I'm In Love With This And I Love Him Too!! AHHHHHH!!!

I'm in love with this and I love him too!! AHHHHHH!!!

Artist: WhatsernameCC

⟢ new eridu archives: camellia

⟢ A Hopeless Romantic

— She finds love in everything and anything, but is oblivious to those who show interest in her.

⟢ Quick Learner, Faster Worker

— As someone doing odd jobs for a living, she is a jack of all trades, master of none. She is often relied on to do business deliveries.

⟢ Soft Under A Tough Shell

— Despite her scary first impressions, she is very easy to get along with and cares more than she lets on.

⟢ A Vessel Of Secrets

— She hasn’t opened up to anyone after an incident in her youth, though many divulge their secrets with her.

My OC+Canon relationship template

Before using, here are some rules and boundaries for this template:

For organization, crossovers are not allowed, stick with one fandom only.

For the big box, do not use a canon character, you can use canon characters in the little boxes next to the big box.

Be sure to credit me when using this template, dont remove the text.

Do not use this for proshipper purposes.

Have fun :]

The Gravestone

Trigger warnings for death, suicide, and dissociation

She never imagined she should die so young.

Beverly Whittenhouse stood before the grave that said in big letters her name—BEVERLY WHITTENHOUSE—and the date—JANUARY 17, 1992 - SEPTEMBER 5, 1953. The gravestone was small and upright, but to her, it was everything. This is where she would forever lie. She thought her funeral would be grander, but when she stood in the back pew looking at her coffin, she couldn’t help but feel nothing. She could never stand to look at her body.

It was shortly after the birth of her firstborn, Cynthia Whittenhouse, that her body relaxed and her muscles eased. Her arms felt like a million pounds, and her body felt like cement. She couldn’t tell the doctors what was wrong because she couldn’t gather the energy to speak. It was painful for the first hour or so, with a mind-crushing headache and sweat beading down her face. Sooner or later, the nurses monitoring her noticed something was wrong, but by then, it was too late. Beverly was already too far gone for treatment, so she did the next best thing. She closed her eyes. She thought, ‘Maybe if I close my eyes, I’ll wake up fine.’

Beverly did wake up. Her body lay in the hospital bed, unmoving, when she opened her eyes. Her body felt light like she could run a marathon and then some. She no longer felt sweaty and gross but instead felt rejuvenated, like she was a kid again. The lights in the delivery room no longer felt blinding, and everything was still. For a moment, Beverly felt true, genuine peace.

When she came back to her senses, Beverly saw her peers, the other nurses who served alongside her in the Second World War, crying. She didn’t understand what was wrong, so she sat up.

“What’re you cryin’ for? I’m right here.”

But they acted like they couldn’t hear her.

She went to grab onto one of the nurses but saw that her hand went through them. Her hand felt like nothing, and a simple gust of wind could blow her away. Beverly got out of bed, stood up, and looked at the nurses. Her eyes couldn’t believe the moment that had transpired, and all she could do was stare at them with a still and fearful expression. The pit in her stomach grew, and she knew one thing.

She couldn’t turn around.

Beverly knew if she turned around, it would become all too real to her. She walked around the nurses, knowing full well she could walk right through them, and walked through the door. Passing through physical objects is strange; it’s like walking through jello or something similar. It’s like something is trying to pull you back, and you feel suffocated all at once.

Each step she took felt heavier than the last. Her surroundings felt…off. She couldn’t feel or touch anything, and when she looked around, it felt as if everything had a haze to it. Her body felt out of her control, and she went on autopilot. She felt disconnected from reality, and in a sense, she really was.

It was a small hospital with a long corridor leading to different hospital rooms. She walked down the corridor, passing by the paintings on the wall she never got a good look at when she was being wheeled down. They were beautiful paintings: one of sunflowers, another of a fruit basket, and a few others of various objects. She walked slowly down the corridor until she came to the double doors that led to the entrance. She took a left because of the label ‘nursery’ on the wall.

It didn’t take long to find her husband standing there with a smile on his face. He wasn’t paying attention to Beverly; instead, he stared at one of the babies in the nursery. There were about 20 babies, but she couldn’t mistake her own. There, in the back row in the middle, was hers: Cynthia Whittenhouse. She had this feeling of elation, knowing her baby was alive and well. She felt so far from everything, but in this moment alone, she finally felt the happiness she had been waiting for 9 months.

“Mister George Whittenhouse.”

The recurring fear came back into Beverly’s body as she turned to look at her husband, who had been happy and smiling at his newborn daughter. She knew this would be the last time he would be seen happy again. She stayed, looking into the nursery with a fond expression, while he left with the doctor and went back down the corridor.

For the next week, she wasn’t allowed to leave the funeral home. She was stuck in some place that looked like a dentist’s office with a long chair in the middle. Beverly looked curiously around the room, looking at the different bottles labeled formaldehyde, methanol, glutaraldehyde, and other names of chemicals she didn’t know. She never once looked at the person in the room rushing around or who laid on the chair herself.

