Here for the ride

Stepping through a dimensional portal was a sensation you still hadn't fully adjusted to.

When the magical rift deposited you into your first Mortal Kombat match, you had braced your nerves for the worst. The other Earthrealm champions had spoken of Outworld with absolute dread, warning you to expect roaring coliseums, blood-stained sand, and the watchful eye of a tyrannical Emperor.

You were prepared to be thrown into a slaughterhouse.

​Instead, as the portal's light snapped shut behind you, you were met with the suffocating silence of an ancient, ruined library.

​The anxiety of the impending deathmatch instantly evaporated, replaced by the overwhelming, reckless curiosity that had gotten you marked by the dragon in the first place.

Towering stone shelves, choked with the dust of dead millennia, formed a labyrinth of shadows. For any other Earthrealm fighter, it was an eerie, isolating battleground.

For an archaeologist, it was paradise.

You didn't draw your weapons immediately. Instead, you brushed a layer of grit off a crumbling stone tablet, your eyes tracing the jagged Outworld runes.

You were entirely absorbed in the history of the room when the slow, deliberate click of armoured boots echoed through the corridor.

​"Well. The overseers possess an intriguing sense of humour."

​The voice was hushed, regal, and dripping with a dark, smug amusement. You didn't flinch, though a sudden, electric jolt spiked your pulse. You carefully set the tablet down and turned.

​He stood at the end of the aisle.

Wearing the heavy, formal armour of Shao Kahn’s court, his high-collared cape sweeping over the stone. Yet, beneath the stoic diplomat's exterior was the lingering, theatrical grin of a predator who had just stumbled upon his favourite, most frustrating prey.

​"Shang Tsung," you said, keeping your voice steady as you unclipped the twin climbing axes from your tactical harness. "I was told I’d be facing a combatant. Did you finally tire of hiding behind your assassins?"

He chuckled, a low, melodic sound that seemed to vibrate in the dust around you. He stepped closer, clasping his hands behind his back.

"A pleasant surprise for us both, it seems. When you slipped through my fingers at Raiden’s temple last year, I feared I had lost my favourite curiosity. You phased right through the floorboards with a highly classified scroll, if I recall."

"It was a fascinating read," you replied, twirling the axes into a reverse grip. "Though your translation of ancient Edenian is a little rusty."

​He stopped his advance. His eyes flashed with a dangerous spark, his gaze sweeping over you with a mix of irritation and undeniable intrigue. "Is it? Then, perhaps after I best you, I will keep you around to tutor me."

​"My rates are steep," you warned, twirling the axes into a reverse grip.

You moved first.

Your combat experience wasn't forged in a dojo or a military boot camp; it was built on a career of surviving the impossible. Years spent diving under swinging pendulum traps in sealed tombs, vaulting over collapsing architecture, and narrowly evading armed mercenaries in the dark had made your movements fluid, agile, and ruthlessly adaptable.

You lunged, using your momentum to swing the curved pick of your axe toward his shoulder in a deadly arc.

Shang Tsung didn't even summon his magic. He simply stepped inside your guard. His hand shot out, catching your wrist with crushing force.

With a sharp twist, he forced your fingers to open, sending the axe clattering to the floor. He kicked the other from your left hand, pulling you flush against his chest before shoving you backward.

"How ordinary," he sighed, looking profoundly disappointed. "I expected more from a woman of your intellect."

​"I haven't even started," you shot back, quickly finding your footing.

His smile returned, wicked and bright. "Then please, my dear. Show me what else you have been hiding from me."

He raised his hands, and the air around him plummeted in temperature as searing, green soul-fire ignited in his palms. He unleashed a barrage of flaming, screaming skulls directly at your chest.

You didn't dodge. You didn't brace for impact. You simply breathed out and let your Arcana take over.

Your physical form rippled like a mirage over hot sand. The searing magic hit you and passed harmlessly through your chest, dissipating against the stone shelves behind you. You walked calmly forward, phasing through two more lethal blasts, unaffected and completely intangible.

The smugness on Shang Tsung’s face faltered, replaced instantly by dark, rapt fascination.

He watched the way the light warped around you. He realized the puzzle immediately: you were a ghost, untouchable. But to strike him, you would have to become solid again.

The brawl dissolved into a lethal waltz.

You phased through his sweeping kicks and dark magic, waiting for the perfect opening. Finally, he overextended, throwing a heavy strike that left his flank exposed.

You dropped your intangibility, your boots hitting the stone with a solid thud as you lunged for your fallen axe.

It was a trap.

The moment you solidified, Shang Tsung vanished in a swirl of black smoke. Before you could even blink, he materialized perfectly in your blind spot.

His hand clamped around your waist, hauling you upward, while his other hand caught your jaw. He spun you with terrifying momentum, slamming your back hard against a towering stone pillar. The breath left your lungs in a rush, and before you could summon the focus to phase again, you were completely pinned.

​He leaned in agonizingly close, his breath ghosting across your cheek. But there was no wonder in his eyes this time, only the cold satisfaction of a trap snapping shut.

​"Did you truly think the same trick would work a second time?" he murmured, his voice a low, clinical purr.

​You thrashed against his grip, glaring up into his face. "Get off me."

​"Your defiance is entirely useless," he replied, a thin, sharp smile cutting across his features.

​His eyes, once a dangerously warm chocolate, swirled into twin black voids. He opened his mouth slightly, and a sudden, terrifying gravity seized the centre of your chest. A vibrant ribbon of green light, your very vitality, was violently drawn from your lips and into his.

​The effect was devastating. The adrenaline fueling your defiance evaporated. The sheer energy required to keep fighting was sapped from your veins in seconds, replaced by a heavy, intoxicating lethargy.

Your struggles ceased immediately as your muscles turned to lead. Your eyes fluttered heavily, your knees buckling beneath you.

​But you didn't hit the floor.

​The moment your fight was gone, Shang Tsung’s brutal grapple dissolved into a surprisingly gentle, possessive cradle.

The hand at your jaw slid to the back of your neck, while the arm around your waist pulled your limp body flush against his heavy armour, fully supporting your dead weight.

​He had only taken a taste. Just enough to leave you entirely at his mercy.

​With your chin resting weakly against his chest, he tilted your head up so you were forced to look at him. He savored the stolen energy, his expression dark, assessing, and thoroughly unimpressed by Earthrealm's claim over you.

​He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a quiet, menacing promise.

​"You are utterly wasted on Earthrealm," he whispered. "I could pull the rest of this light from your chest right now. I could swallow your soul, absorb your memories, and command your power as my own."

