deercountry | Pyrrha | Duty November Catchall

CW: Gore, Body Horror, Violence, Self-Harm, Murder, Corruption

"You're not in a position to negotiate," the zealot says with a smile.

Duty smiles back, all teeth. Frozen pale blue blood coats the metal shackles holding his ankles and wrists. It saturates the thick leather restraint around his waist. The temperature drops, localized to the restraints. The metal gives first, cracking under the intense cold. One hand shoots out to catch the blood crazed zealot. Hardened nails puncture skin and hold the person in place, while a kick to the groin makes them slump, choking further on his hold.

His other hand cuts and breaks through the damaged leather so that Duty steps forward from the wall he'd been held against. His eyes are smoky flames. With one arm he lifts the shorter person off the floor, to dangle there face to face.   "How about now?" Duty asks.

Sharon slips into the room with hardly a sound, her bare feet quiet against the metal flooring. She's a mess to look upon, covered as she is in blood and oil and grime, her bleached hair darkened and matted with it. There's bruising and cuts peppering one side of her face and her nose may be broken, half-moon shadows dangling beneath her eyes. Her red jumpsuit shows signs of damage, spotted with violet where her Coldblood has pierced through and frozen the fabric to her skin. Despite all of that, everything about her is hard and sharp and wild.

She catches Duty's eyes as he lifts the zealot up. She'd been ready to pounce when Duty had freed himself. There's a hunk of metal gripped tight in her hand, jagged and sharp and bloodied, bits of flesh and gore still clinging to it. She's used it more than once down here and she was ready to use it again. But, for now, she'll let Duty take care of this zealot. Let him dole out the justice he deserves.

The zealot grabs at Duty's wrist, nails digging into the skin. Kicks hit Duty's thighs, shortly above the kneecaps, and none of the struggle changes his position one bit. After a series of coughs, the zealot manages, "Fine! Fine fine fine!"

Duty shakes his head. Perhaps the zealot would follow terms, but Duty's lost faith in his credibility. "You're not in a position to negotiate," Duty repeats flatly. Against renewed scrambling against his hold, he tightens his grip and breaks the zealot's neck. The body relaxes, letting go in death.

What a waste. Duty lifts the corpse up into the empty spot next to his, chains the corpse in, and glances back at Sharon. "Care to cut an artery?" he asks. A bucket sits below the corpse, emptied sometime since its last use. It still reeks of blood.

"Cannot imagine why they aren't more popular," Duty deadpans.

Sharon feels the tiniest flicker of satisfaction when the zealot's neck snaps, their whole body going slack in Duty's grasp. Some part of her wished they'd suffered longer but she's dealt with too many of those zealots now; she knows they seem to relish in their own suffering as much as they relish in the suffering of others. She fucking hates it.

"He's already dead," she says as she steps forward, voice strangely detached, twisting the jagged hunk of metal around in her hand, "What's the point?"

Her eyes glance at the bucket for the briefest of moments, the bridge of her nose crinkling in disgust before she turns her gaze (ink black, the usual blue of her iris gone) back to Duty. She's clearly got an idea. She's all for inflicting as much suffering upon the zealots as she can but she has no interest in fulfilling their harvest.

This harvest helps the Tower and helps Trench. Even should that not matter, they're operating on a quota, some amount of sacrifice to accomplish the goal. "Take your pick," Duty replies. He takes a knife from the corpse's belt and slices a femoral artery. Without the heart pumping, it doesn't spray out with wild abandon, but blood drains from the opened system. Warmblood.

"One less cultless Sleeper," he says and looks around the busy level. One more corpse doesn't even stand out. "Help Trench." He pauses, not expecting much from her in response to either. His brown eyes, shot through with red, meet hers, remembering her memory from before she was whole. "Dishonor the dead. Treat them like they treat us." He motions around the room, not needing a lyctor's senses to tell much of it is dead or dying. Who knows if anyone comes back from this. Sacrificed in this way.

"Know the way to the door?" Duty asks. He woke up on this floor and hasn't gotten much of a tour.

