AU
a delicate moment in a desperate time
the team is gone. The Light has successfully picked off most of them and everybody who made it is ready to fight with everything they have left. It's the final battle.
post-battle themes/pre-battle preparation
[this prologue includes dialogue from AOS - this scene is what inspired this show but after the prologue there will be no more references to AOS]
acceptable loses
"Are they ready?" He asks her. "The team." He slips his pistol into it's holster. He had never held a gun before this. He'll never get used to it strapped around his waist; the once unfamiliar weight seems molded into his side now. An ever present reminder of what is left.
An ever present reminder of what isn't.
"Everyone who is able." He frowns at vacancy in her words, at what remains unsaid. Everyone who is able. Everyone who is left. Everyone who made it.
She checks her clip before reassembling her 9mm. She tests it's weight in her calloused hands before aiming at the shattered window. She holds her position for a few moments, staring at her broken reflection in the remaining glass that clings to the window pane. Her once long, beautiful blonde hair is now hanging limp and matted just below her shoulders. Her sharp cheekbones cut into her dirt-smeared face and her chapped lips are stained red with blood. The black bulletproof vest they all seem to wear now hides the distinct ribs that stick out of her skin like the scars that adorn her body. Some from the war, others from before. She's lost track of which is from where.
Her lips twitch slightly at the memory of her complaining to the once spandex clad boy beside her about the pros (but more often than not cons) of kevlar.
She lowers her weapon, turning to him. "What is your number?"
"My number?" He glances up at her from his MK16. His black hair a disheveled mop, seemingly defying gravity and flying in all directions. A cracked pair of black shades is perched amongst the wild strands of ebony atop his head.
Some things never change.
She doesn't miss a beat, voice carefully devoid of emotions she forgot how to feel long ago. "Number of acceptable losses." She looks down at him, his baby blues staring into her steel grays. He searches her gaze, diving far below the permanent glare and scowl etched into her features from days without sleep and a life in constant vigilance that started far before this war. A life that no longer permits her to feel sorry for herself.
Eyes that have seen too much in too short of a time.
It's taken a toll on her. It's taken a toll on everyone. Nonetheless, his reply is immediate. The conviction in his voice is so loud she almost believes him:
"Zero."
i wrote this years ago so I deleted it and am re-uploading it to include this prologue. updates will likely be sporadic.
natalie
the speed force
Check out my current ongoing Harry Potter/Ilvermorny story if you want something more recent (read: sophisticated, better, etc). First three chapters are up. The fourth will be coming along shortly.
Thatcher Grace and the Roar of the Wampus
Magic is all around us - in everything. The United States doesn't believe in the separation of magic into Dark and Light Arts. Magic is not inherently light or dark. A dark wizard may use magic for evil but the magic isn't evil. The wizard is evil. The magic is just that - magic.
Black Magic is a legend, a Native American wive's tale. Black magic does not nor did it ever exist.
As unexplained sightings continue to pile up, whispers of Black Magic find themselves within the walls of Ilvermorny sending Thatcher and his friends on a perilous journey to find out the truth before it's too late.
Follow Thatcher and his friends from their first to their seventh year as they navigate their school years all the while fighting a growing threat outside of the very halls of Ivermorny... and possibly within.
Rating Subject to change as themes get darker and my characters get older, (sooner than you think). This isn't Hogwarts. We're in America now.