#mothfic

[wind-rider]

I still can’t remember Voidspeak’s tumblr so you’re getting the shitty drawing again. Cos for some reason i can’t draw moths, people or moth people. Your fic gives me brainworms and a quick drawing the day before an exam are the only way I know to get them out. Enjoy!!!

This is ADORABLE I love it so so much!! Thank you!!!!! And thank you for reading!!! And good luck on your exam :]

@v0idspeak look look lookit the friend

[wind-rider]

Hi!

I read your fic and got the brainrot, so i’m leaving you with this really really quick drawing of a really sad mothman

(Also i’m not really sure if voidspeak has a Tumblr account??? So i’m leaving this sad moth with you)

Enjoy!

!!! THE WET CAT I LOVE THEMB

Thank you SO much, also yes they do and it’s @v0idspeak pspspspsps void lookit the friend

[parmesannie]

Oh Captain, My Captain

— seonghwa x hongjoong pirate au

— 12.2k

— nsfw

— tags + summary under the cut

⋆˚｡⋆୨୧˚ AO3 link ˚୨୧⋆｡˚⋆

pairing: seonghwa x hongjoong

word count: 12.2k

rating: E

“Hongjoong can’t say he’s entirely sure where the line between hatred and obsession blurs anymore. It used to be a clear-cut thing, so obvious that he didn't even have to think about it. He’s a pirate, Seonghwa a member of the royal navy. They’re natural enemies, bound to hate each other and chase each other until one of them eventually prevails and the other is killed.

But as time goes on, Hongjoong finds that inevitable ending slipping further and further out of his mind's eye. All the rage that has carried him through his past confrontations with Seonghwa, all the desire to see him suffer and bend and break for ever daring to cross paths with him has morphed into something almost unrecognisable to him.

It still feels like desire.

Desire for what, exactly… He just can’t be sure anymore.”

tags: one-shot, pirate au, pirate captain hongjoong, admiral seonghwa, enemies to lovers, minor violence, smut, pwp, d/s undertones, flirting, hate sex, making out, grinding, biting, hair-pulling, hand jobs, blow jobs, face-fucking, degradation kink, humiliation, knives, restraints, possessiveness, edgeplay, chair sex, desk sex, non-penetrative sex, intercrural sex, come as lube, spit as lube, top seonghwa, bottom hongjoong

[mothbats]

"Metal Gear Solid : Lost Years" Anthology from Pliskin Press

They say that history books are written by the victors. Who then, writes the stories that no one ever hears? Collected in this volume ar

A little snippet of my piece for the Lost Years zine! Choosing just one little part to show was tough but also hopefully.... enticing...

Preorder the book here! It's for a great cause, too!!

[mothbats]

Once again @hamfootsia inspires me to come out of my writing shell to create lil ditties like this one. Bless u, ham

inspired by this piece of theirs, go forth and praise!

sfw, just mild descriptions of death and terrible awful children

Tretij Rebenok does not show his face to anyone but Eli.

The burns, the scars, the sheer damage that has hollowed him out to the very core of his being; these are the things he went to great lengths to hide, once upon a time. The rest of his body he has learned to give up, inch by inch - Africa is sweltering after all, and his appearance is disarming no matter the clothes it seems - but his face is for Eli alone.

Quite often that means it is hidden behind the gas mask he received so long ago now that the memory seems a blur, but sometimes, when it is just the two of them, Tretij Rebenok will let it fall, breathe air untainted by old plastic filters and see the world without a dingy orange tint. Eli watches him like he's a beast without a muzzle, wary knowing the extent of the psychic's powers when unchained; but there is no fear there, not when he knows he still holds the leash. 

That wariness is what brings Eli to jump at the rustle of cloth at the opening of their tent, the humid warm air of the summer night blowing in as one of Eli's boys comes to see him about something or other. Tretij Rebenok does not understand any of them, their minds a bright tapestry of violence and hunger that Eli weaves to suit his purposes, this messenger falling silent when Eli is on his feet in seconds. Their commander is frightening even in his good moods, but looking at him with a snarl twisting his lips and a knife drawn is enough to make any of his men cower. 

Tretij Rebenok responds to the situation with practiced shyness, curling into himself in the darkness, face hidden by the deep shadows of the tent as his unrestricted power flickers the flame of a nearby lamp. Eli is angry, layers of it brushing over Tretij Rebenok's mind like silk and velvet, each variation giving way to the next as it evolves. Tretij Rebenok doesn't quite grasp it at first, this fury - Eli is frequently woken up in the night, this is nothing new. It takes a particularly vivid hiss of foreign words falling off his tongue and the tip of the blade pressing to the interloper's sternum before Tretij Rebenok could fully taste this particular brand of bitterness. Jealousy.

