#<-- this is me trying and failing to extract my feelings btw not what i think they are!!!!

[jellyfish-grave]

(screaming into a megaphone) I THINK THE FRENCH BAC IS BULLSHIT (huuuuge ramble under cut. Read at your own risk)

listen. I have arguments.

Finals are coming for me like. Right tomorrow, yeah? Yeah. The written trial consists of two options: You can either write a dissertation on a given subject (which you have studied through the year. There's only 4 parcours in the year) OR you can make a text commentary (but it's on a text you've never heard of before and it's not linked to any of the parcours you studied).

On paper it sounds okay (if not slightly unfair that both exercises are judged the same way, despite the fact that you have much more knowledge to back up your dissertation if you chose that). It tests the student's ability to think for themself, to use knowledge that was given through the year or to use personal culture in order to make an interesting reasoning!

The first time they tried this out they realised "hmmm wait everyone is failing, maybe that's cuz the expectations are too high" and yes! Exactly! That's cuz we're introduced to the exercise of dissertation the very same year that we're expected to make a full one. Before that? Barely mentioned. We make around 4 of them throughout the year, and we're never EVER given a full example. The only examples we get are detailed plans, but never a fully written out dissertation.

You'd think "oh, then the simple solution is to either lower the stakes, or introduce the exercise earlier in the education, right?" and yeah that does sound logic. But what change was made, you ask? Oh. Simply give all the answers through the year.

That's right. We get full on answers for the full dissertation during the year, and you could argue that the subject isn't the same during the year compared to the end of the year's prompt, however. All subjects basically boil down to the same core elements but written out differently. They decided that since students of our age aren't capable of making clear and complex reasoning/analyses of a given subject, they should just. Give us the answer.

This kills the entire purpose of the exercise. I don't think of myself as some literary genius or some shit, but i do think I'm capable of basic reasoning. But that's not what's being tested here.

Besides, if your dissertation plan doesn't fit their exact expectation, your entire work will be labelled as out of subject, completely killing the idea that multiple people can think of multiple reasonings. Which is. Yk. The entire point of a dissertation.

I know I'm being overly dramatic, but for people like me who have horrible memory problems, I just feel like this is entirely unfair. This isn't constructed at all because I didn't try to, my brain is turned off after 5 hours of memorizing the exact order stuff should be brought up in. We aren't allowed the fucking books the subject is about during the trial. What's the point in that?? At what point in life will you actually need the skill to be able to make a literary commentary without the actual support???

Even funnier! Yk how I mentioned you can also make a text commentary? Yeah! You don't get the answers for the text commentary during the year. And the expectations haven't gone down. It's basically a suicide to pick that unless you've got huge personal culture to enrich your arguments. It's highly unrecommended by all my teachers so far for a reason.

Should I even go on about the oral trial? You need to site by heart the exact explanation of the text (one out of 12 extracts your studied during the year) line by line out loud. It's bullshit. You get 30 minutes to prepare (which. Btw. Isn't enough.), then you have a grammar question (really the only fair thing about this whole thing.), and then you need to present one of the 4 (8 for some people) books you had to read during the year. You can thankfully choose the book, but this is STILL learning a lesson by heart.

It's not teaching you critical thinking. It's not valuing your opinion, it's not valuing a student taking risks and talking about a subject in an interesting way, because you're expected to do the exact thing the teachers want. A very specific plan. Even the main question your entire work is centered around is just a rewording of the subject.

What is the point? What. Is. The point.

[gunsandspaceships]

Review of some anti-Tony comments I saw on Ao3. Part 3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52704154/chapters/133310575

I have to return to Part 2 this time, because more comments have been written on this topic since then.

"Tony only helped because Pepper was involved and pushed him into doing so. You admitted it to yourself, and I didn't say he never would have helped, I just said he had refused to help before and only did later because of Pepper. Which you just admitted to, thank you."

I wrote a whole essay about this, with clear arguments and sources, and still it got twisted completely somehow. Well, I’ll say it different way then:

“Tony only helped because Pepper was involved” – as I said he came to her to ask for permission to put her life at risk, their daughter’s life, and his life, since he is her husband. Btw, that’s what Cap, Nat and Scott asked him to do. He did the right thing, being responsible and respectful here, unlike some other characters in the MCU, who are also husbands and fathers. Scott never asked his family members if it’s ok for him to go and do risky stuff, despite having a daughter, who could be left without a father. There is a lot to say about him actually, but not today.

Same about Clint – did he ask his family if it’s ok if he goes to help Cap in violating laws, risking his life and freedom? According to his words in Civil War (1:22:55 – scene where Clint extracts Wanda from Avengers Compound) when Wanda asked him “What are you doing here?” he answered “Disappointing my kids. I’m supposed to go waterskiing”. That means he doesn’t care about his family much. And you are telling me that Tony didn’t care about Peter. But this is another topic and will be addressed later.

Back to Pepper - if she hadn't been there, it wouldn't have changed anything, except that Tony might feel guilty because he didn't have a chance to talk to her.

“pushed him into doing so” – again, as I stated in Part 2, she didn’t push him into anything. He asked her what she thinks, she said to him what he wanted to hear: “Tony, trying to get you to stop has been one of the few failures of my entire life” and he smiles, and rubs her hand, showing his gratitude for the permission not to stop (Avengers Endgame 0:42:50). She means here “you can go, because I know you can’t live in peace without trying to save everyone”.

“I just said he had refused to help before” – you probably should pay more attention to what's happening on the screen.

He refused because, as I said in the Part 2, he ran time travel tests before and they all failed. Because of that he lost hope in that option, and just told the team what he knows about the possibility. They came to him not knowing anything about time travel, brought raw enthusiasm, supported only by an accident caused by a rat running across the control panel. They told him at 0:35:20, that their plan to save the dusted is based on Back to the Future, which is completely incorrect interpretation of time travel. Thus they are not serious enough and are ready to take unnecessary risks, playing with mumbo-jumbo. Tony is more mature now, he learned from his past mistakes – not to take unnecessary risks. He is the adult in that scene, they are kids. They ask him to risk lives blindly. Lives of his family, his own and their lives too (0:34:30 & 0:35:10). Of course he refused. Any responsible adult would refuse. Would be there a real chance to execute the "time heist" – he would do that. And that’s what he eventually does.

[a-random-french-girl]

Some people asked me what was my favorite version of Frozen, if I preferred the French version because I’m French or the English version because it’s the original version

I always answer: well, it’s not really the same movie

And they’re like ???

Let me explain!

The two versions are really different from one another due to the fact that we have to translate what is said and then try to sync it with the characters’ lips

And in France we loooove butchering movies and their plots

The thing is, you have two types of translation: translating the movie perfectly but losing the musicality of it (that would be for example the French Canadian version) and “translating” the movie and have something that sounds great

They didn’t do it for Frozen though, I’m actually sad for the québécois because Elsa’s singer is the French voice actress, which doesn’t make any sense, when Anna and Elsa sing together, they don’t even have the same “accent”! (We can’t really talk about an accent here, it’s just that they prononce the same word differently, we tend to merge certain syllables in French like instead of saying “je te l’ai dit” we say instead “j’te l’ai dit”, French Canadians don’t really do that) so it’s sooo weird!

But back to the main point, I will admit it guys, at first, I didn’t like Frozen *gaps* WAIT COME BACK, LET ME EXPLAIN

Okay, I didn’t like Frozen because the plot didn’t make any sense! And then 6 years later, Frozen 2 came out and I was like “hey, let’s watch the first movie again but in English this time” and gooood, it was better (plus, I didn’t speak English back in 2013! So that’s why I watched it in French back then!)

Most characters in the French version are so angry and bitter that I’m like “guys, just chill” and they’re so paradoxical at the same time!

I wanna share with you an extract of my favorite song, for the first time in forever reprise

Look at this:

I’m such a fool I can’t be free —> ni libérée, ni délivrée (neither free nor...free, French is so stupid, I love it. It’s a reference to let it go which is translated in French by “libérée, délivrée” just imagine the English translation, freeee, freeeee I’ll never lie again! (Yes Elsa said that in French...))

No escape from the storm inside of me —> dites moi comment ne pas désespérer (tell me how to not lose hope, okay, that’s not what she said but hey, at least it’s the right emotion)

I can’t control the curse —> Ce don est si intense (this gift is so intense (big mistake here, come on people, have you seen the movie? Gift??? ELSA HATES IT)

Anna please you’ll only make it worse —> toutes ces belles promesses n’ont pas de sens (all these fine promises make no sense, sounds a bit accusatory. Like “Anna you say these things but I call bullshit”)

There’s so much fear —> ce sera pire (it will be worse, okay, you missed a crucial feeling there. She is scared. She is panicking)

You’re not safe here —> tu vas souffrir (you’re going to suffer, okay, you missed something there too. They actually already failed it a bit earlier in the song too, in English, she clearly says “I’m the danger here, you should stay away” I’m French she is like “you’re in danger! For some reason! Don’t mind me I’m here! OH LOOK! ICE! TOLD YOU YOU WERE IN DANGER” ah and also, you’re going to suffer? It’s a weird thing to say, it sounds like a threat, or even worse, like a promise. Dark Elsa is the main character in French)

But that’s not only it! Now I’m going to talk about let it go, oh wait my bad, free free

Some lyrics are...uh, wrong. Or even worse, I don’t even know what they mean

“The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside” Le vent qui hurle en moi ne pense plus à demain (the wind howling inside me doesn’t think about tomorrow anymore...err, really poetic, but...what? Indeed Elsa, I’m sure it doesn’t...)

“Don’t let them in, don’t let them see, be the good girl you always have to be” cache tes pouvoirs, n’en parle pas, fais attention, le secret survivra (hide your powers, don’t talk about them, be careful, the secret will survive. Okay nice but in the English version, she is sarcastic, she is angry, she is slightly blaming her parents. Where is it in French?)

“Conceal don’t feel, don’t let them know, well now they know” Pas d’états d’âme, pas de tourments, de sentiments (no qualms, no torment, no feelings. Okay, YOU FAILED THIS TIME, there’s no evolution in Elsa’s behavior! After that, she says she is free, sounds a bit random! And when she removes her gloves, in the French version you’re like “ah? She changed her mind? Err cool I guess. I was so confused back then. Elsa pretty much says “I’m sad, I have to stop feeling, I’M FREEEEE”)

But even worse, they changed the characters: for example, Anna

Not sweet Anna T_T I mean, in the English version, she is sooo forgiving (a bit too much some might say)

But I don’t know guys, in French she sounds a bit selfish and accusatory, it’s gonna be hard to explain but bear with me

In for the first time in forever reprise, or le renouveau in French (the resurgence, but it also means the return of Spring , French can be really poetic sometimes)

She says things like “you have no right to run away from me like this” instead of “you don’t have to keep your distance anymore”, a weird thing to say with a gentle voice. But also, that’s not what she said??? Then Anna says “ because for the first time in forever, I finally understand”, it wouldn’t have worked in French after this sentence, so instead she says “because I want to celebrate this resurgence, that will change your fate” err okay, whatever you want Anna. And fate? Well technically the translation is destiny. It gives the impression that Elsa was doomed like a main character in a Shakespearean tragedy. You’re so a drama queen Anna. Didn’t you hear her sing at the top of her lungs at the top of that mountain? She is free, she is happy, well, temporarily but she is! ...It’s a miracle it didn’t set off an avalanche. It’s your fate that wouldn’t have been good.

And like, for some reason, she loves saying what she wants “I want to celebrate this resurgence” “I’d like a snowman”, what about your sister?

“We will free ourselves from this burden” instead of “we will head down this mountain together” wtf does it mean Anna? Is this burden Elsa’s powers? Or the secret? You’re confusing girl

“You plunged the entire country into an eternal winter” instead of “You kind of set off an eternal winter everywhere” she is sooo awkward about it in English because she doesn’t want to scare her off or hurt her feelings. In French? Pffft, subtlety? That’s for the weak. You did this Elsa, congratulations. No beating about the bush.

I’m not saying the translators did a bad job, their job is super hard and they actually nailed it on lots of things but yeah, when I talk about French Elsa, I feel like I’m talking about someone else. It gets even worse when you read French fanfictions. So which version is the best? None! (English, definitively English), that’s why I was able to watch this movie 6 times (yes, now it’s 6) in so many languages, it’s really fun to see how translators decided to translate certain things, and decided what was important for the plot, or not

Anyway, I felt like sharing this piece of information with you guys! Btw, my post is partly based on a French video made by LinksTheSun, about Disney songs. It has English subtitles so you should check it out, it’s actually really fun

https://youtu.be/2jo5u0TBpJM

Oh and of course, I have to share with you the French version of For The First Time In Forever Reprise, which is too great to miss out: https://youtu.be/z7mEF7gRGik

Wow you made it till the end! Thank you!

Here’s a stupid meme for your trouble:

[darkblueboxs]

Thought on Neil’ relationship with Nicky and how it develops post canon? Happy birthday btw!

Ay thank you, it is still my birthday for eighteen minutes as of posting! Heck yes!

Send “Thoughts on ____” asks

When Nicky found out Neil was the runaway son of a crime lord, he was shocked, sure, but it was nothing compared to when he found out that Neil was with Andrew. Then, just when he had adjusted to the idea of hate-fucking or whatever their arrangement was, Andrew chose Neil over his deal with Aaron, and everything Nicky thought he knew was blown apart all over again.

