I’ve been simply calling it “Vessel Au” as it’s basically if once the Beasts were released from the silver tree they all latched onto the closest living vessel they could find.
The OG4 Vessel AU! Aka a Crystalized AU where the Crystal King, instead of a physical form, takes control of the OG4 in a “one mind, four bodies” possession
Shall we do this then, guys? Shall we start? Yeah, let's begin the tale! Looking forward to your thoughts while nervously biting my fingernails, lol!
Summary: Everyone harbours their own ghosts, the lingering pains that shadow them through life. For Dr. Marla Krane, an accomplished trauma surgeon, these burdens have grown almost insurmountable, the emotional toll compounding with each passing day. One evening, following the loss of a patient and reeling from turmoil in her personal life, the mounting pressure becomes overwhelming.
On this pivotal night, as Marla wanders the streets of New York barefoot and in despair, she finds herself the victim of a tragic accident. This event transports her to Arcadia, a mystical and verdant realm whose tranquil beauty stands in stark contrast to the chaos she has left behind.
Within Arcadia, Marla encounters an enigmatic figure known as the dark god, who extends solace and understanding in her moment of deepest confusion. With her fate delicately poised between two worlds, she must confront a profound choice: to return and fight for the life she knows, or to surrender to the mysterious embrace of Arcadia’s guardian, where perhaps, at last, she may find peace.
Words - 3,508
Warnings - AU!Vessel, mentions of death and injury, eventual smut, 18+ only. Minors DNI!
The foreboding drone of machines, the juxtaposing methodical chaos of the room swirling, her hands trying with all their experience, diligence and care to prevent the life within them from slipping away. The OR was her colosseum, her weapon a scalpel. Just as any other crashing patient who had preluded the young girl upon her table, she would do battle, fight for them with everything she had.
“Push two milligrams of Atropine,” she ordered, one of her staff administering the drugs through the line. Nothing. “Paddles. Stand clear.” One charge. The body convulsed, electricity passing through it, the heart remaining stilled. “Charge to three fifty. Clear.” Nothing. A third attempt, further pharmaceuticals. Nothing.
All eyes fell on her, expectant, waiting for the inevitable statement. “Time of death, twenty-three eleven.”
Seven. Kaylee Morris had passed away in operating room one of the Manhattan Sacred Hope Hospital at just seven years old. As a surgeon, Dr. Marla Krane was used to the inevitable fatalities, the lives lost no matter her valiant efforts, but that evening, Kaylee’s slipping from her mortal coil hit her like a metal baton meeting heirloom glass.
Trauma. It was both her field of expertise, and what gradually disassembled the brilliant surgeon's insides, brick by brick.
She reflected on the loss as she thoroughly scrubbed her hands, knowing every patient’s death left its mark. Doctors, as she had learned over the span of her career, must not let it linger, renewing their focus with each new patient. Her reserves felt amply drained, though, as she walked into the waiting room, ready to deliver the terrible news to Kaylee’s waiting family.
“Ms. Morris,” she began, the door closing with a firm click behind her. As soon as the waiting mother saw her face, she knew.
“No,” she sobbed, doubling over, her sister and mother wrapping her in hugs that did little to prevent the stricken woman from collapsing to her knees. “Not my Kaylee, please, oh please, god. No!”
God. As far as Marla could detect, he rarely listened to anyone’s pleas, their begging for mercy. Anything not to live the wickedness thrust upon them by the hands of fate.
“I am so sorry, Ms. Morris,” she spoke calmly, allowing just enough sympathy to cut through the stoicism of her professional demeanour. “I did everything I could, but the internal injuries Kaylee suffered were simply too devastating. Once again, my condolences.”
Turning, she respectfully left the family to their grief, a sigh slicing through her throat like a razorblade. Loss; it was becoming more profound day after day for the doctor. Just how much more of it she could possibly endure was anybody’s guess, even her own.
Her feet echoed through the hallways of the hospital, each feeling somehow much colder and vaster on that night, every step carrying her with little conscious motion until she reached her destination. Stepping out of her Crocs, the awful footwear she loathed aesthetically but leaned to for comfort, she clicked the lock shut, walking fully clothed to the shower cubicle, turning the faucet.
