HIS RICOCHET.

@notpetals​ ; they are fighting, again. always fighting. another place another time. another rotted building though this one is far more industrial. shin swings and it connects, earns a growl out of yor who's taking him up by the front of his armor. he enjoys the struggle that comes because of his actions, not bothering to look where he hauls the man through the air and lets go. so, there is a degree of surprise when shin's back hits the wall and a rusted pole sticks out through him. how unfortunate.

          he isn’t a guardian. he wasn’t killed in some past life that he doesn’t remember. no, shin’s watched everything around him die over and over again and been able to do nothing about it. death is an ending point and for a time it was his ending point. that is, until jaren. until celia. until dredgen yor razed his home to the ground for no reason other than he wanted to. shin’s always been scared of death. of that ending point. that didn’t change when the ghost chose him. didn’t change when she brought him back and told him to calm down when he was still processing it. still wrapping his entirely mortal mind around the fact that he died. that he stopped yet he was still here. 

          there’s a vacant realisation that he’s going to die. something distant and quiet beneath the gurgling cry that tears from lips coated in blood and spittle. hands shake and tremble as vision takes in the metal jutting out of his ribcage. fist closes around it, as if it would do something - as if shin would be able to free himself where he hangs there. his light reacts first, swirling and coiling around the human who knows he’s going to die here. he doesn’t see yor anymore. doesn’t process the writhing mass of darkness and cold stood there watching him. only the way his vision darkens and breath catches. the way he can’t breathe properly, that he’s drinking down air like he’s drowning in it and nothing feels better. juddering, panicked movements come next, both hands clutching the metal - his boots scrabble in the dirt and rubble beneath him, desperate for a purchase that would free him. 

          nothing works. 

          his body is shutting down. the light doesn’t help anymore. not this far into a darkness zone. he knows that, really. knows that he can’t escape the way it closes it’s jaws around him and blood clogs the rebreather of his helmet - the way his voice is choked and strangled from him in wet gasps that only spread the thick ichor that spills from his lips and nose. no no no no no-- her voice then, in the back of his head. she’ll bring him back. she can do it, can leech the light from the building around them. that he needs to move. needs to fight for it. 

          but then, shin never wanted to be a fighter. he never wanted to be hardened by lead and flame. he just wanted his home back. just wanted to feel safe again. 

     ❝research,❞  he says plainly,  ❝hard data. simulations observed and reobserved. understanding the why of the how and the how of the why. understanding the enemy to fight it. would you fight with your eyes closed?❞

     he pauses in his words, looking upon the renegade with a sharp eye. he does not think himself kin with others cast from the city. no, he keeps a scrutinizing gaze upon them. views them with suspicion and wariness. (for he knows his reasons, that ultimately this is to help humanity. he cannot be sure if the same can be said for others. he does not know them like he knows himself.)  ❝are you here to test me and waste both of our time, or is there a reason to your presence here beyond that?❞

         it wouldn’t be anything new to say that he doesn’t trust the warlock. the renegade doesn’t trust much, really. doesn’t trust anyone with his back turned - wouldn’t trust them to be in the same room right now if it wasn’t for their proximity to the tower and it’s people. still, he can’t find any dishonesty in osiris’ voice - only boredom and irritation. the light moves differently around him, shin can feel it from where he’s stood staring behind visor at the warlock. it’s not dark. so, he supposes that removes any immediate threat.

          maybe their goals don’t conflict as much as he feared. 

@orphidian​ ; “hold on,” orin mutters, shifting to the tips of her toes, left hand darting up to remove a stray bit of lint from his fringe. she cards her fingers through his hair to get it out of his bright eyes, settles back on her heels. “distracting. now the knife trick again but slower this time?” her brows furrow in concentration, eyes already fixated on the gunslingers hands.

          shin stands straighter around orin. he doesn’t feel the weight of his past or the ghosts watching from the corners of the room. he doesn’t feel like his cloak is a lead weight of paths never travelled or people never seen again. orin’s bright, like him. she’s bright and warm but steady. firm. it’s a different feeling to drifter’s light. his is twitchy, never sits still until those brief moments where everything is quiet and his light brushes shin’s with something he still can’t place. something gentle, something real. but orin’s is steady. it leans against his fire and slows it down, gives it a baseline to trust and follow after. it doesn’t matter that he’s made of light and she’s borrowing what the traveler will offer. she owns hers, where shin’s owns him. 

          he stands taller, steadier, when she’s around. he can still feel her knuckle rolling up his spine and pushing his shoulders back. feels her there like the heat of the sun on his skin and feels himself reach out to lean against it in return. he doesn’t flinch when she reaches forward, only adjusts his grip on the perfectly balanced knife in his hand. the one bound with red leather at the grip and stained a pale green at the blade. ocean hues watch the light dance through her skin and gaze, watches her expression as she looks up at him and he finds himself standing there, tall and comfortable. his shoulders don’t drop and his head remains firm. he doesn’t bend in his back and he doesn’t look to the floor. his light fills him as hers fills her and shin trusts it.

