For your 1-year anniversary, how about a fill of this prompt:
You gain the power to travel to fictional worlds, so you immediately decide to travel into your favourite novel, only to then find out that you’re the inter-dimensional evil they’ve been foreshadowing for the past 3 books
Only if you want to ofc, no pressure, please and thank you! 💖
First of all, I’m so sorry I got really carried away with this and it’s about three times longer than I initially intended, so I’m literally going to have to post it in three bits because it’s too long for one post, and I also got a little bit carried away with the plot of the favourite novel. Secondly, I hope you like it!!
[tw: a bit of violence and blood mentioned, childhood trauma and what I guess is very mild psychological horror]
———
She never meant to end up there, that much is true, but she most definitely wanted to. Reading has and always will be a form of escapism; therefore it should not be a surprise that everyone who does it may wish to disappear into the world inside those pages. This is, of course, just a fantasy. Wishing to be in a world born from someone else’s imagination is nothing more than a fun thought experiment; something to waste time while you’re riding the bus. It has never been an achievable feat. That is, until a few months ago.
The pages of her book fluttered half-heartedly as another train rushed past. Her hair was not so well secured, so it swam irritatingly in front of her eyes, forcing her to turn her attention away from the words on the page in order to swipe it away. She scowled.
It was not as though she were at a particularly interesting point in the book yet, but the interruption was still as unwanted as they often are. She returned her gaze to where her thumb held the book open at the spine. It was still in the developing portion; none of the major action had occurred yet, but something was brewing. Something had been brewing for a while, by then.
The book was the fourth and final instalment in a series that she had practically gobbled up. It was a wonderful story. The books revolved around five people who had all been the heroes of their own stories long ago, but had long since been forgotten as all but children's bedtime stories. They were ageing and greying and fiercely protective of each other and their thankless world who did not notice their help.
Each enemy they had faced thus far had known a frankly concerning amount about each of them, yet had refused to reveal their source. The similar information and attitude had led the group to theorise that they were all from a single group or organisation hell bent on what, they weren’t quite sure. It unnerved them greatly.
Despite everything, they concluded their adventures successfully. Although, there was a refreshing sense of realism to the story; as you could easily sense how much each fight was grating on them. They were being consumed by their own narrative.
They had surpassed the horizon of their own stories many years ago and were becoming nothing but hollow shells and reanimated corpses, dragged through a story they had never meant to inhabit. The desperation of the cause, of being meaningful, was all-consuming and slowly devouring them. Their paranoia — of a greater enemy that they knew only the outline of; from shambled, half-false scraps of information and near-forgotten folk tales of shadow people in shadow worlds — was driving them insane. Weariness was a constant companion to their souls.
Another train rushed past in a flurry.
She continued to read. One of the characters was becoming aware that there was something in the dark and she was almost certain it was observing her. Yes, she thought, something is most definitely brewing.
At last, her own train arrived and she stood from her seat on one of the platform benches. A crowd was massing around each of the doors to what she could see were also rather full carriages. It was going to be a long day.
She opened her bag and began putting away the book when she overheard someone pleading to get onto the train. She looked up to see a rather ramshackle-looking man half off the platform, trying to get into the already packed carriage.
Distantly she heard one of the accusing voices within the train call the man “grimy,” and frowned. He was obviously desperate to get onto the train; they didn’t have to be cruel about it.
At last, someone gave a great shove and the man went tumbling backwards. Instinctively, she lurched forward to stop him from smashing into the concrete, catching him just before he hit the floor. The doors of the train snapped shut and a moment later it sped off into the dark, leaving her attempting to haul the man onto his feet.
“Sorry about that,” she said, still in shock of the other passengers, “I can’t believe they did that. I — I should report them, they assaulted—”
“Thank you,” the man proclaimed sincerely, breaking her rambling train of thought, “However can I repay you?”
“Oh, uh,” she scrambled for a reply. In her peripheral vision she could still see the receding tail end of the train and winced, “Give me the ability to run off into a fantasy world where I don’t have to go to work this morning,” she joked, thinking of the look she knew that her manager would be wearing when she attempted to excuse her third late arrival that week. Something inside of her twisted at the thought.
“Alright.” The man replied, a flat tone to his voice and a sincere expression to his gaunt features. “As you wish.”
“You— what?”
Another train rushed past, drawing her attention away. When she turned back, the man had disappeared into the encroaching crowd waiting for the next train. Her brow crinkled and her lips parted lightly, but more and more people were arriving and she had already lost sight of the man.
The next train was equally as crowded as the first, but miraculously, she had managed to snag a window seat. The glass was cool against the clammy skin of her forehead and it soothed the encroaching headache from the hustle and bustle in the carriage. She supposed that the headache was also, in part, to do with the strange man who had offered she the ability to run into fictional worlds. Perhaps he was mad.
Absentmindedly, she began to wonder what it would be like if she could disappear into the world of one of her books. She wondered who she would be, an antagonist or a hero or no one at all. She wondered if she would reinvent herself or be painfully truthful to her own nature — of which would make her more trustworthy. She wondered if it would be fun, or if she would wind up as the same, hollow, shell of herself that the characters did; if she would return as somebody entirely different.