The water hit her, and finally, she took a breath that swelled her chest. Pushing water through her hair, she let the droplets cascade over her face, wishing they could wash her of the churning mess within that wrapped around her heart like endless tangles of thorns.
Alas, mere water alone was no match for pain of that magnitude.
Sliding down the tiled wall, she sat, hugging her knees to her chest, the exhaustion of four hours of surgery all for nothing hitting her in ceaseless, seismic shifts. It took much to pull herself up off the floor and move to her locker, her soaked scrubs leaving large puddles across the floor, Marla stripping herself bare and taking her body wash out.
She always had necessities if she was working a long shift and unable to return home for anything up to twenty hours. That night, her shift had in fact finished, yet she couldn’t bear to let the smell of her failure scent her skin for a moment longer. Instead, she chose peony and suede blush.
Once finished, she dried off, rubbing her hair until it was reasonably dry and securing it in a slightly haphazard French braid, pulling on her long, loose fitting black dress and jamming her feet into a pair of comfortable flip flops, picking up her Chanel bag.
“Dr. Krane, may I have a word regarding...”
No. Dr. Adler may not have a word about anything. “Not now.”
“Please, I just need...”
“Martin, I said not now!” she barked, striding down the hallway to put distance between herself and the sometimes-overenthusiastic cardiologist attempting to engage her in conversation.
She quickened her pace, the fluorescent lights overhead flickering like the pulse of the city below that never truly slept. The weight of her duress bore down, the space surrounding her seeming to darken significantly in those moments of faltering light, as if the corridor itself mourned with her. Past the on-call room, a late-night janitor nodded in silent recognition, a brief moment of shared understanding between those who often bore witness to the aftermath of tragedy.
Pressing on, letting the clinical scents and muffled beeps recede behind her, searching for some small pocket of solace within the tangled corridors, her mind replayed Kaylee’s final moments in relentless loops. With every step, she stacked another layer of composure atop her crumbling insides, a practice necessary in order to keep putting one foot in front of the other. The doors were not far now, all she had to do was exit them, take the elevator and the freedom of a summer New York night, stifling as it may be, awaited.
The heat of the atmosphere hit her, the temperature still in the high eighties, the solace of air conditioning gladly exchanged to simply be free of the giant albatross of the hospital. Marla walked with purpose across the neatly block paved frontage of the building, around the large, welcoming fountain and straight into a cab.
“Hey, look who it is.”
Ahh, Henry. With thousands of cab drivers within the city, a familiar face was seldom found behind the wheel. He always tended to work this area, though, and usually into the small hours.
“Evening, Henry,” she breathed, clipping her belt in. “How’s my favourite man in all of the city?”
“If I see him, I’ll ask,” he chuckled, his rasp long borne of a preference for Chesterfields and Johnnie Walker red label. “Where to, doc?”
“Fifty-Two, West sixteenth, please. Oh, and if we could pull over at a liquor store on the way, I’d appreciate it.”
“No problem, darl.”
The cab slipped into traffic, the city’s neon arteries pulsing all around, Henry humming along to an old Sinatra tune warbling quietly from the radio. He was always tuned into some kind of golden oldies station she’d never heard of.
Relaxing back against the soft, tobacco brown leather seats, she watched the world smudge past the window; rainbow-lit bars, couples dissolving into alleyway shadows, the perpetual ballet of taxis and delivery trucks, sirens wailing their ceaseless lullaby. She pressed a palm to the glass, letting its coolness ground her, while Henry steered through the sleepless sprawl with familiar indifference, unbothered by the dark sadness that trailed behind her like a persistent phantom.
At the corner liquor store a block away from her apartment, she stepped out, the bell over the door chiming with a forced cheer, fluorescent lights washing her in harsh clarity. Catching her reflection in the mirrored pillar to the side of the entrance, she groaned lowly. Her face bore the pitfalls of little sleep and unabating stress.
