haha hey here's an unprompted drabble ask prompt that is completely unprompted and not so you can post a four year old drabble that you wrote and totally didn't forget to post for FOUR YEARS just so you can have context for an original god idea for the upcoming ball prompt: The prompt is 'Nightmare' :)
oh hi totally anonymous anon you're SO right i SHOULD write a little drabble using the prompt nightmare for orivar that i'll then let sit in my drafts for four years, just so i can have some original lore context for orivar's outfit for the upcoming ball! thanks bestie, i owe you my life!
==>Orivar Tyrgan | 13 Sweeps (or something) | probably somewhere out in the water idk where she was when i wrote this four years ago
Cw: non-graphic violence
Dozens kneel around you, their heads bowed on their knees and their hands clasped in front. You can't see faces and you don't recognize anyone by their horns. It makes you anxious as you pick through the crowd, skirting around every troll and doing your best to not touch a single one.
The temple of the old gods around you is packed to the brim with them. You're not sure how you got here or how there were so many devouts in the first place - there aren’t this many people who live in Jyyr’s Bay anymore - but you didn't try to figure it out. You had other things to do. You had to get to the back of the temple, where the lantern light was sucked into pitch blackness and where every troll was facing. You had to get there. There was no other choice for you.
So you walked carefully through the crowds with your hands up and masking your fear. You’d be proud of your control, if your hands didn’t ache from the effort keeping them from trembling.
The shrine is ten feet away. Eight. Six. Then, three. You stopped among the trolls and the howl of winter winds outside made the ancient building creak and the fires flicker. Was there anyone else even breathing in here?
You can’t keep the tremble from your hands anymore.
“Please,” you call to the mass of shadows. “Please, I have a request. Will you hear it?”
It's quiet for a moment. No one responds to your pleas, not a troll or the darkened shrine. Maybe you weren’t loud enough? Did you ask the question wrong? Should you use the old language? You bite your lip, then -
”And who are you to ask a favor of me?”
The voice was deep. It reverberated through the ancient wood of the temple, through the air and made your blood vibrate through your veins. It was the voice of something ancient and more powerful than you - it took every fiber of your being to stay upright.
You inhale shakily, digging your heels in where you stood. “Please,” you say, softer. “I'm no one. I'm no one, but I want to be -” You stop and look at the trolls around you. “I want to be one of them.”
One of them. Blunt toothed, smooth skinned, normal blooded trolls. No fins, no gills, no hint of pink. No violence etched into your face, blood on your hands, or screams in your memory.
The temple went quiet again. Not even the brazier crackled now and before you, you could see the shadow begin to move. It rustled, it twisted and slowly wings began to slip out of the darkness. Inky black feathers, longer than the temple was wide, curved around the room and seemed to suck the light into them. You can’t look for too long at them - your mind would be pulled from your skull like the flames of the braziers.
”And what…makes you think we want you?”
Your hands shook at your side. What could you say to make them accept you? One hand went up to touch at your neck and you inhaled as you looked into the shadows.
When you did, two sets of three eyes were staring back.
They pushed at the blackness, pushed until two heads came out and the light glinted off of inky beaks. Two ravens, each with three eyes and they both tilted as they looked at you.
Old voices. Old gods. Worlds and visions unfathomable swirled in their eyes. Thousands of years and thousands of trolls has been seen by them, judged by them. You are but one of many.
“I'm one of your people,” You say. Your tongue was as heavy as a rock in your mouth but you forced yourself to speak. “I was hatched here, I was raised here, I speak your tongue and I know your stories -”
”And what makes you think we want you?” All six eyes stare at you and they slowly blink. They spoke as one, two voices meshed together to callously wrap around your ears. ”You are not one of our own. We did not ask for you. You should not have learned our stories, our tongue or wasted the time of our people.”
”Leave, Orivar Tyrgan. You are not one of us. We do not want you here.”
The two heads began to pull back into the darkness then and you couldn't help but step forward. You couldn't let them leave now, you didn't want them to leave - you didn't even have a chance to argue your stance. The toe of a boot smacked against one of the devouts in front of you and for the first time, they began to move. Their heads turned and your breath caught in your throat as you stared at the flat expanse of skin over their heads. No eyes, no nose or mouth - just grey skin pulled taunt across the skull and the distinctive red trident of the empire branded across it. You don't know how they saw you but they did. Only one stood to face you at first, then the troll next to them stood. Then another and another and as you whip your head around in a panic, you could watch as the rest rose to look at you.
“No,” you croak softly as they began to reach for you. “No, I'm one of - I'm one of you -”
Claws dug into your clothes, your skin, your horns and you felt powerless as they started to rip you apart. They were all silent but even as you felt the stretch and pop of limbs coming out of sockets, you could still see the swirling, six eyes watching you from the darkness.
Watching. Watching, until fingers went for your face and there was a sickening pressure until you couldn't see them anymore.
oh boy, this is hard because i put this on nekrah's playlist as a shippy sort of song, so this will... probably be something that is vaguely shippy even though he doesn't actually have any ships right now LMAO
This is saucy, but in a very vague way.
Song: Muscle Museum
-----
Skin touching skin. Heart against heart. Breath against breath.
It's something that Nekrah never thought he'd have in his grasp, and yet here he stood, fingers stroking against silk and seadweller cool skin and shuddering at the way it pushed back at him.
"Nekrah," The divine murmured into his ear. "Oh, Nekrah..."
Each word made him seize up with emotion. It's hard not to, not when each syllable was like a knife slipping through his ribs to pierce his heart. It was pain. It was pleasure. It was a balm against the ache of his soul, and his throat flexed with unsaid words of devotion and love that he desperately wished he could parrot back.
Hands slipped under his shirt. When did the buttons get undone? Nails scratched at the sensitive skin under his gills and he gasped, his own hands gripping the fabric of the other troll's shirt. Finally, the words unlodged from his mouth.
