Voltaic Refeeding

Voltaic Refeeding

Augusnippets day 3: thunderstorm | blizzard | heat wave

Word count: 499

Trigger warnings: mentions of eating, electric shock, burns, blood, fear of death

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Camlanns were born attuned to the elements. Magic wove them into being just as much as DNA, and they needed magic just as much as they needed food or air. This was easy, for some—if you were attuned to earth, wind, plants, water, physics, all you needed was to touch it to feed on the ambient magic, and you were set.

For Ruika, attuned to electricity, that was harder. Tal had told him that there were people thinking about using electricity to power lights and heat in a house, but for now, fire magic was used to bring fire, light magic to produce light. Outside of combat and nastier warding styles, no one had really incorporated electricity into their life, and Ruika did not want to get in the practice of getting beaten up by wards or people just to try and keep himself healthy.

So, when summer rolled around, the air turning souplike and clouds becoming dark with the promise of rain, Tal whipped out all his governmental real-time storm maps, Piri rented a mobile, and the three of them went storm-chasing.

Lightning was an excellent source of electricity for Ruika. Electricity naturally bent towards him, knowing he was a home for it, which was great when he was fighting lightning mages and even better when he wanted to get struck multiple times in one storm. The rest of the time, Piri and Tal set up warded spheres to catch lightning, to feed him for the rest of the year when storms were rarer. It really was the best way to keep his magic stores from withering and him dying of starvation!

It also, Ruika reflected, hand raised to the roiling sky and shaking, just could be really very dangerous.

His ears had ceased to hear anything but a high-pitched, screaming whine. He was somewhere between feeling nothing but tingling numbness and like he was about to explode, the telltale sign that he’d eaten a little too well, and like a starving person gorging themself, that was going to have some immediate, horrible consequences. Distantly, he knew he was burned all over to the point of burst, bleeding blisters, even if he couldn’t feel the blood trickling over his skin.

Somehow his arrhythmic, rabbit-quick heart found it in itself to leap in fear when his smearing vision managed to catch a flicker of light in the billowing darkness above. The three strikes in quick succession before had destroyed his ability to withstand any more voltage. If he got struck again—

The world went white.

He registered his vision jarring—had his knees given out? He couldn’t care, around the agonizing numbness, around the sight of a copper, spiky rod above him, now sizzling with the heat of catching lightning before he could. He saw a blur of red—candy-red, Piri-red. Oh, she’d put the lightning rod there.

And then any coherent thought was lost to the blinding torture of a brick-red, Tal-red blur picking him up and sweeping him away.

Philosophical Incident

Augusnippets day 6: car accident | plane crash | shipwreck

Word count: 500

Trigger warnings: minor injury, minor blood

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“Cass. Cass! Cassie!”

Cassander let his head loll to the side. “What,” he deigned to answer.

“Don’t ‘what’ me, ya goth fuck!” Mag snapped. “Stop contemplating the secrets of the universe and tell me if it’s because yer being you or because yer head got fucking cracked open!”

Ugh, he was so loud. “If now isn’t the time for philosophy,” Cassander posited, “when is?” The road was nice and level, warm from the sun. It was a good day for cloud-watching. In all honesty, laying here and staring up at the blue sounded like a much better deal than having to sit up and contend with any injuries he definitely had.

“When yer magic-forsaken road rash hasn’t maybe sheared off important bits of your fucking circle tattoos! Have I mentioned lately that those’re fucking suicidal? Have I mentioned that I don’t like being, oh, I dunno, stabbed or burned or exploded?”

“If my spell circles were going to explode,” Cassander said, “they would’ve done it already.” They did have a point, though. Hells. If any of his circles were affected, if his clothes hadn’t protected his skin enough … he was going to have to do so many touch-ups, he just knew it.

Alright. Time to get up, aaand there was the pain. Mostly duller pain, though—he was going to have a helluva set of bruises later.

“Any goose egg-type feelings?” Mag asked, squinting at him. “Can’t check your pupils—dizziness, amnesia, anything?”

“Oh, I hate having to reimburse people,” Cassander muttered, eyeing what had once been their car. Well, it was still recognizably a car, if you liked your cars crumpled like an accordion. At least the top was open, and they both knew how to fall when they got thrown forward and out.

“Cassander!”

“No concussion symptoms, just bruises and minor cuts.” What had made it through his clothing hadn’t seemed to touch his tattoos yet, thankfully. “You’re going to be the one paying back the rental. This is on you and your horrific driving. I didn’t think it was possible to hate cars even more than I did before.”

Mag sputtered, before leveling an accusing finger at him. “Take the wheel, then, if ya hate my driving so much!” he said.

“No,” Cassander said, flat and immediate. “I would rather die. I almost did die, actually.” It was either endure Mag’s idea of road safety, or willingly put on a siphoning cuff to provide magic for the engine. He’d like to sleep at night, thanks, instead of scrubbing his wrists raw from the nightmares.

