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DAY 1: Tick Tock Goes The Clock

Sam gets lost in the forest. This action has consequences.

First day of Whumptober, one of the few times I'll be on time too. It's Dean's turn today! Congrats to him (?) This was supposed to be a story about Sam getting lost in the woods and it ended up being a character study of Dean and his self-worth issues. I'm not unhappy about it. Triggers Warnings: - Mild Graphic Description of Violence - Mild Blood and Injury - Broken Bone - Dean's Canonical Self-worth Issues - John Being an Asshole Fandom : Supernatural (TV 2005) Character(s) : Dean Winchester Relationship(s) : Dean Winchester & John Winchester & Sam Winchester Words Count : 2,714 No. 1: RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK Search Party | Panic Attack | "If only we could hold on.” (Icysami x Renegaderr, Strangers.)

Dean tightened his grip on his silver blade, listening for any sound. He was alone in the forest, the full moon visible through the treetops. Dean barely dared to breathe for fear of being heard, every crack of branches or wind through the leaves putting him on alert in the deathly silence that surrounded him.

He had been separated from Dad and Sammy hours ago, but Dean wasn't worried. Sammy was with Dad, nothing could happen to him. Now it was up to Dean to fulfill his duty. It was the last night of the lunar cycle. If he didn't kill the werewolf he was tracking tonight, it could run away and continue to hurt innocent people for another month.

(There were five of them in the woods, all thinking they were the predator. But only three of them would get out of here alive.)

A shadow, lit by the cold, metallic light of the moon, shifted on a trunk and Dean turned abruptly. Good thing he did. The werewolf he thought he had been following for the past hour jumped at him, sharp claws aimed at his face. With a practiced reflex, Dean protected his head with his arm holding his blade, throwing himself out of the werewolf's path with agility.

Not fast enough.

A claw hit his arm, tearing through flesh as easily as the fabric of his jacket, drawing blood onto the forest floor. In pain, Dean let go of his silver blade, sending it a few meters away from him. He clutched his arm to his chest, quickly assessing the damage. For a terrifying moment, he could no longer remember if a werewolf's scratch was enough to infect a human.

(If it did, what would he do? What would Dad do? Dean couldn't imagine his father accepting a monster as a son. And Sammy? It didn't matter, Dean would rather die than hurt an innocent.

Dean killed monsters indiscriminately, no matter who or where they came from. That was what he had always been taught. Hunters killed monsters. Dean knew what he would have to do.)

Calm down and think, idjit!

Dean forced himself to breathe through his nose. A scratch wasn't enough to turn someone into a werewolf, only a bite could. Easy, Dean could avoid being bitten by a dirty mutt.

The werewolf snarled, drool dripping down its chin, yellow eyes flashing wildly in the night. It was getting impatient and the adrenaline that was pulsing violently in Dean's veins would soon fade, leaving him to face all the pain of his wound.

Dean had to get his hand on his weapon. And fast. He mentally calculated the distance between him, the werewolf and his knife. But the werewolf noticed the direction of his gaze.

"Oh no!" the werewolf threatened, its words chewed in its rage.

The werewolf threw itself at Dean, but this time Dean was ready for it. Using his opponent’s momentum against him, he kicked the beast in the sternum, deflecting its course and sending it into a thicket of brambles. The werewolf struggled through the brambles, howling in anger, giving Dean enough time to lunge for his silver blade. His fingers closed around the handle, a sigh of relief and comfort escaping him. 

A hand grabbed his ankle, claws digging deep into his ankle, cutting through tendons. Dean fell, his chin hitting the ground hard. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He tried to grab roots, clawing at the ground to keep the werewolf from pulling him towards it, thorns digging into his skin. Dean struggled and kicked, ignoring the searing pain, to force the werewolf to let go of him. But the monster held firm, twisting his bones as it laughed in satisfaction.

A guttural cry escaped his lips, tearing through his dry throat.

“A fighter, I like that,” the werewolf mocked. “I don’t usually turn men, but I might make an exception for you. You’re pretty enough.”

“Go to hell!” Dean spat, choking on his blood.

Dean forced himself to turn his torso to face the werewolf, straining his bruised muscles. He swung his knife in a wide arc in front of him and sliced ​​the monster across the face, damaging one of its eyes. The werewolf cried out in pain and finally let go of Dean, bringing a hand deformed by claws to its face.

Dean stood up quickly, putting as much distance between himself and the werewolf as he could. He spat on the ground, a mixture of blood and dirt, and grinned victoriously, his teeth tinged red. He gripped his knife in his left hand, his entire body on alert.

(He had practiced using both hands, but his left hand was still his weakest. This would have to do.)

