I just bought those fucking chips yesterday, fatass. There were three fucking bags! When I agreed to be your roommate, I did not agree to paying for meals for an obese heifer like you. You eat fucking everything! I go to work for 5 fucking hours and all the goddamned food in the house is gone!
Oh, please, don't give me that "I'll pay you back" crap. We both know that's bullshit. You don't have a job. You claim you're earning money streaming, but you don't play games anymore fatty, you just sit on your lard coated ass and eat all my goddamned food all day.
I swear to God this is the last fucking straw. If you're going to eat like a worthless sow, you might as well make some fucking money doing it. Oh? You don't know what I mean? You fucking liar. Did you fucking forget we share a wall, dumbass? I hear you. I hear you every fucking night getting off to weight gain hypnosis. Honestly with that tub of lard you call a gut I'm surprised you can even still reach that fat pussy.
Here's what we're going to do. You're going to set up an Only Fans and you're going to be a fat piggy cam girl. Oh no. Oh no no no. You have no say in the matter. I'm the only one with a job and apparently the only one buying food to feed your rapidly expanding ass. If you don't do this, I'll roll your ass to the fucking curb.
Oh don't cry, you useless bitch. You made yourself this way. You're the one stuffing your bloated fucking face every goddamned day. You're going to pay me back, and you're going to start right the fuck now. If you want to eat, it's going online for sick fuckers like you to get off to.
POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING: Viewer discretion is advised due to references to death, genocide, abduction, and sexual exploitation.
Real name: Hyzalderoum
Aliases: God of the Heavenly Expanse and Conquest, Cocoon of Venus, and Itzamná
Occupation: King of Venus and leader of the Invaders
Special skills: Terraforming, species identification, and knowledge of celestial bodies, planetary systems, warfare, anatomy, and mechanics
Abilities: He shares the exact same abilities as the Invader King from Metal Slug 6, and also possesses additional new ones. He shares the same echolocation capabilities, hearing, smell, and taste as all Invaders. He possesses the same abilities as Morph Changers with the exceptions of their electroreceptive system and bio-electric interfacing. Notably, he can also regurgitate centipede-like orangish-white maggots, similar to those produced by winged Invader Drones and Heaven Globule heralds.
He’s telepathically linked to the Invaders and can engage in telepathic communication with non-Invader individuals who are within his line of sight. With a mere swipe of his hand and unwavering concentration, he can summon meteors and comets to unleash devastating strikes upon his enemies and their territories. By tapping into planetary cores and clenching his fists in the direction of his targets, he unleashes intense radiation to incinerate his enemies or conjure cleansing flames that purify individuals, burning away all resistance to his vision and rule. With his control over gravity, he can pin his enemies in place, unleashing a crushing force that shatters bones, collapses lungs, and pulverises vital organs. With a piercing glare, he can shatter his enemies' morale and will to resist, instilling dehumanising thoughts that leave them feeling insignificant and meaningless.
He possesses the ability to reshape planetary substrata and rocky surfaces into a semi-organic landscape that suit his vision and the needs of the Invaders. He can perceive distortions in spacetime, granting him precognitive awareness of celestial anomalies and enemy attacks. He’s able to manipulate day and night cycles, light, and darkness, and mentally influence changes in the weather. He's remarkably resilient to large-scale explosions and steep falls, but will sustain minor bodily damage that gradually regenerates through the production of a luminous white gel, which efficiently heals injuries. Despite his massive size, he’s able to leap an astonishing 200 ft (6096 cm) into the air. Upon landing, he can generate an earth-shaking impact, creating a massive crater that rivals the monumental size of the Whitecourt crater.
According to him, he once had full reign over the heavens, celestial bodies, the weather, and the spiritual, physical, mental, and emotional forces that influence conquest. He has also boldly proclaimed that his strength surpasses that of the Super Devil, allowing him to destroy four larger planets at once and reduce them to nothing but space dust. He could even devour stars to gain world-changing revelations and create rifts in the space-time continuum to travel to other universes. However, the Avatar of Evil stripped him of those abilities once he crossed over to the current universe he resides in, significantly weakening him to the point where he's now considered a mockery among the deities. It's unknown whether he had any other deific abilities before he was stripped of them.
Hobbies: Spawning Invaders, counting how many stars and clouds he can see, and collecting the heads, bones, and internal organs of leaders from conquered planets
Likes: The comfort of his royal chamber in the Rlyathok, abducting females for reproductive purposes, and feeding frenzies
Dislikes: Rootmars and her people, the emotions and resiliency of humanity, and losing the shell around his face
Gender: Non-binary with he/him preferences
Design: He resembles the Invader King from Metal Slug 6, but with a few notable differences. He stands at 42 ft (1280.16 cm) and his glowing eyes change colours to reflect his current emotional state: purple (neutral/mixed emotions), crimson (fury/excitement), carrot orange (confidence/social), dandelion yellow (happiness/cheerfulness), sky blue (melancholy/calm), and lime green (disgust). His eyes are only black when he's sleeping or deceased. Similar to male Morph Changers, he has a bronze-speckled, sapphire-hued proboscis, adorned with microscopic spikes and resembling a tongue. This unique feature is primarily used to woo females by releasing sweet-smelling pheromones that trigger arousal.
Additionally, he has a segmented tail that is twice his size, resembling a human spinal cord. The tail is glossy black with a blue and purple metallic sheen, and is tipped with a silver-white arrowhead-shaped blade. He has peridot-hued bones coated in a protective layer of red-violet slime. Additionally, he’s a hermaphroditic being, possessing both male and female reproductive organs, similar to those found in Invader Drones. Unlike female Invader Drones, he produces oblong, fleshy eggs that quickly hatch after fertilisation, and the offspring rapidly mature into adults.
When he's in his true form, he's a 64 ft (1950.72 cm) hermaphroditic entity with a similar build to his disguised form, a gnarly, rippling musculature, and a slightly emaciated appearance. His physique is accentuated by a pronounced spine and ribcage, along with a sharp, angular collarbone. His pearlescent white skin glows luminously, adorned with gilded warts. His face, a window of the countless galaxies he has conquered, features lavender-rimmed black eyes that close sideways, like horizontal shutters, flashing with fiery lightning. His visage is partially obscured by writhing, spasming tendrils that extend to his partially rounded midsection. These tendrils shimmer with a kaleidoscope of colours reminiscent of space itself: galactic greens, blues, purples, pinks, cyans, reds, yellows, and oranges, all speckled with tiny black stars.
