Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He sniffled, tears prickled at the edge of his vision, god he was pathetic, he messed up when he was performing a show that would’ve set him up if not for life– for his entire career (He, of course was popular by then, but his popularity would’ve been set in stone due to this performance). Of course he had to blow it and then blow up at the audience for laughing at him. 

Mon dieu– He really should’ve listened to his parents, they really disapproved of his choice to be a magician (something that he wanted to become ever since he was a young child) and that opinion was expressed a lot before their untimely deaths. 

He bit back a joke about how their deaths were rather uncinematic considering how they had a construction business and then proceeded to die to a rather boring (and very traumatic to his oldest brother) hit-and-run (don’t judge him, it’s his way of coping considering how their death was very sudden, thankfully he wasn’t the one that needed to identify his parents bodies, he would not be here if he had to do that).

He got out of the corner street he was standing in after he finally calmed down enough to walk (and not bawl his eyes out) like a normal person. He tilted the brim of his hat upwards in order to see. He hummed, the city was in chaos, screams heard from every corner, civilians running for their lives.

Yet, he continued to walk casually. 

 He knew whatever was scaring the public couldn’t kill him, his magic was strong enough to guarantee that– he walked in the opposite direction of his fellow civilians (his walk was as sassy as ever of course!) his shoes clicked softly against the cracked asphalt.

He walked in a scene that could only be described as gory, a black furred creature digging into an obviously dead civilian before ripping a huge part of the body and then eating it.

He shuddered in disgust.

The creature stopped its disgusting endeavor for a brief second before turning its head towards him. 

He blinked and then it was a mere metre away from him. 

He quickly spawned in a wall, the poor creature slamming into said wall with a loud thump! He stared at it in mild sympathy (despite seeing it eat a fellow civilian just moments before).

It stared at the wall before looking up at him, a confused yet blank expression on its white face. “You…not…civilian???” It said, seemingly having problems speaking.

He hummed, thinking of his next words real carefully. “Ahh…pas nécessairement” he mumbled in a combination of French and English.

It stared at him, even more confused. 

“Not necessarily” he translated “What are you doing out here?” He said, trying to sound clueless despite the very much dead body right in his peripheral vision.

“Out…doing hunt…need…Fresh meat…Pursuer hungry…” It muttered, looking at him with what can only be considered puppy eyes.

He looked at the creature thinking (not profoundly, that wasn’t his style). His options in this situation were very simple:  A: Try to run away and get almost mauled to death (he wasn’t really that strong, just enough to guarantee survival, while not guaranteeing that he’d make it out without permanent damage considering he just saw this creature tore through a civilian like fucking papier) or B: Join the beast in it’s murder spree.

His smile grew a (rather faux) sadistic edge  “Do you mind if I join your ‘hunt’?” he asks the beast.

“Pursuer…does not mind…if you…give…fresh meat…” It mumbled again.

“Then it’s a deal!” he said, and with a flick of his wand the beast was on its feet again.

—

He jolted awake suddenly, embarrassment washing over his face. He had a nightmare about that day, mon dieu, he was a generational failure. He had a useless (at least to him) degree and a passion for an art nobody else seemed to appreciate as much as him. 

He looked out of the window of his room witnessing the sun rise. He pulled his sheets off of himself getting up just enough to sit on the edge of the bed. He stayed like that for a while– not even thinking, His mind was just so used to the feeling of being unwilling to start the day, to pretend to be something he was not– heartless. 

He barely dragged himself out of bed, his feet feeling more like weights rather than actual body parts. He slowly made his way over to his bathroom. 

He did all of his morning routine stuff that required a mirror and a sink, like washing his face, brushing his teeth (he didn’t have to brush his hair because in actuality he had no hair–when he would actively perform his hair would get in the way so he shaved himself bald). And for the last step! Makeup. 

He usually wears so much makeup that anybody who isn't him could smell it from a kilo away, but he had his reasons, he needed to hide who he was. When your housemates are: a predator who eats people, two random immortal? dudes that hunt people, two robots who murder people and a random ass salope who kills people for being too fucking noisy; wouldn't you also hide the fact that you're practically a normal civilian just with fuckass magic powers? 