"Please," Nekrah gasped. "Please kiss me..." It was direct. Too direct, and for a moment there was the fear of being lashed out for his insolence.
But this troll in his arms was not Vitroper. They were someone else. A better, more divine creature than the monster who stole him for science.
The troll in his arms was more merciful. There was a pause, then they lifted their face from his fins and obliged.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I’m uploading some of my old fics on Ao3 - this time just a bit SPRUCED UP TOO!
==>Tomois Rinoca | 22 Sweeps || Sahiin's IPC's Research and Development laboratory
Gloved fingers lifted the object from the box, a white cloth wrapped carefully around it. It was tilted just a little bit from side to side before being gingerly placed down on the table. “Unknown firearm. Place of origin: Rebel camp on colony planet Dodoulian. Manufacturer: Deceased. Deemed safe to test.”
It’s a head canon of mine that bloth knows a form of sign language, maybe you could have them teaching it to Caustic, or since crows can mimic teaching their birds to respond
AND I’VE WRITTEN IT. I’ve also posted it up on AO3 under a drabble collection! Link to AO3 will be, as always, in the notes.Brief notes about the drabble itself: The sign language Huginn uses isn’t english sign language! It’s Icelandic.
“He is speaking to you.”“What?”
Alexander blinked. It wasn’t often that things took him by surprised - but Bloodhound was special like that, weren’t they? Their head tilted from side to side, charms clicking in the night and he could almost hear the soft sound of a chuckle from behind the plastic.“Huginn. He is speaking to you.”
In front of them stood their raven. Huginn was his name, apparently, and he was a clever little shit. Alexander found that out the hard way after weeks and weeks of the tiny little thing harassing him. Rocks in his drinks, droppings on his clothing - every time Bloodhound was so much as in the vicinity, Huginn was there to make his life just a little bit harder.It’s not like he blamed him though. After all, their first meeting was, well… Alexander tried to kill him, didn’t he? Tried to test out a new formula on the poor crippled bird right before Bloodhound themselves came and murdered him right back. He and the bird never did get along since then, not after the two legends began to spend more time with each other.But that’s what this little session on the barrack roofs was for, wasn’t it? It was him, the bird, Bloodhound and a bag of dried fruit and, well. Alexander couldn’t really say how well this was going except it seems like the two of them had a cautious truce with each other. Who knows how long that’d hold up the moment Bloodhound turned their back though…The hunter didn’t seem fazed by any of their squabbling however. They gestured at the bird again and Huginn made the peculiar motion again. One wing flapped as it lifted a leg and it dipped it’s head and it brought up one balled up foot to it’s beak and almost seemed to salute him. “See?” they said.“Well what does it mean?” Alexander asked gruffly, eyebrows raised behind his reading glasses.The bag of fruit rustled in Bloodhound’s hands as they shook out a piece and they held it up delicately to Huginn’s face. The bird was unsurprisingly gentle as it took the piece from their fingers and it shook its head as swallowed it. “It means matur - food. He would like us to give him something to eat. Here, Alexander -” A gloved hand reached out and took his and pulled it close. There’s a brief moment of surprise and excitement as Alexander felt the gentle touch of fingers cupping the back of his hand and he couldn’t help but stand there patiently as they shook out another little treat into his palm. Then, they let go and pointed at Huginn.
“Go on. He will not bite. I will make sure of it.”There was quite a bit Alexander could say to that. He could point out that their bird has been attempting to make his life miserable for weeks now, or that they couldn’t actually guarantee that Huginn wouldn’t make an attempt on the well being of his fingers but…Oh, damn it all, Bloodhound was too trusting. Too earnest. It was endearing in it’s own way how genuine and light hearted they seemed when they weren’t slipping knives between ribs and even as Alexander studied the glint of light against their goggles, he could tell they must have the most hopeful look on their face right now. Even if he did get attacked by this winged hellion, perhaps he could convince Bloodhound spend more time with him treating the wounds and that thought of spending more time with them was enough to have the legend sigh and hold up the bit of fruit.Huginn, on the other hand, was much, much less readable and that was an achievement considering that he wasn’t wearing a plastic mask. It’s head cocked to one side as it eyed up Alexander’s fingers and for a moment, there was quiet. Green eyes met beady black and they stared each other down for a second, then two, then three …And then it struck.In Alexander’s defense, he was a legend. He spent his days being shot at in the ring with pistols and grenades and bombs. HIs reflexes have been honed by days sweating in the hot sun fighting for his life and when that bird attacked, how could they not kick in? There was a flurry of wings and feathers as it lunged forward and Alexander cursed as he felt hardened beak snap at his hand and he dropped the fruit and flinched back.“He tried to bite me!” Alexander exclaimed and he whipped his head around to look at Bloodhound. “I felt it, he almost took my finger off!” Huginn wasn’t even remorseful. The damnable bird hopped down the moment the fruit fell and it immediately picked it off the ground before swooping back to land on Bloodhound’s shoulder. Bloodhound on the other hand, seemed to be tickled pink. Loud clear pells of laughter echoed in the night air as their shoulders shook, sending Huginn’s wings flapping as he tried to find a perch. It’s such a lovely sound - so genuine - it almost made up for the fact Alexander almost lost a digit.Almost.Shaking his poor abused fingers, he shot the hunter a glowering look. “You said you’d stop him from biting me. Or was that your plan, all this time?”It took a moment for the laughter to subside, but Bloodhound cleared their throat as he composed himself. It only worked so well since the tell tale lilt of amusement still colored their words and turned it bright and ‘hap’ as they always said. “No no, no plan. But it was funny how you flinched. Are you that afraid of him?” They lifted up their arm and Huginn hopped from their shoulder to the wraps on their arm.Alexander glowered, but he refused to admit it. “He tried to bite me,” he said indignantly. “Because he likes the reactions he gets from you. Now, would you like to try again? And this time, Huginn, you will hegða sér.” The raven bobbed his head at their words but Alexander didn’t buy it. The bird was a liar and a menace - how could he trust it now?But… Bloodhound’s head cocked to look at him again and they jerked their chin for him to step closer. They were too trusting, too genuine. It was hard to say no and Alexander reached forward with a resigned sigh with his hand open. “Give me a fruit. We will see how this will go.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
[This fic is SO LONG so I’m not posting it on tumblr because it would kill mobile users, but I’ve worked on this for awhile now so I’d greatly appreciate it if you guys took a look at this on Ao3!]
