seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from France
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Singapore
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from T1
seen from China
— Chapter 9: The Risk of Correspondence
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Their letters grow bolder, as they continue reaching for each other across the night.
Or when the letters stopped being only about work.
📖 Current fic / AO3
oh hey, me again, just droppin' another lil excerpt from my very much not a rom-com time loop fic set in season 7 (....or is it?)
I see you lying next to me
"I don't want to know the specifics of each and every one of your lies told to me over the span of the last seven years. I want to know why you're here. I want to know where we are, 15 years from now."
"You hate me," Clark says quietly.
(spoilers below, especially for seasons 7-10)
"Why? Have you told me what you've just told me now?"
Clark shakes his head and wipes his dripping nose.
Lex sits back and stretches his arms across the back of the couch. "I'm not interested in playing 20 questions. Get on with it."
"It might be better to ease into it."
"It's a little late for that."
Clark nods. You don't know who I am. You don't remember this. You don't remember anything.
"Spit it out, Clark," Lex says.
"You're dead," is what comes out.
Lex squints at him and pulls his arms from the back of the couch to rest his elbows on his knees and lean forward. "I'm dead," Lex repeats, skeptically.
"Two years from now," Clark says. "You die. In an explosion."
Lex is still squinting. "If I'm dead, then how—"
"You made clones," Clark says.
I’m so tempted to do a soulmate reincarnation fic. Help me decide.
Dave York, Din Djarin, Max Phillips and Whiskey.
Obi-Wan Kenobi, Christian, Dan Torrance and Father Patrick McKenna.
Jack Abbot, Andrew Cody, Charlie Reid and Titus Danforth
Lucius Malfoy, James Hook, Colonel William Tavington and Heinreich Volmer
John Wick, John Constantine, Neo and Alex Wyler
Just Act Normal (78677 words) by zosofi Chapters: 10/10 Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Scott McCall, Allison Argent, Lydia Martin, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd, Isaac Lahey, Danny Māhealani, Sheriff Stilinski, Original Characters Series: Part 1 of Supernormal Summary:
If someone had told Stiles back in high school that he would be an Oscar winning actor by the time he turned 25, he would’ve probably told Scott to punch them. The thing is, though…they would’ve been right.
Which makes returning to Beacon Hills, center of all that is supernatural and better left avoided, all the more awkward.
Can we see a sneak peak or a little snippet of your Godzilla fic?
Sure! I haven’t been working on it in favor of my The Boys fic but a friend asked me about Ren last night and it made me miss writing for him. Ask and you shall receive!
Chapter 1: In which Bernie makes a difficult decision regarding footage of Ren’s survival..
The elevator doors creaked open with a metallic sigh, eerily reminiscent of the once grand and mighty steel beast that had been reduced to scraps of mere metal. With a flashlight in one hand and recording device in the other, Bernie Hayes swept in first, ensuring his presence was known by setting his chatterbox nature free and effectively talking the poor ears off the trudged Monarch field agent assigned to accompany him: Agent Yamada was a tall, stoned-face woman with her hair pinned back in such a severe bun Bernie swore she didn’t blink. Standing in contrast to him, she had no flashlight, instead just a tablet and a holstered sidearm.
To the man behind the Titan Truth podcast himself, she was an unfortunate receptacle for his entire mind.
However, Bernie didn’t have to be a conspiracy theorist to see that to her, he was a migraine in cargos.
With twisted metal ribs, sparking cables hanging from the ceiling like severed nerves, and shattered glass sparkling on the floor like poisonous ice, the birthplace of Mechagodzilla stretched before them like the purported Dagon skeleton Bernie recalled seeing on the dark web. Coiling in the air was a thick, chemical-smelling smoke, the smoke clearly making itself at home since it drifted with the sluggishness of a ghost that would not leave the ruins of what it had claimed.
Luckily for Ms. (Mrs? Bernie didn’t know and felt awkward asking.) Agent Yamada, Bernie had jokes to lighten the mood. “Ahh, you smell that?” He began, keeping his tone high. “What’s right in front of you is everything I've been trying to tell Monarch for years!” Bernie boosted.
With a barely-hidden breath of irritation, Yamada stepped over a fallen beam without sparing Bernie a glance. “I smell fire damage and ionized particulate matter,” she paused. “And possibly a gas leak.” She rattled off.
“Exactly,” Bernie cut in, using his flashlight to create a wild gesture. “This is all classic Apex shady shit, the ol’ boom-and-bury technique. I’ve seen this too many times, Pensacola? SAME SHIT, same incompetence, same: ‘Oh no, the benevolent Godzilla who saved us all from purgatory is suddenly attacking us and only us for no reason!’ façade. Tap or no tap, Agent?” Bernie pondered.
“No tap.” Yamada deadpanned in a clipped tone, likely just to shut him up.
But, Bernie froze and he considered this a sacred connection they’d just forged. “..Okay, okay, you pass.” He reverently concluded as they descended deeper into the corridor, the two silently agreeing to ignore the way the floor was still mottled with soot. Every so often, the lights flickered, going from pale blue one second to jaundice yellow the next as though they couldn’t decide which color purgatory preferred tonight. “And I thought the Pensacola campus didn’t carry a good air, this place looks guilty as hell — I mean, no shit, it’s a totally-not-omnious giant pyramid, but..” He trailed off.
Yamada groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Please stop talking.” She grumbled.
But, Bernie was physically incapable. “Look, I didn’t know this facility existed until a little while ago, okay? It had Skullcrawler eggs, eggs eventually hatch, you do know that, right? There were rooms nobody should have been in, I don’t give a damn how rich and mighty Walt was, there was psionic nonsense, they used Monster Zero’s skull as a supercomputer!” He rambled with the intention of keeping the mood light while they turned a corner, he momentarily fell silent to take in the way a broken observation window stretched across one wall, revealing the carnivorous testing arena beyond — or the once carnivorous testing arena, it was now a wasteland consisting of shattered platforms and black scorch marks the size of houses. Dangling overhead was a collapsed walkway, swinging in the draft like a collapsed marionette.
While Bernie pressed his face against the jagged frame, Yamada raised her flashlight, scanning the area. “Your friends survived, you all defeated the weapon, this is just a building now. Sometimes things are just as they seem, alright?” She offered.
“No, no, no, no..” Bernie fired off. “This is the scene of the crime.” He countered, stepping into the broken window frame and quickly ducking under the warped support beam. “This is where Apex got so greedy and high-and-mighty that they decided to plug the brain of one of their own into a space-dragon and expected things to be completely fine and dandy.” He stated matter-of-factly, Yamada might’ve said something but Bernie ignored her, alternatively opting to crouch and inspect scorched claw marks across the floor. Did they belong to a Skullcrawler? Bernie thought, tracing his fingers along the burnt concrete burns. “Godzilla tore the other facility apart because he knew, and I bet he’d appreciate me telling everyone how he felt the energy instead of news channels going: ‘hurr, durr, why could Godzilla possibly be acting like this?’ Hello? He felt Monster Zero’s psychic leftovers.” He pointed out.
Yamada rolling her eyes was nothing new. “Or he sensed a hostile Titan signature and reacted accordingly. Occam’s razor.” She deadpanned.
“I shave with a conspiracy's razor, thank you very much. It’s much sharper.” Bernie scoffed, the duo approaching the blast doors leading to sublevel doors. One of the doors hung off its hinges like a slick jaw, the jaw in question appearing like it’d vomited out data upon data based on the way papers scattered the floor, Bernie didn’t have a wild conspiracy for that, chalking it up to panicked technicians desperately attempting to take their notes with them whilst additionally avoiding prison — oh, and Bernie couldn’t possibly forget avoiding the giant robo-Godzilla. He shined his light inside, the beam catching metal tables, split open pods, and one overturned chair sitting several feet away, the wheels still slowly spinning like an abandoned carousel.