But what did Eli have to be jealous of? Tretij did not have to dig far to see it, having witnessed it once before; Tretij Rebenok was his and his alone, to speak to, to protect, to command. To have someone barge in when Tretij Rebenok was baring his face in secret... if the boy had intended to see him fully, Tretij Rebenok did not doubt that he would be dead by now for treason. Eli was not known for being merciful, and Tretij Rebenok could envision the way he would carve out the boy's eyes as punishment, slice off his tongue before he could speak of what he saw to anyone else.

To someone as wretchedly starved for anything that could be construed as affection as Tretij Rebenok, this was the closest thing he knew to love.

It was but a breath and Tretij Rebenok was behind Eli, ankles delicately crossed where he hovered with his face pressed into blond hair. At the best of times it still smelled like sweat and musk and campfire smoke, this being no exception, warm and nearly comforting. Mind to mind, Tretij Rebenok relished in the close contact, feeding from the emotional upheaval as his palm slid along Eli's spine to his shoulder, the bony fingers of his other hand dancing down to Eli's forearm before holding loosely to it, steadying the knife. Eli seemed somewhat annoyed by the sudden contact, though not enough to do anything about it, Tretij Rebenok glancing out of the corner of his eye at the boy once more.

The stranger was still and silent, tense like an animal about to run. There was only one way this could go since he entered this sacred space of theirs, and Tretij Rebenok grinned against Eli's filthy scalp, nestling into those emotions that had so drawn him to the other in the first place. Even if it was an accident, Eli had to set examples, didn't he? He had warned them all so many times not to walk in like this, not to get too close to Tretij Rebenok, no touching, no staring: like a blazing star walking among them, only to be handled by their god. Well, sometimes lessons bared repeating.

Eli moved so quickly that it was like Tretij Rebenok wasn't there at all, a weightless apparition clinging to his form and bracing his arm as the knife sunk deep into the boy's throat. There was no fanfare, little more than a gurgle as blood began to well up and spill from cracked lips. When Eli withdrew the unfortunate soul sunk to his knees, clawing at his neck with a desperation that sung beautifully in Tretij Rebenok's head, reminding him of an antelope caught in the jaws of a lion, knowing death's hand was on them but struggling nonetheless. Tretij Rebenok could taste the bitterness of futility on his tongue, mulled it over as that foreign mind fell to silence.

Once the unsightly gasping finally ended, Eli inhaled sharply, as if breaking from a trance, a slight shiver echoing through his body as it began to relax. Alone once more. He didn't seem to notice Tretij Rebenok until he moved to drop the soiled knife, eyes following the way the empath's arm remained attached to his. They didn't need to speak the same language for him to understand the soft gloating in Tretij Rebenok’s head, that dark curl of pleasure taken from knowing that Eli was entirely ready to dispose of someone who may have had only the barest of glimpses at the psychic in vulnerability. Wiping his memory or instating a lighter punishment had been beyond Eli in the heat of the moment - the penalty for such a transgression had always been nothing less.

For Tretij Rebenok, love was just like this: stained with blood and dirt and starved possessiveness, the kind that wrapped him up in warmth like a blanket, a shield against those that would harm him. It didn’t bother him that it also held the potential to suffocate him, provided by the one that would kill him before he fell to another's hands. Tretij Rebenok thinks how he would welcome the knife at his throat next if such a thing ever came to pass.

But for now he coos something sweet and meaningless into Eli's mind, daring to nuzzle a little more until red strands mix with blond. Eli is gentled under his hands for this one stitch of time and he will take advantage of it, holding tight and breathing in his enrapturement of this one person, the only one deserving of it. The blood slicking their feet is the offering, and Tretij has accepted it wholeheartedly, the spill black as ink in the tent when the lantern gives out.

Hidden from the world, Tretij Rebenok smiles until his scars ache, eyes closed as Eli pulls him down, down, down.

[mothbats]

eyyo long time no write. So, I’ve had a lot of things happen that have stunted my desire to write over the past few months, but I’ve been trying to get back into the swing of it! This isn’t much, but it’s a small thing that I’m fairly pleased with and I hope you are too! (and that it provides some consolation that the next chapter of motm is taking forever)

artistry

sfw; liquidmantis, overuse of similes, sad boy

Tretij Rebenok is not his real name. It isn't a name at all but a title, a code, a watermark left on his person, obscuring his true self from the world. A little monster made of ash and despair, black with a smear of red, the color of blood on old cobblestones. The only colors of a life faded by hopelessness.