==>Tomois Rinoca | 22 Sweeps | The Stacks | 10,630 Words
"I literally shot down the ship. I saw it burn. There's no one anyone could have survived. We just need to see if we can scavenge one of the IPC radios so we can listen in."
"Well, we don't know if they've caught up with the ship, right? There's so many of the fucks running around..."
"Then hurry up!"
You don't even notice when you've pressed your hands up to your mouth. You don't even notice how your knuckles are bleached white from trying to hold your mouth shut and you hope, oh god you hope that they don't notice you. The building with your ship in it is pretty clear behind you but you've pulled yourself up just enough to maybe hide behind a planter. If you're lucky maybe they won't see you?
Oh, what are you saying. You're not lucky, not in the slightest.
-----
It was a typical 'oh no, shoot all the rebels!' situation. It was all fun and games until someone brought a rocket launcher and shot down Tomie's ship.
14 year old Archer Folley has discovered a terrible secret in his town. After committing himself to rebelling against CHORUS, he spends his time in the clubhouse with his friend Sophie and tries to plot out a way to do - well, anything.
Unfortunately, there's only so much they can do and desperation has them looking for help in unlikely places.
Words: 5100 Chapter: 1/1 Language: English
Fandom: The Blackout Club
Rating: Teen and Up
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: Gen
Characters: Archer Folley (Original TBC Character), Sophie (Original TBC Character), eh there's mentions of the gods but no one else actually shows up so, the-measure-cuts, Because why not - Character
[Please see my reblog/the notes of this post for the link to the AO3 link if you’d like to review it or kudos it there! Also, Sophie doesn’t belong to me but rather a friend.]
Sometimes, the boxcar didn't seem too bad to live in.
It's daytime right now and surprisingly warm out, so Archer had to take advantage of it. The boxcar doors were pulled open as wide as they could to shake out the dust and musty air. Who knew a gaggle of teenagers could track in that much dust? The rest of the kids never stayed during the day though, so he was the one who spent most of the mornings cleaning up. There was a lot of trash - like, a lot. Soda cans, chip bags, forgotten bits of pencil shavings and mysterious strings from bandages littered the floor. It was like, pretty gross, especially since Archer was pretty sure one of them was all crusty from blood.
Now, all the trash was all collected in a pile outside and he was sweeping away at the wooden floors. Cleaning a box car was easier than any other chores he had and sweeping? Sweeping was nice. It was nice and repetitive and he could just stand there and enjoy the feeling of the sun on his face and the trees in the wind.
Sometimes, when the mornings were as calm as this, Archer could almost forget that this wasn't his real home.
He… didn’t exactly like to remember his old house. It was painful to think about - too depressing! It's been what? Almost a month now since he's ran away? Yeah, if he sat down and thought about it, it was probably close to a month. It was scary back then when he lived with his real family. They were so sweet during the day, but during the night…
It wasn’t his family anymore. Once he realized that, he spent all of his time lying awake at night. Fear kept him awake with the sound of - of the Song playing in the background and the padding of his family's feet around the house. His dad - so upbeat during the day - walked around and whispered about death and voices and old men in hospices. His own mom was thankfully awake, but not human anymore, he guessed. The first night he cracked his eyes open to watch her check on him, her face moved and crawled across her head like leaves on water.
Archer couldn't take it, not after that. Not after he joined the club and delved deeper under the town than he’s ever gone before and he learned that at night, he didn’t have parents anymore. What he had were two vessels that looked like his parents but would toss him off a cliff without hesitation. Oh, Archer lost so much sleep when he realized that and his parents acted like they couldn't remember anything; his nerves were cut shorter and shorter until -
"Hey, nerd, are you okay?"
Archer jolted out of his thoughts and looked up, the broom in his hands clutched against his chest.
it was just Sophie, thank god. They stood there outside the boxcar, jacket thrown over one shoulder and their long hair pulled dripping wet over a shoulder. Their hair was redder than before they left for their makeshift shower and he's sure if he went out to the back, he'd smell the acidic tang of hair dye in the water buckets. They stared at him a bit suspiciously, but he just nodded and dropped his head. "I'm fine," Archer said, giving the floor one last good brooming towards the door. "Just... thinking."
Sophie huffed at his words and they pulled themselves up into the boxcar. "You're always thinking. What's it about this time? The coyote spies? Or like, do you have something new about the government and satellites? Like CHORUS has people in NASA?"
"Hey, it was a good theory oka - wait. Do you think Chorus actually has people in NASA?" That actually gets a laugh out of Sophie as Archer's eyes bugged out of his head and they flopped down onto the beanbag across from him.
"No, of course not! I mean, the song can't reach out that far, right? They have to stay like, here! In the RQZ."
Right. Right right. Sophie's right and Archer hung his head as he breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He does a few more good sweeps to get the last of the dust outside and he watches as it billows out into the air. With the cleaning done, he set the broom up against the wall and stepped over to the bench next to Sophie and sat down. "No, it's not theories," he says as he rubs at the back of his neck. "Just..."