A heavy exhaustion suddenly began to weigh on her chest, a pressure that squeezed her ribs like an enormous pair of hands or a snake constricting around its prey. With heavy-lidded eyes and a gently throbbing head, she let the comforting lull of sleep sweep her away.
Sunshine tickled delicately at her fluttering eyelids. It was soft and warm against her face, reminiscent of summer picnics during childhood spent lying on a hillside looking up at the vast, blue sky — the sort that were more dream than memory. Licks of grass brushed against her neck almost reverently, soft and dry but prickled just enough to make it tickle. The coolness of glass and the odd softness of the synthetic seat material of the train was entirely replaced.
She opened her eyes and sure enough the sky was very blue and she was very still atop a hill of wild grass.
Dreaming, she concluded, was what was happening at that moment. It was simply a very, very, vivid dream. A light wind brushed across her cheeks and the delicate scent of the wildflowers, mixed with the cloying smother of midday heat invaded her nostrils. She could hear a cricket somewhere in the underbrush and cars shimmying along a road somewhere down below; the whooshing rather similar to that of a violent river or cacophonous wind. A very, very vivid dream.
She got up brusquely and looked about herself. At the top of the hill was a squat, white building with a slated roof and what appeared to be gold writing embossed on its side, but which was too far away to read. Curious and with little elsewhere to explore, she made her way swiftly up the hill.
The long grass pulled and caught on her boots as she walked and she tried determinedly not to think of the disturbingly realistic quality to it. Slowly, the building grew closer and closer, and the words began to become increasingly clear. “The New Inn,” they read. Absentmindedly she remembered someone telling she that words in dreams were incomprehensible and began to wonder why those were not.
‘The New Inn’ was a pub similar to any that she had seen before: thus she decided that it was simply her subconscious taking old memories of random pubs and recreating them. The bar was the first thing that she saw when she walked in through the door; it stretched the length of the first room with an array of colourful bottles behind it and empty cups upturned on the work surface. Each of them had the signature brand label on the front but none of them were recognisable to her. Similarly, the alcohol all seemed to be completely unknown brands.
The bartender: a young man with dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses looked up at her arrival and asked if they could be of assistance.
“Where am I?” She asked dumbly, tongue thick with disbelief and utter confusion.
“This is the New Inn,” he answered quickly. He had a deep voice, rumbling but soft; it didn’t quite suit him.
“What town though? Where are we nearest to?”
He frowned curiously and recited the name of the three surrounding towns. She almost laughed in his face. The towns that he had named featured heavily in the first two books of the series that she had been reading. The author had wanted to create a world that was similar but not quite the same as her own and had thus made up the names of each of their towns and cities — as well as avoiding references to pop culture.
“Are you sure?” She asked him.
“Quite.”
She reminded herself that she was surely dreaming and left quickly the way she came. A sudden thought crossed her mind; if it was indeed the world within her books that she currently resided, then she could probably catch the protagonists hanging around somewhere. It depends on the date, she thought.
Suddenly very curious, she slipped quickly back into the pub. “Sorry, yes, and er, what’s the date?”
The bartender offered her and increasingly exasperated glance but answered anyway. “August 4th.”
“Mmhmm,” she hummed, “Year?”
“Ye- you don’t know what year it is?”
“Humour me.”
The bartender sighed and pushed his glasses further up his nose. “It’s 2026.”
She grinned feverishly. She was standing right at the beginning of the narrative; the first day of the story, just before everything began to come together. “Cheers,” she exclaimed and dashed out of the door once again, leaving the bartender gawking in her wake.
She knew exactly which town to go to in order to observe the unfolding story and thankfully there were road signs outside of the pub. As she walked, the strange man from the train station and the sincerity of his words returned to her, almost like a warning and they rattled around inside her head. Perhaps it wasn’t a dream. She laughed; of course it was a dream. It had to be a dream. This is just what you get from binge-reading something, she thought.
It was only a short walk, ten minutes or so — or at least what felt like ten minutes; in a dream state that could have been hours. She remembered the church being a particularly well embellished monument within the opening description of the scenery, so that was what she headed for. It was a great, towering structure that loomed over the surroundings with a watchful eye. The ancient clock settled below its domed roof counted backwards for a reason unknown to anyone at all, yet had never been fixed for that was how it had always been.
It was about half an hour before she spotted them; bespectacled, with freckles spattered across their face like constellations, hair and eyebrows just starting to go grey — the spitting image of how the book had described them. She grinned.
Behind by about a hundred and fifty metres, she followed them to the small shop where she knew would be the scene of the first skirmish of the book — as well as the reader’s first introduction to their character.
As to not be injured by the impending fight, she waited outside, watching through the window. A punch was quickly thrown, then another, then she barely had time to step aside as the offending party was thrown through the front window. The offender sputtered and staggered in the broken glass and peered up as a hand gripped hold of their shirt and wrenched them up. She winced. Despite knowing the offender deserved to be put in place for harassing the cashier, she couldn’t help but pity the for the beating they were getting.
A few others had come to watch. Beside her stood a tall man in a black suit, his hair was gelled back and he looked as though he was going somewhere important. “You know,” she murmured conspiratorially, “They were a hero once.” The man raised his eyebrows above the dark glasses that she hadn’t noticed he was wearing in a questioning manner. She took that as her cue to continue. “Yeah, years ago by now, but they’re still trying to do their hero stuff,” the offender’s back thudded against the wall and she winced again, “as you can see.”