This room doesn't look that much different than many other rooms Sharon has encountered in her slow, steady climb up. It's rectangular with rusted metal walls and floors and some form of drainage pitted at the center. In some ways, it reminds Sharon of a classroom, a single door at one end of the room that hisses open upon approach. The bodies that pile up don't seem to bother Sharon any at this point and she doesn't even blink as one twitches as she walks past. Even from where she stands, she can tell they're not long for the world, too much of them missing.

As Duty slices into the artery, bleeding the zealot, Sharon shoots him a brief look of disgust and disappointment, before she jerks her head towards the door.

"There were two zealots walking the hall before I came in here," she explains, her voice stiff and notably emotionless but the question that follows is almost scathing, "You wanna bleed them, too?"

Sharon doesn't believe what the zealots do. She doesn't think that the Tower needs sacrifice in order to continue on. Cults twist words until they hear what they want. There's no reason this would be any different. If they're right, though, then the Tower should fall (those words still burn in her ears) and Trench should die.

Duty follows Sharon, leaving the bleeding dead behind. He feels feathers rustling against each other underneath his jumpsuit and gets that's not a great sign. The zealots aren't likely to do that intentionally, but the stench of blood is undeniable. It saturates the air and coats his tongue. Not his first time around so many corpses or so much blood, but Trench reacts differently to spilled blood. It's necessary for so much of life, but it causes corruption too. The zealots are all corrupt to the nth degree. Blood-crazed zealots they're called. This much bloodshed isn't safe.

"Might need to," Duty replies dryly. "Our departed host claimed sacrifice was the only way out." He lifts a brow. "Didn't clarify whose."

Duty's not an easy man to bleed large quantities from (thus the extra babysitting). He shakes his head. "However they started, they've gone wrong." Much as he understands the issue, he doesn't condone their choices. Pain and suffering don't have to be a part of it, whatever else.

"And you believe them?" Sharon questions with a glance. The zealots are mad and to take their word for it seems just as mad to her. There could be some grain of truth to the things they've spouted but she has doubts. With people like this, she always doubts.

The door breathes itself open as they step towards it, revealing a strange, twisted hallway. There are areas of the wall that appear to be made of flesh, stretched thin around metal supports, and the floors are slick with a dark substance that coats the bottoms of their feet. Screams echo around them, most of the distant, and all of them different. Screams of terror. Of pain. Of anguish. Of joy.

Sharon's dealt with it for hours now. She's dealt with the thick, coppery tang of the blood in the air for hours. The cries. It's no longer nauseating or bone-chilling, it just reminds her of home. She breathes in deeply.

"I doubt they've ever been right to begin with, Duty."

Duty watches Sharon, still young for all she's an adult by Trench's standards (the Nine Houses too). The techniques may differ, the god present, the effects measurable, for all of that, the setting resembles Sharon's personal hells. Most people have a point around which they behave irrationally—neither John nor D are exempt—so he can hardly blame her for hers. It's a mark of the trauma, and they've both acknowledged it's not fully processed.

"I believe they believe it," Duty replies. He considers how pissed the Wakers are with her, how futile the attempts to kill John in the Nine Houses has been thus far... It's interesting to meet a cult that believes their god is all too imperiled, if not exactly mortal. These efforts are to save. Something to discuss with Heartnest.

"No," Duty agrees. Something was there to be corrupted, the seed that sprouted. "Is there anyone else you're looking for?"

They haven't seen anyone else in a state worth rescuing, but Duty will stay as long as needed. Whatever gets her out.

That's always the problem with madmen: they believe the nonsense they spout. That kind of belief, that faith, draws in other people; it draws in the weak and the easily influenced like moths to the flame, building their flock up until it's an uncontrollable mass. It infuriates her as much as it terrifies her.

"Fuck what they believe," Sharon says with a certain amount of animosity, not entirely directed Duty. This experience has stripped her of her ability to modulate her tone. It's too familiar and she's too raw. But she knows Duty isn't the enemy here, even if he's far more open-minded about this and them than she's capable of.

At the question, she frowns, "No. I ran into a few of my friends here but I'm confident they can make it out without me." The longer they're here and the more they search, the higher their corruption gets and the lower the chances of escape feel. As it were, there's still a long way to go, "You?"