All of Mag’s fight left him, his shoulders sagging. “Right,” they muttered, looking at a vaguely bloody rip in Cassander’s pants.

Cassander instantly made an affronted sound. “Stop looking like a kicked puppy; I know what I signed up for, or else I wouldn’t have gotten in a car with you again.”

“Right,” Mag said again, lips quirking a little; he held out a hand. “Well, let’s figure out how’ta get outta this mess.”

Strands

Augusnippets Day 2: platonic bathing | hair care | makeup

Word count: 500

Trigger warnings: none

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"Are you done yet?"

A nearly-inaudible, long sigh came from behind Brier, before Karmic said, “Say that again, and I’ll cut your throat instead of cutting your hair.”

“Young lady, do not make me turn this car around!” Brier said, dropping her voice low, then giggled. “That’s what you sound like right now.”

“Young lady, do not make me stab your carotid with these scissors,” Karmic immediately deadpanned back. Said scissors made a snick-snick noise, slicing through more of Brier’s hair.

“Ha, see—? Oh no, shh, shh, I’m sorry, Sor, sorry, sorry, rest your tired eyes,” Brier sang, fingers running over Sor’s fur. The touch of magic in her words made the cat settle down again, his eyes sliding closed. Brier hummed a few aimless notes, slowly stroking down the length of Sor’s spine, before she reached out from under her protective cape for the half-made straw sandal she’d abandoned to placate Sor.

“You—” A yawn interrupted Karmic’s sentence—it was silent, but Brier could hear his jaw creak, could picture the one eye Karmic always kept open when he yawned. “You’ve done that … three times now? You’re putting me to sleep, dirthead. You’ll end up lopsided and laughed at because you enforced naptime on your hairstylist.”

“I can’t help it!” Brier whispered, starting to weave a careful distance from where Sor was dozing across her lap. “Don’t move while a cat is on your lap or you’re the worst human in the world, that’s the rule. You know that, that’s why you put him there to begin with.”

“It’s for your own good,” Karmic said, unrepentant. “Every time I thought about your sheer amount of split ends, I fantasized about freezing you into a giant block of ice except for your head and giving you a haircut. You got off easy.”

“I guess I did,” Brier sighed. “Honestly, who can blame me? He’s trapped me, but he’s the cutest trap in the world.”

“Correct answer.” The tug of the clips in her hair released, and a comb glided over her scalp without meeting any resistance. “Okay, now I’m done.”

“Yaaay!” Brier quietly cheered, now having the freedom to turn her head. Karmic was leaning back a little to inspect his work—his face was as severe as ever, but there was a softness to the corners of his eyes, and a jaunty, almost triumphant trill had risen out of the quiet, mellow tune his emotions had become.

“Thank you!” she continued. She tilted her head, and said, “Is there something you want help with for your hair?”

A beat, as Karmic went still, both in body and emotions. Then he huffed, the meditative tune coming back, and as he turned in the direction of their broom closet, he said, “I think Sor’s got you occupied at the moment.”

As he walked away, Brier smiled, eyes catching on the tufts of hair on the floor. After all, she’d learned how to listen for the ‘later’ implied, how he’d never said no.

Moth and Taxidermist

Augusnippets day 4: amputation | degloving | vivisection

Word count: 497

Trigger warnings: violence, injury (exposed bone, collapsed lung), blood, implied/referenced vivisection

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Karmic fights, he swears. The moment he’s certain that the hostages have been freed, those viscera-stinking shadows slinking back to—to his father, he attacks. This man hasn’t seen him since he was small; he has no idea how quick Karmic is, how sharp his claws are. If he can strike first, fast, then—

At the same time his hand swipes a chunk out of the side of his father’s face and neck, there’s a familiar pain piercing his chest.

His father had demonstrated what his bloodmist could do to someone if they breathed it in, during the ‘negotiations’ that led to Karmic going with him. It felt like Brier had punched him in the solar plexus, any breath-based magic immediately beyond him as he wheezed for breath, except it went on and on until a negligent wave of his father’s hand let him breathe fully again. It had not been a fucking pleasure, to say the least.

It is still not a fucking pleasure.

He stumbles, and that’s his undoing. One moment, he’s looking at the pale mandible his claws exposed; the next, pure black floods his vision as shadows knock him flat on his back, punching whatever air he has left out of him. He tries jackknifing back up, but can’t—the shadows have stayed, keeping him pinned down.

The swears that pour out of his mouth come loud and vehement, courtesy of his father as he heals Karmic’s lungs.

There’s a sigh as his father walks into view. Shadows are vanishing from his cheek, leaving him unblemished. “It’s the brain you have to worry about, little one,” he says.

“Fuck the shit off,” Karmic spits.

“Our brains are our only fatal weakness,” his father continues, ignoring him. “Everything else is restorable, but if we lose the organ that knows how to restore things, that means our death. Make sure to adjust your defensive combat to account for this, yes?”

“Oh, so that means your ears are full of shit, too! Makes sense, since you’re not fucking listening!”