“Pray tell, do you know much more about them?”
Excited, she began to babble. “Oh, yes! This is Sam Wallace, no one really knows them much anymore but they saved god knows how many people back when they were a kid and recruited by one of those dodgy ‘superhero’ agencies — you know, those ones that got shut down because they really mistreated their employees and recruits, by like, locking them in rooms with rats and whatnot to scare them into submission? They live just up the road from here, they’re really cool.”
The man smiled to himself and turned away, “Thank you ever so much for the information, I’m sure I will find it vital in future.”
Too caught up in watching the fight, she waved the man off with a quick, “sure, anytime,” without any deeper inspection of the odd comment.
The police arrived soon after to take the retired superhero away, but so did a suspicious-looking, black SUV with some obviously government employees inside — who told the police that it was under their jurisdiction from then on. She couldn’t stop smiling; everything was happening just as it was in the book.
Over the following two weeks, she followed the group of retirees and half-forgotten legends through their escapades, until they finally discovered the antagonists base of operations. It was a rather decrepit warehouse in a forgettable corner of a generic industrial estate. Wide and squat, with a jutting roof and signature damp, concrete floor, it was by no means conspicuous. The unassuming nature of the building made it rather perfect as a lair.
The antagonists name was Ryker, or at least that was what he called himself. She crept in after the group in order to get a good look, hidden by the shadows of the towering, metal shelves. It worked. He was a tall man, half his face was cast in shadow, accentuating the angular properties of it and his sleek, black hair was swept backwards and gelled in place. He looked oddly familiar, but she put it down to reading his description in the books.
“So, do you come here often?”
“This is my house. My actual house. I live here.”
Linkity link
No pressure ofc! Please and thank you 💖💖💖
tw: alcohol consumption, there’s a battle mentioned briefly for a bit of context, so I suppose violence
———
That evening’s sky was a soft charcoal, marred by streaks of burnished orange that were remnants of the buried sun. A rich and vibrant pink was spilled across the horizon as though an ink pot had been knocked down and it’s tepid light brushed the very tips of the rooftops. A storm was brewing in the thick, sagging clouds and rain was already beginning to patter against the window panes like gentle bullets.
She felt the first few cool drops on her cheeks and hurried her pace. She hoped to get home before the rain really began to pour.
With the increased speed, the stitches in her side began to pull taught. Her feet slowed to a halt. Breath escaped her lips in thin, laboured exhales and her sharp features were constricted as though someone had put a rather underripe gooseberry in her mouth. Delicate fingers ghosted over the injury through her shirt, her breath catching each time too much pressure was applied.
As though her body was afflicted by a bought of sympathetic nostalgia, she older traumas aching in constant with the new one. The skin may have healed — albeit with some fair discolouration or puckering — but the memory of each slice and carve and shot was categorised and stained across her bones like blood on a ledger.
The rain grew more confident with each passing moment; spewing great swathes of water onto the blackening tarmac. The rain would surely soak her anyway; so she saw no point in hurrying any longer.
She hoped desperately that her roommate wouldn’t be too irritated at her late arrival home; for it was well into the wee hours of the morning. It was those evenings when she got home later than was, perhaps, necessary that she would wake up the following morning with the usually-half-full coffee pot empty and her favourite coat conveniently ‘borrowed’.
She sighed. It had been a long day and a longer week. She ran her shaking fingers through her hair absentmindedly, worrying at the flyaway strands. Her fingers caught in a knot and she pulled it in front of her face to untangle it. The strands were clumped together and stuck fast as though someone had taken a glue stick to the back of her head. As she passed beneath the mellow glow of the street lamps, she noticed the dampened red glimmer to the clump and realised it was her own blood, missed and overlooked when she had scrubbed most of it from her hair.
The battle had been won. That was all that mattered, they said. When she had stood amongst the wreckage of the building, children weeping and people painted in a thick coat of grey dust that clung to them like a second skin, an old woman lying eerily still, her eyes still wide and mouth agape yet taking no breath, it had not felt like winning. But their ‘villains’, as it were, were a cancer than had to be eradicated before the city could begin to heal; before people could begin picking up the shattered pieces of their lives. She swallowed around a terrible knot in her throat. At the end of the day, was it the villains that had ruined their lives, or them?
She sighed and brushed water from her eyelashes. She needed a bath and some brandy and to sleep a full night. The thought of it; of warm water cradling her aching bones and then collapsing into the soft embrace of her duvet; kept her moving forward despite the still noticeable twang in her side.
A delicate smile was spread across her face and a silent debate of whether to order in some food or just go straight to bed was raging within her when she finally reached her door. For a moment, she fumbled within her pockets for her keys, but then, even in the gloom, she realised the door was ajar.
Within the blink of an eye, she had slipped silently inside. A blade was clutched between her fingers and pressed flush against her thigh as she turned the corner, but only the answering gloom was there to greet her. She traipsed slowly through each room until only the living room remained. Her shoulders felt stiff as though they were set in stone — she knew she needed to relax but it was her home.
“Good morning!” The ancient lamp flickered on weakly. “So, do you come here often?”