What she would do for a decent lie-in followed by a nice facial. Her skin would certainly thank her for it. Her frayed nerves would no doubt benefit too, for the lush surroundings of a spa, comforting, fluffy white robes and cucumber laden water. A mental note to book in at Shibui spa was made.
She chose a pricey bottle of vodka, paid in silence, and returned to the cab, clutching the bag to her chest as if it might shield her from the memories etched behind her eyes. Henry glanced at her in the rearview, his gaze understanding and wordless.
He knew a hard day’s night when he witnessed it.
Soon they were off again, the city streaming by, her thoughts a jumbled reel of loss and longing, heavy and inescapable as the thick, humid night. Pulling up outside number fifty-two, she paid her fare plus a generous tip, thanking Henry before stepping out, the street dark and quiet, a rarity for a city that seemed to thump to its own pulse.
Number fifty-two had been a brownstone mansion once upon a time, but in the hundred years since one family solely resided there, it had been divided into four spacious apartments, Marla’s located upon the top floor. Fifty-two D.
As a gifted surgeon who coined a six-figure annual salary, she could afford much more than dingy cab rides home to an apartment in Greenwich Village, and once upon a time she’d had that, too. Now, after the fallout of her marriage, Marla chose the simplicity of a neighbourhood she knew and loved, leaving behind the splendour of her Upper East Side home when she had walked away from her philandering, Upper East Side banker husband.
She paused at the foot of the stone steps, the hush of the street swirling around her, shards of moonlight painting the stoop in silver. With each weary ascent, the day’s weight seemed to sink heavier in her limbs, yet she pressed on, vodka cradled in the crook of her arm, keys trembling slightly between clammy fingers.
At the top, her door greeted her with its familiar scuff marks, witnesses to years of return, both triumphant and defeated. Inside, the apartment held the breathless quiet only solitude could provide, the tasteful furniture outlined in faint shadow.
Placing her bag upon the large table, she walked methodically to the small basket sitting beside it, taking out the long lighter stored within and beginning to light the many candles decoratively dotted around the lounge. Fresh florals and earthy spice climbed through the air, the scents homely, welcoming to her.
Kicking off her flipflops, she ventured to the kitchen, vodka bottle in her grasp, opening the freezer to pull a handful of ice cubes from the bag and deposit them into a large, square tumbler. A large splash of Stolichnaya and a slice of lemon later and she was happily sipping the kind of fortification she’d been dreaming of since her last surgery began, leaning back against the counter, her free hand kneading gingerly at her tight shoulders.
A facial and a massage. Heading back into the lounge, she located her phone, thankful for the online booking system meaning the appointment wouldn’t be yet another thing fallen by the wayside to forgetfulness. Putting herself first was often an alien concept.
With the appointment booked, she scrolled aimlessly through her social media accounts, not particularly paying attention to the notifications viewed, her thumb swiping to bring up her recent call list.
“Hey you,” she spoke with all the warmth she could muster at the beep of her sister’s answering machine. “It’ll be your birthday in approximately eight minutes, so I’m calling early. Happy birthday, Ellie! I arranged for your gift to be delivered, I hope you love it. Sorry I can’t be there, but I’ll be in surgery all day. Brunch Saturday, though, my treat. Give the kids to Abe and relax. You deserve it. Anyway, I’m rambling on. Love you much.”
Her phone fell from her hand to the kitchen table, and she gripped the thick wooden edge to steady herself. Everything reminded her of him, their life, their love.
Her head lowered, quickly breathless, memories flashing like a film strip. Ellie’s birthday would be full of the kind of joy her own now lacked, distant memories still so palpable yet out of her reach entirely. Her life, her heart, had been shattered by the infidelity of the one she’d once promised everything to.
Birthdays while married to Brandon had always been made into beautiful affairs, not necessarily grandiose, but lovely all the same. He would fill their apartment with irises, escort her to breakfast at their favourite restaurant and touch her heart by devoting his time to her, a commodity all too precious to a busy professional such as he. Being just as devoted to her profession as he to his, it was this gesture which always resounded deepest.
