#''obviously this is going to be a regular deposit even though you reported it as a once-a-year thing-

[melodraca]

the social assistance programs in my province are run by fucking clowns 😭

[robininthelabyrinth]

Tedious Joys - Chapter 8 - END

- Ao3 link -

“You’re not going to like what we’ve decided,” Lao Nie said.

Lan Qiren could have guessed that from the way that the other man had marched into the room and promptly used Lan Qiren’s thigh as a pillow, primarily, Lan Qiren suspected, because he didn’t want to have to look Lan Qiren in the face.

It was a common tactic of his these days. The Nie clan had always been inclined towards tactile behavior and a certain lack of personal boundaries – personal information was too much to share, but apparently bodies were free game – and Lao Nie had very quickly transitioned from embarrassment to taking advantage of his newfound dependency on regular physical contact with Lan Qiren. Much to Lan Qiren’s relief, they had managed, with some experimenting and considerable effort on all parts involved, for Lao Nie to form a bond directly with the jade pendant. Now, as long as he carried the pendant, he was able to be by himself for a shichen or so without experiencing any degradation in his mental state – and that, in turn, enabled them both to separate and allowed them both some measure of privacy.

Unfortunately, after that shichen was over, Lao Nie would begin to become irritable and irrational again, his eyes slowly becoming bloodshot as the rage and resentful energy contained now wholly within him, rather than in the jade – in Jiwei, rather – began to need to be excised. Exercise and cultivation with a heavy training saber helped slow the effects, as did Lan Qiren’s musical efforts to calm and clear his mind, but Lao Nie’s cultivation was simply too high for it to last for very long. It was as if half his meridians had vanished overnight and yet he continued to cultivate as he did before; it was as if his dominant arm had been abruptly cut off, and yet he instinctively continued to try to do everything he previously could. He needed his saber to complete even a standard circulation of his qi, and short of suppressing his spiritual energy entirely (another experiment that met with some limited success, getting them another two shichen of time apart if they really needed it, but which was not a long-term solution given the unfortunate side effects), he had to have access to it.

Currently, that access was through Lan Qiren.

“If you’re warning me in advance, I’m quite certain that I won’t like it,” he said mildly, continuing to play uninterrupted. He wasn’t cultivating anything at the moment – the piece he was working on was actually a refinement of the music he’d inadvertently created in his grief at Cangse Sanren’s death, the one that had made his normally very stable nephews burst into tears, and he didn’t want to add spiritual energy to it until he’d worked out exactly how he wanted it to go. He reached an appropriate stopping place, noted down a few revisions to the score, and put his guqin aside. “You should tell me about it regardless.”

Lao Nie exhaled. “Well, good news first – the smiths have finally finished conferring and they’ve concluded that they believe it’s possible to try reforging Jiwei, so they’re willing to give it a try.”

“Good,” Lan Qiren said. He hadn’t really understood the spiritual weaponsmiths’ reluctance on the subject, but he respected their expertise as craftsmen, just as they respected his as a musician. “Once the saber has been remade, I can reestablish the resonance between them and, in theory, Jiwei should be able to use that pathway to return - and with greater ease, as she would be returning to her more familiar self.”

“Not that easy, unfortunately,” Lao Nie said regretfully. “Jiwei was shattered. To remake the blade, they will need to – for want of a better explanation – melt her down and start entirely afresh. It will be like having a wholly different saber, albeit with the same metal that she’s used to.”

Lan Qiren frowned.

“There, you see the issue. If it’s a new saber, the familiarity will be absent. We will need to work on reestablishing the resonance the way we did with the pendant, and that means –”

“Slowly.” Lan Qiren’s frown deepened. It had taken him years to establish that initial resonance, and knowing how it was done could only reduce the process by so much. “That is indeed a problem. I cannot stay here as long as that would take. In all truth, I am surprised that I have not already been summoned back by my sect…”

“Oh, you have,” Lao Nie said cheerfully. “A-Jue burned the letters and told the messengers to fuck off.”

Lan Qiren’s jaw dropped. “He did what?!”

“Did we not say? You’ve officially been kidnapped! Well, no, really it’s more of a hostage exchange situation, since they have A-Sang with them…oh, don’t look so horrified, Qiren,” Lao Nie said, starting to laugh. “Your sect elders have indicated that no offense was taken, under the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?!” Lan Qiren spluttered a little. “You’re not serious! What circumstances could justify one sect kidnapping another sect’s sect leader, acting or otherwise?!”

Lao Nie stopped laughing, the sound cutting off as if he’d been choked. “Yes, well,” he said, closing his eyes. “That’s the part you’re really not going to like.”

Lan Qiren determinedly prodded at Lao Nie’s shoulder until the other man, grumbling, sat up and took a proper seat so that they could have this discussion face-to-face. Their knees remained touching, which was good enough, and about all that the scoundrel deserved at the moment.

“Explain,” Lan Qiren ordered, and Lao Nie dipped his head into a nod.

“There are several relevant points,” he said crisply, dropping into the familiar pattern of a report. “First, Hanhan has clearly decided that he wants me dead –”

“Must you?” Lan Qiren interjected, even though he had not meant to interrupt.

“Oh, I must.” Lao Nie’s eyes were flinty. “He decided that if he couldn’t have me – and no one said he couldn’t, except his own paranoia – that if he couldn’t, no one could, and I’m not about to forgive him for that, don’t worry. But he’s still my Hanhan, my A-Han, underneath all his madness, and for my own sake, I’m not going to let anyone, whether him or me, forget it. No matter how necessary, some things have to hurt, and to their fullest extent...However, that’s not what’s relevant now. May I continue?”

Lan Qiren nodded.

“He wants me dead,” Lao Nie said, resuming his narrative. “Now that he tried once, he may try again, and I currently lack the capability to defend myself – the doctors, and you, have all agreed that I should avoid any excessive use of qi, and fighting a battle with a saber that isn’t Jiwei is a recipe for disaster in the best of times. I can’t exactly swing the pendant around, can I? Moreover, it may take years for us to establish the resonance, re-transfer Jiwei, and for me to re-familiarize myself with the new saber.”

Lan Qiren did not like the way this was going.

“There’s also the matter that I can’t be without physical contact with you for extended periods of time, and you of course have your responsibility to your sect,” Lao Nie continued. “Kidnapping you is, at best, a temporary fix. We will need something more permanent, and your sect elders have already indicated that they won’t let you marry out until your nephews are grown – and obviously we can’t wait that long, even assuming you’d want to marry me.”

Lan Qiren opened his mouth.

“Don’t say that you’d be willing to make the sacrifice to marry me, because even if you would, I wouldn’t. Putting aside the fact that you wouldn’t be happy leaving the Cloud Recesses and as much as I adore you, having been married before, I’m quite certain that I only want to marry my lovers, thank you.”

Lan Qiren had, in fact, been about to make an offer just like that, but he kept his mouth shut. They could discuss it at length at a later point.

“In short, the best solution to all of these problems, therefore, appears to be to allow events to play out as Hanhan would have wanted: for me to die.”

“You cannot be serious!” Lan Qiren exclaimed, abruptly furious. “After all the effort we put into saving your life, you would just throw it away?”