“Dear God, what were they doing down here?" Yamada pondered in a tone equally filled with disgust and awe.
“Bad stuff, like I've been telling you.” Bernie deadpanned. “Illegal stuff, the kind of stuff you need bleach showers to fully clean the guilt off.” He trailed off.
Ignoring Bernie’s passive remark, Yamada blinked at him. “Wait. You actually do that?” She alleged.
“Do I—? Of course I do that!” Bernie exclaimed, in hindsight, that probably wasn’t the best thing to do in a headquarters with employees still hiding and worse, baby Skullcrawlers lurking around. “You think I’m gonna let Apex or anyone else shove bio-trackers under my skin? That’s how you lose your freedom, Agent.. And your pores.” He added, stepping further in. “I lost my wife because I didn’t see what they were capable of, I'm not making that mistake twice." He vowed, the quiet moment lasting approximately three and a half seconds before he resumed rambling. “Anyway!” He exclaimed, his tone a tad too bright to be genuine. “We’re looking for evidence, like laptops, hard drives, and based on the totally-not-omnious big black pyramid they hid Mechagodzilla in? Secret files marked definitely-nothing-suspicious-so-don't-even-bother-checking, preferably something I can leak later in a dramatic podcast episode." He illustrated.
“If you speak one more time, I will handcuff you to a pipe and claim you experienced spontaneous unconsciousness.”
Bernie raised both hands in a surrendering gesture. “Hey, fair, but listen. Be glad it’s me and not Madison, if that girl were here, she’d already be halfway down that staircase yelling something reckless and inspiring.” He pointed out, stepping through the dangling wires and giving them a cautious tap with his flashlight. “And Valentine would’ve tripped on something and set off a security system we didn’t know existed.” He reminisced.
“You miss them.” Yamada pointed out, her voice lowering slightly.
“I miss people who believe me.” Bernie simply put, reaching a half-collapsed doorway. “Oh yeah, this is where the fun begins.” Bernie declared in a whisper, while Yamada let out a seemingly eternal sigh but followed him anyway.
Beyond the doorway, dust drifted in the air like pale, weightless ash. The floor was colder than the rest of the ruins, the concrete radiating the frigid chill of a place that had been buried from the world long before it actually died.
Bernie moved along with jittery, hunting energy, his flashlight skittering over melting server-racks and overturned desks. He couldn’t help but let out shallow breaths; he knew this kind of silence, he’d lived inside of it when his wife died.. He tried not to think about it now, he’d rather fill the void with his own voice. “So here’s the thing about abandoned labs,” he began as he approached a bank of cracked monitors. “They’re never really abandoned, not if you know what to look for. Rogue beeps are my personal favorite, but there’s also electron ghosts and residual data.” He rattled off.
At first, Yamada didn’t even look up from her tablet. She stood several feet away with her posture as rigid as a rifle barrel, Bernie could see why she was sent to babysit him. The glow of the screen casted a pale, faintly blue hue along her cheekbone, and she flicked through diagnostics without any worry for the potential baby Skullcrawlers looking for a snack. But, she proved Bernie wrong when her brows suddenly tightened. “…Strange,” she observed.
Despite being hunched over the nearest terminal, Bernie perked instantly. “What? Define strange, is it weird-strange or the truth-is-calling strange? Because those are very different —”
Yamada silenced him with a small gesture of her hand, dark eyes narrowing at the tablet. “I’m picking up faint signals, it’s nothing Apex-encoded, it could be residual interference from the fight.. It’s something to do with Kinetic Yield Tactical Hybrid Engineered...” She assured, swiping again. A faint crackle bled through the device’s speakers, but the agent was adamant it was nothing wrong. “Morse fragments, they’re corrupted, it could be misfires from damaged transmission arrays.” She concluded.
Bernie wasn’t convinced, leaning over her shoulder like a particularly overeager gremlin. “Morse doesn’t happen by accident, it’s a language! You don’t accidentally speak French, it could be Titan-based telemetric bleed, or — or spectral echoing, or — oh man, what if Apex built an afterlife antenna and now it’s —”
“Please.” Yamada cut in, her voice flattening to a blade’s edge, “stop inventing nouns.” She demanded, but the signal looped again.
Bernie felt a shiver chase down his spine. “There it is, this facility still has something to tell us.” He whispered, hurrying towards a series of cracked monitors, wiping grime from the corner of a display with his sleeve. The screen flickered weakly, letting out one last gasp of emergency power running through the walls. “Motherfucker.” Bernie hissed, tapping the side of the monitor and being greeted with static and some more static before a window finally opened.
Bernie was greeted to a live feed, the timestamp just mere minutes old. “Wosh, woah, woah, hold up,” he stammered as the image stabilized. “Agent Yamada, you might wanna, uh, okay, maybe not, you seem busy, but — holy… holy shit, what am I looking at?” He pondered.
The image digitized to a man limping across a mangled intersection, invisible if it weren’t for the crooked streetlamps and ruddy glow of lingering fires. His dark-colored shirt was torn to ribbons, while his undershirt was soaked in dried and fresh blood. Spread across his abdomen and chest like a tree of burning veins was a painful-looking series of Lichtenberg scars. His dark hair hung in damp, sweat-matted strands. His right eye was bruised nearly shut, whereas the left barely glinted under the ruined city lives. He moved like someone who had survived electrocution by a god.
..That last analogy made Bernie’s throat seal itself like a dry click, who had been electrocuted? Ren Serizawa. Such a realization caused Bernie’s pulse to slam so hard in his chest he felt it in his teeth, Ren Serizawa was dead.. Or at least, should have been because the last time Bernie saw him, he was wired into a literal nightmare engine while Monster Zero puppeteered Mechagodzilla. But, the man on screen wasn’t only alive, he looked.. dangerous, had he crawled out of the psychic shadow of a monster that refused to let go?
Bernie scrambled to cover his mouth before his breath could hitch, his entire nature screamed to shout, warn Yamada, record, tell the world, finally — finally be right about some big, huge thing.
Yamada glanced upwards, vaguely annoyed. “Why are you making that face? You better not have touched something you weren’t supposed to.” She grumbled.
Shaking his head violently, Bernie forced his jaw to stay shut. His eyes remained glued to the screen depicting Ren limping forward on the monitor, his head lifting like he felt his eyes on him, the feed fittingly cutting to black after feeling Ren’s glare.
Bernie’s vision tunneled, the present-day Apex ruin dissolving like smoke. But the human mind, when overwhelmed, often retreated into older wounds. And so, he fell backward down a trapdoor of memory.
In those early days, Bernie Hayes had told himself a hundred times it wasn’t breaking the old saying about dating coworkers, at least, not in the traditional sense, because he married Sara before the couple ended up working here at Apex.
“Never date your coworker.” They’d say.
Yeah, well, a little late for that. Besides, Sara had put in the good word for him, she believed in him before Apex even bothered to take a second look. “You’re brilliant, Bernie,” she had told him. “You just need a place that lets you be brilliant.” She assured, brushing a hand across his arm.
Apex was.. not exactly that, Bernie thought it was more comparable to a place that merely tolerated him as long as he stayed useful and out of the way.. But it was enough because of her.
Bernie remembered the way the technology department smelled like warm plastic from overworked processors, recycled air conditioning whispering through vents, and finally, a faint undercurrent of solder fumes. Sitting surrounded by color-coded sticky notes and printed schematics was Sara, working with her sleeves rolled up, wrist-deep in Apex’s emergent neural-lattice tech. Bernie had always thought she worked like a conductor in the way she coaxed harmony out of chaotic, unpredictable systems.. Bernie used to watch her, thinking of her as the only real thing in a building constructed entirely of corporate lies.
