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THE BAD ENDING MEME

You've chosen your path and it's led you to one of the worst possible ends. A bad ending you've averted in the past could be coming true after all, a possibility you've always feared could be happening now. It's game over.

prompts

one｡ SURVIVORS -- you two are the only ones left, whether it be the result of the apocalypse, a fight with the final boss gone horribly wrong, or something equally tragic. now you're left to contemplate friends and loved ones lost, as well as which one of you may be next.

two｡ SICKNESS -- you are seriously ill. poisoning, virus, perhaps it's even mental; whatever the reason, you doubt time is on your side this time.

three｡ FORGOTTEN -- you're not sure how, but your memories are crumbling and the things you do recall are hazy and make you dizzy. can you even recognize the person in front of you anymore?

four｡ SEPARATED -- you can see them, hear them, but something's keeping you from being with them. perhaps you're placed in a room with impenetrable glass dividing you, or you're hiding in a phone booth downtown, calling them secretly.

five｡ MELLOWED -- you've been through things, you've loved and you've lost, and all of that's changed you. maybe you finally decided to give in to temptation, you could be addicted to a substance you know is destroying you, or you've simply lost the optimism you had as a youth.

six｡ ANTAGONIST -- you've flipped the coin. you had to do it; they might not be able to understand it, but you just can't forgive the things that have happened. the darkness has consumed you.

seven｡ FREE CHOICE -- combine any of the others, reroll, or make up your own bad ending. the choice is yours!

Threaded | Flat

[Inter-universe travel turns out to be a two-way door, as Skye had once feared. Another incursion into a HYDRA base armed to the teeth ends up with another portal opening, but this time there's no Not!Steve stepping through it, it's her who falls. Falls, and lands smack-dab in the middle of one of his missions, shots being fired from everywhere.

Recognition has time to filter in their gazes all of two seconds, before Skye ends up losing control. She hasn't done this part in years, but there's something wrong with her gauntlets, and she feels her powers crackling under her skin. She can't afford broken bones from her clavicles down to her fingertips again, never again, so she ends up externalizing. The ground shakes, pieces of ceiling fall, and she barely rolls out from under their falling range in time.

If there was a way back to her world through the same portal, she's pretty surely just buried it. But there's something she needs to do, moreso than panic over being stuck; run. She needs to run. Because if the Soldier is here, then so is HYDRA, and she dreads to think of ending up in Whitehall's hands. In any world.

Much like she dreads being caught by the Soldier himself.]

The Commander’s capture was a total fluke; one part preparedness for the Inquisition’s counter-attack, two parts sheer ferocity to wear the opposition down, and no small amount of luck that they happened on a prize so valuable. It was a testament to Cullen’s skill that he hadn’t been mowed down – he’d come a long way from the frightened boy jumping at shadows. It wasn’t much of a surprise with all he’d survived by the time Samson met him. He knew back then if Cullen recovered he would one day be formidable.

But Samson and his forces were formidable, too. The red lyrium burning through them granted monstrous strength and durability with speed and stamina to match. That Cullen was still breathing by the battle’s end was an impressive feat. His value as a soldier was unquestioned, but more important to Samson and his Red Templars was the information locked inside Cullen’s head. He alone could give them insight on the Inquisition’s plans and possible movements. It wasn’t customary for them to take prisoners. That they did spoke of Cullen’s great value to Samson’s subordinates such that they weren’t inclined to speak out in question. They trusted their leader implicitly.

Their base of operations wasn’t without a proper dungeon and Cullen found himself a resident thereof with all the hospitality a cold stone floor with a bit of straw and manacles could afford. Within a few days’ time, the fatal flaw in Samson’s plan came to light; he relied too heavily on the desperation borne of lyrium withdrawal to earn Cullen’s compliance. There was no sign of withdrawal, no inkling that addiction existed in the prisoner.

Privately, in the confines of his own quarters, Samson raged. Not at Cullen’s resilience, but at Samon’s lack. He knew how low one could fall without that much-needed nepenthe, he’d plumbed those depths himself. That burning need once drove him to desperation. Now he only burned for vengeance against those who threw him and who would throw all his comrades away once the lyrium wrung all use from them. But he found it in himself to feel admiration, as well. Having once been without the lyrium, Samson knew how Cullen must have struggled, how closely he must have brushed with death. And all while still serving the Inquisition! That sort of unbreakable spirit was just the sort of thing his army needed.

