#//who bore that false hope and sent her on a journey to die

[ofmoonlily]

CONFESS YOUR SECRETS TO ME AND I'LL TELL YOU WHAT YOU NEED TO HEAR

This does not have to be the end of you You did not deserve that. You did not deserve any of that. One of these days you will feel safe again, you will open your heart, and you will find it everywhere. Do not be afraid - there is so much love and warmth searching for a way to get to you.

tagged by: @ofengineers //thanks gurlie! <3

tagging: Anyone who wishes to do this and hasn't, please feel free to use me as the one who tagged you!

[cheekygreenty]

Little Witch - Part 18

The Darkling x Reader

The Winter Fete was fast approaching. The Little Palace was being cleaned up and stitched up in preparation and the seamstress unit was overwhelmed with orders of silk keftas and lavish gowns.

Aleksander was away at front lines on behalf of the Lantosv King again and you were buried up to your neck in work that would otherwise go to him. You pondered for much too long why he always left and you stayed. He constantly left for the camps and front-lines, tending to Grisha in the outposts and dealing with war duties while you were stuck in the confines of this very Palace, signing your name away and reading boring documents. From what you gathered though it had been the same before you arrived, your intelligence prevailing even now.

'You called for me Deputy?' An older Squaller loomed at your door, her greying hairs curling at the sides of her face.

'I did indeed, please sit.' You pointed towards the small sofa in the corner of your room and got up from your desk, heading for it too.

'I think it's about time I thanked you in person for everything you've done for me, Irina.' You picked up the sealed envelope sitting on the table and held it out to her.

'Is that what I think it is?' The older woman visibly teared up, a feathering touch on the envelope.

'I owe it to you and your mother, Irina. Take it.'

'This is so much more than we have given you.'

'Don't be fooled. , I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you.'

'Does he know?'

'Of course he doesn't. I keep my own affairs in order without him prying in.'

'Are you sure?' It struck you with a strangeness that you were much older than the Grisha in front of you and had nothing to show for it. You had seen her as a newborn baby cradled in her mother's arms all those years ago and yet you stood before her, the epitome of youth.

'Go. Live your life. It's all in there.' You gestured to the envelope. Irina looked at you just as her mother once did, a look of gratitude and hope. 'He may not be alive anymore but your girl is. So go, I beg of you.'

She stood up and hugged you tightly, quietly crying out of pure joy. You sushed her like you did when she was just a child.

'Go before I decide to keep you around.' You tried to lighten the mood, to say goodbye without having to actually say it. You knew deep down you would never see her again, and given the fact that her daughter was an otkazat'sya, you had no use for her either. Her life was far away from the Os Alta, you made sure of it and now her mother would get to join her and they could live out the rest of their days as a family.

'Y/N you will always be family. My mother made sure of it. I will always be here to serve you.'

'Go'

And she did, with the envelope clutched tightly in her hand, the daughter of your long-passed best friend walked out the door, ending your relationship with the Volkov Grisha.

You met Inessa Volkov during your very first year in the First-Army. She was a Squaller too, stationed at Kribirsk to aid skiff journeys. She was a firecracker, a feisty Zemeni woman who could both bark and bite and never relied solely on her small science.

It was most strange to see soldiers from opposite armies be friends, but Inessa would always swear she knew you were special. She followed you to the Little Palace, helped you evolve into the infamous witch the Fjerdan's began to fear, but her life hit a standstill when she got pregnant. Twins, the girl a Grisha, the boy an otkazat'sya.

Your position allowed for you to help the boy along in life, to prevent him from being dumped in an orphanage by the other Grisha. You gave him a life of happiness and content away from the buzz of capital and for that Inessa was indebted to you, even after your supposed death.

Irina only knew you as a character in her mother's bedtimes stories until you reached out. From then on, Irina served as one of your spies in the Palace while you stayed in the shadows watching Aleksander's moves from a long distance.

Irina was the last link you had to your old life apart from Aleksander and Baghra, of course. You were lucky she was powerful and could live a long life like her mother, but it still hurt to know she would die eventually and you would still be you. You were used to watching those around you die, Aleksander had prepared you for it unintentionally through his various stories and explained life adventures but the sting was still there.

You and Aleksander were on the same page when it came to Grisha abandoning the war effort, but you couldn't help yourself to not let Irina go. She had a daughter and grandkids that she deserved to spend time with in her old age.

No doubt Aleksander would throw up a fuss about a missing Grisha, but you had planned for it already. In the envelope was Irina's death certificate, the address of her daughter's abode, and all the information on her twin brother's family. You wouldn't tell him the truth ever, you would take it to the grave, if you even have to pleasantry to meet.

If he were to find out, with it would come the bubbling question of 'How many spies were there?' and there were too many to count. You had a looming presence and influence in the Palace long before you physically came back and no doubt he would be pissed that you got away with it.

'Deputy, are you to dine in the hall today or in your chambers?' The maid was looking at you and asking the same question she asked every night.

'I think I'll dine with the Grisha, thank you.'

Lately, you ate your dinners cold and in your office, eating only when you remembered the silver tray sitting idly on the table. When Aleksander comes back he's getting an earful and a stack of papers to read. That'll show him.

The hall was filled with pleasant chatter as you approached your seat. It no longer went quiet as you entered, instead a smile or two were sent your way when you noticed. Alina was sitting at her chair sulking over her plate as she usually did and Zoya was too busy eating to notice anything going on around her.

Your food was warm this time as you dug in, drinking the hefty meal down with kvas. You weren't privy to the conversation taking place around you as your thoughts were suddenly overtaken by him. You were never needy, but as of late you wanted to be near Aleksander at all times which was difficult since he wasn't here. The quick kiss he bestowed upon you before he entered his carriage did little to appease you. He never told you when he would be back, but you hoped he wouldn't miss the fete.

Alina was getting stronger, a messy report said that apparently something snapped in her and she grew in power almost overnight. Sometimes when you walked the Palace halls at night, you would catch glimpse of light coming out from under her door. She was growing confident and it suited her. You knew it wasn't any thanks to Baghra.

'Y/N'

'Hmm?' You looked up from your food to see who called you by your name and not your title and relaxed when your eyes caught Zoya's bored ones.

'Botkin asked me to ask you why you've been skipping your combat?' She looked around impassively as if this was the least of her problems but you knew she had nothing better to do given Aleksander's warning to her.

'Oh ummm, I've been busy.' You set your cutlery down and downed the rest of the kvas.

'A Grisha is never too busy to train, lazy perhaps.' You squinted up at the brunette with a false offense.

'Do you have something else to say to me Zoya?'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'Alright then if you say so.' You got up from your chair, coaxing her up from her own. 'Perhaps, your Deputy wants to train now. Should you care to join her?' You knew Zoya was an excellent Squaller, and an even better fighter but was she better than you?

You didn't miss the look of surprise on her face or the silent acceptance of the challenge as you both walked out of the hall, aiming for the training grounds.

'Don't worry about knocking me cold, the General doesn't speak for me.'

The spaces were empty, all Grisha being at dinner and Botkin seemingly busy too.

'I should hope so.'

If you looked at it from a subjective perspective, Inessa and Zoya were very alike. They both had that ruthless and vindictive aspect to their behavior paired with that sharp tongue and intelligent nature. They would've hated each other.

'Come on Nazyalensky, let's see what your made of.' You got into position, holding up your fists in front of you, ready to strike a blow if need be. You let her hit first, effortlessly dodging and ducking her punches and hooks. She was as fast as a bird in flight, swift and elegant. It impressed you, but unfortunately for her, it wasn't enough. You had her restrained in a matter of seconds, her arms behind her back and chest heaving against the wet ground.

'A worthy opponent. You're pretty good I must confess.' You let her go and stood up, adjusting your kefta around your waist.

'Again' You rolled your eyes at her inability to lose. Just like Inessa.

'Zoya, quit while your ahead. Besides I'm tired.'

'You do nothing all day, how can you be tired'

'Do you speak to the General the same way?'

'Only when he's not listening.' she joked and you actually laughed. It was refreshing to hear someone speak of him without that devout loyalty.

You walked back to the Palace, laughing and joking with the Squaller until you went your separate ways.

