Who ⚔ Yael & assorted nerds What ⚔ A dungeon run and other things When ⚔ After the party Where ⚔ Errywhere Content Warnings ⚔ Men with their tits out? Alcohol??? No correlation there surprisingly. nsfw i'm sorry mom
One moment, he's trudging through the hall of mirrors, and in the next moment, he's trying to load a gun that seems much too big for his hands. He knows this weapon—he's loaded it hundreds of times. Why is he struggling so much? He sniffs and stares at his tiny, shaky hands.
The voice draws his attention upwards. He doesn't recognize him.
[The man all but scoffs, leaning down so the boy can't possibly mishear him.]
"The battlefield. It might seem years away, but you'll be out there before you know it. Fighting. Surviving. The enemy won't sit around while you debate whether to shoot or flee."
[Wresting the gun from the boy's hands, he shoves the magazine into the chamber before urging it back into his grip.]
"Remember: this is for your benefit. Your life. Don't let it be lost to your own cowardice."
[The man points to a freshly placed target, the instruction written in his gaze: shoot.]
[ He flinches as the man leans down, letting all the words filter into him whether he likes it or not.
He knows this already. He's been taught this already. But it didn't come to him as a child like this—what is going on?
He flinches again as the gun is shoved into his hands again. This has always been a heavy weapon, but it feels so unbearably so in this smaller frame.
Is he...is he Yael?
He gets to his feet at the instruction and aims, with great difficulty, and shoots at the target. It's more difficult than he remembers. Some bullets hit their mark, but most end up in the space around it, making a veritable mess of his practice.
He lifts his head to look at the man, vexed with his own results. ]
[The man's wrinkled expression doesn't shift— not when Yael rises to his instruction, not when his shaky hands pull the trigger. Not even when he shoots and shoots and shoots, some even hitting their mark.
No, the dark shadows that haunt the man's face remain static, only shifting with the slightest movement of his cracked lips.]
"You'll get used to it. Everyone does in time. When you can hit that target without flinching and cowering away, we'll move onto the actual targets."
[The memory begins to fray at the edges, warping and distorting like the last bits of film in a cannister. At the very end, Yael's hands are larger, wreathed in callouses and so very, very bloody.
The memory ends and Hector is as he was: a man boring holes into his own reflection.]
The man's face is etched into Hector's mind as the memory begins to fade. As the images distort, as Yael's hands grow bloody, it all begins to slot into place. Was he a child soldier? Made to spill blood long before he was ready to choose for himself?
That isn't right. And it makes Hector more furious than he'd let on.
It takes him a moment to realize he's staring at himself in the mirror again, and he breathes in shock when he realizes where he is.
He drops his gaze to his hands, clad in the silly boyscout armor. It's so...jarring to see this, after seeing that.
For a moment, he debates not saying anything at all. ]
...Yael?
[ He wonders if his voice will carry well enough to find the other man. ]
[His words snake through the hallway and find their intended target, but Yael is in no position to answer Hector. Staring down his reflection in the mirror — Hector's, no longer his own — Yael feels it drag him further and further out of this reality and into one wholly separate from his own.]
[ And when Yael blinks, he'll find himself before a door.
It's a scant excuse for a door, an entrance cobbled together out of desperation. It hangs uneven on its hinges, stuck in place in the rectangular entrance cut into the stone walls of the building. Despite appearances, it's a solid barrier. You will not be getting in without force.
It's hot, dry. Sweat clings uncomfortably to your skin, to the layers of clothes you have on you, that sit between you and your armor. Your breath feels hot beneath your mask; a bead of sweat drips from your head to the brim of your goggles, sticks there. It's uncomfortable. Unpleasant.
"On my signal."
A voice comes from beside you. It's low, confident, comforting. You hear the scattering of footsteps behind you as the rest of your squadron scatters, almost inaudible beneath the roar of low-flying planes, of explosions too close for comfort. You can no longer distinguish the smell of gunpowder from the smell of dust from beneath your mask.
You turn to look at the man beside you—your captain. He greets your gaze with those bright, hazel eyes. They pierce you from behind his darkened goggles, and he nods. You nod in turn. You've done this a hundred times, and your teamwork is immaculate. You work as one. It's hard to imagine a better partner.
...Sorry. Superior officer.
Your squad is to clear out any guerilla soldiers that might be hiding in this neighborhood; the residents long since cleared out, but there is always a chance that a stray enemy or two had taken up base in the area instead. Or if a stubborn resident has decided to remain, escort them to safety. Either way, you know what to expect. You doubt this will be any more than routine.