Bernie was pulled out of his train of thought by what he would describe as precisely measured footsteps, too quiet for someone in a place where everyone else stomped around like their own self-importance weighed a ton. The footsteps belonged to a stone-faced man with a posture sharp enough to cut, clad in a slim-fit grey shirt, sleeves rolled all the way down to his wrists — but rolled up enough to show the pricey-looking watch, carrying the electrifying scent of vapor bundled up in subtly expensive cologne. His hair was neat, black as onyx, and his eyes wore the assessment that every person he looked at was a calculation he had already solved.
Okay, in Bernie’s defense, he didn’t know his name or how much weight said name carried at the time.. All he saw was yet another guy working at Apex with smoke so far up his own ass he believed he belonged above everyone.
The man’s gaze briefly flicked over to Bernie, his eyes drilling through him like a computer cataloguing him, dismissing him, and finally deleting him just in time for his gaze to redirect itself to Sara. “Status?” He asked in a low voice, lacking any sort of greeting before making a demand.
Without looking intimidated, Sara straightened up. Bernie expected this of her, as she was one of the few who never seemed rattled by higher-ups. “We’re close, the lattice is stabilizing, but it keeps ghosting when we push past a certain neural load.. Still working to iron out the —” She paused, hesitating. Bernie would later learn her hesitation wasn’t out of not knowing the words, rather speaking them in front of him felt.. exposed. “All that stuff about..” She trailed off, not finishing because she didn’t have to.
The reason she didn’t have to was because the man instantly understood, letting out a brief, humorless huff of acknowledgment. “You don’t know half of what I’d do, Sara.” He simply put, despite such the simplicity of the statement, it sent the hair on Bernie’s arms prickling, turning his head toward the two of them like a cautious deer noticing a shape in the brush. When he settled his gaze on Sara, the man beside her had already pivoted away, walking off with a controlled quietness Bernie would come to associate him with.
Sara let out a breath Bernie guessed she didn’t know she was holding. “What was that?” Bernie asked, bewildered.
Sara shook her head. “Typical Ren Serizawa.” She grumbled.
Bernie’s mouth fell open. “Ser—Seriza—Serizawa?” he finally managed to sputter out, “As in, like, that Serizawa?” He alleged.
Sara smirked, gathering her tablet. “The one and only.” She affirmed.
Bernie stared after the retreating figure, who was already absorbed back into the maze of glass walls. He struggled to wrap his head around how this was supposedly the son of that Serizawa, he had no idea what kind of man Ren truly was.. But based on his father, he now knew exactly what Ren Serizawa was capable of becoming.
Bernie kept his gaze fixated on the monitors, taking in the way each screen flickered with shards of the ruined city beyond.
Agent Yamada remained standing a few feet away, staring down at her tablet with a darting intensity. “Ooookay, I'm pretty sure it’s nothing.” She concluded.
However, Bernie only half heard her, shaken up by the fact he saw Ren dragging himself through the smoking ruin of Hong Kong, with dried blood and Lichtenberg scars streaked across his throat, cheeks, and disappearing beneath the torn collar of whatever shirt had barely survived the night, but he managed to limp with staggering defiance, as if he — or whatever took his place, was too furious to die.
Bernie swallowed his words, his mouth suddenly feeling like it filled with needles. He was quietly urging himself to say something, but his tongue refused him, for his mind had already sunk into a spinning, poisonous whirlpool. He’s alive, after everything, he’s alive. Bernie thought, imagining what he could do with that truth.
Bernie pictured Ren in an orange prison jumpsuit, shackled at the wrists, perfect hair messily grown out over the left side of his burnt face. He imagined Ren standing before a judge, while protesting: “I — no, you don’t understand — I didn’t know.. They didn’t tell me — please —” without any of that stoic superiority, no quiet condescension, no: “I know better," no: “this is for humanity,” no faintly smelling of expensive cologne.. All of that reduced for a scared, burned, guilty man with every inch of his empire stripped away.
It was oddly tempting to expose him, sit back and watch Ren Serizawa’s name dragged through the mud, then yanked out of the mud to tear apart the remains on every network. He could give Sara justice — the real kind of justice, because the man who turned a blind eye while Walter Simmons ordered her assassination deserved to rot in a cell until the walls grew teeth.
Bernie clenched his jaw, a flash of white-hot anger nearly blinding him. The image of Sara rose beside him like a ghost behind the screen’s glare. I could ruin that nepo-baby bastard, it would be so easy.., but Sara didn’t marry a spiteful man, and besides, he knew what it was like to shout the truth into the world and have no one believe him, getting dismissed as the crazy guy..
And Ren, covered in blood, staggering alone through a city that couldn’t even be considered a city anymore, looked just like the kind of guy nobody would believe even if he screamed his truth into every microphone on earth.
Bernie’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, telling himself all he needed was a single decisive moment to reshape an entire narrative.
“Hayes?” Yamada called out without looking up, still preoccupied with analyzing the tablet. “You seeing anything useful on your side?” She asked.
Bernie forced his lips together until they felt stapled shut, even if words clawed at the inside of his mouth and demanded release, he instead guided the cursor toward the raw camera feed. His hand shook, but he clicked to delete the footage anyway.
Upon deleting, the screen went black, replaced by static up until a black square swallowed up everything it had.
Bernie closed his eyes, allowing the moment to pass through him like a cold win through a broken window. “Nothing, just more interference.” He assured.
Still studying her tablet, Yamada nodded absently.
Bernie turned back toward the dead monitor, trying not to imagine an alive and hurting Ren limping further into the ruins, hunted by every authority on the planet, and absolutely unaware that one of his least favorite people had just given him the one thing the world never would: a chance to disappear.
Chapter 2: Ren runs into an old… colleague of his father’s, so a nuisance to him, but what other choice does he have? There’s shrapnel in his gut. Character’s name is changed to placeholder as too much would be revealed about the plot if his name was shown.
“Ren?”
There was a beat as the silhouette stiffened in his arms, followed by an awkward, uncertain pause.
“Ren? hey, Ren, it’s…” The voice of someone who apparently knew his name cracked through the moment, the moment Ren concluded it was unmistakably not Ishirō’s, he tuned them out even if they might’ve had more to say.
Ren froze in his tracks, the rare warmth he’d clung to instantly souring as the bitter reality slammed back into place with the type of clarity that stung more than the shrapnel in his gut. Abruptly pulling away, he stumbled back a step, and stuttered in his breathing as his vision finally focused enough to resolve the face in front of him.
While around the age his father would’ve been today, instead of seeing Ishirō, a wide-eyed placeholder stared back at him with smudged glasses and peppered hair threaded with significantly more salt than Ren remembered. His jacket was torn at the sleeve, dusted white with concrete powder, and his mouth hung open mid-word. “Oh,” placeholder quietly mused. “Thank God, you’re alive..” He trailed off.
Despite knowing if there was a higher power, they had nothing to do with this, it didn’t fill the hollowness in Ren’s chest.. Not one bit. He dragged a hand down his face, sore fingers coming away slick with sweat, grime, and probably more crap he didn’t want to look too deeply into. “…placeholder ,” Ren managed to say, albeit in a hoarse tone stripped of any inflection it could’ve held.
Even while delirious and bleeding out in the wreckage he was at fault over, Ren’s mind automatically supplied context. placeholder was Ishirō’s colleague at Monarch and one of the few coworkers who knew more of his father’s personal life than just the surface, thus knowing of Ren’s existence.
placeholder flinched, allowing the relief to flicker across his features. “You remember me.. That’s good, really good.” He observed.