A large, inverted conical cavity envelops the base of his neck, extending up to just above his diaphragm. The interior of this unusual opening is eerily lined with a row of yellow-stained canine teeth. His neck is made up of his cervical spine, and the large opening reveals a crowd of metallic red arrows and emaciated, pallid heads with stitched eyes and mouths. His abdomen is ripped open, revealing a gaping cavity containing a large, saliva-covered aquamarine orb. Veined with delicate threads of peridot, the orb pulsates with purple Invader blood, eerily resembling a bloodshot eye. A tangled sapphire-hued mass of vine-like intestinal tentacles, adorned with gilded spikes, spills out from his abdominal cavity, obscuring his groin and cascading down to his knees.
He retains the same tail and digit count, and his arms, legs, and back are still encased in a rock-hard exoskeleton. However, in this form, the exoskeleton is solid, devoid of holes that expose his skin. It boasts a rich, burnished bronze sheen, and the joints are reinforced with a thick layer of gleaming flaxen horsehair. From the centre of his upper back, four slits in the exoskeleton plates give way to four iridescent dragonfly wings. These wings feature silver-white ribbing and sapphire-rimmed red-violet eyespots, each centred with a gold dot.
Character summary: He's a responsible, secretive, and intuitive king who prioritises the interests of Venus and his own species, while showing disregard and hostility towards other species. As a leader, his decision-making is guided solely by logic and strategy, prioritising the Invaders' survival and expansion above all else. He exercises totalitarian control, ruling with an iron fist and demanding unwavering loyalty and absolute obedience from his subjects. He’s a Machiavellian megalomaniac consumed by hubris, believing himself to be the pinnacle of existence and the rightful supreme ruler of the current universe he resides in. Despite possessing godly powers, he often restrains himself, indulging in a twisted sense of sportsmanship that allows others to challenge him. However, when provoked by fury or faced with the collapse of his meticulously crafted plans, he unleashes his full, devastating potential.
Despite being extremely self-centred and greedy, he's surprisingly open to forming alliances and friendships with other conquerors or individuals who share his ambitious drive. Moreover, he knows when to retreat from a fight, particularly when faced with situations that prevent him from utilising his abilities to their fullest potential. He has zero tolerance for disobedience and ineptitude among his own kind, dealing with such instances through severe punishment or, after careful consideration, reassigning them to a new purpose. Furthermore, he's utterly disgusted by those who slaughter Invaders and make his conquest of celestial bodies an unnecessarily arduous task.
His vision for the New World involves assimilating all life forms into the Invader race and exploiting the resources of each conquered planet to fuel his military expansion and technological advancements. He intends to ultimately establish totalitarian, monarchical rule over the entire universe to ensure the survival and dominance of his species. He aligns with the Invaders' ideology in every aspect, except for two crucial points: their reverence for him as the ultimate source of life and belief in a cosmic network where divine forces influence their fates and destinies. He displays a callous disregard for life, viewing species beyond the Invaders and those who oppose him as inherently inferior and expendable. His adherence to this ideology leads to emotional numbness towards the well-being of others and a ruthless demeanour when engaging with or confronting non-Invaders.
He enslaves a select few young females from other races, coercing them into reproductive servitude to further the Invader species, while also satisfying his depraved desires through appalling acts of sexual violence. He derives a twisted, carnal gratification from the chaos of feeding frenzies, particularly when targeting female victims. He takes sadistic pleasure in assimilating life forms into the Invader race and conquering planets, dwarf planets, and moons. He adheres to a strict conquest policy, refraining from dominating any planet, dwarf planet, or moon that hasn't reached its full evolutionary potential or possesses life forms with superior technology and military strength. Additionally, he shows little interest in claiming lifeless celestial bodies lacking advanced technology.
He finds it peculiar how humans worship him, particularly the South Pacific P’isqu Runakuna, given his profound disdain for humanity. Despite his contempt, he doesn't bother to intervene, instead basking in the recognition and the relatively positive image it projects. However, he's embarrassed to admit that he's seen by the South Pacific P’isqu Runakuna as their revered deity, Itzamná, and that he has played a role in shaping their culture. To him, humanity's emotions and resilience represent a dual problem to his ambitions. Their emotional nature signifies weakness, while their capacity for resilience poses an obstacle to his plans for subjugating Earth.
He serves as the arch-nemesis of Rootmars, driven by an unwavering commitment to eradicate her and the Martians, whom he perceives as the ultimate obstacle to his quest for universal domination. This vendetta stems from a deep-seated betrayal because he once mentored Rootmars to become a formidable alien ruler, intending for her to join his ranks. He saw her expertise in necromancy, bioengineering, and advanced technology, combined with the Pipovulaj, as invaluable assets that would significantly bolster the Invaders' power. Although his disdain and anger towards Rootmars prevail, a begrudging respect for her protective instincts and leadership abilities lingers. Beneath the surface, he harbours faint romantic feelings for Rootmars, drawn to her intellectual brilliance, yet acknowledges the impossibility of reconciling their irreparably strained relationship.
Backstory: Shrouded in mystery, the origins of Hyzalderoum remain obscure, blurring the lines between fact and fiction. He didn't originate from the universe where he is now, but rather from a completely different one, confirming the existence of multiple universes. Originally, he lived in a smaller universe devoid of humanity, instead populated by bizarre wildlife and various extraterrestrial species. Born from the primordial union of the life-giving mist, the dark waters of the abyss, and the heated core of his birth planet, he had known only two things for certain: his own name, and the secrets of the heavens. Yet, from the very beginning, an insatiable hunger for power burned within him, fueling visions of grand conquests and an unyielding desire to build an empire that would last eternity.
To satiate his conquest-driven ambitions, he forged his own empire, founded on the pillars of terraforming and intergalactic domination. Within the confines of his royal chamber, he birthed a new, superior alien species, dubbed the Hyzuldians—a nod to his own birth name. However, the universe would come to know them by a different title: the Invaders, a moniker that he personally detested. Yet, he would eventually become synonymous with the alias Invader King, a label he initially despised but ultimately came to wear with pride.
The Invaders achieved monumental success, swiftly conquering the entire universe through assimilation of diverse life forms and technologies, exploitation of planetary resources, and terraforming celestial bodies to ensure their eternal dominance. Their vast empire flourished on a planet similar to Venus, which he dubbed Hyzuldi, a world with an eerily organic landscape that was home to numerous thriving Invader colonies. However, this era of peace was short-lived. The Avatar of Evil, driven by boredom and disdain for the homogenised universe, brought destruction upon the cosmos. Their wrath was fueled by Hyzalderoum's selfish conquests, which had eradicated diversity and freedom. Forced to flee, he escaped with the remnants of his technology and species, seeking refuge in a neighbouring universe.