As a place crafted in this cult's hands, even if it is the Tower's body, it's shaped by those beliefs. Parts of the system work based on their logic and design. No matter the violent disavowal, it's relevant. Again, unsaid. He doesn't take any of it personally.

"No," Duty says, "Cinnabar was away from me when I was taken. Everyone she could see was safe. Some are out of town." Collecting the mushrooms as an alternate means to help the Tower. It may not be safe, but they seem beyond the cult's purview compared to target rich Trench.

"Lets get out," Duty says. He glances around the hallway as they walk. "I believe up is the way to go." Not always as unconscious as he seemed.

"I see you've picked up on some shit," there's something akin to awe leaking past that cool rage in her tone as they move. She's taking the lead for the moment, moving like she's already walked this area before. She doesn't bother to check any of the doors they walk past. There's nothing left in them or nothing left to save, as it were.

"Did they hurt you?" she finally asks, voice tightening up again. She can still feel where the shackles had dug into her wrists. She'd been lucky, though. She was saved before they could get started. Most of the damage she's incurred came after.

Duty shrugs slightly. "I practice," he says, understated. He drove himself to near exhaustion that first month. Cinnabar and he were nearly always apart, and Duty constantly aware of the maned wolf's surroundings. Work, play... even rest. Thankfully he no longer needs to rely on that to know John's okay. That's what the bond's about (sorry, John, it's Duty's turn to share a painful experience or three).

"Mostly blood," Duty replies. It replenishes, but they took it about as fast as they could. Then some.

"They had plans for organs," he says, a sharp dangerous glint to his eyes. "Needed more zealots to move me, and their Paleblood got nothing from my dreams while I was out." Not nothing exactly. Nothing useful, only an endless unsuccessful quest for a bathroom.

Duty's response makes Sharon's lips curl inward, jaw clenching tight. She has an attachment to the man and the knowledge of what they'd done to him, at what they were going to do, ignites that hot well of rage in her until the flames of it are licking at her heart.

It's a fight to keep herself focused. He'll live. He handled it without her interference but something clicks in her mind, eyes widening a fraction, "Wait, that means more will be coming, doesn't it?"

It might be wise of them to move but, truthfully, Sharon relishes in the idea of quenching the fire rising up her with blood.

While Duty cannot claim warm fuzzy feelings toward the zealots for what they've done to him, he doesn't care about getting them back, not on his account. He's long expected someone to walk through his dreams. This revelation is simply the first known instance. They're a threat to others, even as they do something useful. He's not attached to keeping them all alive either.

Sharon matters more. Her anger doesn't frighten him, not on its own. She's always had it. She's used it since she was a little girl when she believed it was right. While he freed himself, it sits close to that shared memory, to being tied up and sacrificed. Only they're both older now.

He nods. "Sometime. Should be soon." No one gives the prisoner a schedule.

"What's the moral choice—not what's wanted or wise but right?" Duty asks honestly. He watches for a truthful answer... and whether that's what Sharon chooses to do.

The question takes her aback and Sharon scoffs under her breath, shifting a step back from him, her gaze darkening beneath her brows. This didn't feel like the time or the place to play this kind of game. She lets a silence fall between them, the only sound filling the room the distant grind of machinery and cries, but it's clear she's considering it, jaw clenching and unclenching before she finally rolls her eyes.

"I want to kill them," she grinds out without looking away, "It's wise to fucking kill them," she continues, unblinking and unwavering, "And it's morally right to end every single one of these sick fucks we come across because it's kill or be killed."

Sharon practically vibrates with untethered rage and physical pain. She's running on fumes, anger, and adrenaline, and the thought of lying to Duty is so far from her mind that it may as well be nonexistent.

Duty watches intently. It's always the time for this question. The harder the moment, the more important it is. Whether it's hard to know or hard to follow through. What matters most to him is driving that lesson into her heart, mind, and soul. To do what she believes is right.

"Sometimes they all align," Duty says. He believes her—all three counts. Convenient for her, yes. Convenient for him, too. It won't take anything at all to convince her to do it.