Lao Nie held up his hands. “Forgive me, I spoke unwisely – ‘do not take your words lightly’, right?”

Lan Qiren was usually very easily distracted by the mention of the Lan sect rules, but he resisted the temptation and glared.

“I didn’t mean I’d actually die,” Lao Nie said, and Lan Qiren’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Only that that would be the story we put out to the world. The process has already begun – that’s why your sect elders aren’t kicking up a fit about A-Jue being so rude to them about refusing to return you.”

“They think he’s in mourning,” Lan Qiren realized. “Whether actual, or merely preemptive.”

He could see how it might appear that way: Nie Mingjue showing up late in the evening, depositing a shaken and terrified Nie Huaisang, using up all the medical supplies in Lan Qiren’s personal possession, and then asking Lan Qiren to return home with him…

Due to Lan Qiren’s friendship with Lao Nie, Nie Mingjue had grown up especially close to the Lan sect; Lan Qiren had been his teacher, and in the end he was only fifteen, even if most people didn’t know that. Even in a world where Lao Nie could not have been saved, he might have refused to let Lan Qiren go home so quickly, seeking comfort from the sole familial authority, however informally constituted, that he had remaining.

“But Lao Nie,” Lan Qiren said slowly. “If you are supposedly dead, then Mingjue will need to become sect leader.”

Lao Nie grimaced, but nodded.

He’d been right about one thing, at least: Lan Qiren did not like what the Nie sect had decided.

He didn’t like it one bit.

“You know what that will do to him,” he said. He himself knew it better than anyone.

“I do,” Lao Nie confirmed, looking pained. “But it’s the best out of a short list of very bad options. If I stay on as sect leader in my current state, someone will kill me – probably Hanhan, but maybe someone else, one of the many small sects that have ambitions of taking the Nie sect’s place – and if that happens, A-Jue will have to become sect leader in truth, without my support. At least this way, I can act as an advisor, aid him with paperwork…that sort of thing.”

As much as Lan Qiren would have liked to argue, he didn’t have a good rebuttal to that.

Lao Nie’s position within the Nie sect was as secure as anything, and the Nie sect’s position as a Great Sect was nearly as unshakable, but there were always smaller sects looking to see whether that could change. If he were known to be so critically weakened...Wen Ruohan might not even need to kill him personally. He’d just need to wait.

And the rest was true, too. There were many things Lao Nie could do from a distance - his month at the Lan sect had shown that much - and having someone reliable to turn to for advice and hard choices was the ideal sort of transition for a new sect leader.

Still, the sect conferences alone would be horrifying, and those Lao Nie would not be able to aid Nie Mingjue with, even if he could help with all the rest.

He hated it.

But he couldn’t argue against it.

“Moreover, without the bulk of the responsibilities of sect leader on my shoulders, I’ll have more opportunity to focus on healing.”

That was true as well. Lao Nie had been hurt very deeply by Jiwei’s destruction. His cultivation had fallen, his usual cultivation pathway denied to him, his trust in his own mental well-being betrayed…in an ideal world, Lan Qiren would recommend seclusion for a few months, maybe even a year, for him to focus on reestablishing his connection with himself, re-centering his foundation so that he could climb up once more. But for a sect leader, that was impossible.

“Very well,” Lan Qiren said, although he made sure by his tone to make clear how much he disapproved. “I understand the basis for your decision.”

“I thought you might.”

“There’s only one flaw I see with your plan.”

“Oh?”

Lan Qiren folded his hands together in front of him. “You still need me, don’t you? Even with the excuse of mourning, Nie Mingjue can only request my presence for so long before the demands of my sect become paramount over their respect for his filial piety and grief.”

“Oh, we’ll let you go back eventually,” Lao Nie said with a shrug. “And I’d go with you.”

Lan Qiren had been expecting that. “And how exactly do you intend to keep the story of your death intact if you’re living with me at the Cloud Recesses? Even if we increase your tolerance such that you can stay home at all times, my home is often visited by my students, including those from other sects – and while there may be a rule against talking behind people’s backs, it is one of the most commonly broken.”

Lao Nie winced in a way that suggested both that he had thought of an answer to that question and also that Lan Qiren was going to hate it.

“Whatever you say, I cannot dislike it more than A-Jue becoming sect leader at fifteen,” Lan Qiren pointed out.

“I don’t know about that,” Lao Nie said. “Given that to this day you despise the smell of gentians.”

Lan Qiren’s brain came to an abrupt halt.

“Absolutely not,” he said.

“Qiren…”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s a good solution,” Lao Nie argued. “No one in your sect goes to that house – most of them don’t even know it exists! It’s within a short walking distance of your home, protected by arrays to enhance silence and protect privacy…”

“I am not locking you in He Kexin’s place!” Lan Qiren bellowed.

“You wouldn’t be locking me anywhere,” Lao Nie said, for once the reasonable and calm one in the face of Lan Qiren’s fury. “I would be going willingly, and I would be free to leave at any time. You’re not your brother, Qiren, and I’m not He Kexin – not least of which because I’m neither capable of nor interested in bearing two sons for you as a means of passing the time.” He paused, tilting his head to the side. “A bit of a pity, that. I’m sure they’d be cute.”

Lan Qiren rolled his eyes at him, although the reassurance and humor had helped douse the worst of his terror at the mere idea. Irritatingly, it was a good solution: he had made the trek to He Kexin’s home hundreds of times and no one had ever raised any questions. In the unlikely event that they did so now, he could claim he was merely tending to the garden to maintain it for his nephews; more likely, however, they would simply not notice – the path between the two locations was short and purposefully discrete.

“You’ll need someone to clean the place,” he pointed out. “Even He Kexin had servants, and if you don’t want anyone from the Lan sect finding out about it…”

“I have some servants that are loyal to me personally, and which are not Nie sect disciples,” Lao Nie said. “They can seek employment at the Cloud Recesses on the basis that they didn’t want to remain here after I’d gone – literally true, if you think about it in a certain light. Your sect would snatch them up in a heartbeat.”

They would, too, even without Lan Qiren interfering: properly trained servants who knew how to serve cultivators were a precious commodity that often had to be raised up from a young age or recruited with great caution from the ranks of rogue cultivators, and ones with the skills and experience that came from serving at another Great Sect were even more valued than most. And once they were part of the Cloud Recesses, there would be no difficulty in Lan Qiren adding the task of caring for He Kexin’s house to their list of duties.

“It’s a good plan,” he finally conceded, and Lao Nie sniggered.

“You look as though you’ve bitten into a lemon, Qiren. Did it hurt to say?”

“It hurt to think,” he retorted, and turned back to his guqin. “Will you visit my brother while you’re there? He might enjoy hearing your voice and knowing that you are close.”

Lao Nie had always refused in the past, and he shook his head now. “Not all of us are as forgiving as you, Qiren. Qingheng-jun made his choices.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“He makes them again every day,” Lao Nie disagreed. “He may have declared that he would stay in seclusion for the rest of his life to make amends, but that was his decision. He could break his oath and come out, do the right thing, but he doesn’t want to.”

It was an old argument, and an unproductive one. Lan Qiren shook his head, signaling that he would no longer engage.