Dean had never wanted a gun more than he did now. But they had only managed to get one single silver bullet and giving it to Dean who had a better chance of missing his target would have been a waste. It had made sense for Dad to take the gun, he wouldn't miss. Still, sticking a standard bullet between the werewolf's eyes would have reassured him, even if it would have barely slowed it down.

"I take it back," the werewolf growled. "I'm going to enjoy tearing you apart and eat your heart. And when I'm done hearing you beg, I'm going to hunt down your delicious little brother and take him with me. That is, if my friend doesn't kill him and your demon of a father first."

Dean's ears twisted and his vision went red. Sammy .

"Stay away from him!" Dean growled, his voice as animal as the monster in front of him. 

The werewolf smirked and Dean knew he had made a mistake. He had just revealed a weakness, something precious to him and the predator in front of him had smelled it. Dean's determination only grew, he couldn't let the werewolf go now that it had so clearly threatened his little brother.

( Sammy, he had to protect Sammy. )

With his good foot, Dean kicked the dirt at his feet, creating a protective screen of dust and blocking him from the werewolf's sight for a few seconds. It wasn't enough, not when all the senses of the monster in front of him were heightened but it was something.

Dean attacked from the right, the side where the werewolf was blinded by the wound Dean had inflicted on it. But the werewolf abruptly turned to Dean, having sensed him coming, and met him head-on with a punch to the stomach. Dean's breath caught in his chest for a moment, bile rising in his mouth. He doubled over in shock and the werewolf grabbed his hair before yanking .

Dean kneed it between the legs, forcing the werewolf to let go of him and sank his blade deep into the werewolf's ribs. He brought his knife up to the werewolf's heart, puncturing its liver and lungs.

The werewolf grabbed his wrist, crushing his bones and twisting Dean's arm until Dean let go. A sickening crack echoed through the forest and his arm went limp in the werewolf's grip, broken mid-forearm. Dean couldn't help but cry out in pain and fear.

The werewolf grinned wickedly and, straining on Dean's broken arm, sent him into a tree. Dean's head hit the trunk hard and he fell to the ground, his broken arm beneath him. He staggered to his feet, slower than he would have liked, the world spinning indescribably around him.

"I'm going to kill you," Dean slurred, pointing his broken knife at the werewolf.

Dean realized a second too late that the blade of his knife had been separated from the handle, still inside the werewolf, just below his heart. A few inches more and Dean would have succeeded. Oh well, if he had to shove his hand between the werewolf's ribs to retrieve his blade and finish the job properly, he would.

The werewolf looked at him in horror, coughing up blood. The wound wasn’t fatal, but there was no way it could get the blade out of its body. With any luck, it would die from its injuries without Dean having to do anything. But Dean had stopped relying on luck years ago. He alone was in control of his destiny, and he couldn’t give the werewolf a chance to hurt someone— to hurt Sammy .

The werewolf took off running.

In the direction Dean had left Dad and Sammy.

Dean gave chase, excruciating pain shooting through his nerves every time he stepped on the ground. He couldn't take more than three steps before he collapsed, tears streaming down his cheeks and leaving trails in the dirt and blood.

"Dad!" Dean screamed as he tried to get up. " Dad!!! "

God, he was so useless.

His scream tore through the night, Dean not caring if he lured the other werewolf to him. The icy panic in his veins wouldn't let him think, he had to warn Dad. Sammy was in danger. Because of him.

"DAD!"

Dean finally stood up, his throat dry and every nerve ending in his body on fire. But Sammy was more important than him. He started running again, branches whipping at his face, following the werewolf’s tracks. A shadow appeared at the edge of his vision and barreled into him, pinning him in its arms. Dean struggled fiercely, trying to free himself.

“Dean!” the shadow snapped.

Dean relaxed instantly, recognizing his father. He could have cried with relief at the sight of him. If Dad was here, it meant Sammy was okay. Even if Dean had screwed up again, Dad would be able to help him.

“Where’s Sammy? We need to get him out of here,” Dean said, panicked.

(A part of his brain recognized that he was still in his father’s arms. He couldn’t remember the last time Dad had hugged him.)

“What? I thought he was with you!”

Dean’s heart stopped for a second.

This time, his tears were filled with despair.

“No, no, no,” Dean cried, shaking his head. “He was supposed to be with you. Safe .”

“Dean, tell me what happened,” Dad ordered calmly, his hands on Dean’s shoulders, but Dean could hear the urgency in his voice.

“I didn’t manage to kill the werewolf, he ran away. And he said he’d turn Sammy if he found him,” Dean explained, recognizing an order even through his visceral fear. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Dad clenched his fists in anger, his eyes stormy and his posture dangerous. But Dean didn’t know who his anger was directed at.

“I’m sorry,” Dean repeated. “Please, Dad.”

