[ @hideduoweek Day 1: Cold][Rated: G][Warning for Implied Main Character Death][Post Canon Au]
"It's getting cold...you should probably leave." The ghost in blue suggested looking at up at the stars just barely noticeable behind the light pollution of lava and torches and fire. "Maybe I should." Fit couldn't help but respond looking at the ghost himself. He was still amazed he could see spirits like this, and this spirit always seemed to be where he was.
The ghost in blue smiled, realizing that Fit was staring. "Did you have a home before this place? A warm one? I did." Fit has many questions, though one came out of his mouth first. "Why are you here if you have a home?" This isn't a place many come willingly. Fit surely didn't, but he can't remember why. The ghost hummed, trying to think of an answer. The rose bush next to the ghost blew in the chilled wind.
ya'll wanna read the Deathduo drabble I wrote for a school assignment?
Of course you do, here you go.
"Do I believe in vampires," Phil repeated skeptically. Charlie had a strangely nervous look to him, and Phil raised an eyebrow. If anyone would believe this shit, it would be Charlie, but it was also equally likely that he was pulling Phil's leg.
"You would have proof, wouldn't you?" He put on a smile that made Phil sure he was joking. "Come on, you ever see any empty refrigerator cases when you knew for sure there was someone in there before?"
Phil frowned. He had been just about to open one of said compartments to inspect a new body and frankly wasn't in the mood for this. The report he had on this John Doe was severely lacking. That wasn't abnormal considering that as the coroner, he was always one of the first people to use it; not even abnormal in the fact that it didn't list a name, but there were usually some details by the time it got to him. Primary concerns, state of the body when found, state of the scene and whether or not it was suspected of foul play--all of it was listed as "inconclusive". Meaning Phil had a lot of work to do. Quesadilla Island was small, so his duties as a coroner were combined with being the medical examiner, and frequently had to do a lot of his own investigating. That didn't yet include his...unofficial duties.
Did Phil believe in vampires?
"No Charlie, that's never happened. And no, I don't believe in vampires." There were many beings beyond mortal nature, beings in fact, that he often dealt with, but vampires were not one of them. "Why, do you think you've met one?" It would probably eat him if he had, but then again, Charlie, as unassuming as he was, was one of the only people who knew of Phil's supernatural expertise for a reason.
He opened his mouth as if to respond, then closed it, glancing around. "No. No, probably not. Of course not, I was just joking. You're no fun Phil." He rolled his eyes, grinning again like usual and slapped the blonde man on the back. The change in demeanor was obvious, sure, but since his daughter died Charlie had had moments like that often. This wasn't his first rambling about the undead either, though it was mostly wistful dreaming about ghosts and angels (dreadful creatures, though Charlie didn't know that). He had never asked questions like this before.
"Yep, I'm sure." It had become his default response to that statement after so often of hearing it from his kids. "Are you here to help me out, or just interrogate me about the supernatural?"
"No, no, I uh, I actually have to be getting home. And groceries, I really need groceries. I'll see you later Phil!" He seemed slightly preoccupied, even as he cheerfully waved the man goodbye, but Philza had work to do, so he got on with it.
A gentle puff of cold air brushed against his face when he opened the airtight metal door. The cabinets for unidentified bodies and/or potential victims of foul play were kept at about negative ten degrees, to almost completely stop the process of decomposition. Without his gloves, the chilled metal would have stuck to his skin when he pulled out the gurney tray and transferred the body to the examination table. Typically, he preferred to start his examinations as soon as possible when receiving a new body, but this one had been brought in at the end of an already late shift and Phil was desperately wanting his bed and some dinner, so he had stuck it in the freezer for the night.
The man was long- tall, his feet and head both nearly hung off the edge of the table. His hair was dark and looked silky smooth, like the feathers of a raven, though Phil wasn't in the habit of petting the hair of corpses. His eyes were closed. That wasn't entirely unusual, except in this case the man seemed peaceful and completely relaxed, as though he had simply fallen asleep or been knocked unconscious. He was not. Even before the freezer, his skin had been completely cold and was extremely pale, no lingering blush on his cheeks. He had been dead for at least the whole day. There was not a single mark on him. No bruises, scratches or blemishes, no punctures or stab wounds or ligature marks. The coroner couldn't accurately pinpoint the man's age, however, he was clearly too young to have died from seniority or heart problems.