"Then that's what we'll do," Duty says. Like it's that simple. He continues their progress, focused and predatory in his walk. He will not deviate from their path to find more zealots, but he's committed to her violent path.

Duty's response, just like the initial question, catches at her and Sharon makes a soft, annoyed sound in the back of her throat that verges on a groan or a growl. She would have done what she thought was necessary regardless of his reaction, just as she had done with Luz upon her rescue. She's fully aware that her choices won't always align with someone else's but she'd never let that deter her.

"You fucking confuse me," she states as she walks in step with him, picking up on the violence he projects. It frustrates her, even in a moment like this, how difficult he is for her to read. She can never tell where he might be going with his question or what he might be digging for.

Duty comes up next to a door blocking their view. It's neither lightproof nor soundproof, and distant sounds come through—movement. They have a short time but company soon.

"I'm internally consistent," Duty says softly. The logic is there. Sharon simply doesn't have all the information. He's never been much of a talker. Most of the time show beats tell. He motions to the door as footsteps come closer.

When the door starts to creak open, Duty crashes into it, so that it shoves two surprised zealots back a few feet. He stabs another in the heart, spins them around him as a shield, and they absorb the flames from another Coldblood. Leaving the last two in the pack for Sharon, Duty blitzes toward the Coldblood whose nose he broke and a Darkblood beside them.

He huffs a laugh as the Darkblood manifests a barbed wire garrote; darkblood leaks onto the sharp wire where they grip it. The Coldblood directs a bout of flame that would drive him into the line of the garrote. Instead, he turns into the flame, skin starting to crackle as he slides on his knees to cut their femoral artery. The spray of blood freezes and cracks against the floor when it lands on it.

The Darkblood recovers quickly and presses the barbed wire against his throat face to face. His hands protect his throat, frozen blood frosting the wires. He pushes up, regaining his feet, and drives the darkblood against the wall to die on his own weapon. Blood drips the entire time.

He looks over to check in on Sharon while the wounds on his hands close over. More slowly, the burns fade.

Internally consistent, he says, and Sharon wants to snap something out at him, something unnecessarily biting and rude, but she picks up on what's about to go down when he motions to the door. She can hear them moving behind it. It's likely the group sent to come deal with Duty.

She tightens her grip on her makeshift weapon as Duty barrels forward, knocking the quartet off-guard. He takes the attention of a pair and leaves the last of them to her.

There's no time to pay attention to what Duty is dealing with, although the flash of fire catches her attention enough that the Warmblood she was driving a piece of metal into slams the heel of their palm into her face, cracking her nose with a sick sound. It's not the first time in this journey a zealot went for the face and Sharon lets out a sharp yelp, reeling back, coldblood pouring and freezing down her busted lips. The pain seems to trigger something wild in her, though.

She rips the metal piece out of the Warmblood in a vicious motion, pulling it out in such a way as to do as much damage as physically possible, and thick, hot blood sprays out from the wound, soaking her hands and jumpsuit and spraying across her face. She turns her now wild-eyed attention to the second of her pair, shoving the bleeding body away from herself, and throws her whole body into her target.

Sharon may be a tall girl but she's petite, thin, and bird boned, even after all the months of training. She can't throw her weight around like Duty and expect good results. It catches her target off-guard for just a moment, though, long enough for her to stab wildly at their already pockmarked, damaged chest. A harsh, floral scent begins to fill the air—Vileblood—but she doesn't stop, not even as she begins to feel nauseous and her mind hums in confusion. Even when they try to fling her away, she scrambles after them, slamming them backward. They hit the ground hard and Sharon straddles their waist and continues to tear at their flayed chest until it's damn near hollow.

Sharon shreds a dead zealot, Vileblood by the look and smell of it. That does her health no favors, and they're wasting time. Duty tucks his knife into the jumpsuit so that he can lift Sharon with both hands off her victim.

"They're dead," Duty states.

He lets Sharon go, guard up, so they can carry on. Once she's done, Duty doing nothing more than deflecting any blows from injuries that would truly inconvenience them, he carries on up the stairs, leaving the dead zealots where they lay.