 The world is monochrome behind this mask of his, a steady hiss of measured breath, oranges and yellows that make up a jungle of violence and endless hunger that gnaws at the minds and bellies of all who surround him. That, Tretij Rebenok can understand. These are realities of black and white, simple lives measured by simple desires. They are shapeless blurs on stretched-thin canvas, faceless creatures with their claws outstretched for the one who would look upon them and be ensnared in their Hell. In this, Tretij Rebenok finds he has little choice, colored and molded until he is no longer sure what he looked like before.

 But the other boy is a bold streak in his mind when they meet. Tretij Rebenok breathes and he can taste pigments unknown on his tongue, looking at this other whose eyes are sharp, his fluid movements like the snake he's named himself after. Deadly, bright and blinding, Tretij Rebenok almost believes that there is something more in this world again. For the first time since birth he finds he wants to see it, to touch it, to know the thoughts of this boy who is so deeply entrenched in the richness of a self-made war.

 It makes Tretij Rebenok's eyes water to imagine it.

 Eli is the first to see Tretij Rebenok as he is in perhaps the whole of his life. Not a footnote in a paper, a file hidden away under rusted lock and key, but his own person: a painting that grows more colorful the longer Eli examines it. Like a master artisan, he pulls Tretij Rebenok to the forefront of his work, gives him shadow and depth, highlight that glows angelic. He is human again under Eli's command - under Eli's companionship.

 But he finds his true color with Eli's love.

 Tretij Rebenok doesn't know how his mask had been removed, so a part of him for so long that he had come to believe it as his own flesh. But Eli pries it away so easily, calloused fingers tender on pale skin, taking away the last of his defense and bathing him in light; removing the scab of an old wound and allowing the new growth beneath to breathe. Eli's eyes, Tretij Rebenok notes, are the bluest thing he's ever seen in his life - like the sky or the ocean, he supposes, not much room for focusing on it when he's being pulled in, magnetic to the beautiful boy before him.

 Eli kisses like he is blind to the chips in the marble, the frayed and burnt edges of Tretij Rebenok's body - his hands paint the high mountains and low rivers, the rocky outcroppings and the copper fields. He makes a masterpiece of what should have been broken and cast aside, remaking the empath anew with every touch and press of his mouth. Tretij Rebenok burns with the new life that has been breathed into him and he is sure to give as good as he gets. Eli will never want for another sunset, another stormy sky, another battlefield while Tretij Rebenok is at his side.

 And when Eli holds him and Tretij Rebenok is brave enough to give him his true name, it slides off his tongue in the dark, no more than a whisper of pastel on aged paper, a soft tint that gains a new hue each time Eli says it back. When he calls it, howls it, screams it in agony and ecstasy. This, Tretij Rebenok is sure, is the height of what life can be. The faded life of his mask has long been laid aside to gather dust in the recesses of his glorious gallery, forgotten.

 But all too soon, the paint begins to run. The world they have built begins to break, shrines to their new life rotting at the cores and paintbrushes losing their bristles one at a time in the wake of their conflicts. Eli longs to return to a place Tretij Rebenok cannot follow - his world has always been tinted by his need for revenge, an unwinnable fight. At first, Tretij Rebenok had been content to pretend it made their lives brighter, a background to every scene. However, now all he can see is the way it twists and turns them, the artist tearing down his creations to achieve his ultimate goal, hands burdened with ash and blood as he walks on the bent and broken corpses of his achievements.

 All his beauty gone... except one.

 But Tretij Rebenok cannot be changed; Eli had borne his Galatea unto the world, but he could not force it into his servitude like the others. Tretij Rebenok is an otherworldly creature who has begun to walk his divergent path, tears in his eyes when he sees the end come for them. Eli does not abide by begging, and their final kiss tastes too bitter, full of want and things left unsaid. Colorless and empty.

 Alone, Tretij Rebenok turns his old mask over in his paper-thin hands, trembling as he raises it to his face. The scent of leather and plastic has never been a comfort, and he chokes on the dust as the world beyond closes off into darkness: the age of the artist has ended.

 Tears fog the glass and turn the monochrome into a faded watercolor, cloaked in silence and loneliness, to begin again.

[shannonisusuallyonline-blog]

#pinof8

no regrets

[mothbats]

I blame @141-point-12 for this one: what if Mantis wanted to have a little fun messing with Hal just prior to Shadow Moses?