You didn't know what happened, but from that day onwards the rude Zoya Nazyalensky became a friend.

---------

Part 19

Contrary to popular belief, I would die for Zoya 😍🥰🥰

Taglist (tell me if you want to be added to the Little Witch taglist!!)

@theonelittleone @searching-for-gallifrey @0-artemis @lostysworld @xceafh @fire-in-her-veinz @patdsinner33 @cleverzonkwombatsludge @wizardwheezes @aleksanderwh0r3 @tomhollandisabae @hotleaf-juice @justmesadgirl @exo-1204 @houseofdupree @oberonpascal @eireduchess @lunas1x1 @adoringb

[dassala]

Trapped

A Captain Swan Canon Divergence Fic - Rated M

--

After they find themselves stuck in the Enchanted Forest of the Past, Emma and Killian embark on a journey to find their way home - wherever (and whenever) home may be.

--

Season 3, Episode 22 - We begin in the last few minutes of the episode...

Chapter One

“How’s the portal coming? Can you open it?”

Emma and Hook stormed into the main hall of the Dark One’s castle, the all-familiar look of hope blooming behind Emma’s green eyes. Their journey was almost complete. Per Rumple’s instructions, they had put the past back to rights with only the tiny exception of releasing a prisoner from Regina’s dungeon. As they prepared to return to Storybrooke, the woman expressed profuse gratitude and fled back to her home and family. Finally standing in front of the Dark One himself, they were waiting anxiously to be sent back to the future.

“I cannot,” Rumplestiltskin admitted, pouring something of a sulfurous odor into the bowl before him.

Emma’s brow furrowed as her nose turned up at the smell. She stared down for a moment into the obviously magical brew in front of the impish man. “Well, then what are you working on?” She felt Hook’s posture shift beside her.

Rumplestiltskin stirred the contents of the bowl together with a smirk. The concoction took on a bluish glow. “Oh, this is for me. A forgetting potion.” He raised his golden gaze to the pair before him. “I know too much about my future. The only way to protect it is to forget it.”

Emma’s jaw dropped a minute amount as she clenched her fists with anxiety. Hook took a step closer to her, his hand finding its way to the hilt of his sword. She glanced back down at the table and gestured to a black, twisted rod laid next to the potion. “Well, what about this wand? You said that could help us.”

“Oh that,” Rumple smirked, “Well apparently, only those who used the portal can reopen it.”

Glancing back to Hook, Emma watched his frown deepen.

“So unless you can wield magic, I’m afraid you’re going nowhere.” The smaller man grasped the wand in his gold-flecked hand. He chuckled and tossed it to Emma. “Can you?”

She caught the wand and looked down at it. Before Zelena had managed to remove her magic, she might have felt a pulsing, tingling rush from an object of such power. Now, it was no more than a twig in her hands.

“Thought not,” Rumple smirked.

Hook stepped up, his body language tense. The look upon his face was murderous.

“So you just expect us to stay here?” the pirate growled, his fingers twitching upon the hilt of his sword. “What about protecting your precious future?”

Rumple lifted his hands, his fingers fluttering with excitement. The Rumplestiltskin of the past was much more gesticulative than the Mr. Gold she’d come to know in Storybrooke. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

There was the sharp, unmistakable sound of a sword leaving its scabbard as Hook lifted his blade and pointed it directly at the giggling creature before them. “He means to kill us, Swan!”

“No!” Rumple grinned, revealing a set of grotesque teeth between sparkling lips. “I mean to put you someplace safe -- somewhere far from here. And should you return to tell me of my future again, all memories of your lives before now shall vanish completely.” He gave a flick of his wrist.

“Rumple━!” Emma’s protest was cut short as she and her pirate companion vanished in a cloud of purplish smoke.

There was a hum of magic in the air for a fleeting second as the smoke dissipated. Emma found herself in a clearing, surrounded by the large trees typical of the Enchanted Forest. Hook was still behind her, his sword having vanished. He cursed under his breath.

“Bloody crocodile.”

She glanced down at the wand, still in her hands. Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “We're stuck.”

“You've still got the wand,” Hook observed. He gestured to her hands. “All you've got to do, love, is get the wretched thing working.”

“How?! You know what Zelena did to me.”

“Aye, and now she's dead. Her curses should have broken. You just don’t want your magic.”

Emma's gaze narrowed. “You think I'm faking this?”

Pursing his lips, Hook shifted his weight from one hip to the other. “I think that without magic, you'd find it quite easy to fold back into your life in New York. You don't want to admit it's still a part of you.”

“Hook, I want to go home more than anything!” Tears were welling in her eyes as she gripped the wand with more fervor.

The pirate's eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Home? New York?”

“Storybrooke. Henry was right. You were right. I need to stop running. Seeing my Mom die was…” she paused and swallowed back a sob. “I wanted her back so bad.”

His gaze softening, Hook looked from Emma to the wand in her hand. “I'm rather glad to hear that, Swan, but until we get your magic back up to snuff…”

Emma nodded and sighed. She glanced around them. “I don't even know where to start.”

“I've an idea or two,” Hook scratched behind his ear.

“Yeah? Like what?”

“A pint wouldn't go amiss,” he rocked on his feet.

Emma gave an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

“Unless you have a better plan, love? It's been a hell of a couple of days. A tavern would also be the right kind of place to turn for a hot meal and a place to stay for the night,” his voice was more stern than she anticipated. He adjusted his rucksack, raising his eyebrows in her direction.

Biting her lower lip, Emma replied with a sheepish nod. She regretted the bit of sass she’d thrown at him in judgment. He would know better about the best places to go when lost, hungry, and tired.

“C'mon,” he gestured toward the main road, which was visible a few yards away, through the trees.

The pair walked in silence for a long while before either spoke.

“Don't suppose you have money to pay for any of this, do you?”

Hook smirked and gave a simple nod. “A pirate is always prepared.”

They passed a few people first, then a handful of peasants with horses and carts. As they neared a small village, Emma's stomach growled. She still wore her prison rags, her hair down around her shoulders. A few men in town gave her lingering looks as she passed. She tried her best to ignore them, choosing instead to focus on saving what integrity remained of her thin, flat leather shoes.

“In here,” Hook muttered, gesturing down an alley. There was an open door to the right, from which a solid warmth and a distinctive smell emanated.

Pulling her hood over her hair, Emma entered the tavern. A rickety sign above gave the place the name of ‘The Horn and Drum’. A rather frightening looking man was tending the bar. He pulled a tray full of pints before sliding it over to a bar wench whose top was leaving very little to the imagination. She was pretty enough, but when she flashed a smile at Hook, Emma spied a rather unkempt set of teeth.

“Oi, two pints please,” Hook demanded, patting the bar top with his palm. “And two plates of whatever you've got on the fire in the kitchens.”

The barkeep, with a red, ulcerated face and a bulbous nose, leaned in their general direction. “Pretty lass you've with you. She working?”

Emma wasn't sure what insulted her more: the fact that he had implied she was a prostitute, or that he wouldn't ask her directly. Her gaze narrowed but she kept her head low.

“You want to watch the way you speak of a man's wife?” His voice landed loud and hard on the word “wife,” and beneath her hood, Emma’s eyes widened.

“Pardon,” the man laughed, which turned into a dry cough, “just ain't used to her kinda looks ‘round here. Lucky man, you are.”

Hook pressed two gold coins onto the bar and slid them toward the man. “I know I am.” Emma felt a blush creeping into her cheeks. The barkeep's compliments were easy to brush off, but to hear Hook say he'd be a lucky man if she were his wife, well, that was something a shade more personal.

“We've been traveling and we're tired. Give me a room, our meals, and our pints. And then we'll be off.”

The gold coins must have been a large sum. The man scrambled to collect them and snapped his fingers at the bar wench they'd encountered on their way into the tavern.

“Louise, take this man and his wife up to our best room. Feed and water ‘em.”

The young woman gave Hook a disappointed look and gestured to the stairs. “Up there, sir.”

Emma followed the young woman per Hook's direction. He walked behind her, as if to fend off an attack from the rear. She took in the sight of the shabby dwelling and heard the girl whisper to the Captain.

“And should ye get bored with ‘er, I'll be workin’ late tonight.”