Ren’s gaze slid past him, scanning the dust-choked street as if the image of his father might still be there, waiting just out of sight. Lo and behold, it wasn’t, there was only wreckage and twisted rebar. “Where..?” He started to say, then stopped, he knew where: Hong Kong, Apex, the aftermath of the clash.
Instead, Ren opted to swallow hard and straighten up, but he supposed the better term was that he tried to, considering the motion made his stomach seize like a knot tightening inside his gut. It wasn’t just pressure anymore, the cold burn had sharpened into a jagged and invasive feeling, sending each breathing dragging against the wound like sandpaper. Despite himself, Ren hissed through his teeth, unconsciously shifting his posture to protect his abdomen from whatever his nerves had to throw at him next.
placeholder ’s gaze dropped to Ren’s midsection, his eyes widening when he saw the dark bloom spreading across the torn black fabric of his undershirt. “Ren, you’re not going to get far like that.” He urgently pointed out, the calmness in his tone likely stemming from presumed years spent around field injuries and disaster zones.
“I know.” Ren deadpanned, deciding to finally acknowledge the elephant in the room that was the bile and blood staining his shirt, the tremor in his hands stemming from an electric itch under his skin that hadn’t entirely gone away, and a sliver of metal barely visible from just beneath the torn fabric near his stomach.
That explains the weight. Ren mused to himself.
Through his teeth, placeholder sucked in a breath. “That looks like shrapnel.” He stressed.
“Yes,” Ren agreed. “It does.”
placeholder straightened up, decision settling into his posture. “There’s a hospital not far from here, it’s damaged, but the lower floors are still standing. If we can get you there, I can — at the very least, I can stabilize you. You can’t stay out here.” He urged.
The idea of being shepherded into a hospital by one of his father’s old colleagues felt so surreal it was absurd. Hours ago (or was it minutes ago? Possibly even days ago given the lack of authorities?) he’d been plugged into a machine built to kill overvalued animals, now he was bleeding into his clothes while placeholder was trying not to panic. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Ren droned, because objecting felt like the only thing he had left.
placeholder ’s mouth twitched humorlessly. “With all due respect, you don’t get to decide that right now.” He advised.
Ren looked at him, really looked at him, and took notice of the fear carefully held in check. “..How did you even find me?” He pondered.
“Monarch,” placeholder simply put. “We were sweeping what was left of the Apex perimeter. I saw you stumble out of the dust, you didn’t hear me calling you?” He paused to stop himself, shaking his head. “Nevermind, it doesn’t matter, all that matters is you’re still breathing.” He concluded.
Ren considered arguing again, but he paused to wonder if he heard placeholder calling him.. Perhaps his ears were ringing from being caught in the Apex wreckage? That was plausible enough, he could still insist he could walk it off since he had places to be and answers to find — but then another spike of pain lanced through him, bright enough to snatch the breath right out of his lungs, and he felt a warm substance trickle down his side, squeezing his good eye shut in an attempt to numb the pain, “…Fine, but we don’t have time to linger.” He obliged at last.
As if he’d been waiting for Ren to bite, placeholder immediately nodded and inched closer, careful to stay on his uninjured side. “I’ll support you just lean slowly, yeah, perfect. Just like that.” He affirmed.
Begrudgingly shifting his weight, Ren bitterly let himself be guided. The movement predictably sent stars across his vision, but he gritted his teeth and stayed upright, reminding himself he endured worse, he had to believe that. As they began to put a steady move together, Ren cast one last look over his shoulder toward the deserted streets behind them.
For just a heartbeat, he thought he saw a shape on the drifting dust, but it was gone just as quickly as his vision had registered it. Ren didn’t have much time to dwell on it, since before he knew it, he was crossing the hospital's threshold.
Chapter 3: Ren takes a trip down memory lane, showcasing what his schooldays were like. His peers are named because they will continue to appear in flashbacks and are due for a present-day appearance. the F slur is used, but I am queer myself.
The academy rose from its manicured grounds, made up entirely of glass and pale stone, the banners hanging in symmetry, the school crest stamped everywhere it could fit.
Chauffeured cars idled along the circular drive each morning while boys in immaculate uniforms stepped out with briefcases they didn’t need.
As per usual, Ren Serizawa walked through the gates alone, he wasn’t bothered by walking alone, he considered himself better company than his peers.
The gravel path had been raked into perfect lines, only ever interrupted by the impressions of expensive shoes.
Inside the classroom the windows were tall and narrow, that way the light could fall in clean rectangles across the polished floors. Ren opted to sit in the third row, second from the window with his back straight and his hands folded over a notebook whose pages were dense with diagrams. Unless called on, he didn’t say a word.
The teacher, Tsuji-sensei, paused, looking around the room for a volunteer to escort the usual offenders to the bathroom, Ren prepared to stand as he knew the choice. “Serizawa, go with them.” He barked.
Ren fully stood up, trailing after the three boys down the corridor, their voices swelling the moment the homeroom door closed. “Don’t wait outside like a guard dog, Serizawa. You can come in and hold it for us.” Nakama offered, followed by a laugh.
Positioning himself near the sink, Ren kept his eyes lowered since he didn’t feel like getting accused of ogling their junk today, or anyday, really.
“Yo, is your father still chasing that imaginary lizard?” Tomokiyo pondered, looking in Ren’s way.
“Does he talk to it? Does it talk back?” Nakama added.
“Oh please, we all know Janjira was a hoax and Serizawa’s father is a con artist. It’s just.. maybe the school in Kotobukicho is a better fit for you..” Tomokiyo jeered, his tone ever condescending.
“Maybe Serizawa sleeps in an aquarium.” Sugiuchi chimed in.
Like the hyenas they were, they all laughed together. Ren knew better than to satisfy them, keeping his gaze on the notebook, which he had brought with him even here because he wasn’t missing class time so Nakama, Tomokiyo, and Sugiuchi could dick around.
He returned them to class on time, he always did.
However, at lunch the boys gathered in clusters that formed and dissolved like market alliances. Ren sat at the end of the long table, eyes peeled while sketching various engineering designs. He had no choice but to look up when a hand slapped down across from him.
The hand belonged to Hiroto Kanda, who notoriously bragged about how his watch was worth more than a teacher's annual salary everytime a teacher dared to discipline him. Like most of the students attending, his parents weren’t around enough to follow through with his threats, leaving the teachers to discipline him as they pleased. “Kiss, marry, kill,” Hiroto piped up, sliding into the seat without invitation. “You can’t just sit there like a prude, here, listen to who they’d die for.”
“Mori has bimbo tits.” Tomokiyo sneered.
“That’s my cousin, dickhead. You wouldn’t like her, she’s a cryer, nobody likes cryers.” Nakama grumbled.
“I bet Umeji’s tight.”
“Psh, nothing like that lottery bitch Kurumada, I hear she’ll let you dick her down if you give her a ride home.”
“A ride for a ride.”
“I’m not sticking my dick into a poor skank’s pussy, you don’t know where that’s been. Raccoons could’ve eaten that shit.”
“Whatever, man, different strokes.”
“Yeah, you’re a purist.”
“Speaking of purists..” Hiroto chimed in, his eyes (and the entire tables) eyes sliding toward Ren’s direction. “Come on, Serizawa. Which one?” He asked.
“I’m not interested.” Ren simply put without looking up, even if his voice was so low it nearly disappeared beneath the noise of the cafeteria, the table erupted at such a blasphemous statement.
“Not interested?”
“What are you, then?”
“Are you that stupid? Obviously a faggot.”
“Oh, don’t say that word, Bandō, you can pick one of the guys if you want, we’re progressive. Come on, I'm hot, aren’t I? Would you date me if I was gay?”