Now, the memories hung in the recesses of her mind like corpses beginning to rot, no longer offering her nostalgic comfort, the decay seeping into her soul. She still grieved him, even eight months on and their divorce now finalised. The tiny fractures that had splintered her heart into smithereens would take substantially longer to mend, she realised, although she much wished the healing could be rushed.
If nothing but to restore a little joy to her life, instead of feeling like a ghost wandering around the wreckage of what used to be.
But healing, she knew, was both slow and meticulous, more like the gradual return of daylight after a storm than any sudden cease of sorrow. She drew in a ragged breath and reached for her drink, the cool tang of vodka biting her tongue, and forced herself upright, shoulders squared as if bracing for a second round in an endless fight.
For her, the fight was simply navigating getting out of bed most days.
Instead of retreating further into memories, she forced her gaze outward, past the flickering candlelight and the gentle hush of her apartment, to the promise of a life that might - given time and stubborn persistence - contain something brighter and kinder than the deep, dark cavern of grief she found herself entrenched within.
Still, tears slipped down her face, draining the contents of her glass as the pain engulfed her. Casting it down, she chose to drink directly from the stream of solace, lifting the bottle to her lips and glugging back a plentiful mouthful. If only loss could cease in its persistent biting at her, Marla tired of running from the wolf perpetually snapping at her heels.
Her losses seemed to be so much sharper these days, once again picturing Kaylee Morris upon her table, the little girl so broken from a seventeen-foot fall. Entirely avoidable, some might argue, but Marla would never judge. A split-second parental lapse was lamentably all it took sometimes. Her mother would likely carry that guilt forever, shackled around her neck, a deadweight she could never unburden herself of.
Brandon. Kaylee. Herself. She could halt the slipping away of one of them, but that night, she chose instead not to. Rather, she would succumb to the desire for oblivion, chasing away the pain as if the bottom of the bottle clutched tightly within her grasp held the answers.
Beneath the weight of her desire, she understood that no amount of alcohol would offer that, but the numbing qualities certainly weren’t to be sniffed at. So, she drank and drank, caring not for the inevitable headache come the morning, a third imbibed before she began to feel a little cloudy. Finally, the sharper edges of her turmoil started to soften, her insides soothed, the vodka acting as a perfect balm.
Wandering her apartment, she licked her fingers to pinch the candles, flames extinguished with a hiss, barely noticing the burn. Soot and wax marred her skin, Marla standing in the darkness, her chest feeling as it was caving in. The room around her seemed to bear down upon her heart, turning with absence to grab her keys, leaving the apartment barefoot.
Wandering the streets, the air finally began to cool, a soft breeze fluttering over her cheeks as she continued to imbibe from the bottle, her keys tinkling quietly in her other hand.
The city’s restless rhythm pulsed through her bare feet as she pattered along, nobody bothering her as she passed them by. In a city such as Manhattan, the sight of a barefoot woman drinking from a bottle was certainly not the most bizarre sight most could imagine beholding.
With the bottle clutched tight, she padded along shadowed sidewalks that glimmered faintly beneath streetlights. The hush of the hour was punctuated only by distant laughter, the whirr of a skateboard slicing across concrete, and the low thrum of traffic drifting up from the surrounding avenues. Each step untethered her further from the sterile confines of the hospital, or the empty melancholy of her apartment, giving way to the humid fragrance of summer and the unpredictable chorus of nocturnal New York.
She found herself moving without intention, drawn by the constellations of lit windows and the vague comfort of anonymous movement among other sleepless souls. The city, indifferent yet familiar, seemed to cradle her loneliness, its immensity matching the ache that gnawed at her chest.
Pausing beneath a flickering lamp, her gaze drawn upward to the patchwork of stars barely visible through the city’s haze and indominable buildings stretching tall into the night, she took a moment and let herself breathe. Another mouthful of vodka slid sharply down her throat, her vision blurring, trudging on until she reached the bustle of seventh avenue.