“Make sure the food's hot,” Hook snapped in annoyance before closing the door. He sighed as he gave Emma an apologetic look. “Sorry, it's…”

“Just the way things are, got it.” She rubbed her hands together for warmth and turned to face the fireplace.

She heard him release a heavy sigh. He glanced around the room and took a look out the lone, dirty window. “Think we'll be fine here. Doubt the Queen has much business in these parts. We're quite a way from where we left your parents.”

Her hands a bit warmer, Emma turned and took a better look around the room. There was a small table with two chairs, a mirror with a pitcher and basin, and one bed with threadbare blankets and a straw-stuffed mattress. When she looked away from the bed, she found Hook removing his jacket with care. He gestured to a thin rug on the floor beside the bed.

“When it becomes less necessary to keep up appearances, Swan, I’ll be sleeping here. You should have the bed.”

She opened her mouth to protest. Hook's brows knit together as he frowned in her direction.

“Bad form to let a lass sleep on the floor,” he explained with a wave of his false hand.

“Thank you,” she muttered, “but you don't have to lay on the chivalry just because we've taken a major leap backwards in women’s rights. We’ll take turns. Next stop, you can have the bed… for however long we’re stuck here.”

“No need,” he shook his head in dismissal, “it’ll be like old times. I used to sleep on the deck of Silver’s ship in my wasted youth.”

A knock on the door signaled the arrival of their dinner. A different servant girl entered the room and placed a tray on the small table, then hurried about to light the candles on the wall sconces and nightstands. The poor thing was frightfully thin, with dull, deep brown hair plaited down her back. She couldn't have been more than twelve years old. The maternal instincts Emma had discovered since finding Henry caused a knot to tighten in her stomach. The girl kept her eyes to the floor as she gave a small curtsey before leaving.

“No child labor laws here, huh?”

Hook frowned as he took a seat at the table. “She's lucky to have employment at all. Many children find themselves begging for coins on the side of the road.”

With a huff of fruitless irritation, Emma moved to the table and glanced down into two steaming bowls of... something. She turned up her nose at the sight of the mystery meat swimming in a broth the color of mud.

“I’d get used to the local fare, love, or else you won’t have the energy to travel,” Hook smirked. He took a seat and dug into the meager meal. He thought as he chewed a spoonful, then nodded. “Mm, nothing exotic. Mutton. Overcooked, but you’ll have that.”

Finally feeling the warmth from the fire, Emma loosened her cloak and took a seat, pushing back her cloak to hang over the back of her chair. She picked up the wooden spoon and fished out a vegetable resembling a carrot. Taking a tentative bite, she was pleasantly surprised at the flavor and found her hunger awakened. Overcooked mutton be damned; she was going to eat every bite of her meal.

“After I finish, I’ll go downstairs and inquire after the Black Fairy. See if anyone has passed through with knowledge of how to summon her,” Hook spoke, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a tattered cloth napkin that had seen better days. He lifted his ale and tipped the pewter mug a bit in Emma’s direction. “Here’s to finding our way home.”

Emma lifted her own mug in reply and tapped it against the pirate’s. She gave a small, hopeful smile. “To getting home.”

--

Hook embarked downstairs to make his inquiries, leaving Emma alone in the room. She sat upon the lumpy bed, drawing in a breath of unfamiliar air. Between the crickets chirping outside, the crackling of the fireplace, and a dull murmur of voices through the floorboards, she found her eyes getting heavy. She fluffed up the pillow to the best of her ability before lying down. Moonlight was visible through the shoddy rafters. If it rained, she would most certainly get wet.

It seemed as if she was on the verge of drifting off when Hook entered the room. She turned her head and rubbed at her eye with the heel of her palm.

“My apologies, Swan,” he muttered, his voice soft. “Please, don’t let me disturb you.”

Emma sat up and cleared her throat, shaking her head. She ran a hand through her hair before extending her arms to the side in a stretch. “No, it’s okay. Did you learn anything down there?”

“Unfortunately not,” he replied, shedding his coat and taking a seat once more in his chair. “Just a fair bit of ire thrown my way for asking about fairies at all. It appears we’re in one of the less magically-inclined villages of the Enchanted Forest.”

“With an Evil Queen that uses magic against people, I’m not surprised,” Emma sighed and looked at her shoes. She slipped them off, placing them at the side of the bed. “I suppose we should get some rest, then.”

“Aye, seems a good idea,” he stood and grabbed his jacket, balling it up into a makeshift pillow. He carefully sat on the floor beside the bed and leaned back, crossing his booted feet one over the other. “Sleep well, Swan.”

“Goodnight, Hook.”

“Killian will do, you know.” He spoke from the floor, eyes closed. A smirk was on his lips.

“Goodnight, Killian,” Emma replied, and despite the guilt she felt in taking the more comfortable sleeping accommodations, she could hardly extend an invite for him to share the bed with her. Knowing the man was enamored with her made the entire situation a bit more fragile. She adjusted the long gray gown she wore from Regina’s prison in an attempt to maintain her modesty and laid back to get some rest.

Despite her exhaustion, it seemed that rest was not to be had. Emma jumped at the sound of the door being thrown open in the next room, her eyes snapping wide open. Only then did she realize that the walls between the rooms were paper-thin. The next sounds were definitely the stuff of nightmares. She forced her eyes closed as a girl giggled and ran about the room. The door slammed shut behind a heavy-footed man, who growled low in his throat as he stomped across the floor. With a squeal, the girl’s giggles melted into moans.

As if it wasn’t already incredibly awkward to be sleeping next to a pirate who was obviously attracted to her, now they would be treated to the live action sounds of a late-night tryst. Emma swallowed hard as she did her best to think of other things, but the girl’s moans only increased in volume. It wasn’t long before a repetitious beat of a headboard slamming against the wall behind her filled her ears. The momentum even caused the room to vibrate in time with the neighboring boarders’ exertions.

Emma’s cheeks were hot with embarrassment. She opened her eyes again and stared at the ceiling, keeping her breath steady as possible. The fluttering of the candlelight with each of the booms against the wall merely punctuated the sound. There was no escaping the amorous encounter in the adjoining space. Graciously, the pounding didn’t last long, and the gentle, crackling fire again filled the room as their neighbors settled into silence.

With a shaky breath, Emma turned onto her side and closed her eyes, willing herself back to sleep. She heard Killian mutter beneath his breath as he shifted on the floor.

“Bloody racket... hardly worth the effort…”

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, JEN! You’ve been accepted for the role of JUSTICE with the faceclaim of MARTIN SENSMEIER. Poor Viktor -- poor willing and reluctant Viktor, who could be soft if he chose to but instead chooses the opposite. There is a steeliness to him that I feel is unmatched; his dedication to Septimus is as breathtaking as it is painful to see knowing what I know now about his story, his background, how he has always knelt before standing at full height. Your writing felt like the perfect fit for the environment of the group, and Viktor, too, seems to nudge himself right into the portrait behind his king, exactly where he belongs. You have given him a humanity he must crush down in the wake of his duty, and I am eager to see it rise up, whether it be of his own volition or not.

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OOC

NAME: Jen

PRONOUNS: she/her

AGE: 21

TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: GMT+2 / I admit, I’m a bit slow with replies, but when I have a good grasp on them and aren’t overwhelmed with the amount of things I owe, I go through everything a lot faster. In that case, I usually post an average of 2-3 replies every couple of days and that’s the pace that I’ll be setting out to (hopefully) achieve here if I manage things well enough! Aside from that, I’m online quite often on discord and am always down to chat and plot.

ANYTHING ELSE?: Nope :’’)

IN CHARACTER

SKELETON: Justice

NAME: Viktor Daegal / he/him

FACECLAIM: Martin Sensmeier, Trevante Rhodes

AGE: 34

DETAILS: What drew me towards Justice was, first of all, how different they are from most characters that I’ve written over time. I usually tend to gravitate towards characters that are a lot more volatile in nature; prideful, quick to anger, and most importantly, active -- in the sense that they push their own narrative forward rather than stand idly and wait for their story to propel them. Justice as a concept completely goes against those qualities that often draw my eye. They’re calm and firm and sure-footed, but while it may appear upon first glance that they’re purposeful (rigid as they are in their devotion to a king who, in everyone else’s eyes, is false and unfit), the truth is that it’s not really devotion that drives them forward, it’s doubt.