Nicky spent most of Neil’s first year trying to draw him into the fold – skittish, anxious Neil who just looked so lost whenever anyone tried to help him, and reacted with genuine surprise when Nicky called him a friend – and he spent years before that trying to do the same with Andrew. Bring him into their makeshift family and give him a place to call home; he left Germany, his fiancé, his shot at a life of his own, everything to try and build something for his cousins. And for years he was met with brick walls and stony indifference.

And then this twitchy little striker pulled up and wormed his way into Andrew’s heart in a matter of months. He made Andrew care. He understood him in a way Nicky had been trying to do since the day they met. He brought Andrew back from the cliff-edge of his own indifference, and in doing so helped Andrew start to build a life, not for himself but for both of them. It is lucky that Nicky doesn’t have a bitter bone in his body, otherwise he would have been inconsolable that Neil should have succeeded so quickly and so easily where Nicky didn’t. Where Nicky failed.

And for a while, he does feel like a failure. He didn’t see beneath the boundary issues and the brutality to the hallmarks of Andrew’s abuse, failed to be there for him in what he can only imagine was a painstaking process of coming to terms with his sexuality. Worst of all, he led Andrew back into the den of the people who broke him apart in the first place. So, for a while, when Nicky looks at Neil, all he can see is his failings as a cousin and as a caretaker bounced back in his face.

But Nicky doesn’t have a bitter bone in his body. He brushes the pain away, rolls up his sleeves, and vows to do better.

Neil may have done the heavy lifting when it comes to breaking through to Andrew, but Nicky signed up to five more years in the states with the sole aim of helping his cousins, and he doesn’t plan on slacking off now that Neil has opened a door for him. Neil and Andrew’s relationship is mystifying to him for some time, but it requires tact, patience and quiet observation (none of which are Nicky’s strengths) for him to understand, finally, what makes them work. And, by extension, how Andrew works. Boundaries, a willingness to listen, and where necessary, silence.

But as much as Nicky follows in Neil’s footsteps when it comes to Andrew, he follows in Andrew’s footsteps when it comes to Neil. He sees how Andrew convinced Neil to stay, to accept the Foxes and commit to life with them. And now that Nicky understands the reasoning behind Neil’s skittishness and reluctance, he goes above and beyond to make Neil understand that he is family, forever.

The day Nicky and the twins graduate is a difficult one. Tensions are high, even if no one involved will admit it. The twins, still unsure as to how their relationship with each other will unfold without forced proximity. Andrew and Neil, preparing for long-distance after years in constant company. And Nicky, about to jet off to another continent for his happily ever after. He knows his job is done, there is no more he can do for the twins and no more that they would welcome or accept, but the guilt is still there.

And over these years Neil has become as close to a cousin as the others, indistinguishable. “Family isn’t about blood,” Nicky told Neil when he first came to Palmetto, and he tells him again as Nicky is on the brink of leaving. “And it isn’t about who you’re dating, either.”

“What?” Neil says. Music is thumping through speakers, and the dormitories are full of foxes revelling in post-graduation festivities by getting as drunk as possible.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying you and Andrew can’t do long-distance. I know how tough it is, but I know that you two are tougher. You’re going to be fine. Better than fine.”

Neil nods. He hasn’t been drinking, but his eyes are a little glassy all the same. “Thanks, Nicky.”

“What I’m saying is… no matter what happens with you and Andrew, it doesn’t change this.” Nicky gestures between them. “Us. Family is what we say it is, and I say that you’re ours. No matter what. Get me?”

“I get you.” Neil accepts Nicky’s shoulder pat gracefully. Later that week, Nicky and Andrew take him to the mall so that he can upgrade his phone to one that can handle skype, emoji, pictures, and Nicky extracts a promise from Neil that he will learn how to use it before Nicky leaves the country.

Nicky will never forget what Neil did for his family, and Neil will never forget the family that Nicky gave him.

[ice-magician]

With Your Conscience As Your Guide

I made another AU off of the amazing AU @spaceiplier! (Go check them out if you don’t know who they are). Last time I did one for Matt, so now I’m doing one for our bud Nate from NateWantsToBattle (and if you don’t know who he is. Youtube.Go.Now.) The first part takes place before the events of Icarus, but soon brings you to our current screaming state. Another possible title for this was ‘The Price of Living’, but I landed on this one since his look is based heavily on the Puppet (conscience, Pinnochio, get it? ;) I have thoughts for a part 2, but idk...) BTW- sentence italics are thoughts, in case someone’s unfamiliar with this writing style. Enough stalling, here it is.

Five years ago

A quarantine- that’s what everyone had been told. For the benefit of the people, Atria was under a strict quarantine. Every known Atrian had been required to return to their home planet. All known Atrian homes were swarming with GAAP agents.

The people were given masks, air secure pods, GAAP’s “deepest condolences for the inconveniences”, and were booted back to Atria. A quarantine bubble was created to cover the entire circumference of the planet, immediately muting the song she sent to off worlders. Atrians didn’t carry some unknown, deadly disease. Atrians weren’t a threat to anyone or anything more than other citizens. Atrians were musicians; they were doctors.

As long as beings could strike a tune, music has been related to the soul. Certain melodies affect how people feel and react. Ordinary musicians can give audiences highs and lows with simple beats, for Atrians even more so. An Atrian’s music flows through the very souls and minds of their audiences.

As scientists linked music to brain activity, many Atrians found their way into the field of medicine. Simple strikes of a guitar could eradicate a tumor, and a complete song rose the deathly ill out of their beds. Atrian music had enough power to heal many of the galaxy’s complex diseases, and it scared GAAP. So, they locked the musicians up, claiming their healing energy had begun to emit deadly radioactive material.

With Atrians gone, medical advancements came to an abrupt halt. Viruses evolved. People needing an Atrian’s precise hand could no longer go under with a 100% guarantee that they would awake in a stable state of mind. No matter what people tried, nothing matched an Atrian’s abilities. Through it all, GAAP never budged on lifting the “quarantine”.

No, there was no disease. Atria had been sealed up because GAAP was afraid. Afraid of what Atrians were capable of. They were afraid of what might happen should the planet ever find the skeletons in GAAP’s closet. They were right to be afraid.

Closing off Atria wasn’t just to keep everyone in, either. Atria’s core is one of a kind. Above ground, she sings and dances to the energy created by her people. The further down ventured, the richer, and older the layers’ energy becomes. The lifesongs of any who live, and lived, on Atria flow through her veins, giving all inhabitants the energy they need to make the music required to survive. Finally, the core of the planet. A beautiful crystal sphere with the power of ten blazing suns. Pulsating with life, the sphere once reached into her world, to her people amongst the stars with crystals of their own.

When GAAP closed off Atria, offworld Atrians began to lose their power, their very energy. Any Atrian who managed to avoid GAAP would be forced to scavenge for their own energy sources. They needed energy to make their music, and their music to live. Music is like sleep to Atrians. Take it away, and the consequences are devastating. Atrians refusing to return home found their calm nature turn into something twisted; mangled into beings beyond recognition as they fought to live.

.

.

.

Nate reclined in his cushioned chair. Red light from fake windows made his black velvet vest almost appear to shine, the red button up underneath the color of blood. Black hair slicked back, black eyeliner, porcelain makeup, and an ornate cane. He really was working the part. An anxious customer sat before his desk.

A kid, late teens, probably. Poor thing’s legs were bouncing up and down so fast Nate was sure one would spring off. The boy’s skin was completely white, almost to the point of glowing. The only color was his practically neon green eyes, and matching green hair. Stark white, with eyes and hair of the same color- a Danacan. He wrung his hands, eyes affixed to the floor.

“So, you’re saying,” the boy began, “if I give you some of my energy, you’ll help me?”

Four tumors, that was how many the boy had left in his body after five medical extractions. The things just wouldn’t stop growing. Over the last two months, the monsters had become more aggressive; all had begun to converge on his brain. Doctors had given up hope on saving the boy’s life, and no one else would see him. Everyone believed he was a lost cause. When sayings like “lost cause”, or “no hope” arise in situations, people find themselves in places never before imagined. For instance, the underground shop of a mysterious healer.

“Look, kid.”

“Dan, my name is Dan.” The boy, Dan, offered a sad smile, for once looking up from the floor.

Poor kid. Nate knew he was Dan’s last hope. The medical field had failed him, so he had turned to a shady (but effective) businessman. It was too bad that Nate couldn’t offer his work for credits.

“Okay, Dan.”

Nate twirled his cane in his hands. The ornate rod held a perfectly sculpted crystal ball- Atrian crystal. Energy swirled inside in mesmerizing summersaults. If songs didn’t entrance you, Atrian energy certainly would. Stare long enough, and the orb’s bottled energy would be the center of your attention, the outside world no longer a bother. It was no wonder people mistook Atrians for workers of dark arts in older times.

Nate silently stood from his chair. His shoes didn’t make a sound as Nate glided towards a wooden shelf full of mysterious objects. Vials, scales, clouded jars, a small wooden box that flowed as a semisolid. Quite an impressive collection of mysterious trinkets Nate had assembled.

Nate spoke to Dan, “Life energy removal is no small matter, Dan. Your condition is serious. Doctors, nurses, therapists, they have all failed you...”

Nate spun on his heels, dramatically half sitting on the bottom shelf while leaning on his cane. A smile curled on his lips, white teeth shining, his eyeliner making his eyes’ devilish twinkle more pronounced, “... which brought you to me.”

Dan nodded. He was trying to look brave, but the flicker in his form quickly erased his false bravado. Desperation, nervousness, and a small sliver of hope. Nate could practically see an aura of energy radiate from Dan.

“Well, my dear friend,” Nate plucked a blue vial from behind his back, “you’re in luck.”

Dan’s eyes widened, “What is it?”

Nate gazed at the sparkling liquid. He held it at his eye level, showing its worth. The room’s red light made the glass glimmer more than it already did.

“This, dear boy, is what you came here for.”

Nate strode back to his desk. He slipped Dan the liquid. Its light danced in the boy’s eyes, but there was something more there. Dan held the vial so carefully, as if moving might break it. Hope; Dan believed the mystery serum would help him. Perfect.

“How much do you need? E-energy, I mean.”

Nate idly sat on the corner of his desk. He tapped his cane to his chin, pretending to think.

“Hmm… four months? Yeah, four months sounds good. Four months of life energy for a cure.”

Nate smiled. He pointed his cane at Dan, “What do ya say?”

Dan looked from Nate to the vial, then back to Nate, “I- I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on, kid! Four months in trade for a cure? It’s nothing! You won’t even need further medical hands for the formula to work. You take it, you go home, get rest, later you find that you’ve been cured. It’s a miracle!”

Nate threw his arms into the air, and winked for good measure.

Dan sighed, “Will it hurt?”

“Not one bit, kid.”

The boy nodded, “Okay. Okay, let’s do it.”

“Brilliant!” Nate patted Dan’s shoulder, causing him to flinch, “I knew you’d make the right choice. Just let me get everything set up.”

Nate quickly plucked the vial from Dan’s hand, “Here, hold my cane, will ya? I need both hands for this.” He patted Dan’s shoulder again, and turned to more equipment at the back of the shop.

The boy was still in the same position he had been in moments before, “Wait, what? How-?”

“Don’t worry, kid.” Nate pretended to fiddle with assorted props, “Just hold my cane. Mind checking if it needs polishing? I keep forgetting that.”

“But, I, what… about…”

Nate counted down in his head, Three, two, one.

Nate turned around to a familiar sight. His customer sat rigid at his desk, intently facing forward and holding the cane. From where he stood, Nate could see Dan’s expression trapped in his crystal, dead to the world. All was as it should be. Nate placed the fake liquid cure back on its shelf, along with the other props and knick-knacks he had accumulated over the years.

He tapped an obscure code into the wall. There was a click, and a part of the wall slid open, revealing a sleek blue electric guitar. A giddiness arose in Nate that only came with the excitement of performing. He hungrily plucked the instrument from its hideout.

Nate leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, relaxed his shoulders, and played. The words weren’t prepared, they never were in those situations, they just came to him like a calm breeze. The air in the room stilled. It was as if everything, possibly even the world itself, had stopped to listen.

When he opened his eyes the store was swimming with crackling white energy. The hair’s on Nate’s arms stood on end from the dancing white sparks. The guitar’s strings shined and vibrated from the force of his music. Everything was in a shimmering, twisting, beautifully chaotic state of raw energy. He took in a deep, satisfied breath.

Nate strode back toward the frozen Dan. Leaning down in front of him, he could see the boy’s eyes were glazed over, completely fixated on the Atrian orb. His mouth was still open mid sentence.

Nate quickly retrieved his cane from Dan’s grasp. Holding it high above his head, Nate focused on the exact amount of energy he needed. Being drawn in by some unseen force, clusters of Dan’s life energy swam into Nate’s crystal. Four months of energy, to be exact.

Most of the energy was stored into the orb, but a few crackling tendrils coursed down the cane and into Nate’s arm. Energy shot through his veins in twisting lanes. They rocketed upwards to his heart, vocal cords, and face. Finally, Nate felt the cracking parts in his being begin to mend. Lightning bolts of life restored what was crumbling in Nate’s mind. For a while, at least, the energy would keep him whole.

.

.

.

Rendezvous were almost always in public places. With plenty of people, a scene would cause many heads to turn. It gave the customers a sense of security. Of course, while large crowds can be an advantage, it’s easy to get lost in them. A whirlpool of chattering, towering skyscrapers with various programs, and news sprawling across their surfaces. A cry for help would be a soundless scream into a deaf void.