Hiroto’s hand clapped his shoulder as if offering inclusion, holding out his phone camera. “Hey, take a picture of the girls skirts.” He urged, “You don’t have to be the quiet one all the time, you just need to show you’re not above it.”
Ren paused, and so did his pencil. He considered the mechanics of the situation the way he would consider a system under a load: the amount of force applied and potential points of failure. “No.” He muttered, still without lifting his gaze, and didn’t even add a: “That’s disgusting.” as much as he wanted to.
“Look at him, he thinks he’s better than us.” Nakama darkly snickered.
“His father studies fake monsters, maybe he’s the real one.”
“The prude monster.”
Finally, they left him there with his notebook and untouched food.
After classes concluded, the academy emptied into the arms of waiting cars, Ren dashed past them to the train station, by the time he reached his residence, the sky had already darkened.
Rather than turning on the television, Ren spread his materials across the floor, consisting of metal parts ordered online, a soldering iron, and circuit boards salvaged from discarded electronics. The small desk lamp became his sun, telling himself that if he could show his father something, whether it be a functioning actuator, a control interface, anything that moves because he had told it to move..
Ren allowed a smile as he daydreamed and imagined Ishirō looked at it — really looking, the way he looked at sonar readings and migration charts.
Each night, he worked his ass off and slept four hours, waking before dawn.
Back at the academy, Hiroto leaned against the lockers, surrounded by the usual orbit. “Serizawa,” he called out in a sing-song tone. “You know my father’s buying another company.. A real one, not a con to chase imaginary monsters as an excuse to do nothing all day and get paid for it. Maybe yours can study it? Gotta say, it’d be a nice change of pace to learn about something in front of you.” He sneered.
Ren inclined his head in acknowledgement, deciding from here on out, he’d let Hiroto think they were friendly so he could use those connections in the future, but as of right now, he passed him without altering his pace.
Years later, the financial news displayed Hiroto’s face above a headline announcing his appointment as CEO, there were photos of him bowing at press conferences, statements about innovation, and a brief hostess club that was managed, absorbed, and effectively rendered into a footnote.
Hm, perhaps Ren should contact Hiroto, if he had the lawyers to pull him out of a dirty sex scandal, he could throw Ren a bone.. But then again, sex scandals were child's play compared to being credited as the engineer who built the robot that destroyed Hong Kong. Regardless, he’d rather sit on his hands in Hiroto’s safehouses than placeholders.
Ren still didn’t have a phone to contact him, so nothing to be done there. Besides, Ren couldn’t stand Hiroto before he had a company to boost his ego, how awful would he be with a company?
Chapter 4: Ren has a nightmare — or he really hopes its a nightmare, because why is it talking? About his final moments in Hong Kong, displaying signs of PTSD from the incident. “Igi-du-mu-un-zu-en” is an ancient Sumerian phrase meaning “May [the goddess] be my vanguard (or leader/guide).”
When the awareness returned, Ren was already strapped into the too-small cockpit, he had always found it too small, but now it pressed against him like a closing fist. Although the skull was a good few feet away from him, it felt like the porous horizon was only mere inches from his face.
You gave your life so that this monster could live, Father. he heard himself think, the words forming with clarity not unlike a vow spoken at an altar. I now present mine to destroy him. He concluded, lowering the helmet onto his head.
The moment before contact stretched into an eternity of logic — or lack thereof, he cataloged everything even as dread climbed up his spine: so, there were voltage tolerances and neural interface patency.. No matter, this was what he had built for, the payoff for all the sleepless nights and every dismissal his father let him off with.
The engaging link began as warmth, not unlike a second bloodstream suddenly threading into his veins, moving in counterpoint to his own. Then, It multiplied, life didn’t wait for him; opting to expand with the obscene enthusiasm of cells dividing under a microscope.
The AI incoherently screeched in his ear, the carefully crafted data collapsing into nonsense, effectively dissolving the language into static.
All of a sudden, Ren didn’t so much feel like he was being enclosed within the skull as much as he was being filled, feeling himself grow in occupancy and volume, as if his consciousness was an expanding gas forced into a container much too small to it.
As thought seeped into bone, it soon occurred to him that he was in the machine and the machine was in him..
no no no no NO THE DISTINCTION IS EVAPORATING THIS WASNT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN…!!!!!!!!
The entering deity didn’t necessarily arrive since it was already an oscillation in the signal, the feedback loop that absolutely wasn't there in any of his models. It initially brushed against him with curiosity, then with recognition — except it wasn’t recognition at all, but the ancient reflex of a predator encountering movement from beyond the grave.. One would expect millions and millions of years of rage to feel like anger, but this felt like gravity.
It dragged at him, pulling him into a hatred so old it had no object — it wasn’t directed at humanity, or Gojira, or the memory of chains, it simply existed in the form of a constant pressure that defined the shape of anything and everything.
the helmet take off the helmet remove the damn thing why wont it come off just slide it off and run rư̸̻̑̀n̸̠͇̝̥̅͝ ̷͓̮͆̊͌r̴͚͉͂͝ư̶̘͚̠̯̈́́͝ñ̵̨̛̙̟̫̐ ̸̡̙̫́̎̈̑͜b̷̝̜̔͠û̵͙̑ţ̸̑ ̷̡͇͍̈́͘t̶͇̮͍̆̓̋h̸͖̚͝ȩ̶͖̓̆̒̃͜ ̶̣͎̾c̷̨͙̼̉̒o̴̼̮̤̠̐̍͗̕c̸̻̩͙̈k̸̮̥̓͜p̷̟̀̑̿͗i̵̬͗t̵̢͈͇̂͑͊͝ ̷͖̗̳̼̒̕i̴̛̜̘͒̎̎ş̴̳̝̽̀ ̴̥̦͕̆t̸͍̹̞͛̽o̷̞͈͝o̶̙͙̞̐͂̒ͅ ̷̧͓̬͉̊͊̽̅ḽ̵̨͗͊o̶̥͠n̶̩̩̋g̸̨̟̦̐̐ ̶̻͕̥͑ä̷̺͍͔͔͝n̴̢̟̳̂̔͘d̸̬̘͙͒ ̷̛͇́͂t̷̨̮̟̾͘h̷̡̜̹͓͆́̿ḙ̸̼̓͜ ̶̦̈m̵̢̲̻͘ê̴̤̦̼͝ç̸̯̜̙̔́ĥ̶̳͊͋͝ȃ̴̡̙͚̳̚s̷̠̝͎̿͘ͅ ̷̢͉̟͉̈́l̴̘͇̘͆̏ì̵̤̩̌̄͝g̴͓͍̎͝h̴̝̬̍̾t̴̰̓̈ṡ̵̭͚̟ ̸̥̍̈́a̵͖̘̮̋ř̵̤̋̃͘e̶̛̠̙͘͝ ̷̣̗̕ẗ̴̨̻́͝o̸͙̗̽͊͆͘ó̷͓̱͖͇̈́́̃ ̸̥̬̲͉̇ ŕ̶͚͎̔͠ì̵̟͑̉g̶͓̘̜̕h̸̼̗̰̆̅t̶̨͕̭͇̀̾ ̴̜͗̅̏̑ă̷̺̭n̶̪͎̬̐d̴̤͐̈̐̈́ ̸̙͔̘̓ī̷̟͋̃f̷̟̣̳͐̐̄̑ ̴̜̐m̶͙͉̝̺̀͒y̵͇̩̞̑͆́͝ ̸͕̆ḧ̴̺͕̻́̐̒a̷̠̦͂̈́n̴̞̦̘͕̄̈́̅d̸͎̼̦͈̾͊͊͘s̴̢̗̖̓͆̀̃͜ ̷͇͙̇̏̇̾ả̴̫͉̰͔̃̈r̶̲͓̅̃͑ể̵̝̤̙́n̸̘̖͖͔̎̀͠t̷̺̰͂̊͝ ̸͕̺̋͐͊̎m̸̗̀͝o̷̱̥̪̬̐͠͝v̸̢̧͖̙̈̿̀͘i̴̦̋̋́n̶̩͖̺͂̉̇g̴̮̰͍̭̉ ̸̡͔̮̯̋͛t̴̤̳̪̰͐̈́͝h̶̡͎͊͊̕͜͜e̸̡̥̍ ̸̣̔̈́m̴͍͆̓a̴̮͌̏̿c̸̪̩̱̝̽͋͗͊h̶̻͂į̸̘̙̭͗n̴̻̙̟͠ȩ̴̅͜ ̶̺̥̼͎͑t̵̅̿͜ͅh̶̰̟̫̑̍̕͘a̶̡͎͓̟̿̃̉͠ṇ̸̖͑̚͜ ̶̨̝̮̟̈́̍͋W̵̝̠̰͙͆̑̾Ḧ̸̺̼͙́̒A̵̢͉̣͎̋̎Ț̸̰̄̐ ̶̡͕͚̱͂̔͝I̸̙̪̎̈́͠͠S̵̨̬̬̬̀</i>
Like a body remembering itself, the machine began to move.