Beverly could never stand to look at herself in the eyes. Once, she tried to turn and look at herself, but when she caught a glimpse of her still lifeless body on the table, she couldn’t bear it. She tried; she honestly tried to come to terms with the fact she was dead, but she internally screamed at herself. She was too young to die, too young to perish! She didn’t even get to meet the baby girl she had so long to see.

So when it finally came time for her funeral, seeing the preparations and flowers, seeing all the guests that came, it all felt too surreal. Beverly waited outside the room where the funeral was being held. That’s the farthest she could get before she would blink and be back at her body. She could never travel far from it. It was like some sort of tether still tying her to her body.

“Today we mourn the loss of Beverly Whittenhouse…”

Arriving there was no problem; all she had to do was wait until her body left the funeral home. Whenever she got too far away from her body, it was always like walking through a fog. Even now, whenever she starts to walk too far, she always makes it back to her gravestone. Even in death, she couldn’t travel the world like her husband promised.

The cemetery was beautiful when she was buried there. It was still a fresh plot of grass, and the headstone was beautifully carved. She could hear sniffles from everyone in the crowd and, worst of all, her husband’s red eyes. She had assumed their baby was still in the hospital, where she would stay until enough time had passed and it was okay to send her home. Seeing her husband’s cheerful demeanor disappear after the war was the first sign of his depression, and then the second was seeing the loss of his beloved wife.

The third came way later.

Over time, she would stand beside her gravestone and wait. She would see her little girl grow up with her mother’s bright green eyes and her father’s red curly hair. She was always so happy whenever she came by. Cynthia would say hello and would sit down at the grave and talk for hours and hours about her day and home life. She was a pretty lucky kid; most dads would run, but this one didn’t.

It didn’t stop Beverly from noticing something was wrong. Every time he came by, he seemed tired and often worn out. After the war, George went back to his job as a factory worker. His sad smile turned weary, and after a while, the smile faded. It was like it took everything out of him just to get up in the morning. Soon enough, he stopped coming.

Beverly waited by the gravestone one day, waiting for Cynthia to come by. The weather wasn’t half bad—a little rain here and there, but otherwise, it was a perfectly cloudy day. She sat down on the ground, trying to pick the grass, but she couldn’t touch the ground like she could before. She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her.

“I’ve been watching.”

“Who the hell are you?” a startled Beverly yelled, getting up and backing away.

When she turned around to face whoever it was, she was pleasantly surprised. There stood a man about fifty years old with a stubbly face and dark brown eyes. He stood a little taller than Beverly, who was already 5’6 herself and looked clean. He stood there staring straight at her with a kind and soft expression.

“I am the Groundskeeper of this fine cemetery. You must be Beverly Whittenhouse.”

She looked around to see if anyone else was around and then back to the man. “How can you see me?”

“Once you spend enough time at the cemetery, you tend to see things.”

“So, you can really see me?” she asked, walking up to the man. “I wonder…” she reached out a hand to touch him.

“Still can’t touch.”

“Oh.”

She withdrew her arm and looked at him curiously. It still bothered her that his only answer was that ‘you tend to see things’ when you spend enough time at the cemetery. It wasn’t enough for her. There had to be more to the story.

“Does that mean my daughter can see me?”

“Perhaps.”

She rushed towards the man, trying to grab his shirt, but stumbled and fell to the ground. The man stepped out of the way nonchalantly, looking down at her. She grumbled at the fact that she had forgotten she couldn’t touch people and got to her feet again. She brushed off the nonexistent dirt and looked at him sternly.

“That’s not a good answer.”

Despite everything, the Groundskeeper seemed unbothered by this entire situation. “You want me to talk to her, yes?”

“I’d do anything to tell her that I loved her,” she begged the man. “Please. I just want to see my daughter once.”

“I can’t tell you if she can see you or not. I can only assume. When she comes by again, I’ll talk to her.”

If she could kiss that man’s feet, she would. She could finally meet the daughter she never got to see. It had been so long since she could hold her little girl in her arms, and now she could talk to her as a teenager. Maybe, just maybe, she could get to meet Cynthia

When the next year came, Cynthia was eighteen years old. Beverly had seen some of her relatives come by the cemetery; they were stuck to their bodies just like she was, but they moved on. Beverly got to know some of the other residents of the cemetery, like David, an elderly man waiting for his wife, or Susan, a young adult who wanted to stay just a bit longer. Beverly wasn’t alone.

It was the middle of the summer, and while everyone else was out wearing short sleeves and shirts, Beverly was still in her orange pencil skirt dress she was buried in. It was almost scandalous how much skin a woman could show nowadays, but it was trendy. Back before she died, it was scandalous for a woman to wear pants, much less mini-skirts.