​He paused, letting the threat hang heavy in the air between you, before his voice dropped an octave lower, bordering on a dark, seductive invitation.

​"Or, you could choose to survive. Outworld has a great many uses for a thief of your calibre. I am leaving you alive today for a reason. Let them see how easily I broke you. When you finally realize that Raiden is leading you all to slaughter... you will know exactly where your true allegiance belongs."

​He lingered for a second longer, letting you process the weight of his words, before slowly, deliberately lowering your weakened body to the cold stone floor.

He smoothed a stray lock of hair out of your face with a gesture that felt less like tenderness and more like a brand of ownership, then straightened his cape.

Before diving into headcanons, here is my baseline interpretation of the Creature:

​While his origins are deeply sympathetic, his canon actions are those of a cold-blooded serial killer and psychological torturer. He is neither a mindless beast nor a soft baby who needs to be coddled.

​He is a highly articulate, self-aware being who understands right from wrong and actively chooses evil as a weapon against Victor.

​However, I believe he felt immense guilt for the lives he ruined. Weeping over Victor’s body and promising Walton he will destroy himself shows how deeply his innate sense of justice was corrupted by isolation. Ultimately, his entire existence was wrapped up in making Victor miserable; once Victor was gone, he had no purpose left.

ANYWAY ONTO THE REAL HEADCANONS:

Continuing on from where the novel ends off, I'm going to pretend that the Creature's attempt on his own life failed

Before the fire can destroy his vital organs, the intense heat melts the ice beneath him

He falls into the icy abyss, and the fire is extinguished

When he washes ashore days later, scarred by fire and half-frozen, he feels a cold, venomous fury

He has left the artic, trudging back inland believeing God, or Fate, is forcing him to endure a life he no longer sees worth living

Until you

It's likely he comes across you when you are having a moment of vulnerability

Maybe you are sitting by a thawing forest stream, weeping quietly as you bury a half-starved, frozen stray dog you found too late, maybe something else

Either way, should you be showing genuine sorrow or pity for a creature deemed worthless by most

In his fractured, traumatized mind, he instantly aligns himself with that animal

"For the first time in my cursed existence, I dared to imagine what it might be like to rest my own abhorred head in your lap."

The suicidal ideation vanishes, replaced by a terrifying, hyper-fixated epiphany that he isn't being forced to live as a punishment, but to be your keeper

However the memory of the De Lacey family beating him and Victor fleeing from him is seared into his brain

It would keep him from revealing himself to you initially out of pure fear of your rejection

He'd likely default to the only way he knows how to show affection: invisible labour like chopping wood, clearing the path of snow, etc

Though this quiet, unrequited love won't last forever

The Creature has never truly experienced love or romance

His understanding of love is entirely academic, stitched together from books he's scavenged and what he's watched enviously from afar

These things will impact how he shows his affections like:

His curiosity curdles into a hoarding obsession because if he can not have you yet, then he'll settle for takeinv pieces of you

Stealing trivial things you won't immediately miss: a dropped handkerchief, a wooden comb, a button that fell off your winter coat, strands of hair caught in the brambles

He spends hours staring at them in the dark, speaking to them in his French, or reading poems

He knows from reading that a smile is meant to convey warmth, so he manually forces the stiff, heavy muscles of his face into a grin

The result is an exaggerated rictus

As weeks turn into months, his boldness grows

He starts standing outside your window at night

Follows you deeper into the villages in daylight

He leaves gifts for you on your porche like Sun bleached bird skulls, flowers, pieces of materials, and pages of poems

The longer he watches you, the more his tragic backstory twists into a dangerous sense of entitlement

In his perspective, he has suffered more than any being on earth; therefore, he deserves compensation

You are that compensation

Therefore, he knows he can not hide forever, so he is meticulously planning the moment he reveals himself

There are one of two ways I image he'd act:

Possibility A:

​If you have a life, a family, and friends, he knows he can not just walk into it

Instead, he will systematically destroy your world so he can become its only remaining pillar

He remembers how easily he framed Justine Moritz and ruined Victor's life so he will use that exact same calculated malice to isolate you

Your crops will blight

Your home might mysteriously catch fire in the dead of night

Any potential suitors will either flee town after a terrifying encounter in the dark, or they will turn up dead

When you are completely destitute, grieving, and abandoned, he will offer an ultimatim

"Look at what your kind has done to you. Cast out, shivering, left to die by the very people you called family. Take my hand. Walk with me into the mountains, and I shall be your tireless servant, your guardian, your god."

Pathway 2:

If you are too unobtainable, perhaps well-protected, wealthy, or preparing to leave the region entirely

His fragile patience snaps into absolute panic and he'll abandon the long game

This lonely bastard knows his own strength, he's lived with it all his life, he knows no door, or man, could stop him

Therefore me would simply break into your room in the dead of night

Before you can even process the horror of his face in the moonlight, he will muffle your screams and carry you away into the wilderness

He will provide for you perfectly, bringing you furs, books, and food, but he will never, ever let you leave

He views his captivity of you not as a crime but as saving you from a cruel world that doesn't understand the profound, violent love he has to offer

​"Fight me if you must. Strike my chest, curse my name, weep until your throat is raw. I can endure it. Eventually, the hatred will burn out. And I will still be here, waiting for your love."

​Once he has successfully isolated you or dragged you away into the wilderness, the dynamic shifts into a bizarre, paradoxical mix of absolute worship and absolute imprisonment

He will kneel at your feet, rest his massive, scarred head in your lap, and beg for your touch

However, the moment you attempt to leave or ask for your freedom, he will gently, but immovably, block the door

Reminding you that gods do not belong among the wretched mortals below

Because he feels immense guilt for forcing you to be with him, he tries to compensate with what he considers overwhelming luxury

Like warm furs, berries, warmth, and conversation, he may even gather the courage to nick jewelery from nearby towns or resting merchants for you

If you break down and cry from the isolation. He does not get angry at you

He gets violently, dangerously angry at himself and the world

He will agonise over the fact that his hideousness and his love are causing you pain

Yet, his solution is never to let you go; his solution is to demand you try harder to love him

If you threaten to starve yourself, or even threaten to take your own life to escape him,

He won't panic

He will simply smile a stiff, unnatural smile. He kept Victor’s journal. He knows the secret to life

Buried in a quiet, forgotten corner deep beneath the Rhodes Hill Clinic, Victor Gideon’s private quarters existed in absolute, suffocating isolation.