They would die for their king, would hunch their back beneath a thousand blades for him. They bend and they falter; bear the weight of their own doubt and the scorn of others -- all for him. Yet do they stand beside him when it truly matters? When they watch innocents get cut down for opposing his whims and wrestle with the urge to shove them out of the shadow of the blade. When they watch as he gorges himself on delicacies and vices while his people suffer and starve, and feel undeserving of the meals he places on their table.  That’s as far as Justice is ever able to bend their devotion before it breaks, and that, right there, is what made me fall in love with them.

To get to sink my hands into that delicious internal conflict, to get to stretch it and see how far it can go before it consumes them... the thought of it leaves me buzzing with excitement! And it’s not just that, it’s also the opportunity to witness the journey that Justice can go on and all the different ways that it could change them. Because while I see them as a character who will need to be challenged by the narrative time and time again before they can break out of the false conviction that they’re currently imprisoned by, I don’t think they’re passive by any means. In order for them to move towards any change, they’ll have to pave the way for themselves and I’m absolutely convinced that they can. But first they need to become aware that they even have that power in the first place; that they can do more than stand vigilant and wait for the collapse to come -- and I absolutely cannot wait to see it all unfold!

And don’t even get me started on the concept of Justice as a tarot card and how it represents the character so perfectly while also completely failing to capture their muddled, grey-toned conflict and how far it expands beyond the black-and-white image that they project. I could go off about that shit for years to come, but I won’t because I’m quite aware of how much I’ve rambled so far. All in all, Justice is a beautiful concept in my eyes (both as an idea explored within the character and as the character concept itself), with so much to capture and so much to expand upon, and I’m so happy that I get to have this opportunity to explore it all!

BACKGROUND:

TW: general abuse, domestic abuse, violence

King Septimus was not just his liege, but the thread that tied his past and present together. Viktor’s allegiance was one that his father had shared long before him, as a member of the city guard, and it was something that marred Viktor’s childhood like a scorch mark, gaping wider and burning hotter as the years passed until there were days where he could barely see through the blackness and the stench of it. Because his father was no guard; he was an enforcer. Hailed as Vadim the Vicious by his fellow guardsmen, he was Septimus’ swinging fist in the slums of Lowtown. Where higher-ranking guards held the ornamented swords that swung in the king’s name; Viktor’s father and his band of mongrels held the filthy daggers that swiped in the name of the king’s greed. Whether it was for the purpose of tax collection or under the guise of exercising military authority, there was not a single soul in Lowtown that hadn’t been terrorized by Vadim and his men in one way or another. Even the man’s own home hadn’t gone untouched by his cruelty -- and such was the blood-speckled, sorrow-written beginning of Viktor’s tale. It forced him to grow into a quiet, inexpressive child; tucked into the corner to eat in solitude or sent out into the street to play every time his father stumbled into their dingy nest and demanded that it be transformed into a castle for his own perusal and indulgence. It was through his mother’s diligent, desperate efforts that Viktor was never around his father long enough to be a target of his temper. Yet she ended up paying the price for that by occupying the hazardous role all by herself. Every time his father grew bored of drinking and whoring and beating into the commonfolk, he came home and took it all out on his mother who bore the burden, covered the bruises, and worked to make sure that her son’s eyes were never hollowed by the sight of her suffering. But then came a time where she could no longer hide it -- not that she ever had. At least not as completely as she had hoped. Viktor was a child who had grown to learn when to speak his mind and when to keep quiet; how to pick his battles and what demands he could afford to make when he did. That, in addition to his keen sense of perception and the many times he had snuck back into the house when he wasn’t supposed to, had led to him coming to know his father for what he truly was long before he could even see him as what he wasn’t. And as his bones thickened and his instincts sharpened with age, he decided on the first fight that he was ever going to lead. No longer was his mother able to send him astray or hold him off his father’s path; and no longer was Viktor willing to idle by as an observer of injustice. His father was away on guardsman duties more often than not; when he burdened them with his presence, Viktor learned to harness his strength and harshen his voice. And when the burden was lifted, he learned to use his wit and commodify his youth; gathering odd jobs, helping his mother any way he could, and supporting their modest household in all the ways his father didn’t. He grew into a steady, street-smart young man with a distinct brand of stone-hard temper, known in the area for fending off bullies and rogues, and for throwing his father on the gravel doorstep every other week. It was how they were able to get on by when his father finally did them a favor and landed himself in an early,  well-deserved grave. Viktor was well-liked within their small, struggling community and it made anyone who had any semblance of work to offer eager to bring the young Daegal man on board. But then Viktor grew, and so did his and his mother’s needs; and the haphazard jobs and errands that he picked up around Lowtown no longer provided for them. He needed a steady occupation. He was no good at academics, and no jobs that he apprenticed for gave him the sense of purpose that he had had when he was standing up against the bastardly likes of his father. So he decided to continue with what he had been doing ever since he taught himself how to swing a punch -- he would become all that his father was supposed to be, and better. After all, what better vengeance could he have against his father’s dastardly memory than to steal the man’s legacy and make it his own? Not only would he erase his name from Tyrholm’s history, but he would also steal everything that had corrupted his father and warp it into something of value, all while making his mother and his community proud in the process. Or at least, that was what Viktor expected. When he expressed his desire to enroll in the royal ranks, his mother was horrified and as a result, was in absolute rejection of it. She feared that this prospect would ruin him the same way it ruined the man she had once loved; begged and pleaded for him not to indulge this devil-spawned whim -- nearly broke down from the sheer agony brought upon by the thought of losing her dear son to the same poison that had eaten away at his father. She began to coax him towards the worship she upheld in the hopes that the Undying God might steer him towards reason, dragging him to altars and speaking to him of death and faith every time there was an opportunity for it. And Viktor, reluctant yet unwilling to push his mother or prod at her wounds any more than he already had, obliged her time and time again. Yet he never quite believed in the cause she was aspiring for him to follow. It was murky and intangible; upheld by the lofty pillars of faith and blind devotion, and steadied by no clear-cut foundation that he could grasp or believe in. What was the purpose afforded to the followers of the Undying, after all? What sort of great, all-encompassing goal did they believe they were achieving by embracing quietude and breathing empty words into the hearts of their palms? The inaction of it all, the fickleness and ambiguity of what it stood for, especially when compared to the fervent, burning cause that he truly strived for; it eluded Viktor like nothing else. Yet he still afforded it the time and attention that his mother coaxed out of him; perhaps because his desire to please and appease her was simply that powerful, or perhaps because part of him truly wished to see through the veil that shrouded his mother’s sight. He never knew for certain what had pushed him to seek it out alongside her for as long as he had -- and at one point, it was already too late for him to try. It was on a pale, dreary Winter’s day that it happened. Viktor had offered to help a local barkeep by carrying a barrel of ale over from his storage shack to his tavern, and it was on the way that he stumbled upon one of the king’s men. City guard or foot soldier, he was unsure, yet whatever ranking it was seemed to imbue the man with enough arrogance that he felt entitled to strike a woman for rejecting him. Viktor had witnessed a lifetime’s worth of cruelty from the so-called protectors of the city, yet that particular sight was one that had eluded him for several, blissfully forgetful years -- until that morning. In a fit of blind, ravenous rage, Viktor launched himself at the man, shoving him down against the damp grime of the street and pummeling into him until the man was choking on his own blood. And that was when Viktor remembered; the ever-looming cause that had faded in the wake of his search for the unreachable, the unforgotten sorrow that still swam in his mother’s eyes. Then his decision was made. He enrolled in the royal ranks. When he set out to leave to begin his training across the city, his mother didn’t bid him farewell at the door, and instead, remained locked away in her bedroom, far out of his reach. She didn’t speak to him after he informed her of his decision, and she never would again. To this day, Viktor believed that he had left his heart on that splintered doorstep, and there it would always remain, shriveled and eaten up by rot -- though whether the sickness of it spawned from the loss of his mother or from the path he had set out to take, was ever-unclear to him. He relished the purpose he found within the king’s army; he found comrades to fight alongside, had vast room to refine his education, skills and swordsmanship alike, and was greatly successful in citing his own history over the scratched-out script of his father’s. As the years passed, however, glory proved to have a rather short, minuscule half-life. With every fight and every kill; with every fresh battlefield and every newly-chucked corpse, Viktor found himself at a loss once again. He was older now, wiser and wearier in every way that should have counted yet didn’t, having witnessed enough atrocities and hardships that the memory of his father’s cruelty grew to lose its heinous sharp edge -- and Viktor had absolutely no idea how to harness that daunting realization. He reeled, dizzy and torn-up as endless questions and limitless choices struck a roiling hurricane around him -- until King Septimus threw the longed-for anchor at his feet. He trailed across a long line of prospects, came to a halt, and then chose him. It was truly as simple as that. And as Viktor kneeled before the king and felt the tip of a sword brush both his shoulders in a whispered declaration of purpose, he could swear that he felt his heart stir amidst the ruins of his home.