Even so, putting on white and black foundation wasn't that time consuming considering the benefits he got in return. Even so his skin was very pale (due to a disease he'd contracted when he was very young, causing his skin to be a very light yellow) and so he was practically an empty canvas! (An canvas that didn't even deserved to be painted, only destroyed in fits of anger, just like all of his life) 

He put on his signature clothing before walking out of his room (he already had too much existential dread for at least a week within his system so it was better to stop thinking and just do stuff.)

He turned the knob of his door, just enough to open the door. When he stepped into the (holy shit his manor was fucking huge, upstairs) corridor he was hit with the usual smell of wood that seemed to permanently reside within the manor. 

His dress shoes made their usual clicking sounds every harsh step against the polished flooring, The walk from his room to the dining hall (yes, hall, the room was massive) was the longest possible considering how he took the room farthest away from any corridor that wasn't the one leading to the bedrooms. 

He hummed, the sound echoing an absurd amount. 

Hmm, the order of their rooms from farthest to closest was… : his room, Pursuer’s room (he had insisted that his room was right next to Artful's), Harken (the room was technically hers but she rarely spent her time there), Badware, Killdroid, Devesto and lastly MeQuot (It was an obvious decision to put MeQuot closest to, well everything considering how the less he moved around the less blood that needed to be cleaned out).

Ah…he was already in the dining hall? For how long had he been spaced out? 

He found Harken sitting down in the dining hall enjoying a cup of tea, her eye closed, her shoulders relaxed. God, it was maybe 6-7AM and she was awake, did the gal even sleep?

He sat in front of her, the screech that the chair made when it scraped across the floor making her open her eye slightly, before closing back down.

“What type of tea are you drinking?” he asked, making idle chatter (not speaking too loud cause..duh).

“Chamomile tea or rather your world's version of it.” she muttered quietly, her tone rather flat.

They lay in an uncomfortable silence (well at least to him), but oh well at least she’s calme.

“You need to go out for food. We’re running low.” she says breaking the silence.

“Did you make a list?” he asks with a tiny polite smile on his face.

She hands him a tiny note with few items to buy, although it's a bit hard to read due to Harken rather messy handwriting (he doesn’t question where the note was stored, that’s just a Harken thing, pulling shit from out of nowhere despite having no clothing)

“Who’s cooking today?”  he asked halfway through getting up from the table.

Despite the question being very vague from an outsider’s perspective, but from both of their perspectives there were only two possible answers. Pursuer ate just raw meat and never cooked his prey In any way so it was out of the question, MeQuot was a contamination disaster, he himself couldn’t cook and it was a very bad idea to put Badware and Killdroid next to any type of fire. So that only left paper napkin attention span Devesto and Harken herself.

“That's a rhetorical question. Me. ” she stated sharply, her voice filled with petty annoyance yet still managing to stay quiet (not very odd considering she’s well, herself).

He rolls his eyes indicating his sassy-ness. 

“Jean dear, I haven't seen you in quite a while!” Grandma █████ says from behind him. Putain. 

“Oh grandma! It's nice to meet you!” he greets cheerfully while dying inside “but I must remind you, my name's French, you can call me John.” he smiles politely. 

Grandma █████ randomly came up to him one day when he was grocery shopping and practically adopted him as her pseudo-grandson that she sometimes meets. He often doesn’t mind the company, but right with his literal guts practically screeching at him to “EAT!!!!!!!!!” he wasn’t in the best state to be having idle chatter.

“Oh-hoho, forgive my forgetful self! It's just that I don't see you on a grocery run that often! If my dear ████ was alive he would've called you one of those doomsday prepers!” he physically cringes at that comment. 

“Ah forgive me ma'am, but I really need to do my shopping. Have a great day! Au revoir!” He quickly excuses himself in order to have to witness less cringe worthy moments. 

His time shopping for food is relatively short, despite this, he hates this experience from the deepest parts of his heart. His ears are ringing from the constant noise, the lights are flickering constantly (those lights are probably older than the fall of the USSR), and every step he makes makes the ringing worse. Of course there weren't any employees at the registers so he had to go to the self-checkout and then he had to wait for a shop attendant to get off their break so that they could verify that he was indeed over the drinking age (man, he just wanted to buy a bottle of wine to enjoy at home). 