Sophie doesn't say anything. Not yet, anyway, but he can feel them watching him as he tried to find the words. It’s hard to say it! They’re not like him after all. They were a lot tougher than he was - braver too - and they weren’t afraid of losing family. Hell, how many times have the two of them sat down in their sleeping bags next to each other and argued over whether or not to just leave Redacre? Sophes wanted to go, but Archer wanted to stay. Where could they even go? Their family was here.
They wouldn’t understand, but the emotions were swelling up inside of him. It was like a cold rock in his stomach and not even the sun on his face could warm it up. Archer rubbed at his face and he sighed before he just let it spill out. "Just.. my family. I miss them, Soph. I keep thinking about my room, and my mom, and my dad, and how much I miss microwaves, and it sucks. It's nice here and I'm glad we're somewhere safe and I have you as my buddy but it's not the same, you know? I just..." He tapers off and then the boxcar goes quiet again. There’s nothing for a second, and Archer’s half afraid he needed to say something else. He opened his mouth, his throat worked, yet no sound came out.
But, he didn’t need to say anything else. Sophie’s hand was already on his arm by the time his mouth fell closed again. Archer turned to look at them as they leaned on him, their arm wrapping around his. "I know," they say, quiet. "I'm sorry. I don't know - I can't help, and I know we can't go back. I'm sorry Archer."
The touch is comforting. It’s not the usual sort of comfort Sophie gives, but it didn’t matter. Right here, right now, it’s what he needed, and he couldn’t help but melt up against them. It's nice for him to feel them actually comforting him like this. It made him feel a little less… alone.
They're both quiet for a long moment. It's nice, just the two of them sitting there in the back of the boxcar with the sun shining in.
For a moment, Archer could sit and pretend that everything was normal. No Chorus, no voices, no dead children found in mazes, no families that tossed the bodies off cliffs after eating dinner together that night. Just... normal.
All he needed was normal.
------LATER THAT NIGHT------
"I talked to one!"
"What?"
"I talked to one of the voices, Archer!"
Sophie was a mess. Whatever cleaning he did during the day was completely ruined now as they clambered into the boxcar with dripping wet clothes and dirty boots smearing mud across the floor. They tossed their crossbow onto the equipment table and immediately slammed a boot against it to start untying their shoes.
Archer, on the other hand, was still sitting there on the floor in shock. His laptop sat next to him, glowing with the soft white of the downloaded wikipedia articles and pages and pages of his notes scattered around him with diagrams of music, maps of the town, and scribblings. "Hold on," He spluttered, staring at them.. "Hold on. Did you just say you talked to one of the voices? The ones that's trying to - to control us? Kill us?!"
"This one doesn't want to hurt us! He wants to help!" A dirty boot dropped on the floor and Sophie hopped to untie the other.
Archer scrambled up from where he sat, papers forgotten as he hurried over and grabbed at the edge of the table to look them directly in the face. "Are you possessed?" He whispered, horrified. Then he rethought and the blood drained out of his face. "Did you lead them here? You were out alone, you didn't have a buddy - oh god, I'm your buddy and I let you go out alone." Panic licked down his spine like ice water down a drain and he reached forward to grab at their jacket and pulled them close. The last thing they expected was for him to do that, and they froze as he inspected their eyes. "Did they see where the club is?! Sophie! Did they?!"
"Calm down!" They squawked and batted his hands off of their jacket. Bright red hair was falling out of the bun they kept it in and as he stepped back, it was only then he realized how dirty and beat up they looked. Sophie looked like they were dragged halfway across town and dunked into a lake and then dusted dry with dirt - if this was a ploy and they were a spy now, they wouldn't look like they just got done doing a military obstacle course, right? The voices weren't that smart, right? Or what if they were -
A hand came up to his face and he started as he realized how much closer Sophie came. Their hand was gentle at first - then they pulled it back to give him a smart smack across the cheek. "Calm down! I'm fine! I'm not possessed, if you'd give me a second to actually talk before you manhandled me, I could tell you everything that happened!"
Right. Yeah. Debriefing, that was... probably important. His cheek stung, but it was what he needed to knock the panic right out of his head. They needed to debrief without any of the panic, and Archer nodded at Sophie before pulling away. "Right," He echoed, sitting heavily on the boxcar bench. The door was still cracked open and the noise of crickets and the light of the moon lit up the forest almost like it was day and he closed his eyes to listen to the night. It was quiet, blissful silence while he tried to calm himself and Sophie sighed as they continued to take their shoes off.
"Are you feeling better now?" They asked as they thunked something heavy next to him. Cracking his eyes open, Archer could see that they were putting the dirt covered shoes away and dragging out a new pair from the closet. They dug through the boxes too, searching for a new pair of pants in their size. His hands and his lips still shook from his panic, but he thought he was calm enough to listen so he nodded.
Sophie eyed him up, not quite believing him as well as he wanted but that's fine. They'll still tell them and that's all that he cared about.
"Well," They started as they dug out another shirt and jacket. "While I was out there, I found something - something new! Or, well, I found it like, weeks ago.” Clothes in hand, they started stomping their way to the sleeping bag car, voice rising so he could hear as they shut the door. It was simple privacy while they changed. “Remember when I told you about those like, impressions of people pressed up against the walls? The ones you couldn't see when I dragged you out on the missions? I kept telling you to look for the blue mist but you could never see it."
He remembered that. He remembered how he stood there at the edge of the bed and flailed about trying to find this person they told him about. He saw nothing but the backs of his eyelids and after a few minutes - the tell tale sign of the shape walking into the house. Definitely not the figure Sophie was talking about, but he yelled back a loud “Uh-huh!”
"Okay, well, I found out what they were!" There's the sound of jacket zipping up now and the door slid back open. Sophie was in new clothes now - a neat little hoodie zipped up to the neck and track pants. They're cleaner than the other clothes they had on and they crouched as they started digging up some new shoes out of the closet. Sophie didn’t waste any time to start pulling them on and suddenly it dawned on him what they were doing. Were... were they planning on going back out there?! Archer can't help but gape at them as they laced up their shoes.