Duty pulls her off the dead zealot with ease and she lets out a high-pitched shriek of rage, twisting in his grip like some weak, wounded animal. Even when she recognizes him, she hits him and shoves at him, though she never tries to stab at him with that vileblood-soaked hunk of metal she still tightly holds onto, aware enough for that. Her outburst lasts a little over a minute but there's no desire to hurt him, each hit weaker than the last, before she finally stops, breathing heavily.

"Fuck," is the only thing she manages out before Duty turns to climb the stairs and she follows dutifully after him, not even bothering with an apology. She's too wound up and dazed to bother.

Her head is cleared by the time they reach the next floor, though that sweet, sickly floral scent still clings to her jumpsuit and her fingers are numb with it. Given the bruising on her hands, it's almost a relief.

"Each floor has been worse than the last. More bodies. More crazies. And we need to reach the 10th," and she's tired and she's angry and she wants to burn this whole place to the ground.

Duty nods at her assessment. "I won't die here," Duty declares, simple as fact. He has been a killer far longer than these zealots. He's killed far more than these zealots. He knows more weapons. He knows how to survive battles that rage for hours or days.

He moves briskly through the floor, knife in hand. He throws it into the throat of a Zealot before they can scream or call for help and picks it back out seconds later. He takes another knife from their waist and offers it to Sharon as a better weapon than that she's improvised.

"Focus," Duty tells her. "Who's in control?" Sharon, her emotions, the zealots? He looks at her with warm earthy brown eyes, shots of red like lightning through them intent.

Sharon doesn't even flinch when Duty takes out a stray zealot, sparing it only the briefest of glances as Duty grabs one of the blades from its waist and hands it over to her. She accepts it and drops her makeshift weapon on the body like it was a trade.

The question gives her a moment of pause and she eyes him, dark eyes full of frustration, brows furrowed. She fiddles with the knife in her hand, bouncing it. Finally, she says, "I dunno. Does it really matter?"

He wouldn't have asked if it didn't.

There are fewer cries on this floor but the scent of death is heavy enough to choke on, settling on the tongue like a bad taste. Sharon would guess most people don't live long up here. She takes lead instead of waiting for an answer, stepping past the body without giving it a second look.

Even as they walk, Duty holds her gaze and stares back at her firm and unyielding. He doesn't repeat the question aloud, no, but he only spares brief glances to keep them en route. His attention, otherwise, is on her. Her more than the corpses around them. Her more than the blood and wrongdoing. Her more than the impressive lack of decay. Her more than anything else.

Who is in control? Duty continues to ask in his nearly fixed gaze.

Who's in control of her? His eyes move across her face to her hands, to each muscle that flexes or relaxes when it need not, to every sign of how she's doing. She hates it there. Yes. This is a cult yes. They are killing them, as she believes right.

They reach the door to the next section of stairs, and he stares at her before he opens it. An answer?

Duty keeps his gaze on her as they move and she can feel it. It makes her ruminate. She chews at her lower lip, sorting through her thoughts, taking the time to consider. She almost wants to lie to him but he sees so much that he'd see through a lie.

They reach the door and she sighs, "Me, okay? Alessa."

It's her rage that's in control. It's the worst parts of herself that are driving her. But it doesn't bother her because it's still her. "Happy?"

"Alessa," Duty recognizes and nods. Sharon, Alessa, they aren't the same little girls anymore. They don't move exactly like they did in the memory. They're different enough, though, to identify something changed. Fortunate that it already comes with names, with labels, with identity.

"You protect yourself," he comments. Happiness is neither here nor there. He thinks no less of Alessa, simply because she isn't needed all the time.

He nods upward and leads them through the door. No one's on the stairs proper, but the next level up comes with screaming, loud terrible keening screams. Duty opens that door, ignoring that the stairs lead even higher, to face the scene of a couple zealots flaying someone alive. Covered in blood as they are, Duty can only recognize them as a paleblood and not one he knows.