It was going to be a real hassle if Phil had to ask around about this man. His possessions, which still sat in a plastic bag on Phil's desk, hadn't included a wallet, driver's license, or anything of such consequence. Not even a phone. Quesadilla Island wasn't a large area--hence the name. A small community in the middle of nowhere, only one road leading in and out and no other towns for miles, discounting the ghost town locally known as Purgatory for lack of any better knowledge. Phil had no idea where this man came from, how long he had been here or where he was going. If he had died from some rapidly onset disease, it might take ages to find out otherwise.
Phil picked a small light out of his coat pocket and leaned over. With one latex gloved hand, he delicately peeled open the man's left eye. The ceiling lights flickered. Phil froze, straightening.
The lights glowed steadily, as if it never happened. Phil looked around, but finding nothing save for the sterile, empty white room he was used too, the same smell of sterile chemicals and glistening stainless steel, he turned back to the corpse. Phil leaned over the body once more, delicately opening the eye and turning on his hand held light.
He almost startled when the pupil looking back at him was pure, citrine yellow. Phil's own eyes widened. Contacts. Surely they were contacts. As annoying and admittedly gross as it was to have to pick contacts out of a dead person's eyes, Phil would much prefer that to the possibility of...
He checked the other eye, only managing to confirm that it was indeed also yellow, and in fact, not a contact lens, when the lights flickered and buzzed, like they were about to go out.
Philza shot up and immediately his left hand was in his pocket, clutching the protection charm he always kept with him at the morgue. The lights continued to short out, on and off, on and off. This time, Phil's stare was glued to the man--the creature--on the table. In his experience, anything that looked human was malicious. Anything that looked so convincingly human could only be very, very dangerous. He backed out of arm's reach.
Somehow, whenever the lights went dark, the figure still remained perfectly clear. Something flickered stark white over its face, and something else was burning darker and darker into its chest, right along its collarbones. It glowed faintly at the edges, like a brand being burned into the creature. Wings? Over its face, Phil was starting to make out the silhouette of a skull, as if in grease paint.
Phil's heart thumped loudly in his ears. That...that was not good. He didn't know what it was, but it wasn't good.
At some point, the intensity of the lights had become glaring when they were on. The electrical buzzing crescendoed, until Phil had to close his eyes and cover his ears, for fear of what all this flashing might do to his sight. Even under his hands, he heard the loud shatter and pop of the lights blowing out above him, felt a few shards of glass plunk against his lab coat before hitting the floor. Everything went silent.
Phil didn't dare move. If there was any chance of catching that thing's attention, he didn't want it. However, slowly, he opened his eyes.
In the pitch dark, the white skull defined the creature's face. There was no more burning edge to the wing brand across his chest, but faintly, as if through translucent skin, Phil could see the dim ivory of bones. The creature's whole skeleton.
The thing on the exam table still looked very much human, insides included, but he was still having considerable trouble making anything out for certain without the lights.
When those lurid, golden eyes snapped open, Phil was sure that the thing would have no trouble seeing him. He expected it to stand, to float, to move with some inherently inhuman, Wrong motion that would set every alarm bell off in his head. He expected it to be silent, eerily turning to look at him, or perhaps ignoring him completely in favor of the door. Worse, maybe to go for the other corpses, in which case, Phil had to decide how he was going to explain the mutilation or disappearance of three whole bodies to his boss because he certainly wasn't going to risk his life for them. He hadn't the slightest idea how to deal with this thing to begin with! The closest he could come, as on the nose as it was, was that this was some avatar of Death. The obsidian black wings were Her symbol and the skull on the creature's face and bones glowing faintly through its skin weren't exactly subtle.
It came to him then. A main character in every folktale but only vague approximations in the thick tomes in his library. A creature none had seen and lived, or perhaps a creature to be gambled with. The unkillable but too often cheated. A creature no one was ever truly prepared for, lacking so much proper documentation that Phil was stunned to be seeing it now, in such a plain form. A Grim Reaper.
Is it here for me? He wasn't that old!
That conclusion didn't sit right though. It didn't feel like his time yet. Not in the petulant, fearful way he was sure the Reaper encountered often, but a surety deep in his soul. It wasn't Philza's time.