Nate drove Dan to meet his friends. After customers’... operations… they were disoriented, sluggish, their minds easily bent to believe, or forget, certain details. Nate played the role of the customer’s chauffeur; an employee of the mystery healer. With patrons never truly remembering his face upon recollection, he earned the street name of “Phantom”. It was cheesy, but in a good way.

Nate the Chauffeur always wore a mask to meet ups, his cane in the guise of an umbrella. It was a rusted-looking bronze, and covered his entire face. Anywhere else he would have drawn attention, but he was in the center of a bustling metropolis. A rainbow of different colored individuals, all with different shades of hair, numbers of limbs, and amounts of facial features clustered together in a flowing broom of passersby. No one batted an eye.

Only one customer was allowed in Phantom’s shop, but the customer could decide who took them home. Phantom Nate being the one to drive patrons home was too risky, for both him and his clients. A mystery man dropping you off at your doorstep was bound to raise neighbors’ eyebrows. No, instead he created the persona of Phantom’s masked driver. Pretending to be someone that he wasn’t had become disturbingly easy for Nate ever since he became a lone wolf.

Half the city’s skyscrapers were broadcasting on their windows’ holoscreens. Reruns of popular shows, advertisements, statistics on people’s income and more all flashed in erratic motions in the square. Behind him, Nate caught sight of a familiar face. He was on his independent news/theory show, cracking bad jokes at the camera. Nate’s heart sank. When was the last time he had even seen Matt and Steph, in person, of course? Too long, for sure. As long as they were on screen, though, Nate knew they were okay.

Behind his mask, Nate smiled.

Well, at least one of us is doing alright.

“You better not be bullshitting us.”

Dislodged from his thoughts, Nate sighed, “Phantom doesn’t “bullshit” his clients.”

Dan had two friends, both teen Danacans, pick him up. One was a timid, shorter boy with gray hair pulled into a ponytail. The other was rather vocal, with a purple mohawk. He stood before Nate with stubbornly crossed arms, and an irritated look.

Mohawk sneered, “Yeah? Well where is he?”

Ponytail, who was struggling to hold up Dan in his groggy state, shot Mohawk a warning look.

“Come on, we’ve got Dan. Let’s just go.”

So, you’re the voice of reason in the group? Nate thought.

“You should listen to your friend. Give him a few weeks of recuperation, and he’ll be alright.”

Mohawk stared at Nate, trying to pick any information he could off of Nate’s unreadable appearance. Good for him. Always question the motives of others, especially in Nate’s line of work. Mohawk opened his mouth to say something, when one voice rose above the others.

“As many of you know, I try my best to diverge from political topics....”

Nate, and half the street, turned to the nearest news- broadcasting skyscraper. Trillions of pixels made the image of a brown haired man in front of a holographic screen. The spokesman was facing the camera, eyes practically burning with anger.

Matt, what are you doing?...

“Moments ago the planet Atria’s quarantine bubble was rocked with a massive explosion.”

An image appeared behind him- Atria. A rock lodged itself in Nate’s throat. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually seen Atria; he had been off world when the quarantine was announced. The Atria on the screen he barely recognized. GAAP’s quarantine shield made seeing the planet’s surface hazy; what marked the planet that day wasn’t able to be covered up. A giant scorch mark blemished the quarantine’s western hemisphere. Smoke was traveling fast underneath where the explosion made contact. Someone on ground had nuked the sphere. Without thinking, Nate took a curious step forward.

Matt ran a hand through his hair- a tick, something he did while thinking, “Before the quarantine… good friends of mine were Atrian.”

Nate could practically feel Matt looking at him.

“I have overlooked many of GAAP’s actions, but Atria is my home’s twin planet. For five years now Atrians have been cast aside, out of view. What did we do? We didn’t question it. Atrians are not a violent race, but people are capable of anything in order to survive.”

Matt walked closer to the camera, so close that all you could see was from his shoulders up. An expression unlike any Nate had seen crossed Matt’s face. Anger? Determination? A bit of both? The wheels were visibly spinning in Matt’s eyes.

“I will be visiting Ahtret’s satellite station as soon as I can. If any GAAP agents wish to meet and offer a feasible explanation, that is where I will be, but I will not let this stand. That will be all for today.”

And just like that, the building’s screens went dark. Half of the formerly bustling street was staring up, mouths agape in disbelief.

What was he thinking? Maybe that was it- he wasn’t. Years of not knowing what had happened to his sister planet, subsequently his own, and his friends, had finally pushed the Theorist to defiance. Part of Nate was proud of him, another felt guilty, and the last mortified. Matt might have been doing it for Atria, but Nate could tell he was doing it for him. Nate hadn’t contacted him since the quarantine. Matt probably thought he was dead, or down the broken path for survival. Most likely the latter.

“Damn”, a voice from behind- Mohawk, “if it’s enough to get Theory guy to cover it…”

He stopped, a devious twinkle in his eye. Mohawk turned to his friend, who was losing his grip on the drowsy Dan.

“Do you think this is the start of a space war?”

The smaller boy’s eyes widen in fear, “What?”

“Yeah, I mean, he doesn’t cover it unless it’s serious, right?”

“Space War? But dat’s just a theeory. A space theory!” Drugged Dan booped his friend on the nose.

Nate awkwardly cleared his throat, “Well, if that’s all, I’ll be off.”

They weren’t listening.

“Oh, come on, Hosuh! Don’t you want a laser gun?”

“... Stephen, I don’t even trust you to use a butter knife!”

“Nah, nah, nah. Knives are too informal for war.”

“Space war, pew peeww….”

Nate left as quickly as possible.

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.

.

Two left turns, one right, one left, in through a bakery shop, out the side door, and the twists continue. Nate had truly mastered the art of avoiding capture, but that night his mind was elsewhere. He took the beginning twists and sharp corners, however, somewhere in the mess of crowded concrete and a cluttered head, Nate found himself far off his beaten path.

The sun had nearly set. He was on alone, one way street, apartments hugging the road. With an exasperated sigh, Nate slid to sit on the sidewalk. The glow from his cane/umbrella’s orb beat like a steady heart. He willed the orb to diminish its shine. A sweaty mask would do him no good if his umbrella was glowing suspiciously through the dark.

Nate thought back to earlier, the drop off, a moment that was supposed to be like any other closing for a client. Returning the customer just a formality, an act of humanitarianism on his part. If he wanted, Nate could let his clients wander outside of his shop, confused, gullible, their minds easily influenced. No, instead he went out of his way to ensure he maintained a clean image for his business.

All had gone well. He had his music, his energy, and the customer was satisfied. Then, disaster struck. The screens broadcasted his friend’s face to everyone. Matt’s determined expression, of utter disdain. He was walking a dangerous line.

Matt had always been so guarded with his information. When they spoke so long ago, even Nate had been unsure of everything Matt knew. His team was brilliant, one of the best in the galaxy, but did they know enough? Were they ready for GAAP? Call him crazy, but Nate doubted their ability to take on an intergalactic entity.

“Um, excuse me?” a male voice called from behind.

Nate started to turn, then thought better of it. His mask, he was still wearing the mask. In a city crowd, no one would care, but he didn’t have the luxury of apathetic passersby. He was practically in the suburbs, the close-knit part of town where everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows everything.

Nate cleared his throat. He stood up, dusted off his clothes, and readjusted his mask.

“Sorry to disturb you. I’ll be on my way.”

“What are you doing out here? It’s completely dark.”

There was an edge to his voice. He suspected Nate of something, as he should. A stranger idling on your street is something to take note of.

“Oh, nothing. Just got lost. You know how easy it is.” Nate tried to offer a lighthearted chuckle. The man did not reciprocate.

Part of him itched to reach into his coat pocket for the holo-guitar. A small, square object that would instantly project a holographic electric guitar. A few strums would be all he needed to calmly send the man back inside, but no. Survival instincts overthrew his desire to play. All that was needed was a cool retreat into the night.

“Anyway, goodnight, si-.”

Suddenly, Nate felt the muscles in his back tense up like taught guitar strings. Then came the electricity. It felt like the culmination of his entire being was on fire. His muscles started spamming. Nate hit the ground hard as he was sent into seizing convolutions. His mask flew off his face, bouncing until it stopped face down on the concrete, just like its owner.

A cloth was wrapped too tightly around Nate’s mouth. He had lost all use of his limbs. Nate was a rag doll on a side street in the middle of nowhere. His cane. Where was his cane?!

“... mask and a cane. Can’t miss him!”

Wait, who was talking?

A hand reached forward, and pulled down his sleeve. He felt utterly exposed. His veins glowed white in the dark of night, the energy from before still being fully absorbed. It took time for foreign energy to adapt to its new host, sometimes hours, sometimes days.

The sudden reveal of his unique biology caused his attacker to pause, “What are you?” he whispered.

Someone who’s gonna kick your ass if you don’t back the hell up!

Of course, rendered immobile, Nate couldn’t say these things. He was unable to protest as the attacker shrugged off his surprise, and inserted a needle into his arm. He was unable to object when the man examined his mask, then staggered back at the markings it had covered. He couldn’t call out for help as his mind went numb, and the world went dark.

.

.

.

The shop wasn’t as busy as usual. Nate was calmly fixing the newest guitar. He twisted the knobs on the once broken guitar. A simple job, really, but not to modern people. Sadly, Nate found that he was one of the few true music shops around in his town.

Nate struck a few chords. A soothing rhythm flowed forth. It was perfect, all fixed. Nate smiled to himself. Nothing was quite as satisfying as a perfect instrument. As he expertly polished the wooden surface, Nate glanced around. Guitars, electric and acoustic, hung for sale behind him. Various woodwinds remained silent on their stands across from him. The drums in the back waited for someone to strike a beat.

He bit his lip, and glanced down at the guitar. Its newly shining surface beamed back at him, almost in a mocking way. Nate gave the front door a sideways glance. The customer wasn’t supposed to return for another hour. Truly testing out the refurbished work would just be a part of the job, right? Ah, screw it. Nate slung the cleaning rag over his shoulder, and left the glass checkout counter. As he had left it, the “Sorry, We’re Closed” sign was still on the door.

Paranoid, he chided himself.

Nate lifted the beautiful instrument off the counter, and rested it on his leg. Outside, the setting sky of Atria wavered with spirals of blue and gray. Music glided through the streets, lifting up on the wind and flowing to all waiting ears. Such a tangible thing, Atrian music.

You didn’t need to see it to know that somewhere a celebration was underway. That was simply the way of Atria. Her energy met every soul, filling them to contentment. Nate closed his eyes, and smiled. He drifted into his music.

Nate wasn’t sure how long he had been entranced. When he opened his eyes the store was swimming with crackling white energy. The guitar’s strings shone and vibrated from the power of his music. Everything was shimmering, and twisting in beautiful chaotic swirls of Nate’s music.

He took in a deep, satisfied breath. Nate put the instrument down, and watched as Atria’s tangible energy danced across the store. It did tangos and ballets to the beat of whatever was playing outside. A large portion of the sparks concealed into a twisting mass. Without warning, the ball launched at Nate, sending him flying off his chair. He hit the wall, the guitar slid several feet away. Nate touched the tender spot, and recoiled from pain. The mass jerked from side to side, writhing, unsure of what form to take.

“What the hell?”

More and more energy was consumed by the mysterious bundle, each spark making its glow brighter. Nate shielded his eyes, and staggered to his feet. He felt the heap watching him as he hugged the wall, inching towards the door.

His hand was on the knob, ready to make a mad dash, when a massive weight knocked him in the gut. Glass and sparks flew in Nate’s vision. His body crashed into the concrete with a concerning “crack!”. Nate tried to get up, but he could no longer see; the orb had grown to completely swallow his vision. It felt like the light was absorbing Nate’s entire being. He let out a gut-wrenching scream.

His head hit the concrete again, but this time it was smooth and cold. Sparks danced behind his stone eyelids. Nate’s body burned with pain. Had someone reached into his body, pulled every muscle out, then sewed him back together? If so, they did a sloppy job. It didn’t feel like his hands moved when Nate called them to action.

Slowly, through the cotton in his ears, Nate began to make out human voices. They were all around him, fading in and out, whispering back and forth.

“Is he awake?”

Spoken in a normal voice, but it felt like the person shouted. Nate cringed from the growing migraine in his head.

“I believe so.”

“That guy really did a number on him, huh?”

Who was talking? What was going on? Curiosity won over pain in the end. Groaning with effort, Nate slowly lifted his head. At first, all he saw were a few blurry figures in a dark room. When his vision cleared all he wanted to do was run.

Nate was in a small room, handcuffed to a holotable, no cane to be found. Four people were in front of him. A man and a woman sat across from him, and behind them stood two very alert, very armed guards, GAAP guards.

Well, shit.

Sitting down, the woman was taller than the man by a few good inches. Her silver hair was pulled back into a neat bun, blouse immaculate and pressed. She had full brown eyes, so it was impossible to read her emotions. Her body posture was so rigid Nate was positive that it hurt. Her hands were clasped calmly on the blue, glowing table.

The man’s appearance was exactly the same- neat to the point of impurity. A button up green uniform, thick black mustache, and cold green eyes. His demeanor was more relaxed than the woman’s. The man sat a little more slouched backwards in his chair.  The man knew exactly where he was and exactly what was about to happen.