The sprawling space was a disgustingly clean mausoleum. A fine layer of undisturbed dust coated the opulent, untouched furniture, a quiet testament to how rarely the Doctor actually inhabited his own home outside of his laboratory.

The singular exception was the massive kitchen, and the adjacent dining room, kept aggressively pristine not by Doctor Gideon but by you, simply because you absolutely refused to practice your art in a compromised environment.

Tonight, the dining area was cranked to its usual, suffocatingly warm temperature to accommodate his metabolism. But after three glasses of an impeccably aged Barolo, the heat only added to the heavy, intoxicating reality that the two of you were entirely, completely alone.

You sat perched on the edge of the polished mahogany dining table, right at his elbow.

Your legs were crossed at the knee, one black stiletto heel dangling lazily, held onto your foot by nothing but the toes.

It was a contradiction you only allowed here.

With your other clients, the tech moguls, and the fussy local politicians, you were a ghost in the kitchen. Sterile, strictly professional and entirely invisible.

But Doctor Gideon was different. For him, you wore silk and lipstick. You liked feeling his eyes track your movements.

But the apron was always tied tightly around your waist. It was your armor; a thick, canvas boundary firmly stating that you were an employee, and he could look, but he could never touch.

Until tonight.

Victor was in the process of finishing the main course, a custom-scaled portion of Rabbit Roulade.

You had deboned, stuffed, and rolled nearly a dozen whole rabbits, wrapping them in caul fat and roasting them to accommodate his massive caloric needs.

He didn't use a knife. As he brought a heavy portion to his mouth, there was a distinct, wet click.

You watched, simultaneously repulsed and entirely captivated, as the lower half of his jaw unhinged.

As his mouth widened to accommodate the meat, the dark keloided scar that ran from his bottom lip and disappeared under the fabric of his dress shirt stretched tight, revealing how his mandible had literally split into two independent bones.

His dress shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, a ritual he maintained during his weekly feasts, exposing pale skin that gave way to thick, iridescent patches of scales and deep, blackened veins pulsing with his slow heartbeat.

Three years ago, he had just been a lonely, busy Doctor who was a touch too tall, deeply eccentric, and simply asked you to sear his steaks a little rarer than most. Back then, you had caught him staring at your mouth in the reflection of the kitchen's stainless steel, a quiet, intense observation you’d pretended not to notice.

Over the years, you hadn’t really registered how Doctor Gideon's appearance shifted because it happened so slowly, so smoothly. But thinking retrospectively, comparing the man you met to the man you fed now, he had definitely changed.

He was a monolith, and that polite curiosity had warped into a blatant, ravenous desire.

You knew he wanted you. He knew you knew.

But as your eyes travelled from his pulsing throat back to the colossal platter he had nearly cleared, a dark, complicated thrill settled in your gut.

You were utterly disgusted by his monstrous evolution, yet hopelessly seduced by it. Intoxicated by the unique power of being the only creature capable of truly satisfying a hunger so massive.

It was a wicked, silent game of chicken, played across a fine line neither of you had dared to cross.

​Until tonight.

​"The structural integrity is remarkable," Doctor Gideon murmured softly. He swallowed effortlessly, the massive muscles in his throat working the dense meat down.

His long, bifurcated tongue flickered out to taste the steam rising from the platter. "You didn't use twine, yet the rabbit hasn't torn or unravelled. Some manner of transglutaminase? A chemical binding agent?"

​"No 'meat glue' in my kitchen, Doctor." A smug, buzzed smile tugged at your lips. "It's a classic emulsion. You salt the meat a day ahead to draw out the proteins, making it tacky. Then, you whip it with ice-cold cream to bind it together."

Your gaze dropped, locking heavily onto his parted lips and the dangerous flash of gold beneath.

"The trick is strict temperature control. If it gets even a fraction too warm while you're working it, the fat melts. The binding breaks, and the whole thing splits into a greasy mess."

​A low, clicking hum vibrated deep in his massive chest.

He absolutely loved listening to you speak with such smooth, effortless authority on a subject completely outside his scientific domain. How could he not appreciate your enthusiasm?

​For a few fleeting moments, it crafted a delicious illusion: that the power dynamic in the room belonged entirely to you. Perched on the table, you felt like a queen looking down at her beast.

It was a beautiful, terribly dangerous lie.

​"Well, I am... thoroughly impressed," he murmured, his voice a soft, abrasive rasp that sent a sharp thrill straight down your spine.

​Flushed with the heavy wine and the heady thrill of your intellectual victory, you went to take a sip, only to find your glass bone dry.

You frowned, glancing over your shoulder at the kitchen island, then turned back, lazily tilting your head toward the heavy crystal goblet resting inches from his massive, scaled hand.

You didn't ask; you simply batted your lashes, offering a coy, expectant smirk.

The indulgent amusement in his posture vanished, replaced by something cold, heavy, and sharply predatory.

​"You are growing entirely too comfortable on my table, darling," he murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerously quiet register.

​He didn't hand you the glass. Instead, his eyes locked onto your silhouette as his long, gold heavy fingers curled around the crystal. With agonizing deliberation, he lifted the rim to his own lips and took a generous, prolonged swallow.

​The spike of hot annoyance hit you first, your mind spitting, petty asshole, in response to his actions. But it was quickly doused by a cold wave of sobering reality.

What are you doing? The wine haze parted just enough for you to realize how wildly out of line you were. You were perched on your employer's dining table, batting your eyelashes and silently demanding his wine like a spoiled pet.

Fuck.

A sudden, sharp guilt flared in your chest. Suddenly feeling very self-conscious, you uncrossed your legs, readying to stand up and swallow hard.

"Doctor Gideon, I–"

The heavy chair he sat on screeched violently against the floorboards.

​Victor stood up to his full, terrifying height, entirely eclipsing the ambient light. Before you could even blink, he stepped directly between your dangling legs. His colossal hands slammed flat onto the table on either side of your hips, trapping you.

​He didn't use his hands to push you. He simply leaned forward. The sheer, overwhelming scale of his body, the bare, scaled chest pressing into your airspace, forced you to instinctively lean backward until the knot of your apron strings dug sharply into the mahogany table beneath you.

​You were pinned, flat on your elbows among the silverware and the scattered plates.

​That was when he crashed his mouth down onto yours, swallowing your apology completely.

The shock of it ripped a gasp from your throat. For three years, you had played this toxic, orbiting game, but he had never physically crossed the boundary.

Your minor transgression was absolutely nothing compared to this violent, breathtaking shattering of the rules.

​His lips were warm from the meal, a jarring contrast to the icy, cracked skin of his chest hovering over you.