Cynthia wore a similar outfit to the rest of the people. She wore a pink halter top with high-waisted bell bottoms. She wasn’t with her father that day; he stopped visiting two years ago. Beverly had hoped he was moving on and was being a father to their child, but in reality, Beverly didn’t know. All she cared about now was meeting her daughter for the first time.

Beverly waited by the gravestone for Cynthia with a smile on her face. She was nervous; she couldn’t lie, but she was so elated that she could finally tell her daughter the words “I love you” on her face. She held her hands together tightly as she waited for her daughter to get closer.

Beverly didn’t know where he came from or how, but the Groundskeeper came along. He seemed to have some supplies, and he started cleaning a gravestone. She didn’t know the supplies’ names or what exactly he was doing, but she knew he was cleaning the gravestone. This was the first she had seen him clean them.

Cynthia set down a white rose and looked over to see the Groundskeeper. “Who are you?”

He looked up from his work to face her. “I am the Groundskeeper. I watch over the cemetery.”

“Weird…” she turned back to Beverly’s gravestone. “So, what, do you watch over the graves here or something?”

“You could say that,” he says as he brushed the gravestone with some cleaning agent. “What would you say to her?”

“Who, my mom? I dunno,” she shrugged, looking at the grave. “It’s hard to miss someone you didn’t get to know. I mean, I love her, but it’s different.”

“Do you grieve for her?”

“I grieve for the mother I didn’t get to know, but do I grieve my mom?” she paused for a second to think on the question. “No. I just hope she’s at peace now.”

“Why do you keep coming then?”

“Because…she’s still my mom. I may not grieve her, but without her, I wouldn’t be here. I know she loved me; Dad tells me that every day.” she stares at the gravestone a bit longer. “Thank you for talking to me and all. Mr…?”

“Mr. Peters.”

Beverly wiped her eyes as tears ran down her face when Cynthia left the cemetery. She wasn’t wailing, but she was sobbing quietly. Did her daughter not love her enough? What did she mean by it was different? Beverly had so many unanswered questions but couldn’t ask. She wanted to run, scream, and do whatever. And so she did.

Beverly fell to her knees in some distraught agony and pounded her fists into the ground. She clenched her teeth and shut her eyes as she sobbed out. Beverly was frustrated with the feeling of not being able to do anything. She couldn’t do anything. She couldn’t speak to the people she loved; she couldn’t go and see them; she couldn’t do anything except stay here and stare at the words on the gravestone that said her name.

“Why…” Beverly sniffled. “Why can’t she see me?”

“Because she’s not grieving you,” the Groundskeeper told her. “She may have lost a mother, but she didn’t lose you.”

“If that’s supposed to make me feel better, then it’s not!” she yelled through broken sobs. “My own daughter…”

“She never said she didn’t love you. In fact, she said the opposite. She’s moved on. Maybe you should, as well.”

Beverly got up and stood over the Groundskeeper. “I should move on?! How? I can’t even tell the people that I love that I loved them! And you didn’t help me at all!”

“I showed you that she couldn’t see you.” the Groundskeeper got up from his spot and looked Beverly in the eyes. “I cannot control how your daughter grieves or does not grieve you.”

“You could have at least told her that I loved her! That I was proud of her!”

“Realistically, how would you react if I said your dead loved one told me beyond the grave that they loved you?”

“I…” Beverly was at a loss for words. On the one hand, she wanted to say she would be receptive, but on the other, she knew she would view him as crazy. “You still could have said something!”

“I am but a mere groundskeeper. I watch the grounds. I am not a messenger between the dead and the living.”

“But you can see me, and you’re not grieving!” she jabbed a finger at him, but all it did was pass through him.

Grief comes in many different forms. It’s thoughtless to assume I am not grieving.” the Groundskeeper walked through her to get to another grave to clean. “Think about this, Beverly. This is not meant to be an attack on you. This is merely a time for self-refleciton.”

“Self-reflection, my ass,” she rolled her eyes.

She did reflect on his words. There was a patch of trees beside the cemetery that she could sit under that wouldn’t bring her back to her body, so she was there for years at a time. She saw that over time, as her daughter grew older, she had this fond smile on her face. She always brought white roses, which were her favorite. Although, she never saw her husband come.

That was until one day, someone came to sit wit hher.

Today wasn’t much different than any other day. A funeral service was being held. It was rainy, and the sky was grey. It’s not a beautiful day to be holding funeral services, really. She wasn’t bothered with who was showing up because she would see them anyway. So, she sat under some trees and watched as people grieved and cried for their lost loved one.

Beverly had kept track of how old Cynthia was at that point, 50 years old. She had a child of her own, Jennifer, who then had a child of her own, Maeve. Even after so long, she still visited her mother, who had been in the ground for half a century. Beverly was curious though. Was her body decayed by then? Was she all bones now?