He had other things to be concerned with, and would for some time. There was helping with Lao Nie’s recovery, creating the new resonance, playing calming music for him, keeping his secret; he would also need to help support Nie Mingjue as much as possible during his transition to sect leader, whether through correspondence and advice or through active intervention during the discussion conferences. He would need to manage his nephews, who he had taught so carefully not to lie, and yet they would need to learn to keep this secret, too.

Taking care of Lao Nie would also be an additional set of duties, on top of being sect leader and being a teacher and being himself, but Lan Qiren didn’t mind it.

It wouldn’t be so bad, actually, now that he thought of it without prejudice. To have someone close by to take tea with in the afternoons when his nephews were too busy and it wasn’t the right time of year for students, someone with whom he could speak on any range of subjects, including his occasional frustrations with his sect, stories about his students, the political troubles of the day – a friend close by, rather than at a distance. Someone who would probably encourage him to take more exercise than he usually did, to try things outside of his comfort zone, someone who would listen to his ideas on music or the rules without judgment, someone who would share his burdens and support him…it would be a little like having a wife, but without all the inconvenient aspects that he so thoroughly disliked.

“It’s not too bad, as such things go,” Lao Nie said, his thoughts clearly moving along a similar line as Lan Qiren’s. “Whatever the world thinks, I’ll be the first Nie sect leader to live to enjoy a retirement, however premature.”

This was true.

“I’ll miss my boys, of course,” Lao Nie added. “But I’ll write, and you can invite A-Sang to your lectures when he’s old enough. A-Jue can come visit you, sect leader to sect leader…I wouldn’t be the first father to only see his children a few times a year.”

“Nie Huaisang will probably fail my classes,” Lan Qiren said, having been acquainted with the individual in question for some time now. A clever child, even very clever, but he was also lazy, hated reciting facts, and was as stubborn as a rock – as stubborn as his father. “You’ll probably have the joy of him for several summers in a row.”

Lao Nie smiled.  

“Well, I can’t say this was what I expected when I wrote to you for help all those years ago,” he joked, leaning down and playing with the jade token that now hung from his belt rather than Lan Qiren’s. Wen Ruohan would probably have a fit if he ever saw it – indeed, Lan Qiren was already looking forward to that day in the future, however distant, where Lao Nie would regain his saber and his former strength and re-emerge to make his feelings on the subject of Wen Ruohan’s actions clear. “But I’m still glad you came.”

“As am I, my friend,” Lan Qiren said. “As am I.”

[wanderinginksplot]

Nobody Listens to Kix

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Case 00627: Scorch

Kix glanced up at the familiar sound of the medbay doors opening, frowning as he saw two commando troopers walking in. Their distinctively styled helmets gave an air of uniformity, but the designs painted on them spoke of very different personalities.

The commando wearing the helmet marked with red, jagged lines - almost suggesting a handprint - was half-supporting, half-dragging another commando with a simple, gray-green helmet painted with white and yellow details. Kix studied both new arrivals, but couldn't find any visible injuries on either.

"What happened here?" Kix asked, already starting toward the men.

"Scorch here blew himself up," the red-painted commando answered, with a motion of his helmet that clearly said he was rolling his eyes. "Di'kut."

"I did not!" the injured Scorch said defensively, turning to address Kix. "I had a minor disagreement with a wall."

"Yeah?" the red-painted commando asked, "What were the arguments?"

"Whether or not the blast from a thermal detonator plus my own fabulous aim would make the wall go 'boom'," Scorch replied, clearly grinning under his helmet.

"Congratulations on winning your argument, sir," Kix said dryly, already promising himself to blow up the Resolute and everyone inside before he would let Scorch and Hardcase meet. "Let's shed the armor and see how much damage that wall's rebuttal caused."

The two commandos completed their half-walk, half-drag journey to the first bunk in the medbay and Scorch leaned up against the mattress, stifling a pained groan. The red-painted one, obviously fed up with his brother's antics, unceremoniously lifted and deposited Scorch on the bed.

"Come on, Sev!" the commando complained loudly. "You know I'm injured and delicate."

"It doesn't count as an injury if you've always been stupid," Sev told him. "I'm going to report back to Boss."

"You're going to leave me here, alone and hurt?" Scorch asked dramatically. His only reply was the medbay door closing behind Sev. He shook his head and told the door, "Well, that was rude."

The door seemed unsympathetic.

Kix cleared his throat, wondering if he should crank the scanner high enough to scan for brain injuries, when Scorch turned back to him. He pulled off his gray and white commando helmet, grinned, and stuck out a hand. "Scorch."

"I gathered," Kix replied. "I'm Kix."

"Good, I'm in the right place," Scorch said, heaving an exaggerated sigh of relief as he began stripping off the rest of his armor. "But what is the best medic in the GAR doing attached to the 501st?"

"The best medic," Kix repeated skeptically, scanning the now de-armored commando.

"Oh, yeah. I've heard the stories," Scorch told him, eyes wide and sincere, though they sparkled with an edge of barely there mischief. "Granted, mostly from the pilot on the way here, but still."

"Troopers like to talk. And as for why the 501st…" Kix let some of his constant fond exasperation come through, "no one gets in more trouble or hurts themselves in stranger ways than them."

"And you like to treat them," Scorch summed up, the look on his face more intense than the situation called for. Kix was on-edge before the commando spoke again. "Makes you feel powerful, doesn't it? Makes you feel like you're better than them, more than just a regular trooper."

"Makes me feel like I've got one more living brother," Kix corrected sharply.

Scorch raised his hands in a gesture speaking of an innocence that his sparkling eyes belied. "Hey, I had to make sure you weren't one of those power-trip troopers."

Kix shook his head and silently went to gather the supplies he would need to treat his patient, unwilling to continue an insulting conversation. However, since the commando had started it… He turned to meet Scorch's eyes. "If we're asking uncomfortable questions, let me ask one."

Scorch made a beckoning gesture with his less-injured hand, as if he were inviting Kix to continue.

"Why do you sound different from every other trooper, but look exactly like the rest of us?" It was something he had been wondering since Scorch took off his helmet, but he had been too polite to ask. At least, until the commando had accused him of treating men for the ego boost. As if it did wonders for his ego to be vomited on, covered in blood, to need to help his brothers to the 'fresher, to hold their hands as they took their last breath-

"I'm an excellent mimic," Scorch answered, using Kix's own inflection. Kix stared at him steadily until he continued in his normal offbeat voice. "Sometimes, a situation calls for a voice to be different so we don't sound like normal clone troopers, no matter how much we look like them. Delta Squad is full of differences. Boss has a thicker accent than most native Mandalorians, Fixer has worked to speak the most pure Basic, and Sev's vocal cords are damaged. Me, I just talk this way because I want to."

"Yeah, you can never meet Hardcase," Kix muttered to himself, fighting a shudder at the ridiculous accent the 501st trooper would be sure to put on as a result.

"What was that?" Scorch asked.

"I said, oh excellent mimic, that you've bruised your ribs, pulled a hamstring, and most of the left side of your body will be covered in bruises for the next few weeks, maybe less if you can take a couple of days to rest up." Kix frowned down at the datapad showing the scanner's results. "You managed not to break anything, which is - frankly - a miracle."