He exited the store wanting to just go back to his house and get himself drunk (maybe to stop remembering that day for maybe just a few hours… Is this technically drug abuse?), yet he still expected at least one more thing to go catastrophically wrong. And something did. 

He stepped out of the grocery store with a sense of anxiety ever creeping up his spine, yet he tried to ignore it. He walked a few streets before he started hearing…screams? Why the hell would people be screaming… Aw fuck–

Most probably one of his roommates, his neutral face sours into a very bothered teeth-wide frown, fucking perfect. The screaming was coming from a street that he had to cross in order to get to his manor. Another headache just waiting to happen. He hoped that the one killing all those civilians was Devesto (Devesto pretty much never noticed him whenever he was out in public, sometimes it's advantageous to be quiet as a fucking cemetery) 

He wandered into the bloody street only for it to be quiet, when he arrived, dead bodies scattered all around (he's witnessed the after-effects of mass murder so many times that the sight of blood doesn't move him in the slightest), perhaps the murderer fled the scene? A bit of wishful thinking doesn’t hurt anybody, right?

“WHERE THE HELL DID IT GO???” Screamed a barely alive man, blood oozing from the very visible wounds on his body.

Well fuck, the one most likely to have hunted these citizen is Pursuer, and the not-so-fun fact about Pursuer is that he has attacked him when on a grocery run more times than he can count (he has gotten away by running his ass off before hiding in a corner to catch his breath, then making sure he hadn’t dropped anything)

He continued, muttering a quick prayer under his breath, hoping that Pursuer’s wasn't comically behind him making himself visible again so he could strike Artful. 

So guess what happened? 

Pursuer slashed, managing to hit him twice in the arm, staining his poor hoodie with his blood. 

Artful took a deep breath before sprinting as fast as he could, he ran as fast as he could, until his lungs were burning his chest, until his heart thumping was the only thing he could hear, until he started crying from over exhaustion, only then did he look back. Pursuer wasn't the strongest out his roommates (Devesto could literally spawn a truck on top of him and he'd be dead within seconds), but Pursuer was deadly insistent, once it saw somebody, that somebody was almost guaranteed to die. 

He looked back, nobody was behind him. 

He sighed in relief, mourning the almost certain loss of his beautiful hoodie. 

_____

Pursuer felt…warm (he just got out of the shower to get rid of the awful stench of blood on his fur, but that's not what he was referring to). Pursuer had thought of its friend Artful for the entire day, from the moment he woke up to right now (even causing him to lose a pesky civilian who he'd managed to only hit twice!!) 

Artful made Pursuer feel warm and odd; he didn't understand why, but he wanted the “warm” to continue, perhaps Artful felt the same warmth as him? It was curious yet, he couldn't bring himself to ask Artful, a bit of shame crawling up its spine. 

He slowly walked downstairs, intending to go to the living room knowing that Artful was most likely sitting there on the couch (he bit back a comment about how the manor? mansion? was so huge and annoying to traverse). 

He was hit with the slight smell of wood that seemed to radiate off of the structure (to it the smell was so slight due to his weird sense of smell that only seemed to sensitive to the smell of blood) 

At the bottom of the stairs he was met by a tired MeQuot. 

“Hello Pursuer” he greeted in his obvious British accent (well it was obvious to Pursuer only because MeQuot was the only British person it has ever talked to). 

“Me…Quot” it tried to greet back. 

“Where are you going?” MeQuot asked casually. 

“Living room…because…Artful” it said slightly sheepishly. 

MeQuot gave him a polite smile. 

He walked over to the living room, a tiny smile appearing on its face when he found Artful sitting on the couch. It then promptly ran over to the couch, placing himself over? Artful’s body. 

“Mon ami, merde, you're heavy” the magician grimaced, a pained expression on his face. 

“Artful… warm” he snuggled into Artful’s clothing, it unsurprisingly smelled like Artful (which Artful smelt really really nice) 

“Ah– whatever you say mon cher. ” Artful laughed, the noise exceptionally pleasing to its ears. 

He smiled ear to ear, before promptly falling asleep. 

Chapter Text

Its hums silenced by the crickets

Playing their song that never prohibits—

What? What does it not prohibit?

The sound of pain echoing like an exhibit?

TELL IT, TELL ME

DOES IT NOT PROHIBIT A KILLING SPREE?

