Title: Timeline
CAT: FFVII
Warnings: Self insert, language, violence
Story Link: Unsure if I'll post it.
Summary: I smile terribly at my realization, my acidic lips open and my teeth bare like fangs. I snarl like the dog I am with the grace of something pretty I've been taught to be. I look very much the sly fox; I am very much the agitated bear. And this creature that I am, that I have become, that I might or might not have been, but I have certainly returned as has been gifted once more, tragically, upon this poor, unsuspecting world. 

[Self-Insert, Turk-tastic]
Notes: Hikou misses playing with the other Turks and if the only way to amend this is to pull a Sephiroth, so be it. Not sure if I'll include this in the Death Cycle saga, although that is the storyline in which it takes place, just because it's so unbearably cheesy, unrealistic, and out of place.

Persephone

Eternity is simply a sick joke.

It's something awful we've done to ourselves, a terrible, too-high hope we've raised the bar on so far no god could ever have hoped to jump it, but I can't help in dealing the Heavens a helping of blame in a selfish sort of way that has always been partial to my name.

There is not a thread of fear left in me because although the blackness before me may seem to stretch to the farthest reaches of time and space, out into infinity and perhaps further still, I am cursed with the terrible knowedge that this, too, must end.

No, I am untouched by fear as darkness fades to unbearable light. There is no apprehension at the restriction of my limbs, no horror at the tubes of plastic taped into my face, no worry at the huming of machinery behind me, not a care in all the world for the white-coated ghosts that float past me.

And every natural pretext for adreneline, every self-preserving instinct I've ever had has been replaced with a maddening sorrow, hollow in no way. My anguish is so tangible it cannot be contained within my body. It bubbles out past the crack of my taped lips, reverberates horribly against the aluminum walls of this familiar looking hell.

The ghosts stop dead in their tracks, floating to me holding clipboards like candles in a parody of the vigil they should be hosting.

"Professor," a young thing calls breathily.

But no one comes.

Because eternity is a sick joke God has allowed us to play on ourselves. We inventors oftime, we've never been stopped, have never conceived that if we invented the idea then our forever is equally as unreal.

And he's let us do it.

There are needles sticking out of the ghostly hand that rises and they pop at odd angles as that same hand reaches for that lovely pink throat hiding humanity behind the pale palor of that awful jacket.

But he couldn't have let us do it. Nothing, no body oculd be so cruel as to let us taste paradise eternal only to have us abandon it.

The hand closes mechanically, like a claw, a simple extension of the humming machinery fueling it, pumping the lungs belonging to it full and empty.

It is about this time that I realize that God must be dead--as finite as the rest of us, unable to war us of our foolish dreams.

There is a sickening crack as I pull my ghost close, cradle her in my arms like an infant, and the motion pains me but I do it anyway.

My lungs heave of their own voltion, rendering the machines behind me useless, and then the tears begin to fall.

My sorrow extends to these poor lost children, orphaned by their creator, now left in the care of so terrible a goddess as myself. For if knowledge is power, surely I must now rule the world.

A man in white is approaching me, smiling sickly, pleased with himself, and I can only be furious that he's released something so terrible as me upon the world. The ghosts give their Dr. Frankenstein wide berth.

"Professor," they echo frantically.

"Subject B," he greets casually, casting an amused eye on the corpse in my hands, "I see you're feeling completely yourself."

There is half an ounce of pain as I stand, as the tubes rip their way out of my esophagus, as the bonds holding me break, as the machines groan with the effort of my escape.

This awful man I know, this Professor. And he has created original sin in my new world. He has brought me to life.

I slide a hand gently along either side of his skull and twist. His vertabrae snap and pop, but I twist, and twist, and twist as only I am wont to do. Sinews stretch and veins cling, but eventually the head gives way from the body, and I am left warm in an oddly comforting spray of red.

The ghosts are trapped in horror, not as free as I. Some run, some stay, some scream, some quiet, but I've no eyes for them.