From the confines of the Rlyathok, he spent years scouring the cosmos for new territories to conquer and rebuild his empire. He and the Invaders were on the hunt for a multiplanetary system teeming with life and a planet that resembled Hyzuldi or had similar characteristics, one that they could call home. As he explored, he began to notice a pattern: this universe seemed vast and largely barren, and most celestial bodies were either devoid of life or bearing the scars of long-lost civilizations.
With no other option, Hyzalderoum initiated a campaign to claim lifeless planets, dwarf planets, and moons, terraforming them to accommodate his own needs and the demands of the Invaders. During this campaign, he encountered a few planets, dwarf planets, and moons teeming with life. However, these worlds were home to either pristine wilderness or struggling extraterrestrial civilizations fighting for survival. He expanded his empire across numerous multiplanetary systems within the constellations of Cygnus, Hydrus, Lyra, and Ursa Major.
In the constellation of Lyra, the Invaders were terraforming Kepler-62f when a strange aircraft appeared in orbit around the planet, ultimately landing at a distant site. Viewing this as a potential threat, his subjects swiftly launched a pursuit to track down the intruders. Meanwhile, Hyzalderoum dispatched a lone female Morph Changer to investigate the UFO, assess the situation, and report back. The Morph Changer infiltrated the large UFO, known as the Rugname, and conducted a stealthy reconnaissance. Her findings revealed the Pipomarzu's lack of military strength, limited alien technology, and small population. Additionally, she discovered a project of uncertain purpose, potentially a weapon, being developed by the Pipomarzu. With this intelligence gathered, the Morph Changer withdrew and returned to the underground nest on Kepler-62f to report her findings to Hyzalderoum.
Upon receiving the news, he approached the Rugname and halted his army's planned attack. It was on this day that he met Pepozrumisha and the Pipomarzu, and he assumed the role of her mentor, leveraging her expertise and potential to further his conquest ambitions. With her assistance, he conquered Eridanus, Vulpecula, and Monoceros, terraforming each planet and moon into organic husks for the Invaders to colonise and inhabit. However, their alliance was short-lived because Pepozrumisha soon discovered his manipulation and the Invaders' horrific practice of using Pipomarzu infants as sustenance. Enraged by her defiance, he vowed vengeance and declared the Pipomarzu as the natural prey and sworn enemies of the Invaders.
After years of relentless conquests, the Invaders finally stumbled upon the Solar System, following their triumphant domination of Centaurus. Recognizing its striking similarity to the multiplanetary system of his birth, Hyzalderoum swiftly dispatched his subjects to conduct thorough investigations and report their findings back to him. He soon discovered a planet eerily similar to Hyzuldi, and without hesitation, made it the Invaders' new home. The familiar landscape brought him solace, reminiscent of his birth planet. Ironically, this new haven was none other than Venus. He set about terraforming the planet, transforming its hostile environment by removing the dense, toxic atmosphere, cooling its scorching temperatures, introducing water, and cultivating an organic ecosystem tailored to the Invaders' needs.
During his reign in the Solar System, he conquered Mercury, uncovering remnants of an underground-dwelling extraterrestrial civilization that possessed advanced technology for construction, medical, and military applications. The Invaders expanded their dominion by conquering Ceres, Haumea, Pluto and its natural satellites, and the moons of Jupiter and Saturn. In the process, they seized advanced alien technology and forcibly assimilated diverse, unknown extraterrestrial life forms into their army. They also successfully terraformed Neptune, assimilating its enigmatic, Gymnosomata-like species and their technology.
The Invaders' attempt to terraform Jupiter was thwarted by fierce resistance from the Monoeyes and Martians. This confrontation escalated into another war with the Martians, during which the Invaders managed to seize Peparhuvi. Ultimately, they lost the war due to the crucial support provided by the Monoeyes to the Pipovulaj.
Hyzalderoum had initially planned to conquer Earth sooner, drawn by its vibrant life compared to the barrenness of other planets, dwarf planets, and moons. However, he hesitated, recognizing that the Tuatha Dé Danann possessed superior technology and military might. Earth, still in its formative stages, had yet to reach its full potential, and humanity was only beginning its evolutionary journey. With nothing better to pursue, and having discovered that the other celestial bodies in the Solar System lacked life and valuable technology, Hyzalderoum decided to keep Earth under close surveillance, biding his time until the perfect moment to strike. During his observation, he witnessed phenomena similar to those seen by Pepozrumisha and the Martians, but he remained tight-lipped about these discoveries.
Later in Earth's history, the Invaders discreetly conducted investigations in uncolonised regions, simultaneously carrying out minor terraforming experiments. However, they carefully reversed these modifications to avoid arousing suspicion from the Martians, who they knew were monitoring Earth's development and how humanity treated their home planet closely. Intrigued by Earth's progress, Hyzalderoum decided to pay the planet a personal visit. He set down on an undiscovered South Pacific archipelago in his mothership, the Rlyathok. Accompanied by a select group of subjects, he emerged onto the islands, where they encountered the South Pacific P’isqu Runakuna ("bird people" in Quechua). The sudden arrival of these otherworldly beings left the indigenous people of this island awestruck and paralysed with fear.
The origins of the P’isqu Runakuna worship of Hyzalderoum as Itzamná remain unclear, but their connection to a Rosetta Stone depicting him in his true form sparked this association. This discovery led them to recognize Hyzalderoum as Itzamná, the celestial sovereign who ruled over heaven, day, and night, and to regard the Invaders as his divine messengers and guardians. he was astonished to discover that the Tuatha Dé Danann had secretly revered him, and that a Rosetta Stone depicting himself had somehow found its way into the hands of the P’isqu Runakuna. He suspected the Avatar of Evil might have orchestrated his introduction to the ancient civilization. Initially hesitant to embrace the role, he eventually accepted his newfound identity as Itzamná to these people. As their revered deity, he shared valuable knowledge, teaching agriculture, inventing writing and bookcraft, and imparting ancient wisdom and celestial insights.
Whumptober Day 06: do or die, you'll never make me, because the world will never take my heart
Forced to Watch
2445 Words; Ouroboros AU
TW for violence, exploitation, injury, trauma
AO3 ver
The locker room seemed impossibly large when Mirtala first saw it; a bench in the center more than half her height and ten lockers each as tall as her in two rows on the wall.
Mirtala had only ever heard about the locker room in passing; never from Dion, who hated talking about the arena to her, but from the Wolves and sometimes from Aster and the other kids. Of those groups, only the Wolves had ever seen the locker room, but Aster and the rest just loved to boast about how well they’d do when they were finally old enough for the arena, loved to boast about how they knew so much about it already.
But it wasn’t Aster and the rest who were standing in the locker room, a Wolf’s hand on their shoulder. It was Mirtala, her braids twisted into two tight little buns.