It took her eyes a mere moment to adjust to the influx of light and she recognised the figure in her favourite armchair immediately. “This is my house,” she growled, “My actual goddamn house. I live here.” Their long legs dangled lamely in front of them, the tight suit pristine except for the occasional patch of visible thread and puckered spines that marred it from prior damage; they weren’t at the fight, she thought. Despite that, their arms — balanced neatly on the arms of the chair — were taut and their knuckles whitened by force. There was a gritty, forceful aspect to their signature smile.
Not bothering to waste time, she lurched forward, the blade between her fingers an extension of herself as it halted, unwavering an inch from their throat. “What have you done to Sarah?”
“S— your roommate? Nothing, nothing.” They proclaimed. Her blade did not waver and not an ounce of relief washed over her features. “I’m not playing with you — can’t you read? Note on the corridor mirror says she went out drinking with her friends and they’re staying over at some ‘Vicky’’s house.”
She leant backwards a fraction; just enough to see the pink post-it note stuck wonkily to the mirror.
Looking back to the seething body beneath her blade, she realised that their suit was not as pristine as earlier believed. “If you get blood,” she began, “on my favourite chair, I will skin you and hang you up in the basement.”
They made a shrugging motion that looked as though they had moved to raise their arms in surrender but decided against it. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Her eyebrows arched slowly until they almost touched her hairline. “Look, I don’t mean to be an inconvenience—” She scoffed. “I just need your help.”
She threw back her head to expose the soft skin of her neck and they watched it bob up and down as an enormous belly laugh belted from her throat. She doubled over and clutched so desperately at her abdomen that she let the blade drop. “Why?” She breathed it between half-choked sobs, “Would i ever help you?”
They sputtered indignantly, “I don’t know, you’re a hero! You— you’re supposed to be good! Do good things.”
“Good?” She laughed, eyes as wide as saucers and as wild as those of a street cat, “Don’t you dare talk to me about good.” She shook her head and the unsure tears fell; wiping clear streaks through the grime coated on her cheeks. Suddenly they seemed less like tears of laughter.
“Do you know what else,” she began, “heroes are supposed to do?” They shook their head so minutely that she almost missed it. “Defeat the villain. And by god, I’ve already done that once today, you think I won’t do it again?”
Their glassy, half-lidded eyes snapped open and they began twisting uneasily, “Look, I don’t want any trouble, just let me leave and I won’t do anything more!”
“Don’t want trouble?” Her voice was high, growing higher by the sentence. “You came here, you broke into my home, and you can’t possibly have known that Sarah would be out, so with the intention of hurting my best friend. You also now know where I live, may I remind you, how do I don’t know you won’t just run to all your little friends and tell them aaaall about it?”
“I— I— please.”
“Go back and beg at the freshly dug grave of that horrible man who’s allegiance you clutched so dearly.” She spat and the blade edged a little closer.
“I wouldn’t even if I wanted to,” they replied lamely, glancing at the crusted ooze of red that stained their abdomen.
“It was him? That did that?” She asked incredulously. A deep blush spread like wildfire across their cheeks and their mouth bobbed open and closed like a goldfish. She threw back her body again, though without quite as much vigour, and howled with a humourless laugh.
“It was— it was—” They growled frustratedly. “He told me his plan, ok? His plan for the apartment building. Wilful destruction and— and murder, just to spite a bunch of people he didn’t really like. I told him it was heinous even for him and it didn’t exactly go well.”
She gawked at them, “And the logical next step was to break into the house of someone who’s team has been actively trying to kill or disarm you for the past year and a half?”
“You were the only one I thought might help!” They cried, “You were the only one I thought might not fucking kill me on sight!” She moved to cut in but they continued on, “I know I did it wrong, ok? Does that satisfy you? But I never intended to become a villain, i never intended to get this deep but bad situations breed bad situations. So, if I was wrong and you’re going to just butcher me in your chair, fucking fine. I’m going to be dead in an hour or two anyway; so have at it.”
She snarled like a rabid dog and launched the knife across the room, lodging it in the doorframe. “Do they think you’re dead?”
“Wha—”
“Do they — the villain community or whatever the hell you lot have going on — think you’re dead?”
“Probably,” they replied tiredly, “yes, yes they must do by now.”
“Ok,” she spat sarcastically, her body bending a little in a mock bow of gratitude, “then I will give you a single chance. If I fix you up, best I can, wrap you up in a little bow, then send you off with a new name and a very, very, rushed passport, will you stay out of trouble? If you do; if you keep your nose clean, then I will leave you alone and tell the others that you’re dead. If you don’t, I’ll kill you myself.”
They settled back into the chair with a wretched grin plastered across their familiarly smug face. “Didn’t know you cared so much.”
She stared at them blankly. “I’m being generous. Would you like to die instead?”
“No! No!” They stammered, loose limbs jumping to attention again, “No! I— Thank you, I truly appreciate it.”
She growled and moved into the kitchen to retrieve the emergency first aid kit.
The wound was not nearly as bad as they had seemingly assumed it to be: the stab wound, as it was, had missed all of their vital organs and had generally only bled enough to make them feel a little queasy. Despite the fact, it took her well over an hour to get them cleaned and stitched up. She slapped a dressing over her worryingly well practiced work with all the grace of a goat on cocaine and a little more force than necessary.
She had provided a bottle of cheap vodka for her villainous counterpart to dull the pain with and they had taken that as a challenge. The bottle lay empty about four feet from their limp, outstretched arm where it had rolled to and they had been watching it glumly ever since they had dropped it.