THE SOUND OF CIVILIANS TRYING TO FLEE??

THE EVERY SOUND THAT SOUNDS LIKE A PLEA???

So why…?

Why is it unable to cry?

Why can’t it feel empathy, unable to even try?

Why can’t it feel true emotion when it sees them all die?

So why does it look at me like it can feel?

I– a standing scar on this world that never seems to heal.

That goofy smile ever emphasised by its teeth that glow a teal.

How would it react to me being one of the same with its meal?

I shudder at the thought before my eyes close,

I think of blood gushing out of my mouth, chest, nose, 

I would watch as my blood, like a drug dose, 

Satisfies a hunger it hadn't chose. 

As the day and night blurs into one, 

The feeling of needing to run… 

Does not need to be redone. 

–

“Pst.” it said, in a way that it sounded like someone in pain.

The unaware civilian looked around, being suddenly pulled off their phone. “Who’s there?” the civilian asked, their guard up to the max.

“Help me…Please…I-I’m in so much pain” it said, in the same manner it did the first time.

The civilian wondered in the dark alley, searching for the pained voice, finding…nothing? A tired expression on their face. They wore white clothing that made them an easy target.

The civilian turned their head back around so fast that Pursuer couldn’t immediately kill them, shame on them for not choosing to have a quick death (Was that a necessary thought? Was it even a thought? Or was it an instinct? Pursuer was curious yet not at the same time.)

It went for a strike to their chest, still having the intention of ending this quickly. Only for the civilian to dodge its strike, how annoying… It went for a strike again for it to be met by a punch to the face, it growled in pain, an…odd sound (if Pursuer was lucid in this moment he would’ve had a thought of how he sounded like an engine of an almost-broken down car).

The civilian tried to escape the (unfortunately for them, fortunately for Pursuer) very narrow alley only to be met by a simple slash to the neck.

It pounced on the dead body, stabbing its sword repeatedly into the body, anger tinting its very movement… why couldn’t that stupid civilian gotten themselves killed sooner (even he admits when his hungry he can be…quite impatient so to say, which frankly means he’s very impatient)

Quickly ripping the victim's thigh muscles, before eating them rapidly, with the carnivorous need to not feel hunger anymore flooding its mind it had no choice but to eat. (Pursuer didn’t want to dwell on that feeling anymore…)

It chomped and bit as hard as it could to rip the victims muscles faster, the taste of fresh meat felt like ambrosia to its famished brain (Pursuer did and does, in fact, not understand what ambrosia actually means).

.

.

.

?

It blinked, his expression nothing short of surprised…where the hell was he? 

He started at the (very fucking) obviously bloody body beneath it, oh. Its expression remained neutral while staring at the mess in front of it (it didn’t feel any tingling of empathy, no, that was reserved for its friends). 

It got up, clinking his sword back into its scabbard (a poorly made one from scraps found in dumpsters, but still it's better than constantly holding the blade, tiring it too much for comfort) 

It roamed the streets quietly, the color of its fur helping it blend in with the general dark of the night (why did he go out hunting at…a very…very late???). 

He walked carefully through the big residential area it was in, each step needed to be quiet, Pursuer has had bad, bad interactions with the types of civilians who tend to lurk at night (getting shot in the face twice in a row IS NOT FUN!!!! Why are these stupid civilians allowed to own such an OBNOXIOUS WEAPON?????)

It slowly walked its footsteps noiseless against the hard asphalt, an odd feeling of…dread? (Pursuer was and will never be good at describing what he's currently feeling) creeping up, almost following a line along its crooked spine. (Artful once described him having something called scoliosis…he doesn't know what that means)

Quiet taps, it heard quiet taps of shoes, he shivered, he clicked his sword out of his scabbard, the action a little bit too noisy for its liking, he gripped the handle hard, looking around for any threats.

“What's got you out so late?” said Devesto in his ever monotone voice, his cocky smirk present (as always) on his face

Pursuer almost breathed an audible sigh of relief, he was glad he stumbled upon Devesto and not some stupid gun owning civilian (of course the ones with one of the few weapons that civilians could own that could kill it where the ones with egos the size of mounts).

“...hunt…Pursuer was hungry” it croaked out with a bit of difficulty.