You turn your attention back to the door, and your captain whips up his arm. You kick down the sorry excuse for a door, and its hinges shatter. It falls to the floor in a puff of dust, and you and your captain stride into the dark insides. It's a welcome relief from the desert heat, but you are not here to relax.
Your flashlight clicks on and you cautiously sweep the open room. You keep your ears pricked, just in case someone decides to come in behind you; you hear the rest of your squad carrying out the same elswhere, in different buildings. You should be done with this area in no time.
As your flashlight sweeps over a teddy bear, forgotten in the corner, cotton spilling from its tattered seams, a weird feeling settles in your gut, your chest. You feel dizzy for a moment. Before you can really process what's happening, you hear the loud thump of a footstep beside you. Your odd anxiety causes you to jump, and you whirl around. And where you expect to see your captain, you instead see a hulking, fuzzy mass.
Your eyes snap wide in shock, and you point your gun at it in the ready.
"Who are you?"
You demand, and the voice that fills your ears is low, sinister. Evil.
"You know who I am. You have dreamt of me hundreds of times, no?"
"What are you doing here?!"
"Private Reza, is something the matter?"
"What do you think?"
"Get out of here. You've already taken my sister from me. What else do you want?!"
"Oh, you have so much to give. Think."
"Oh, no—"
"I don't owe you anything. Touch my family and I'll kill you."
"Reza, please listen to my voice and focus. What you're seeing and hearing isn't real. Listen to—"
"But it would be so easy. You wouldn't know until you got home. If you got home."
"Shut up! Don't you dare touch them!"
"But that would be boring, don't you think? I know there is something much, much more precious to you here, isn't there?"
You panic, heart pounding wildly in your chest. Your finger rests on the trigger.
"You wouldn't dare."
"Oh, but I would."
"Touch him and I'll kill you!"
"Mehmet, stop!"
"Why threaten me when you could do it right now? Go on. Avenge your sister."
Bang.
The ringing in your ears fade, and the shade that veiled your vision lifts. There's a weight in your arms and in your chest, your knees twisted uncomfortably beneath you.
Hazel eyes stare up at you, unblinking, the embers of life so dangerously close to darkness.
"...Captain?"
Your captain is cradled in your arms, his helmet and goggles and mask all discarded, as are yours. Blood thickly coats his body, and you are painted in the same red. It sticks uncomfortably to your hands, and you can feel it on your face, but only when a stray tear carves a course through it over your cheek.
"Captain, please, answer me."
His lips move, you can see his eyes focus on you. You feel panic mounting in your chest. Something balls in your throat; you swallow, but it only causes another tear to spill from your eye.
"Who did this to you? I'm—I'm going to get a medic. Please just, just hang on, I—"
His bloodied hand comes to rest over your cheek, stopping you in your momentary panic. You see the softness in his eyes, the kind he only ever reserved for you when the both of you know you're alone. You can already feel his warmth fading.
"I don't..." his voice croaks. You want him to shut up. You want him to save that energy so you can make it back to base. You want him to stay still so he can be healthy again. You refuse to believe that— "...blame you..."
"Blame me for what?!" you demand, your voice cracking as it rises. It's so dry. So hot. Too hot. You suffocate.
But you get no answer. Instead, you watch as the flame of life is quietly snuffed out. Empty voids that once held the soul of the love of your life stare up at you instead.
You fold. Your forehead presses to his and a torrent of disbelief comes over you. What about the house you were going to get together upstate once you got home? The one in the woods? The one with space for a little vegetable garden, a yard big enough for a dog. The one that had that room on the second floor with the big windows, for his library? And what about his cats? His mother, now left on her lonesome?
Was he never going to hold you again? Cast glances at you of significance that only you undestood? Tell you all the ways the latest poem he read reminded him of you? How are you supposed to go on knowing that, of all the characters in classical literature, he thought of you as Hector, of the Iliad?
Surely, he would wake up. Surely, this is all just a bad dream.
Your squad comes running because they hear you screaming. But you don't even know that you are.
There is ultimately no evidence to what many suspect, but the preconception is there. You were a good soldier, but you pose more danger than you should. The military is determined to get rid of you.
Don't ask, don't tell.
Your relationship with your captain is brought to light, and you are swiftly removed from service.
You return home with nothing of him but a name and a date of birth etched in steel around your neck. ]
[The memory washes over him and leaves its dark stains behind on him like ink on a canvas. No matter how long Yael spends scouring his skin in the days and weeks to come, he'll never be rid of it. What Hector loved, what he'd lost, pain so poignant it sinks into his gut and nauseates him. He feels that sickening lurch in his abdomen twofold and is convinced he'd thrown up offline as well, but he doesn't stop to check. No, even if he wanted to, his fingertips are too weighty with numbness to find their way to his headset.