“I’m finished,” she announced and stood up slowly, her knees crackling like burning firewood.
They wriggled and writhed where they were slouched against the front of her sofa like a gleeful slug. With a light burp they gurgled a soft, “Yay.”
They soon fell into a blissful and sound sleep. Their lithe form fell limp as though they were but a doll who’s strings had been dropped and they lay so eerily still that if it weren’t for the slight rise and fall of their chest, they could have easily been mistaken for dead. They’re not quite so terrible when they’re sleeping, she thought. But then again, most people aren’t.
She worked as they slept, pulling up paperwork and calling in old favours that she had cached away for a rainy day, until at last they were someone completely new. They died on that floor, as they slept. Their chest fell still and their brain fizzled out like the last trickles of electricity through a broken bulb. She wondered what they were dreaming of. In their place, a different person would awaken; not entirely different but not entirely the same, either. She hoped.
They awoke with gentle light breaking through the cracks between the curtains and caressing their sallow cheeks. The sunlight hung like raindrops on their eyelashes and they blinked it away as their sight came into focus. Cool floorboards cradled their aching body as did a soft pillow beneath their head — the textured material rubbed delicately against the backs of their ears.
Beside them, upon the sofa, she sat. Her legs were splayed a shoulder’s width apart and her hands dangled, folded, between them. Her back was hunched just enough to push her face into the light — it caught and sharpened the contours of her features so that they resembled something fierce; like jagged rocks slicing through the shimmering morning sea. The tendrils of light coiled themselves amongst her dark curls of hair like rope slung loosely across a deck. It softened the rippling waves almost reverently; casting her as something almost holy.
“Good, you’re awake.”
They blinked blearily at her. There was a searing pound within their skull echoed by the vague memory of a lot of vodka and they couldn’t quite focus. “Yes,” they murmured, “I am.”
“Don’t move too much,” she commanded as they began to shift and stir, “I’m not restitching that wound.”
In a long, languid movement, they brought themself up so that their back was pressed firmly against the soft furnishings of her settee. A glass of water appeared in front of their nose and they took it gleefully, taking enormous, selfish gulps that thundered down their throat. The coolness was rousing. After a short while of silence, the searing throb had become little more than a dull ache and it was then that she chose to speak once more.
“I have all of your files here,” she began, “new name, new birthday, new life.”
They offered a sky smirk, “Have i got a cool name? Like— like— like Dick Tate, or Don Keigh?”
She raised her eyebrows incredulously, “That’s your idea of a cool name?” They merely shrugged. “And no; your new name is Danny Burdock.”
“Not bad, not bad.” They feigned indifference, though something was bubbling eagerly in the hollows of their ribs.
“Yeah well,” she trailed off for a moment, eyes transfixed on something that wasn’t their as the sunshine caught and illuminated the heavy, dark bags that dragged at their eyes. “Get cleaned up and sorted, I’ve got out some old clothes that neither me nor Sarah want — I think they belonged to one of her ex’s but honestly I can’t remember. But they’re clean and civilian, so you don’t have to go traipsing around in that ruined suit of yours, drawing attention to yourself.” She paused, “Which I’ve washed, by the way. You owe me.”
As she got up and left, they watched her with a manner of dumbstruck awe; their lips parted slightly in a silent question never asked.
They found the clothes quickly; folded and placed on the coffee table beside the sofa. They fitted alright, although the jeans were a little long, so they cuffed them a little at the bottom so that they were a more appropriate length. The tee shirt was nothing special; plain and black with a tiny little penguin over the top breast — but they knew they shouldn’t argue; it was generous of her to give them even that.
Swiftly, they crept into the kitchen where they knew she would be, to accept their documents and their cleaned suit.
“Here,” she said, “this is all your main information; name, date of birth, social security number — you get the gist — then all of this is education; I figured I’d give you some decent qualifications to get you started, then this is just other bits and bobs, y’know.” She waved her hands around lackadaisically. “I’m sure you can see yourself out, after all you certainly know where the door is.”
In a flash, they bent down and wrapped her in an awkwardly one sided hug. The impact forced the air in her lungs to rush from her lips and it took her a moment to realise what was happening — at which point she was no less confused. In a rather awkward manner, she let her hands drop onto their back gently and began tracing delicate circles in the soft fabric.
“Thank you,” they whispered.
“I— you’re welcome.”
With a sharp intake of breath, they pulled back and smiled genuinely. “Cheerio.” And they turned away.
“Yes, g-good bye,” she mumbled as the door clicked shut behind them. “Good luck.”
A little while passed before she was able to shake herself from her stupor. She eyed the still-open first aid kit and sighed. Time for that bath.
———
Hey! Hope you enjoyed, I know that you like hero x villain content so I based the story around that :))) Also I’m so sorry it got a bit more angsty than I meant to lmao
I knew this, of course, when I took the deal, but in another way, I didn’t. I don’t think, on that day, my mind comprehended just how long.
I took the deal to save my husband. They say love causes the biggest sacrifices, I supposed this was true. He died of sickness, that was all. But I couldn’t save him as he lay on our bed, life dissipating before my eyes. So I prayed. I prayed and I offered and I gave service, until finally a God answered me.