Those thats didn’t matter when a voice rang out to her. “You look as beautiful as the day I married you.”

She looked up and saw an elderly man standing there. He had a kind smile on his face and kind eyes. She stared confusingly at him for a moment. The last she recalled, all the elderly men in her life had passed away and moved on.

“Who are you?”

“I guess I look different than when you last saw me, Beaver.”

Her eyes widened when she heard the nickname. It had been a long time since she was called 'Beaver.' It was some stupid nickname a few friends gave her in high school because of how her name Beverly sounded similar to Beaver. She didn't understand it, but she took it with pride.

"George?"

He sat next to her with a grunt. "Yeah. It's me, hon."

She couldn't touch him because ghosts can't touch anything, so she cried into her hands. It had been so many years since she saw her husband, and now she could finally see him again.

"What happened?"

"I...couldn't bear it any longer," he said, looking down. "I hadn't been with anyone since you died, and I got diagnosed with dementia earlier last year. I couldn't bear the thought of losing my memories of you."

"Oh, George..."

"But I can finally see you again, and that's all I could ask for."

That was when she made her decision. She decided to stay. She finally understood what it meant to be dead. She wanted to see her daughter again, and the only way she could do that was to wait.

“Do you finally understand?”

She had almost forgotten where all of this began. She stood in front of her gravestone still as the grey skies passed. It was now the dawn of the 21st century, a little over 20 years since she first met the Groundskeeper. This time, he was an elderly man in his 80s with grey balding hair and a stout hunched figure. He could no longer keep up the cemetery, so moss and dirt had taken over the gravestone.

“It’s been a little bit since George left,” she noted. “He moved on much quicker than I did, but I think that’s because he had all the time in the world to spend with her.”

“Are you still angry?”

“Not anymore. I’ve come to learn to appreciate the cemetery for all it’s worth. I just hope there will be someone else to take over your job when you pass.”

He let out a hearty laugh. One that she had never seen before. He was usually stoic and aloof, but this time he looked more…friendly, more forthcoming. Maybe it had to do with age. After all, she didn’t know much about him.

“What about you?” she asked him. “What about your friends or family?”

“I’ll be fine, Beverly.” he said in his smooth, rich voice, now huskier than before. He left the cemetery with his cane in hand. “Just take care.”

She stood there waving goodbye to him as he left and he returned the wave back, before leaving. She looked down at her gravestone one last time, and saw the white roses that Jennifer had placed there.

Reckless fun in the jungle

It's a fine day beneath the subtropical sun, deep within the scorching heart of a treacherous jungle. A team of elite operatives—Tequila, Marco, Tarma, Eri, Ralf, and Nadia—have been sent to the southern part of the Amazon Rainforest by the Regular Army for a perilous mission. Their objective is to infiltrate and dismantle a ruthless guerrilla group suspected of human trafficking, illicit arms dealing, and narcotics smuggling. Intel suggests a possible alliance with the notorious Ptolemaic Army, a terrorist cult infamous for its brutality and corrupting influence. With precision and skill, Marco and his team must track down the guerrilla group, gather crucial intel on a possible alliance with the Ptolemaic Army, and execute a swift and decisive takedown to shatter the organisation's grip on the region.

The hypervigilant Tequila leads the group with awe-inspiring courage, his grenade launcher at the ready. Marco follows closely behind, his usual stoic demeanour masking a deep longing to return to the Sparrowhawk Operations Base and reunite with Perifa, whose dramatic flair he misses dearly. Eri, who had previously instructed her fellow Ptolemaic Army deserters to scout for a secret base and any suspicious activity, stands ready with her trusty explosives at hand.

Ralf is pumped for action, his senses heightened as he drinks in the jungle's symphony of natural sounds and feels the adrenaline coursing through his veins like liquid fire. Tarma walks alongside Marco, cracking jokes to ease the tension, but Eri and Tequila remain unamused, finding his humour unprofessional. Meanwhile, his queerplatonic partner, Marco, struggles to maintain a straight face, stifling a couple of laughs in an effort to stay focused. Ralf, however, revels in Tarma's lightheartedness, while Nadia giggles, lost in romantic thoughts of her best friend, Trevor.

Before they can proceed further, Marco suggests splitting up, a plan that Tequila endorses. Marco and Eri meticulously outline the stealth mission, assigning Ralf, Tarma, and Nadia to reconnaissance duty, tasked with identifying potential enemies and hostages. Meanwhile, Marco, Eri, and Tequila will continue searching for the guerrilla group's headquarters. After a brief strategy session, the group divides: Ralf, Tarma, and Nadia head out separately from Tequila, Marco, and Eri.