"They're name fragments!"
...What?
His mouth took a minute to catch up with his thoughts, but once it did and he vocalized it, Sophie beamed. "Name fragments!" She repeated! "There's like - there's all those voices we've been hearing, right? In our dreams and that the sleepers and lucids talk about? There's one they haven't been talking about! There's a secret voice, because he's supposed to be dead! Or, like, imprisoned. I don't know! Either way, the other voices don't like him!" They gave the laces one last tug to tighten them up and they scrambled across the floor to him, bouncing eagerly on their feet.
"Archer," they gushed. "Archer, I think he can help us get out of here."
Out... of there? Out of Redacre?
Sophie's talked about it a lot. Archer can't even say they haven’t, but that seemed as much of a pipe dream as his dreams were about following the trails of coyotes to where they were clearly gathering as spies for CHORUS. But this? There was a spark in their eyes, a fire that burned in their pupils and a determination in their shoulders that actually made him hesitate.
"S-Sophie," He stammered out. "I don't know. It's a voice, can we even - are we even able to trust it?"
There's a pause, and their eyebrows creased together as they studied him. "Yes," They said softly. "I think we can."
Archer didn’t buy it, but he didn’t say it. He's sure Sophie could read the hesitation on his face, but they didn’t say a word before they stood up and tugged him up with them.
"Hey, just come with me, okay? For one mission, before the sun comes up. I think he'll still be around to talk if you want to speak to him yourself." He stood as they talked and Sophie pulled him on over to the shoes. "Grab something you can run with and just - just try it with me okay? You like proof, let's go get you some proof."
Archer nudged one of the shoes out of the closet and he paused as he slipped his toes in. "And you promise this isn't a possession thing, right?" He asked. His voice is so much quieter than he'd ever like to admit but he's nervous! How could he not be!
Sophie just beamed again and nodded. "Trust me. I'm your buddy, we have each other's backs. Now let's go and kick some CHORUS ass."
---
The mission was a bust. Like, an absolute bust.
By the time they limped back on over to the boxcar, they were exhausted and scraped up and Archer was sure there was a splinter shoved an inch deep into his hand. God damn lucids, he thought as he pushed the door to the boxcar open. The two of you had spent your time wandering the neighbourhood and collecting evidence before the club reached out to the two of you, pleading for help to rescue a kid that was kidnapped. It went pretty well - until they got to the maze where it looks like Archer stepped right into the middle of a lucid meeting. They cornered him up in the rafters in the observation room and he cowered in the corner for five whole minutes as he waited for Sophie to save him.
Honestly? Thank god for his Blackout Buddy. If it wasn't for them, he's sure he'd be wandering the maze with the song vibrating in his head and the shape at his back and whispers in his head of where to go, who to talk to and what to do. They already did it once with the girl they went down there to save and he nearly got dragged away trying to save her from the song.
"That was too tough," Sophie groaned as they turned and hopped up onto the boxcar. Their legs dangled as they flopped backwards and stretched their arms out above their head. "I almost thought we were done for!"
"Yeah," Archer murmured as he clambered up next to them. "Me too. That was uh, pretty bad. Do you think the kid we saved is gonna make it back to us? I know they said to go ahead and they'll catch up but there were so many lucids and the shape was there and all..."
Sophie's quiet for a minute. Then, they cursed and pulled themselves back up. "Dumb kid, I know Rosalyn. She's probably the kind of person who'd get caught again so we should probably go get her." They slid off the boxcar and straightened up to eye up Archer.
He... didn't look so good. If he was honest, he was sort of hoping that they wouldn't ask him to come with because he's had enough of all this sneaking and this fighting tonight. Brawling wasn’t what he was built for - not like how Sophie was.
Luckily for him, it looks like they could see it. "... You should stay,” They said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind an ear. “You look beat up and you know what? I know the maze better. I'll go look for her and you clean up and get the club ready if we need to patch up, okay?" Archer breathed a sigh of relief and he couldn't help but nod enthusiastically.
"Course! I'll keep things nailed down here. You go get her and come right back, okay?" He lifted up his fist to Sophie and they grinned and bumped knuckles.
"See you in a bit, nerdface!"
And with that, Sophie whirled around and darted off and Archer was alone in the boxcar. Again.
He took a moment to just sit there, legs swinging. Crickets chirped around him and if he listened, oh so faintly there was the soft hoots of owls. No coyote howls, but that he's been trying to catch for awhile. It was just... silence. Blissful silence and if Archer closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was safe and sound in his bed at home with his family.
His... family. The ones he's already ditched to live in a grimy little box car out in the woods, pouring over his notes and the reports kids brought back to him and only spotting on occasion when he wandered the neighbourhood. He's seen his dad a few times wandering around in his pajamas and it just made the ache in his heart hurt more. Today was just a day to think on them, wasn’t it? Maybe all the camping out was getting to him.
Archer wasn't Sophie. He wasn't some badass who could ditch their family at the drop of his hat. He loved his mother! He loved his father! You're not supposed to just - just ditch them!
But how was he going to save his family? Everything he's had so far has been useless to try to break the song. He's tried playing music (that was an awful evening bolting from sleepers), he's tried breaking into the shape doors (Sophie nearly smacked his head off when she found him dazed on the ground, blood coming from his nose from trying to pry one open), he's tried - well, he's tried everything!
There was something Archer was missing. There was information that he couldn't just - just steal or figure out.
He needed answers.
A lot of the other Blackout Club kids told him about their weird dreams. Voices, they said, in their heads that answered questions they had. If they focused, they could try to aim it towards one of them and sometimes - the voices talked back. The most successful responses were always done in front of a source of flame though, like a candle or... a lighter.