PLOT IDEAS:

THE BLACKNESS IS NOT MY BLOOD, THOUGH IT FLOWS THROUGH MY VEINS ; Blind devotion is all that Viktor projects when it comes to his solid servitude of King Septimus, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that the image reflects the truth of things. I don’t believe that Viktor is in denial about Septimus’ aptitude as a ruler, or that he harbors any illusions when it comes to the kind of person that he is and how that, in turn, is reflected onto his dominion. Being at his side for as long as he has, occupying the position that he does, he knows Septimus better than most people he’s surrounded by. And so, when it comes to Viktor’s loyalty to him, it’s not a matter of him believing that Septimus is a worthy king -- because the reality is, he isn’t -- but a matter of his sense of purpose being irrevocably tied to the man. Viktor doesn’t like to leave himself open to whims and possibilities; instead, he prefers to have a specific outcome determined and kept in mind in order for him to work towards -- and so naturally, when weighed against all the different scenarios that could branch out and tug him along their winding paths if the throne was ever stolen, the notion of Septimus keeping his hold on it is infinitely more favorable. Down to its core, underneath his sworn oaths and his frail hopes for the future, Viktor’s devotion is a selfish one. But what if it comes to a point where that is no longer enough?

I imagine that his devotion has grown lighter and lighter when weighed against his guilt of co-signing the atrocities and injustices that have become the standard of the king’s rule. It’s getting more and more difficult for Viktor to find value in his support of Septimus, but I don’t think he’s in a place where he’s willing to take action just yet. He’ll need to be pushed a lot more and challenged in many, many ways before he begins to consider treachery as an actual choice that he could make. I can see it happening if he finds allegiance elsewhere, whether it be in a prospect for the throne, or another faction, or even simply in an individual (or a group of people) that he grows to love and care for. He’s a man of the people, so I also think it’s possible that he could be swayed towards that by a certain community if he ever comes to join one (It would be hella cool if that ended up being the society of the Undying God...... Judgement, I’m eyeing you). He’ll need to be pushed towards it, but considering that he’s already begun to waver and wrestle with a lot of doubt when considering his allegiance to the king, I feel like it’s inevitable that he’ll reach a crucial turning point when it comes to that.

I HEAR TIME FALL, DROP BY DROP ; The previous -- admittedly very long-winded, holy shit -- plot explores the culmination of Viktor’s doubt while it can run its course, but time waits for no one, and it’s all too possible that change might come to tackle Viktor before he’s even had a chance to anticipate its arrival. What if Septimus is assassinated before he could reach that stage in his development? What if he’s overthrown and replaced sooner than anyone expects? It would be very interesting to explore how Viktor would manage to recover from that -- because I expect that although his instinctive response will be to enforce order and work to stabilize the situation as much as his position allows, he’ll be very disillusioned once the dust settles. I can’t say for sure how things would play out from that point onward, since it would greatly depend on the connections he will have formed by the time that happens and whether or not he will have already come to terms with his wavering loyalty, along with the progression of the plot, of course. But regardless, I think it would be pretty interesting if the rug was ever pulled from under him like that, and I would, in fact, be very here for it.

THE SOIL IS RICHER AFTER THE BURNING ; This is somewhat of an extension of the previous two plots, and while I used those to explore the outcome of Viktor’s doubts simmering to the surface, this one will explore the build-up that will lead to that. Particularly when it comes to the actions Viktor could take if he chooses to act on his conflict rather than stand by and let it consume him. I see this as the potential first step that he would make as he moves towards all the different possibilities that I laid out above. And it would progress with Viktor taking advantage of his proximity to the king to attempt to make him see reason. I don’t think he and Septimus are close by any means, but I feel like as his personal bodyguard, Viktor has most likely seen him and stood by him in every single arena of his life. When he’s clashing with his advisors, when he’s rousing political complications with his drunken antics, and when he’s contemplating all of that in solitude. That might push Viktor to advise the king in all the humble ways that he can, and lend him an ear when everyone else is refusing to listen; perhaps even earn his trust if that is possible. And because Septimus is not a playable character, I see this taking effect when it comes to Viktor’s own development; as this would push him towards confronting his doubts and taking action in response to them -- and also when it comes to Viktor’s interactions with the characters who would have an interest in what’s at play. This could be what paves the way for someone at court to manipulate him as I’m going to mention in the following plot, or this could simply be something that brings him closer to (or draws him into conflict with) those who are also closely intertwined with Septimus.

WHERE THE HEAVENS ARE SHALLOW AS THE SEA ; Political shenanigans, because who doesn’t love that shit? Viktor doesn’t, of course, and if anything, does his best to avoid being embroiled in it, but in my eyes, this is one pit-trap that he has no hope of sidestepping. His close proximity to the king and his intimate knowledge of him is something that I think most revolters would find valuable. In that case, could they be successful? Could one of them truly offer Viktor something that he would desire strongly enough to sacrifice his honor for? On the opposite spectrum, if no one seeks to use his position, I imagine they’ll seek to use him, instead. If the right person managed to coax him towards entrusting them with his doubts, they would have all the room in the world to manipulate that to their advantage, and that is one potential plot that I’m honestly buzzing with excitement for. I feel like he puts distance between him and most people in the court precisely so he would guard against that, so it would be so heartbreakingly interesting if he ended up being betrayed in spite of that. I’d love to explore what sort of relationship could build up to that and how the aftermath would play out, and most importantly, I’d love to see how it impacts Viktor’s character and changes his perspective and future approach to relationships, whether it be political ones or all of them with no exception. All in all, I’m really looking forward to having Viktor stumble into the murky politics of the royal court, and I’d be absolutely thrilled to see the larger impact it would have, both on his development and on the plot as a whole!

CHARACTER DEATH: Yes, once he reaches a good enough stage in his development where his journey feels complete and his death could have a lot of impact, I’d be totally down to have him killed off!

WRITING SAMPLE

TW: murder, death

Tension simmered in the courtroom, stifling his breath and crowding into the collar of his armor in heated fumes. Yet even as the aura of oncoming calamity burned within him and all around him, Viktor remained anchored in its core; hand firmly planted on the hilt of his sword and gaze steady as it traced the crowd for any hint of threat.

King Septimus had wandered into the courtroom on a whim. As much as he disliked the area, he often took to roaming the castle in a drunken stupor whenever his boredom got the best of him, and in this case, he just so happened to have been passing by the courtroom while he stumbled around and conversed with Viktor’s shadow.

Viktor wasn’t sure if the noble had been tailing them efficiently enough that he hadn’t detected them, or if they had somehow anticipated that they would run into His Majesty here. Whatever instinct they followed, it had drawn them into a direct clash with the king; because the moment they ventured into the room, the noble had launched into a cutting tirade, reprimanding the king for his current state and eyeing him with brimming disgust -- all while shouting loudly enough to lure half the inhabitants of the castle into the room.

That was when Viktor caught the calculation in their act; they had to wait for the king to reach his throne before they could confront him with his unworthiness of it. It gave their words impact; ensured that anyone with any semblance of repute in this castle would be drawn to the conflict like fluttering moths to a fuming flame.

And indeed, it was clear that they had played their cards right. As Viktor surveyed the cluster of onlookers, he saw a tangle of wide eyes and parted lips, brows knotted in apprehension and mouths twisted with disdain. The reactions varied, yet no face remained bare, especially as time passed and the confrontation escalated.