The sharp scrape of a gold-capped tooth grazed your lower lip before the lukewarm, slick, heavy slide of his split tongue forced its way inside, flooding your mouth with the rich, heavy vintage he had just drank.

​The sheer surprise kept your lips unsealed just long enough for a single, dark droplet of wine to escape the corner of your mouth.

​The taste of the dark fruit, copper, and his terrifying biology short-circuited your brain. You swallowed the wine on pure reflex, your hands instinctively flying up to fist into the lapels of his unbuttoned shirt.

​Victor broke the kiss, pulling back just a fraction of an inch. You were left gasping, your chest heaving beneath him, completely pliant and thoroughly ruined.

The single droplet of wine continued its slow trail down your chin, but Victor's attention had already shifted.

​His massive, cold hands slid down the sides of your waist, his scaled fingers tracing the heavy fabric of the canvas.

You shivered as his hands slipped entirely beneath you, navigating the narrow space between your lower back and the polished wood. With a slow, deliberate twist of his wrists, his long fingers found the knot.

​You felt the sharp, definitive tug at your waist. The armor was coming undone. The heavy straps slackened, falling lifelessly from your shoulders.

​You stared up at him, dizzy and breathless, your dazed and confused eyes quietly begging him to tell you what had just changed.

​Victor discarded the thick canvas onto the floorboards with a soft thud. He didn't offer a grand explanation. He simply leaned down until his bare, scaled chest pressed flush against your silk blouse, his eyes holding you completely captive.

​"It's rather unfortunate that you've forgotten your place," he whispered, his voice a dark, vibrating purr against your skin. "But not to worry, I find I have time to remind you who exactly is in charge."

Taglist:

​I don’t mean the kind of sleep where you’re dreaming. I mean that quiet, black void you float in when you're completely under.

That beautiful sweet spot where you’re suspended somewhere between conscious and unconscious. Time moves so slowly in it, yet whenever you wake up, it always feels like you were pulled out of it too soon.

​Idk, maybe I’m going a bit mad (what else is new). But I’m fascinated by the idea of trying to catch myself in that exact moment.

I want to become lucid just enough to experience it in real-time, just to see if I'm romanticizing the void or if it really is as intoxicating as it feels right when I wake up.

​As an atheist, I imagine that’s what death is like. Just a peaceful, dreamless sleep. Lol.

Would you describe it as a weird subculture of people who claim to "shift" into their desired realities? Where they try to train themselves to be conscious enough to build a world within their dreams to escape into?

I'm not completely educated on that community, so please give me the tea if you can enlighten me!

The bright white lights of Station Four hummed like a swarm of dying wasps. You stared at the incident report on your screen, the cursor blinking at the end of a fabricated sentence.

...evidence suggests a highly organized, heavily armed cartel operation utilizing industrial machinery.

You hit save. The lie tasted like battery acid, but what was the alternative?

Telling your supervisor that a seven-foot, reptilian gladiator had ripped the engine block out of your truck and purred at you? They would have put you on a psych hold.

But the silence of the lie was driving you insane. You hadn't slept in two days. Every shadow in your cabin looked like a cloaked titan.

You spent hours staring into the bathroom mirror, tracing your fingers over the cheek where his hooked mandible had scraped your skin, desperately searching for a mark. Nothing. Not even a red line. The phantom touch was making you doubt your own sanity.

The next day, you were packing your gear into a backup tactical pack. You let out a sharp, bitter laugh that sounded entirely too hollow.

​"I'm just going back for the rifle," you muttered aloud to the empty, quiet cabin. You needed to hear the words, even if they were a joke. "It’s a department-issued firearm. I have to retrieve it. That's all this is."

​You knew it was a lie the second it left your lips, a pathetic, flimsy excuse whispered to the wind.

You weren't going out there for a piece of steel. You were going out there because the lack of proof was eating a hole in your chest.

You needed to know the monster was real.

High in the timberline, the bastard himself crushed a glass jar of scavenged human swill in his fist. It was some crude, burning ethanol the dead meat-sacks had left in their camp.

He tipped his head back, letting the fiery moonshine mix with the dregs of the off-world stimulants rushing through his system.

His personal supply was running agonizingly low, but the harsh, chemical burn of the human liquor gave him a crude, jagged edge.

It didn't matter. The only high that actually cut through the haze anymore was you.

He crouched on a heavy pine branch, his optical sensors zoomed in on your small, determined form navigating the gorge below.

He had listened to you lie to your superiors. You had protected him. You had kept the secret of his territory to yourself, binding the two of you in a private, bloody game. And now, you had returned.

A deep, tectonic rumble vibrated in his chest as he watched you meticulously bury a heavy steel bear trap under a layer of autumn leaves.

You were trying to catch him.

The arrogance of it was intoxicating. In his long, violent life of discarding so called "honour codes" and slaughtering the weak, no prey had ever returned to the killing floor to build a playground for him.

To him, the natural order was simple: the strongest take what they want.

So, by coming back, you were proving you had the spine to survive his world. You were asking him to prove he was worthy of the hunt.

He watched you carefully sweep away your footprints with a pine bough, entirely unaware that his thermal vision was tracking the bright, pulsing heat of your heartbeat.

Beautiful, he thought, letting out a low, clicking huff of amusement. Absolutely feral.

The North Ridge gorge felt like a tomb as the sun dipped behind the mountains.

You had spent the afternoon rigging three motion-activated trail cameras in the canopy and burying two heavy-duty steel traps.

You stood in the centre of the clearing, a digital camera hanging by a strap around your neck, your hand resting instinctively on the cold steel of the pocket knife clipped to your belt. It was the only weapon you brought.

The woods grew pitch black. The silence was absolute.

CLANG.

The brutal, metallic snap of a bear trap echoed through the trees, immediately followed by the bright flash of a trail camera sensor triggering to your left.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You spun toward the sound, clicking on your heavy tactical flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness.

You expected thrashing. You expected the roar of an injured beast or the chaotic rustle of a massive body fighting cold steel.

There was nothing. Just the deafening, mocking silence.

The beam of your flashlight hit the trap. The steel jaws were clamped shut, violently warped and bent, but empty. Sitting perfectly balanced on top of the ruined trap was the bolt assembly from your missing rifle.

The breath caught in your throat.

A bait and switch.

"Clever."

The voice didn't come from the woods. It came from directly behind your ear. It was a synthesized, distorted playback of your own voice, clipped from when you had been muttering to yourself earlier that afternoon.

Your skin broke out in instant, icy goosebumps. "What the—? Who's there?!" you gasped, utterly bewildered.