(Dean didn’t know what he was asking his father to do, to take him back in his arms, to help him, to forgive him, to save Sammy.)

“Apologies won’t help, Dean,” Dad said abruptly. “We need to find Sammy. Fast .”

Dean stopped himself from apologizing again and straightened up, waiting for the next command.

“It’s hurt,” Dean added, forcing himself to ignore his pathetic outburst of emotion. “My silver blade is stuck in its ribs under its heart and he can’t use its left eye.”

“Good,” Dad replied, deep in thought. “It’ll be to our advantage. And you, are you hurt?”

“No,” Dean lied, almost by reflex.

“I don’t have time for lies, Dean!” Dad shouted out of patience, making Dean flinch. “Your brother may be in danger and every second you waste could very well be vital.”

"Both my arms and my ankle," Dean answered quickly. "And my head."

"Damn it, Dean, I thought I had you better trained than this," Dad swore. "But I could use you. So stay with me. But if I tell you to run, you run. No protests. You'll only get in my way anyway."

"Yes, sir!"

Without another word, Dad started walking, handing Dean his silver blade. It was caked in blood and Dean wiped it on his pants before testing its weight in his hand.

"How are you going to do without a weapon?" Dean asked, following his father.

"I still have the bullet," Dad replied, patting the gun strapped to his thigh. "Now shut up, I don't want the bastard to hear us."

Dean lowered his head, concentrating on keeping up with his father's fast pace. He didn't want to be any more of a burden than he already was. Dad would never forgive him if Sammy died tonight. And he wouldn't forgive himself either. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain, each frantic beat of his heart feeling like a countdown to his little brother's death, a bomb waiting to explode.

(Dean was nothing without Sammy, he couldn't lose him. Not his little brother.)

They didn't have time to waste.

XXX

Dean and Dad had walked for what seemed like hours, searching for Sammy. The werewolf’s tracks had finally disappeared around a bush, as if they had never existed. The full moon setting on the horizon should have been a relief, the end of a long night, but it was only a mockery.

They were running out of time.

Reluctantly, Dad had agreed to let them split up to cover more ground. Every second that passed was like a stab through Dean’s heart. It was his fault, it was his negligence and weakness that had allowed the werewolf to escape, that had put Sammy in danger.

The adrenaline that kept him upright had worn off, and Dean struggled through the forest, limping like a newborn fawn. He was dehydrated, having not had a drink of water in hours and having thrown up even more times. His head was killing him, blood pulsing violently in his temples. But Dean welcomed the distraction of the pain, anything to avoid thinking that he might find Sammy’s heartless corpse with every step he took.

(He resolutely forced himself not to look at the inhuman shape of his arm—flaccid, shapeless, and in two pieces—or the bleeding, festering cut on his other arm.)

Dean didn’t let it slow him down, despite his body begging him. He would rest when he was dead.

At the end of a path, Dean could see the edge of the forest and beyond it an abandoned hunter’s cabin. He stopped, hesitating for a moment, and tried to think like Sammy. A cabin like this was a good shelter to wait out the full moon. Dean knew he'd regret it if he didn't at least check it out. But it could also be a waste of crucial time.

What would Dad do in this situation?

You're a smart kid. Follow your instincts.

Dean changed direction toward the cabin.

A branch snapped behind him and Dean spun around abruptly. His knife stopped inches from his father's jugular as he raised his hands in the air in peace.

"Sorry," Dean apologized sheepishly, relaxing his arm.

"Don't be," Dad replied gruffly. "That was a nice reflex you had there."

Dean was too tired to appreciate his father’s rare compliment and let his arm fall back to his side. But Dad stopped him, gently grabbing his wrist and examining the wound on his arm.

“That’s a nasty cut you’ve got there,” Dad said. “You’ll need antibiotics, I’ll call Bobby as soon as we find your little brother.”

“It’s not important,” Dean refuted, trying to pull his arm back. “Sammy’s the priority.”

Dad stopped him, looking almost sad for a moment.

“Your well-being is important. You’re important,” Dad said with a hint of desperation, as if he really meant it. He looked like he was going to say something else but thought better of it, his gaze drifting toward the cabin. “You wanted to go take a look?”

“That’s the kind of place Sammy would hide,” Dean said. “He’s smart like that.”

“Good thinking, wait for me here,” Dad ordered, finally letting go of Dean's arm.

“What? No!” Dean protested fiercely.

“Dean, I don't have time for this,” Dad snapped.

Dean didn't listen to the end of his father's sentence. A blood-curdling scream shattered the quiet of dawn and Dean rushed towards the cabin, stealing the gun from his father's hand. Dean knew that voice, he knew it better than his own.

(It should never have contained so much pain and fear.)