Devesto didn’t say anything, looking at Pursuer a bit suspicious, most probably thinking abou how to change the topic in order to properly start a normal conversation (Pursuer felt…envy? at Devesto ability to communicate properly)

“Hm, your speaking skills have been getting better recently. A result of speaking to Artful hm?” The man? Maniac? Cube holding not-civilian said.

Pursuer expression remained neutral, at the…accusation?

“Pursuer doesn't…understand what…Devesto is…trying to say” Pursuer narrowed its eyes in suspicion (with a hint of curiosity that it always carried whenever it spoke).

“You'll understand later, don't worry” That does not help him figure out anything, thanks Devesto.

At least Devesto didn’t throw any sarcastic jokes into its direction.

It made a garbled noise of displeasure at Devesto's shifty subtlety, a sharp pain located near his brain threatening to appear (seriously why do headaches even exist?) 

“Going back home?” Devesto asks, his tone definitely not indicating that he's asking a question, (another annoyed noise threatens to slip past its mouth).

“Yes…” he pauses, blinking a few times, trying to think.

“Pursuer hasn't really…slept a lot tonight…” it says (an odd embarrassment threatens to crawl up its spine, he closes his eyes, the bags under his eyes telling him to sleep GODDAMNIT). 

Devesto quiets down, his bouncy and odd way of walking distracting it. Pursuer stared at Devesto's cube (he can't quite remember what it was called), his curiosity peaking due to how it seems Devesto got his truck-throwing abilities from it. 

“Do you get… your abilities…from that cube?” it asked despite being well-prepared for Devesto to avoid his question like rot (he swears that the saying is different to what he just thought, but he can't quite seem to correct himself) 

“Hmm” Devesto switched his expression slightly, his usual smirk becoming a simple line, indicating that he's trying to think (Pursuer wants to say that Devesto's brain would laugh at the concept of a thought, but that would be too mean, even for itself) 

“I've noticed something about you,” Devesto's smirk resets onto his face, due to him switching topics “You're smart, but slow. From how you act to how you hunt when you're not starving". 

Pursuer blinks, a bit caught off-guard due to Devesto's sudden rambling. 

“But when you're starving, you're a shell of yourself, every movement looks instinctual rather than thought out, you rush civilians in hopes of tiring them fast, so you can kill them equally fast.” 

Pursuer stays silent. Before muttering “Have you been following Pursuer…?”

Devesto dodges the question

“Are you even awake when you hunt?”

… 

“No.”

“Shit… “ he mutters as Harken throws her javelin at one of the civilians, hitting the taunter. 

Today was supposed to be a regular day, but three assholes decided to set off fireworks in the woods at 3 AM and of course Harken (in the name of the lord does she have fucking super hearing?), heard them. She became scared and started hunting the civilians down. He was awake when Harken rushed out of the house, so he had to run after her in (a ridiculous) pair of pyjamas. 

He threw a wall at the asshole who carried a backpack, finding them an easy target due to the added weight. The asshole fell over quite quickly and they were killed just as quickly. “Jésus-Christ, the blood is going to be so hard to remove from these clothes” he thought.

He turned over to Harken, seeing her struggle while in pain with the last survivor (the guy with the baseball cap was long gone, thankfully). 

Wait did that fucker have a gun? 

“Merde, the police are letting anybody own a gun. “ he muttered to himself, before starting to chase the last civilian. (Stupid, stupid civilians! Can’t he have a fucking nights rest without some assholes disturbing the peace, fucking merde.)

The fucker was quick and dodged both of their attacks with surprising accuracy, certainly fulled by the death of their comrades. Artful noted the medical supplies in the purse that they were holding. More of a reason to not let them leave, can’t have the fucker heal their wounds and report the location of the manor to police.

With a quick javelin throw from Harken, a smack by him, and a punch by her killed the remaining civilian. (Dieu merci)

Harken relaxed visibly at the quietness, her eye closing almost immediately. She slowly turns around, heading back towards the manor. He keeps his mouth shut, unwilling to disturb Harken while she's calm. 

“A break” he thinks before sighing.

Silence permeated the forest, not even the crickets dare make noise around Harken.

“Do you have a favorite flower?” she asks softly, yet out of the blue, he flinches at her words. 

“Myosotis, that’s my favorite flower” he says, a kind smile on his face “they're beautiful et leur couleur bleu clair est…” he never finishes the sentence. 