As they stealthily tread through the jungle, Nadia's focus wanes, and she starts to feel restless, yearning for something more than this mission. Just in time, Ralf spots a secluded hideout, a fallen tree shrouded in dense greenery, where they can lay low for a couple of minutes. The group swiftly settles in, remaining vigilant and on high alert. Ralf, Tarma, and Nadia anxiously await any news from Marco's group via walkie-talkie, hoping to pinpoint the elusive guerrilla group's current location. Ralf and Tarma remain vigilant, scanning their surroundings for potential threats and innocent bystanders, while Nadia's gaze wanders, her attention drawn to the lush jungle foliage and beautiful birds.

As Nadia leans against the tree trunk, she pulls out a blue bubblegum ball from her square-shaped pouch adorned with kitty ears. She pops it into her mouth, chewing and savouring the sweet blueberry flavour. As her gaze continues to wander through the gorgeous sights of the Amazon Rainforest, she spots some enticing swinging vines and her lips curl into a playful smile. With a mischievous glint in her eye, she elbows Tarma…

Tarma jerks slightly, caught off guard by Nadia's elbow to his right arm. He swiftly turns to face her, his head tilted in curiosity, and asks, "Huh? What's up, Nadia?"

She nods towards the hanging vines, her grin growing bigger, and blows an impressive bubble before it pops. Tarma quietly looks at them, adjusting his red-tinted sunglasses and squinting slightly.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Nadia asks, spitting out her chewed-up blueberry bubblegum, as Tarma's smirk forms, accompanied by a low, amused chuckle.

“I so do,” he replies, flashing a charming smirk, his response coming easily and without hesitation.

He watches as Nadia stands up and joyously skips over to the vines, catching Ralf's attention. Ralf raises an eyebrow at Tarma, but before he can say a word, Tarma swiftly stands up, stretches briefly, and confidently strides over to Nadia. As Ralf's gaze follows Tarma to the hanging vines, he grasps the hint and decides to join in on the fun.

Meanwhile, Marco, Eri, and Tequila are cautiously navigating the jungle, vigilant for any signs of the guerrilla group's members. They're also awaiting crucial intel from Ptolemaic Army deserters regarding the location of the group's headquarters, where their illicit operations are allegedly taking place. To pass the time, Tequila decides to strike up a conversation to break the monotony of the deafening silence. He has a strong hunch that Marco will remain his usual taciturn self, but he's certain that Eri will definitely respond.

“I hope these guys aren't affiliated with those cultish dumbasses from the Serapion Fellowship,” Tequila says, his voice dripping with disdain, his face twisted in a mix of anger and revulsion as he recalls his past run-in with the group.

“You mean the Ptolemaic Army?” Eri asks, her voice laced with disdain, accompanied by a tired scoff. “The Serapion Fellowship was decimated when the Ikari Warriors tore through them.”

“The Ikari Warriors didn't finish the job,” Tequila interjects gruffly, his tone respectful yet firm, catching Eri off guard. “My old comrades and I had to clean up the remnants. I'm telling ya, Ptolemaios and his devotees are like blind, stubborn leeches… Those motherfuckers never know when to quit!”

He pauses, fishing out a cigar from his right cargo pants pocket and lighting it with his metallic blue-green lighter. As he takes a slow drag, he eyes Eri with a hint of uncertainty, "I assume you haven't heard about the Arms Deal Barrage?"

Eri exhales a heavy sigh, her gaze dropping to the jungle soil as she falls into a silent reverie, feeling a tad foolish for nearly overlooking a seemingly insignificant event in the Regular Army’s history.

“Yup! Your Lothario son spilled all the details to me,” she replies, her voice involuntarily tinged with a chill as she crosses her arms, oblivious to the fact that Gimlet has kept a dark secret regarding the Regular Army hidden from her.

“Really?” he says gruffly, his right eyebrow shooting up in skepticism, amused by the thought of Gimlet being her informant on this particular matter.

Marco's attention is suddenly diverted by the distant shouts of thrilled excitement from a girl and a man, who enthusiastically belts out Tarzan's iconic jungle call, echoing through the air. He swiftly interrupts the conversation between Eri and Tequila, clearing his throat awkwardly, his interest piqued by something in the commotion.

“Uhhhmm… Guys, I think we have a problem,” Marco says, his voice low and serious, nodding discreetly towards the source of his concern.

“Tsk! What is—” Eri starts to say, her voice tinged with annoyance, but her words die on her lips as her jaw drops in stunned astonishment at the scene unfolding before her.

“What the fuck is happening?” Tequila exclaims, his voice laced with confusion and incredulity as he glares upward at the reckless spectacle above him, his eyes widening in shock.

Marco, Eri, and Tequila watch in stupefied awe as Nadia, Ralf, and Tarma swing from vine to vine with reckless abandon, their movements eerily reminiscent of carefree, playful monkeys. It's as if the entire jungle has become their personal playground, and they're oblivious to the fact that their unprofessional antics might jeopardise their mission. Tequila can only hope that the three impulsive adventurers don't alert any nearby enemies to their presence. Eri's right eye twitches with suppressed rage, clearly unimpressed by their foolishness. Marco lets out a deep, exasperated sigh, smacking his forehead with the palm of his hand and shaking his head in dismay, his gaze cast downward.