“ Sammy !”

Sorry for the cliffhanger (or not). I actually combined two days in this story (and played around a little bit with the prompts too) so you will have Sam's POV and the end of this chapter on the... (drum rolls please) 19th! (Also, it's my first time writing whump so I don't know if it's enough hurt. Feel free to give me your opinion on the matter.)

Day 2 : Again.

Luffy relives the worst day of his life, over and over again.

I wasn't inspired by today's prompts so I chose one of the alternatives: Time Loop. Since I didn't have time to write everything, I'll post loop by loop as I go along, instead of all at once. This story is quite hard to read (and write), so pay attention to the warnings and take care of yourself above all <3 Trigger Warnings: - Graphic Description of Violence - Blood and Injuries - Burns - Major Character Death Fandom : One Piece (Anime & Manga) Character(s) : Monkey D. Luffy Relationship(s) : Monkey D. Luffy & Portgas D. Ace Words Count : 1,548 No. 2: ALTERNATIVE  Time Loop

First Loop

Luffy struggled to retrieve Ace's Vivre Card that was slipping from his fingers. It was in front of him, just inches away, and yet unreachable. He didn't really know why, but he had to retrieve that Vivre Card. It was important, it was a part of Ace. He couldn't lose it. Nothing else mattered. The outside world faded into the background around him — the screams of agony, the smell of blood and smoke, the corpses he was stepping on to escape — leaving only the small burning piece of paper in his field of vision. 

(Ace had been burned by Akainu. His big brother, the one who always walked two steps ahead of him, unreachable and strong , the living embodiment of fire, had been burned . Sabo had died in the flames of an explosion. Luffy had forgotten it, but big brothers could burn too.)

Luffy's hand finally closed around Ace's Vivre Card and the panic that clouded his mind subdued. He had succeeded, Ace wouldn't leave him.

He had promised.

“You won't leave here alive!”

Luffy looked up and met Ace's desperate gaze. Why was Ace looking at him like that? He should be happy, Luffy had his Vivre Card back.

“Luffy!”

The flaming fist of Absolute Justice charged at him, invading his field of vision until all he could see was flames — stories whispered by a campfire, the burn of the Grey Terminal fire on his skin, Ace's arm around his shoulders in the middle of winter — and bloody red.

Oh.

Luffy wanted to move, should have moved, but he couldn't. The world was so fast when he was so slow, exhaustion slowing all his movements to the very core of his bones.

(If his crew was there, he could have rested for five minutes before going back into battle, but Luffy was alone .)

Suddenly, without Luffy understanding what was happening — he was so tired — Ace was in front of him, smiling sadly. Luffy's eyes widened in horror as he noticed the fist through Ace's body. The smell of burning flesh hit him in the face and Ace vomited blood, a retch shaking his entire body.

Akainu stepped back, removing his fist from Ace's body carelessly, Ace's guts falling to the ground, bloody and steaming. There was a hole in Ace's torso, where his lungs should have been. The skin around the wound was burned raw, sizzling with blisters and peeling away to the bone. And amidst the mess of ruined and damaged flesh, hidden behind his broken ribs, his brother's still beating heart. 

Thud, thud, thud.

Luffy focused on Ace's fading heartbeat, clinging to his brother's last breath of life. Ace wasn't dead yet! Luffy could still save him. Luffy remembered yelling at Akainu who was raising his fist once more to finish Ace off, but he didn't remember Jinbei and Ace's friends intervening.

Everything vanished when Ace fell to his knees in Luffy's arms. Luffy caught him, his hand red, red, red when he looked at it after touching Ace's back. Luffy placed his hand on the wound, trying to stop the endless bleeding. Ace slid into Luffy's arms, his head falling onto his shoulder, and Luffy tightened his grip around Ace, refusing to let him go.

"I'm sorry, Luffy," Ace struggled to say, choking. "I'm so sorry, I stopped you from saving me properly. Forgive me.”

Ace was breathing heavily, just talking, draining him of his meager strength. Blood was dripping down Luffy's shoulder in large drops.

"What are you talking about? Stop talking nonsense!"

Ace wasn't dying, Luffy could still feel his heart beating between his fingers. Ace wasn't dying. He couldn't die. He had promised. He couldn't die.

"Someone!" Luffy begged, screaming until his vocal cords broke, feeling the heat leave Ace's body. “Heal his wounds! Save Ace!”

Luffy didn't like the cold. Cold meant being alone in the night, cold meant an empty place in the treehouse. Cold meant Death.

"Luffy stop," Ace said weakly. "My time has come. He burned me from the inside out, I won't make it this time.”