Though towards what end, Viktor could only wonder.

He didn’t have to wait long to find the answer.

It came to him in a blur of crimson mingling with gold; a nauseating cyclone of color that dissipated as he swallowed and came to settle in a broken mound of dread deep in his gut.

Viktor’s gaze sharpened as it flicked over to King Septimus, taking in the enraged flush in his face and the forceful blanch of his fists.

The noble turned their nose up to the king, and then turned to address his subjects as they hovered behind them.

Viktor glanced down at the king’s hand once again, breath locking in his throat.

His index extended in a slow tremor, teeth gritting around a vicious, thoughtless order.

Kill them.

Before he could even raise his hand in a furious gesture, because he could even turn his glaring gaze towards Viktor and holler the words at him, Viktor was stepping forward and stabbing his dagger into the noble’s back.

Treacherous vermin aren’t worth the sword, King Septimus had sneered the first time he had ordered him to kill a rebel; he had been displeased with Viktor for decapitating them. Next time, they fall on your dagger.

And fall they did, with a choked-up gasp and a fierce clutch at their chest.

Viktor held them as they sank to the floor, with a gentleness that went unnoticed by all.

Everyone was too busy searing him and the king with the same brand of scorn to notice the way he inconspicuously held on to the noble’s hand, wordlessly sending a prayer to the Undying God in their name.

Force of habit, he would tell himself each time.

He wished that it ever made any difference.

EXTRAS

None.

[sweet-christabel]

A Trusted Friend In Science

FF.net: (x) AO3: (x)

Chapter Thirty-Four - 2035. Ship Overboard.

If Chell, for whatever reason, had ever been asked to draw a mad professor, she suspected that she’d have drawn someone like Dr. Kleiner. His pale complexion almost matched his lab coat, his eyes looked permanently wide beneath his square-lensed glasses, and his few remaining wisps of white hair stood out like fluff on the back of his otherwise-bald head.

Of course, it was possible that his eyes looked wide not just due to the glasses, but in surprise at seeing Gordon Freeman on his doorstep. There was a nervous touch of guilt in his manner, and he couldn’t seem to help shooting a quick look at the large building nearby.

Gordon and Alyx greeted him warmly, however, convincingly sounding like they had dropped in on the way to somewhere else. They quickly introduced Chell before spending more time presenting Doug. Alyx drifted back to stand beside Chell as Gordon and Doug skilfully engaged Kleiner in what Chell had secretly named ‘Science Speak’. Kleiner lost some of his edginess as Gordon continued to play the part of friend-catching-up, soon chatting away with some of the boundless enthusiasm that Angela had mentioned. He was eccentric, to be sure, but seemed harmless otherwise.

Alyx and Chell listened silently for several minutes, awaiting the time that they would choose to plead a smoking habit and disappear outside. Kleiner, however, made it easy for them to slip away, dragging Gordon and Doug down to the basement to see his blueprints for some experiment. Alyx laughingly told them to go ahead, stating that she and Chell had an important discussion about shoes to get back to. Gordon couldn’t quite hide his smirk at that.

As soon as the three scientists had vanished down the stairs, Chell and Alyx were out the front door. Kleiner’s simple, wooden-slatted house sat in the shadow of an ugly building resembling an aircraft hangar. With no other buildings in sight and a healthy dose of logic on their side, the two knew it was where the ship was being housed. This did not stop Wheatley helpfully pointing it out, however.

Chell was wearing him like a backpack, a couple of ropes tied to his handles. She was pleasantly surprised that he’d listened to her and hadn’t drawn attention to himself while they were talking to Kleiner, but she supposed that he had the threat of GLaDOS looming over him.

The five of them had come up with the plan on the way, and they all knew their parts. Gordon and Doug would keep Kleiner out of the way while Chell and Alyx explored the hangar. Alyx would ensure that the place was free of scientists so that Chell could follow instructions from GLaDOS via Wheatley to send the ship on one final journey. It was a simple plan as plans went, but there was one huge flaw that Chell was convinced no one else had noticed. She let Alyx jog off to do her part without mentioning it, following the signs to the bridge.

The ship rested at a skewed angle in a clumsy-looking dry dock. It had obviously been hauled upright by Kleiner’s workers in order to build the structures around it. A handful of workbenches formed a makeshift lab alongside the ship, lit by single lightbulbs that swayed on cables from the curved ceiling. Everything about the hangar told the story of its hasty construction. Although it looked able to house a generous handful of workers, the place was mercifully empty. Still, Alyx was adamant about making sure, and Chell wholeheartedly agreed. They entered the ship via the rickety-looking wooden ramp, then parted ways.

The ship bore the wear and tear expected of the years it had spent half buried in ice in the Arctic. Chell had learned that it had been found by a friend of Alyx’s father’s, who had managed to send them enough information to locate it before she had been discovered and attacked by the Combine. Although the ship was largely intact, the exterior hull was badly weathered. The Aperture logo had partially flaked off, but not enough to prevent Chell’s stomach doing a little flip of remembered anxiety when she saw it.

Inside, the industrial-looking corridors were dark and narrow, all indistinguishable from each other apart from the helpful signs on the walls. Once she had found the bridge, Chell retraced her path to the exit several times, trying to ingrain it in her memory. She was acutely aware when her movements passed beyond rehearsal and into the realm of delaying tactics, so she squared her shoulders and forced herself to enter the bridge. It was clearly where Kleiner spent most of his time. The room was largely free of dust and clutter, and there was a mixture of new and old technology where he’d tried to expand on the original workings. Chell eyed the bundles of trailing wires warily, hoping that he hadn’t messed things up too much for their plan to work.

There was a dated-looking console that dominated the room, where the navigational controls would have been on a regular ship. She set Wheatley down on the top of it, carefully so that they didn’t accidentally press any buttons. His optic lit the dimness a bright blue, gazing at her with open expectation.

“Have you connected with GLaDOS yet?” she asked him.

“No,” he replied at once. “Won’t take a moment.”

“Wait.” She shot out a hand, resting her fingertips on the top of his casing. “Do…do you trust her?”

Wheatley blinked at her, sparking gently and making her withdraw her hand. “Um…that’s a bit of an odd question, if I’m honest.”

“I mean…” She huffed, thinking. “Has it occurred to you that we’re potentially handing ourselves to her on a plate?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she hates you,” Chell stated bluntly. “I’ve only got her word that she kind of considers me an ally now, and we didn’t exactly part on good terms. I mean, she expressly ordered me not to come back. Now…we need her to help us destroy this thing, but we’re following her plan.”

Wheatley cottoned on to what she was saying surprisingly quickly. “You mean she could tell you to press any sequence of buttons and you wouldn’t know what you were pressing?”

“Exactly. She says she’ll tell me how to program in a time delay, but…if she doesn’t, how am I going to know? Do you see what I mean? We need to trust her, but I still don’t know if we can.”

Wheatley’s optic narrowed suspiciously. “Why are you telling me this? You’re only going to follow it up with ‘we don’t have a choice’.” His voice turned falsely high in a poor imitation of hers. “If you’re asking me whether I wanna stay here and potentially die, then I’m sure it’s going to come as a tremendous shock to you that no, I don’t particularly want to do that.” He shifted a little, emulating a throat-clearing. “I, uh, was being sarcastic there. Just in case you’re confused about why I’d think that would shock you, I don’t. Okay? Act…actually I would be shocked if you were shocked by that, to be honest.”

Chell managed to quirk a smile. “I know, I got it.”

“Bit of self-deprecating humour there,” Wheatley added. “Being as I’m such a moron and all. Ah, sarcasm. Love it.”

“Can we get back on topic?” Chell asked with mild exasperation. “We are actually talking about something serious. Avoiding it isn’t going to help.”

“I wasn’t avoiding it,” he said defensively, “I just…I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t want to die, but you probably figured that out already. You’ve always been really good at figuring things out. If you’re asking me whether I trust…Her…then no, I don’t. She wants to kill me, she’s said as much, but…I don’t know. You two got really chummy while she was a potato, so who knows where you stand now.”

“Exactly,” Chell muttered, drumming her fingertips on the console.