“Your outfit’s in the middle locker on the bottom,” the Wolf said, gently nudging Mirtala forwards. “You won’t be going in right away, but better to try it on now.”
The locker in question was unlocked. Mirtala wasn’t entirely convinced that whatever was inside would fit her—it had only been a few days since Creed drafted a contract for her, only a few days since she’d leapt into the arena with an ill-fitting wolf mask. Surely, with everything that happened in Ouroboros, there hadn’t been time to create a new outfit—every competitor in the arena was an adult or close enough, after all, and none of them were very close to Mirtala in size or stature.
To her surprise, the outfit she pulled out fit her well enough. The pants and boots and black shirt was much like Dion’s, but sized down to fit her. The shirt had the number 054 embroidered on the back in shimmery white thread—did Dion’s outfit have the same, under his vest? Mirtala figured it must have.
Where Dion’s vest was red with gold accents, Mirtala’s was white with red accents. It reminded her of candy canes, almost, or playing cards—there was a red heart on the back. Red-dyed faux feathers lined the collar, soft around Mirtala’s neck. She turned back to the locker for the final piece.
A red and white chickadee mask greeted her, the carefully shaped beak seeming to gleam under the locker room lighting. The paint was bright, unfaded by time, free of chips. It looked brand new. It looked like it’d fit her perfectly.
Mirtala pushed the mask on, reaching back to tie it.
It felt like a damnation.
+=+=+=+=+
The brawl was well underway by the time Mirtala was guided to the arena. She took a moment to peer through the gate, watching. The Opossum was already lying face down in the dirt—was he down for good, or would he get back up later? The Rhino was charging after the Rabbit, ducking around and under the obstacles in her attempts to reach hare. The audience was loud, the resounding din of the cheers and jeers louder than the groan of the gate as it rose.
“Good luck.” The Wolf shoved her forwards, out of the shadow of the gate into the searing light of the arena.
The announcer’s voice blared over the loudspeakers. “What’s this? A new challenger appears!” The audience roared. “Introducing the Chickadee! You may know her from a few nights ago, but this is her official debut! Let’s give her a warrrrrrm welcome!”
Mirtala steeled herself. She tried to imagine the arena before her as one giant jungle gym. A giant game of tag—that’s what she was about to participate in. Just a game of tag.
The announcer continued, “The first challenger to catch the Chickadee wins! Can she evade her powerful opponents? Let’s find out!” The audience was too loud, the lights too bright.
The Rhino snorted. Mirtala wasted no time in somersaulting to the nearest set of painted metal bars and flinging herself up atop them, darting about a monkey bar-like structure that curved up and over and around. The Rhino couldn’t reach her up here, so Mirtala took a moment to breathe.
Thunk. Thunk.
…Nevermind. The bar shook again as the Rhino kicked at one of the supports, and Mirtala cartwheeled over to a maze-like arrangement of metal panels. The Rhino circled around the entire thing—Mirtala had hoped to lure her into the maze entirely. Phooey.
The Rabbit chose that moment to try attacking the Rhino, landing a kick right into her leg. But the Rhino was built like a tank and it showed—she simply whirled around to face the Rabbit, who was quick to dart off.
Keep things interesting.
It was Mirtala’s whole job, in this arena—if she failed to do that, then she might as well have lost. She walked along the top of the maze walls, leaping over to another set of metal bars.
The cage bars cast shadows across the arena. Mirtala’s mask pressed against her face. She put her hands on her hips and looked at the Rhino with all of the judgment she could muster. “Are you even trying? My Nona could move faster than you!”
That did the trick. “You—” The Rhino slammed her shoulder into the pole, making the whole thing wobble. Mirtala didn’t fall, though, holding on tight. She focused not on the woman attempting to tear the structure out of the ground, but on the Opossum on the structure behind her, slowly creeping forwards.
“My baby brother’s stronger than you! He’d have knocked this whole thing over by now!” Throwing all these insults didn’t sting as much as Mirtala expected—maybe it helped that they were (kind of) true?
(Or maybe the poison of Ouroboros was getting to her. Mirtala dreaded the possibility, but she couldn’t deny it.)
The Rhino bellowed a wordless cry of rage, stepping back to throw even more force into her next shove—
The Opossum leaped down onto her from behind, arms wrapped around her neck. Mirtala watched as the Rhino stumbled this way and that trying to dislodge him. She grasped at his arms, and even slammed him against the metal panel behind her, but he held fast. Within moments, she went down, the Opossum leaping to the side to avoid being pinned.
The Opossum had hardly a moment to bask in his victory before the Rabbit’s boot was driven into his side, slamming him into the metal panel he’d just leapt off of. The Opossum was quick to get back up, darting between two metal poles to avoid the next kick. Mirtala could see his hands shaking. The Rabbit charged him again, and he yelped.
Mirtala’s whole job was to “keep the fight interesting,” as Creed had put it. So she grabbed the bar she was standing on and swung down, her legs catching the Rabbit right in hare’s shoulder. She wished she could aim for hare’s face.
The Rabbit stumbled backwards. Mirtala swung back up, flipping once in the air before grabbing the bar and landing in a handstand. “Nyeh!” She taunted. There was no time to doubt, no time to stop and think—she had to keep moving no matter what. Mirtala couldn’t stop, couldn’t let herself be caught—
She slid down a pole and dashed across the ground. The Rabbit lunged, and Mirtala ducked under hare’s tackle. She rolled to the side to avoid the next tackle, leaping into the air and slamming directly into the small of hare’s back. Hare wheezed.
Mirtala moved to climb back up, out of reach—
Her whole world tilted as she was lifted into the air by her ankle in one smooth motion. The Opossum held her up in front of himself. The audience cheered.
Mirtala crossed her arms. The fight was over.
+=+=+=+=+
Dion was going to be sick.
Anxiety was taking a hand mixer to his organs, dread trickling down his spine. He’d never been in Creed’s private box before. He never wanted to be in here again.
Creed’s King Cobra mask glittered in the light, covering the upper half of his face. His dark brown eyes still looked like deep pits ready to swallow Dion whole even with the fake scales. “She’s doing quite well for herself.” He commented, voice light.
Dion receded further into the plush seating. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be here, sitting five feet away from this monster of a man, watching his baby sister hop about the arena like it was some kind of playground instead of the awful fighting pit it truly was—
But he wasn’t allowed to leave, either. Creed had insisted, and when Creed insisted on anything it was an incontrovertible order. When Creed insisted, someone else ended up suffering.
“You should be proud,” Creed purred, as Mirtala taunted a woman more than five times her size. “Your sister has more will to survive than half of the roster.” He took another delicate sip of wine, setting the glass down before turning to regard Dion directly. “You are proud, aren’t you?”