And Ace was never weak. He was bold and brash and mean at times, a raging fire. Never weak, always strong. Ace was the reason Luffy survived Sabo's death. Because Ace was strong where Luffy wasn't, learning to be kind and caring for Luffy.

Ace was strong .

Luffy wasn't.

“No! You promised”! Luffy refused, understanding what his big brother meant. “You told me Ace, right? You said you wouldn't die!”

Because Ace was strong but he was also stupid. He forgot obvious things sometimes and Luffy had to remind him. Like the fact that Luffy loved him. But if Luffy reminded him of his promise, then maybe Ace wouldn't die.

“You promised,” Luffy stopped himself from sobbing. Ace didn't like whiners.

“You know, if it wasn't for Sabo, if I didn't have a little brother like you to watch over. I wouldn't have wanted to live.” Luffy's heart clenched painfully in his chest. “No one wanted me after all. So it's completely normal.”

Ace clung to Luffy like a lifeline, as if Luffy was the only thing keeping him alive. Luffy was terrified that he wouldn’t be enough to keep Ace alive for a little longer.

“Oh right, if you ever run into Dadan again, could you say goodbye for me?” Ace laughed softly, his laughter cut off by a coughing fit. “It’s strange, now that I’m about to die, I feel like I miss her.”

Ace’s breath was labored, his voice hoarse. And Luffy didn’t dare look — because if he did, he’d have to face his big brother’s dying face — but he was pretty sure Ace was crying, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“I only have one regret, and that’s not seeing your dream come true. But I know you, you’ll get there, that’s for sure.” Ace and Sabo had been among the first to hear his dream, among the first to believe in him. “You're my brother after all.”

Luffy had two brothers. One had been dead for over ten years, the other was dying in his arms. Who was going to believe in his dreams now?

And yet Luffy couldn't do anything. He was frozen, afraid that the slightest movement would make things worse. The only thing he could do was hold his brother in his arms as he died, hoping that Ace would feel all the love Luffy had for him.

Ace was loved. He had to know that, right ?

"As we promised each other back then, I have no regrets about the life I led."

This time, Luffy couldn't help but protest. This wasn't how it was going to end. It couldn't be.

(Ace's heartbeat was getting slower and slower, more and more rare.)

"No, you're lying!"

"No, it's true!" Ace insisted, his fingers digging painfully into Luffy's shoulder with a surprising strength for a dead man. “It seems that what I always wanted in the end wasn't fame or glory. But just the answer to my question. Why did I come into this world? "

Ace had always been haunted by his past, by the past of those who had come before him, that of his parents. But Luffy didn't live in the past, he didn't care who Ace's father was. What mattered was the present, what mattered was that Ace was Luffy 's brother.

Ace was Ace and that was all that mattered. Ace had always been enough.

"Luffy, I want you to listen to what I have to say and tell the others afterwards," Luffy knew at that moment that his brother's words would be his last. He wasn't ready for that. “Even though I've been a good-for-nothing my whole life, even though I carry the blood of a demon.”

The fighting raged around them and yet it had never been interrupted. Ace's family fought to give them one last moment, one last hug.

"Thank you for loving me!"

Crying, Ace formed a smile on his lips for the last time. Ace collapsed in Luffy's arms, his hand falling from Luffy's neck where Ace had clung to during his final moments, leaving a trail of blood along Luffy's cheek.

Ace fell to the ground, alive one moment, dead the next, and Luffy screamed out all his pain and sorrow, inaudible amidst the horrors of war. Ace was dead.

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. 

Ace was dead.

Ace.

Was.

Dead.

Ace was dead.

Years of memories flashed through Luffy's mind in a split second - all ending with the same tragic phrase "thank you for loving me", all ending with Ace's death - shattering his psyche to the last piece.

They were always meant to end up here - Ace, dead and Luffy, helpless - there was nothing Luffy could have done to change things.

“ACE!!!”

In the end, when the darkness reached out to him, Luffy welcomed it willingly. Luffy fell into nothingness, hoping to never come out. Not if it meant living in a world alone.

Click. Again .

Civil

From the day of her creation to the present day, Robin knows how to be civil.

*Blood and Injury, Implied Murder, Implied Cannibalism, and references to poor mental states*

———————————————————————

Congress had been sick since the end of March.

It was a similar sort to when the Revolution was dying down, when their government was in a rocky and unstable position. Robin doesn’t know what’s causing it, the Senators have been tight-lipped— and she’s much too busy taking care of her husband to interrogate them.

She manages to get him to stay home, but he doesn’t stop working— the infuriating man he is.

The house had been tense the last while, what with the secession of several states already. 7 if she remembered, one of them being Georgia— something that had broken her Adam’s heart— and there were threats of others doing the same.

Several of her children had seceded, and it…hurt. She hadn’t felt that in a while, not since the 1810’s, when their parents left them behind.