“Weeeeeeeeee! This is so much fun!” Nadia squeals, her voice bursting with exuberant joy.

"You're absolutely right, gurl! This shit is amazing!" Ralf exclaims, feeling nostalgic for the good times he had with Clark on mercenary missions in the jungle.

Tarma unleashes a thunderous Tarzan yell, utterly shameless and fearless about attracting the attention of the guerrilla group members. However, his triumphant cry is abruptly cut short when he accidentally swallows a fast-moving insect, causing him to cough violently. He stops swinging from vine to vine and lands on a branch of a kapok tree, gasping for breath and reaching for his water canteen in his citron load-bearing backpack. Nadia can't help but burst out laughing at the unexpected turn of events. Meanwhile, Ralf stops by to check on Tarma, concern etched on his face.

"You okay, man?" Ralf asks, gently patting Tarma on the back with a hint of worry in his voice.

Tarma coughs some more, takes a long swig from his canteen, and clears his throat before calmly responding, "It could've been worse..."

Tarma's gaze wanders to Nadia, who’s still swinging with carefree abandon, then drops to Marco, Eri, and Tequila, clustered beneath the kapok tree's sprawling canopy, far below where he and Ralf stand. He swallows hard, the sound of his gulp audibly echoing through the air. Ralf's gaze follows, his expression contorting into an uneasy frown as his sunburst amber-sage eyes slowly lock onto Tarma.

“Maybe we should get back on track…” he suggests, wincing at the prospect of facing Eri's icy stare and scornful disapproval.

The thought of facing Clark's lecture at Sparrowhawk Operations Base makes him wince even more, especially if Eri shares the story of their impulsive escapade. Tarma silently nods and begins to carefully descend the kapok tree, using the vines for support. Ralf closely follows, keeping a watchful eye on Nadia as she continues to swing from vine to vine without a single care in the world. Her swift movements radiate pure joy, accompanied by thrilled shouts, squeals of excitement, and punctuated by a hilarious, off-key Tarzan jungle call.

After a few minutes of climbing down, Tarma and Ralf approach Marco, Eri, and Tequila, their heads hanging low in palpable shame. Marco's disapproving gaze settles on Tarma, who shifts uncomfortably, his hand drifting up to rub his upper arm in a telling sign of nervous humiliation. However, Marco's expression soon softens, his frustration easing as he realises he can't stay angrily disappointed at Tarma forever. Eri is furious with the two, her anger evident in a harsh puff of breath and her crossed arms, which seem to radiate a menacing aura. She's prepared to unleash a scathing tirade, especially once she discovers who sparked this entire debacle. Tequila appears relieved that they didn't attract unwanted attention, but his expression betrays frustration with their decision to slack off.

Luckily, Nadia soon returns from her vine-swinging escapade. However, her excitement is short-lived, a fragile vine snaps beneath her weight, sending her plummeting downwards. She lets out a blood-curdling scream, but Ralf swiftly swoops in, catching her small body in his arms. As he holds her, Nadia's trembling subsides, and she gradually calms down from the fear and exhilaration of her fall. Once she's composed, Ralf carefully sets her down on her feet, offering a reassuring pat on the back as she takes a deep, prolonged breath to calm her nerves. Now, Nadia braces herself for a scathing lecture from Eri, likely amplified by Tequila's disapproval. She fidgets with her thumbs, gazing up at the sky with an unconvincing attempt at feigning innocence.

Eri's gaze sweeps across the group, her eyes blazing with a fierce intensity as she growls, "Which one of you thought it was a fucking brilliant idea to act like reckless retards in a situation like this?"

Nadia swiftly deflects the blame, her finger pointing accusingly at Tarma as she twirls her raspberry red locks with her free hand.

"Tarms is the one who started it," she claims, her tone dripping with false nonchalance.

However, Tarma's and Ralf's unflinching, deadpan gazes effectively debunk Nadia's attempt at innocence, their silent incredulity speaking volumes. Eri's hand flashes up, poised to deliver a sharp slap to Nadia's face, but Marco swiftly intervenes, firmly grasping her wrist to prevent the blow. He wisely knows that escalating the tension will only make the volatile situation worse.

Marco's expression turns stoically resolute, his brow furrowing as he sternly suggests, "Let's call a truce for now and concentrate on our mission."

Eri lets out an irritated snarl, ripping her wrist from Marco's grasp and rubbing it lightly. She turns to Tequila, seeking validation, and receives a discreet, affirming nod, signalling his agreement with Marco's suggestion. Whirling around, Eri confronts Tarma, Ralf, and Nadia with a twisted face, mocking them with a scornful snort. Deciding to lecture them later, she spins on her heel and strides away, refocusing on their mission to track down the guerrilla group's base deep in the Amazon Rainforest, hoping it's within a reachable distance. Tequila exhales a tense sigh, hastening to catch up with Eri, while Ralf follows quietly, ready to take on the guerrilla forces. Nadia falls into step behind them, her arms crossed and a scowl on her face, pouting silently like a sulky child.