The whip flashes toward him, and Duty steps quicker than human to one side. It overextends, and he grabs along its length, pulling it further along its path. The zealot attached stumbles forward and resettles their position. The length between them marked by the taut whip. Duty wraps it around his left hand once, twice. The zealot snarls something like a gurgle, their voice something sacrificed to the Tower. Duty rushes toward them. His knife flies ahead hitting not the zealot but the Sleeper who slumps around it to further uproar.

You protect yourself. It's strange how such a tiny sentence can contain a wealth of understanding. There aren't many here in Trench, even with the same knowledge of her past, that can understand how she operates; how she puts certain pieces of herself forward depending on the situation. The fact Duty does — can — provides a twisted sort of comfort in this hellscape.

It's a tiny, meaningful gift and one she does not intend on discarding or forgetting.

The next scene of horror they come across reignites a dark desire deep within her when the first zealot attacks, whip flashing forward. Her teeth grind together as her black irises fill up the whites of her eyes. She remains rooted a step behind Duty, letting him keep their attention. She doesn't even blink when his blade buries itself in the Sleeper — death was likely welcomed — but keeps her focus on the second of the pair.

The air sparks and flickers but neither zealot seem to notice, not at first. They're too focused on the brute of a man who stole from them, who took from The Tower. The second zealot drags a blade down their palm, spilling a familiar floral poison upon it, coating it. Their intention is clear. They take aim, Duty still gripping that whip, and throw.

Sharon does not wait for Duty to react. The blade doesn't get the chance to reach him, nor does he get the chance to perform some badass move to dodge. No. Sharon simply lifts a bloodied and bruised hand and flicks. The blade gets thrown off course by an invisible force, twisting and tumbling in the air before it hits the ground with a resounding clang.

In that same moment, the air around the Vileblood lights up as white-hot wires begin to take shape and by the time they notice, it's much too late. The wires attack like snakes and dig into their chest, in through the breast, and out under the shoulder blades, looping back around to form a vest. The heat cauterizes the wounds immediately, filling the room with the sick scent of charring flesh and blood, along with the strangled cry of her victim, and Sharon grins.

Hardly having started to adjust his course, Duty observes the knife going off course and continues to collide with the zealot who cannot talk. He feels the heat and smells the consequences of her attack. He grapples with his opponent. No injury should do him much harm, but he sees blood well up icy blue around his fists, drenching them and freezing like restraints. It doesn't make sense.

Duty bashes his head against his opponent's, and dark berry smelling blood comes out. Darkblood. He grins, heating his hands enough to separate. The ice melts without the darkblood able to manipulate Duty's body with the gap. They look shocked, and Duty strangles them quietly with their own whip (no contact). Once they're down, he collects his knife from the dead Sleeper.

The Sleeper sticks to the wall via crystals, and Duty leaves them there. He looks over at Sharon and nods. He returns toward the stairs upward. "Still impressive," he says. He saw something like it in the memory.

"Do you consider anyone here family?" Duty asks, as though that makes sense for conversation in this environment. To him, it does.

Even as the adrenaline of the moment peters off, Duty's compliment leaves her with a pleasant flush of pride under her skin and the corners of her lips twitch up in a tiny show of genuine appreciation, a far cry from her grin of violence. Her powers and abilities have always been a sore spot for her but her time here has given her the chance to see them in a better light.

The question he follows his compliment up with catches her as off-guard as his previous ones but faces are already forming in her mind's eye; of Falco's soft, cherub cheeks; of D's stupidly handsome features; Wesker's glowing gaze. She looks hard at Duty, her lips pursed in thought.

"Kinda," she finally admits, though there's a waver of uncertainty in her voice. She's careful about what categories she places people in. For all that she can be bold and sharp, she's sensitive. She's afraid of how attached she can get, "I mean, I have people that matter more than friends."

"Why? This seems like a bad time to talk about our found families, doesn't it?"

Duty checks the perimeter around them as they climb higher in the complex. Nothing, no one, at the moment. Certainly no other Sleepers who are victims get stashed in the stairwell. Duty doubts any intelligence one could try to offer would make a difference regardless. The zealots are narrow-minded in their focus. More predators than rebels.