Pride was the last thing Dion was feeling. Complete and utter terror, sure, but—
How was he supposed to be proud of Mirtala dancing around the one place he never wanted her to go? How was he supposed to feel anything but a sense of abject failure at his ability to take care of her, to protect her from as much of Ouroboros’ ills as he could? She shouldn’t even be here, shouldn’t have ended up in Ouroboros with him—and yet his own idiocy had brought her down with him, and despite his every effort he could do nothing to protect her from his own fucking mistakes—
Dion’s hands clenched into fists. He wanted to tear his eyes away from the arena below them, wanted to tear his eyes away from his sister being chased around like something to be caught, like a goal to be grabbed—
But he couldn’t.
Hatred rose up Dion’s throat like bile. He turned his ire towards the monster beside him. Venom gathered on his tongue.
(He’d nearly yelled his throat out when he’d first found out about Mirtala’s shiny new contract. Partly at Mirtala, partly at the Wolf watching him on his next dayshift.
He hadn’t had the courage to do anything more than glare at Creed when he saw him. Had almost yelled, only for his words to lodge themselves in his throat and make it sting and tighten with unshed tears.)
“I hate you.” Dion snarled. “You’re awful. Mirtala doesn’t deserve this, nobody deserves this, and I hate you, you figlio di put—”
“Are you done?” Creed’s voice cut through Dion like a knife. All of his fight left him, his whole being coming to a halt under Creed’s gaze.
Creed grinned, the fangs of his mask gleaming. “So you can be smart sometimes.” He commented.
Dion hated him. Dion hated him so much. But he held his tongue, wary of the Wolf guarding the door, wary of the serpent sipping wine barely five feet away from him.
The audience roared. The sound grated against Dion’s ears. His throat tightened and his eyes stung, his view of Mirtala ducking under the Rabbit blurring—
He hated this. He hated Creed, he hated this place, he hated his inability to do anything to get himself or Mirtala out of this hellhole—
But he hated himself most of all.
+=+=+=+=+
Mirtala cleaned herself up in the locker room, trading her arena outfit for nightclothes. Her hands shook, her heart racing in her chest.
She wasn’t sure what scared her worse—the fight, or the thrill that she had felt during it. Mirtala had felt unstoppable up until the point that she was finally grabbed, on top of the world as she leapt and tumbled around. She didn’t need to win fights, just to evade everyone long enough to make things interesting. But she had wanted to win so badly, wanted to push herself further like it really was just one giant game—
And that scared her more than anything. Would she let that competitiveness control her? Would she let that need to win take her over until the Mirtala in the chickadee mask was unrecognizable to her? She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
The exhaustion in her bones, the lingering adrenaline from throwing herself around the arena like it was one giant obstacle course—
It was satisfying. It was just like home, just like tiring herself out practicing her performance and pushing herself to go higher, farther, faster—
Uncertainty and fear swirled in her stomach. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream and kick and shout until the emotions swelling in her heart didn’t seem so impossibly big. She wanted to cry.
But no tears ever came.
+=+=+=+=+
Their room was bigger when Mirtala got back. Her hair hung loosely around her shoulders, water dripping off onto her back.
Dion was waiting on his bedroll when she returned. His face scrunched through five different expressions in the span of a second at the sight of her, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.
(He looked like he’d just cried. Mirtala still wanted to cry, herself.)
Wordlessly, Dion turned away, his expression stone.
Whatever. Mirtala grabbed Francis III and sat down on her own bedroll. Dion could stay mad for all she cared; she wasn’t going to stop. She had finally found something to do that could help, and she wasn’t going to let Dion talk her out of it.
(She wasn’t allowed to, besides.)
She clutched the plushie tighter. When Dion came back from the arena, he curled around her until their breathing matched. So why, when Mirtala came back from the arena, did Dion refuse to look at her? Was he really that mad at her?
(Probably. He’d yelled at her when he found out about the contract, his face twisted into a monstrous snarl of hurt and anger.)
Her eyes stung. Mirtala sniffed, begging herself not to cry. She was strong! She was brave! She had to be, to survive here in Ouroboros. And she was.
She heard Dion move behind her. Felt his hand ghost over her shoulder before withdrawing. “Tala—” He started, only to fall silent.
She didn’t turn around.
(Later that night, when Dion’s breathing had long evened out, she tucked herself against his side, pulling his arm around her and imagining that he’d put it there, that he’d pushed through his stupid doubt and held her himself instead of holding back like a coward—
Mirtala clutched Francis III closer. She hated this place. She hated it so much.
But she was still powerless to do anything about that.)
🌻 Karim has a twin sister who was in the cult with him. He introduced her to Micah and that was his biggest regret before Micah targeted Art because of him. Anyway they look similar and Micah’s initial reason for ‘‘‘‘recruiting’‘‘‘ Karim instead of just killing him was that He Wanted To Fuck Twins, and Karim’s been insecure about being part of a “matched set” for basically his whole life? So when Art meets Selina and is Visibly Not Attracted to her Karim is hugely relieved even though he didn’t even know he was worrying about that.
🌻 Oh also fun fact so like, Karim had his own apartment because Micah was giving him space so he wouldn’t freak out--Micah’s philosophy is that the illusion of freedom is integral to getting people to accept captivity--and Micah always knew where it was, but the way he found out about Art was that Selina ran into Karim and Art together and panicked because Micah’s number one rule is “don’t get close to anyone you don’t intend to kill For The Safety Of The Coven” and it is immediately obvious that Karim does not intend to kill Art, so after a couple days of miserable worrying she finally tells Micah that she thinks Karim is doing something dangerous. Micah of course immediately tells Karim that Selina told on him, while he still thinks Art is dead, so.... we’ll have to see if he uh Ever forgives her for that one.
🌻 Also Karim and Selina’s last name is Mun so Selina is...…. Moon Moon
🌻 Also, Micah has a style/aesthetic he thinks works best on all the coven members, and he “““encourages”““ them to Only wear that style, so once he gets out of hospital gowns Karim will get to pick out his own clothes for the first time in like nine years.
🌻 Sol is a cat person; Pax likes both but slightly prefers dogs; and Kent gets nervous around animals because the idea of keeping a pet in the house with his dad has always made him nauseous and scared.
🌻 Pax has a glass eye
🌻 Andry has a hunting dog and a horse he’s had since they were babies. They’re fine, because this is a story written by me, but he doesn’t know what happened to them when the castle fell and he worries that asking about them would get them immediately killed.
🌻 Thorne is about three inches taller than Morden, but it looks like one and a half because Morden wears lifts in his shoes.