So he did the only thing he could: he mixed the red lyrium with Cullen’s food. If he couldn’t count on the need burning in Cullen’s blood to make him pliant, he’d turn him the way the others had been. It wasn’t a sophisticated way to corrupt a man, but they weren’t Orlesian nobles playing at their age old game of politics. They were soldiers, heavy handed and inelegant.

Footsteps drew near Cullen’s cell, the gravel of Samson’s voice followed with gruff order for whomever was standing guard to leave. Samson’s the only one who ever spoke; all others came and went in silence when bringing the prisoner his metaphorical bowl of gruel. But they fed him well, offering meat and bread with plenty of water and each tray returned untouched. “Starvation’s a painful death,” he drawled blandly. The scrape of yet another tray of food punctuated the observation, forming a silent sort of plea for Cullen to eat.

Edited (and now a typo SORRY!) 2015-03-30 16:48 (UTC)

[It started with the chill in the Herald's Rest. Patrons began complaining of a draft coming in from around the walls, downed their ale more quickly to chase away the cold. But autumn was coming on, and so few thought it was anything more than the mundane. Especially not the ones who never saw. Never remembered.

Solas was the first to be concerned, but would not say anything unless asked directly. The space between spirit and demon was ill-defined, he would say. The worst case scenario was far from inevitable. He would find ways to foster hope. Cole could be managed.

Easy to believe that was the case. Maybe it was. But this evening, there's a heavy mist settled over Skyhold, and somewhere, a child is crying.

They'll find her in the armory. Wailing loud enough for her cries to echo up toward the battlements, an old straw doll clutched to her chest. Cole is crouched in front of her, one hand cradling the back of her delicate neck. And the room is so, so cold.

"Papa," the little girl wails. "Pa-paaa." As her sobbing crests a new wave, she surges forward, trying to beat at Cole with her fists, her sorrow morphing into impotent anger.

Cole welcomes her, paying no mind to her strikes. He holds her close with one hand, and with the other, draws a dagger from its sheath.]

[He couldn't finish his mission. He couldn't kill the man with the shield. He couldn't even explain why. But he had to go back to his handlers and he couldn't just leave him, either. Something told him this guy would do something stupid and get himself killed if the Soldier wasn't watching him. So he carried the man back to the vault. The Triskelion may have fallen but the vault is small enough to escape notice so far. And then he waits for the technicians and agents to do what they have to do.]

It was never meant to end like this. A Warden was meant to die on their feet. Die fighting, die with honor, die with their head held high and really, really Solona had never bought into that because death was death. It was an ending, sad and final and did honor matter to a corpse? Did honor make the grief of the living any easier?

But the rest of it, fighting, dying with her staff in her hand and fire at her fingertips, on her feet until her feet were numb and her heart went still and her lungs emptied of air--she had earned that. The quiet and peaceful end would never be hers, and she had accepted that, accepted that her end would likely be violent and bloody.

But not this. Anything but this.

And she'd prepared for it, hadn't she? Always a spare dagger tucked away, a vial of a deadly plant's poison she could reach even with her hands bound. But they had stripped it away. The darkspawn. They dragged her away from the fight, away from the army, dragged her beneath the earth. They took her weapons. Her contingency plans. Then they took away everything else. They forced her locked jaws open and they filled her mouth with blood and with flesh. Until her blood and her flesh were saturated with the Blight.

They brought her meat, thick slabs of muscle still oozing blood and her mouth watered even as her mind forced her body to cringe away from it. Days passed. She clawed at every offering for shards of bone she could use to open her wrists, but there was only flesh. Every day the smell of fresh meat was harder to resist, but she would rather starve, rather scream her throat raw in agony and waste away into a sack of skin over bones than become the thing they were trying to make of her. Surely they would become impatient with her. Surely they would put her to the sword. The sword never came. Her body was saturated with the Taint, after all. She would devoure the flesh, or be devoured by the Blight.