All around, people went about their lives, carefree, chattering of the next bar or which club they could strive to attain VIP privileges within, tourists posing for photographs, cars and trucks rattling along the thick plane of asphalt dividing the mayhem. Envious, yet hoping to soak up a little of their cheer, she came to a stop, leaning back against a street sign, something jagged suddenly piercing into the ball of her foot.
Lifting her leg to inspect the damage, she wobbled, the sound of a siren rapidly approaching filling her ears as she toppled, her equilibrium impaired by the contents of the bottle which slipped from her hand. It seemed to happen in slow motion, people gasping and crying out in panic before the brunt of the oncoming fire truck ploughed into her fragile body at high speed.
Becoming trapped beneath the wheels and the gut wrenching, crippling pain of the collision were the last things she consciously remembered, the swathe of black that engulfed her suddenly giving way to racing lights, thousands of constellations streaking past, Marla feeling as if she was flying through the very fabric of the universe itself.
Then, there was nothing, her body adrift, the tattered fragments of her soul seeming to finally mend as she floated, the smell of fresh air and wisteria gathering beneath her nose. Opening her eyes slowly, she was no longer surrounded by the bright lights and traffic of seventh avenue.
Wherever she was, it was far from Manhattan, her eyes taking in the pink, purple and blue hued blossoms of the many beautiful trees, gardens so verdant and lush, blooming with a magnificence that appeared much to pristine to be real, the sound of a waterfall gently trickling in the near distance.
Standing, she looked down, checking herself. She stood intact, the pain she’d felt in that split second erased, and every single ounce of it that had once grated upon her heart and soul seemingly obliterated. Turning, she scanned her surroundings, everything so ethereal, so incomprehensibly serene.
She’d heard of this hypothesis, beautiful visions that came to a person at the point of their death via huge releases of dimethyltryptamine within the brain. This had to be what she was experiencing, to have been transported to a realm of such endlessly exquisite beauty.
“I’m dead?” she whispered to herself, blinking rapidly, unable to quite accept her seeming fate. This final vision would fade soon, her body and consciousness falling into eternal sleep, she realised, drinking in the last of the blissful vision.
“You did not die, Dr. Krane.”
Spinning on her heel, the space barren of all others but her was suddenly occupied by another, although who or what the towering figure was, she wasn’t altogether sure. A manifestation, her consciousness speaking to her, perhaps? Taking steps towards her after appearing out of thin air, his hugeness commanded the space around him, the all-black figure, masked and cloaked with a sword upon his back and a staff within his grasp arrived before her, drowning her in his shadow.
She knew she should likely fear someone so imposing, an entity that looked like a god to her, yet fright was the furthest thing she felt as he stood, statuesque and mysterious.
“I have to be dead,” she stated assuredly, looking up at him, shaking her head bewilderedly. “This? I know what this is. It’s the final sparking of my brain before I die. It isn’t real.”
Words he had heard millions of times before. He smiled, reaching in gesture to their surroundings. “This is very real, I assure you. Welcome to Arcadia, Dr. Krane.”
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The vessel au is about powerful legendary/mythical pokemon taking up human hosts/confidants e.i like Resirham and Zekrom would want hosts that embody their ideals for comfort and human connection or e.i like Arceus needing a helping hand in the form of turning someone into a puppet and guiding them along. Could be malicious, could be co-habitable and comfortable.
Kieran draws the short end of the stick.
Kieran finds Pecharunt before returning to the blueberry academy in Unova and strikes a deal. A devil's bargain.
Kieran is given strength and more willpower to become the best and strongest trainer, in turn, Pecharunt in brought to new lands and hitches a ride with Kieran.
Pecharunt isn't strong enough to just dip in and out of physical reality, it's no legendary, but it takes the form of Kieran's hair band and a 'scarf' instead to stay close.
While Kieran trains to become the champion, Pecharunt spread's the toxic chain to the pokemon in the terrarium. It corrupts the pokemon and infects the pokemon with malice and poison. The pokemon get stronger, but they also get weaker.
So does Kieran. He sleeps less, eats less, he's so unlike himself that Carmine can't even recognize her little brother anymore.