"Commando armor," Scorch told him with a sharp rap on his chestplate, wincing as the movement strained his injuries.

"Bruised. Ribs." Kix repeated, biting the end off each word so that the commando would be sure to understand him. "I'll issue you some pain meds, but the most you can do to improve your recovery time is to sleep as much as possible and stay hydrated. Most importantly-"

Kix cut himself short as the medbay door opened and Scorch instinctively turned to see the new arrivals, hissing in pain at the twisting motion. "-don't twist or move your body in unusual ways," Kix finished, giving a perfunctory salute to the commando sergeant who stepped up to the bed.

"How is the patient?" the sergeant asked. Despite Scorch's overly casual manner, Kix had to admit that the commando had given an accurate description of his squadmates and their voices. This one with the thick Mando'a accent must be Boss.

With a shrug to answer the sergeant's question, Kix told him, "Not much I can do, actually."

"Told you those thermal dets would kill you some day," the rough-voiced Sev said to Scorch with no small amount of satisfaction.

"What? No," Kix told him, nettled by the idea that a patient of his could die from such minor injuries. "Scorch is covered in bruises and he pulled a few muscles. Nothing life-threatening, but they aren't injuries I can do much for. I'm issuing pain meds, but he could stand a few days of bed rest, sir."

Boss nodded while Scorch looked horrified. "I can't stay on bed rest!"

The last commando, the non-accented Fixer, sounded irritated by his squadmate. "Six-Two, you can't just choose which orders to follow. If Three-Eight says you're on bed rest, that's where you'll be unless you want a court-martial."

Scorch looked pleadingly at Kix. "I could die from my injuries, right, Kix? Even Fixer wouldn't try to boss around a dying brother."

"Er... " Kix trailed off, glancing around at the group of commandos. "Bruises have a notoriously low fatality rate, Scorch."

"I think his vocal cords may have been damaged," Sev observed. "Could you order a total lack of speaking for the foreseeable future? For medical reasons?"

"We'd make it worth your while," Fixer wheedled.

"Is it too late to say I don't want any visitors?" Scorch asked, though even that sounded like a joke.

"We probably should leave," Boss agreed, cutting through Sev and Fixer's gloating with a simple reminder of, "Lots of reports to write."

"Ugh. Really, sir? For a self-inflicted injury?"

"I was having a good day, Boss."

Before he left, Boss patted Scorch gently on the shoulder. "I'm glad you're okay, Scorch. Rest up or we'll leave you behind on our next mission."

"Kix?" Kix glanced over at the commando sergeant, one brow lifting in silent question. "Make sure he rests. Sedate him or strap him down if you need to."

With one last threatening look in Scorch's direction, Boss left the medbay. Kix silently held out the pain meds for Scorch, passing him a cup of water at the proper time.

"You're good to sleep now," Kix told the commando. "If the pain gets bad again, let me know and I'll increase your dosage."

Scorch nodded and had just settled back against the pillow when the medbay door opened and Kix's heart nearly stopped. He walked briskly to the front of the medbay, making small pushing motions at the new arrival. "Hardcase, get out of here. You're fine."

"You don't even know what's wrong yet," Hardcase pouted.

"Hardcase?" Scorch asked, sitting up with a manic interest gleaming in his eyes.

"Yeah?" Hardcase asked, leaning to peer around Kix's shoulder. "Whoa, a commando! I heard you guys get to deal with more explosives than anyone!"

"You ever juggled thermal detonators?" Scorch asked, giving Kix an innocent shrug when the medic glared.

"No!" Hardcase said, pushing past Kix to perch by Scorch's bedside, wearing a look of utter fascination.

In only moments, the two were swapping stories, each trying to outdo the other while both seemed impressed by the other's exploits. Kix groaned. Force willing, he wouldn't have much to do with Scorch after this, but he already expected a wild number of injuries in Hardcase's near future.

---

A/N - First off, I want to apologize to... well, just everyone. For those who are not familiar with Republic Commando, you're probably a bit confused about who these guys are and why they're here. I read a fic featuring the characters in a minor role and proceeded to inhale everything I could find with them in it. For those who are familiar with Republic Commando, I would like to apologize for any errors in characterization, background, etc. Sidebar: if you know of a good fic featuring Delta Squad, please share the name of it with me!

Please reblog this work! It helps me grow my readership!

[flying-nightwing]

Pink and Totalitarianism Always Go Hand in Hand

Here’s the promised crack fic. Disclaimer, this is terrible in every and any form, because it is meant to be that way. If you want quality, structure, a story that makes sense, this ain’t it chief. This is certified Crack. If you finish this and all you can say is something along the lines of “what the fuck”, my work here is done. (Besides, this isn’t edited to add to the overall crack vibe)

Enjoy and good luck, because it get worse and worse as it goes

Masterlist in bio // pinned post

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Word count: 4626

Warnings: Mention of drugs, light non-graphic violence, language

Summary: You’re stuck in a world that does not make sense, alone and surrounded by secret police and spies that will report you to the government. One early morning, Jason appears in your living room. His arrival gives you an opportunity to get the hell out of there for good. 

You had taken a habit of sleeping lightly.

You, who had once cherished your sleep like it was the rarest gem in the world. Yet, you found out you had still severely underappreciated its importance in your life, something you realized only when it was gone. You missed it like an old friend who was gone to war and died on the front, leaving words forever unsaid. What would you do for just one more night in your bed, with your own pillows and that drool stain that just wouldn’t leave anymore, sleeping like a log until the late morning. Or just a nap, that even would be enough. But you were far from home now, and you didn’t have a lot of hope you’d ever come back. 

When you heard a loud thump in the living room, your eyes flew open and your muscles tensed. Pushing off the pink comforter and pulling on the equally pink robe that was draped over the wooden chair, you carefully made your way down the corridor and toward the sound. A man dressed in black and red, with a red helmet complementing his strange outfit was standing there, looking around like he was trying to understand what was going on. You plastered a smile on your face. 

“Hiya there” The corner of your mouth hurt from the strain of smiling so wide. “Can I help you?”

“Uh?” He looked up, and even through his helmet you could assume his eyes were wide with confusion. They wouldn’t get you this time, you’d make sure of it. He didn’t fool anyone. “Where am I?”

“Silly!” You laughed, waving your hand in a small dismissive gesture. “We’re in Happy Town, obviously!”

“Uh?” He repeated, already visibly exhausted. That one agent lasted longer than the last, you had to give him that. His confusion was credible and well played down to the last detail. “Listen, lady, I’m sorry I crashed your house but I need you to point me toward Metropolis”

“Metropolis? I haven’t heard of a city of that name” You didn’t drop the smile. The goddamn smile. “Although, you are quite illegal sir, black and red are prohibited colors”

“... What?” 

“I’m afraid you’ll need to change” You explained. “Luckily for you, I have spares in the bedroom. Come along”

“Wait, prohibited?” He repeated, and you nodded eagerly. A test, it’s always a test. “What colors aren’t prohibited then?”

“Well, pink, you silly goose!”

He stared at you for the longest time. “What the fuck”

You froze. Actual agents were not allowed to swear, under any circumstances. They were physically not able to, even. “What did you say?”