She knew the rapid secession was likely a cause of Adam’s illness, and she hoped it would pass.

But on April 12, 1861, she had gone out to the capital early that morning, remaining civil with the politicians even as they grated on her nerves and patience.

The house was silent.

Her children— their States— were nowhere to be found. She knew their Departments were in DC, working as they did every day.

But the States wouldn’t leave without notice.

And she smelled it, a pungent smell that she had grown used to in the Revolution— a smell she never wanted to smell in her own home.

Blood.

There was only one person home.

“Adam!” She calls, setting her groceries on the counters to be put away at a later time, sprinting up the stairs.

The smell was coming from his office.

The door was unlocked, not that it would hold against her if it wasn’t.

She bursts into the office, eyes wild— he wasn’t in his chair, but—

She could see a hand on the floor behind the desk.

“ADAM!” She shrieks, dropping down beside him.

Pale skin, wide eyes, gasping breaths as his hands claw at his midsection— a large wound slowly cutting across his skin, blood pouring from it as his hands dig further into his flesh.

———————————————————————

She managed to get him to bed, having to knock him out to do so— she hopes when he wakes, he won’t be so afraid.

She wrapped the wound, the shape familiar— a four-pointed star stretching across his chest. Horizontal points stretching to his sides, the vertical points going from just below the hollow of his throat to the bottom of his ribs.

…

It hadn’t stopped bleeding, and she's had to change the bandages every hour.

She runs a hand through Adam’s hair, damp with sweat, body moving roughly with gasping breaths. Her free hand holds one of his close to her chest.

The air crackles.

“Mother!” A voice call from downstairs, and soon thundering footsteps reach the bedroom door, the wood scratching the ground as its shoved open.

Her son, Gideon— the Department of State—stares at her with a heaving chest and wide, frightened eyes.

“Did you hear?” He asks breathlessly, helplessly, body freezing at the sight of his Father.

“Hear what?” She whispers, afraid, for the first time in her life. Her hold on Adam’s hand tightens.

Gideon doesn’t take his eyes off the man lying in the bed.

“The Confederates attacked Fort Sumter this morning.” He whispers, frantic and pained, and Robin feels her chest squeeze. “They’ve declared war.”

Adam’s body jerks, and his mouth opens in a blood-curdling scream.

———————————————————————

DC was the one at President Lincoln’s side when he officially declared the start of the War, on April 15.

Her husband, her Adam, couldn’t be left unattended for long.

He had to be restrained, forced the lay in their bed with his arms, legs, and midsection bound.

Else he’d try to tear his body apart with his own hands.

When he grew lucid, few and far between the last several days, she would undo his wrists and loosen around his midsection, allowing him to sit up.

She changed his bandages every hour, the wound still bleeding as it had that first day.

Not a word from the States came, but she sensed their presence closeby several times.

She knew the Confederates would reach their land at some point. But that was fine.

She’s experienced in getting rid of evidence.

———————————————————————

“Please my love, my heart, my Infinity.” He begged, bloodied hands clutching tight to her arms, head buried in her neck as she tied off the bandage and held him close, blood dripping from his lips, “Please, spare me— kill me, please.”

Her hands are soft and gentle as they run down his back and through his hair, wild and untamed in the last few months.

“My love,” she whispers back to him, leaning away slightly and cupping his face— a touch he burrows in, the touch comforting and easing the excruciating pain he’s in, as her own eyes— deep with pain and sorrow as she gazes down at him, it makes him hold her tighter as he feels the lucidity start to leave him, fingers twitching to tear at his own flesh, “My soul, my Eternity…” the next breath she takes is shuddering, “I would ease your pain if I could, take it on my own to bear— but I can’t.” Her voice cracks, but he hardly hears it, eyes glazed as she hastens to rebind his wrists before he can tear into himself. “I’m sorry, my dear Adam.” She whispers in choked breaths, leaning down to rest her forehead on the bandages around his thrashing chest, “I’m so sorry.”

———————————————————————

Virginia has split once again, she learns.

It’s when she’s left Adam in the care of their oldest four sons— War, State, Treasury, and Attorney.

She’s making her way down South, eyes open across several miles ahead— searching for the Rebels with the same ferocity she hunted the Redcoats.

And she feels it.

The presence of a State.

A young State.

She knows the Western portion of Virginia didn’t agree with the Eastern side politically. She knew such disagreements often ended with a separate State.

But its 1863 and the Civil War is in full swing.

She never thought Virginia would leave a child out to die.

She veers off her path, into the shadowy underbrush with a crackle— and she re-emerges in a thick part of the forest. The terrain is rough, and she feels young eyes on her.

She kneels down, and two chubby hands reach out of the thickets.

