eyes shutting tight, and shout out, “You’re gonna die tonight!” A desperate hail mary at not being eaten and/or murdered tonight.

...

...?

You peek your eyes open as a tense, awkward silence stretches for far too long and... he’s staring at you in visible confusion. It passes in a beat, however, replaced by a look of unamused indifference.

“And what do you know?” He’s lifting his sweater (he doesn’t believe you), reaching for a knife—

“The amulet in your chest doesn’t save you!”

That tense silence falls over you again before you dare look at his face once more.

“Let’s have a talk, dumplin’,” he says as he lays a heavy hand on your shoulder.

Bob isn’t smiling as he leads you away from prying eyes.

He leads you...

[To the alley]

[shadowwalkerimagines]

Lucky Charm: [You check your surroundings]

This makes no sense...

You close your eyes, suck in a deep, heavy breath, and hold it in for one second... two... three... four. You open your eyes on the exhale and... yeah, that didn’t accomplish anything. You’re still standing outside on a street that is familiar for all the wrong reasons, listening as Pump and Skid threaten ask their neighbors for candy.

You groan, frustrated, but ultimately decide you know what? Fine. Let’s just roll with it. Dream or warped reality, you’re here now so might as well make the most of the situation.

A loud gasp draws your attention and—wha? When did they get here?!

“You’re not wearing a costume!” Skid exclaims, pointing at you dramatically.

“Huh?” you respond, reeling at their abrupt appearance; these boys just snuck up on you as silent as a cat.

Skid continues, unperturbed, “You gotta have a costume! It’s the SPOOKIEST DAY of the SPOOKIEST MONTH!”

With an awkward laugh (what even is your life right now?) you tell him, “Oh uhm... I forgot?”

Pump and Skid gasp, absolutely aghast that you could commit such a faux pas before their expressions soften.

“It’s okay,” Pump speaks up as he holds out a hand. He’s looking at you with bright, cyan eyes as he patiently waits. Confused, you reciprocate and... huh? “Here’s some candy!” You look at your palm and... well would you look at that—he deposited a small handful of candies into your palm!

You look up, ready give your befuddled thanks, but the boys are already running off towards a haunted house. Wait. Haunted house?

You’re about to call out to them when you’re overcome with a near suffocating sense of dread. There’s a presence behind you...

You...

[Turn around] [Scream] [Run]

[shadowwalkerimagines]

Lucky Charm: [You close your eyes]

Nope. No way. You are not dealing with this. You do not see it. This isn’t real; you are dreaming. 

With that decided, you make your way back into the house, down the hallway, and into the room you had awoken in. You lay on the bed and though it is a bit of a struggle, you eventually manage to fall asleep.

. . .

. . .

. . .

[Wake up]