How much time had passed before she heard the fighting? She didn't know. She had no rhymes to count the passage of time, first day they come, second day, third day. She forced her weakened body to crawl to the bars, fingers black with old blood and dirt and spotted with Blight sores to wrap around the cold iron. There would be no rescue, but her mind was still hers, somehow still hers and there was time. There was time, if they found her.

"Help. Help me."

Most things fade, with enough time. Old wounds, heartaches, fears--all things true, even with the Inquisitor. A failed assassination attempt had put her on edge for many, many months, and even with increased security she was on alert. But the mind and body can stay like that for only so long. And so a year later, after a fast wedding and a pregnancy known only to a choice few, Kore felt no apprehension leaving her new husband to his own devices one late autumn night.

"Don't stay up working too late," she said, slipping in front of him and leaning in for a kiss, as she did every night that he worked in his office. "Or else you'll force me to come back here and drag you to bed, and I'll be very, very cross."

To his credit, he had gotten better at not pushing himself too hard, but there was always room for improvement. As long as he came to bed eventually, Kore was happy. It was difficult not to be, these days.

Lyrium eventually took everything from you. Your memory, your strength, your pride, and finally your mind. He'd watched other templars succumb to it before, and once foolishly though he might break those chains and be free of that fate.

Now, that almost seemed a dream, too distant to be real. He couldn't remember a time when that ache and thirst didn't ring hollow in his bones, drowning out thought of anything else. The Inquisitor had needed him to be at his strongest, his most focused. It was necessary, at the time, he told himself, for all the good it did. Now? There was no more Inquisition to serve, no point in returning to the templars. No reason to return home, when his family would likely no longer recognize the man that was their brother, bitter and angry and empty.

Their number had all scattered to the winds after the Inquisition disbanded, and he'd found himself in Val Chevin for a time, at first just looking for work. Then just looking for somewhere to sleep. Rather than free, he felt aimless, untethered and drifting, and his only solace could be found at the bottom of that tiny blue bottle. Days bled into weeks, and then months. The price of lyrium outside of the Chantry eeked higher and higher, and coin grew thinner. Rumors of wars spread from the north, but it was no longer his fight. Cullen’s battles now consisted of keeping enough coin for food and the growing need for lyrium, without which it would only be days before he started to shake.

Eventually one outweighed the need for the other. Eventually, what little charity was keeping a roof over his head could no longer afford to board him for free.

What few belongings he hadn’t sold by this point were packed together in a dirtied canvas sack beside him as he huddled under his coat, trying to stave off the worst of that gnawing hunger. Maker, but the way his heart leapt when he heard the jangle of coins hitting the cobblestones at his feet, one hand snatching them up quick as blinking.

Survival. That’s all this was, now. Just getting through this day, and then the next, and then the next. Survival, and dreaming of a time when he’d had something more, until the lyrium took those memories from him, too.

This was it, the moment Simon had worked so much for, had bled for. Surrounded by very powerful mages that he had convinced he was interested in joining, and a small slip of a girl, kneeling in the middle of the floor with a dot of blood trickling from her brow...this was his chance. The mage's heart pounded in his chest a he snuck the dagger out of his sleeve in one smooth motion, slicing open his arm as he drew it. The blood arced out unnaturally, seized by the force of Simon's will. It was supposed to continue outward, bursting forth with violent speed and striking down everyone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby. That didn't happen.

Maybe it was the magic already in play, the circles drawn into the floor and the thrum of blood magic in the air, but the reaction was much stronger than what Simon had been taught to expect. There was a burst of light, red and then green as the air cracked open before him.

There was a blow-back, at least. Strong enough to knock every mage off their feet including Simon. The smooth marble ground cracked against his head, leaving him dazed as the world went dark for a few frightening moments. When he was able to open his eyes again the room seemed changed, a thick presence in the air...or maybe that was his arm still bleeding and staining his robes making him dizzy.

It wasn't enough to stop him from noticing someone still standing, blue eyes squinting and then slowly going wide as he recognized the purple skin, horns, and flaming hair of a demon...

Threaded | Flat

soldier (i don't know what bad end # this is but it's bad)

Option #7 for Cullen

Marjara [6-ish]

I don't know what option this fits but...

#2, for Cullen

option let's ruin his entire life, for cullen

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Dorian