I'm watching patches of red soak into the sleeves of my blue coat, wondering at the familiar way the colors intwine to black. I am pained and amused. I am hopeful and I am ill.

I smile terribly at my realization, my acidic lips open and my teeth bare like fangs. I snarl like the dog I am with the grace of something pretty I've been taught to be. I look very much the sly fox; I am very much the agitated bear. And this creature that I am, that I have become, that I might or might not have been, but I have certainly returned as has been gifted once more, tragically, upon this poor, unsuspecting world.

"D-Director Shinohara?" someone, somewhere stutters.

It seems oddly fitting they should've buried me in my uniform.

Title: Tempest
Link: http://www.lunaescence.com/fics/viewstory.php?sid=13191&warning=17+
CAT: GI Joe
Summary: I climb into the metal vulture because the world is covered in blood, and he is not. [Movie-verse, Post-film, Storm Shadow/Snake Eyes-centric, Self-insert-tastic.]
Notes: I like ninjas with guns.

The sky is red.

The ground is too, the color seeping deep into the Earth, pooling when the dirt can hold no more. It seeps into the water nearby, unfurling with the ghostly grace of the dead, spreading with the rapid contamination of a plague. It's slow and methodical, peacefully powerful, even the terror it inspires thuds in deep and resonating thrums throughout my body. It smothers my screams, seals my windpipe, until all I can hear is the thrum of fear echoing empty in my ears. The world outside mute to the steady, sourceless creeping.

I am red. My clothes are already too damp in sweat and tears; I notice too late. It's hot, and it's sticky, and it burrows deeper into every pore with every useless swipe I make at it. It's streaking from my ears. It's dripping from my nose.

My mind is reeling, spinning forward so fast it sets itself backwards. Cogs are falling off of axles, but the images keep streaming inwards, unprocessed, overwhelming. People line the desert skyline, cityless, purposeless. They scream mutely. They fall to their feet. They clutch their ears. Their faces are contorted in pain, in confusion. They soften slightly in death.

Above vultures are fighting over the carrion. Their attacks launch hot white, their strikes fade to flames of orange. They clap like thunder, and even if the force of the sound is still muffled in the color, I can feel the tremors of each explosion reverberate against my ribcage. Faces behind me are losing their definition, relaxing into decay in an ironic brand of peace, but my eyes fix themselves upwards. Clouds outline severely against this man-made storm. The size of them terrifies me, but their line holds strong against the barrage of fire. They guard fiercely, outlined in red.

It's a long time before I give in to it. Before I sink into the ground, desolate. I'm the last one upright, even on my knees. I'm the only one to see the sun peak over the horizon, open a lazy eye to the debacle of humanity. It's a long time before the vultures clear away and the angels descend from Heaven to reclaim our dead.

But they don't want the dead.

He walks to me. A beacon of purity and simplicity, draped in white against the diseased scene. He ought to extend a hand, grant me wings and fly me behind the clouds, but he doesn't. A firm hand grabs me by the back of my collar like a pup by the scruff of the neck and yanks me to my feet. He studies me disdainfully for a minute before tossing me forward with a stiff order of , "Go."

There's a foreboding looking piece of metal in the distance, trying to whip wet pieces of sand away, succeeding to some extent. It casts a long shadow, all the way to my feet in the presence of the sun. I look back for reassurance.

I receive none. "Go," he says again.

My foot moves of its own volition. Not because of the fear or the death, not for the mask of confusion, not for the ascent. I climb into the metal vulture because the world is covered in blood, and he is not.

There's a woman waiting to greet me, but a needle takes the place of words, plunged deep within my neck before I'm sure which way is up. "Let's go, Storm Shadow!" she shouts over the heavy beat of propellers.

The world flashes white.

I love Daniel Way.

I've been having the shittiest week, and I'm halfway on the verge of just saying fuck it, but then the new Deadpool came out today, and it was the good one that Way writes not this throwback Merc with a Mouth bullshit that everyone treats like the word of fucking God.

):

Anyway. Pirates. <3