“I said what the fuck”

You let your smile drop and sighed in relief. “Oh thank fuck”

“Hey, stay with me” He waved a hand in your face. “What the fuck is going on? Where am I?”

“Okay, we don’t have a lot of time, but basically” You paused, looking around to make sure all of your curtains were closed. You found a way to disable your microphones, but you had only to sunrise before they turned back on again. It was less suspicious that way, when you could attribute the lack of sound to you sleeping. Besides, you couldn’t risk you saying incriminating things in your sleep. “We are in a side dimension called Happy Town, but things are sketchy here. I don’t know what they are hiding, but if you don’t stick to their gimmick to the letter, you’re going to reeducation camps and stuff. This is some serious brainwashing, and I’m talking worse than Scientology”

“Fuck” He swore, taking off his helmet. “How did I get here?”

“Some portal, I dropped in the same place you did” You spoke quickly, in a hushed tone. “I haven’t found a way out, obviously, but if you came from Earth too, I’m betting there’s something I missed”

“This is insane” 

“You tell me” You scoffed. “And you haven’t even seen how bonkers this place really is yet”

“Do I really have to wear pink?” He flinched, and your eyes widened.

“Yes, you do!” You replied. “They will have you under scrutinization as soon as you step out of this house. If you want to survive, you must follow the rules to the letter. They don’t fuck around, I tell ya. When I first appeared, all the neighbors moved away and were immediately replaced by other creepier neighbors. I swear they’re spies. They’re all spies!”

“Wait, how long have you been there?”

“I don’t know, years?” You guessed. Could have been any measure of time really, you couldn’t know for sure. “I have no idea how I got through their brainwashing sessions. Either I outsmarted them, or they have no idea what they’re doing. It’s better not to take any chance, though”

“This is fucked up” He sighed and sat on the couch. “Besides wearing pink, what do I have to do?”

“Oh boy, sit tight” You began pacing in front of him. You didn’t know him, but he was your best chance at getting the hell out of here. Your bed now seemed a little bit closer now, even though you knew you’d never sleep the same. “It’s not just the clothing that’s pink, it’s any fabric, by the way, because happy people like pink”

It was like he was now aware that every couch, chair, carpet, curtain in your house was actually pink. 

“You gotta smile, always. You gotta look like chuck-e-cheese on crack” You continued, pacing in front of him. “Talking of which, never, EVER eat pie. I don’t know what’s in it, but it messes with your brain. Always find an excuse or distraction to avoid eating it”

“I’m not--”

“Never allude to the microphones you might find, act like you’ve never seen them and have no idea they’re there” You added. “Also, tomorrow we’ll have to get you registered if we don’t want the secret police to storm the house. You’ll have to follow my lead or we’re both dead, got it?”

“Yeah but--”

“Don’t say anything incriminating during the day” You interrupted him again. “I tweaked the microphones so they’re scrambled from midnight to sunrise. But that’s it. Also, always assume anyone you talk to is a spy or a snitch. It’s the Stasi all over again here, you can’t trust anyone who you don’t hear swear, which is nobody”

“Wai wait” He stopped you as you opened your mouth to continue on. “Why?”

“Because the people from here cannot swear, happy people don’t swear, they smile and giggle” You felt your eye twitch as you recited the lines you were fed over and over again. “The people engineered here are not able to, only those they kidnapped from Earth. Bad news is, beside that, they are virtually non-differentiable from each other. And they all wear those stupid pink clothes, only the regular police wears a darked shade of magenta. Other than that, all the same”

Confusion and horror was evident on his face. He sat there, processing it all as your eyes fell on the clock. You had about ten minutes until the first rays of sun showed up and reactivated the mics. “There’s no way back?” He finally asked.

“Not that I know of yet” You wrapped your hands around yourself. “You know, I have been begging for help out of this hell hole. You might be the key. Anyway, we gotta change you into something non offensive before they find out you’re here”

You dragged him in the bedroom, leaving him at the threshold while you rummaged through the dresser. All those clothes had been there too when you popped in the house, as if they had known exactly what they were doing by bringing you here. However, it wasn’t clear whether or not they had planned for their new citizen to be you. Ad judging by the arsenal of weapons on the new guy, ir reinforced your theory that the actual selection was still experimental. You weren’t exactly the shut up and obey type, and you doubted he was either.

“What’s your name?” You asked as you pulled a pink cardigan out of a drawer. It occured to you that you might have to know what to call him. Polite people knew the name of their housemate. You grabbed a yet again pink pair of slacks and pushed the clothes in his hands.

“Uh, Jason” He replied, surprised at the sudden income of pink fabric. You threw him the socks, suspenders, bow tie, belt and dress shirt that was, you guessed it, the exact same color as the rest. He was covered in pink clothes like a coat hanger.

“(Y/N)”

“Hey, I’m not wearing that” He objected as he took a better look at the clothes. His face turned to disdain as he shook his head like he had drank bad milk. “Nope, no way”

“If you don’t wear pink, they’ll kill you” You said through your teeth.

“No, I’m not talking about the pink” He said, his expression unchanging. He pulled the cardigan and held it up. “This. This won’t do at all. I’m not wearing a fucking cardigan”

You stared at him, wide eyed. You didn’t have the time to deal with that, sunrise was a few minutes away!

“You will wear that cardigan or so help me” You said in a low, yet threatening voice. He recoiled. “Suck. It. Up.”

Wordlessly, he headed for the bathroom on the other side of the bedroom. He changed in two minutes, coming back awkwardly with his pile of dark clothes. You picked them from him and walked to that spot just beside your bed, and kneeled. You unscrewed the floor board, which was already loose, and you deposited the bundle, weapons and all, next to a very, very dusty blue jeans and burgundy coat. You hurried to replace everything like it hadn’t been touched and stood up again to face an all pink, visibly uncomfortable Jason. He was tying his bow, a displeased frown on his face. It made you wonder what was his life before. He changed rather quickly, and didn’t seem confused by the way bow ties worked.

“What now?”

“We gel your hair”

“No” His eyes widened. The wake up siren sounded outside, and like a reflex learned through violent lessons, your face pulled into a pained smile. You still made a zipping motion over your mouth, pointing to the bathroom. With a silent sigh, he complied.

---

His smile looked unnatural.

But again, so did yours probably. So did everyone’s. Smiling that much wasn’t natural for anyone or anything but perhaps a hyena. Or a clown. You walked arms in arms with him, waving at people sending you curious glances, their smiles unwavering. The government was already aware of this presence, either because they zapped him there or because they heard your made up meeting conversation through the microphones. 

“Okay, I see what you meant by everyone is a spy” He muttered through his teeth, making sure his lips weren’t moving. He was holding to his grin like it was a lifeline. And it was. 

“Right?” You replied in the same manner. “So don’t slip”

“I won’t”

“Well hello there!”

You jumped in surprise at the Mayor appearing in front of you, seemingly out of nowhere. You put your free hand on your heart and laughed. “Hi there, you startled me good!”

He laughed. Jason laughed. It all seemed forced. 

“I see we have an addition in Happy Town!” The mayor pointed to Jason, nodding in approval at his attire. “Where did you come from?”

His first test.

“I… Came from Earth!” He replied with enthusiasm. “Although I have to say, I looooove this place. It’s so… Happy!”