This comes from believing Liquid and Mantis would have some memory from Diamond Dogs days of Huey, and would be able to put two and two together of him being Hal’s father - poor Hal is ignorant to his legacy and Mantis, sensing an opportunity to tease someone so unbelievably soft-hearted, would jump at the chance to make someone squirm. With a small aside of coaxing Hal to be, maybe, a little more like him...

This was my first time writing Hal, so apologies if I didn’t get him just right. But I think I did decently for writing 99% of this at 4am. (○｀ε´○)

“Hard at work, doctor?” The voice that slithers into Hal’s ears doesn’t even seem human at first, more an echo from the white walls of his office than from a person. It makes his blood run as cold at the ice outside, his chair swiveling around to see one of the elite members of FOXHOUND there in the doorway, watching silently; Psycho Mantis, if he recalled correctly. And he really hoped he did, considering he didn’t know how this man would feel about someone forgetting his name.

 “Of… of course, sir!” Hal is doing his best to sound chipper despite the late hour and his dry mouth; it had been so long since he had last looked up he hadn’t noticed all his colleagues had turned in for the night, leaving him alone. There was a steady hiss from Mantis’ mask as he stepped closer, something about the way he moved oddly jarring – as if his feet never truly touched the ground. Hal was instantly reminded of ghost stories, hauntings… there was an ethereal quality to the way Mantis’ lenses shone in the fluorescent lighting, looking about with an exaggerated movement, like a toy with stiff joints.

 “I should think so, Dr. Emmerich. First to come, last to go, isn’t that right?” Mantis asked, but Hal could tell that it was more or less rhetorical. He didn’t remember much from his brief meeting with Liquid and the others before, but he had some vague recollection that Mantis was in charge of people, knowing who was doing what at any given time, and doing it so well that he was eerily adept at reading anyone. They said he was psychic, but psychics didn’t exist - any scientist would know that much; but it was no comfort to the chill running up Hal’s spine when Mantis was close enough to touch, looking at the computer screen over his shoulder.

 “Are you, ah, here for a progress report? I haven’t turned it in yet, I just wanted to finish something first, it’s a little complicated, you see…” the words were stumbling off Hal’s tongue embarrassingly fast, not sure why he was determined to seem put together now. If Mantis was so good at analyzing others, no doubt he had figured out just how badly the otaku was falling apart before he even stepped through the door. Still, he managed to sit through the explanation without interrupting, so motionless Hal would have wondered if he were even alive if not for his loud breathing and the occasional twitch of his shoulders. He couldn’t see the other man’s eyes through those lenses, yet somehow he could sense Mantis was not impressed.

 “Sounds like it must be quite a feat, building something like this,” Mantis rasped, his accent lilting somewhat as he gestured to the screen. “Yet you make it sound as if it were truly simple, doctor. But I suppose this sort of thing runs in your blood, doesn’t it?” His voice was calm but the question set Hal on edge, defenses immediately up at such a question. He supposed it must have been written all over his face, the way Mantis laughed, low and wheezing. “Is it such a shock to you that I would know your late father was an engineer? We may only be here as your bodyguards, but I don’t believe it hurts to know who we’re protecting.”

 “My father and I weren’t… we weren’t close,” Hal stuttered, trying to keep his expression trained neutral; Mantis couldn’t know everything, no more than what would be in a standard file or background check. “I suppose, initially, my father may have gotten me interested in engineering… but he died before I even got to college.” The memory of the day he dropped out of school was still bitter in his mind, overlaid with guilt from running away from his home, his problems… He can tell himself he mustn’t run away, but how often could he take his own advice? Even now he wanted to run from Mantis’ scrutiny, the way he made Hal feel like he was flayed open and served on a platter. He only made it too easy to dissect him.

 “I was not close with my father, either; it’s something of a running theme I’m noticing around here, these days,” Mantis sounded almost amicable, pacing to the side. If he noticed Hal’s distress he chose not to comment, arms folded behind his back. “Your father also had his hands in some similar projects; I must admit I find it hard to believe that you coincidentally decided to pursue this job when it has such a resemblance to the things your father once built.” And there, Hal could hear it, an ounce of bait, looking for some reaction. But all Hal had to give was surprise, his eyebrows up before drawing together in confusion and his hand shaking where it lay on the armrest. He told himself it was from drinking far too much caffeine, and nothing more.