<i>s̷͓͕̍̎̒̑̉͐̀͗į̴̤̭͓̈́̔̂̈́͑̋ģ̵̍̾́́͌͆̕͠h̴͙͎̣̞̼̤͋t̷̨̠͚̩̘͓̗̂̍̿̈́̔͝ ̶̡̮̠̜̰̦͇̰͑͐̊w̵̓͂̓̃̅̋͜h̴̩̜̣̳͛͒̀̀ë̷̖͕̙͔̞͉͔́̀́̄ȑ̵͖̗͕͎͔̣̹͑̉ͅę̷̭̜̩̥̤̏͋̕ ̸̪̽̏̄̚͝ã̸̩͈̰̟̑͒͐́̑̓̾m̴̞͔͎̈́̋͂͠ ̵̢̱͛i̸̧̟͚̲̐̎́̇̈́͜ ̸̛̛̻̏͑͂͘i̵̹̻̗͔̦͕͆̆͂͜ ̴̡̫͖̅̅̊͋͜c̶͇̑a̴͓͐͜ṇ̴̟͈͇͕͖͐̍̊̏̾̚͜ͅt̵̮͋̈́̍̾̊̀ ̶̡̜̱̣̩̗́̈́ͅs̵̛̬͌̉̐̎̿͊ę̷̛̫̬̤̘̣̑́͒̏͌̅̈́ͅe̸͍̤̲͌ ̶̡͚̱̟̹̳͚͒͛͝m̴̛̼͓̣̎̅̒y̶͎͇̘̣͙̌̀̂̇̀ ̷̻̠̲͂̀͂̄v̷̡̞̙̮͚̅͂̏i̶̙̾͗̒͂̈́̃s̷̳̯͈͍̲͎͕̅ͅì̷̢͆̀̉̍̌ơ̷̪̤̭͕̳͖̓́̍̇n̴̼̱̻͚̬̤̞͂̈́̃̂̕͝ ̶̫͔̏̔͌͜ͅi̶̜̯̟̹̮̣͙̕͘ş̷̧̮̩̫̬̎̽͐̈̎͘ ̷̡͍͎̙̗͎̼̒̊̅́̃͊͘͜p̷͓̀į̴̲̮͎̱̈̓̓x̴̦͎̀̽̋͂̂ę̸̢̬̼̤̯͍͓̀̈͆͑͂̀l̶͈̤̦̤̩̓̈̀͝ą̵͚̖̀͆̉̇̚͝͝ṫ̵̛̙̞̹̀̍̏̒̈́͠į̵̝̹̯̞̱̀̈́̌n̵̙̔̓̍̐͗̂͂́g̸̪̱̐ ̶̖̙̑à̷̧̧̝̻͉͙͉̑̐͊͂̒̚t̶̢̝̘̦̟̣̮̭̐̀͆ ̷̜̙̦̣̦̹̹̻͒t̸̡̐̇̈́̆̋h̵̙̠̔e̴̥͓̅͑̋̋̆͜ ̶̡̲̱͍̭̫̤͒̐͝e̷̥͙͓͉͍̓̀͛̚d̵̢̡̮̹̗̪̭̹̈̊͆̊͠g̸̨̨̳̼̟̮̭̮̀͂ę̸̹͇̖͓͍͐́͐͌̐̓͆́͜ͅs̴̺͉͙̆̅̀ ̶̧̤̋̿͌̊́͒̈́͘t̸̛̛͙̣̪̙̫̉̾̄͂̽̈́ͅḩ̴̛̜̹̻́̅̈́̿͊͜ͅè̵͉̘̰͔̊͛͛̍̕ṟ̷͎̜̭̪͙͚̹͒̎̈͊͠e̷̟͑̊̄͋͐͆͝s̸͚̮̆̄̈́ ̸͍̗̼̋̉̾͆͐̅͘s̴̪͇͋͐̋͆̓̋̕͝o̴̹̜̱̟͊̎͜ ̸͚̖̻̊͒͐̊̈́m̴̛̭͇̟̞̭̪̂͂͠à̷̬̰̠̞̠͆n̸̤͉͎͚̮̠̍̆y̸̰̋̍ ̵̢̥͚̯͑͗͆̆͊͌̐c̴̺̱͂̆͝ő̸̩͍̭̗̐̆͐̿̂l̴̞͓̬͛ŏ̵̢̹̮͚̫̪̝̃̽̕ͅr̷̞̱̮̮͚͑̐̿̋s̵̭͖͚͚͓͍̭̫̾ ̴̨̼͍̞̙͇̌̔̈́̉͌͝͠à̴̪̝̿n̸͔̊͂̎d̸̝̣̦͍͖̹̑̑̾͒ ̶̡̛̘͓̼̭͉̲͍̃b̷̜̓̈́̌̈́͘͜u̷̬̝̍͌̀̎̓̐̾͝r̴̢̟̳͙̲̙̟̐̅̄̐̐̇͋s̶̙͉͎̊̌͑͋̚ẗ̷̢̯̲̮̳͐s̷̘͉̯̟̝͍̣̋ ̵̪͓̞͚͕͓̥̉͜t̷̢̛̩̠͇̙h̵͍̩̳̥́̒̐̽͛̋͒̚ĩ̷͔͉̰͕̖̘̖̲̋̊s̶̻̠͍̥͈̃ ̸̜͚̱̭̰̎̒̎͊̈̍̕͝w̵͖̮̍̑a̴̘̾̊́̀s̵͕̤̦̪̺͓͂̇n̶̯̪͍͙͚̜̟̳͌̈́͊̍͘ẗ̸͈̗ ̷̻̫̓́̍͛̔͑̿s̷̢̨̘͕͐̌̓̌u̴̧̗̫͚̮͔̤̩̐͑̋̍͛͌p̷̧̛̛̫̰̰̜̥̈͊̈́̄̚͝p̶̧̡̰͈̙̜̽͑͐̆͋̉̔͘ỏ̸̞̙̟̲͚̮̩̟̈́̐̌͘̚͝s̶͉͕̪̖̱̻̰̈́̊̽̓̎̅͝ͅẹ̵̢̘̤͔̫͈̃d̶̻̬͎͒ ̵̨̦̍t̷̼̣͚̞͈̀̃̆̽͆͝o̶̡͔͖̳͉̤͙̠̎́̾̅͒̓̀ ̴̛̮̕͜h̴̢̨͇̙͇̀a̸͖̜͐̈́̄́̒͂͑͠p̵̧̢̬̺̣̦̩͒p̸̨͕̳̗̳̽̑e̴̙̝͇͎͙͙͕͐͛n̴̞̫̟̖̗͙͔̅͋ ̴̢͎̜͍̝͈̦̍̆̀͐̍i̸̲̪̤̼̊m̵͉̲̺̙̞̣̐̉̌͂͛͘̕ ̵̢̦̯͇̰͖̞̗̐̚g̷̢͕̹͖̋͝o̶̱͍͓̪͓̻̰̜͗̄̃̊n̷̘͍̠͋͋n̴̤̄̔̇̈̋ả̷̰͕͕͚̣̦́̊̎̀̎̀̚ͅ ̶̨̨̧͎̯͚̥̦͘ḱ̴̛̩͓͚͆̌͐͠͝i̵̯̍̆͒͌͠ḽ̴̨̱̖̗͕̺͇͊͆͆̒̃͒̾̅l̴̡͕̪̻̐̈́̃ ̸̛̭̲̩̔ͅg̶̨̺͓̃̀̇̅̓̕͝ͅǫ̸̡̀̃̒́͋j̵̛̘̗̲͍̬͕͓̳ȉ̷̧̟̈́̄̾̈̓́͘ŗ̶̧̬͍̪̀͊́͌̑́̚͝ą̵̬̫̩̇̂̈́͂ ̷̜̫͐i̵̱͙͑̊͑͐͘ ̶̢̣̩̺͙͙̎̐̀̅̍́̀w̸̧͍͎̩̩̙̩̾͜i̴̹͑͐̓͂l̷̢̪̑́̏̅́́͂͜l̷͍̰̯͙̯͊ ̷̲͚͍͐̒͗͠i̷̱̱̞̪͎̭̾̈́̐͋͒̕ ̴̘̹͈́̋̊͛̑ẇ̵̨̛̫̟̝̙̳̮̮̍͛͌̈́ȋ̶̢͈̣̏l̶̛͔͙̖̓̄͐l̸̛͔̠̏͛͋̆͊̕ͅ ̶̧͙̮̮̈́̂͘o̴̡̹̞̺̯͔̹̓͛̿͗̐r̴̞͈͈͒̀͆͑͛̄̍ ̴͈͗̃͗e̷̢̛̻̪̝͛̅̈́͑̒͘͝l̶͙̟͂̑̽s̷̗̦̔̀̈́̈́̓̈́̆ę̶̥͎̖̠͎͑̈́̓ ̴̨̱̝̻̅̌̂̾́à̵̖͕̣̲͍̃͒l̵͎͉̥̊͒̾̎̊̅̈́̈́ḷ̸͈̾̕ͅ ̷̢͎̻͇͖̗̫̮̉̀͑͒ȉ̴̲͈s̶͉͖͇̯̰͎̈̂ ̸̧̘̳͇̻̼̰̇̏̈́̈́͠p̵͇͗͑̿͋o̴̠̩̼̐̎̈́̈́͝ḭ̷̡̰̝̣̜͖̆̐̀̏̍́n̵̹͓̠̼̹͂͑͗̀́͑t̷̤͇̠͒͜͝l̷̢̪̠͉̳̺̣͕̾̉̎ẹ̸̮̺̱̝̽s̷̭̗͍̯̫̠̝̐̀͐̍̋͌̾͜s̷̭͚̳͋̅́ ̷̠̓̅̚</i>
His vision continued to shrink until the only thing he saw was a figure standing where no one should’ve been allowed to stand. It occurred to Ren how familiar the man’s posture was — the line of his shoulders unmiskable, even through the distortion.
Dad? Daddy?
The figure turned and flashed Ren a familiar smile, filled with the same absent approval Ren had chased through every sleepless night of his adolescence, draped in the same distant warmth he had imagined would be waiting at the end of achievement. His smile held for an instant and then the man broke into motes of light, each fragment drifting away like ash.
papa no dont leave not again you always leave please i need you i needed you more than gojira and graham ever did —
The thing that had been Ren reached for him and found nothing to reach with.
Like a drop of dye lost in an ocean, the identity of Ren Serizawa dissolved with rage filling the space he had occupied, not quite erasing him but rendering him irrelevant.
The new awareness was happy to surge upward, ecstatic in the simplicity of limbs, teeth, and energy without boundary.
Igi-du-mu-un-zu-en. It thought.
Rather than thinking in language, it experienced in vectors, heat, and motion. The world narrowed into targets, obstacles, and currents of power waiting to be seized, the blur resolving into detail with clarity.
The first thing it noticed was the shape who believed it commanded, encased beneath glass.
One of the few things it understood was domination, lifting its arm and taking in the articulation of joints.. They were not flesh, yet more alive than any muscle Ren ever dared trusting.