A smug smile tugged at his lips. He held up a small device, “Shock collar. Jolted you pretty fast from dreamland. Hate to interrupt your slumber, princess.”

He twiddled the device, as if it weren’t something that could violently wreck Nate’s neck. Wherever Nate was, there was a good chance that the man was in charge. He was clearly sadistic, and didn’t look like he would be stopping soon; unease bound itself to Nate. He needed out.

The woman spoke up, “Hello, Mr. Sharp. It is Sharp, isn’t it?”

Nate didn’t move, and not just because every molecule hurt. He refused to give these people any kind of satisfaction from his response. GAAP didn’t own him, they didn’t own his people, even if they thought they did. Silence was a counterattack to their pretentious attitude.

A couple of words was all he needed. They had a shock collar, but he could deal. The last time hadn’t been too bad, in retrospect. Nate could subdue them, get his cane, and break out. Underground, deeper this time, maybe even another galaxy? Nihill was the opposite of desirable, but its streets were so crowded that one Atrian could surely make a little nook for themselves. His mind was already searching for the right words to the melody that would release him.

A spark of pain shot through his vocal chords, similar to the jolt from his dream, but stronger. Nate howled in pain. Tears rushed to his eyes while the pain spread up and around his entire neck. He instinctively reached for the injured area, but his hands were still cuffed. Across the table, the smirk hadn’t left the man’s face.

“The brace around your neck is restricting your vocal chords. You may talk, but a single hum will cause an electrical shock. Similarly, if you do not talk, there will be another shock. Each time you do not cooperate, the voltages will increase,” the woman explained.

A grin of deep satisfaction spread across the general’s face, “What she means is simple- you’re our little puppet.”

Nate hadn’t noticed before, but there was something looped around his neck. A metal, light, but a little heavier, and near his voice box.

Nate sighed, “Nice accessory. I didn’t know GAAP was into kinky stuff now.”

The man squinted his eyes. He looked about ready to shock Nate again.

“My name is Marxca. I am apart of the intergalactic crime division of GAAP.”

Marxca shot the man a look, pushing him to an introduction of his own. He sighed, and put down the remote.

“General Jobs. I am the overseer of illegal galactic crimes, and suspicious people.” He pointed a finger at Nate, “That means you.”

Marxca typed on the table. Images instantly sprung up. A birth certificate, his high school diploma, the names of family and friends. Nate’s entire life was being presented to him through an interrogation room hologram. Thankfully, they only had one recent photo- him in the metal mask, hiding the deep, purple Atrian markings that ran like thick tear trails from his eyes. No mentions of his clients, or workshops appeared anywhere on the screen.

“A few weeks ago, we received an anonymous caller informing us about a suspicious man in a mask,” General Jobs said, “but by the time we got there you were long gone. But thanks to that, we had a photo on you to go by. Of course, with a mask like that, we figured you were a criminal. We searched there, and the surrounding cities, until a certain civilian managed to trick you with a taser. Imagine our surprise to find that you weren’t just a crook- you were an illegal Atrian.”

Nate ground his teeth, “I haven’t committed any crime other than living!”

Jobs reached for the remote again, but Marxca stopped him. She typed again, and the images receded. Unlike before, Nate could see her clearly now. She was GAAP, they both were, and GAAP wanted him gone, but where? Back to Atria? No one could get in or out of the planet. Even if he could, with God knows what happening on the surface, Nate wasn’t sure he wanted to. So, where did that leave Nate?

“Exactly what charges are you holding me here for? Being Atrian, is that it? Because of your fake-.”

Time stopped. Nate felt his heart pounding in his ears. None of the people, no one in the room, was wearing radiation protection. Even basic GAAP soldiers wore some kind of protection, the minimum being masks. Everyone in the room- the agent, the general, the two guards, they weren’t protected by anything. Nate knew that the Atrian cover up was deep; it left only a few of the higher ups aware of the truth. If the people surrounding him weren’t basic GAAP agents and police, then who was he dealing with, and how afraid should he be?

“You cannot return to Atria, you know that, Mr. Sharp. However, this doesn’t have to mean jail time.”

Jail time. Oh, God, if someone found an Atrian in jail what would they do? Kill him out of fear? Would the guards muzzle him for the duration of his stay (life, presumably)? Nate wouldn’t just be a fish out of water- he would be a fish on the chopping block, ready to be made into old-fashioned sushi.

“What would be the other option?”

General Jobs grew a wide smirk.

“Then,” Marxca said, “you would work for General Jobs and his scientists. You would help them create new weapons.”

All the blood in Nate’s veins turned to ice, “New… weapons?”

“Yes.” Marxca reached below her seat, and retrieved an old friend. Nate’s one constant, the only thing keeping him alive was right in front of him, in a GAAP agent’s hands. A rag covered the orb, but just being within close proximity to it breathed life into Nate. His body involuntarily took in deep breaths of air. Energy from his previous client, and leftovers from others, sat within the beautiful crystal. The inside swirled as a storm, sometimes energy flashed like lightning in a bottle. Nate wanted it. He needed it. He needed to live. General Jobs chuckled, jolting Nate out of his daze. Only then did he realize that he had leaned so far forward, that he was out of his seat.  

“What would you need me to do?”

“Sing for us.” her response was immediate.

Nate blinked in complete shock, “I’m sorry?”

Marxca examined his cane, the orb in particular, “The universe is expanding, Mr. Sharp. New dangers are arising, and we need people to be prepared. So, you can sing, play instruments, whatever you have to. You will create bombs imbedded with the energy that is held inside of this.” She pointed to his crystal.

Nate couldn’t believe his ears. Work for GAAP? Create weapons through his music? It was all so crazy, so beyond impossible, but that’s what made it a GAAP idea.

“You’re joking, right? You- you can’t just recreate Atrian energy! Our music is something we’re born with. It’s apart of our biology!”

Marxca nodded in sad understanding. She took back his cane.

“I see, Mr. Sharp. Atrian music is a part of you, yes? Well, I guess it’s Mr. Jobs’ turn to take over.”

Marxca stood from her seat, and with it a deep sinkhole in Nate’s chest.

“Wait, where are you going?”

She shrugged, “Isn’t it obvious? You say music is your biology. If that is the case, then I suggest that General Jobs’ scientists start working.”

No words, there were no words that came out of Nate. Plenty were locked inside, exploding, reemerging and creating in a mad cyclone of unbelief. Nothing in him could properly connect the dots into verbal communication. Nothing, no complex argument that was boiling. No screaming fit that he just about fell into.

“Why?” was all he could manage.

The GAAP agent smiled, “Because we need you. You may not realize it yet, but your contribution is invaluable.”

Through his inner turmoil, he hadn’t noticed Jobs’ absence, until a strong arm wrapped around his throat. Nate felt something penetrate his skin. His body went limp on the table, his entire life waiting to be shown just beneath its surface.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Sharp.”

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.

.

Nate rammed against the black wall of his cell. His body burned from, what he assumed were, hours of hitting the wall.

He had been blindfolded for the entire trip to his prison, but the trip had seemed to drag on forever. Upon arrival, Nate had been carried out of the containment ship, a little more carefully than he would have preferred. The saying “Don’t damage the goods” arose, and continued to linger in his mind.

Finally, Nate was given his sight back. Two GAAP agents had dropped him in a room made entirely of black crystal, and left him alone with General Jobs.

“This is the most durable, and soundproof, material in the universe,” Jobs had smugly said over Nate.

“You should feel honored. Only a few of these cells exist. They were made just for your kind. You special little Pipers.”

Pipers. Nate had felt like spitting on the man. Paralysis had robbed him of the opportunity, and Jobs had sauntered out the door. Nate had been a crumpled heap, alone in a dimly lit room where no one could hear him. In that moment, Nate had sworn he would survive. He would survive if for no other reason than to see the look on that bastard’s face when he escaped.

As soon as the paralysis wore off, he was in action. First, he screamed at the guards through the small, one-way mirror/hatch in the door. When that didn’t work, he resorted to pounding his fists against the walls, then his shoulders, and at one point Nate used his entire body as a battering ram. Nothing worked.

Nate slumped painfully against a wall. The sad light overhead flickered. Crystalline walls made for a chilly interior. Nate hugged his body, rubbing up and down his arms in hopes of generating some sort of heat. So he was alone, no big deal. Nate had been alone for five years. He would get out.

This time isn’t like the others, though.

No, scrapes he had gotten into before had never involved direct GAAP contact. Dodging local police and curious eyes, sure, but nothing the size of an intergalactic superpower. No, the intergalactic superpower. Nate still had determination, hope that he would escape, but the severity of the situation was finally setting in. Determination aside, he knew, in some way, he wouldn’t leave the base without being royally screwed.

A clatter resounded through the crystal room like the echo of a deep base. Nate turned his head. A small cylinder sat on the floor in front of the door that seamlessly merged into the wall. Small and metal, it could have been anything. Of course, that was before the ends popped off.

White smoke erupted from both ends, spreading like a slick snake across the ground. Nate held his hand over his mouth in a vain attempt to hold his breath. He stumbled to the far end of the room, but it was no use. Within seconds, the vapor reached him. It was pooling around his feet, coiling up his legs like a living being. One breath was all it took for the chemicals to do their jobs. Nate’s eyelids grew heavy, and the world slipped away.

.

.

.

The smell of rubbing alcohol. White, everything was too white. Masked forms shuffled around, never staying in one position for too long. The world was cold; its air sterile. His back was frigid; whatever he was laying on was unforgiving to the cold. Metal, Nate was on a metal table. He blinked his eyes a few times, trying to get his bearings.

Hands swooped in and held open his right eyelid. A cotton swab stroked away fluid from inside his eye. Nate tried to pull away, only to find that his head was strapped to the table. He tried his wrists, his knees, his ankles, nothing. He was completely imobile.

“What… what’s going on?” Nate tried to ask, but he found a metal gag restraining him from speaking.

One of the people in full scrubs leaned over him, “Mr. Sharp? My name is Doctor Visca. We are going to run some tests to evaluate your anatomy. We haven’t had many Atrians, so if these sensations become too painful, let us know. I will be talking to you, describing what we are doing”

Nate’s eyes widened in horror. Painful? What?

Doctor Visca strode away, only to be replaced by another doctor. They attached a strange metal device over his voice box where the shock collar had been. Out of his view, Nate felt stabs of pain in his hands. He tried to squirm away, but his efforts were once again thwarted.

“The object around your neck is a vocal receiver.” Doctor Visca said, but it sounded like she was talking through a microphone. Was she in another room watching him? Were there other people there?

Doctor Visca continued, “The nurses have just inserted microtubes into a few pressure points on your hands. Most Atrians seem to… ingest... outward energy into their bodies through their hands. Of course, we cannot use music to create energy, but we have a few substitutes. Depending on the level of energy your body receives, you will hum softly or powerfully. The voice receiver will take your excess energy. The more you give us, the sooner this will be over.”

That’s not how this works! There are no “substitutes”, and I won’t help you!

Of course, Doctor Visca, nor the other doctors and nurses milling around, cared. Nate relaxed his body on the table. He closed his eyes, preparing for the pain. None of their tests would work, and Nate knew that there was no easy out for him. However, he would make it out. They wanted to play hard ball? Fine. They’d get hard ball.  

Hit me with your best shot, motherfuckers.  

A nurse administered the first energy surge.

.

.

.

The battery of a small communicator did nothing. So, they moved to a holoscreen’s- still nothing. The power required to move a cyborg arm, a hoverboard, a small transportation vehicle.  After that, the doctors decided it was too dangerous to try higher levels of electricity. The only results they were getting were sudden spasms through Nate, and some subtle laughter that the voice receiver picked up.Nate would have laughed more, if the last one hadn’t hurt so much. GAAP had never had the true legal ability to test an Atrian, but Nate was practically a dead man on Atria, and GAAP didn’t know about his business as “Phantom”. No one would miss a dead man.  

Over the weeks, frustration began to overflow. Doctors moved from electrical stimuli, to “biological exploration”. Through it all, Nate refused to sing. Whenever they allowed him to speak, they were met with creative intertwining of expletives, and the occasional bird.

However, despite his tough act, Nate felt himself wearing away. Each visit became more and more blurry. Every time he refused them he was a broken record. The number of people in his room dwindled, and their tests sloppy. Doctor Visca remained when others left. She was determined to find what made Nate tick.

Nate tried to explain, without giving away too much, the necessity of his cane. He maintained his resolve, but Nate felt his mind begin to trickle away. Nate could feel his veins try desperately to pump any kind of substantial energy to his body. Without his cane, he was barely running on fumes. Still, somehow, a little voice would always boost him up. He would get out. He was Nathan Sharp, the musician, the Atrian. He would beat GAAP.

.

.

.

Nate tried to hold onto his sanity, the good in him. He could feel the black hand of chaos, of utter destruction, try to claw its way into his psyche. He pushed his temple against the cool rock wall. He would escape he had to.

Nate had been locked away for weeks. He assumed, of course. Time didn’t pass for the imprisoned, but Nate felt every itching moment. Weeks were eternity for him. He hadn’t touched a guitar. Every sliver of energy a song might generate was absorbed by the traitorous crystalline black walls. Lord only knew where his cane was, the life of Atrian adorning its head.

He was sweating profusely, black hair covering his face. Nate could barely sleep at night because of violent tremors. Nightmares haunted his mind and sanity. The darkness of the night began leaking into his waking world.