But Philza was not prepared for this.
The Reaper groaned. It brought a hand to its eyes and rubbed, the same way Phil had watched Chayanne do in the mornings. It rolled over on the table like it was going to shut off an alarm and go back to sleep for just five more minutes. The table wasn't meant for that. He rolled right off with a mighty thud!
That shook Phil out of his stupor. He almost laughed, listening to the creature curse, but he wasn't calm enough for that yet. Still, he grabbed a bigger flashlight off the desk and turned it on, shining it on where the Reaper lay in a naked heap on the floor. It jumped when the beam fell on it, as if it hadn't realized he was there.
"Um...hullo? Are you alright mate?" With nothing else to say and too much dignity to scream and run, his brain defaulted to British over-politeness.
The Reaper swallowed, and cursed again, this time in Spanish before replying, "Don't look!"
Immediately, Phil turned the beam away, shining it pointlessly on the tiled floor. There were a few seconds of silence, before the Reaper spoke up again. It sounded very human. "Where am I? You uh, don't have my clothes, do you?"
"I do!" Only a second after realizing that he ought to have been getting the man his things, he also realized how creepy that must have sounded. "Here. Uh, sorry, you're at the morgue. Some police officers picked you up thinking you were dead, so..." he trailed off. The larger plastic bag had held entirely normal civilian attire, so Phil hadn't found it strange at first. Now, he was genuinely surprised it wasn't a long black cloak. He slid the bag across the floor and the Reaper tore into it eagerly.
There was a lot of shuffling before the Reaper muttered, and Phil could see the white glow of his face paint raise in the air as he muttered, "bien, bien."
Hesitantly, Phil called out, "all good?"
"Yes, yes, thank you."
"Right." He didn't bother pointing the light back at the Reaper. "I'll just go turn on the backup generators then."
"Ah, mierda. Did I do that? I'm sorry."
Taken aback, the human's plan to leave and hopefully not return until the entity had left was derailed. "What happened to you?" he asked.
When the beam fell upon the Reaper, Phil realized it was in fact very tall. At least a whole head taller than he was. It didn't squint or flinch away at the harsh light, as if it made no difference to him. The Reaper now donned ripped black skinny jeans and a purple and teal hoodie. The white face markings disappeared under the light, but he could still see the tips of black wings peeking over the creature's collarbones. He had several black rings adorning long, nimble fingers and frankly looked as though he should be wearing barbed wire necklaces and thick eyeliner. Maybe he did when he wasn't laying "dead" on the side of the road.
No, that was silly. Phil was jumping to stereotypical conclusions. Don't be rude. Admittedly, the mental image made him smile slightly.
His expression was just as clueless as Phil felt. "I wish I knew."
”You’re supposed to be dead,” Phil informed him.
”I am,” the Reaper answered, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Or, well, I was. Sort of.”
Phil attempted to process that for a moment, to no avail. All supernatural nonsense aside, the dead were dead, this he knew as fact. ...Except apparently not anymore. “You didn’t have a pulse.”
”Oh no, I wouldn’t. I’m a Reaper, we don’t bleed. Or have heartbeats. I’m all skin and bones, really.” He chuckled quietly at his own joke.
Huh. So that confirmed Phil’s suspicion then. Why is he here?! “Do you have a name?” That was the polite question to ask first.
”Right! Yes, hi, I’m Missa. Sorry, I haven’t really talked to anyone in a long time. Not anyone who wasn’t about to die at least.” He held a hand out, which, out of the flashlight beam, turned back into pale bone under translucent skin. When the human hesitated, he seemed to sense the questions that died on Phil’s tongue, and his enthusiasm waned considerably, awkwardly drawing the limb back in to himself.
Phil crossed the room, reached out and took it anyway. When had any entity been so friendly? Much less one of this caliber? The answer was never, and it never hurt to be in such a creature’s good graces either. It occurred to him momentarily that physical contact with the Reaper might mean certain doom, but he was still wearing gloves, so he figured it was fine.
The way Missa lit up made him unable to resist the mirroring smile that split his own cheeks. “I’m Phil.”
”Nice to meet you Phil!” Hefting himself up on the autopsy table as casually as if it were his living room couch, he grinned delightedly. “I don’t suppose any other bodies have come alive- or uh, undead on you lately, have they?”