Tarma pulls out a cigarette from his saffron-yellow vest, and Marco retrieves a cigar from his left khaki-green army cargo pants pocket, seeking to calm his frazzled nerves. As he approaches his queerplatonic friend, Marco extracts a gilded lighter from his crimson vest pocket and kindly lights both his cigar and Tarma's cigarette.

"Nadia... She never fails to amaze me with the creative ways she manages to stir up bullshit," Marco mutters, shaking his head in amused disapproval.

Tarma's expression turns mischievous as he sarcastically remarks, "I have to admit, she's quite the firecracker."

As he speaks, Tarma accompanies his words with a soft, affectionate squeeze of Marco's right hand, eliciting a gentle smile. Marco basks in the warm, carefree presence of his best friend and recent queerplatonic partner, enjoying Tarma’s breezy attitude on life. He could linger in this cozy moment forever, but he's keenly aware that pressing matters demand their attention.

After a few moments of adoring eye contact, Marco breaks the comfortable silence with a soft clearing of his throat, and suggests, "Shall we get going?"

Tarma exhales a stream of cigarette smoke and responds with a subtle nod, then quickly falls into step beside Marco as they catch up to Eri, Ralf, and Tequila, who are already some distance ahead. The team is eager to complete their mission, apprehend the criminals, and return to the Sparrowhawk Operations Base in one piece. Marco looks forward to reuniting with his calico cat, Perifa, and enjoying some snuggle time. Tarma can't wait to get back to restoring Clark's custom-built Velocette MAC motorcycle after this mission is complete.

Nadia is eager to spend quality time with Trevor and challenge him to another round of Dance Dance Revolution. Nadia is also looking forward to indulging in some of Fio's delectable baked goods. Tequila hopes that Red Eye is keeping Gimlet in line, ensuring he doesn't succumb to his typical laziness and womanising ways. Tequila and Eri can't wait to unwind with a well-deserved drink and good company back at the Sparrowhawk Operations Base, while Ralf hopes that Clark is doing well in his absence.

Reworked Species #2: Tuatha Dé Danann

Unfortunately, little information has been preserved about the history, culture, behaviours, and capabilities of the Tuatha Dé Danann. However, it’s known that they thrived during the Hadean Eon, a time marked by the emergence of life, and possessed technology far superior to that of modern humanity. This society of demigods was renowned for their impressive naval prowess and vast knowledge, reflecting their diverse talents and interests.

The Tuatha Dé Danann created intricate hieroglyphic drawings on portable pieces of green jasper, red garnet or obsidian, highlighting them with fool's gold or mercury. These drawings depicted ancient deities, such as the Avatar of Evil, and are often referred to as the Rosetta Stones.

The Tuatha Dé Danann are believed to possess an infinite amount of knowledge, encompassing even forbidden lore, but this intellectual capacity diminishes with each successive generation of descendants. As their DNA is diluted, their heirs retain only a hint of the Tuatha Dé Danann's extraordinary cognitive abilities, allowing them to hold more knowledge than the average human but not to the same extent as their ancestors. Notably, the Tuatha Dé Danann lived long enough to intermarry with fully evolved humans, sparking controversy among the older generations. The older generations viewed such unions as a taint on their genetic lineage, regarding themselves as a superior species whose physical and mental purity was paramount.

They can effortlessly distinguish between their own kind, including those who possess Tuatha Dé Danann DNA, and beings from other species through a peculiar tingling sensation of familiarity. Legend has it that they occasionally or frequently glimpse a pair of glowing red eyes watching them from darkened corners or shadowy places. They interpret this as a guardian carefully observing and assessing their moral actions. However, their descendants often find this unsettling with some believing they are being haunted by a restless spirit, while others suspect they are merely hallucinating. Sometimes, they're drawn into certain places, enticed by an aura of curiosity, a commanding presence or the echoing whispers of safety and growth.

They're immune to debilitating illnesses and were once prolific wielders of powerful magic, controlling the weather, elements, and earth's fertility. With this magic, they could shapeshift themselves and objects into animals and people, become invisible by hiding in a mist, and bring doom upon those who committed heinous acts against the divine and the law. However, descendants of the Tuatha Dé Danann have lost the ability to wield this magic as modern society has forgotten the secrets of harnessing and maintaining such an arcane force.

Beliefs

Although their specific beliefs and values are not well-documented, they are largely centred around animism, enlightenment, salvation, and cultural preservation. They held key values such as honour, courage, mastery of survival skills, overall health, compassion, creativity, and wisdom. Moreover, they believed it was their responsibility to aid in the physical and technological evolution of all life forms and reset the timeline when destruction seemed imminent. Some believe in the transformative power of human emotions and physical capabilities.