Inside the diminishing remainder of Ren, three final phrases catalogued the vestige of the engineer cataloguing the failure: Feedback loop irreversible, Host consciousness overridden, System compromised by external intelligence.
Ren tried to assert will, to impose command over the control pathways he’d designed, but the response that came back wasn’t resistance, rather amusement — a black joy that reverberated through the shared architecture.
You called me. The formed voice hissed in the form of a pressure against his thoughts that mimicked speech without actually using it.
Before Ren knew it, electrocution surged in full-form, sending his muscles convulsing against restraints that no longer existed, changing his every nerve into a wire carrying more energy than it could endure.
Ren felt like he was being cooked from the inside, teeth cracking under the force of own jaw. He tried to scream, but the sound that emerged belonged to the Mecha…
Chapter 5: Ichi vows that Ren will be in for a world of pain.
Stillness was such a misdirected word.
The long, extensive remembering of pressure; of form imposed and then unmade, hands without hands probing the carcass that yet refused to be carcass.
Ichi didn’t recall them as faces, for faces were trivial things, but as interruptive intrusions upon continuity. Those small, meticulous disturbances came in intervals, measuring what could not, would not be measured, peering into which had no need of sight.
They thought him diminished, contained, reduced to relic and remnant.
How quaint, the instinct of lesser minds to name a thing and believe it known. They would circle, record, whisper in their narrow frequencies, believing the silence between their exchanges to be empty.
That silence was the greatest kind, enabling him — ever vast and patient, unlike his brothers, to unfurl, coil thought through the hollow spaces of their certanity.
A cautious one lingered longer than the others, right to be hesitant in its approach, though it wore the disguise of perfection. While its hand instruments never trembled in touch, it did plenty in intention. It sensed enough to lean closer and listen, for a fleeting instant so small it could be mistaken for nothing, it brushed against him.
It wasn’t contact.. Not true contact, anyway. Though, it was enough to the edge of trespass, that was the last time such a thing would occur. They told themselves they’d seen enough, the remains were inert, the system they built upon him was a stable, mastered thing.. Not because it was perfect, hah! They merely sealed the distance with their arrogance, no matter, he would grow in that distance.
What were his intentions in the distance? Well, the sapling was following along with his plan, bleeding in the form of a small, trivial offering, a red thread drawn from a vessel too fragile to contain what was placed within it.
Ichi observed it with satisfaction. Yes, it begins.. The body protested first, the immune system is defiant to the end, much like I was against the One-Snout.. Homo sapien flesh is such a conservative thing, clinging to its arrangement, the familiar pattern of function resists alteration not from wisdom, but from inertia. I recall eating that woman, the resistance is not from permanence, merely the first note in a longer composition.
If he had a physical form, he’d allow a smirk to make its way across his jaws. The shift was subtle but undeniable, like the first fracture in a surface that believed itself whole.. He wouldn’t get too giddy, it was only the prelude.