Archer sighed as he cracked his eyes back open and he pushed his way up. There was a weight in his pocket, one he barely noticed since he swiped it from a bed stand on his way back to the boxcar, but now... Now he reached into his jacket to touch it. It’s cold against his touch, but he gripped it hard enough to hurt as his mind whirled with his thoughts.
Archer spent a lot of time studying these voices. He recorded the questions the other kids told him they answered and kept a tally of their names and their words. There were seven, so far. All of them seemed to be some flavor of frightening or manipulative and he avoided ever trying to think out a question to one of them. He wasn’t interested in hearing what a bunch of lying and cheating ‘gods’ had to say after all. Or, well, usually. Most of them weren’t exactly the question answering type.
Shoving open the boxcar door to the sleeping bags, Archer stopped to stare at the altar mirror across the cab. No one could remember when that was put up there. Even the oldest members of the club said it's always been there and no one has yet tried to move it. He's been tempted to, but in the end, well, he never did.
But that... was where the kids went if they wanted to ask questions of the voices. It was dangerous, you're pretty sure, but they hadn't found the hideout yet so maybe it wasn't as bad as feared. It was just... a mirror, right? This couldn't have any sort of significance, it was just - Apophenia. Yeah, that's the term.
"Apophenia," Archer whispered as he approached the mirror, the lighter in his pocket getting heavier with every step he took. "The phenomena where people mistakenly perceive connections and meanings between unrelated things. That's... that's what's happening." Hell, maybe he didn't need a lighter here to make this prayer! Maybe all of these 'voices' that the other kids heard was just a mass hallucination where they all wanted to hear the answers they wanted to hear, all packaged up in the common enemy of Speaks-As-One.
Yeah, that had to be it, he thought as he stopped in front of the mirror. What other explanation could there be? That’s what he told himself, but there was still the slightest sliver of doubt planted deep in his mind, whispering that CHORUS didn’t just make itself out of nowhere. If he really believed that it was a hallucination, then what was he doing now in front of the mirror? Was it wistful thinking or desperation that had him staring at himself through the altar mirror.
Archer hadn’t looked at himself in awhile now. He was thin - thinner than when he left home - and twiggy, all hidden under baggy sweaters and pants. His hair was getting a bit too long than his own mom would have liked, with the strands curling up lazily near his chin and hooking around his big, thick glasses. They weren’t big enough to hide the tiredness on his face though, or the bags under his eyes, or the hesitation and fear that drew his face long.
Archer pulled the lighter out of his pocket and he turned it over in his hand. It was plain polished metal and nearly gone if the slosh of liquid inside was any indicator. He'd have just enough fuel for a prayer or two if he was lucky. He just had to.. he just had to get the spine to do it now.
Inhaling, he flipped the lid open. The lighter was the same as any other lighter he's seen and he pressed his thumb up against the wheel to click it on. The flame was small and it flickered in the gust of his breath as he stared at it and Archer briefly wondered if there was a correlation between the flames of these prayers and the fact that the symbol Sophie described for Thee-I-Dare was flame shaped. Maybe? Maybe there was a correlation with the rebellious attitude the voice had and how quickly it was snuffed out? Or how he could ignite rebellion? Or, no - didn't he just berate himself for falling down the apophenia trap? It's not important, so he doesn't try to mull on it for long. If it turns out this is one big farce, there’s no need to get himself swept up in his theories again.
...But he wonders how he's supposed to keep this lit while he prays. It's such an incredibly simple problem that it snapped Archer out of his melancholy as he took his thumb off the switch and the flame flickered out. What the hell? The other kids said you needed an active flame to pray properly but he couldn't even get the lighter to stay on! Archer placed the lighter down onto the altar for a second and he turned as he tried to scan his sleeping back for something - anything - he could use to wedge the switch down. Maybe, if he just took a paperclip from his binder and snipped it to a point -
Click.
If Archer wasn't scared before, he certainly was now. The sound was so soft, so delicate from behind him and when he turned to face the altar -
The lighter was on. The flame flickered in the mirror and he stared at it. There was nothing pressing the lighter button down now and yet it sat there, burning away and jumping and dancing like he was the one who ignited it, who just casually left it there to burn and burn and burn.
Suddenly, the boxcar didn't feel as empty as it did before. His heart beat deep and fast in his throat and the blood rushing in his ears was loud enough to drown out the crickets outside. Right now, it was just him and that lighter and whatever it was that kept it lit. Archer's skin prickled as he realized that he was alone against the big wide world out there. There's no Sophie to save his ass if something happened now - he'd have to save himself and hope for the best. If someone happened on the boxcar now...
Well. Archer would be dead. Probably. Or shaped permanently or dragged off like Bells was.
But he was brave! He had to be. His hands shook but he wiped them against his jeans to smear off the sweat and he inhaled, nice and deep as he considered his next move. Archer swallowed to try to ease the dryness in his mouth and he slowly knelt in front of the altar, eyes fixed on the flame before him. This was some true supernatural shit he never expected to actually work - but at the very least, he came prepared? Thank god for his overplanning.
Archer knew the names of all the voices that have cropped up so far. Laughs-Last, In-Her-Teeth, Dance-For-Us, Thee-I-Dare, Speaks-As-One, Die-For-You and The-Measure-Cuts. He spent a while thinking about the seven voices and which he would talk to because only a few of them would be any help to him. Laughs-Last and Dance-For-Us were too much crazy for them to be any help. They seemed more keen to mock and demand entertainment than answer any questions so they were off the list. Speaks-As-One was definitely off the list. He wasn't that brave to try to get his attention. Die-For-You almost seemed like a good voice to try, but after scrutinizing dream after dream that was told to him, Archer felt like they'd be more eager to further their own agenda of cultish fanaticism than help him.
Which left... The-Measure-Cuts.