I don't blame you.
Imagine losing a love even the luckiest find only once in their lifetime. Imagine that pain. Imagine removing that love from this world with your own two hands. Yael, at the very least, is fortunate the one he loved still draws breath in a world far removed from his own. At least she continues to breathe.
When that misplaced memory leaves him, Yael "wakes" to find himself on his knees in the same hall of mirrors he'd so desperately been searching for a way out of. He's lost the will to engage this place on its terms, and so he logs out to set about scouring every inch of his skin under steaming hot water in the hopes that Hector's pain doesn't leave permanent stains on his psyche.
He looks around, halls empty, only his distorted reflections for company. There's an unease in him, lingering from the revelations of Yael's past. He wants to talk to him, but...
A little seed of disappointment settles in him, realizing Yael probably bounced the moment he could. And he wonders why he expected anything different for even a second.
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no subject
One moment, he's trudging through the hall of mirrors, and in the next moment, he's trying to load a gun that seems much too big for his hands. He knows this weapon—he's loaded it hundreds of times. Why is he struggling so much? He sniffs and stares at his tiny, shaky hands.
The voice draws his attention upwards. He doesn't recognize him.
Something isn't right. ]
...What do you mean?
[ Isn't...isn't he a child? ]
no subject
"The battlefield. It might seem years away, but you'll be out there before you know it. Fighting. Surviving. The enemy won't sit around while you debate whether to shoot or flee."
[Wresting the gun from the boy's hands, he shoves the magazine into the chamber before urging it back into his grip.]
"Remember: this is for your benefit. Your life. Don't let it be lost to your own cowardice."
[The man points to a freshly placed target, the instruction written in his gaze: shoot.]
no subject
He knows this already. He's been taught this already. But it didn't come to him as a child like this—what is going on?
He flinches again as the gun is shoved into his hands again. This has always been a heavy weapon, but it feels so unbearably so in this smaller frame.
Is he...is he Yael?
He gets to his feet at the instruction and aims, with great difficulty, and shoots at the target. It's more difficult than he remembers. Some bullets hit their mark, but most end up in the space around it, making a veritable mess of his practice.
He lifts his head to look at the man, vexed with his own results. ]
no subject
No, the dark shadows that haunt the man's face remain static, only shifting with the slightest movement of his cracked lips.]
"You'll get used to it. Everyone does in time. When you can hit that target without flinching and cowering away, we'll move onto the actual targets."
[The memory begins to fray at the edges, warping and distorting like the last bits of film in a cannister. At the very end, Yael's hands are larger, wreathed in callouses and so very, very bloody.
The memory ends and Hector is as he was: a man boring holes into his own reflection.]
no subject
The man's face is etched into Hector's mind as the memory begins to fade. As the images distort, as Yael's hands grow bloody, it all begins to slot into place. Was he a child soldier? Made to spill blood long before he was ready to choose for himself?
That isn't right. And it makes Hector more furious than he'd let on.
It takes him a moment to realize he's staring at himself in the mirror again, and he breathes in shock when he realizes where he is.
He drops his gaze to his hands, clad in the silly boyscout armor. It's so...jarring to see this, after seeing that.
For a moment, he debates not saying anything at all. ]
...Yael?
[ He wonders if his voice will carry well enough to find the other man. ]
no subject
cw psychosis, blood, murder, homophobia
It's a scant excuse for a door, an entrance cobbled together out of desperation. It hangs uneven on its hinges, stuck in place in the rectangular entrance cut into the stone walls of the building. Despite appearances, it's a solid barrier. You will not be getting in without force.
It's hot, dry. Sweat clings uncomfortably to your skin, to the layers of clothes you have on you, that sit between you and your armor. Your breath feels hot beneath your mask; a bead of sweat drips from your head to the brim of your goggles, sticks there. It's uncomfortable. Unpleasant.
"On my signal."
A voice comes from beside you. It's low, confident, comforting. You hear the scattering of footsteps behind you as the rest of your squadron scatters, almost inaudible beneath the roar of low-flying planes, of explosions too close for comfort. You can no longer distinguish the smell of gunpowder from the smell of dust from beneath your mask.
You turn to look at the man beside you—your captain. He greets your gaze with those bright, hazel eyes. They pierce you from behind his darkened goggles, and he nods. You nod in turn. You've done this a hundred times, and your teamwork is immaculate. You work as one. It's hard to imagine a better partner.
...Sorry. Superior officer.
Your squad is to clear out any guerilla soldiers that might be hiding in this neighborhood; the residents long since cleared out, but there is always a chance that a stray enemy or two had taken up base in the area instead. Or if a stubborn resident has decided to remain, escort them to safety. Either way, you know what to expect. You doubt this will be any more than routine.