[ GILLIAN VICENCIO, FEMALE, SHE/HER. ] introducing alunsei lingau, TRIBUTE of the 74th year hunger games, representing district 8. my sources say that they are twenty years old, & that they’re pretty handy with eidetic memory. wonder if that will do her any good in the arena ? anyways, caesar says you can’t miss them, because they remind everyone of doe eyes on a tiny girl, an innocent face suddenly bearing a dangerous smirk, petite legs hanging from a tree trunk, tan hands poring over the pages of smuggled tomes.
Alunsei’s name is a corruption of an ancient goddess’. Her name was Alunsina, a goddess of sun and sky worshipped by people they called Visayans, people they called Filipinos. She and her family, she thinks, are probably descended from these people. But in District 8, very few remember that. Very few know why so many citizens of District 8 have persistently golden-toned skin tones despite having little greenery and incentive to go out into the sun; where their usual selection of children’s names and district slang originate; why when they speak, there’s a melodic lilt that’s odd for a district known for its bleak, mechanical landscape. But she knows.
She knows that these Filipinos must’ve migrated here in hopes of finding better lives, only for the nation to take advantage of them. Only for the legacy of their exploited labor to endure in the form of District 8. She could never forget. Then again, she can’t forget anything she reads. Her mother tells her it’s not a prudent hobby to concern herself with scratches of ink on paper. It’s not like the girl would need them; she would just toil away at the textile factory, like the rest of them. All she needs are her hands. She never did grow into her relatives’ hand-me-down clothes. They were bigger and stronger, with more potential. All Sei has are her hands.
Well, she’s good at reading, but not so good at listening. Despite the scarcity of trees, Sei finds ways to teach herself how to climb. She runs and happily discovers she’s fast and agile. Soon enough, she’s at a Reaping, and someone stout gets picked. Someone sinewy, someone tall, someone more suited to the Games. A young woman so bookish and slight has no business volunteering for tribute. Yet she does.
PERSONALITY AND MISC.
She doesn’t like to speak. More than a few people have likely mistaken her for someone who can’t speak, but it’s simply her preference. She also tends to be irritated when others speak. (Song inspiration: “STFU!” by Rina Sawayama)
Sei’s obvious self-destructive tendencies aside, she isn’t a sad girl. She’s not happy, but she’s not sad either. She doesn’t have the energy to be enthused about any aspect of living in District 8, or anywhere in this hell hole, really. She would rather gamble her life in the games. There’s also the spark of rebellion within her, but like the rest of District 8, it’s often buried in a lack of real direction. If anyone’s going to start the rebellion, it’s probably not going to be a District 8 citizen.
She’s pansexual and could fall for anyone, but not very interested in romance (demi). If it happens, it happens, though.
yall I tried to quit the boutique job with the boss who was paying me under the counter (sometimes a month or more late) + emotionally manipulating me and she went to the woman who runs the poetry thing (who she's friends with) and got her to fire me. I told the woman I was supposed to start working under that the other woman had been violating the ESA regulations and she responded with "we're working in the arts, not a corporation: that stuff doesn't apply" like......uhhhh.......the ESA by definition applies to all employers and defines the literal minimum standards for how an employee can legally be treated. she then went on to say that the woman who runs the boutique is an important and respected figure in the arts community in the city and maintaining a good relationship between her and the organization is paramount. I asked if that meant it was more important to maintain relationships with people who have power in the community than to protect the young poets who this organization is supposed to be nurturing and she literally said yes and then went on a whole spiel insulting my integrity and demanding that I prove I hadn't "screwed" my former employer by quitting (asking me to show her our email and text correspondence). at that point I stood up and said this is ridiculous and I won't tolerate this abuse of power, but that she would be hearing from me again to which she, I shit you not, replied "no, I won't be" to which I said "yes you will because what the two of you are doing is illegal" to which she retorted "really? where's the contract?" anyway I've spoken to the ESA and they confirmed that the work conditions at the boutique are illegal and I can file a claim with the ministry of labour. but they said they can't do anything about my old boss vindictively sabotaging my new job.....but that I can likely get free legal counsel to deal with that. I fully intend to. these are women in their fucking fifties trying to ruin my reputation, my income, and my life over me quitting a fucking illegal part time minimum wage retail job with an abusive boss. like can you imagine being that old and using your pathetic little bit of authority to do this? can you imagine doing this and thinking you're in the right? that you're entitled to my labour at the expense of my wellbeing? that you have the right to punish me for refusing to provide that labour anymore? that you are above the basic laws governing how you can treat and compensate your employees? my parents are saying it's a good thing this happened now so I didn't end up working under that other bitch, and like. they're right. but wow. I know it's going to be okay in the long run, and that this is me being freed from a horrible thing, not me losing everything......but it is still really fucking hard. I really wanted to teach poetry to kids. I really wanted to do that. and I'm so angry and upset because these middle aged fucking women are actively trying to destroy my reputation over something so ridiculous and wrong. and I'm scared people will listen to them because they're better known and more economically secure and older and more respected. and I'm scared of becoming like them one day. I just want to be good and never hurt anyone and I know it isn't possible to do no harm and cause no pain but I don't ever want to do that. today when I picked up my last cheque and delivered the key to the boutique owner I was going to confront her but when I came in there was this girl there who I'd spoken to before about applying. she was the sweetest person when I talked to her. she has pink hair and lovely makeup and a wonderful round face with a beautiful smile. when we spoke she told me it would mean so much to her as a cree girl to work for an Indigenous boss. I wanted to warn her that first day but I didn't. I told her how to dress and what to put on her resume to be hired. and now I feel so fucking sick when I think of what's going to happen to her. I have her email and I'm thinking of contacting her with a warning but I'm afraid she won't believe me and will tell the owner instead. I just want her to be okay and not be treated this way. so yeah anyway today has been fucking rough and also I have a really bad cold so that fucking sucks
Whumptober Day 26: sometimes i get so tired, i don't even know myself
Working to Exhaustion
2330 Words; Ouroboros AU
TW for violence, bloodsport, exploitation, murder, death
AO3 ver
“Next one’s heavy.”
Dion grunted as another box was dropped into his arms. “They’re all heavy.” He muttered, carrying it over to the shelf. But he didn’t have to carry it far, and it wasn’t that heavy. It was kind of big, though, high enough to press against Dion’s mask.
The other guy on unloading duty—Hunter? It was hard to tell, when they were all wearing the same plain white masks—whistled. “I swear, it’s like you never stop.” He commented, as Dion shoved the box into place. “The fuck did they feed you in your old life?”
“...food?” Dion pulled out his boxcutter to cut the box open.
Hunter chuckled. “A kid your age does not just handle heavy boxes like that.” He insisted.
Most people Dion’s age also didn’t have a body count, but that was besides the point. Dion rolled his eyes behind his mask.