Archer didn't have much on him yet, except that he was precise, skeptical, and had an appreciation for mathematics. He seemed new, but eager to talk if you could bring something worthy of his attention to the table - but if you didn't show you could bring him something to scrutinize, he'd toss you aside like a spent pen. There was something with him with butterflies and slicing and cutting though and that’s a concern, but he had a theory that he did that only when he knew he squeezed every bit of information out of someone he could. If someone was careful, maybe Archer could lead him on and squeeze something out of him.
The-Measure-Cuts was the only one that Archer felt like would answer a question - or at least give them hints. Men of knowledge were always eager to share and debate, weren't they?
Archer inhaled, slow and shaky, as he dipped his head to his chest. The flame flickered in front of his face as he sat there and tried to go over the words he prepared just the other night. There was just... there was so much fear clogging up his insides and for a moment, he was tempted to simply stand up and slap the light off the table and forget about it all.
But then he thought of his family. He thought of his parents wandering under the lull of a song that wanted to kill him and his friends. He thought of Sophie and how they wanted to run rather than save their families. He thought of the only home he's ever known and how he's abandoned it now just to hide like a coward. He's always been a coward when it came to fighting. Archer was a thinker - a planner! - and he had to do something with this big brain of his, right?
So Archer exhaled and calmed his mind. Something almost seemed to charge in the air while he collected himself, almost like something was turning its head to listen - like there’s something that’s noticing him for the first time.
And then…. he spoke.
"Hi um, This is Archer. I'm 14 years old and like, my friend Sophie said that they've been talking to some of you quote unquote 'gods' or whatever you're called, so I guess I'm trying this out because I want answers."
Caustic was a man of science. He considered his desires and goals in life to be simple - only those who couldn't understand him thought he was complex. It was such a shame the common man was too dull to see this. Oh, what a lonely life it was to live to never have someone grasp the thoughts in his head!
Until, for the first time in his life, he found someone who he couldn't understand.
Words: 2252 Chapter: 1/1 Language: English
Fandom: Apex Legends
Rating: Teen and Up
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: Other
Characters: Bloodhound/Caustic | Alexander Nox
[Link for AO3 listing!!]
Alexander Nox was a simple, simple man. If you asked him what he wanted in the world, well, his answer is simple. He’d say that he wanted to work! He was a man of science! He was a man of innovation! He was a man who saw the world and decided that he could make it better, that he could grab it in his fists and twist and pull it into something with purpose! Something that could make it… Make it so much more. Alexander wanted to tear apart the world brick by brick and relish in the knowledge that he was the only one brave enough - smart enough! - to do that.
Alexander was a simple man with a simple dream.
Many of the people around him didn’t understand this. Certainly, he spent years trying to tell people about the vision he’s had in his head, through press conferences and academic papers, then through cold hard facts - but it didn’t change the fact that his so called ‘peers’ couldn’t understand what he was saying. They couldn’t understand the beauty of breaking apart life at the cellular level and having that control. No, they were afraid of it - what spineless insects - and they cast him out. Frightened by his dedication, they turned from him and he spat on their ‘morals’ and their ‘humanity.’
How could any of these moralistic sycophants ever understand him? None of them were intelligent enough to be on his level, not while they still tittered and fussed over the lives of the ‘innocents’. In all of his years in independent study, Alexander has yet to find an equal.
Until… now.
Caustic was the name he used nowadays. Or, rather, his code name. All these brutes playing their games with their bullets and their arenas had one, so he had to play along. It fit, well enough. Poison gas was caustic after all and what else would he use to fight? His fists? Pshaw! Caustic did its job as a label for the unwashed rodents who he called a ‘team’ to use and it struck fear into the hearts of those he fought against. Except one.
Bloodhound.
Or, Blóðhundur, as they called themselves. Caustic spent a night after their first encounter to look up the language they used and he memorized the Icelandic spelling of their name. What was he, some sort of ingrate? Of course he’d familiarize himself with it! But Blóðhundur…
It was a name that kept him awake until the early hours after a day of killing and dying in the ring. Even now, as he sat in his room with a lukewarm mug of coffee and his pen scratching softly on his journals the hunter wouldn't leave his mind. It wasn't the noise of his competitors yelling in the common rooms down the stairs that kept him up - except, perhaps it would if he heard the familiar clip of a voice cutting through it, light and clear and trilling with praise for their Allfather.
Perhaps that would be preferable if he could hear that. It would break him out of this - this circle of insanity where he could do more than write and write and think! Alas, there was no flesh and blood Blóðhundur there to draw his attention, just the one that he scribbled into his journal. Caustic was a man who kept his notes of the things he wished to figure out and they were his newest study obsession.
Oh, the things Caustic could say about them! The things he's recorded and wrote down! Where does he start? Should he go back to his first entries on the day that they first put a knife into his throat? The very day where he found a lone, injured crow among the dirt and rocks of the arena, crying for help? He meant to help it, of course - it was a bird and if it's wings were snapped, the kindest thing to do was release it from life and use it's death as a study. Caustic never got far on that, no, not before they happened.
He's heard the stories of the sterling Apex champion but he had yet to meet them face to face, so he barely knew what was going on when they attacked. How does one describe it? The way they slipped around him like the gas he controls, like the Grim Reaper themself? How he tried to swing his gun to follow but they slid like a breeze behind him, then there was a gust of wind against his leg as they snatched Caustic by the hair on his head and swung up and then there was metal in his throat and he was staring at sky? How they looked him in the eyes while he lied there, dying, as they crouched over his chest and whispered in his ear, “Only cowards and the honorless kill the helpless. If you wish to end a life, do it with pride as they fight for it. I am ready for my end. Are you?”
I am ready for my end. Are you?
With that line echoing in his head, it turns out Caustic was not. When the electric shudder of the Apex resurrection machine that built him from the cell up faded, the memory of Blóðhundur didn’t.