You turn your attention back to the door, and your captain whips up his arm. You kick down the sorry excuse for a door, and its hinges shatter. It falls to the floor in a puff of dust, and you and your captain stride into the dark insides. It's a welcome relief from the desert heat, but you are not here to relax.
Your flashlight clicks on and you cautiously sweep the open room. You keep your ears pricked, just in case someone decides to come in behind you; you hear the rest of your squad carrying out the same elswhere, in different buildings. You should be done with this area in no time.
As your flashlight sweeps over a teddy bear, forgotten in the corner, cotton spilling from its tattered seams, a weird feeling settles in your gut, your chest. You feel dizzy for a moment. Before you can really process what's happening, you hear the loud thump of a footstep beside you. Your odd anxiety causes you to jump, and you whirl around. And where you expect to see your captain, you instead see a hulking, fuzzy mass.
Your eyes snap wide in shock, and you point your gun at it in the ready.
"Who are you?"
You demand, and the voice that fills your ears is low, sinister. Evil.
You panic, heart pounding wildly in your chest. Your finger rests on the trigger.
"You wouldn't dare."
Bang.
The ringing in your ears fade, and the shade that veiled your vision lifts. There's a weight in your arms and in your chest, your knees twisted uncomfortably beneath you.
Hazel eyes stare up at you, unblinking, the embers of life so dangerously close to darkness.
"...Captain?"
Your captain is cradled in your arms, his helmet and goggles and mask all discarded, as are yours. Blood thickly coats his body, and you are painted in the same red. It sticks uncomfortably to your hands, and you can feel it on your face, but only when a stray tear carves a course through it over your cheek.
"Captain, please, answer me."
His lips move, you can see his eyes focus on you. You feel panic mounting in your chest. Something balls in your throat; you swallow, but it only causes another tear to spill from your eye.
"Who did this to you? I'm—I'm going to get a medic. Please just, just hang on, I—"
His bloodied hand comes to rest over your cheek, stopping you in your momentary panic. You see the softness in his eyes, the kind he only ever reserved for you when the both of you know you're alone. You can already feel his warmth fading.
"I don't..." his voice croaks. You want him to shut up. You want him to save that energy so you can make it back to base. You want him to stay still so he can be healthy again. You refuse to believe that— "...blame you..."
"Blame me for what?!" you demand, your voice cracking as it rises. It's so dry. So hot. Too hot. You suffocate.
But you get no answer. Instead, you watch as the flame of life is quietly snuffed out. Empty voids that once held the soul of the love of your life stare up at you instead.
You fold. Your forehead presses to his and a torrent of disbelief comes over you. What about the house you were going to get together upstate once you got home? The one in the woods? The one with space for a little vegetable garden, a yard big enough for a dog. The one that had that room on the second floor with the big windows, for his library? And what about his cats? His mother, now left on her lonesome?
Was he never going to hold you again? Cast glances at you of significance that only you undestood? Tell you all the ways the latest poem he read reminded him of you? How are you supposed to go on knowing that, of all the characters in classical literature, he thought of you as Hector, of the Iliad?
Surely, he would wake up. Surely, this is all just a bad dream.
Your squad comes running because they hear you screaming. But you don't even know that you are.
There is ultimately no evidence to what many suspect, but the preconception is there. You were a good soldier, but you pose more danger than you should. The military is determined to get rid of you.
Don't ask, don't tell.
Your relationship with your captain is brought to light, and you are swiftly removed from service.
You return home with nothing of him but a name and a date of birth etched in steel around your neck. ]
cw emeto
I don't blame you.
Imagine losing a love even the luckiest find only once in their lifetime. Imagine that pain. Imagine removing that love from this world with your own two hands. Yael, at the very least, is fortunate the one he loved still draws breath in a world far removed from his own. At least she continues to breathe.
When that misplaced memory leaves him, Yael "wakes" to find himself on his knees in the same hall of mirrors he'd so desperately been searching for a way out of. He's lost the will to engage this place on its terms, and so he logs out to set about scouring every inch of his skin under steaming hot water in the hopes that Hector's pain doesn't leave permanent stains on his psyche.
Wishful thinking.]
🎀
[ Still no answer.
He looks around, halls empty, only his distorted reflections for company. There's an unease in him, lingering from the revelations of Yael's past. He wants to talk to him, but...
A little seed of disappointment settles in him, realizing Yael probably bounced the moment he could. And he wonders why he expected anything different for even a second.
He doesn't know that Yael saw something in turn.
Oh well.
Better find his way out himself, then. ]