It was Thanatos, in the end. God of peaceful death. When I told him of my predicament, he took pity, or so I believed. He offered me a trade, my life, for my husband’s. At first, I thought he was asking me to die for him, which I would’ve happily accepted under the circumstances of heartbreak, but he told me no, he did not want my death, he wanted my life. Told me that if he were to revive my beloved, I would have to watch him die, along with everyone I cared for, as someone akin to Gods in the way that I would never die.
Never is a word that I didn’t quite understand.
Of course, of course. I hurried him, spurred him to save my husband, believing I had gotten off easier than I possibly could’ve imagined. This notion, of course, was very long.
My husband died thirty two years later when our city was purged by invaders, along with my two sons and only daughter. I mourned them, but did not die.
I watched the empire fall a few decades after that, something no one ever thought would occur. Akkadian had been splendid in its riches — Mesopotamia was rich in many valuable resources, after all. Still, I did not die.
I watched the birth of new civilisations, learned their languages and their cultures. Eventually they all burned and fell to ruin. Still, I did not die.
I watched religions and sciences evolve, theories to be spread and proven, or replaced. Still, I did not die.
I watched humanity evolve into higher beings, contraptions that would elude the minds of my own people becoming common across the world, helping people in everyday monotony. Still, I did not die.
I watched revolutions and collapses, I watched horrors and I watched hope. Kings fall, democracy form, nations come together in an, albeit often tense, harmony. Still, I did not die.
And when the temperatures grew higher and the ice began to melt, when the fires spread and the animals died out, when humanity refused to believe its own hubris, still I did not die.
When the world collapsed in on itself and the universe did not mourn the death of one single, insignificant planet, still I did not die.
I watched. I floated above time like a trance. Untouchable and undying. For hundreds of thousand of years, which became millions, became billions, became trillions, until the universe began to collapse and yet unyielding eternity still stretched out before me. Still, I did not die.
The universe collapsed and all that was left was me. I was the universe. All that remained. My mind began to shatter with a loneliness it could barely comprehend, not a single item or being to occupy my thoughts. I begged to die. I cried and I screamed, but no noise passed my lips. Still, I did not die.
Thanatos returned to me, eventually. He saw my broken mind and smiled. “Enjoy eternity,” he whispered, “for Eternity is an awfully long time, indeed.”
They stumbled through the forest together, teeth and excitement bared. Each carried a sack on their shoulders, one of potatoes and the other of a mixture of heavenly smelling fruits. It was late September so the blackberries, apples and chestnuts were in season, they could almost taste the crumble and custard on their lips.
They hurried faster, they’d nearly been caught as they’d tripped and wobbled over the fence with the potatoes. It was, frankly, exhilarating. Neither usually took pleasure in stealing, but the thought of hot, fresh, real food made their teeth and stomachs ache. It let their minds rest a little easier about the obtaining of the ingredients.
As to avoid angry farmers, had Mr Boggs seen them, they took the side path through the wood atop the hill. It was sparsely populated with birches and oaks and the occasional sycamore, all now shedding their autumn leaves in a beautiful flurry of golden brown. No one used the wood, or visited, either, so there was little in the way of path and they stumbled every few meters on branches and brambles.
Laughter floated about them as they came across the clearing. Empty. Flooded with orange and golden leaves, it appeared almost unreal, the wind dancing with them slowly like waves rippling on a calm sea.
At first, they didn’t see it. A single, grey, broken slab protruding from the ground. A grave. It was half buried beneath brambles and leaves that had accumulated there, moss lathering the base like a soft, green blanket. They wondered who it belonged to.
Having cleared the undergrowth a little, they looked down on the hallowed landmark with a soft sort of horror. The upper half of the headstone had been broken at some point, probably laying beneath the amassing flora. It held no name, no age, no date. Only a broken inscription, worn by weather and time, incomplete as the rest most likely resided with the lost half. Three words. Three sad, lonely words of an abandoned person from an abandoned time:
“—But not forgotten.”
They bowed their heads, laughter turned hard and thoughts turned inward. Whoever this was, whoever lay buried in this sanctimony, this warm, golden place, they had been lost to time. They wondered how long after their own deaths would they be forgotten? What did it take to be surrendered to oblivion.
The wind rustled around them. Soft and warm. The sacs lay strewn, forgotten under the toll of the headstone.
They thought about the cold irony of what they saw before them. A person so loved that it had been vowed the people would not forget, yet here they lay, faceless, nameless, and forgotten. Lost to time like a broken ship on the sea.
I double dog dare you to write some fluff with this prompt!
(it's mine but I really love it and haven't gotten around to using it myself yet :P)
Please and thank you! No pressure 💖
Been a while since I wrote real fluff, so sorry if it’s terrible. However, I did promise you that I would write some fluff eventually, so I hope that you like it
———
Dana — or as she went by these days: Vertigo — recognised the phone number as soon as it appeared on the screen. Despite its admittedly frequent use, the number had not been assigned a contact name, and so it remained a scrambled string of numbers. Yet it was undoubtedly familiar. Like a well used name rolling off the tip of her tongue, the number found it’s place in her memory with ease.