It didn't stop there. That was just the start of his obsession and if he flipped further through his books, there's plenty more notes. Does he start on the days after that, when they repeated the same Apex rounds over and over for a proper ranking, his spine sizzling with electricity after every resurrection from the Apex machines? Does he talk about the numerous attempts he’s tried to get revenge on this masked ghost of the arena? He was aggravated from their first encounter and he promised himself he'd take them down personally after all. How many times Caustic has placed down a trap and waited for the chance to capture this bloodthirsty creature? Too many, he’d say. Too many that went too south, that cost him entire games because this hunter navigated each of his traps with ease.
They outwitted him. They knew what he was doing before he could even do it. Whenever he tried to take them by surprise, they met him move for move. It took awhile for him to admit it, but eventually, he had to.
Caustic sighed as he tossed his journal on his desk. What a pain. It's been too long since he's had to taste the sting of defeat this often and it bitter on his tongue. But, just like any other issue in his life, he couldn't simply fume at it until it went away, could he? No, he was a smart man, he's figured out how to force the cells of the human body to forcibly tear themselves away from each other! A single clever human in a mask should be much, much more manageable.
Still, Caustic took his secret little moment to breathe before he sat forward in his chair and turned his journal to flip through it yet again to his notes.
Blóðhundur was ruthless. They were vocal and bright about their love of the fight and they were heartless as they stepped off the drop ships. They were a slaughterer and Caustic watched as they once tossed aside a gun and danced through an entire platoon of soldiers spraying blood like an artist across the canvas, like a prodigy of death. They finished with barely a scratch on them and simply turned and bowed to the bodies, no doubt calling a prayer to their ‘Allfather’. A bit… well, primitive, but he could overlook those slight transgressions to instead admire their skills.
They were clever, yes, but that? It was art. Art only one of intellect could do with the utmost confidence in themselves. Blóðhundur was a genius. They were a genius and he would be a fool to call them anything but.
It was… difficult to place when Caustic’s obsession with the masked hunter turned from obsession to adoration. Even now as he looked over his notes he couldn’t see when his writing turned from clinical to passionate. They’ve met many a time on the battlefield but never outside of it. The moment the games were done and the teams were resurrected to filter off to the ranking boards, Blóðhundur was gone. They disappeared like gas in the wind and he was left sitting there, burning with the desire to study, to learn. That was a desire that could only just be controlled by a cup of coffee and his journals where he’d sit and study and plan out his next trap to capture them.
It was after the twenty sixth attempt that he had to admit it. He had to admit that they were smarter than him, cleverer, and they barely even gave Caustic so much as a glance whenever they sidestepped his traps or shot them down with a flick of their wrists. Was that where it started, he wondered as he sipped at his coffee, pen tapping against the journal? Was it the fact that Blóðhundur never so much as saw him as a threat that fanned the flames inside of him? Caustic - no, Alexander - has spent so long scoffing at the ill-mannered dolts that sat below him that the moment that he’s met someone who so thoroughly did not consider him their equal, it sends him spiralling?
He was determined to fix that. Alexander approached Blóðhundur like he would any other biological or chemical problem he’s encountered in his life. He’ll bide his time - he’s patient - and he’ll make his notes. He’ll find their patterns, their habits and their quirks, he’ll find their mistakes and he’ll climb his way back to the top of the food chain over them. If he timed it right, he could hunt them down outside of the Apex games and ambush them. Then he’ll be the one who gloats over them as his gas creeps into their lungs and when it looks like they’ve accepted their death …
Except, that wouldn’t do, would it? The thought of killing them is a sour thought in Caustic’s mind as he considered his options. It’s a foreign thought, to not simply crush his competition out of existence, but why would he? Would he really want to deprive the world of their slaughter? After all, why would one murder perfection when you can simply let them go? And Blóðhundur, well, they were just like their own little raven weren’t they? He can’t cage them up to study either, one had to let them go free to stretch their murderous wings.
But if Caustic didn’t want to kill them, what did he want? It wasn’t just to study, was it? No, if it was, then the dozens of scribbled notes written in the middle of the night or in the heat of the fight would have satisfied this burning desire inside of him. They were barely even a balm! It only numbed the itch inside of him and as he sat there and thought and thought and thought… He realized he wanted an up close and personal study of the mind. Caustic wanted to feel the hunter in his hands, feel the weight of their limbs and the chirp of their voice near his head again as clear as birdsong. He wanted to hold them in his hands for just a moment, to hear them acknowledge him. He wanted to turn the words in their mouth from the derision he first heard on that first day to something sweeter, something filled with admiration. What an exhilarating thought that was! What a delight it would be to have a moment alone with them, to hear his name on their lips and hear the lilt of curiosity - but not fear, because only the ignorant and the lesser men are afraid when faced with an equal!
If Caustic was a lesser man, perhaps he’d be intoxicated on the thought of this fantasy. It was a fantasy filled with the soft sound of Blóðhundur’s hat tapping against a wall as they look up at him as they exchange barbs and witty words in a battle of the minds instead of fists. Could they keep up with him? Caustic’s hopeful, because what a shame would it be if Blóðhundur was just some charlatan who couldn’t tell their ass apart from their mouth. No, they were too clever not to be.
A genius. Perfection. A true equal. Blóðhundur was all of these and Caustic was determined to explore the depths of their intellect and to see how they reacted to his. Blóðhundur was a clever hunter on the Apex fields, but all Caustic needed was one slip up to take advantage of to draw them into his net. He was no fighter compared to them, so he had to rely on his brain that's kept him ahead all these years. If Blóðhundur was clever, then it was time for him to be even more so. How so very convenient it was that he was such a resilient and determined man, wasn’t he?
It was just a matter of time now. All Caustic needed was time and patience and study - of which he had plenty of - to figure out how to catch this little bird of his. And once he did, oh, how he’ll adore hearing them sing for him their song of their people and their mind.