You span around in a blind, electric panic, drawing your pocket knife in one fluid motion.

The air distorted, and the towering, bronze-plated mass of him materialized out of the shadows. He moved faster than anything that size had the right to. Before you could even register his form, a massive, clawed hand shot out.

Survival instinct took over at this point because you didn't freeze; you lashed out. You drove the three-inch steel blade of your pocket knife hard into the thick, leathery flesh of his bare forearm.

The blade sank in, and a hiss of pressurized air escaped his mask. But he didn't recoil. He didn't even flinch.

Instead, his hand closed completely over your wrist, his grip like a steel vise.

With a single, effortless motion, he twisted your arm, disarming you, and slammed his other hand against the small of your back, jerking you flush against the hard, unyielding wall of his chest armor.

The impact knocked the wind out of you in a sharp, helpless wheeze. You were trapped, completely immobilized against a body that radiated a furnace-like heat, smelling of ozone, musk, and cheap alcohol.

You squirmed, kicking out, but it was like trying to move a mountain. It was when ​the hand at your back suddenly shifted that you cut off your struggles.

​His massive, clawed fingers slid up the spine of your jacket and tangled firmly into the hair at the base of your skull. With a brutal, deliberate yank, he forced your head back.

A gasp caught in your throat as your neck craned painfully, your chest arching up tightly against his bronze plating. He forced you to look directly into the terrifying, featureless expanse of his metal mask.

In the pitch black, you couldn't see what his other arm was doing. But in the tight space between your frantic breaths, you heard it.

​A distinct, wet, sickening schlick. It was the unmistakable sound of steel being dragged free from dense, heavy muscle. He had just pulled your knife out of his own arm without a single groan.

​You flinched, bracing for the blade to slide into your ribs. But it didn't come.

​Instead, the flat, unsharpened spine of your pocket knife pressed against the sensitive skin right beneath your jaw.

You froze, your breath hitching.

Slowly, almost agonizing tender, he dragged the flat of the blade down the centre of your throat, trailing a thick line of his own warm, viscous blood across your skin.

The pressure was firm, a silent promise of how easily he could open you up, but the movement was entirely shockingly sensual. He was painting you. He was putting a collar on you.

​Once the blade reached the hollow of your collarbone, his heavy knuckles dragged deliberately down the front of your torso, roughly guiding the wet handle of the knife back into the front pocket of your ranger jacket.

He leaned closer, the cold metal of his mask brushing agonizingly against your ear. Your whole body trembled. The vocal emitters in the helmet clicked and whirred, piecing together a playback of your own voice.

The audio was crisp, but underlined by the faint, echoing bang of a gunshot. It was from three days ago, when you were practicing at the outdoor firing range, frustrated after missing a long-distance target.

​“Come on. Try harder.”

He released you so suddenly you stumbled back into the dirt, gasping for air. By the time you found your footing and swept your flashlight up, the trees were empty. The leaves drifted down in the wake of his impossible leap.

You stood alone in the gravel, your chest heaving in ragged sobs, the heavy weight of the knife dragging down your pocket.

Trembling, your hand shaking violently, you touched your neck. Your fingers came away wet.

​Slowly, you raised your hand into the beam of your flashlight, then looked down at your chest.

​Coating your fingers, the blade of your knife, and a massive smear across your collarbone was a thick, bright fluid.

It didn't look like human blood. In the pitch black of the forest, the painted line on your throat was glowing with a vibrant, bioluminescent neon green.

Your jaw tightened, fhe fiery, stubborn tenacity overriding the terror for just another moment. ​"Alright, you big bastard," you whispered into the shadows, your voice shaking but defiant. "It's on."

​But the second the words left your lips, the fierce high of the adrenaline began to bleed away. The silence of the Ridge rushed back in, cold and heavy.

You looked down at your hands, glowing bright neon in the dark, and the absolute insanity of your own impulsivity finally crashed through your chest.

Your knees felt weak.

​A breathless, wild laugh bubbled up in your throat, turning into a sharp exhale as you pressed your palms to your face.

​"What the actual fuck have I gotten myself into?"

Taglist:

Don't hide that shit from him because he will know okay T-T

Hannibal is the ultimate observer. You could never successfully hide your burnout from him

No matter how much shame or embarrassment you feel about "failing" to keep up with your passions or work

Because lets be so for real, it's not just his people reading skills beibg impeccable due to his job, his senses are THAT sharp

before you consciously realize you're burnt out, he notices the subtle spike of cortisol in your sweat, the faint, metallic tang of adrenaline exhaustion

or the way your body chemistry changes when you aren't sleeping deeply

He notes the tension in your jaw when you look at your work laptop or your hobby supplies

He sees the hollow, unfocused glaze that overtakes your eyes when you try to force yourself to actually do something

As an aesthete who reveres creation, he acutely feels the absence of your creative energy

If you love painting, writing, or crafting, he notices when your tools gather dust

Or worse, when you use them with mechanical resentment rather than passion

He doesn't immediately confront you, Hannibal knows that shame often accompanies burnout

So he'll quietly start planning out your recovery behind the scenes

When he does bring it up, he is entirely devoid of judgment because, to him, exhaustion from overexertion is simply a physiological and psychological reality, and it can be remedied

​"You are treating yourself as an infinite resource, my love. Even the most fertile soil must lie fallow, lest it turn to dust."

With his psychiatric expertise, he gently dismantles your embarrassment

He validates your exhaustion, framing your burnout not as a weakness or a failure, but as proof of how deeply you care and how hard you have tried

You will wake up one morning to find your schedule entirely cleared

Sure it can come off as controlling and even invasive

Especially if you haven't given him certain information or privileges in relation to your private life depending on what stage of the relationship you guys are in

But he means well, and knows what's best for you silly ;>

Hannibal’s love language is acts of service, so trust he will curate an environment designed to heal your nervous system

He abandons the overly complex, heavy, theatrical meals he serves to guests

Instead, think of rich, slow-simmered bone broths, perfectly baked breads, or elevated, gourmet versions of your favorite childhood comfort foods

He takes control of your sensory environment to lower your overstimulated brain, like dimming lights or buying soft aromatic flowers

Because Hannibal is a deeply creative person himself (in his own... unique ways), he knows that you cannot force inspiration to return

So he'll never pressure you to "get back to it" when you are in a low

Instead of asking you to create, he invites you to passively consume art with him

Playing the harpsichord for you

Sketch in silence while you rest your head on his lap

Or let you help him in the kitchen

It's his way of anchoring you and (hopefully) inspiring you

When the spark finally starts to return...

he offers nothing but a warm, knowing, microscopic smile when he sees you absentmindedly lingering over your workspace or reading an article related to your passion

He will ensure your favorite pen is filled with ink

Or your workspace is perfectly clean and organized, quietly setting the stage for your triumphant return

I feel like if you can get past his erm... uniqueness, he'd actually be a delight to be around if you are passionate in something (whether it's creatively or work wise)

White.