There was always something to do in Ouroboros. And if Dion wanted to live, then he needed to be doing something. And he needed to live, no matter what—if Dion didn’t survive, then Mirtala would be the only Aquato in Ouroboros. And he couldn’t—he wouldn’t let her be left alone here. Not if he could help it.
(Mirtala didn’t deserve to be here at all, but there was nothing Dion could do on that front. His powerlessness would drive him crazy if he wasn’t able to at least provide for her.)
“Right, this one’s gotta be at least a little heavy to you.” Hunter grunted, slowly sliding the next box off the stack to pass to Dion.
Dion took the box, wincing slightly. Yeah, this one was kind of heavy—he wouldn’t want to carry that many boxes like it. But Dion knew how to handle heavy things. It was part and parcel of growing up in the circus, after all, from equipment to the other members of his family. Frazie was at least as heavy as this box, probably. Dion hadn’t had the chance to lift her in a while. Maybe she had gotten heavier, gotten the kind of muscle to make girls swoon over her.
(Dion swallowed that thought down. With any luck, he might never see Frazie again—which was for the better, because the day any more of his family ended up in Ouroboros was a day that Dion never wanted to see.)
Dion shoved the box into place on the shelf, pausing for a moment once it was in place. Still, it wasn’t that heavy.
(Queepie might have handled the weight better than Dion—
Dion shoved that thought away immediately. Queepie would be turning four soon; he should be nowhere near Ouroboros, ever. None of his family should, really—none of them but Dion.)
“Heavy, right?” Hunter prompted, already holding the next box.
Dion grunted, pulling his boxcutter out once again. So what if it was? He could handle it. He had to handle it.
Hunter shook his head. “Kids.” He grumbled. “You’re going to run smack into a wall with that kind of attitude.”
Whatever. Dion would be fine.
He had to be—there was no other way. If he slowed down for even a moment, if he let weakness show—
Dion took the next box. He’d survive.
No matter what.
+=+=+=+=+
Mirtala came back that night with a fresh bruise on her arm, her hair still damp from her shower.
“Tala—” Dion started. Stopped, his words catching on the knot of feelings in his throat. He reached out. Stopped.
Mirtala stared at him with tired eyes. She sat down on her bedroll, not saying a thing.
Dion looked away. What was he supposed to say? He didn’t want to encourage this. He never wanted Mirtala anywhere near the arena—she only just turned six. It was Dion’s job, his responsibility to take care of her—and every time she stepped into that arena, he failed.
What was he supposed to say? He didn’t know. He didn’t know.
(An apology might be a good start.
But Dion had always been a coward when it came to apologies.)
Dion’s jaw worked, his shoulders tensing. He should say something—
Too late. Mirtala laid down on her own cot, facing away from him. She huffed, curling up without a word.
I’m sorry. Dion wanted to say it. He needed to say it.
I’m sorry. The words got stuck in his throat.
Dion clenched his hands into fists, his eyes darting away from where Mirtala was lying—
Wait. “Um.” He managed, the sound of his voice surprising even himself. “Do you… do you want your unicorn?” Mirtala usually always grabbed it, when the light in their room started to fade. Dion couldn’t fathom why it was on his cot.
Mirtala rolled over, squinting at Dion. “Her name is Francis III.” She muttered.
“Oh.” Shit, when did Mirtala name it? How long ago? Wow, Dion felt like an idiot. His face was already heating up. “Well, do you want Francis III?” He really needed to apologize.
“No.” Mirtala said. She blinked, and yawned. “But you do.” And with that, she rolled back over, pulling the blanket tight around herself.
Dion swallowed. He grabbed Francis III, running his thumb over the felt strips making up the mane. One of the Wolves had gifted it to Mirtala when they had first gotten here—Dion looked over at his baby sister, who was the nicest person he’d ever known, and he could guess why. Even if she wasn’t his responsibility, he still wanted her to get the best that she could. Mirtala was just easy to spoil like that.
And yet he still couldn’t find the words to talk to her…
Dion looked Francis III in her beady little button eyes. He wanted to put the plush into Mirtala’s arms, adjust the blanket around her like he was tucking her in—anything to prove that he wasn’t an awful brother.
But he just sat there instead, choking on the knot in his throat.
Like a coward.
+=+=+=+=+
Dion looked up at the sound of footsteps, the mop coming to a stop.
He immediately looked back down, moving the mop again the moment he saw who was waling across the tiled floor. Oh, god, was this the end? Was he somehow mopping wrong? Or was it just fun to torment him?
Creed came to a stop not far from Dion, hands folded behind his back.
Dion continued mopping. If Creed wanted him to stop, he’d say so. Probably.
“Boy.” Creed started. Dion gripped the handle of the mop harder. “Look at me.”
Dion lifted his eyes to meet Creed’s dark brown. He paused in his mopping—he needed to rewet the mop in the bucket again, anyway—and waited to see what Creed would do.
Creed’s eyes flicked over Dion. He immediately felt like an ant confronting a boot—certain doom was all that awaited him, now.
“You’ve got a fight tonight.” Creed commented airily. “I’m sure you’ve had plenty of time to… recuperate.”
It had been a while since Dion had had a fight—he hadn’t been scheduled for the last two Death Pits. And he wasn’t allowed back into the regular fights—though Dion really didn’t want to think about that.
“Okay.” Dion said, hating the way it sounded so small in the empty air. “I’ll be ready.”
(He wouldn’t, not really—he never was.
But Dion didn’t survive by waiting until he was ready—he couldn’t. Either he got his head above water, or he drowned—and Dion refused to drown. He’d survive however he needed to.)
“Good boy.” Creed nodded. He turned around and began to walk away—
“Oh,” Creed paused, “And this next fight?”
Dion looked up at him. “Yeah?”
“Win it.” Creed growled. “Your opponent isn’t meant to make it out of that arena alive, you got it?”
Winning was what Dion normally did, though? Dion stared at Creed a moment longer, then nodded slowly. “Yeah.” He confirmed, still unsure why Creed felt the need to tell him this.
“Good.” And with that, Creed left.
Doubts and uncertainties floated around in Dion’s head. He was finally going back in the ring, and the notion terrified and excited him in equal measure. He could finally get ahead just a little bit more—but he’d have to kill someone to do so.
(Well, it wasn’t like Dion’s hands weren’t already covered in blood.
He would survive. He had to.)
Dion sighed.
Back to work.
+=+=+=+=+
Dion waited for the gate to rise. The bars of the gate casted shadows across him, the audience already a loud din outside. It sounded bigger than usual, too, which grated on Dion’s nerves. He watched as another gate opened and his opponent-to-be was forced into the arena, stumbling across the sand. His own gate hadn’t opened, yet—god, Dion hoped it wasn’t broken.