There was a long moment of silence while she weighed up her options, steadily watched by an edgy Wheatley, who was broadcasting his nervousness clearly in his twitchy optic movements. Eventually, decision made, she sighed and opened her mouth to speak.

“We have no choice,” Wheatley interjected before she could get a word out. “The ship has to be destroyed because we don’t want another disaster like this war that everyone’s always going on about. We’re the only ones who can do that because we need instructions from Her, so we have to stay put. It doesn’t matter if we die in the process because humanity will be saved. It’s all for the bloody greater good, which apparently makes it all okay.” He fixed her with a steady look. “Is that what you were going to say?”

Chell stared at him for a moment, curbing her surprise. “Pretty much. Minus the ‘bloody’.”

“Knew it,” he mumbled. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a hero complex?”

Chell’s reply was cut off by Alyx appearing in the doorway. “What do you mean you might die in the process?” she said sharply, frowning.

“There’s a slight possibility,” Chell told her. “But you’ll be outside, you’ll be safe.”

“Are you saying that there’s a chance we might teleport this thing to the bottom of the ocean with you still aboard it?”

“If our informant chooses not to program in a time delay, then yes, that could happen.”

Alyx sent her a troubled glance. “There are other ways to deal with this. I’m sure we can rig up explosives from stuff in the lab.”

“No,” Chell said quickly. “We don’t know what kind of materials are in here, it could trigger something worse if we try and blow it up. Draining the fuel and teleporting it away is the best solution.”

“Not if it kills you!”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” she said truthfully. “When I weigh up the facts…but there’s always a strand of doubt. Particularly considering…our past. So, you need to go and wait outside where it’s safe, and hopefully we’ll join you soon.”

Alyx looked highly sceptical, but she nodded. Chell was surprised by how quickly she backed down, but then she remembered that Alyx must have lived a harsh life with the resistance movement. Self-sacrifice had most likely been a frequent occurrence.

“Does Doug know about this?” Alyx asked her, eyebrows pointedly raised.

Chell shook her head. “I don’t think it’s occurred to him,” she admitted. “If…if it goes badly…” Her mind flooded with hundreds of things she wanted to say to him, but she settled on what was truly important. “Don’t let him go back to Aperture,” she said finally.

Alyx nodded, the corners of her mouth lifting in a tiny smile. “Consider it done.”

“Thank you.”

“The place is clear,” Alyx reported, business-like. “I’ll be out by the lab. You’d better come join me soon.”

Chell smiled tightly. “We’ll do our best.”

Alyx sent her a respectful nod, then left the bridge. Chell listened as her quiet footsteps got quieter, then turned her attention to Wheatley.

“Connect to GLaDOS,” she ordered softly.

“You can’t make me,” the core told her, not snappishly, but rather as if he’d just come to the realisation himself.

“I know,” Chell acknowledged. “But if you don’t, I’ll just have to try and figure this thing out myself. In which case, we will almost certainly die.”

Wheatley rolled his optic in response, but the lack of a deluge of words made her think that he was actually doing as she’d said. It wasn’t long before he reported that GLaDOS was on hand.

Without either of them giving away their concerns about being left on the ship, Chell and Wheatley followed her instructions. For Chell it was a matter of pride, but she suspected it was fear that kept the talkative core silent.

GLaDOS was surprisingly good at giving clear, concise directives, for all that she’d apparently enjoyed being deliberately difficult while Chell had been in the test chambers. Wheatley was obviously repeating everything word for word, as he offered no additional comments or any touch of his own personality. Chell found herself grateful for that. It would only have convinced her even more that she was woefully out of her depth.

She toiled steadily, unscrewing the panel on the front of the console’s stand, revealing the bizarre inner workings. GLaDOS was following the original blueprints that she’d allegedly located in her databanks, and Chell hoped fervently that Kleiner hadn’t messed around with things too much. Considering his lack of progress, she thought it was unlikely. At GLaDOS’s behest, she freed a large glass cylinder of syrupy yellow liquid, tugging it away from the console.

“You need to pour it all out except for an inch or so,” Wheatley reported to her. “That’ll be enough for one trip.”

“What is this stuff?” Chell couldn’t help asking, cringing as she carefully tipped it into a nearby empty coffee mug.

Wheatley parroted her question, paused for the reply, then said, “It’s a concentrated fuel substance that powers the portal-maker thingy and lets it make portals big enough to transport a vessel of this size.”

“Portal-maker thingy? Is that a technical term?”

Wheatley managed to look disgruntled. “She said she put it in layman’s terms because we won’t understand otherwise. Um…personally, I think she’s probably right.”

Chell couldn’t help snorting in response. “Probably.”

Job done, she carefully put the cylinder back in place, gripping the console to get back to her feet. Wheatley passed her the next set of instructions, and she found she could follow them quite clearly thanks to GLaDOS taking the time to describe each button she needed to press. In any other situation she’d have been suspicious of the helpful behaviour, but she knew that GLaDOS didn’t mess around when it came to Aperture inventions and their reputation.

She had to actively force herself not to hesitate while she programmed the console, but she was reassured by the fact that – to her amateur eyes – it looked as if GLaDOS was keeping to her promise. The old-fashioned monitor flashed up a location in the middle of the Atlantic when she typed in the coordinates, and when she gave herself a full minute to get out before it activated, a comforting 60 appeared at the side of the screen.

“All you need to do now is press the green button,” Wheatley told her. “So, uh…go ahead and do that when you’re ready, I guess. She’s disconnected now.”

Chell exchanged a long look with the personality core, but he offered no more of his opinions on the subject.

“We’re doing the right thing,” she spoke up. “You know that, right?”

“Will that make me feel any better if this all goes tits up?” he asked.

His tone made her smile against her will, and she offered him a shrug. “I don’t know. It might.”

“Great,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “That’s…so good.”

Chell didn’t allow herself to think of Doug, knowing that it would be too big a test for her composure. Instead, she lifted Wheatley off the console, gripping him by his top handle, and said softly, “Ready?”

“I suppose so.”

As she hovered her finger over the green button, the core made an additional noise that almost made her jump.

“Actually,” he began, and Chell inwardly groaned. “No, I’m not ready. But…I’m never going to be ready. Gotta just…y’know…do it anyway. So…so go ahead and press the button. You’ve always been a compulsive button-pusher, haven’t you? So go ahead and press it, and then use those legs of yours to get us out of here. Okay?”

“That is the plan,” she told him wryly.

Before he had time to answer, before she could overthink what she was doing or debate whether she should have told Doug, Chell jabbed her finger on the button.

She stayed put in the bridge just long enough to see the lights on the console flicker to life. The number 60 had just become 59 when she started running. Under her breath she recited the list of rights and lefts that she’d memorised, but the console had drained all available power, leaving the corridors in half light. It was more disconcerting than Chell had considered, resulting in a few near misses with the turns.

Finally, however, she was running down the long straight to the door. Except…the door wasn’t there.

Skidding to a halt, she hissed a frantic curse.

“Left!” piped up Wheatley. “Go back and turn left!”

Fresh out of back-up plans, Chell spun on her heel and did as she was told. Wheatley yelped more directions at her until she found herself back on the route to the door. This time, she could see it standing open in front of her.

Her internal countdown had gotten horribly skewed during her lapse in concentration, but she guessed she had single digits left.

The ship was humming around her, powering up its systems in preparation to jump. Wheatley kept up a steady stream of panicked babble that Chell tried to block out. Then she was out, stumbling across the unsteady wooden gangplank as a fierce wind whipped around her.

“It’s opening the portal!” Wheatley hollered at her. “Get out of range of the pull!”

Ahead, Chell saw Alyx clinging on to a girder on the far wall of the hangar. Gordon was beside her, bodily restraining Kleiner who was clearly trying to reach the Borealis. They were shouting, but she couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the ship.

Doug was much closer, keeping a white-knuckled grip on a ceiling support strut, and she fought to reach him. The tug from the opening portal snatched at her hair and clothes, making her progress slow. Too slow.

Doug’s outstretched hand was too far away. With a desperate lunge forward, Chell threw out the arm holding Wheatley. Doug grabbed his lower handle, his expression tight with determination. Wheatley yelped in shock.