Everything was a searing, clinical white.

It hit your retinas and then drilled painfully into your brain, like a sharp, hot needle.

For one terrifying heartbeat, you thought you had died. That, perhaps the world had simply ended at that train station, and this was the beginning of whatever came next.

You tried to squeeze your eyes shut, to retreat back into the heavy, velvet darkness, but something stopped you.

Two fingers, rough-textured and shockingly, unnaturally cold, pressed against your brow and cheekbone, forcing your eyelid open.

"Pupillary response is slow... but the dilation is symmetrical. A good sign," a voice murmured. It was a low, melodic hum that seemed to vibrate through the chilled metal of the table you were lying on.

It was a comforting sound, the kind of voice that belonged to a man who had everything under control.

Then, the light clicked off.

Your eyes fluttered as the world rushed back in a blur of stainless steel, flickering monitors, and shadows.

As your vision cleared, the voice gained a face.

Doctor Victor Gideon loomed over you, his massive frame seeming to swallow the room. The gold of his teeth glinted under the harsh fluorescent strips of the ceiling as he leaned in.

Panic sliced through the drug-induced fog.

You tried to sit up, but your limbs felt like bags of wet sand. Your breath hitched, coming in ragged, shallow bursts.

"Ahm... where?" You wheezed, the memory of the train station, the woman being brutally mauled, the smell of chemicals, crashed over you. "Where are–"

"Shhh," Victor interrupted, "You had a very difficult night, my dear."

His hand on your face slid downward.

A single finger, cold as a scalpel, traced the line of your collarbone. You shivered.

"I had planned to wait, but after such a lapse in your health, I’ve brought your promotion forward. You'll stay here, in the sublevels, away from the chaos. Under my direct line of sight."

​"What?" you breathed. You tried to push his hand away, but your arm only flopped uselessly against the metal. "No! No I—"

​"Do you know how long I’ve wanted you right here?" he crooned, completely ignoring your pleas, his voice dropping an octave, rich with a dark, heavy satisfaction.

"Watching you strut through the upper floors, so impeccably polite, so painstakingly guarded... it was a tragedy. But this?" He licked his lips. "Having you on my table... it is immensely rewarding."

​It was only then, as his freezing fingers pressed flush against your skin, that the sharp draft of recycled air and the icy sting of the metal table below you finally registered.

The fog in your brain parted just enough for you to look down, and the breath died in your throat.

Your blouse had been completely unbuttoned, the fabric parted wide, and your pencil skirt had been hitched up to your upper thighs.

The indignity of it hit you harder than the drugs. You were his secretary, his peer in the eyes of the clinic, and here you were, splayed out like a fucking dissected frog.

You felt a wave of cold sweat break across your skin.

​Was he going to kill you for going to the police? Was he going to rip you apart while you're awake as some cruel punishment for your disloyalty?

​"P-please, Doctor Gideon..." you whimpered, your fingers finally twitching with enough life to move. You reached up, a weak, trembling hand trying to push his arm away. "I’ll stay. I’ll work. I-I won't tell a soul!"

"Settle, sweetness," he rumbled, his face a mask of clinical indifference.

Victor’s heavy fingers dug sharply into the soft flesh of your right abdomen, hooking just beneath your ribs.

​"Ah!" You gasped, the jolt of pure, instinctual shock sent your back arching off the metal. The pressure and the cold was so intense it felt like it was freezing your organs.

Instantly, his other hand shot out, his massive palm slamming down over your bare thigh and hip. He pinned you to the table with the casual ease of a man holding down a piece of paper.

​"So sensative," he chided softly, his thumb pressing a firm warning into the sensitive skin of your thigh. "I am merely checking your liver to ensure it is metabolizing the sedatives properly."

He leaned his weight over you, his shadow swallowing you whole. But as his fingers probed your abdomen, he let out a contemplative:

"Hm..."

Then the hand pinning your thigh began to shift.

​Beneath the heavy weight of his palm, you felt his freezing thumb begin to move. It dragged slowly upward, charting a deliberate path up the bare skin of your upper thigh until it settled right at the apex, pressing deeply into the sensitive crease where your thigh met your groin.

​The touch was so shockingly invasive, so blatantly close to your core, that your breath hitched, your toes curling helplessly against the cold metal. A flush of hot, mortified blood flooding your cheeks.

​"Oh my..." he purred. He didn't even look down at where his hand was; his lenses remained fixed to your face.

His gold teeth glinted in the harsh light.

​"Your heart is drumming quite a frantic little rhythm against my thumb. The femoral vein is practically singing for me."

​Femoral vein. The clinical term hit your foggy brain a second too late. What the fuck is a femoral vein?

He was weaponizing anatomy and using it as an excuse to touch you in a way that made your stomach twist and flutter with something terrifyingly close to want.

​He pressed his thumb a fraction firmer directly into that intimate crease, causing you to suck in a tight breath and bite the inside of your cheek. His coldness seeped deep into you, practically drinking in the feverish heat you were radiating.

​"Is it the fear, I wonder?" he murmured.

He leaned in close enough for his split tongue to flick out, tasting the heavy spike of adrenaline and pheromones in the air between you.

"Or is this simply the biological confession of a woman who has spent far too long pretending she wasn't craving a more... rigorous examination?"

The weight of the situation, the cloying smell of chemicals, and the fact there was no way to escape his sheer, suffocating proximity were too much.

It’s just the drugs, you told yourself, a mantra repeating behind your eyelids.

You tried to ignore the way your skin felt electric, where he touched you, tried to pretend the heat pooling in your lower belly was just a side effect of the cocktail in your system. It couldn't be him. Not this gold-toothed nightmare.

In a desperate, childish act of rebellion, you clamped your legs together as tightly as the sedative-heavy muscles would allow, trying to bar him from that intimate crease.

Simultaneously, you brought your hands up, pressing your palms into your eyes as if you could simply blink and find yourself back at your boring, safe apartment.

​"You’re fucking delusional," you choked out, your voice muffled by your fingers.

​A low, melodic chuckle vibrated through the air, so deep you could feel it in the metal table beneath your spine.