anon asked ; i am sure you'll never forget, shin. how could you? things such as this burn themselves into your memory forever, played back slow. how the hammer pulls back and snaps forward when that first shot rings out, the last word speaking loud and dropping drifter, held in a monster's hand. all your fault, that mess had been. yor would have been none the wiser to your greatest flaw; you're going to be the rogue's end, one way or another.

          he found his voice. the one without the gun. the quiet one that he hates and wishes said more. shin found his voice and then it took everything away. it has to. it’s going to end and he’s going to be alone again. he spoke. loud and with emotion and look what happened. eight rounds. all in the one who gave him his face back. the one who gave him his voice. shin malphur is a killer. he’s nothing more than a killer and he’ll never be anything else. this is his fault for hoping that there would be something different. that he could have something else. it’s all his fault just like palamon. just like jaren. 

          the world is harsh and bright but the solar that eeks from every inch of him is brighter and hungrier. it burns everything he touches, shin’s senses cloud with the stench of charred undergrowth and damp brick burnt with all the heat of the sun. boiling ether stains his robes, clings to him as the renegade trudges through the ruins. briefly, he wonders how many alarms he’ll trigger with the light that just won’t quiet. the anxiety that burrows deeper and deeper and fills the remaining void with terrified rage that makes shin’s hands shake when he eventually comes to a halt. when he eventually comes to a standstill in a long forgotten courtyard surrounded by derelict buildings. he can feel them watching. can feel drifter’s eyes on him still. laid there bleeding out into the tiles. can feel his eyes bearing down on him. 

         shin killed dredgen yor. he burnt him to ash again and again and again in his dreams - yet still the monster stalks him. still, he takes everything away and poisons the renegade’s world with bullets and words. he’s going to lose everything again. he’s going to lose drifter and watch the light leave those rich, dark eyes-- an arc bolt clips through shin’s shields and sends him careening forwards into the overgrowth through paving slabs. the plants burn, singe and shrivel as tears prick the renegade’s eyes behind the visor. he doesn’t reach for the gun. doesn’t find the last word as he stares hard at the ground, chest heaving in indecision and panic. it’s too much. this world is too much and too bright and too painful. shin wants to go back to the renegade. back to his only voice being that of a gunshot and solar light left in his wake. he can’t do this. he can’t lose everything again. can’t be the reason another good person dies. 

     OSIRIS WATCHES THE OTHER’S feet, the shift in weight. the shift of the energy in the air. osiris’ eyes are wary and his movements are careful. almost as though he’s about to startle a wild animal. he slowly folds his arms over his chest, confident enough in his own defenses should it come to it. but he expects not.  ❝ you’ve come prepared for a fight, ❞  he observes out loud,  ❝ my methods are not accepted in the city, and i am certain yours aren’t either. ❞

          there’s a confidence that comes with the legend. something that winds between the flames and rage as the renegade stands there oh so quietly on the precipice of chaos. he could end this conversation should he decide it. could turn the warlock to ash. then, that would be going against the very thing he’s even still here for, wouldn’t it? this man isn’t one of his prey. isn’t the renegade’s quarry. not yet. he’s brighter than most. shin can feel the light surrounding him. wreathing osiris where he stands. no. not prey. 

y’all probably know the drill by now.  bold what applies to your muse, italicize what sometimes or sort-of applies, strike through what’s antithetical to your muse.  repost, don’t reblog, and have fun!  tw: mentions of alcohol.

𝙼𝙰𝙹𝙾𝚁 𝙰𝚁𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙰:  a long journey - a feeling of raw energy - putting a name to something unknown - an elaborate patchwork  - unexpected catastrophes -  unexpected blessings  - vivid dreams -  sudden awakenings -  the feeling of shedding your skin  - the echoes in holy places  -  bright lights  - deep shadows -   feeling the earth move beneath your feet  - wandering in museums - the strange clarity of moonlight -  thunder and lightning -  an unfamiliar road  - coming back to the place you started as an entirely different person

𝙲𝚄𝙿𝚂:  being overwhelmed by emotion - finding something to celebrate every day - finding something to mourn every day -  connecting with others  -  the scent of ocean air -  making food for your friends when they’re stressed - the remembrance of something lost -  sublime confusion  -  cool colors  -  a cozy cafe -  a bustling bar  - calm waters, hidden depths  - getting tipsy in the afternoon -  summer rain - comfy sweaters - flowing skirts  -  a house by the sea  -  deep conversations after midnight

𝚆𝙰𝙽𝙳𝚂:  the scent of spices and dark wood  -  making something just for the sake of creation  - dry heat - crackling fire - a bolt of inspiration  - refusing to apologize for your passion  - stubborn optimism  - taking on more than you can handle  - hot tea - warm colors  - getting up early  - staying up late -  bright fire, fast burnout -  tacky thrift store finds worn with the utmost confidence  -  the thrill of starting a new project -  spring storms -  hotel rooms  - perpetual restlessness