Get the cane.

They’ll be sorry.

Insanity became an almost tangible being. It was a speck in the corner of his eye. He could see the outline, its shifting form, but if he focused too much it would fade away.

Nate slammed his hand against the wall. No. No, he would not give into the madness, no matter how much it beckoned him.

Fall into me, into blissful darkness. It’s much quieter here.

No.

It’s just a little ways. They won’t hurt you anymore.

Nate could practically feel the hand of insanity resting on his shoulder. He imagined the void as a humanoid, but made of utter darkness. Its body would sway without it even moving. It reached towards Nate’s mind.

.

.

.

“So, what do you think?”

Ash fiddled with her baton nervously, “You know we aren’t supposed to talk about it.”

Barry’s shoes squeaked on the pristine floors of the base, while his comrade floated anxiously. They made their way forward, but Ash’s mind was stuck in the past, to the… event. The video continued its replay over and over in her mind. It was a loop that Ash was confident would never cease.

He scoffed, “Oh, come on. It’s just me. All the doctors are prepping the examination room.”

Ash bit her lip, “I… I don’t… I don’t think it was right.”

Barry’s carefree strides halted outside the prisoner’s room. He gave her a questioning look, “And why’s that? I mean, he was a criminal, and what happened after… I have no doubt that… that monster was on his side.”

Ash’s tail shifted back and forth, and back and forth. She shouldn’t have shared her opinion. Barry could be so close minded and stubborn sometimes. Plus, she had no doubt that he was right. The horrified look on the doctors’ faces before the man lunged. The fact that he attacked after…

Ash sighed. She didn’t want to think about that day, about the carnage, about his death. What was done was done. Be that as it may, Ash knew deep in her soul that it had been wrong. She closed her eyes, thinking of the best way to make her friend understand. Best to dive in head first.

“Because I met him.”

“You what?”

“I met him, him and the entire crew.”

Ash opened her eyes, and turned to her friend. His skin was pale with shock. Would he believe her? They were friends, right? He should trust her judgement.

“Two months ago Iyton and I were sent to out for security. Nothing special, really. Jobs just wanted to ensure that the perimeter hadn’t been breached. So, Iyton and I took a stealth pod and set off.

We circled the area three times, just to be thorough. Of course, no one was there. We started to head back when we were hit. Those ships can be so slow, you know?...”

Ash shuddered at the memory. The ship had tilted so far sideways that Ash’s seatbelt was the only thing keeping her from falling onto Iyton. Alarms had bathed the room in red. Sirens screamed in their ears, as if to emphasize how bad the situation was. The force of the jolt had knocked Iyton sideways. Pink blood oozed from a sizable gash in his head.

They were soldiers; they were supposed to be the epitome of fearlessness. However, in that moment, she had seen the look of despair that flashed in her colleague’s eyes.

Damage to ships wasn’t uncommon in space. Debris and chunks of rock were bound to hit eventually, but that trip had been different. One of those one in a billion chances that crews end up talking about during down time.

“So sad,” they would say.

“I mean, what are the odds?”

Then they would go back to their daily routine.

“Our CO2 converter and left engine had been hit,” Ash continued. “This base isn’t exactly well known and we were in a stealth pod. Iyton and I were practically in dead space. Hours away from a true repair station.

I mean, we tried our best. Iyton checked on the damage while I sent out distress call after distress call, but no one came… GAAP wasn’t there, and, honestly,” Ash gave Barry a stern look, “I don’t think they would’ve risked a rescue even if they had heard us.”

Her friend was speechless. His skin was a shocked gray. She could see the wheels turning in his head. He knew what was coming.

“Then, then they showed up. A cyborg lady, an android, a weird robot, two dogs, a purple lady, a Graeldur, and… him.”

After all this time, I still remember their names: Amy, Ethan, Bing, Chica and Henry, Kathryn, Tyler, and Mark.

“They rescued us, even made us food afterwards. One of the dogs wouldn’t stop asking them how we were, and the other got so much goop on Iyton.” Ash chuckled a little at the memory.

“What happened next?” Barry asked.

Ash shrugged, “They fixed up the converter and engine. He… Mark, insisted on getting us back to base, but, of course, we couldn’t tell him. So, they repaired our ship, and left. They saved us… They’re good people, all of them. So, no, GAAP didn’t do the right thing.”

It was Barry’s turn to stare blankly at the floor. He was silent for a minute, absorbing everything. Recalling that day, yes, she did get a shiver of horror. Those blazing lights, the feeling of utter hopelessness. Then, thinking about the Barrel crew, their kindness, gentle natures, willingness to listen, that almost made the fear go away. Plus, there were the dogs. Ash had always wanted a dog.

“Kinda, kinda makes you think, doesn’t it?” Barry, finally speaking, pulled Ash out of her thoughts.

“What do you mean?”

“... I mean, we’re here, guarding a man we’ve never truly met. Why? Because GAAP said he’s a monster. That his kind radiate some awful disease, but you know… in all my time here, I’ve never seen the doctors wear any kind of radiation protection. I don’t even think Jobs wears anything.”

Ash was taken aback by her friend’s words. He was right. Ash hadn’t noticed it before, but hardly anyone on base wore any kind of protection. She and Barry wore masks, which she had assumed was enough. Then again, they were the only two that hauled the prisoner in and out of his cell. They administered the gas. They dragged him out through the smoke.

Was it really to fight disease, as they had been told? Or could it be simply to protect them from smoke inhalation? How had the conversation veered so off track? She had barely expected Barry to believe her, let alone fuel her doubt.

Ash gazed through the small slot in the prisoner’s door. Looks can be deceiving, but Ash could feel that something had changed. He just sat there, head against the crystal wall. The wall made just for his kind.

“His”, “him”, “he”? Ash had guarded the Atrian for weeks, yet she hadn’t even bothered to learn his name. A deep pit of regret opened in her stomach. It was so powerful, painful even. She thought it might swallow her from the inside out.

“Ash,” the same regret in her veins was mirrored in Barry’s voice. “Ash, what if we’re wrong?”

The guard couldn’t take her eyes off the prisoner. His shaking form, the exhausted slump. When was the last time he had even fought them as he was dragged out? He was broken, and part of it was her fault.

“I’m- I’m going to the console room. I need to check on Masters.”

Barry was still talking, but Ash couldn’t hear him. She couldn’t make herself tear her eyes away from the shaking form in his cage. Barry’s words rang like a gong in her soul.

“What if we’re wrong?”  

.

.

.

Nate was strapped onto the operating table, like every other day. The guard’s smoke sedative made his soul like it was floating out of his body. He knew it would only last for a few more moments, but he found his muddled mind wander to other things- the guards’ words. Something had happened, something big, but it seemed that only the two guards wanted to talk about it. Inside the operating room there was no sound but the shuffle of feet, and adjustment of equipment. 

There were two doctors in the room. Nate had never learned their names, so he settled with calling the bald one “Spot”, and the small girl “Ditsy”. Perched in a viewing room overhead behind a one-way mirror, Nate knew Doctor Visca was there. A deep tug pulled at his gut whenever he looked at the glass. It wasn’t dread, nor fear, but something else. It was something Nate couldn’t describe.

“I wish I could’ve been there.” Spot grumbled as she took Nate’s vitals.

Ditsy sighed, “You would’ve been a red splat on the wall, thanks to that maniac.”

Spot adjusted the overhead lamp. He flicked it on, and the machine whirred on. A blue light spun out, taking a peek into Nate’s insides. If only they had known that the inside didn’t matter. Madness had followed him from his container. The humanoid void was a ghost on the edge of his vision. The more Nate tried to get a good look, the more it inched away, but it was there. Its thoughts itched to fully leak into Nate’s mind.

They’re going to kill you, just like they killed him.

There had been an execution, but who? Who was he, or more accurately, who had he been? Nate had never actually gotten a name through his eavesdropping.

“Who died?” his voice came out hoarse. Nate sounded like a rusted gear grinding noisily along its track. Lack of use, and electrocution had taken their toll on his vocal cords.

Spot and Ditsy froze. Their eyes were wide with shock and fear. The only times the doctors had heard his voice were muffled screams from Jobs’ at their hands. His speaking voice, as far as he could recall, had never been properly utilized between the three. Nate had always been too busy convulsing in pain to make conversation.

“Uh,” Spot glanced nervously at Ditsy, who showed no signs of moving. She started breathing heavily, her hands slightly shaking. Was she, was she afraid? Interesting.

Spot cleared his throat, “No one, um, no one of your concern.”  

“Ah, so someone I should be completely concerned about. Things really are escalating, aren’t they?”

A smug smile tugged at Nate’s lips. What was he doing? Speaking still felt like he was gargling wet gravel, but there was something in the way they responded. They were afraid of him. He was weak, had no cane, and was barely running on fumes, but their fear… It sparked something deep inside him. An electric giddiness, like he was a child opening the first present on his birthday. He had nothing, but his very DNA still made them quiver. Nate hadn’t noticed, but his smirk had widened into a mad grin. Insanity was smiling back.

“Sir, if- if you keep talking, we’ll have to put the collar back on.”

Spot straightened his back, but his facade of strength was quite pathetic. Still, if that’s the game they wanted to play, so be it. Nate hadn’t had true entertainment in weeks.

“His name was Mark. Mark Fischbach.”

Ditsy’s words came out timidly. Her face was practically lodged in a holochart. She turned her back to twiddle with the vials on the counter, but her hands were shaking so bad she nearly dropped one. She was obviously doing everything she could to not look at Nate.

Mark, Mark Fischbach. Where have I heard that name before?

“It doesn’t matter now. He’s gone, and we’re all the better for it. Hand me the-.”

A memory, so dusty it was like an ancient artifact, resurfaced. Nate had almost forgotten about it. A play, no, a musical, the Summer before everything went to Hell....

Nate was in a small workspace. A friend had contacted him about a short series he was doing. A horror musical based on some old Earth story he had dug up. Admittedly, the musical was odd, odd, but interesting. Interesting enough to make him say yes.

Nate gave a deep yawn, a small part of him regretting his decision.

Two in the morning. It was two in the morning. Nate had wrapped on his single scenes forty-five minutes ago, but they were still waiting for his absent co- actor to show.

Nate rested his head on an old computer prop, “You sure he’ll be here?”

The director, AJ, shouted from behind a fake wall, “Yeah. He’s done stuff like this before. Don’t worry about it!”

Nate fought to keep his eyes open. One more minute and AJ’s other actor would find himself working with a rag doll. He had been working all day on the project. His eyelids felt like two ton weights, his body weak from exhaustion. Would one nap really hurt?...

The door burst open. Nate jumped to attention far too quickly. His head swam around and around. Spots danced in his vision. Nate’s groggy haze did nothing to stop the newfound pounding in his head.

A newcomer stood in the doorway. His black hair was in a mad upheaval. He was panting, as if he’d made a mad dash onto set. Donning a snazzy gray wrinkled shirt, sweatpants, and tennis shoes it was clear that he was well prepared for a day of filming. Under his left arm was his wadded up costume.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I’m normally not like this. I’ve just been busy filling out GAAP papers all day, and I didn’t realize what time it was until…”

The frazzled man noticed Nate taking an assessment of him. Nate shook his head, “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get these scenes done, and we’ll be good to go. Right, AJ?”

“Uh, yeah, but I will need you later for your full scenes.” AJ shouted from behind the wall.

He visibly relaxed, “Ok. That’s good. I can do that.”

Nate held out his hand, “I’m Nathan, well, Nate. Nate Sharp.”

He smiled and shook Nate’s hand, “Mark, Mark Fischbach.”

Nate’s memory froze. He felt his blood run cold as ice. There, in that moment, he couldn’t move. Lively brown eyes looked back at him. He had a crooked smile Nate could tell was used often. Mark, how could he forget Mark?

Mark had helped Nate on a few of his songs. He wasn’t Atrian, but Mark had a voice worth listening to. Up until his acceptance into GAAP’s school, they would collaborate. They weren’t close- knit family types, but Nate considered him a friend.

Nate knew someone who had worked for GAAP.

Nate knew a man who could fly almost any spaceship.

Nate knew a dead man.

He was back in the operating chair, but stuck in the past. How had it happened? Was it painful? Did his friends know? The doctors were talking, Mark was acting, and Nate was caught somewhere hopelessly in between.

AJ yelled, “Action!”

“You’ve got the new antiseptic, right?”

Mark stumbled over his line, “Uh, what exactly is this scene?”

A wetness slid down Nate’s arm. Something cool touched his skin, then a deep burning sensation. Nate was suffocating. He couldn’t get the lyrics right. The doctors were reaching for metal clamps. Mark had started his lines. Spinning round and round. A cane, a guitar, a martyr.

They’re going to kill you. You’re just a broken music box to them. They’re going to kill you just like they killed him, but they won’t stop. Oh, no, no, no, no. They will never stop. They won’t stop until every one of our kind is bleeding on their own tables.

No, Nate’s mind pleaded.

Yes, Insanity hissed.

“No.”

A screeching halt. Mark’s faces faded into memory. AJ’s set disappeared. Nate felt something in his mind, something dark, almost otherworldly, snap to attention.

The world was sharp, sharper than it had ever been before. White walls, aluminum floors, everything was far too… fake. Nate’s left arm flaunted a deep, precise cut. The skin was clamped open; the bloodied hand of a doctor still held on.

Cold darkness fell over the room. The type of cold when clouds are the color of ash, and the air makes lips numb. Horror, bone chilling, unfathomable horror had fallen over the operating room.