 “What… what are you talking about? My father… He never…” Hal stuttered, biting his tongue when he noticed Mantis cocking his head at him like a cat observing a mouse before the pounce. “I’m sorry sir, I don’t mean any disrespect, but I don’t understand what you mean. My father didn’t work on any defense or weapons systems; he only made simple designs for the government.” It was what Hal had been told, anyway, and he had no reason to disbelieve it. Even when Huey had been in a well enough mood to show Hal what he was working on, they hadn’t been anything as grandiose as REX. Maybe that was why his father seemed perpetually frustrated with his job – was he not living up to his full potential?

 “Ah, of course there would be things he would hide from you,” Mantis soothed, an air of someone with all the answers, holding out the carrot and taunting Hal with it. Hal swallowed around the lump in his throat, wondering what Mantis was trying to accomplish with this, silent and tense in his anxiety. “Do you think REX is truly the first of its kind? Similar projects have been around for decades, designs passed around until they found someone fool enough to build them. ArmsTech is just another in a long line of groups… private and governmental.”

 “And you’re saying my father… he was on one of these projects?” Hal couldn’t help the cracking in his tone, praying that he was misunderstanding this, or that Mantis was lying to get a rise out of him. There was no way his father could have made anything like REX, there had to be a mistake; nothing like REX had ever existed before, he was certain, or else he would have heard about it - if not from the news, then from his father, had he made them. But Mantis merely nodded, unaffected by Hal’s growing distress.

 “Two of them, even – though I was only privy to the latter one he worked on,” Mantis allowed his arms to fall to his side, head rolling to one shoulder as if he were discussing something a lot less serious than robotic tanks. “1984, so long ago now… You were only an infant back then; of course you would have been clueless. But I saw it.” Mantis leaned in a little closer, taking in Hal’s discomfort, his fear. It was enough to make Hal glad he had made a bathroom run only an hour before, his stomach clenching. He couldn’t even manage to ask what it was Mantis witnessed, but the other man continued on anyway.

 “Do you want to know what it was like, Dr. Emmerich? Do you want to know the truth of what you are building, the destruction you will bring upon this world with your naiveté? The kind that puts children in the cockpits of tanks, at the mercy of monsters?” His voice was so low it was almost as if he were whispering a secret, Hal able to see eyes narrowed behind the glass now. “Because I have lived it, and I can tell you: your innocence won’t save you from the jaws of your creation when it comes for you.” Mantis blinked slow, pinning Hal in place with only his gaze. Maybe there really was some power there – Hal was starting to believe it now.

 “Or maybe you will be like your father after all… slipping away from any true punishment for your crimes, before taking your life. Will it be out of a sense of guilt, I wonder? Your father never had such compunctions, but you…” Mantis stood up, regarding Hal like he would a man begging forgiveness: with obvious distaste. “You don’t even know what you’re really building here – if you did, would you have signed up for it?  Would you have done it to be like your father, or maybe… to make something different, distance yourself from his legacy?” Mantis sighed behind his mask, the breath eking out from the filters. “I think I can guess.” He chuckled and turned away as if to leave, and Hal found himself mentally reviewing everything he thought he knew about this project, his father, his past… what was true, and what was not?

 “What is it… what do you really know?” Hal asked but he wasn’t entirely sure he was ready for the answer, Mantis silent as he stopped, turned his gaze back on him. It was like a physical weight in Hal’s mind to be stared at like this, shrinking in his spot. But even so, his mouth was able to keep running. “What is it that you saw? How do I even know you’re telling me the truth?” He accused, his heart locking up when Mantis stalked back over, examining Hal where he sat, towering over him. With that cold demeanor and strange posture, the reflection of his gas mask…. Hal could see where Mantis earned his name.

 “I know that you doubt who I am, Dr. Emmerich. That you don’t believe in the supernatural… but there are some things that cannot be refuted.” Mantis sounded as if he were annoyed to be explaining this, hating to be disbelieved. “And what I have seen is your father, in the flesh – so selfishly focused on his own goals that he would damn even his son to the fire of his making. I’m sure you must have wondered so many times if the path you are on is the right one… trying to live righteously in the face of your guilt.” Mantis’ hand came to rest on the back of Hal’s chair, trapping him in, watching as the engineer’s face paled to an even more sickly hue.

 “I don’t know what you mean.” Hal lied, turning his face away, trying to escape the conversation now. But Mantis wasn’t through with him yet, chuckling and preventing him from turning his seat as he continued, “You believe you were ultimately the hand that pushed Huey Emmerich into the water that day, but isn’t it a coward’s move to throw oneself to oblivion rather than face your mistakes?” Hal sucked in a breath, felt like he was going to be sick; how could Mantis know that? How could anyone? His head was beginning to ache, eyes misting with tears. Mantis clicked his tongue, the sound dull and muted behind the leather and plastic.