Three years old in body, assigned Statehood on June 20th. West Virginia.

She couldn’t leave him here, but she couldn’t take him with her.

…

She can hunt Rebels another time.

———————————————————————

His name is West Virginia, but the kind lady that takes him from the Outside into an Inside calls him Boe— tells him that’s the name he uses with humans. She tells him that he’ll live with her until he’s grown, with all her other children.

She tells him the Man in the Room is the Government, that he is…West’s Pa, in a way.

He asks if that means she’s his Mama.

She just smiles at him, and pats his head.

“If you want me to be, sweetheart.”

He thinks he does.

———————————————————————

Her Adam’s eyes had always been green. The color of lush forests, of soft grass, the color of a unified nation standing strong against the tyranny that oppressed them.

But she’s noticed that they’ve been growing dull, the green fading into grey as the eyebags under his eyes grow.

Despite her efforts, he can’t sleep through the war, he still needs to eat and such, and even with the special blend of tea she made specifically to help him sleep through the pain, it’s hard for him to return to slumber once he’s woken.

She tries to keep the younger kids away when he’s not lucid, the time they get with him mostly when he’s asleep.

But when he’s awake and aware, even for a short while, he’ll smile and talk with them in a pained, hushed voice that makes her want to cry.

She never cried often before this...this Civil War. But, knowing it's her own family fighting this war— her parents and in-laws and her children—, the same war that’s slowly killing her husband, her best friend from the day they were placed upon the cursed earth to bend at the will of humans who knew nothing but their own greed…

She cries almost every day.

———————————————————————

The War ended almost four years later, almost to the day— April 9th, 1865. They would forever blame the Confederates for the fire she started in Richmond, and no one would ever find the bodies of the boy and girl she tore apart without hesitation— they’d never find Confederacy or his Subordinate.

She makes sure Richmond, the city himself, takes no damage from the fire— forcing every ounce of that pain onto the Rebel Government and his assistant and taking what is left. She cared not that their bodies were young, only that they had taken her children, her family, the States that have always been and will forever be hers.

They had taken them-they chose to leave- and that was something she could not forgive.

Her husband stops thrashing in the middle of the night, just after midnight on the 10th.

He’d been doing so for the last few months, non-stop, so when he finally falls silent and still she’s hit with the most violent surge of ill and fear. She tears out of her bed, a temporary one, they’d always slept together— regardless of the societal norms that dictate otherwise.

But instead of finding her dear Eternity dead— oh what would happen to her and the kids if he died?— she finds exhausted grey eyes staring up at her.

She inhales deep and shocked, frazzled.

“..Ro?” His voice is hoarse and quiet. “Ro, are you alright?”

She can only stare down at him.

“Robin?” He asks again, slightly louder, wrists moving in his restraints. “My Infinity?”

She tears his restraints off without a second thought, clambering into the bed beside him, throwing an arm over his side and burying herself in his embrace.

His hands are clumsy, running up and down her back as her shoulders start to shake.

“I’m alright, my dear.” He whispers against her temple, “I’m alright.”

“You’re not.” She whispers back, a shaky hand trailing along the scar— it finally stopped bleeding. “My dear Eternity, you’re—“

“Alright for now.” His voice is firm in a way she missed, a tone he took when the Senators were being difficult, a tone he took when he was certain of something. “You look exhausted, my love.”

She doesn’t respond, and the vibration of a hum rattles beneath her cheek.

“Sleep, my dear Robin.” He says, “We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

“In the morning…” she mumbles, the stress finally leaving for the first time in ages, and she can’t fight the pull of sleep.

———————————————————————

Things had changed.

They all had changed.

Adam didn’t answer to Congress anymore— which was fine, she never called him that anyway. He was more stern and stoic, less merciful to those who wronged him— even despite the fact he was wheel-chair bound.

The wound that had bled for years had healed, but the rest of his body just wasn’t. He could no longer walk on his own, with the state of the Nation. Paralyzed from the waist down.

Robin was just happy he was there, lucid and awake and with her.

Even if none of the other States checked in, they had Minnesota, Oregon, Kansas, and West Virginia, and their newest addition– Nevada.

She’s not doing much on the Government front at the moment— her dear children had staged an intervention when she tried to go back to work.

“You gotta rest, Ma.” Treasury had said, “The last few years have been stressful.”

“The Meetings—“ she had tried, but West Virginia— with his chubby face and sweet, worried eyes (they put him up to this, they know she can’t argue with a baby), had stopped her.

“You’re gonna get hurt, Mama.” He had said, so soft and sad, his little lip quivering as he tugged on her skirts, “Like Papa did.”

She had folded easily under the gaze of her children, her Departments and her States, but she had refused to let DC go into the Meetings unprepared.