​"Is that what you tell yourself?" he mused, his voice a soft, demeaning caress. You heard his gold rings clicking against one another, then felt as he gently but firmly pried your hands away from your face, forcing you back into the light. "It’s a fascinating defense mechanism, denial. But my visor doesn’t lie, and neither does your biology."

"Go to Hell." You spat, twisting your wrists in a desperate attempt to escape his firm grasp.

​"I believe we've already arrived."

Before you could wrench away, Victor’s grip tightened around your wrists. With one sharp pull, he hauled you upright and into him so fast the breath punched from your lungs.

Your shoulder struck the hard, cold plane of his chest beneath the open coat, his arm banding around your waist before you could twist free again.

​The rough, dry scales of his snakeskin coat brushed your cheek as he held you there, not crushingly tight, just enough to remind you that escape would only happen if he allowed it.

​"You fight as though I’m a stranger," he murmured, his tone thick with false hurt. "After all the hours we’ve spent together, I find your lack of trust… insulting."

​"You kidnapped me," you spat, your voice finally steadying as the adrenaline burned away the last of the fog. "I was going to the police."

​Victor made a soft, amused sound, a dark purr that rumbled in the cavern of his chest. He didn't pull away. Instead, he caught your trembling hands and, in a rare moment of stillness, guided them beneath the heavy lapels of his coat.

​"This does not have to be an unpleasant transition," he hummed in-between.

​He didn't force your fingers. He simply placed them against the center of his torso and let go of your wrists, granting you a sliver of autonomy that felt more like a trap than a gift.

​Your fingers brushed the thick, ropy scar that bisected his chest, the jagged relic of his self-integration.

The skin was impossibly cold, like marble, and beneath it, you felt the heavy, mechanical thrum of a heart that beat far too slowly for a human man. You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching against the ruined flesh, but you didn't pull back.

Leaning down until his nose buried in your hair, his cold breath ghosting over your ear. "I have always admired your competence, and I reward curiosity... when it is directed toward the right places."

​Victor’s hand moved to the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the base of your skull.

​"Let us be practical, dear heart. You know too much to ever walk out of those gates again," he said, his voice dropping into a soft, clinical finality. "So, we have reached a fork in your career path."

​He guided your hand upward, forcing your palm against the darkened, pulsing veins of his throat.

​"Option one: You accept this promotion. You stay by my side, you organize my research, and you enjoy the… perks of my undivided attention."

​He paused, his split tongue flickering out to graze your temple, the touch cold and wet.

​"Option two: You continue to flail," he whispered, his voice losing its melodic warmth, turning into something flat and clinical. "In which case, I stop seeing a woman and start seeing very pretty organic material."

You let out a long, shuddering breath. The choice was a jagged shard of glass to swallow. You looked up at him, seeing the absolute lack of human mercy behind his multi-lensed visor.

Your shoulders finally slumped as you leaned into the terrifying chill of his chest.

​"I think I’ve reached my limit for medical intervention today, Doctor," you murmured, your voice thick with the bitter, metallic taste of defeat. You met his gaze with a look of exhausted clarity. "So... I suppose I'm ready to discuss my new duties."

​“Perfect,” he purred, his grip on your waist tightening as he pulled you even closer, soaking in your radiant heat. “I knew you were the intelligent choice.”

​Before you could add anything, he closed the distance.

​The kiss was bruising, a possessive claim that tasted of iron and the cloying, chemical sweetness of the sedatives. His lips were freezing, yet his tongue, that split, flickering thing, was soft as it swept against your own, acting as the final signature on a contract you’d been drafted into the moment you stepped into his office.

When he finally pulled back, his tongue grazed your bottom lip one last time, tasting the quiet, shaking submission he had finally won.

​“Shall I take you to your new office, my sweet?” he whispered against your mouth, his gold teeth glinting in the dark. “We have a great deal of catching up to do.”

Taglist:

One thing I can guarantee is that Victor has mastered the art of inappropriate professionalism

In front of other staff, he is the picture of the eccentric but brilliant director and head doctor, so he'll call you by your title with a polite nod and keep a decent distance

BUT GOD FORBID HE CATCHES YOU ALONE

Like in supply closet, or a dark hallway, or even a meeting in his office because that Doctor mask vanishes instantly and is replaced with the perv

He likes to "inspect" your uniform or if what you're wear fits into the dress code for sure

Finding literally any excuse to sneak you to his office like you're an extra bowl dessert

Literally, if your skirt is a fraction of a cm too high, he's taking you for a "firm" discussion on his expectations

"Everything seems to be in order... but let's take you back to my office for a more thorough internal audit."

Because you are likely high ranking in Rhodes (maybe head nurse, his secretary, etc etc) you likely know enough that could destroy Rhodes, meaning that you're stuck in a confidentiality trap

You know where the bodies go and you've seen the basement levels of Rhodes Hill therefore you know what he's capable of

You also know he "loves" you in his own twisted, parasitic way, which is the only thing keeping you from being wheeled into a lab on a gurney

"Do you remember Nurse McLean, darling? Such a waste of a medical degree. She had such a... cold heart. Not like yours. I'd be quite devastated if I had to see it in a jar."

It's his way of ensuring that your pretty lips stay shut and you don't go looking for any escape routes

His brand of affection is disgustingly demeaning and perverted

If you remain composed while he's looming over you, he gets inspired rather than frustrated

Because to Victor, the power imbalance is the ultimate aphrodisiac

Victor is obsessed with the tactile contrast between you

Like legit, he has a habit of petting you, rubbing his palms against your skin until it is raw and flushed red

He'll nip at your skin, not enough to break, just enough to bruise

Victor is a man of secrets, and he treats your hody like a classified file

He is meticulously careful to never leave a mark above your collarline or below your elbows

He finds it arousing to watch you play the "cold professional" while you're physically stained by him

Instead, he focuses on your ribs, your inner thighs, shoulders, and the small of your back, places that are for the "Director's eyes only"

After he's finished, leaving you shivering and marked, he becomes oddly sweet

He'll offer you a sip of his expensive brandy or let you rest your head against his chest until you've calmed down enough to get back to work

He will weaponize your own arousal against you murmuring demeaning shit in year ear

"Poor dear, your heart is singing such a different tune now. Is this how you maintain professionalism? By shivering for your Director like a common addict?"

Victor's greatest frustration is his own biology because when his core temperature drops, his motor skills in his hands begin to fail.