 “Nobody would blame you if you hated him… if you stopped blaming yourself for his death, and instead celebrated your freedom from a man who never cared about you… I can tell you, it’s rather liberating.” Mantis’ voice was a purr, surprising gentleness as he waited for Hal to rub at his eyes, pretend he wasn’t almost crying. “Poor Dr. Emmerich… you don’t have to live in that shadow. You can always choose another path, refuse that same cowardice and accept that this world should be cleansed of such filth! But instead you let your soft heart keep you gullible to such truths; how long before you understand it?” Mantis’ question changed to bitterness and anger, sweeping his arm with a swish of his coat.

 “I couldn’t. I could never,” Hal started, his jaw tight as he tried to think of a proper response, frightened for the sudden change in mood, and for himself, ensnared by Psycho Mantis in a rapidly deteriorating conversation. Mantis grunted his disbelief at that, Hal continuing with some trepidation, “How could anyone want to live in a world like that? I… I want to work for understanding, not some heartless, eye-for-an-eye mentality!” His heart was pounding in his throat, scarcely able to believe that he could talk this way to one of the top members of FOXHOUND, able to look Mantis in the eye and refuse him. “Whatever my father made, I won’t be the same. I won’t make the same mistakes if I’m working for peace!” Hal said it and hoped the waver to his voice came off as emotionally authentic, instead of afraid for his choices and his sanity. “Rex will be different.”

 Mantis was looking at him, really examining him like an insect pinned to a board, and Hal could feel the sweat running down the back of his neck, his headache only growing. The tense silence was split by Mantis’ strange giggle, dark and rolling as it turned into a barking laugh, shaking his head and no doubt grinning behind his mask. “What a foolishly noble goal…” He chuckled, Hal gradually turning pink from being made fun of like this and unable to help folding in further. “I hope for your sake, you do not live to see just how wrong you are.” Though it sounded good-natured, Hal could hear the underlying warning there, wondering if he were about to see his own end when the echoing sound of footsteps drew both their eyes to the door.

 “Mantis,” Liquid spoke and in his voice was a reprimand, the man he addressed huffing like a child caught doing something he should not have been. “I thought we discussed leaving Dr. Emmerich alone – he’s a very busy man after all. It wouldn’t do for him to get distracted from his work.” Liquid held himself with unexpected poise for being the commander of such a rough group as FOXHOUND, coming closer and making Mantis hiss through his filters.

 “Of course, Boss,” Mantis bit out, clearly annoyed and using the title as if it were an insult. Strangely, Liquid didn’t seem to mind, taking Mantis’ behavior in stride. “We were only having a little discussion; besides, I think Dr. Emmerich was just on his way to sleep; it is so late after all.” Mantis turned his eyes on Hal, making him wish he could disappear - he really could not finish that stealth camo soon enough, although at this point he would settle for the earth swallowing him whole. He was stammering out that he would finish his work and clock out soon, cut off by Mantis holding his hand up, a gesture to stop. Something about it made Hal feel unbearably tired, swaying in his seat.

 Distantly, he could hear Liquid and Mantis talking about something, words slurred in his ears and senseless, something about not remembering… not remembering what? Hal tried to be polite and excuse himself only to be pushed back into his chair, coming to rest his head on his arms, a classic overnighter position as the world faded darker and darker into the quiet, left alone again at last.

 It was one of his coworkers that woke him the next morning, some gentle ribbing that Hal had done it again; he was going to make the rest of them look bad if he kept up these long shifts, someone else bringing him a cup of coffee that warmed his hands with a gentle warning that he should get more rest. Hal might have agreed, feeling strangely unsettled about the night before, as if some dream had made him fretful. Of course, sleeping at his desk could easily have the same effect, running a hand through his greasy hair and grimacing.

 Hal could never remember if he had dreamt that night, preferring not to dwell on it in the end. His only lingering issue was a sudden aversion to certain insects and one FOXHOUND member, the thought of seeing that gas mask staring back at him in the chilled, empty halls enough to give him heart palpitations. His only relief was that this would all be over soon enough, looking over the finalized blueprints for REX and feeling his pride only momentarily brushed by uncertainty he couldn’t explain.

 It was all nothing to worry about, he told himself…. Nothing at all.