Renhardt received his first scar across his neck because he spoke too freely. He received his last scar over his heart because he guarded it too closely.
Martyn received his first scar on his ankle because he ran from what mattered. He received his last scar on his hand because he offered it up.
So im autistic and one of my special interest is detective fiction/mystery genre 😋 i'm really into whodunits what can i say.
Anyway, I decided to be kind to myself and let my brain indulge a little bit so I made a HC/life series/whatever au for it which is awesome cuz now i get to nerd tf out AND draw scarian yaoi!!
Anyway, some character bios i did:
Additional notes and stuff in read more
Gem is a writer who moved to a small English city by the recommendation of her friend Impulse who also just so happens to be a cop.
Village is nice, everyone is weird and has something to hide. Anyway, unsurprisingly, murder happens. While the commotion is going on, Gem caught rumors of the mysterious "Watcher" who would send anonymous typed letters that gives important clues and directions to the police in solving murders. She is very intrigued by this and basically sniffed it down until she got to Grian, to which she immediately begs him to let her join in on his most likely to happen investigation because she wants the scoop PRONTO.
Gem and Grian are now basically two amateur sleuths who solves murders because they're simply nosy and bored 🥰
Extra notes I wrote down:
Additional notes:
- Scar's scent notes is taken from the perfume "Call For A Good Time" by Discothèque
- I didn't actually mention Sherlock Grian from HC6 at all even though this is a detective fiction au because. I don't. Actually.. really like Sherlock that much 😬 I KNOW. PLEASE DONT KILL ME. I have my reasons and if I delve into it i would go on a rant. So yeah. Not that many Sherlock influence unless you count the sort of sherlock/watson dynamic going on but I did include the blue scarf he had on his skin as a homage to Sherlock Grian.
M had always imagined blood stains to be beautiful.
Most of his characters, at one point or another, were bloody. A streak across a cheekbone. Spots on their collars. Red fitting like gloves on their hands. Aesthetic wounds. It always made him giddy with rapture writing those moments.
And - though he doubted he would ever admit it aloud - there were occasional moments of his own. He would look at his face in the mirror and imagine where the stains might go. He would wash his hands and imagine blood dripping away in the water, though never quite erasing that burgundy between his knuckles.
He never really imagined whose blood it was.
In Oakhurst, it allured him even more. Not just the idea of himself as a vampire, but what it could bestow. Power. Life. Time. All things that seemed in greatest demand, but lowest supply. Especially here. Especially for his endlessly churning imagination.
If he only had the gift of immortality, perhaps the maddening fears that crept on the edges of his mind would retreat.
But, it had to be said, the imagery helped too. The thought of bending over someone, mouth beautifully bloodied, a breath away from their neck. Perhaps it would feel romantic. Perhaps it would feel wicked. Perhaps it would feel exhilarating.
At the very least, it would feel poetic.
Right?
Soon enough, though, M discovered the gaps in his imagination. The rush of power at his turning was incredible, yes, but now he was hungry. Constantly. Not like a lover’s passion, but an animal’s starvation. The livestock he slaughtered were less a sumptuous feast and more the gorging of a vulture. The smell of blood nauseated as much as it appetized. And it never fully left.
Maybe it would be different with humans. Maybe human blood would awaken whatever he was missing. Make it into poetry.
But then it was Martyn and Renhardt. Dying. Bleeding out on the streets of Oakhurst.
When it was all over, and the others had left, M walked slowly to each body. Martyn's arm was drenched. The smell was even fouler than normal blood, and burned in his nostrils. Then Ren… oh, Ren. The wounds were so many. And M could see far more beneath them than he ever wanted to imagine.
Despite his new, unnatural strength, it took great effort to bring them, one after another, to Ren's cabin, and to place them respectfully in the graves he dug there.
The act bloodied his clothes. It bloodied his hands, caking into his nails and between his fingers. He did not realize, in wiping his tears, how much blood he got on his face.
Over the centuries, he got many questions about his books - as the author, and as the foremost “scholar” on the author (or authors, as history believed). One that came up time after time was why they changed. Why were the later books so different? What happened to the bloody romances that were so popular?
“Blood is blood,” he would always answer, with a hollow stare. “It’s only poetic if it means something. Love, loss, desire, sacrifice. It’s not pretty just for being where it shouldn’t be.”
M would always write. But every story - whether tales of the high seas or the barren deserts, of star-crossed worlds or mere misadventures - always seemed to come back to the fiery young man with golden hair and the noble old man with spectacles. And it always came back to blood.
He never could wash the stains out of his clothes.
AC: STARGAZER
ARENA RANK: formerly 51/M, currently unranked due to lack of activity
Emblem: A crudely drawn white peace sign symbol over the Redhearts insignia, with a pink-petaled flower overlapping the top half of the symbol’s ring.
Character artist: @marblegroves
he/him
Whether or not Red Twenty Bob is actually part of the Redhearts is a question that not even Grimdog can concretely answer. While the commander’s third cousin twice removed is indeed on the Bigeye payroll, despite the rank of Red Twenty nominally being assigned to the Redhearts’ reserve, that bunk in the barracks is empty (and has been for quite some time). Nor does the portion of the garage reserved for Red Twenty see much use outside of the occasional spatial encroachment by another Redheart while their AC is being worked on. Even in official logs, Red Twenty is referred to not by name, but simply via an ambiguous number, lacking a helpful footnote that might otherwise elucidate further.
Complicating matters further, Bob is neither a licensed combat pilot nor a mercenary proper: his position is technically that of a civilian contractor pilot, with his patchwork, jury-rigged AC, STARGAZER, better equipped for logging forests and hauling scrap metal than for combat. Accordingly, he prefers to do precisely that: he and his AC are often found assisting Bigeye resource reclamation or construction teams. Furthermore, Bob himself seems to only show up in the base when there’s something that needs fixing (like the time that Drifter accidentally domino’d some parked MTs over while returning from a sortie, or when Cleal clogged a sink after having imbibed too much Raficonian ale.)
How then, one might ask, did he get into the Redhearts, and what does he even bring to the table that is worth keeping him around for? Being cannon fodder might come to mind, but that is not the case: while equipped for the basics of combat, STARGAZER has never seen a day on the battlefield proper. Bob, in fact, abstains from the thought of battle: he is simply there to keep the lights on, the MTs upright and operational, and the plumbing clean and free of ethanoic smell.