"Any zealots who overhear us will die," Duty says, "they may come back, but their cause isn't revenge." If anyone opts to continually target his family, Duty will simply kill them as many times as required. As one does.

He pauses on a landing, so that he can hold Sharon's gaze. "I would like to adopt you," he says, clear and succinct. Found family, as she said, not a replacement of her mother or father or any other found family figures. Family, after all, is additive.

Duty pauses their climb on one of the landings and Sharon gives him a sharp, quizzical look, brows knitted together for just the briefest of moments before they shoot up in wide-eyed surprise. The statement quenches the rage in her belly and the black of her irises recede until the rings of blue are visible again.

"Wait, what?" she asks, dumbfounded, "Why?"

For the first time since she's woken up here, she feels more like Sharon than she does Alessa.

His eyes sparkle, and a smile threatens to invade his face. Her shock, he thinks, comes only in the moment, in a context where she focuses—focused—on the immediate needs and actions. Adoption doesn't have to happen at a time like this, but when the time's right, it's right.

It feels right isn't what she needs to hear next. That weight on why throbs like a head injury. If he wants to be her dad, it's time to live up to it.

"We get each other," Duty says, "You live up to your beliefs. You remind me both of me and my husband." Sharon more like him, Alessa more like his husband. That part stings in a good way.

"We never got to have kids," Duty says, "He and I. Pyrrha's adopted a couple—Oscar, Billie—here. You? You feel like one of mine." Sharon's Duty's pick as a kid. He loves Oscar and Billie, sure, but Sharon's his.

As Alessa, she'd grown up unwanted; a burden on her mentally fragile mother, and fatherless. Her life as Sharon had helped to scab over the wounds of her original childhood but parts of that shame and ache and familial yearning remained in her, a constant sore that could never fully heal. Those words of his bumble into it — brush up against puckered, bruised flesh — and it reminds her of a pain she thought she'd let go of.

Her eyes, now bright and blue, begin to well up as her lower lip begins to quiver but she's quick to bite down on it, nipping that in the bud. She feels very suddenly like a child again and she tries to swallow the emotions building up in her.

"Really?" Her voice is strained and small. Raw. A part of her does understand where he's coming from. He's right. There's an understanding between them, one she's never had with someone before, but for him to want to adopt her? In this tower of gore and horror, this was something impossibly nice, and it didn't make any fucking sense.

"I'd... I mean," she flounders for the right words to tell him what all of that means to her. How much it touches her even though it's very plainly written upon her face, "I think I'd like that."

She would like that. She does like that.

"Really," Duty confirms. Really he wants to adopt her. Really he never got to have kids. Not with his husband. Not with his girlfriend. Really he means this here and now. Really it's the two of them against the zealots here. Really it's them and the others they care about.

He cuts his palm and collects some coldblood in his palm. It starts to freeze, but Duty heats his blood and reshapes it. Usually, he makes bullets this way. However, their relationship isn't a bullet, it's far more than that. Though not intensely detailed, it takes the anatomical shape of a heart. It freezes, and Duty locks its temperature in, similar to the way that he makes hot and cold packs for Vi.

Duty holds his hand out to Sharon with the heart made from his blood. "It would be my honor to be your dad," he says. "All of me for all of you."

Sharon takes the Coldblood heart and rolls it in her palm with gentle awe. It's a little thing but it was packed with meaning and born out of Duty himself. With the back of her hand, she hastily wipes at her eyes before her attention returns to him, clutching that heart to her chest like the precious thing it suddenly was.

"I have gotten through this whole tower without crying once," she says seriously, "And you had to go and fuck that up."

Without any warning or preamble, she launches herself at him, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. She grips him tightly as if it were the only way she could express her gratitude and acceptance.

Duty smiles and wraps Sharon up in his arms for the hug. While he doesn't weep, he blinks away a couple tears. It's been a long time coming yet so sudden. The crucible of the Sleeper Farm leading them to forge the relationship together.

"No apology," Duty whispers.

Pyrrha | Duty November Catchall

How You Like Me Now (The Sleeper Farm | Blood-Crazed Zealots) [Closed to Sharon]

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