The world around shifted and swirled in consistently darkening colors. Nate felt his eyes go black. His cheeks ached; it felt as if someone had taken a molten rod to the purple lines down his face. Nate found himself enjoying it. Pain meant he was alive.

Dark smoke began a graceful cascade over his eyelashes. A beautiful waterfall of black vapor pooling at his lashes, then falling down his purple Atrian lines. Insanity no longer danced in his peripheral. No, the beast had won over a new home. Unadulterated rage burned inside of him.

Nate saw it in the man’s eyes- the solid panic he was bleeding into the room that was once a prison. The doctor’s soul- twisted, pathetic. A being that tortured and broke simply because he could. Nate felt dirty just looking at him. He turned to the woman.

Similar to her colleague- she hadn’t moved. She was a statue from the fear Nate was exuding. Terror personified, a ghost for the lack of color in her face. Mouth agape, horror racing through her eyes.

“Undo my cuffs.”

Despite the absence of his cane, and barely having proper energy, Ditsy moved towards his table. With quaking hands, she unfastened the wrist restraints, then the ankle ones, the knees, the head. She took several hasty steps back after finishing her work. Nate cautiously removed his right hand, flexed it, then the same with the left. He gave Ditsy an unnerving grin.

A crash, glass flew across Nate’s vision. He felt a dull throb in the back of his head. Whatever had happened, it was enough to push Ditsy over the edge. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed in a heap.

Nate turned towards his attacker. Spot held the broken end of a glass beaker in his hands. The doctor had assaulted him? Nate touched the back of his head, but was only mildly concerned when his fingertips came back a little red. In that moment, his only focus, his only rage, was centered at the doctor.

Nate stood from the table, rubbing and shaking the numbness out of his once bound hands. The doctor reeled back, only to hit a metal table. He was trapped.  

“STOP!”  

Doctor Vasca stood behind him at the stairs leading to her observation room. Seeing her, Nate’s heart stopped. It wasn’t because she snapped him out of his stalk towards the other doctor, or the fear in her eyes. Nate stopped because what stood before him was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Held high above her head, Doctor Vasca held Nate’s cane. She reminded him of an Earthen statue he had seen a picture of. Draped in a massive toga, chains broken at her feet, she had held a torch on a tiny island- a beacon of hope for travelers. Frozen in that moment, Nate supposed he felt what people seeing the statue from a forgeign boat had felt- hope. Nate had hope, pure hope, a hope that might was the darkness of his mind away.

Doctor Vasca was in terrible shape. Her hair was undone and in knots. Dark bags showed that she hadn’t slept for nights.

She had probably been up studying your anatomy. What she had done to you.

Nate felt the seething rage boil inside him again. His hands clenched tighter. The waterfall of darkness flowed steadily down his face.  

“I-” she stumbled, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what we’ve done to you, but please. He has a family- two daughters. They need him.”

A family. Nate glanced back at the cowering man. A family…

“Does your family know what you do, sir?” Nate spat.

“It- I… I’m under oath.”

“Ha! “Under oath”, that’s a “No”, then. What would your daughters say if they knew what you did today?” Nate held up his bleeding arm. “What if they knew what you have been doing? What would they say? Would they be shocked? Appalled? Too afraid to even touch the monster that had been their father?”

Scenes were visibly playing through the man’s head. Of course his family would see him as a monster. He had cut a man open with no remorse, for weeks. He had cut through skin, ignoring Nate’s squirming to get away. He was a sick, vile monster.

“Tie him up.” Nate told Doctor Visca.

“I- I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. Tie him up, and nothing will happen to him.”  

Doctor Visca gingerly set down Nate’s cane. She held up her hands as she made her way to the man. Nate watched as she tied him onto the table. He watched to ensure that every strap was as secure as they had been for him.

Without taking his eyes off the two, Nate walked sideways towards his cane. It took everything in him not to snatch it hungrily. He had to be alert; he had to make sure the doctors didn’t try anything. Nate slowly bent down sideways, and picked up his cane. The effect was immediate. Like water from a cool spring, energy ran from the orb, down the cane, and into Nate’s veins. His mind began to clear. The well of emptiness in his mind was being dried up.

“Where is Jobs?” Nate asked.

Brown eyes emerged through the darkness. The black vapors stopped rolling, and his face resumed its natural form. Nate wore his purple Atrian stripes and clear mind once more.

“Fascinating.”

Doctor Vasca’s words pulled him out of his serenity.

“I mean, I knew there was something to the Atrian crystal, but I never expected something so, so, vigorous. I mean, you look good as new!”

She took a step towards Nate, who took one step back.

“You’re right- you didn’t know. You didn’t know because you wouldn’t listen. Now, where’s Jobs?”

Vasca didn’t appear to even hear Nate, or she didn’t care. Still rambling on about the possibilities his cane could have, Nate didn’t pay attention until she mentioned him.

“... and of course, you’d be at the forefront!”

Nate blinked in confusion. “What?”

Doctor Vasca beamed, “This is a whole new level of potential to aid GAAP you have! One without the other is useless, but I didn’t understand the true purity of its power until now! Think of the possible advancements- faster communication, upgraded weapons-.”

“No.” Nate held out his cane as his own weapon. “I will not be used by GAAP anymore. You finally listened to me, great, but you won’t get a single Atrian to do your work. Now, tell me where Jobs is.”

“I’m so sorry, Nate…”

Doctor Vasca reached into her pocket, and retrieved a thin holoboard. With one press, the door leading to the observation room, and Nate’s freedom, closed. The click of it locking felt like someone had slapped Nate across the face. His back was to Doctor Vasca, it didn’t matter anymore. He wasn’t escaping. That woman, that, beast…

“I wasn’t just going to give you the cane, Mr. Sharp. You were dying, and I was desperate. But it worked out for the better.”

Nate could feel her smiling, “You’re going to bring in a new age for GAAP. All the equipment you want... ”

Nate’s ears rang. Everything was buzzing. Little dots twinkled in his vision. He grasped his cane even tighter.

She lied to you. Darkness emerged once more, You were going to leave this place. You were going to forget everything, but look what she did! Think of what she’ll make you do! She made you dance like you were a puppet. The question is- what are you going to do now?

“... everything will be set right!” She exhaled, obviously proud of her speech, as if Nate had been listening. “What do you say, Mr. Sharp?”

Nate was on her in a moment. His hand was a vice grip around her throat. The pools of hatred were overflowing again, but he didn’t care. Hate, rage, power, that was how he was going to get out of GAAP’s Hell.

Doctor Vasca’s face and neck were red. Nate wasn’t holding on hard enough for her to suffocate, just enough to be uncomfortable. She gasped for air, and kicked at Nate in vain attempts to escape. Pathetic, just like her friend on the table. These people wouldn’t change. Their kind never do. So far in themselves, their “intelligence”, the belief that the odds justify every mean. All of it blinded them. Nate was going to let them see.

“Hmm,” Nate tapped his cane to his chin, as he had being a phantom healer what felt like decades ago. Phantom, maybe the street name had more weight than he had given it credit for. A shadowy figure, something you can almost see, but not quite. A being always in the edge of your view. He wasn’t Nate. He wasn’t “Mr. Sharp”. He was Phantom.

“You know what I say, Doctor Vasca? You want to know what I say? Well,” Phantom chuckled at her horrified face, “I say GAAP can kiss my ass. Also, I say…”

Phantom swung the top of his cane at the man on the table, knocking him out cold. Vasca’s eyes were wide with terror, “.... I say that was for Atria. Finally,” Phatom flipped his cane around in a quick circle. He dug the orb as hard as he could into the woman’s chest. It wouldn’t penetrate skin, but it would get close enough. Phantom began singing a bittersweet tune. He didn’t go so deep as to put the doctor under, just enough to do the job. He wanted to know what happened when you push an Atrian too far? He would show her.

A few sparks of white emerged from her lab coat, then a few more. The sparks condensed and merged until they formed three lines of raw energy- energy streaming from her heart.

Doctor Vasca tried to scream, but there was nothing anyone could have done. Phantom leaned in, “I say- this is for Mark.”

Her skin shrivelled and hung loose from the bones. Her eyes sunk into her head, the terrified expression in them never faded. Her hair turned gray and brittle. Parts began to fall in clumps onto the otherwise sterile floor. Phantom never looked away as the light, however tainted it had been, drain from her eyes. Doctor Vasca’s mouth hung open in a silent scream through everything, and it would stay that way.

Phantom dropped her mummified corpse onto the ground unceremoniously. He dug into her coat pocket for the holoboard. One click, and his escape route was restored. Phantom glanced at the unconscious man on the table. He wasn’t worth his time. The head restraint Doctor Vasca had secured prevented him from seeing Nate’s healing act. As for the good doctor- she was a smoking pile at his feet. The personnel and cameras? They were no concern. He would deal with the security footage on his way out.

Phantom looked into his crystal. Its once translucent interior swarmed with dark clouds. Gray energy surged off and on.

Stolen energy.

Phantom shook his head. He would have to deal with that annoying “still, small voice” later. Survival came first. Survival, and clothes. Phantom quickly wrapped up his bleeding arm, then turned to the still doctor on the operating table. He undid the straps holding down the unconscious doctor. He slipped on the man’s scrubs, fastened back the restraints, and covered the doctor with his old hospital gown. Might as well let him have some dignity when he woke up.  

As Phantom strode out the door, he recalled an old story from Earth. A tale of a man with a magic pipe. It was actually where the derogatory term “Piper” had originated for Atrians. So the tale goes, a man was hired to extract all the rats from a village. When the people refused to pay him, he used his pipe to lure the children away. Some versions say the children were never seen again, others say they were led to their deaths, another that they were returned after the Piper had been paid his due several times the original amount. 

Ascending the laboratory steps, Phantom finally understood why Atrians had been branded as Pipers. Not just because of their magical music, or that they used their gifts for work, it was something else. People thought they might end up like the rats, or the children. Racists referenced a potential murderer when they thought of Atrians. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps Atrians shouldn’t wear “Pipers” as a brand, but a badge of honor.

“Atrians are not a violent race.” Matt’s voice rang back in his head.  

“... but people are capable of anything in order to survive.” Phantom verbally retaliated.

Saying it out loud made him feel a little better about his past. All his actions were justified. He was trying to survive. Adapting to a changing, well, universe, it would seem, was what he was doing. Surviving during war got gruesome. That was what he was surviving- the carnage of battle.

GAAP had called Phantom to war. They had sealed off his planet, killed a friend, and had torn him apart. No, they had torn Nate apart, but Nate wasn’t going to war. Nate had been left in a dark cell where no one could hear him scream. Phantom had risen as the poltergeist to nip at GAAP’s heels. Phantom was the avenger of his people, his friends, and who he had once been.

Phantom would make GAAP sorry for what they had done to all those before him. He would be the hand of justice for those GAAP had wronged. He idly twirled his cane, the smoke from his black eyes slid like ice down his Atrian markings. Fresh, dark energy spurred him onward. GAAP would regret the day they saw his face.

[myvoicenottheoneyougiveme]

It’s always an evil person that rejects you, whereas seconds before I was this wonderful... whatever.

It’s damned convenient, isn’t it?

It’s almost as though I weren’t a person at all but the measure of my compliance or the measure of what you can squeeze out of me. ...TOTALLY evil should I fail to give you what you’re strangling me for, but all of these wonderful, empty compliments as long as I align with the script inside of your head.

And I mean in a landscape where “every girl should be believed” there exist people like you who will say and do anything to destroy the object of their obsession if only to reel them back into compliance. And don’t get me wrong, I see so many good messages out there to push back against scenarios where girls typically haven’t been believed, but you’re a damned opportunist in the worst degree.

For all of the crises and defamation to the effect of me being someone that just sees “girl he wants” and goes about “possessing” and/or destroying in order to possess and control and own, your daily efforts to extract from me whatever the hell it is you think you’re “owed” reflect exactly the same. ...They have a name for this. ...It’s got your favorite word in it, and it ends with a word spelled P R O J E C T I O N.

I am not a defined person. I am not a person unto myself. I don’t exist. Only that scripted object inside of your head exists. My value as a human being is in my ability to comply with what you’re forcing onto me. From that pedastal you put me up on, I fall to being the lowest scum of the earth the moment I set one toe out of line. The word “No” is all it takes. Ignoring you does the same thing. Or when I was even trying to please you and go along with “this” thing, me just simply not being along the trajectory in my orbit of you that you imagined, would reduce me in an instant to the worst things you could then imagine. (You, though, still the center of the universe the whole way, btw.)

I don’t exist at all. The external object, me, the person, I don’t exist at all, only the inner representation of me you keep.

There is no me. I am not an extant entity that persists in reality. I am whatever you say I am. And you’re more than instrumental in that summary and with those you puppet to whatever effect.

I am not a person. I don’t exist. I am a vehicle onto which you place a fantasy. Reality need not apply, only your intense emotions that can change at any moment over and over and over again. What you feel, is what is real. Reality is not a factor. I am not a factor. I am a thing to be possessed, to be owned, to align with a script inside of your head. It’s no coincidence that this way of getting along in the world is everything you throw at me every chance you get. “BEWARE!” you scream to every person I have even the remotest contact with be they male or female. At the end of the day, the effect is isolation, the effect is breaking down, the effect is cutting me off from everything and everyone so as to allow you all the more power over me.