𝙿𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙲𝙻𝙴𝚂:  the scent of rich soil after a rain -  hard and diligent work -  solid ground, strong foundations -  the satisfaction of a long-awaited payoff -  generosity that comes with a catch -  work boots and heavy jeans  -  silk and jewels -  resting on your laurels -  seeing your work through to the end -  harvest time  -  fresh bread and rich soup  -  earth tones - jewel tones  - a lush garden - sunlight through the trees -  dark chocolate  - a home in the farmlands  -  a sprawling house in the old part of the city

𝚂𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳𝚂:  the scent of fresh air -  focusing on the intellectual at the expense of the emotional -  freshly fallen snow  -  burying yourself in action - tending to your own wounds  -  a foreseeable disaster -  crisply tailored suits  -  starkly elegant dresses - refusing to admit defeat -  cold air, clear thoughts  - old hurts - fresh starts -  overthinking your overthinking -  the harsh glow of street lamps  -  black coffee  -  a cabin in the mountains  -  an apartment downtown  -  the quiet before the dawn

tagged by: i done stole it from @orphidian uwuw

he shouldn’t have let him come. he should have forced shin back on his ship or dragged him kicking and screaming to the derelict. anything but this. anything but watching shin deteriorate before his eyes fighting a battle he was never designed to win. not here on europa. not this close to the pyramid or the ziggurat. drifter is thankful for the company, for having the one person in the world that can make this easier next to him. but he sees now that it was the wrong call. well, rogue does have a track record of figuring things out a little too late.

words don’t make it to his lips to stop shin. the gunslinger falls before drifter even realizes what’s happening. body crumples at his feet and he’s only able to catch malphur’s head before it hits the ground.  “ damn. “  it comes out in a heavy breath as drifter carefully picks shin up, handling him like he would a prototype he’s just made. drifter glances to the door of the tent and watches the storm rage outside. eris has gone back to survey the moon and stranger is working on something with a guardian. all alone again.

“ ghost. “  voice is rough and feels unused even though he was speaking just moments ago. his best friend appears before him, red eye staring intently at shin.  “ can y’ hack it? “  the little light moves to fixate on the europan transmat for a moment before floating back to his chosen. the world spins for a moment only for drifter to find himself in shin’s jumpship. it’s barren and a mess at the same time and drifter won’t let shin tell him off for how he keeps the derelict ever again. shin is set down on top of the pile of blankets he calls a bed before drifter finds the cockpit.

fingers crack before rogue starts to work his magic. lucky for him, malphur’s ship is old and bypassing any security on the thing is easier than hacking crucible’s comms. autopilot is set to earth. now he just needs to initiate a countdown so he can get off the ship and– drifter hesitates, fingers hovering over the controls. rogue turns to look back and settle his dark gaze on the unconscious shin malphur. back to the console. back to malphur.  “ shit. “  back to the console. he disregards the countdown and lets the ship jump back to earth where the derelict still orbits. as they fly through space, the rogue goes to sit next to shin, hand resting absently in fluffy curls.

          it’s not the first time he’s found himself unconscious because of his proximity to darkness of some kind. not the first time shin has felt like he’s drowning in the endless cold that works its way into every inch of him and to the bone. nor is it the first time that the presence of drifter’s light, and his heart beat nearby, have been the only things to keep his mind quiet. he wanted so much for this to work. to stay by drifter’s side and to keep him warm. to be there despite everything going against him. despite the way his entire body - his entire being - resisted him finding the surface of the planet. let alone staying that close to a pyramid for so long. 

          shin doesn’t feel the cold. but he does now. he does when he wakes with a start and a sharp inhale. he does when the first thing he does is to take a deep, shuddering breath as blue eyes snap open and nothing makes sense. he can’t see through the blur in his vision - can’t concentrate as his mind swims and head pulses with the same cold that sends shards of ice through his skull. hands shift as the gunslinger curls in on himself and sluggishly grips his head in his hands where he lay on his blankets. his blankets. 

          wait--no--

          “don’t--” he jerks upright, hand shifting from where it’s pressed against his forehead just long enough for shin to see that the cockpit is empty. the realisation that the autopilot is running takes another moment. then, he feels drifter. feels him through the spinning in his head and the tightness in his chest. shin turns slowly, then. hands shifting to grip his head again through the movement. he can’t take him back. he won’t stay. he can’t. he has to be there with drifter. he belongs there. it’s the only place he belongs. voice and breath catch in his throat, though, as shin tries to push through it again despite the way his body shakes. despite the way it refuses to listen. his light is distant, somewhere buried and away from the dark. no. no he’s fine. he can do this. he has to do this.