“I trailed off into French, pardon me, I should've thought about what I wanted to say more carefully ” he apologized for such a simple mistake… that childhood of his isn't doing him any favors. 

Harken opened her eye halfway just to have eye contact with him, fucking hell. “And those are…?” she tilts her head inquisitively.

“... Forget-me-nots?” he paused. “The little blue flowers we keep in the front of the manor. “ he clarified, a bit shocked at her confusion, before remembering that Harken came from another universe. 

“In my world, those were called indigo-hearts. They were gifted to grieving families, most commonly to couples who lost a child.” Harken said, her voice quiet and unnatural…like she had her guard down, an oddity indeed (considering Harken is, well Harken). “They were hard to obtain because they grew in fields infested with stronger constructs. “

He thinks for a moment, before saying “Do you want to know why they’re called Forget-me-nots?”

“You’ve peaked my curiosity, hit me” says Harken, opening her eyes slightly to give him a look that emphasised what she said.

“I think the words for Forget-me-nots come from a story where a lover falls into a river while collecting Forget-me-nots and when he started to drown he said “Forget me not!” to his lover or something like that. “ he explained, before chuckling. “I'm not the most credible source for this, I haven't heard this story ever since I was a very young child…” he gave her a polite smile, yet his stare was blank, devoid of emotion.

When will he tell her that this polite attitude he has is just a lie? A mask that he upholds for the sake of not being alone…

He'll tell her, he'll tell everybody, but now he gets to be a selfish connard.

He’ll wallow in his misery just to feel like there’s a light at the next of the tunnel.

Putain d'enfer…

?

Every day feels the same, 

   Hunt, sleep, talk, it's all a game. 

I don't feel anything, not even shame,

          It's lame to be unable to take the blame. 

??

To cry, I should, 

It would be a lie to say I would, 

But who said I even could? 

???

Again, blood stains the sidewalk that he was on, the bloody body of a civilian sitting below him, their guts pitifully sitting outside of their body. His expression doesn’t change, “a hunt done” he thinks, not a hint of remorse present in his conscience. 

It was fed. It was lucid. He had no reason to complain, therefore he didn’t. 

He walked between hidden sidewalks, squeezed between houses, blocks, yards, just to avoid trouble. It was morning yet an exhaustion peered over him, a want (perhaps a need) to sleep drowning his thoughts.

From there the path to the cabin was simple yet long, walking in a straight line inside of the forest, passing a river and then another river, ending up in a large field and then walking a few more minutes and then he was home.

By now he was approaching the large field, a bit of water sticking to its body due to having to walk through two rivers (and almost drowning in the process…twice) making it slightly uncomfortable to walk.

It walked into the field before immediately sneezing, again, again and (of course) again. Why was it sneezing so much? It sneezed again. It started walking through the field sneezing every few seconds. The sound was slightly guttural yet quiet.

It reached the end of the field, only to find Artful sitting on white and red piece of cloth.

“What are you…doing?” it asked, curiosity peaking.

Artful flinched, before darting his eyes to see it “Pursuer– you scared me.” the magician said, sighing a breath of relief.

“Please answer."

“I’m having a picnic…” he narrowed his eyes. “Do you not know what a picnic is…?”

I shook its head left and right.

“It’s having lunch in an open space, like a field.” he said, ending his sentence like a question.

They both sat in silence.

“Come, sit with me, mon ami” said Artful before patting the piece of cloth.

That odd warmth returned to its chest. It sat down.

“Have you tried eating pork before?”

“How are we supposed to deal with these oblivious homosexuals?” asked Devesto in his monotone voice, the question pointed at MeQuot.

“You say homosexual like you're saying a slur.” MeQuot dodged the question.

“...That’s oddly out of character” says Devesto slowly turning towards MeQuot.

“Nobody’s polite all the time, just like you’re not sarcastic all the time.” MeQuot replied simply.

“Who says I’m not sarcastic all the time?” says Devesto, his smirk becoming a tight smile communicating that he’s fucking with MeQuot.

“I swear to God. You still try to ragebait me, the only person who you know who won’t fall for it. Why?” MeQuot replies, a neutral yet polite expression on his face.

“Cuz it’s fun.” Replies Devesto pointedly.

“...Fair”