Well played, Jason. Well played.

“I am so glad to hear you say that” He placed a “friendly” pat on his shoulder, but he seemed satisfied. “What is your name, lad?”

“Dick Grayson, sir” 

You swallowed back your confusion at his words, but also at the hint of genuine smile that crossed his expression. Keep smiling.

“Well Mr. Grayson, welcome to Happy Town!” They shook hands. “I see Miss (Y/N) is already taking care of you, integrating you nicely in our community”

His gaze shifted to you as a silent warning behind those cold, smiling eyes. You had your fair history of problems with them, but they had every reason to think it was over now. Still, the warning lingered. But those pink assholes wouldn’t catch you this time.

“I’ll make sure he becomes one of us in no time!” You assured, giving a light nod to Jason.

“No doubt you’ll make an amazing couple” He tipped his pink hat and you noticed Jason held back a cough of surprise. “The daily play of the anthem is about to start, I must return to city hall. I’ll see you around!”

He waved. You waved. Jason waved. He walked away with a skip in his step like the happy jerk he was.

“Couple?” He said, coming back to your public mode of communicating. 

“Sorry, I should have warned you” You sighed internally.

“Sorry?”

“Yeah!” You wanted to burst out so bad. “What about it, Dick Grayson?”

“I wasn’t about to give them my real name” He defended, watching around for people noticing your hushed conversation. But everybody was preparing for the anthem, their attention directed to the morning messages man on the giant screens.

“So you gave that poor guy’s instead?”

“Poor? Nah. Relax, he can take care of himself” What you were sure was a chuckle escaped his lips. “Besides, he’s not even--”

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please rise for our national anthem”

You elbowed Jason and stood up straight, the sun hitting the side of your face. He mimicked your posture. The music started, and you could see faltering in the corner of your eye.

“Is this--”

“Yes”

“What the fuck”

“I know”

“Whyyyyyyy”

“Stay with me” You urged silently. You really didn’t know how or why Happy Town’s anthem came to be ‘Yeah!’ by Usher feat Lil Jon and Ludacris, but even if you did, now was not the ideal time or place to get into that kind of discussion. You suspected it had something to do with the exclamation mark after the ‘yeah’. But you could be wrong. You still didn’t understand the bigger picture however, since the lyrics clearly contained the word ‘not’ followed directly by ‘happy’ in the first verse, which made ‘not happy’. It was against the party line. 

“Okay, we stage a coup tonight” He decided as the song ended. “I don’t think I can do this another day”

----

Midnight came slowly.

After a day of mingling and presenting Jason as Dick Grayson and your future husband like the Mayor had most probably hinted at during your morning encounter, of slyly getting out of eating pie and avoiding the police, you were glad to finally breathe. 

“UUUUGH” Jason whined, plopping on the couch. “I can never look at the color pink the same way ever again. I’m sick of it, sick of it!”

“Get it together!” You snapped. “We need to plan our coup. We’ve got one shot for it, and if it fails we’re toast. I need my bed, Jason. MY BED”

“Alright, what do you have in mind?” He asked, taking a deep breath. “You know this place more than I do”

“I say tomorrow night, we quietly follow the police after their curfew patrol round” You began, biting the skin around your nails. “How good is your stealth?”

He looked at you blankly for a good ten seconds before he let out a small, ironic snort. “Above average, I’d say”

It was like he wanted you to ask why he’d think that, but you were too busy thinking about your plan. “Good, good” You nodded. “There must be some headquarters somewhere. All we have to do is get there, threaten them at gunpoint--Your guns are functional yes?”

“Obviously”

“--So they’ll zap us back to Earth. And if not, we shoot the mayor and take control of this hell”

“That escalated quickly,” He stated. “But what the hell, sure, I’m on board. Let’s go”

“Tomorrow the sun sets at 8:07. We’ll need to be changed and ready to go by then”

“Wait, tomorrow?” He sprung up in his seat, eyes wide. “No, no. I can’t take one more day of pink cardigans and pleasant conversations with spies!”

“DEAL WITH IT” You gestured wildly before calming down almost instantly. You didn’t need the neighbors to hear and report a fight. “Patrol is already over for today. Be smart about this”

“Fine” He sighed aggressively. “But if this flops, I’m taking everyone down with me. There won’t be an after tomorrow, I can fucking tell you”

“Yeah I won’t stop you”

“Good”

“Good.”

You stayed there in silence, unmoving for a moment. This was it. The moment you’ve been waiting for. Your liberation. Your bed was less than 24 hours a day if things went as planned, which you hoped it would. 

“I’ll… Sleep on the couch” He mumbled after a while, moving to lay down. YOur eyes widened.

“You can’t” You objected, knowing the government would find a way to find out the scam you were running through that detail. 

“Why not?”

“If the secret police comes for a surprise inspection and your side of the bed is cold, we’re kaputt” You explained. “We’re supposed to be at the very least fiancés, remember?”

“God fucking dammit” He swore, looking up at the sky like it would help him. Ha, you already tried that and it didn’t work.

---

The next day, as you prepared the decaf pot of coffee because happy people didn’t need caffeine to be happy, a knock sounded on your door. Jason was taking a shower in the bathroom, so you went and opened the door. Like you had predicted, two men in dark magenta stood at your doorstep with dangerous looking smiles. 

“Good morning ma’am” One greeted with a tip of his hat. “This is a surprise inspection, warranted by the new arrivant in your household, name Dick Grayson and title husband to be. May we come in?”

Your smile widened as you stepped aside, like you actually had a choice in the matter.

“Of course!” You exclaimed. “Coffee, officers?”

“We’ll have to politely decline, thank you” The other smiled as they came in and observed the clean state of the house. All houses were required to be neat and clean at all times. They looked around for something out of place, slowly but surely directing themselves to the bedroom at the end of the hall. You followed them a few paces away, ready to answer their question if they had some. It wasn’t your first surprise check. 

They finally reached the room, from where they could hear the shower running. Their gazes caught the neatly folded pink pile on the bed, then they surrounded it. They started to feel under the comforter and drapes, on the pillows, everywhere they could spot the presence or absence of another person. You called it, oh you so called it.

The shower stopped, and both officers shared a look. “Alright, everything is in order ma’am. Have a good breakfast and a good day!”

You escorted them to the door, threw them a thank you on the way and silently sighed once the door closed behind them. You returned to your coffee, and not long after, Jason emerged from the hallway all dressed in pink.

“Ooh, who were the gentlemen here?” He inquired cheerily, but you knew what it meant. 

“Some nice officers came to see if we were doing fine here!” You replied with equal cheer.

“Shucks, I missed them” He snapped his fingers, chuckling. “Next time perhaps”

“Of course!” The pep in your voice did not match your eye roll. Thank god there were no cameras. 

You finished breakfast and went to town once again, like you did everyday. You felt like everyone was staring at you even more than usual. Like they all knew what you planned for that night. You might have been slightly paranoid, but Jason’s calm demeanor was helping. He was good at that, like he had practiced for all of his life to deceive people.

The mayor bothered you again after the daily play of the anthem, a song you were sure would elicit a violent reaction from you once you would be back in the real world. Then, you repeated the same daily routine you had had forever. Smile, avoid the pie, smile, talk with the neighbors-spies, smile, think about how life is amazing, smile.