His fingers become stiff and agonizingly sore, basically functionally useless for the fine motor tasks he performs throughout the day

He uses this as a recurring excuse to summon you, ESPECIALLY if you are a medical professional yourself

You have to sit between his massive legs while he rests his heavy, freezing hands in your lap

If he's in a particular mood he'll tuck his hands under your shirt/blouse, so his cold ahh hands can rest on your warm, soft stomach

You're expected to rub the warmth back while he watches, groaning softly as he feels the heat transfer from your skin into his (and because he's a massive perv)

And don't get me started on that split tongue that he uses like a fucking weapon

He is constantly monitoring your chemical state with that thing

You'll feel the wet, flickering muscle of his tongue dart out to "taste" the air around your neck every single time you guys are alone, and he's in your space

He knows exactly when you're ovulating (if you have such parts), when you're frightened, and when you're starting to feel that sick, traitorous thrill of his attention

Victor is obsessed with the "hidden" parts of your anatomy like the back of your knees, the dip of your Achilles tendon, the soft skin behind your ears

He'll spend an hour just tasting you with that flickering muscle because he wants to know every square inch of your chemical signature so he can track you

Victor loves gold. It's heavy, it's expensive, and it looks striking. So you should expect that he'll give you heavy gold chokers, thick bangles, dramatic rings

If he sees you at the wearing a piece he gave you, he'll walk by and catch the chain with one finger, pulling you just an inch closer as a silent "hello"

He often picks jewelry that is slightly too small or fitted, ensuring that you feel the physical weight of his "affection," its a visual marker of his ownership of you

He never gives gifts in front of an audience, that would imply he's trying to impress people

He'll leave a gift on your desk while you're out on rounds, or slip a gold ring into your pocket when he's invading your space, or present a gift during a medical exam, making you open it while you're vulnerable

If you don't wear what he gives you, he becomes high-strung and short-tempered

He'll avoid taking it out on you, sure, but that doesn't mean you won't notice him seething

He wants to see you marked by his wealth the same way you are marked by his teeth

K so because you work at a clinic, it's very likely you have a sort of medical aid with them, and of course Victor has made sure he is your General Practitioner

No other doctor at Rhodes Hill is permitted to examine you, prescribe so much as an aspirin, or even look at your bloodwork

Where most staff only need a check-up once a year, Gideon books you once every MONTH because he's a nosy bastard

During examines, he's a very hands-on doctor, literally, like he doesn't use a standard stethoscope

He prefers to press his freezing ear directly against your back to listen to your lungs, his gold chains clinking against your spine

He'll spend an inordinate amount of time "palpating" your abdomen or checking your lymph nodes because he just likes feeling your skin

Naturally, Victor insists on drawing your blood himself, finding it to be an incredibly intimate act

He'll sit you on his desk, your legs dangling between his massive knees, muttering praises to distract you from the huge needle

If you ever actually tried to leave, Victor would simply use his authority as your doctor to declare you "mentally unstable" or "biologically compromised"

He uses his technology to bypass your privacy in ways that feel almost pornographic to him

Sometimes, when you are standing across the room or giving a report to the board, he isn't listening to your words at all

He's adjusted his visor to ultrasound or x-ray mode to watch the physical mechanics of your body

He likes the particular way your lungs expand, the way your blood moves through your valves, the way your bones hinge together

He defo has direction fantasies, but he'll NEVER do it to you, pinky promise :>

(Don't go to his personal labs tho, he's got cadavers of people that look like you in there)

Whenever you reach a milestone he commemorates it with a snakebite in a very specific location

Like maybe a year working at Rhodes or siz months in a new managerial position

He considers these his "stamps of approval"

He has a private medical chart for you in his desk where he's sketched out a map of your body, marking every bruise and bite he's ever given you with dates and "behavioural notes"

I want to mention that he will never EVER violently sexually assault anyone

He is an intellectual at heart and wants someone to match his freak above all

His interest in you from the very beginning is because he gathers in some way that reader is attracted to him to some capacity and he wants to nurture that

He understands that his lifestyle is... jarring for most, and gives grace for you to react and express yourself

He wants to slowly soak you in his presence until the thought of a "normal" man or a "normal" job seems boring and repulsive to you

If you react in a way that suggests you are violently afraid of him, that you are disgusted, horrified, and not the least bit curious, he's not going to advance

When you grab his wrists to stop him from touching you, he doesn't pull back, he stays still so you realise how much he could bully you but CHOOSES not to

"I wonder... if I squeezed just a little harder, would that fire turn into a scream? Or would you finally admit that you're holding onto me just as tightly as I'm holding onto you?"

Listen. I get that Reptile has gone through a million redesigns, and yeah, the human form in MK1 is probably a callback to his older appearances. I understand the intent. I just… still hate it.

Because Mortal Kombat X Reptile? Peak. No notes. He actually looked like his species, the same way Baraka represented the Tarkatans in the earlier games and now represents people sick with Tarkat. It grounded him. It made his whole deal make sense.

But in MK1 he this big lizard that suddenly has this magical human shapeshifting ability and it’s just… there? Barely explained? And you’re telling me his people reject him for having what is essentially the most diplomatically useful ability imaginable?? This man could literally bridge political gaps by passing as human and instead they go “ew no thanks”?

I’m not buying it.

And if we had to keep the shapeshifting, why not actually DO something interesting with it? Make him a double agent. Have him working under Shang Tsung as part of a larger mission (like infiltrating the Outworld court for some yummy secrets). Suddenly, his family being targeted hits harder because his job actively puts them at risk. There’s tension! There are stakes! It writes itself!

Also... correct me if I’m wrong, but this timeline’s Shang Tsung already steals souls and abilities, right? And he can shapeshift?

So what is Reptile bringing to the table narratively?

Imagine if Shang Tsung couldn’t shapeshift, discovers Reptile’s ability, and now Reptile is constantly one mistake away from being killed and harvested for it. That’s a real threat. That’s paranoia. That’s drama. That's another reason, besides protecting his family, for him to be subservient to Shang Tsung!

Instead, we get… big lizard who can turn into a hot, tatted guy.

Anyway. Not my Reptile. I miss my weird lizard creature!

And like, if the shapeshifting barely affects the plot, why even include it? You could remove it entirely, keep him as a full-on Zaterran, and the MK1 story would play out basically the same. The only tangible difference is that now he’s more conventionally attractive, which… okay, sure, I see what you’re doing there.

What I will give the devs credit for is actually giving him an interesting background and character. He's not just a jobber who gets his ass whooped for the sake of the plot. So that's nice :>

What is your thoughts? Do you agree or disagree and why? Also lmk if I should make more of these types of rants lol