#thqstarter

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄.   she had screwed up big time, right in front of everyone.  linny didn’t know what had happened,   whether it had been the shock or the weight of the expensive bottle of champagne she had been carrying to a sponsors table but as the president dropped his bombshell,   she had dropped the champagne she was holding with a loud crash, drawing a thousand eyes to her.

she had been taken  no ... dragged out of the ballroom by one of the capitol staff  &  yelled at profusely.   she was  clumsy,   stupid,   nothing more than a piece of dirt in the bottom of a shoe,   but worse than that,   she was to be punished.   she didn’t know when,   or how,   but the thought of it was enough to bring tears to her eyes.  she returned to the ballroom for just a second before the emotion overcame her  & she found herself slipping into the empty hallway.   muffled sobs escaped her lips as her footsteps echoed in the empty hall until she reached another person stood by the end of the hallway.

for once,   linny did not try to make excuses or plead with the other not to tell on her.  what she had coming for ruining the presidents speech would be far worse than anything else that could be done to her.   instead she stopped dead in front of them,   her eyes red raw,  linny was too defeated to do anything but cry  & hope they would show her sympathy.

Blood rushed in her ears while she saw the lions alive and beginning to roam the arena.  Her chest heaved and she felt sick.  The scar on her side from a lion’s claws practically burned beneath her clothes and she scrambled to get up from the couch.

Glitter pushed her way out of the room and ran up the stairs, pushing past sponsors who tried to stop her.  “Glitter isn’t it wonderful?” she heard a sponsor ask, but Glitter couldn’t register.  Not when she felt sick.  Not when her heart felt like it would burst from her chest.

A dozen flight of stairs later, she was on the roof, sitting against the wall as she took a deep breath.  Glitter fidgeted with the necklace she was wearing and she held her knees to her chest.  Just breathe, she reminded herself.  Breathe.  They can’t get you.

Tears blurred her vision and Glitter threatened to break.  It wasn’t often she allowed herself this.  Those walls were strong, yet she couldn’t handle this.  Not facing the very thing that nearly killed her once.  But she was jolted from those thoughts upon hearing the door.  Glitter glanced in that direction wiped at her eyes.  “If you’re looking for privacy, too late,” she admitted. // @thqstarter​

“so, what d’you reckon? how long until captaincy shifts back around?” the coin flips up and down kane’s hand, balanced over his knuckles; a family heirloom, believe it or not, he’s neglected it, though, it‘s filthy now, lost all it‘s shine. he’d throw it away but his fingers are so used to the weight of it, kane wouldn’t be able to pull the trick with a different one. 

his fist closes around the piece of metal. kane cracks a grin at the other. leans back against the wall, arms crossed in front of him, ignores the weight of the knife stuck into his belt. perhaps it risky, to go about without a gun—everyone seems to have emptied out the armory. but then he doesn’t really stick his nose out of his cabin these days, unless he absolutely has to. even now, there’s about ten steps separating him from the safe haven of his quarters. “nobody’s stupid enough to think there isn’t going to be pushback. dowling has way too many hounds ‘round here. miracle, that none of them haven’t tried anything yet.”

there was far less color in the sickbay now. his lovely purple flowers, doing better since his return from the island, growing straighter and bolder in their violet hue, had been tossed to the sea. empty vases at an empty desk. his books, truly useless things, laid scattered about the sickbay. one thought, beating louder than all the others: doorways could be opened again. ( what is taken to another room is not always lost, it is simply misplaced. ) vladimir might still be saved. was jonathan not a healer? was this not his duty to try? 

jonathan sat with his notebook on his lap, open to a page with the sketch of some twist of a creature he had thought he’d seen. a gaping mouth, a hand with an eye on it. how might one draw a scream? like this, like this: lines and lines and ink scratched so heavily onto the parchment that it bled through, that it cut through, that it tore at the notebook itself. his hand rested above the page, ready to write, unknowing what he might record now. 

footsteps approached the sickbay, and he closed the notebook with a sigh. 

( what is the worst confession, dear doctor? that this taste of answer has left you with want of more, or that you wish to follow him, not to death but to the place on the other side? will you ever be satisfied until you do? ) 

She should be resting. She should be recovering. How long has it been since she was in a place even remotely safe? But that phrase was exactly what was haunting her, keeping her up.

She was not safe. Deep in her bones, in the pit of her stomach, she knew that whatever had devoured her ship was still out there. Stalking. Waiting. 

She touched the pages of her salvaged journals, inspecting them by candlelight. Emma turned the pages delicately, noting the spots where her meticulous handwriting had been turned into black smudges by salty ocean water. Lines between her brows appeared as she let a frustrated groan escape under her breath. 

She’d have to rewrite this whole page, wouldn’t she? God, of course she would. 

Suddenly a creak shattered the calm quiet of the room, making her jump in the process. Panic gripped her throat, invading her chest. Still, she managed a whispered shout, albeit one tinged with fear.

to go from the one who usually watches to the one being watched feels like a strange shift, especially under their circumstances. and it’s even more bizarre when you take a look at a purser, who seems like he’s lost all the fight that he had left in him ( for an hour, for a day—edward doesn’t even know himself. he hasn’t been sure about anything before, he’s even less so now; perhaps he’s sure of one thing and that he absolutely despises marcus estrada, despite previously thinking that some sort of a truce could develop between the two of them ). 

sitting in the common mess, of all places, sets of eyes around the room trained on him as he sloshes the grog around in his cup ( how gracious of them to allow him this much ).

A) if your muse supports marcus

the way they divided—he should’ve expected it, all of it and yet there are a couple exceptions that came as a surprise. to think that after everything, marcus taking over helps is any way is simply stupid. edward can’t believe they can’t see it. 

“are we even allowed to speak to one another?” it sounds bitter, more than he anticipated. he shouldn’t be surprised by this as well. 

B) if your muse supports malachy

( tw needles )

this was the true jules, the real one, jules cut and splayed like a tortured albatross set as a tortured omen. sailors, be warned --- this might be you one day. children, be frightened --- this is what you never want. the grief of it, the accepted anger. i will never be more than this. jules nursing a glass of something ( didn’t ask for specifics, just asked the strange barkeep for the deepest cup they could find ) and jules wallowing in the guilt of a failed ship. her present running parallel to her past. 

a statement, nyima’s soft words, something cruel now: hope led me to you, to this. a question, jules’ harsh voice, something that was finally answered when nyima leaped for the gun and made her choice: why don’t you fight?  

jules finished tying the needles together, dipping them in the mixture of ink and gunpowder. the tattoo would come out black, which seemed wrong for nyima. it ought to be red, maybe green, maybe every bright and brilliant color that reminded someone of warmth and summer. but no, it’d be black. jules lay out her arm on the counter of the bar, nudging her glass to the side and sucking in her breath as she brought the needles to her skin. 

gradually, slowly, the tattoo took form. a reminder, the only thing from the woman jules would allow herself to save. a moment. a thought. a gift. 

hope   1845. 

as she finished, she noticed someone had taken the seat near her. sentiment hardened, and she pulled her arm back. cleared her throat of the tears that had lodged themselves there. 

“what?”