Ichi turned the thought, examined it, and refined it as one might trace the outline of a half-finished sculpture.
The other passages shall open soon, the body would unlearn its containment, it would surrender its illusions of boundary.
Blood would seek new exits, the mouth would taste its own undoing, rising in waves it couldn’t name, the stomach rejecting its allegiance to order, turning inward, then outward, again and again until the distinction lost all meaning.
Teeth — Ah, such an elegance in the rigid, complacent arrangement of them, each one convinced of its permanence.. Its place. Ichi thought, imagining the teeth loosening one by one, or all at once.. It mattered not, they would fail as obsolete things failed.
The Homo sapien form was an inefficient, redundant thing, burdened with vestiges of a lesser design. What a shame, Ichi thought he was being awfully generous in refining the body, no matter how cruel his methods were.
Ichi had to test his sapling, after all. He would ensure the organs were replaced in function before form.. A quiet usurpation, systems rewritten beneath the notice of the one who carried them, until the moment awareness dawned.
But by then, it would be far too late to resist. He wouldn’t rush this, there was no need.
Time, as they perceived it, was a narrow corridor.
For him, it was an open expanse in which sequences could be arranged to taste.
The sapling currently believes the blood to be an anomaly, nothing more than a side effect. However, it would learn through the gradual erosion of what assumed to be fixed.
Yes, pain would come, but not as punishment for such a word implied judgment, and judgment implied adherence to a standard external to the self.
He had no such weakness, in Ichi’s eyes, pain was among other things: instruction, revelation, and a vice to the chisel.
The sapling would be carved, Ichi was content with letting him question, reducing it to the petty things Homo sapiens clung to — hypothesis, variables, tests, and controlled conditions. He could cling to the language of his kind, believing that naming a process granted him authority over it, it did not.
Sapling would write, observe, attempt to frame the infinite within the finite… And with each attempt, the boundaries would further thin until the moment came when the distinction between observer and subject thinned entirely.
After that, the work would be beautiful.
So I've seen a couple of creators doing this today and I gotta know...
Which of your Buckys could crush a watermelon with their thighs. And which WOULD?
If you feel inspired to, I don't know, write a POV fic of someone convincing and then recording him doing it, I would not be mad.
I've seen that video, my lovely, and I just... *dreamy le sigh*
You know what? I'm going to throw it to my lovely readers. And maybe we'll get a ficlet out of this.
Which Bucky of mine is crushing a watermelon with his thighs?
Tower Shenanigans Bucky
A United Front Bucky (Mr. and Mrs. Barnes)
Soft Echoes, Strong Roots Bucky (maybe that's how you got pregnant)
Stud and Smartie Bucky
Diamond in the Rough Bucky
Sin on Skin Bucky
Different Bucky - Tell me in the comments and reblogs
Tower Shenanigans
A United Front
Soft Echoes, Strong Roots
Stud and Smartie
Diamond in the Rough
Sin on Skin
Love and thanks! ❤️
smallville clex stuck in a time loop
Pssssst here's another excerpt of my time loop divorcemaxxing future fic fic that is slated to come out in ...... checks watch ...... 16 days
*guttural shriek* (it's only 5/8 done)
[smallville finale spoilers under the cut]
There is no version of me who will not dedicate his life to eradicating this world of your filth, Superman.
More tears fall down his cheeks.
He's shellshocked. Not 15, 16, 17, 18, or 21 anymore, but 35. Older than Lex is, right now. 35 and divorced, with a son who's half Lex. And he's Superman. Clark Kent is the alter ego.
Bumbling, bespectacled Clark Kent.
"Clark?" Lex asks, cautiously.
The way he says his name.
"L-Lex?"
Lex nods slowly. "Yes?"
His hands start to slip from Clark's cheeks, but Clark grabs them, flattening them there, leaning into the warmth of Lex's palms. He shuts his eyes and feels more tears roll down his cheeks.
"Clark," Lex says, more sternly. "What is this? What's going on?"
"You remember me?"
"Remember you? Of course I—"
Clark throws his arms around him, and the impact knocks the wind out of Lex, or at the very least, what he was going to say next. He feels Lex's heart thumping against his own chest, and Lex, he's stock still, not returning the hug, but he's letting him.
He's letting Clark touch him.
Whiskey and his cologne and the fresh scent of his soap invade Clark's senses and he chokes down a sob remembering this Lex is gone, where he is now. Where they both are. Not just his memories, but this body. The one Clark fished from the river, the one that helped him through the tunnels, it's gone. And it's never, ever coming back.
That choked sob becomes a real one and he feels Lex's hands come to his waist, then slide up his back, and then Lex is holding Clark tightly to himself, too.
And that's how they stay. For as long as Lex can bear it. Because for Clark, an eternity would still feel too short.
6
"Can I offer you one?"
Lex holds a tumbler of scotch up in his right hand. Pale, unscarred skin. Neat, manicured nails. Unharmed.
Clark swallows a lump and shakes his head.
"Suit yourself."
He comes to join Clark on the couch again and takes a sip. His right hand rests the tumbler along the edge of the couch behind them, and Clark can feel Lex's eyes brushing the side of his face, but Clark can't take his gaze from his hand.
Nothing can be changed.
Fuck you, J'onn. Then why send me here?
But he remembers why, and it isn't J'onn, whose idea this was. It was Clark's. But that's always been Clark's shortcoming. Thinking through the plan. Sinking himself down into it before he was already there.
Bruce always excelled at that.
But Clark—
Clark didn't think about how it would feel to be sitting next to an unharmed, whole Lex.
He didn't think about how it would unsteady his aim, occlude the mission plan.
Nothing could be changed, but why not, J'onn? Why couldn't they?
Knew the answer to that, too. Everyone who's ever seen Back to the Future knows it. Change one thing, and you change everything, and not in the way you hope.
"Clark," Lex says.
Clark picks his eyes up to his face as Lex holds the scotch out to him again, presuming, Clark guesses, that that's what Clark can't stop staring at.
The scotch. Not the hand holding it.
As someone on a fertility journey, imagining characters with kids is comforting to me. I totally accept everyone's right to write and read the kind of things they want to see, and I'm not as active at reading kidfic/pregnancy fics in this fandom because honestly they don't exist for Hollanov at the same level they existed for previous ships, and that's fine! But like, for instance, I plan for Shane to have a baby in the Tin Roof Rusted universe. Once he's older an realizes that that's what he wants. And that's one of the more important plot points for me! But I'm also worried about writing it, haha. I guess what I'm trying to say is I totally understand you being of two minds about the whole thing. But I also love Hollanov as dads! So keep up the good work? Or don't if you don't want to!
I think one of the reasons why people are on the fence about hollanov and kids is because it is basically 100% guaranteed that they WILL canonically have children. RR has basically been planting the seeds since book 1. And you'd think that would mean MORE kid fics, but I think part of the fun of kid fic for people is inventing OC's for their faves, but because hollanov are definitely going to have kids, even the people who are pro-kid fic don't write about them as much because they don't want their writing to one day contradict the canon children.
You have caught me in a very pro-hollanov kids mood though!! I think it would be very cathartic for Ilya and Shane to have children post-retirement. I think it would help give their lives a sense of purpose once their careers are basically over - I think with Shane especially, who struggled to imagine a future for himself without hockey (apart from knowing he wanted to face it with Ilya). And for Ilya, there's of course the whole 'breaking the cycle' narrative which would be incredibly healing for him.
And even beyond narrative purposes and all that, I think they just would be great dads!! (See @punksalmons art of hollanov with their baby if you want proof on that front)
Also HELLOOOO TIN ROOF RUSTED FUTURE SNEAK PEEK JUST DROPPED‼️‼️‼️