But it helped.

She could focus on herself, her husband, and her family without the stress of being a Government.

It helped when more States came, and she could focus on being their mother, on making sure they wouldn’t want to kill them secede like the others had. What did they do wrong? why did her babies want to leave her and kill their father? Didn’t their parents know what would happen? Did they not care?

And it only got better in the 1920’s.

Adam was no longer wheelchair bound, the economic boom allowing his body the strengthen, and the new advances in medicine allowing surgery and a cane— and he could finally walk again!

They danced across the country— and oh how she had missed dancing with him like they used to!

A lot of their time was spent in New York City, and she fully embraced the name her Poppa had created for himself— Thomas Jones was a frightening man and no one ever told them what Thomas threatened to do if they hurt his Baby Bird.

They may the Government Personifications, but Adam and Robin Jones were some of the top Mafia Couples of the age— never once getting caught.

Even those who had been in direct interaction with Mr. and Mrs. Jones couldn’t say what they looked like, they were never found.

It was one of the best times of Robin's life, and she knows her dear Eternity, her Adam, enjoyed it as well. Even as the depression came and it made his already injured body ill… it was nothing she couldn’t handle.

And then World War 2 began, and they let the other nations fight. They stayed out of it. For a while, at least.

Hawai’i…she had been young. One of the few territory personifications they willed into being, simply due to the fact Hawai’i was so far from everything else that it was harder to keep protected without the personification. She wasn’t even truly theirs, but she’s their daughter in all the ways that matter.

And that...that Imperial had taken their kindness- their negotiations- and stomped all over it. It left her seething, her teeth itching for the taste of blood and flesh- humans had never been delicious as a fellow fragment, she hasn’t had a taste in so long-

But her Adam had taken her hands, and whispered so softly to her before she could burn Japan to the ground and feast.

“Let me do this, my dear.” He says so sweetly, smiles so softly, but his eyes burn with a fury and it's a combination he wore often in the Revolution. “You took care of the Rebel, allow me to take care of the Imperial.”

And she lets him, watching with glee— helping Mikala recover as the bombs drop.

She feels no guilt towards the civilians, nor to the Cities themselves. They aren’t hers, they mean nothing to her.

She feels nothing but a hatred for Imperial Japan, and nothing but joy as her Adam comes back with one less bullet and a bloodied guntō.

They always liked taking trophies, the many items of the Redcoats they have in their basement trophy room— the one room only they are allowed inside— are proof of that fact.

The blood makes it an eye-catching feature of the room, no?

By the year 2000, more trophies were taken. USSR and Nazi Germany’s Personifications shattered like glass beneath their bloodthirst.

The Iron Crosses, scorched and melted together to make a sort of screaming face, are an interesting art piece.

And the brown, bullet-ridden jacket is one her sweet Alaska had nightmares of before they took it.

And that’s not to mention the skulls! She’s sure they rival Frances’ Catacombs by now. It’s a lovely thing they've made over the years.

———————————————————————

It’s 2023, the first Meeting she’ll be part of in over a hundred years.

She feels no nervousness, she’s an expert after all.

She hears her Adam’s voice through the door, a rough barking sound that makes her giggle.

“Sit down! Sit down— Ian, I will ground you from the alligator ponds for a month if you don’t sit down! We have an important someone joining us today, and she’ll be very cross if you don’t behave!”

She hears the shuffling of feet, the scratching of chairs, and— finally— silence.

Her Adam sighs.

“Alright, good, good.” He mutters, and she feels a tug.

She follows it, allowing the air to crackle until she’s standing next to him in the meeting room.

———————————————————————

Her smile is still gentle and kind, they notice, posture perfect and suit without a mark or crease.

Most can’t believe their eyes, though there are several who aren’t surprised to see her, the ones who came after the Civil War visited her often.

Stormy blue-grey eyes they remember so fondly, as they ran amuck across the Pennsylvania property. Who tended to their injuries, no matter how small, and held them when they were frightened. The woman they call Mother.

The sweet face they remember so carefully handling the birds. The smile they had seen grow so wide and bright on her wedding day. The girl they call Daughter.

“Everyone.” Gov says loudly, firmly, rising from his seat to stand beside her. He makes a small gesture, to show her off with a barely concealed pride. “Robin Jones, the Executive Assistant, will be joining us from now on.”

“Hello.” She greets, smile never once dropping, a practiced ease, “It’s a pleasure to see all of you.”

And it is, despite how her chest still aches some nights— just as she knows Adam’s does. How they left so easily and simply never came back.

But, perhaps— she thinks, as she notices several sets of eyes grow wet with an emotion she can’t help but name ‘relief’— they could start to heal.

She could be civil, at least, until then.