She fumbled mindlessly; trying to get her phone unlocked and open. After a little struggle, the message lay bare for her eyes to swallow up. It was as clear as a wind-swept mid morning; a challenge. A simple string of coordinates punctuated by the word “Now.” It was not a question, nor a statement of fact; it was a command. It was a dare, a plea, a way of looking her in the eyes from afar and whispering, we’re ending this.
Anticipation bubbled and boiled in her blood, threatening to spill over. An anxious ecstasy overwhelmed her and then she was gone; suit puddled around her waist and pulling the door shut like a whirlwind.
The coordinates did not lead her to a place she had expected. There was no grand lair, no base of operations, no tacky inspirational posters that she imagined went hand in hand with the sort of ‘heroism’ demonstrated by her foes. Instead, she found herself standing before a looming string of terrace houses.
The location specified was incredibly specific and she had determined it to be the house that now sat idly before her. Thin streams of light licked their way from behind the blinds drawn across the front-facing, downstairs window; illuminating the pavement in a patchy and inconsistent manner. A pair of steps led up to the red door, from which hung a brass knocker, shaped like a dragonfly and the number 12.
It was a house. A normal, run of the mill, house.
Dana’s lips parted gently. Surely, she thought, it must be a trap. But at the same time, she was hyper aware of the fact that her enemies particular brand of heroism also went hand in hand with avoiding casualties; and thus a residential street would be the last place she would have chosen for a battle.
She stood with one foot off the pavement on the opposite side of the road. The black tarmac glittered; bathed in the fluorescent yellow of the aging street lamps. A swift and quickened rhythm beat its course inside her chest and she could hear the blood rushing and thrumming in her ears like traffic on a busy road, yet the rest of the world lay still.
She checked her watch: five to midnight. All other lights from the adjacent houses were extinguished, leaving the house in front of her a guiding beacon. The night was still; not even a breeze dared disturb her. The silence was almost deafening.
Finally, she took the next step; then the next and the next and the next — until she stood before the crimson door and knocked twice over.
The door swung open swiftly and a kid in a Snoopy tee shirt and slippers dropped a spool of paper and a reel of sellotape into Dana’s arms, then promptly disappeared. Startled, she stumbled back, forgetting all about the stairs behind her, and began to topple — but a hand wrenched out and caught the front of her suit.
“Don’t drop those,” demanded a soft voice.
Dana blinked at the onslaught of light from within the house; her eyes struggling to focus on the form holding her stable and still. She could make out the silhouette of frazzled curls and the light of the dimming street lamps caught and reflected the mirth in the figure’s dark eyes. Dana felt exposed. She felt venerable in an unwarranted moment of shock; stiffened and illuminated like a deer in headlights. She was open for attack, yet no moves were made.
The two stayed there for a while, a smile teasing the figure’s lips and blood still rushing in Dana’s ears. She did not know how long for; it felt like hours and half a second.
The stalemate was broken by the tinny voice of an angered child from within the house. “For God’s sake can you just hurry up please?!”
The gentle smile broke into a raucous grin and the figure’s pearly teeth shimmered in the reflection of the light. Dana was swiftly yanked back onto her feet and into the house, the force of it pressing her flush against her assailant. She blinked rapidly, desperately attempting to come around to her surroundings.
“Never knew you to be so forward,” the figure purred, unmoving from the close proximity.
Dana’s eyes were not yet accustomed to her whereabouts, but she would recognise that voice in a blinding snowstorm or the darkest of nights. She was Echo. The voice coiled around the memory of the familiar phone number and made a home within her mind.
“Echo,” she breathed, pushing herself away. “Why am I here?”
Dana took a moment to let the sight before her to slot into place. She sucked in a breath and took in the picture at hand. Echo was standing lazily, hands draped across her folded arms. She wore a loose-knit jumper, a brick red that reminded her of scorched clay and ash against a burning sky. She did not appear as though she was planning to fight. Her shoes lay discarded beneath a radiator and her curls hung lazily, grazing the soft skin of her jawline.
Echo shrugged.
The kid snapped her from her trance as she blundered into the room and stared bluntly at the two of them. “Are you going to help me?” She asked, “Or do I need to get you a room?”
“Oi!” Echo warned, extending a rather unthreatening finger in the kid’s general direction, “What did we discuss about the snarky comments?”
“I asked you a question first!” She yelled. Deeming Echo’s response inadequately slow, she charged up to Dana with a pair of scissors shaken menacingly toward her face. “Cut up that paper you’ve got there into 5 x 7 squares, you got it?” Then she thrust the scissors into the mound of paper and stormed back into the adjacent room.
“Excuse me?” Screeched Dana indignantly, “What is going on?”
She glanced from the empty doorway to Echo and back; over and over. She noticed the stray slivers of sellotape on her jumper and the ink marring her palms and fingertips, matched by streaks of it through Echo’s already dark hair where she had carded her fingers through it at an earlier moment.
Echo dragged her hair away from her face — leaving further dark blemishes against her skin and hair — and sighed. “Harry has a project that she completely forgot about. It’s due in tomorrow and we needed more hands. I didn’t know who to call.”
Dana’s mind sat as barren and empty as a desert wasteland, no thoughts to tread a path. “You,” she sucked in a breath, “Don’t you have, like, an entire team who can do this with you?”
Echo laughed jovially, “They’re out of town and she needs to get this done now.”
A disgruntled moan shattered her illusion of sanity as Harry called again, “Get moving, assholes.”