The announcer was saying something, now, trying to get the audience to chant—
“DEATH! BY! LION!”
Dion went rigid. Suddenly, the earlier interaction with Creed made a lot more sense.
But… why him? Surely Creed had more popular fighters, more capable fighters—
The gate began to rise. No more time to doubt. Dion walked out into the arena, out into the lights hanging down, the cage bars casting shadows across him—
The audience ROARED.
“AND THE LION MAKES HIS RETURN!” The announcer cheered. “Let’s see some BLOOD!”
Dion’s opponent stood, staring at him through their orange and blue Ox mask. They snorted.
“This is it?” They asked. “This is the big bad Lion?” Derision colored their voice. Dion’s face flushed behind his mask, his hands squeezing into fists. “You’re just some kid!”
“And you’re dead meat.” Dion snarled. It was him or them, and Dion had no intention of losing.
The Ox broke out into a charge, raising their hand. Metal glinted in the light, and they swung down—
Dion ducked out of the way, rolling to the side and using his hands to spring up onto a hanging cord. The “Jungle Arena” was full of hanging cords and bars, like some twisted trapeze, and Dion was quick to fling himself up out of the Ox’ reach.
You’d think I was the Leopard, with the way I’m climbing around. Dion thought to himself, coming to a stop halfway up the rope. He looked down at the Ox, considering what to do.
Him or them. Dion would survive, no matter what.
He was supposed to make a show of it, too.
The Ox bellowed, grabbing the rope Dion was on. They yanked—
And Dion twisted over to the next rope with practiced ease. He didn’t want to have a favorite arena—he didn’t want to be in the arenas at all, really—but if he had to choose, it was probably this one. So many things to climb, so many ways to fling himself around!
(The arena that Mirtala made her official debut was similar, but Dion didn’t want to think about Mirtala in any arena.)
The Ox couldn’t climb as well as Dion could—if they could at all, seeing as they weren’t even trying—so Dion couldn’t lead them on a merry chase through the ropes and bars. So much for that idea.
Still, how to make this look good?
The audience was chanting, jeering, roaring for blood and violence and death. It was either Dion or the Ox—and Dion intended to win.
“That might work…” Dion muttered, flipping over backwards onto one of the hanging bars. He lifted himself up so that he was doing a handstand on it, allowing his legs to hook onto another bar higher up. He let go of the bar and looked down on the Ox.
“Are you even trying?” He jeered, “Surely you can take out ‘some kid’!” He flipped over to a knotted rope, then flung himself with a forwards flip onto a sideways one. The tightropes back home were way narrower than this. Confidence filled Dion as he paced along it, the Ox yelling below him.
“Get down here!” They shouted. “You little shit!”
Dion laughed. The sound shocked him, escaping his throat before he even recognized what it was.
What was he doing? This was a life-or-death situation! The cage bars cast shadows across the arena. The audience was cheering, jeering, roaring. Dion’s mask pressed against his face.
Fuck this. Fuck putting on a show. Dion wasn’t here to entertain, for all that Creed wanted him to. He was in here to survive, dammit!
With a cry, Dion flung himself down. He rolled as he fell, kicking out as he landed to hit the Ox square in the back. The impact flung him away, and he rolled with the impact, springing up off the floor at the soonest opportunity.
The Ox whirled around to face him, snarling through their mask. Dion darted to the side, cartwheeling up onto one of the ropes. They charged, and instead of climbing up Dion flung himself onto their shoulders when they passed, locking his ankles together in front of their face.
The Ox reached up, trying to pull Dion off—
Dion squeezed his thighs together. The Ox’ hands scrambled against Dion’s legs, prying uselessly at his boots—
Crack!
Dion jumped away as the body fell, flipping over backwards. That probably looked cool, right?
The audience was cheering. The chant from earlier returned, harsh against Dion’s ears.
“DEATH! BY! LION! DEATH! BY! LION!”
Across the arena, the gate rose. Dion stared up at the audience for only a moment longer before darting back to the tunnel.
His hands were shaking. He needed to get his mask off right now. He needed a shower, he needed a drink, he needed to lie down and stare at the wall until he felt human again—
Dion stumbled, leaning against the tunnel wall. He'd just killed someone.
But he had survived. It was him or the Ox, and he had won.
Dion stared at his hands. He had survived. Grim satisfaction knotted in his throat, and he struggled to breathe around it.
Dion had survived.
He was more willing to pay the cost than he wanted.
idk why i'm awake at 7 am but my brain has finally decided to work with me & finally join me in some jade discussions. we don't have much yet, so this is mainly gonna be me talking about her light cone text & eidolon names. i also revisited aven's character stories now that we have more info on jade, so that was fun too :^) i feel like this is also a good point to remind everyone that mun =/= muse. i enjoy jade's character with all of its intricacies, complexities & flaws. but that does not mean i agree with the majority of her views / ideals / actions.
i've talked about this a bit with nev + mentioned it yesterday too when talking about her, but reading through her light cone especially just reaffirms my initial thoughts on jade.
poverty, demerits, sorrow, suffering … she walked among the galaxies, taking others' pledges and giving equivalent returns.
life exists because of desire, runs because of desire, and dies because of desire — this is an unrefutable law, as well as an inevitability of life.
a philanthropist with a hidden agenda, a villain who mortgages souls … she was given various identities by the world, but only she understood the morality behind these actions.
they went kinda hard with jade being portrayed as satan, literally serving it to us on a silver platter with the light cone. and you bet i'm here for it. this leads back to how i said jade sees aven.turine as nothing but an investment. my assumption is that she indeed took him ❛ under her wing ❜ when aven first joined the ipc, but it was for all the wrong reasons.
jade is not a doting mother-/sister figure. their entire relationship is built on manipulation, exploitation & deception. if you write aven, i don't mind how you portray/interpret his perceived relationship with her as all of them are valid. however, jade is very much aware of what she's doing & i will not tone that down as i want to portray their relationship for what it is : it's toxic. it's abusive. period. sue me for saying that if you will, but i'd rather lay it on thick instead of minimizing the potential effects her treatment of aven has had on him.
for that reason, i also will not approach any aven.turine writers first until discussed otherwise when it comes to jade interactions to avoid making anyone uncomfortable. i can 100% see if you don't want to engage in that kind of dynamic & i won't fault anyone for that.
by that extension, he isn't anything special when it comes to her treatment of him. it's all over her eidolons that being ❛ morally good ❜ is a means to an end rather than an ideal. putting my vote on lawful evil as far as character alignment goes.
as is the case with any and all leaks of upcoming characters, much of this is subject to change. my entire portrayal thus far is based on my own interpretation on what little information that has been provided to us on jade.