Oh boy, Phil was not getting paid enough for this.
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So basically, something mysterious made Flippa Come Back Wrong and Reaper!Missa is here to investigate!
Holy shit, a proper fanfic? It's more likely than you think. I'm normal about hgduo, I'm so normal about hgduo and that's why I wrote this. Anyways, here's Cellbit throughout the years (cw/tw: blood/violence/death mentioned/referenced throughout, general Cellbit fuckery, highly repetitive narration):
Cellbit is just thirteen. Well, in actuality, he doesn't know his name, and his age is just as obscure when he meets Badboyhalo. The demon teaches him all sorts of things like how to not waste food, words to use instead of swears, and a fun game. 'Fetch' Bad calls it. Cellbit thinks the demon is lying to him sometimes. He laughs every time Bad yells at him for swearing, but he tries not to most of the time. It's not his fault that he didn't see that arrow, or maybe it is? Bad teaches him to be aware of his surroundings.
Cellbit is sixteen, well in actuality he still doesn't know his name instead Bad calls him a flurry of assorted nicknames ('Little one' the demon seems to settle on when he thinks Cellbit is sleeping. In reality, he doesn't sleep). He doesn't know how long it's been when he loses sight of Bad. He thinks he must be feeling empty. Alone, maybe? He doesn't know. He walks off the battlefield with an iron knife in hand and the taste of iron in his mouth.
Cellbit is just nineteen. Well, in actuality, people call him Cell, and he finally knows how old he is as the courts seemed hellbend on proving his age when he sits across from a psychologist. They seem nervous, maybe it's the mutliple armed guards? Who knows, certainly not him. They ask him a very simple question: Why? Cell answers truthfully for once, "A demon told me not to waste food, so I don't." He shrugs like it's the most mundane thing in the world, and to him, it is.
Cellbit is twenty-six when the cargo ship he snuck on runs aground. He tries his best to ignore the looks from nervous brown eyes and pissed off green eyes. He introduces himself with his full name in front of the people who live on this island. One of those people is Bad. It feels nice to know that his oldest friend now knows his name. Cellbit meets his son for the first time, and he thinks the world of the little one.
Cellbit is twenty-six when he thinks he's fallen in love. Cellbit is twenty-six when he makes the worst decision in his entire life. Cellbit is twenty-six when he wakes up with a white streak in his hair. Cellbit is twenty-six when he gets engaged. Cellbit is twenty-six when he gets married.
Cellbit is twenty-six when his son goes missing along with the rest of the children on the island. Cellbit is twenty-six when he pushes himself headfirst into looking for any clue possible. Cellbit is twenty-six when he meets his sister. Bagi is twenty-six when she finds her brother. Why did she get to be happy? Why did she not find him sooner? She wasn't. She tried, and she was so close. Cellbit is twenty-six when he gives up his knife to Bad. He'll get better use out of it. Cellbit is twenty-six when he picks up a different blade. His mouth is filled with the taste of iron again. He wants his son back. He wants the children back. Rage consumes his very soul. Bagi is twenty-six when she realizes her brother is the murderer. 'Is he proud?' The question goes unanswered. Cellbit is twenty-six when he feels thirteen again. "Do you like it?" He asks, his voice far too soft. "You've gone soft." He hisses to his oldest friend. Cellbit is twenty-six when he confesses murder to his husband.
Cellbit is twenty-six when he enters hell for the second time in his life. Under the red sky feels like home. He feels alive. This time, Bad is his enemy. Cellbit is twenty-six when his son dies. Cellbit is twenty-six when he takes a final ten seconds to say goodbye. Cellbit is twenty-six when he hunts people down for fun with Baghera. Cellbit is twenty-six when he's sure the demon is lying to him. He feels empty again. Cellbit is still only twenty-six when he and Baghera are rescued by their children. A fresh start. Cellbit still feels empty.
Cellbit turns twenty-seven, and he celebrates. He celebrates with his son, his niece, and his oldest friend. They celebrate with fighting mobs.