There was an explosion of noise behind her, and Chell found herself dragged off her feet, her back damp from the spray of the Atlantic that was spilling through the portal. She clung on to Wheatley, eyes wide and terrified. With a spike of panic she was reminded of another time, not too long ago, when she’d been in a similar position, body out in the depths of space, the frantic personality core her only lifeline.

“Let go! Let go! I’m still connected, I can pull myself in!”

Doug’s voice cut through her memories with a yell. “Don’t let go! Do you hear me, Chell? Don’t let go!”

Wheatley added his own shouts to the mix. “Aarrrgh! I wasn’t designed to be used like this!”

If she hadn’t been busy being terrified for her life, Chell would have shot him a glare.

“You’d better bloody hang on!” he yelled. “I don’t want you damaging my handles for nothing!”

“Not much longer!” Doug added. “Hold on!”

As much as she desperately wanted to obey them, her hands had other ideas.

“I can’t!” she gasped in alarm. “Doug, I can’t!”

“You have to!”

With a cry, her numb fingers slipped from the handle, and she was tugged backwards.

“No!” she heard Doug shout. “Chell!”  

A blinding flash of light filled the hangar, and she screwed her eyes shut against it, curling herself into a ball. Fists clenched, she waited for the inevitable embrace of the freezing water and the cold blackness that would follow.

[bwblubw]

I’m Sorry - (Long Form Warning)

 Act One 

Setting:

It is a beautiful near-summer day with dandelion seeds spreading through the wind outside a muggy damp compact prison. The small barred window allows the pretty sight to post almost a serene picture over the dark isolation. It is 2 p.m., and the brightness of the sun allows a shimmer of its beauty to gently meet and caress the face of Jonathan, a twenty-two-year-old man. He is anemic but the presence of a handsome gentleman shadows him as a haunted past. His black beard has become unsteady patches on his face. His hair seems loosely attached as well. His once dazzling blue eyes have lost their luster to now which redness fogs them. He slumps in the corner dizzy and hopelessly etching with his nail into the wall the words “freedom.”

Isabella enters the area to which his cell is. She is dressed finely in patterns of yellow and red. Her long blonde hair is pinned up. Her face is made-up like porcelain. She is carrying a purse, a notebook and pen, and a book titled Miss Sara Sampson. She sits down on a stool near the cell and looks at the man in the corner. He raises himself to a stand as if he were a newborn fragile horse. He wishes to gallop, but his legs will not let him.

Jonathan: Excitedly. Isabella!

Isabella: Good day Jonathan.

Jonathan: I’ve missed you so much. How are you?

Isabella: Dismissively. I’ve come to tell you that the priest will be here soon. I’d like you to tell me who should have your estate before he comes?

Jonathan: Do not give me that rubbish Isabella. Let us talk purely.

Isabella: Calmly ignoring Jonathan, Isabella places her purse and book by her side on the floor. She opens the notebook and carefully taps her pen against the paper of it. Now, you do not have any children, or chance to have them for that matter, so I’d like to think you would be so willing as to help the young students of mine. Of course, that’s at your own accord. And, there is also the plantation land, this will go to your family I suppose, your brother Edward is fond of it. The villa in Italy can go to your sister. Are you against any of this?

Jonathan stares at her with an attentive face, yet his might is elsewhere.

Isabella: Closing the notebook, Isabella comes to a stand.  I’ll take this all as a yes. Well, then, we are done here. Have a good day Jonathan.

Jonathan: Isabella wait. How can you be so cold? All I ask is you hear what I have to say.

Isabella: Taking a deep sigh she slowly sits back down. She can hardly look at him. Fine, say what you will.

Jonathan: I’m sorry. I don’t know how to respond to your pain when you beg for it over these terrifying letters as I sit in a dimly lit room contemplating my own suicidal thoughts.

I don’t know what to say to heal you when I clearly see you gushing out your soul with bloodied hands. Crying crazily at me, you try to smear your world with mine. We lock lips, and I feel I am traveling on a Gondola at dusk. I’m afraid of your touch, of your hands, of these vows we’ve made and have broken. I’m too afraid to know what to say when everything isn’t bliss. But, Isabella, I do try.

I don’t know how to heal the wounds they’ve created on your slit wrists, if they’ll ever heal or not, inside or out. I’ve tried to whisk you away with blue clouds and rainbow filled paintings of pretty people passing by. When all you needed was a hug, I gave you diamonds that you saw as coal. And, I understand that now. The riches were nothing but trash, and I was trash in my egotistical mind. I never asked why you were in pain, I only saw the swelling of your stomach and grew nauseous before our ties. He slaps his forehead then glides the hand over his hair slowly, painfully broken inside.

God, Isabella, why can you not see I have changed? Your flight has brought me to a clearer sense. I do not know what to say, what to do, how to think without you!

How to make you feel better when skies have turned so grey is my greatest journey.

And you have forgotten a smile too, look at me, we’ve both forgotten how to love the world so pretty, so perfect because now we are not. We have never been.

Isabella: Readily advancing to leave. I do not want to hear this long speech, John.

Jonathan: Oh but you must listen to me you conniving woman! If there is something I know to be most true is that I love you with my heart and soul. What left after that do I have? I have nothing because it has been given to piranhas to destroy with their sharp teeth, your malicious father, and mother. And, if you are one to me the same, to destroy me endlessly with your cold brazen words woman, take me!

I don’t know how to say I am sorry. When I sent in vulgar tongue for your misery, when I was the one who hurt you, I could not have apologized and appreciated your beauty. I was too blind.

But I love-

Isabella: Enough! I do not want to hear you tell me how much you need me when you let his hands touch me. When you let him take my maiden beauty and crush it for your sick perversions. Speak of my parents as you will, but you were not there for me as they were. You were off drinking and spending your time with whores all why laughing at my travesties. I know the truth. When word came that I bore his kin you were quick to discuss my punishment. And. She begins to sob. How can you tell me you are sorry now? I have known the luxurious company of another’s bed by foul play. I am worthless now because of you! I cannot forgive that Jonathan. Mark me, you will die here. When the day comes that you must meet the devil himself for your wrong, I will not shed a tear. I would rather bear having this child as a broken woman than forgive you.

Jonathan: Isabella. None of that is true. I drenched myself in sorrow because I thought you were the one to hurt me first. Can you not see it, their anger for our love? Your parents told lies to have me killed. What greater plot to destroy my honor than your unfaithfulness and mine to my people? They made a charlatan out of me to my people and forced me here. They knew I would never marry a woman content with premarital lust. I was furious of it all but gagged! Most of all they damaged us. I thought our loyalty to one another was a farce. Now, I know it is a lie, a terrible lie! They did it to separate you from me. You born again in his arms would be saved, and I would be sentenced to death. Condemn me not for cruelty, sentence me if you will for all those other false accused crimes but do not let me lose your love. I love you in the abyss of my woe where I remain heartbroken from everything done wrong. If I could turn back my evil voice I would. I plead for pardon only in love for I would scratch my cruel words toward you from existence if I could only!

These bars cannot separate us for long. In my spirited grave, I will still love you. Even the excruciating knowledge of my death will not be in vain if you let me have your hand. I am so sorry. I cannot apologize for my actions any more than accepting my fate. I do agree that I do not deserve mercy. I have defiled you with foolish rage, not malice. All that I ask of you, beg of you, that I would hope no more than, is to have your heart and hand?

Isabella: Jonathan. She cries intensely. Even if I did believe you, which part of me wishes I could desperately, I am already his whether I like it or not. I will marry him, and you will die here alone. I can only give you permission to peace as I have sent for a man of the Lord to bless you. Make your peace Jonathan.

Johnathan: Why, why after everything I have told you can you not love me? I do not mind that you are no longer a maid. I accept it. Isabella, I accept all of it; it only makes me love you more that you struggled through it and survived. You are stronger than any tie to that man could be. Love me you crooked woman, let us be misshapen together!

Isabella: Jonathan. Her voice becomes hoarse. I cannot.

Jonathan: In tears, he extends his reach for Isabella through the bars of the cell. Isabella is near the door of the exit. Please, Isabella, let me have your hand before my death!

Isabella shakes her head in a pout as she hastily leaves. Jonathan cries to her, his voice echoing out until everything fades dark.

- Fiore Blu