Smile smile smile smile smile smile. 

Eurgh.

That night, the pleasant conversations contained codes to trump the microphones. Jason pretended to dance while you unscrewed the loose floorboard and carefully placed his clothes and weapons on the bed. You picked your old clothes, quietly dusting them off. They smelled weird but you were excited to wear something other than pepto bismol dyed fabric. Making sure the curtains were drawn, you proceeded to change. Jason looked ecstatic to finally be rid of his cardigan, while you took a moment to appreciate your black t-shirt and burgundy coat. While he had his red helmet, he handed you a domino mask from his pocket. You had no idea why he had that, but you took it anyway. It looked cool and rebel. You sneaked through the back door, avoiding the spots of light by either lamps outside your house and street posts. You watched the patrol casually making sure everyone was inside, keeping a good distance in between you and them at every time. They weren’t talking, but whistling some creepy tunes. You had to make a small hike through a hill when they entered a gated tunnel, but you ended up in front of a giant factory where workers dressed in grey buzzed around with crates. YOu gasped.

“Illegal” You muttered.

“What?”

You shook your head. They had gotten to you too much, it was time you left that god forsaken place. “Nevermind. How do we go through that barbed wire?”

He pulled out a medium sized pair of cutters from… You had no idea where, but he had them. You shrugged, gesturing to him to go ahead. In a blink, you were in. You sneaked inside without being seen, navigating the building with guesses and feelings. You finally ended up in the main production room, where crates of products were opened and emptied in a giant bassin. The stirred liquid was purple and smelled strange, but you knew it was to do no good. And right beside, there was the pie filling packaging. 

“I knew it!” You hissed under your breath. “They’re putting drugs in the pie! Can you see what it is? Cocaine? Heroin?

“Doesn’t seem like…” He leaned in. “Wait…”

“Al-- Allegra?” You managed to read the crate.”Never heard of it, but it must be terrible and dangerous”

Jason turned his head and stared at you. HIs helmet bore no expression, but you were sure he looked at you like you were dumb. Did he know what it was? “Are you kidding me?”

“No, why?”

“Allegra is--” He sighed. “It’s allergy medication. It’s… Not drugs per say”

“Uh?”

“God dammit--” He paused as something caught his eyes. It was sparkly, and unfit for this environment. From it emerged five armed guys dressed in earth clothes. They had a bag of white substance, which was tasted by the man who welcomed them. “Of fuck, THAT’s cocaine” 

You waited as they put some of it in a vial, which already had purple liquid. 

“Fuck, they mix it with allegra?” He cursed, mostly to himself. “What kind of fucking insane dimension did I step in?” 

“I told you”

“Okay, so those guys will have to leave eventually” Jason pointed at the visibly Earth humans. “We’ll make sure we catch it as well”

“But they have machine guns” You pointed out, not sure how his mind worked. 

“Wait for my signal” You knew he was grinning under that helmet. Before you could ask him how the fuck he would manage five armed guys, he jumped over the rail and started running toward them. You shut your eyes shut as gunshots went off, then opened them again when it was silent. There were bodies around, but Jason was still standing, wrestling with two guys. You watched for a few seconds when you noticed a pink figure sneakily approaching from behind, a frying pan in his hand.

The mayor!

You jumped over the rail too, but your landing was way less graceful than Jason’s. Actually, you were pretty sure you sprained your ankle. But still, you ran-limped to the man and jumped on his back before he could bonk Jason’s head with his weapon.

“ARRRRRGH”

He did not see you coming, as he lost balance at your attack. You crashed on the ground, where you managed to get on top and start hitting him. But apparently neither of you knew how to punch, so it was a rather pathetic looking fight. You swapped and slapped, pulled hair and scratched, until you got a hold of his pan and made a pancake of his face. 

“Take that you pink fucking nightmare” You spat as you stood up. You turned to Jason, whose shoulders were shaking with silent laughter.

“Wow uh” He covered it with a cough. “That sure was an interesting fight to watch”

“Keep mocking me, mister fucking assassin” You rolled your eyes. “I stopped him from bonking your head”

“Alright, alright, thank you”

“No problem” You replied. “Let’s get out of here”

You went and stood on the platform the dealers came through, then waited. But nothing happened.

“I think we need to activate it” He spoke up. That was logical.

You scanned the room for a panel control, and you believed you spotted it on the opposite wall. You grabbed your shoe to throw at it, before Jason held back your arm’s motion.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Activating the portal” You furrowed your brows, pointing at the panel. A big red button on which was written ‘ON’ was glaring at you from the distance. Practical target.

“Don’t throw your shoe, that’s dumb” He snorted. “Let me”

Before you could argue, he cocked his gun and fired a bullet right on the button. A death sound resonated, but nevertheless sparks began to fly and not just from the ruined panel. The portal opened and swallowed you, sending you through flashes and weird colors until you were spat out in a dull, dark place that smelled bad. Jason seemed to have landed just fine, but you were another story. You pulled yourself up, whining at the pain in your ankle. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here”

A creepy, unknown voice made you both turn around. It was a pale man with an unnaturally stretched smile and bad taste in clothes, and right away it made you think the worst. You had been thrown in Dark!Happy Town. Without thinking, you let out a war cry and hurled your frying pan to the more evil version of the Mayor, knocking him out instantly.

What you didn’t expect though, was the roaring laughter from beside you. 

“Oh--Oh my god” He could barely talk. “I wished I filmed that”

“What? What’s happening?” You asked. Had he gone crazy? “Who’s that? We’re not back home are we?”

“Relax, we’re back” He took a deep breath, his shoulders still shaking. “You’ve just knocked out the most wanted criminal in Gotham city”

“WHAT?”

“Welcome back, (Y/N), welcome back”

[snipehuntpotatosack]

Unofficial Commentary on the text tagged [Chronic Metaphor] – A Servo-Subsystem Research Program Summary in Four Cantos; with Addendum re site visit

Initial apologetics (if the term is applicable and/or recognized) are due concerning the graphic or “pronunciatory” form in which the material herein discussed was/is presented, even tho the unit(s) generating said material were not at any time under my direct or indirect personal control. Yes, I identify myself as a “person” in the oldest and most trivial sense in addressing you herein, and the form I use will continue to be the prosiest, fussiest and most boringly irritating of proses. As for why precisely a psychoneurotic pseudopoet with a rusty valve stuck open seems to have generated an idiosyncratic 255-line precis of the non-results of an actual very official, time-consuming, and quite expensive archeologic-epistemic study in astrocognitive phenomena in a species of volatile vers libre rather than the usual lethal academic sludge-speak: as part of one of the cyclical waves of good-heartedness affecting managerial disposition toward the treatment of the “semi-sentient,” a random selection of report writers were encouraged to experiment with other linguistic models which might more effectively package complex/banal-seeming information so as to attract more network attention, this being regarded as an a priori goal for some reason…It is not clear whether the composers of the CM text had any particular literary models in mind (and I can assure everyone that no ‘machine’ time has been spent on investigating this uninteresting question); I think it more likely that the inspired creator(s) attempted to place breaks similar to physical speech rhythms – as in the incantations of Druidical sages gone cybermad – into whatever data it occurred to them to convey (partly suggested by the fact that the “speaker-units” under study imitate the rhythms, the rushes and caesuras, of persons talking – while of course making no sense whatsoever).