Cellbit is just twenty-seven when his oldest friend, Bad, forgets his name. Cellbit is just twenty-seven when his mentor, Bad, forgets to write a letter. Cellbit is just twenty-seven when the question he asked long ago is answered. 'I'm proud of you, you know that, right?' Cellbit doesn't even know. Cellbit has just turned twenty-seven when the person who knows him the best, Bad, dies. Cellbit doesn't even know.
When the cart started to move, Bobby ran to get himself up onto it. Once he was up, he reached out towards Tilín, who was holding Flippa's hand. Both little girls ran after the cart and were soon pulled up by the little boy who sat the edge. Bobby leaned back on his hands while Flippa and Tilín leaned on each other. No adrenaline to be found, just a calm moment with their siblings whose hearts still beat in their chest.
Trumpet ran alongside the cart, one of his hands holding his colorful hat from falling off. The music being played by the sister who never met him made this moment so much better. A little girl with little blue flowers in her hair, who calls herself Hope, also runs alongside the cart. The warm sunshine on her skin and soft wind in her hair felt absolutely amazing. She leaps and skips along, too. For both running, the movement was all they could ask for.
ok I can't draw right now but that doesn't stop me from dropping a few hcs here and there.
tw: for loss of limbs and graphic violence maybe?
So for q!Fit, I'm thinking hmm how he lost his leg could be from a fight from a 2b2t rouge, it was an unfortunate fight and not a fair one in the slightest since it was an 8 v 1.
Back then he was young and hadn't seen the horrors that this wasteland has to offer.
He wasn't certainly expecting to be ambushed by a group of stronger more experienced fighters either, he had no idea what happened during the time since the memory was a bit hazy but one minute he was pinned down by a bruly tom cat, and the next there was blood everywhere. it was matted in his fur, it hung onto his fur in uncomfortable clumps that made him want to tear off his fur. But the worst part? It was his legs, stars his leg looked like it had been through the shredder, like an animal had chomped off of it and ripped out a good chunk of his leg, taking the entire limb with them and leaving him to bleed out.
Looking back on it now, fit still has no clue how he even managed to survive such a gruesome attack though he counts his luck as he might be one leg short but he can still protect those he cares about.
...something about pac being the one visibly breaking. shattering, pieces flying off. his destruction is painful and public; his emotions are everywhere and visible, and there's not much he can do to hide them. like a statue losing its plaster skin, reaching—clawing—up from the abyss for help, to anyone that will grab back. not even to a person, even just to grab a ledge. anything that will keep him from sinking too far away to hear.
...something about mike being the only thing holding himself back. mike being much more contained, like he's choking on himself rather than letting it out. leaves falling from a tree in autumn, a silent cry for help—help? or more of a defense mechanism?—in his own right, trapped high in the sky away from anyone that could ever reach. and yet still he reaches down, stretching out to help others—to help pac—no matter how tight the vines around his own fingers grow.
...something about tazercraft being the only ones that get it. the way mike sees pac's chips as chips, and yet knows that they're still part of a mosaic. the way pac sees mike's vines as ropes, and yet knows that the leaves will bring flowers. the way that if pac needs to be put back together, mike will bring out the glue, carefully fitting the pieces back into the puzzle. the way that if mike needs an escape, pac brings out the pruning shears, trimming back the overgrown hedges into their regular form.
q!tazercraft reunited today and i haven't been sane since.
Sitting on top of a roof garden, Pac picks a rose off of the bush. It was a gift. One that now goes unappreciated. If it ever was to begin with. He starts to pull the petals off one by one.
He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me.
He prays to whatever gods will listen for this to not be the end. "You shouldn't trust him...I can protect you." echoes in his ears. He should have listened, he should have listened, he should have listened, he should have-. He should have known better.
He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not.
Why do his memories always end up tainted? Is it his fault? He feels used. It's not familiar, but he thought he was past this. He trusted and that's his fault. He shouldn't have let anyone get that close.
He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me.
The final petal. He loves me not.
Pac throws the stem as far as he can. He doesn't hold back the heartbroken sob turned angry and anguished scream. He wipes away whatever tears blur his vision as he stands. His (true) soulmate, his best friend, his adorable niece, and his two sons are waiting for him. If anyone asks, he's always had two sons.
I'm not done with the Morning Crew Soul Eater au drabble, I've been busy today, sorry! So here's a snippet! Under the cut due to general mental illness (it's black blood madness for those curious)