You scream it at everyone of these couples too, these content creators, these whoever’s. That was the last time I called you on this, but it’s hardly isolated to them as I’ve said. “Beware lest you become the next object of his obsession and he try to possess you.” But that, right there, is absolutely everything you’re doing to me day in and day out. It’s what you paint me as and have for so long, and it’s so damned convenient and affords you a throne upon which to rearrange the cosmos around me as you see fit.

But your ability to rewrite the narrative in an instant speaks to which one of us is truly objectified in “this” grand scheme of things. Your hyperbolic regard for me says more than enough about which one of us is actually the person you spend all of your time describing and have for 11 years. We just arrived at the destination via different paths and I only after many years and courage enough to see you for what you were. You didn’t have the psychological name, you just projected yourself onto me in every heat of the moment attempt to leverage power over me. Then I eventually found the scientific name for these behaviors you exhibit, by accident, and haven’t budged in my assessment of the situation since.

You spend your days worming your way through my life trying to control and to own, and you come from this angle and you come from that angle. And you come through this person, and you come through that person. And you make a move and try your damnedest to soften me up and make me pliable. You come with your vanities about yourself and about me, and you react violently when things don’t line up with your designs.

I am NOTHING but the measure to which I adhere to the unwritten script. I don’t exist.

Me, the person in the world, not the person inside of your head, me the external object, I don’t exist. Every time you bust in and shower me with your bullshit and then immediately throw it all out the window when I don’t respond or don’t respond the way you want, you show me and the world what you’re really made of. And you show me that I don’t actually exist and never have. I am only what you can get out of me. Nothing more.

How can any of what you paint about me be true if you can change your mind about it at a moment’s notice [completely mutually exclusive summations]? How can any of it have a grounded basis in reality if it can all be contradicted by you at a moment’s notice? A “split” world of black and white where people don’t exist, only your extreme feelings about them exist.

You will possess, or you will destroy. And after you’ve destroyed and isolated, you will stoop down like some kind of savior from on high to be his saving grace, to be the measure of his value as a person... because he has none, none but what you afford him. [let the singing of your praises by he and everyone in your audience (the one you’ve sold tickets to) commence]

...And we’ll start over again, and round and round it goes, until he’s so broken and so adrift and so lost that he doesn’t know up from down that he’ll actually Stolkholm and defend you his captor from any that might raise their voice in criticism of the things you’re doing. ...Somewhere I’ve already been for at least one of you.

I am not a person. I don’t exist. I am an object. I am a vehicle. I am just a stand-in for a scripted character from out of the inside of your own head. I can wear the one costume, or I can wear the other. But I need not show up as myself because I don’t exist in the first place.

The choice is mine. I have been claimed. My life has been claimed. My life is not my own. I am yours. You own me. I can be your fantasy, or I can rot in your dungeon. Either way, I, myself, I have been erased from reality. My life has been ended, subsumed as but part of yours. There is no scenario where I walk away from you a person unto myself leading my own life.

[samurailovewriter]

Masamune’s MBTI Analysis P2

Now that we’ve assigned all the lords their MBTI (except Kenshin. I figured out I and P, but I still need those middle two letters), time to dive in deeper on what it means to be in a relationship with them! I’ve listed below a concise list of Strengths and Weaknesses from 16personalities to guide us, but once the actual analysis begins, that’s completely my own. This is going to be even longer btw. I apologize in advance!

Strengths: Creative, insightful, inspiring and convincing, decisive, determined and passionate, and altruistic

Weaknesses: Sensitive, extremely private, perfectionist, always need to have a cause, and tend to burn out easily

INFJ relationship

There are two types of INFJs when it comes to relationships: the one that never looks for a relationship, and the one that does but constantly reminds him/herself that the relationship might end. In this case, Masamune is the first - the one that never looks for a relationship in the first place. I think we’ve seen enough of his MS and ES to know that literally everyone around him wonders if he’ll ever be interested in ANYONE, and he just simply doesn’t care. You can gossip about him possibly being gay all you want, he doesn’t want to look for one neither does he plan to.

In this case, the girl has to be the more proactive one, which we clearly see in the MS. She’s always the one that’s reaching out to him, the one that literally admitted to his face on how much she loved him without a moment of hesitation, and the one who tends to hug, laugh, and kiss when they are alone. This connects a lot to his weakness of extremely private and is something that heavily permeates into the relationship as a whole.

INTJs and INFJs are officially the two most private MBTIs compared to the remaining 14. Their reasons, however, are vastly different. While INTJs are private because they are worried about how enemies could possibly use a slip up to backstab them, INFJs are private merely because they don’t feel or see the need to tell others about what’s going on. They think venting is bothersome to those around them, and they also don’t want to make a scene for a situation that may very much be of little consequence when in the moment they feel as if a volcano has erupted.

Which is something their counterparts will constantly face when being in a relationship with INFJs. They swallow problems down extraordinarily well, and act like nothing’s wrong. Masamune LITERALLY does that countless times in every single ES and the MS as well. Which is why I really like how the MC is written, because she is perfectly compatible to our INFJ lord. She doesn’t let problems wallow. She constantly goes to him directly to ask about whether anything is wrong, and she does it without ever giving up. In the one time he blew up on her (ES on wedding planning), she calmed down after the initial fight and decided she was going to try again the VERY NEXT NIGHT. She knows that if she lets it just pass, he’s never going to attempt bringing it up again, and the problem will never be fully solve.

But that certainly does not mean you can aggressively return to Masamune over and over again until he caves. Don’t forget that the INFJ is also quite sensitive and one must be good with words to get their thoughts extracted out into the open. Pay special attention to MC the next time you see her prying Masamune for his thoughts (or even just in the MS). She’s consistent and not backing down, but she’s very gentle in the words she uses. It’s not a simple “What’s going on? Tell me what’s going on? You can’t just keep these thoughts to yourself” demands, but gradual questions to ease comfort into Masamune: “Did something happen? Is it something of great concern? Has it made things harder for you? Is there anything I can do to help?” By not giving up, you communicate to him that you really want to know his thoughts, and by being gentle, signify that you are willing to listen patiently. 

Ease past that privacy and sensitivity wall of INFJ Masamune, you’re in for a wonderful relationship ride. INFJs are extraordinarily insightful to the people around them, and nothing escapes their intuition. Masamune illustrates that several times whenever MC decides to swallow her thoughts and troubles down, as well as when he’s a supporting character in Kojuro’s story whenever Kojuro is having issues, physically or mentally. And though Masamune is sometimes not the best at communicating his thoughts, he spares no extra time to make sure he can spend some alone time with MC. It can also be very inspiring when Masamune becomes passionate not only to Oshu and his clan, but his family and friends and soldiers. He won’t ever try to push your buttons, does his best to make sure conflicts never appear with his extraordinary convincing skills (Hush, hush fact on INFJs, they’re actually secretly QUITE GOOD at manipulating situations to ease tensions), and will forever try his best in the relationship. And even if it doesn’t work out (which it obviously DOES here), unless MC has done something unforgivable, he will be surprisingly accepting and logical of how and why the relationship has failed.

Who Masamune prefers: INFJs tend to naturally connect with fellow _NF_ and analysts _NT_ better than _S_J and _S_P. However, if put in order of preference, it would be _NF_, _NT_, _S_J, and finally _S_P. With how the MC is written, it seems Masamune has a tendency to gravitate more towards extroverts than introverts. So congrats to girls who are ENFJ and ENFP as those are likely to be his top 2.

[ahornedgod]

got drabble - (it’s us) against the world i

@zoetekohana asked: As we need more Jonsa, I'd like to request “Please talk to me.” If that's okay? ♡

yes, that’s ok! and i’m still taking prompts :)

a/n: if d&d can be selective with their canon, so can i. some spoilers for today’s episode (which i already watched - the one scene). vague spoilers. i’m taking lots of liberties here, but lol, i’m just following the show’s example! :D

this is unbeta’d btw. so, if you find any mistake, let me know, thanks!

in which Sansa comes to the rescue, once again.

i.

He knows before fully emerging from his unconscious state - he’s back in Winterfell.

Jon cares not for the how or the why, only that he’s back home; at last, he’s home, with Bran and Arya and Sansa—he tries to sit up, too fast, too soon, because then he’s hissing in pain and falling back onto the bed, wounds jumping in protest.

Someone slaps a wet cloth against his face, hard enough to shock but not to hurt.

“Keep still, Jon, I think you’ve had enough of trying hurt yourself for a time.”

His heart aches because – he knows that voice, he’s dreamed that voice, though always in a higher pitch and far brighter, even when upset there’d always been an undercurrent of… of…

Joy.

Slowly, he lifts a hand to remove the cloth from his face, a little smile tugging at his lips.

(And – he can’t blame her, can he? For failing to convey her happiness when he fails as well? Even though he is happy, so very happy, and he’s sure she feels the same.)

“Arya…”

Perched as she is, on the edge of his bed, she almost looks like she used to – back when things were still good, when they were whole and happy. Jon thinks he could close his eyes and see her bright, mischievous smile, her tangled hair and dirty dresses, unrestrained and wild.

She smiles back, genuine, and takes the cloth from him to fold it and place it over his forehead. “You’re so stupid.”

Her voice breaks and then she lunges at him, not caring about his injuries anymore – no, perhaps, she needs this hug as much as he does. So he’ll welcome it. Jon braces for the impact, bites down his grunt of pain, pushes it all aside and closes his arms tightly around Arya. Gods but he’d missed her, so, so terribly. His sister, his little sister.

She laughs, haltingly; his shoulder muffles the sound, where she hides her face from him. “Seven Hells, you’re a bloody idiot.”

He grins in response, drops a kiss on top of her head. “I missed you, too, little sister.”

Arya takes a deep breath before pulling away, her eyes bright with unshed tears, but Jon doesn’t bring attention to it, instead drags himself into a sitting position, slowly, until he resting against the headboard of the bed.

“How did you know?”

A loaded question. How did she—they—know. How did they know where to find him? How did they know what was going to happen? How did they get there in time?

“Bran.”

She says it like it should explain everything, and maybe it does; Jon can’t be sure, Sansa’s letter hadn’t been too clear on that front. But it matters not, as their brother chooses that moment to step into his chambers – impassive and nothing like the boy he remembers.

Suddenly, Jon can’t quite shake the feeling that things are about to take a sharp turn to the unknown, and most likely, it won’t be for the best.

“Arya, would you leave us for a moment? I need to speak with Jon, in private.”

*

For all he had kept Sansa in the back of his mind during his brief meeting with Arya, Bran brings her forth along with the reasons from her absence.

So, she’s angry - he can understand that. In fact, had he been in her place, Jon’s absolutely sure he would be angry as well; furious. He would be ranting and raging and stomping about and trying to extract promises from her to never do such a foolish thing again.

Knowing that, acknowledging it, doesn’t make her continuous absence any less painful.

She’s busy, he thinks, hours after Bran had retired to his own chambers, I left her in charge of Winterfell, of the North. She has many responsibilities now, of course, she can’t simply drop everything and…

Sansa cannot simply abandon her duties to tend to him, there is a Maester for that; he doesn’t know, having been away for so long, how hard it’s been that she can’t spare a moment to come by and check up on him.

There’s no time, he knows that, Sansa does her very best to keep the North prepared for what’s to come – Gods, but for all she fought him over the threat of the White Walkers, it seems she’s been doing everything in her power to make the people understand they needed to keep their focus further north.

Jon glares at his hands, fisted over the furs; stares at his whitened knuckles and the slight tremble.

He would have made time, though, for her—he would have spent the whole bloody time sitting at her bedside until she woke up, had she been in his place. Everything else could’ve waited, he—

That’s unfair. I’m being unfair to her.

And he is, he is. Bran had said, hadn’t he, how Sansa had wasted not another moment to rally a small force of men and sent them beyond The Wall to protect their King, to delay no more than the absolute necessary. She’d acted promptly and, Bran had said, had most likely prevented what could have been a catastrophe.

“The Night King would have gained control one of the dragons.”

Jon knows very well what that means.

He remembers little of the journey back to Winterfell; knows Uncle Benjen isn’t dead, that he had helped them cross The Wall while sparing as many lives as possible. Jon can barely swallow the thought, cannot fathom what possessed him to agree to such an idiotic mission.

“And then you would have made a terrible mistake, Jon, because you would think – there’s no other choice. But there is always a choice.”

He had wanted to ask, what mistake, what could he have possibly done that would be worse than lead a group of men to their deaths? But had refrained and allowed Bran to continue. Then things got confusing once Bran explained—tried to—how he knew. Confusing and, were it not for the fact he’s been face to face with both White Walkers and dragons, well… he would not have believed it.

Three-Eyed Raven. He’s still unsure of what that entails, knows only that it’s made his little brother a shell of what he used to be.

That breaks his heart.

“You should not be angry with Sansa for not being here when you woke up,” Brad had said, nearing the end of their conversation – or what he’d thought was the end of it, “Brienne and I sent her off to rest some. She did spend the past three days by your bedside, never leaving. We had to remind her of her duties to Winterfell and the North.”

Those words had eased something in him, had unwound the tension coiling his body, leaving him exhausted. Even now, as he lies there reflecting, deciding, Jon still feels them like a balm to his frayed emotions.

“Then why hasn’t she come by now?”

“It has been a few trying weeks, before we send the rescue party. Littlefinger managed to put a wedge between Sansa and Arya, manipulated Arya enough to propel her into… You should go talk to Sansa tomorrow, Jon, she needs comfort and I… am no longer equipped to provide it.”