“We’re not worrying about brains today, though,” his father says, still going on. His hand goes up, pointer finger aimed at Karmic, eyes narrowing. “We’re worrying about that crutch in your chest.”

Karmic has enough time to register his father’s finger turning black before it blurs, and there’s a ripping sound. Too late he realizes that his clothes have been sliced open larynx to navel; too late the words ‘crutch in his chest’ click together with why his torso is free of shadows;

too late he knows what his father is about to do to him.

"No," he says.

“Yes,” his father counters, kneeling gracefully. “Your heart is what killed you last time. I was happy to supply my own, but you should’ve learned how to replace it ages ago. We’re fixing that now.”

He smiles. It’s a lovely, loving, terrifying smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

The first guiding cut slides over Karmic’s sternum.

hey

hey friend

dont kill yourself tonight ok

you have a really pretty smile and i know its not always easy to manage one but itd be a bummer if we never had the chance to see it ever again

youre really important and you matter a lot so stay safe and try and have a nice sleep

@augusnippets Path of Hurt

Day 10: execution/fake execution/begging for mercy

CW: minor whumpee, mock execution, government corruption, abuse of power, imprisonment, framed for a crime, future captivity

Itzal (he/him)

Word count: 756 (a bit longer but I couldn't resist)

The Champion taglist: @emmettland , @ostensiblywhump , @scoundrelwithboba

They don't listen when he says he hasn't killed anyone. When they shove the gag into his mouth and secure the strap at the back of his neck, Itzal realizes they're not going to listen to anything he has to say.

He doesn't want to die.

It didn't make sense. There wasn't a trial. No evidence given that tied him to the supposed death of whatever unnamed Lapis guard they mentioned.

Only twenty-four hours between Itzal getting brought down to this prison and learning they were going to kill him.

‘ “Rebels don't get trials,” ’ they had said, sneering laughs lapping up the tiefling's terror.

He cursed them. Would've trashed and clawed up his cell had the shackles at his wrists not held him down. Would've tormented the guards with illusions had his magic not been suppressed. All he had were his words and he used them. Such fragile pride they had that they'd waste time and resources to silence a seventeen year old vandal who dared to insult them.

Itzal's anger spat until they gagged him.

He realizes now part of that anger had been fueled by denial. Armored guards clutch his bound arms as they drag him towards the courtyard, and dread clutches his gut.

He's going to die.

He tries so hard to fight. Bucks at the grasping hands until their grip is hard enough to bruise. Lashes out with his horns until one guard grabs one to force his head still. The blindfold around his head is wet with tears he failed not to shed.

He should’ve been more careful. Should've picked a safer, less public spot for his last graffiti run. Should've went home when his mother told him to and wait for a different day. 

His mother's face flashes into Itzal's mind. His father's. His little sister's. 

What's going to happen to them?

He won't even get to say goodbye. 

The screech of a metal door opening preceeds a waft of warmth as the sunlight hits his skin. The Crescentine sun is always harsh in the summer. The guards force Itzal to his knees in the dirt, latching the chains to a bolt in the ground so he couldn't stand. Couldn't flee. He balls his hands into fists to hide how much he's shaking. 

“Itzal Azarola,” a voice booms from behind. “For the crimes of treason, accomplice to murder of a government official, defacement of government property, government slander, and resisting arrest, you have been sentenced to death under orders from the Cerulean Constellate.”

Treason?

It doesn't seem real. It can't be real. This has to be a nightmare. He'll wake up home in his bed and be safe.

There's more noises. A rifle being loaded. His heart hammering in his chest. 

He will wake up soon. He doesn't want to die.

A click of the safety being released. A muffled sob escaping his lips.

He doesn't want to die.

“Fire!”

HE DOESN'T WANT TO DIE!

A trigger being pulled. 

A deafening blast sends him reeling, all other sound drowns under the piercing ring in his ears. His head throbs. His body collapses. He hopes it'll be quick. He hopes it'll be over before he feels it. He-

He's still alive.

The pain of a bullet tearing through his organs doesn't come. No smell of blood or burning flesh. The world still dark under a blindfold he can still feel on his face. Itzal is still alive.

More hands grab him. The chain is released from the ground and he is being carried away. His legs drag uselessly. His muscles feel like gelatin. His mind in a fog.

Why?

He should feel relief but instead there's a void. Nausea burning up his throat he has no choice but to force down because he's still gagged. 

What's happening?

Was there a mistake? Is he actually dead and his thoughts now are from his ghost trying to cling to life? Where are they taking him? He still can't see. No one's saying anything. What're they going to do to him now?

They drop him on hard stone. “Is this the one you wanted, Lady Matar?”

The blindfold is removed. There's a woman standing in front of Itzal. Short red hair and red eyes. Cloaked in the luxurious vestments of the Constellate. Lady Matar. High Martinet Scarlet Matar.

The master of judicial law stares down at the young tiefling, drinking in the tears on his face.

The way she smiles at him is the most terrifying thing he's ever seen.

“Yes. I will be taking him now.”