Unbeknownst to both Kieran and Pecharunt, their bond and traits are so similar, they blend into one another. Fusing into an amalgamation of toxic mentality of winning and never accepting losing, of take take take until they're nothing left.
Kieran starts to look stranger, act stranger.
(Also I threw in Volo because the main story of the vessel au has him getting no attention whatsoever from any cool possessive dieties so I had to give him more L's)
Pariah watched as his vessel paced around the room, worried beyond belief by something that the king, personally, couldn't see as much importance. He jumped down from the couch, his far to small feet hitting the light thud muffled by the fluffy carpet and walked away.
He opened the fridge, squinting his eyes in distaste at his newfound shortness, and shuffled around for a moment before deciding to simply levitate to the top and swiped a popsicle.
Pineapple. It was no mint, but it would do.
He ripped off the wrapper with his teeth, chewing the material for a bit before swallowing and pushed off the fridge with a light kick of his legs and let the momentum carry him off from the kitchen.
He turned around in midair to stare at his vessel from upside down, lightly chewing on his treat.
The boy was still pacing around, muttering to himself as if something actually worrying was going to happen.
He bit off a piece of the treat, chewed, then swallowed. Did he want to get involved in whatever this was? Not really no, but it was annoying how his vessel kept at this habit for.... he took a quick glance at the clock (he idly entertained the thought of if Clockwork was watching. Knowing the ghost always was) and back at his vessel... A few hours at the least.
Pariah Dark sighed, took a hard chomp of his ice cream and then swallowed.
"Vessel," He called out, pointing his treat in said boy's direction. "Whatever causes you such worry? It is annoying."
Danny paused, muttering and all, before slowly turning to stare at Pariah Dark. Or, well, the small piece of him that for some reason bonded itself to him after he passed out. "Oh, it's nothing, just that the Justice League is going to pull up on my doorstep any second now." He shrugged, voice practically dripping with sarcasm as he leveled the fragment with a flat look. "Nothing much."
Pariah Dark let out a small, confused hum as he ate what was left of his ice cream -stick and all- and moved himself into a cross-legged sit, still upside down. "Then what ails you so?" He made a gesture at the imprints made from his relentless pacing on the carpet as an example, looking at him in curiosity.
Danny's turned blank for a moment, before remembering that Pariah didn't exactly have a proper gasp on what sarcasm was. He sighed, placing a hand on his head before sighing again. "It was sarcasm."
Pariah Dark watched as Danny went back to pacing, less than impressed at the rather blatant dismissal as if the worry over this situation was of actual importance. As far as he knew, this 'Justice League' were just a band of mortals who fought for peace, the good of others and were strong, yes.
But they were still mortal, nonetheless.
Even with one of their core members being a demi-goddess herself, and another of their members being a powerful vessel of the gods in his own right.
Danny was a vessel of the king, one of the most powerful ghosts across the Infinite Realms and its history. He knows the boy denied such a fact at first, but was he simply not as confident enough in his own strength as the king had thought?
He righted himself in the air, no longer upside down as he crossed his arms. "Vessel." The boy paused again, this time a bit more rigid as Pariah Dark, for the first time in a while, used the voice of a king. "Whatever worries you have for that band of mortals, put them aside. You are my vessel; you have defeated all of me in combat once before-"
He tactfully avoided mentioning that he had aid and was draining his lifeforce to do so.
"-so that is a full testament to your own strength. If you can fell me, then I believe you are fully capable of felling this so called 'Justice League' if the need ever arises."
Pariah Dark stared the boy hard in his eyes, reaching out in ghost speak to transmit his own confidence in his vessel while also smoothing said worries more than he ever could in words. Then snorted as the boy untensed and walked over to flop face first onto the couch.
He floated down to land on the boy's back gently. "If you so wish, I can even lead you a portion of my power." He let out an amused huff. "I cannot have you losing to the vessel of those arrogant gods after all."
Danny turned his head to stare at the ghost king and gave him a look. It was extremely hypocritical for him of all beings to call another arrogant, but you know what? He didn't care anymore. He turned his head back to sink his face into the cushions and let out a muffled "Fine."