As monotone as he’d sounded, Bran had looked – for a brief moment – truly regretful at his admission. His joy at seeing whatever emotion remains in Bran had been short lived. And, Jon thinks, his gut reaction before agreeing to this talk had been spot on.

Nothing about these revelations turned out to be for the best.

*

In the end he forgoes Bran’s advice of tomorrow.

Pulling on his breeches and boots, and adding his jerkin as an afterthought; Jon makes his way through the halls to Sansa’s chambers. His wounds pain him still, but as long as he moves carefully, he supposes nothing bad would happen. Halfway to his destination, he thinks maybe grabbing a cloak might have been a good idea – except he doesn’t remember seeing one in his chambers.

(Remembers the fur cloak Sansa made him, probably still sitting where he left it at Eastwatch.)

Brienne stands guard, unsurprisingly, and gives him an appraising look before nodding her head—Jon does wonders, though, if the Lady Knight ever rested—and takes a step aside.

“Your Grace.”

“She’s still awake?”

Brienne frowns, almost as in conflict with herself, and he finds his impression is spot on once she talks again. “She… hasn’t been resting well, and I don’t know how to help her,” there’s distress on her face, sharp and contrasting so very much with her stiff posture.

Jon rubs his face and nods at her. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She gives a firm nod, and knocks on the wooden door before he can think of it. For a second, he knows panic; what to say, when he sees her? Jon hasn’t exactly come up with a plan, expected to find her asleep and that he would return to his chambers in minutes.

He’s all prepared to voice his change of mind, when he hears her voice:

“Who is it?”

His heart skips a beat, then trips over several until it’s hammering against his ribcage.

“His Grace, my Lady.”

A pause; he holds his breath—

“Let him enter.”

—and lets it go.

Another firm nod; Brienne turns to face the hallways again. He takes that as his cue, and it’s almost funny how hesitant he feels but. But.

But.

Jon grins as he pushes the wooden door open, steps through, and turns to close it. He half expects her to find her glaring at him; the other half expects her to ignore him until he break the silence first. His smile must throw her off, for her eyes flicker away from the parchments she’s been perusing for a second to look at him, a glint of defiance, but then she does a double take and it takes everything in him not to break down laughing.

Or crying; strangely enough, Jon cannot dismiss that possibility quite yet.

“Is something amusing you, Your Grace?”

Ah, so that’s how it’ll be.

His grin falters and fades into a soft tilt of his mouth. “I just remembered – anything that comes before the word ‘but’ is horseshit.”

Sansa arches an eyebrow, confusing dancing in her eyes though her face remains devoid of emotions. Truly, she must be very tired to let her ask fall, if slightly. It’s not, of course, that she’s used her mask with him – ever since that day in the battlements, after the execution of Ramsay, they’ve been as honest as they allowed themselves to be. He more than she; Jon’s always been quick to forgive and forget and believe.

Not so much she, whose hardships made her near an impenetrable fortress. But Sansa, she’s been thawing towards him, slowly, since their reunion at Castle Black; the weeks leading up to his departure for Dragonstone made it plain to him, she no longer used her mask when they were alone. Her trust in him, in her safety, enough to let herself be completely honest about her opinions with him.

He shouldn’t be surprised she’s closed off again; shouldn’t feel hurt. If anything, he should feel ashamed, having failed her so spectacularly at being there for her when she needed—someone.

Perhaps, she was right to rebuff my promises of protection in the end.

Jon thinks of waiting a few moments before trying to break the silence, but again she surprises him by doing so herself.

“What is it you want, Jon, that is so important you couldn’t wait till morrow?”

“Where’s Ghost? He should be here, looking after you.”

A deflection, but he’s yet to think of a way to broach the subject he wished to discuss.

“Out in the woods, hunting,” and that explains Brienne. “Do not worry, he’s bound to arrive soon.”

The nonchalant way in which she says this, as if it were an everyday occurrence—a pattern she’s learned to predict, makes something tug at his heart. Both in joy and melancholy. He’s glad Ghost has at least managed to do what he’s been asked to. Glad his loyal companion had no qualms at being equally loyal to Sansa, but oh, so very sad because he’s missed him.

Inexplicably more than when they were separated that first time, beyond The Wall. Seeing Daenerys with her dragons had made him yearn for his direwolf, though Jon knows that, had he the chance to reconsider his decision to leave him behind, he would do it again.

Sansa’s safety still comes above anything.

“He was good, Ghost, a most reassuring presence,” she says, after a beat. “I admit it was amusing to watch some of the most vexing Lords take a step back when Ghost would sit beside me during Council meetings.”

It is almost as if she wished to smile, but wouldn’t allow herself such luxury. And while not his main purpose for having seek her out, Jon finds it hard to care; if he manages to pull a smile from her, he’ll count it as a victory.

“Truly? You took him to all those meetings?”

“Not all. I did not wish to bore him; some.”

“The ones with these vexing Lords?”

And, there; her smile, small and fleeting but there nonetheless, and he smiles in response.

“Only those.”

He suddenly shifts, from one foot to the other; she’s not inviting him to sit so he won’t, understands it won’t be easy. He doesn’t expect it to be. And as Sansa finally turns back to the parchments in her hands, it’s clear he’ll have to keep the conversation rolling.

“What happened to Littlefinger?”

Impossible it is, this notion, but he feels as if all the warmth of the rooms vanishes once the words hang between them; Sansa freezes, doesn’t look up, but every line of her body is pulled tight

Her voice, when she speaks, is pleasant but so very empty. “Do not concern yourself over such matters, Your Grace; he’s of no consequence now.”

“What happened?” He tries to instil authority in his voice, but seeing her shaking hands very nearly brings him to his knees. “Sansa…”

“Leave it,” she snaps, closing her eyes.

Gods he should. He should beg her to find some rest and excuse himself, go back to his chambers and wait instead of prying. Pressuring her into talking. Had he not promised himself he would never do that, pressure her? Force her to do something she does not want?

But Bran’s words haunt him; Jon needs to know what happened, otherwise, how is he supposed to help her?

“Sansa,” he says her name, softly, reassuringly, conveying as much comfort as he can in that one word. “Sansa, please… Please talk to me.”

Gods, let me comfort you. Sansa, just let me help you.

She shakes her head, stands up and walks swiftly towards the fireplace. He follows, but stays at arm’s length; every part of him itches to reach out and draw her into his arms, provide the comfort he knows she wants—craves as much as he does.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” his body sways forward; he takes a step, but then freezes. “I’m so sorry, Sansa, I should’ve been here to protect you. I promised you I would and I failed and…”

“You didn’t fail—”

“But I did!” Jon reaches out, touching her shoulder tentatively; he needs her to look at him. “I did. You were right… about everything; I couldn’t protect you, I walked right into a trap by going to Dragonstone, spent months on a fools’ errand and all for nothing—”

She turns around then, and the words die in his mouth. For an agonizing second he thinks she’ll yell at him – she’s holding herself so tightly, eyes swimming with unshed tears and lips trembling. Thinks she’ll yell and cry and crumble and he can’t, can’t bear witness to—she hugs him. Sansa closes the distance between them in one stride and wrap her arms around his shoulders, fisting her hands on his jerkin and squeezing.

His hands hover for a moment at her sides before embracing her just as desperately.

“You didn’t fail,” she says, measuring her words; takes a deep breath. “You did protect me, because you left Ghost with me. You told him to look after me, protect me, and he did. Ghost, who is a part of you—as much as Lady was a part of me.”

A pause; the way her voice breaks nearly unmans him. Jon buries his face in the slope of her neck, breaths her in; his heart clatters within his chest and he wonders if it’ll always be the same – if his heart will always stumble upon itself at the sight of her, if his breath will always catch every time she gifts him with one of her smiles. If his hands will always itch to run through her hair, to trail over her waist and up her back and pull her closer, closer, and closer.

Gods he’s missed her, so bloody much.

Too close, he thinks, urgently, I’m too damn close. This isn’t proper; such an errant thought and he knows he’s been toeing that line for far longer than just now. Except he’s not just toeing it now, is he. He’s simply blown it away. Has been steadily erasing it for months on end before setting sail for Dragonstone.

My sister. Sansa is my sister; she’s always been my sister, but…

But. But. But.

She really isn’t, is she?

“And your journey to Dragonstone was not in vain,” Sansa says, effectively dragging him out of his tumultuous thoughts. “We have the dragonglass. Two shipments of it and a third has just arrived at White Harbor and should be on its way here by tomorrow.”

“But I was supposed to come back with more than just—”

“Jon,” she pulls back, breaking their embrace thought she does grabs hold of his hands, “I know you did your best to secure an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen. We’ll think of a way to make her understand the danger there is beyond The Wall. Let us not despair before giving it another try, alright?”

He heaves a sigh because he knows it will not be as easy as giving it another try. The Dragon Queen has proven to be much too focused on getting the Iron Throne, on getting her birthright, to consider helping them without asking that they bend the knee. Jon wonders if he should tell Sansa about it, about the choice he was given. He knows he won’t, not now when he feels so very exhausted, when all he wants to do is sit down with her and find some rest.

Make sure she finds some rest.

“Come ‘ere,” Jon says, voice rumbling low; he tugs on her hands as he walks them over the settee in front of the fireplace, has to keep tugging until she relents and sits next to him. Closer than she would have before. “I was told you’ve been doing brilliantly ruling in my stead. As I knew you would.”

Sansa blinks, owlishly; there are faint shadows under her eyes, he can’t stop himself from reaching up and running his thumb over it. It doesn’t make her look any less lovely.

“You need to rest now, Sansa, if only for a moment.”

She nods, letting her head drop to his shoulder; a first, for them. “Only for a moment, then.”

Jon rest his head on hers, hoping this first won’t be the last.

Tomorrow, he decides, they’ll talk about the Dragon Queen tomorrow, after he’s enquired about what happened to Littlefinger – what happened between her and Arya. There’s so much he needs to ask about, so much he wants to tell her—he wonders if she knows, if Bran’s told her…

“Jon?”

“Yes?”

“I missed you.”

Tomorrow, it can all wait until tomorrow.

“…I missed you, too.”

* *

part ii

[newenglandpups]

Hua Update

So they had their yearly exam today and overall they're looking good. Scarlett is fantastic and was much more relaxed this time.

Finley's feeling better on his luxating patella, but that brings me to the biggest bit of news...

So he's a smol dog, that's not a secret. And he's always been in great shape. But about 6-8 months ago, I noticed some hair loss on both of his front legs. Right in the middle of the leg too, not over a joint like would be common for some kind of soreness. I thought maybe it was running from his winter coat and just kept an eye on it.

Then I noticed him chewing his leg in the same spot one day. Then I realized every night, he ritualistically licks his legs there. So I started interrupting it and again, watching to make sure it didn't get irritated.

Then I noticed the weight loss. Around the beginning of November, I noticed that his hip bones were much more visible than usual. He's got sort of a sight hound build so they're always a bit visible, as are some ribs, but they were really sticking out. Now, it has been a very, very cold fall/winter here. So I thought maybe he was expending more energy to stay warm. Started upping his food a bit and keeping a sweater on him pretty much all the time.

He's gained a bit of weight back so I didn't think much of it... until we were in the exam room today. We went for a nice long walk with Melissa beforehand on her lunch break (or appointment was directly after her break) and then went right to the clinic. He loves it there and was VERY excited, even after having ran around the woods for an hour. Melissa commented on how full of excitement he is and maybe that's where the weight loss came from. Towards the end of the exam, he started chewing his leg.

Duh! Redirected outlet for his nervous/excited energy. Why didn't I think of that before??? He's always been a very easily excited/overly excited little dog. He just loves life SO MUCH. But for some reason, he's gotten even more excitable... starting about 6-8 months ago. When I first noticed the hair loss.

Some people might give me shit for what I'm about to say but fuck it. Maybe it'll help others.

So Finley has this elephant stuffy. Every night, he humps it. It's like his little stress ball (also btw if your dog is excessively humping, they're prob overstimulated and not trying to "be the alpha" ok) and he does it without fail every night. I don't have a problem with this because he's never mounted a person or another dog or anything else for that matter, he doesn't resource guard the toy, and after he humps for a couple minutes he curls up and goes to sleep. I'd rather that be his outlet for his overexcitement than chewing or barking or whatever.

But he's also started humping his toy whenever we do something exciting: training at home, if we come home after doing some kind of training out and about, after going to visit any dogs he really likes, etc. Again, starting within the last few months.

I don't know what happened, because his routine's pretty much the same and his food is the same and we still go to the same places and he gets plenty of mental exercise. But for some reason, his overly excited brain has maxed out on how much stress it can handle and now it's coming out physically.

So, TL;DR version of the story: Finley's going on a low dose anti-anxiety med to help him deal with all of his excitableness. And if I know we're going to be doing something that would get him even more wound up than normal, I can give him a slightly higher dose to take the edge off and give his little brain a helping hand.

Also despite my fastidious upkeep of his teeth, they're still kinda gross and he's going to need a full dental cleaning come summertime. And he will likely end up needing teeth extracted in the next 3-5 years. I brush his teeth three times a week, he gets dental chews and raw bones, but they still get tartar build up and he has gingivitis and the beginnings of gum disease.

Scarlett's teeth by the way are immaculate. So it's just Finley's shitty genetics.

Poor lad.