They held immense respect for the deities, preparing exquisite festivals, large feasts, worship ceremonies, and moral laws inspired by their unique principles. They hold a profound belief in the sacredness of the land, recognizing a collective responsibility to protect it from desecration and preserve its integrity. As stewards of the natural world, they strive to maintain harmony among the five elements: earth, air, fire, water, and quintessence. Embracing the cyclical nature of life, they accept and respect the phases of birth, growth, decay, and rebirth, working to maintain the delicate balance of the natural order.

Appearance

It's commonly believed that the Tuatha Dé Danann bore a striking resemblance to humans, but with distinct physical differences. They were remarkably tall, with males standing at an impressive 9’ 4” (284.48 cm) and females reaching approximately 8’ 10” (269.24 cm). Their physiques were characterised by lean builds, prominent muscles, and a proportionate amount of body fat. Their hair reportedly came in varying shades of black and blonde, while their eyes ranged in hues of blue and cyan. They have a pale complexion, but most experience a dulling of their skin hue as they grow older with age.

Warriors often adorned themselves with vibrant markings: they bleached the skin of their faces, torsos, arms, and lower legs with woad, giving them a bluish appearance. They also used Murex snail dye to create swirling patterns or claw-like marks on their faces, chests, and arms, which appeared purple. Additionally, they dyed their hair with madder red dye, and if they had longer hair, they braided it.

Tuatha Dé Danann rulers are always born with distinctive physical characteristics, including either python-like legs, a wolf’s head, a winding, serpentine fish tail or the lower half of a horse.

The exact nature of their attire is unknown, but it’s believed to have been crafted from luxurious materials such as silks, satins, linens, and animal pelts. Their jewellery was adorned with gemstones, precious metals, and ornate pieces made from animal teeth and bones. Notably, their armour was forged from a mysterious material known as adamant, a semi-magnetic rock infused with hardened steel, renowned for its exceptional strength and durability, surpassing even that of diamond.

Known Locations

Atlantis is said to be buried deep within the centre of the Atlantic Ocean. According to legend, the fabled civilization of the Hadean Eon was lost to the depths after its ruler succumbed to hubris and attempted to conquer humanity or prematurely reboot life itself with the aid of the Alator. The city's architecture is characterised by a series of concentric islands, separated by expansive moats and linked by a winding canal that culminates in a central hub: a towering structure featuring labyrinthine hallways, prismatic stone, and an altar adorned with ancient deity caricatures.

Some believe that Atlantis houses ancient technology infused with psionic energy and holds the knowledge of the deities. A few also speculate that it will rise up from the Atlantic Ocean during a rare and ominous blood moon event, rumoured to last for seven days, potentially initiating the apocalypse.

Ultima Thule is a remote tundra island located northwest of the Orkney Islands, frequently visited by whale and orca families. The island experiences the extreme phenomena of polar night and midnight sun. Despite its fertile soil and abundant fields, capable of supporting crops and fruits, Ultima Thule is uninhabited. Regrettably, the island has been exploited as a dumping site for trash, discarded vehicles, and defunct machinery, leading to its notorious moniker, Scrap Island. It secretly harbours the remains of a deceased extraterrestrial deity and antediluvian, faulty technology of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

It's believed that Ultima Thule was once a multifaceted hub, featuring large greenhouses for agriculture, mines for fossil fuels, precious metals, and gemstones, and sanctuaries that housed libraries, lavish bathhouses, and comfy homes for the elderly. Additionally, the area hosted various winter sports to test physical strength and agility, survival skills, instinctive reflexes, and mental strategies.

Technology

Little is known about their technological capabilities, but it’s believed that they were the result of a fusion of advanced mechanics, cutting-edge bioengineering, and mystical wizardry. Some of their technology is said to be capable of creating devastating weapons unparalleled on Earth, generating new land masses and life forms (including clones), and even tearing rifts in the space-time continuum.

Atlantis contains the Alator, a 200-million-year-old information-gathering device, and the Lugus Lieu, a biomechanical tower giant that serves as the Alator's core. The Alator is employed to accelerate the evolution of cultures and life forms, but it inevitably self-destructs when accessed by an individual of Tuatha Dé Danann lineage, resetting the timeline and perpetuating an eternal cycle of repetition.

They were in possession of data discs attached to copper-hued adamant vambraces, comprising three sections that are adorned with an encircling, shaky line pattern and outlined with gold accents to demarcate each section. The data discs themselves are rimmed with pearlescent adamant and centred with a floating rhomboid piece of green jasper. These devices are capable of generating an impenetrable shield, manifesting as yellow-orange and saffron octagonal waves, for defensive purposes. Additionally, they can emit purplish-white laser projectiles for long-range offence.