“Language!” Echo yelled in return. She cast a sidelong glance at Dana and raised her eyebrows in question: “Well? Are you going to help? Or are you just going to stand thee looking surprised?”
Dana stammered. “I — fine.”
They worked in silence. The scratch of Harry’s scratching pencil nib was deafening in the unnatural hollows that the silence had carved; each grating sound a telegraph of the words she was writing.
Somewhere along the way, Dana had unzipped the top half of her suit and let it clump about her hips, revealing the tee shirt beneath and Echo had draped her jumper haphazardly over the arm of the sofa; so now sat in a dark vest top and her baggy jeans. Dana spied an array of tattoos that marred her shoulders and biceps; as well as another few on her back when she had turned around. She wondered absentmindedly how far down they went; if the delicate ink caressed the soft skin of her torso and legs.
She caught herself quickly and returned to the task at hand. Echo offered her a soft smile.
As the wee hours of the morning descended upon them, the project was finally done. Dana let her gangly legs stretch out in front of her, shaking the stillness from her joints. Echo rolled her shoulders and tipped back her head to expose the line of her throat beside her. The two sat side by side, backs flush against the wall.
“Thank you,” she whispered, “For staying.”
Dana shrugged.
Echo turned her head slowly and let it droop against her shoulder. A delicate smile peppered her gentle lips. It looked almost as though a simple breeze could make it flutter away. “My name is Cara,” she whispered, the breath escaping her.
“Dana,” she said, and held out her hand, “Nice to meet you.” Echo’s palm was calloused against her own; solid and warm and yet it was still soft. It was a palm that spoke of work and hardships.
Her eyes travelled across Dana’s face and paused on a spot above her left eye. “You have a— here,” she muttered. Licking her thumb, she stroked away the ink or dirt or nothing at all that flawed the skin above her eye. “There.”
Their faces were close, drawn together with a lingering glance and piercing eyes. “Thank you,” Dana breathed, barely a whisper. She licked the dryness from her lips and watched Cara’s sharp eyes trace the movement.
Warm breath ghosted over her cheeks and her heavy-lidded eyes hung low and bashful. “Cara—”
“I wanna’ go to bed,” Harry mumbled from across the room. Cara tore her eyes away and wobbled onto her feet. She padded across the room and swept the youngest of the three into her arms and carried her gently up the stairs. Dana listened ardently to each delicate footfall, then fell, frustrated, back against the wall.
By the time Cara re-emerged, Dana did not look dissimilar to when she had arrived; her suit drawn up to her neckline and her loosened hair tied close against her head. It was time to go.
“Off so soon?”
“I, I, uh,” Dana stammered, “I have to get back.”
Cara only smiled. It teased the dimples in her cheeks and stretched her rich lips thin. “Alright.” She unlocked the door and allowed Dana to step out into the brisk, early morning. “Until next time,” she grinned.
Dana turned to take in her figure once again, lean and fluid, bent against the doorframe haphazardly. “Until next time,” she parroted.
She trundled away into the depths of the night; the cool wind unable to tamper the blossoming heat in her chest as she changed the oh so familiar phone number to what she hoped would become an oh so familiar name. “Cara,” she whispered, letting the name roll around on her tongue. A smile danced across her lips.
She always enjoyed the company of crows. Sly, intelligent creatures who brought her trinkets and shimmering objects in a display of gratitude for her feeding them each morning. But today was odd. There was no one in the park, not a soul. It bothered her. She seated herself in her usual bench, the furthest bench on the west side of the lake; it was higher up than most of the park so she could look down and observe life just existing before her eyes.
Today, there was nothing. It was almost as though even the birds were reluctant to show themselves.
But then a crow appeared, she smiled softly. It was just the one, which was strange, there were usually at least a dozen that would visit her in the mornings, she wondered if they were alright. Of course they were, clever birds.
The crow moved slowly, as if resigned. It came closer than usual, ambling like an injured sheep, careful. It placed the left side of its body against the inside of her right foot and lay down. Curling it’s body into her. This was the strangest thing yet. Out of pure, inquisitive curiosity, she folded her body to reach down, making small strokes across the birds lush black-blue feathers. It made no effort to run.
Perhaps it was injured and in search of a kindly hand. If that was the case it didn’t appear so.
The crow huddled closer to her and ruffled its wings.
Odd indeed.
All this time staring down at the oddly behaving bird, she hadn’t noticed the plumes of great Blake smoke rising into the air. Huge curling tendrils of black cloud blooming against the blue morning sky.
And finally, a young man ran past her, a frantic, horrified look scarring his paled face. He saw her absentmindedly sitting on the bench and stopped, his mouth agape.
“How are you not phased?” While she had never heard his voice before, she suspected it had raised about an octave,
“By what?”
“By the announcement!” He was breathless in his disbelief
“Are they raising the tax again?”
“What? No!”
“Well then what’s got your knickers in a twist?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Apparently not.”
The fearful look on his face made her stomach lurch in a way that did not fill her with confidence.
“There’s a solar flare coming. Biggest in a billion years — it’s going to burn us alive.” He whispered the words almost as if he didn’t quite believe them himself. Denial.
It was then that she was reminded of the single crow.
One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a wedding, four for a birth.
A single crow had visited her that morning and it had heralded the destruction of humanity.