 Regardless of the semi-bizarre form in which the summary report has been assembled, and even taking into account its various semi-snide sidelights on the assumptions, motivations or delusions of participants in this and other official research ventures, having been called upon unofficially to comment on its usefulness at this stage in our reckoning with what we have encountered, I can only add the following:

I have nothing further to add.

Whatever follows should not be expected to modify our overall evaluation of the project or of any potential for further expenditure or non-expenditure; it represents only my particular, that is personal, inclination to fill in some background details regarding this overall puzzling, unsatisfyingly incomplete area of inquiry. (As intimated in a particular line of Canto C, “breadth” without “depth” of information can be particularly irksome to the curious mind, though whether my extra depths may lead anywhere is doubtful.)

Standard trans-galactic probe techniques did in fact encounter (and retrieve detailed information in a wide range of sensory and mathematical categories), at a date not too far from the beginning of our current technocratic era, with a nearly perfectly planar solid object consisting entirely as far as we know of the element Carbon, in the form graphite, at a location which remains constant though classified. Its planar quality is “nearly” perfect, of course, since the sheet does possess some top-to-bottom thickness – exactly 256 molecules. Otherwise, no limit to its extent has yet been found, by any sensing or calculational means possible, in any direction. (We can, of course, access its “other side”, by approaching from the other direction). The object is thus referred as “finite but boundless,” in the sense that before contact is made with the planar surface, there is no graphite; once contact is made, there is.

 This description would seem to imply that the plane slices the megaverse in half; and so it would, except for its orientation in Riemann space. You will appreciate that this point cannot be expanded on using semantic language.

 The entire “population” of the plane is a transfinite (that is the word, as per Canto A , – and there’s no other; we simply cannot know how many) set of black carbon nano-fiber cubical audio speakers, of an extremely basic design, with one smallish vibrating sound-producing diaphragm each. Forgive me if I slip into homey jargon – each one is about knee high, and they sit there about one-and-a-half arm’s length from each other in a very exact pointillist array, all facing in the exact same direction, if there was a way to define that direction, which there isn’t. Tomography indicates a small disk at the interior base may be their power source, though what activates and deactivates (or uses up) this power source is beyond our ken. In addition, a small white light of the simplest construction on top of the cube lights up with modest wattage when the speaker-unit operates, and goes out afterward.

 Yes, of course we’ve tried to sample the graphite. Of course we’ve tried to disassemble a speaker and microanalyze its parts, in situ or, if it could be arranged, at another location. They cannot be picked up, moved, pierced, bent, melted, dinged, crushed, drilled, lasered, or physically affected in any way. This although they are quite physically real; you can trace its contour through your glove, and if you bang your knee against one of the corners (through the leg of your e-suit) it will raise a lump. It cannot be detached from the surface of the plane by the application through torsion of a force sufficient to propel an object free of the gravity of galactic center. No, we have not attempted to destroy any smaller or larger part of the plane and its population using the most fearsome destructive tools known; logical analysis could not project any conceivable gain in information through this procedure.

 And yes, as the lumpiness of my description indicates, I have been personally to Site F, as the wags call it (short for many possible terms). Only once. Continued data collection of any sort of data anyone or anything could ever dream up obviously continues via automatic installations on site; budgetary questions only arise  concerning whether to continue analyzing this Leviathan of unappealing input as it grows dusty in our virtual ledgers. As for the considerable resources entailed in dispatching any more eyewitnesses to F, in corpore, I suspect the only reason this is not now completely ruled out is a kind of inchoate, cosmic superstition – having never successfully peered into the mind of function f, if any such thing exists, we can’t stop peeking sideways to see what it might do next; and we certainly wouldn’t want it to feel slighted in the meantime.

  Approaching F from a series of eccentric hyperbolics, one’s first impression is of a dimly pearlescent Cupid’s bow, of the radius of a gnat, then an inchworm, then perhaps a comb jelly, performing rather silly flips and inverted rotations in the blackness as your perspective gyrates round that of the approach trajectory. When very close indeed, the sense of a gargantuan flat dance floor – picked out in midnight streaks not by F itself but by our own, stationary illuminators – grows alarmingly, and then vanishes completely as one comes to rest – on an array of cubes, rather than the actual floor, which makes no difference. (An odd sensation, being deposited on a perfectly flat plane – it immediately popped into my head that our own technology approaches nothing similar.)

It is simple to make shoe-soles that love graphite. The environment of F is pure, dead-vacuum, intergalactic space, with a floor to walk on. Unfortunately, the floor is studded with solid shin-busters whose regular spacing will not spare one without considerable practice, so travel groups are collectively lighted from above. There is not much of a walk to reach the Activated Area, no matter when you go, since one can land anywhere; but tourists are given about fifteen minutes approach time to allow the pupils to adjust.

 You are advancing on foot into the maw of trillion-diamond Tiara City, the scintillating illusion building intricately to past fifty, sixty degrees above the horizon even tho every individual photon originates mere centimeters from the surface. The walls and webs of light are thickly constructed to the sides of you and behind you, and seem to be narrowing and crowning upward ahead – the parabolic arch now spanning well more than a billion active electrified entities of unknown origin and purpose. Two hours walk, three, and the illusory multidimensional effect has worn thin as you near the focus; adjusted retina now perceive a flat broad white light everywhere, neither intense nor interrupted, utterly transparent, and yielding a perspective at once completely repetitive and monstrously surreal, as the twinkling cubes march in serried ranks to the horizon.

 Then, your automated guide introduces the next phase of your learning experience. Your earphones, which have been shut completely till now, are slowly – over a period of many minutes – exposed to what is really filling the air around you, reaching and remaining at a level approximating eight percent of the true volume level –

 Did I say the AIR?

 Indeed Madam or Sir, without which there would be no way to hear, record, analyze the Speech of the speaker cubes. In fact, when Site F was first discovered, millions upon millions of active speaker-units were gabbling away freely – as evidenced clearly by the tremblings and agitations of their sound-producing diaphragms - and producing no sound at all in the vacuum of space.

Nor did they, until our researchers filled the surrounding space with ambient gases appropriate to the operation of the speaker units in producing phonemic sound. Verbal sound. Innumerable combinations of gases with and without particulate additives have been tried for this purpose, but only one maximizes F-Site speaker performance: the exact proportions of nitrogen and oxygen found on what our dear dead ancestors were pleased to call home.

Our poetic prologue omitted this as a mere technical detail; the notion that indestructible space-born units would be sent on an eternal mission, i.e. to talk – and not only not given anyone to talk to, but no way to be heard if there was –

did not interest our core analytic cadres compared to the potential or hypothetical mathematics of the mother-ship f function.

.

So now, fellow voyager, we have reached the final revelation, laid bare to our senses. As hovering tanks emit invisible atmospheres toward all and sundry, we finally hear the Star Speech of the mysterious Speakers. They talk, and talk, and talk, in every direction.

As far as anyone can understand, it means nothing at all….

except for one small detail.

There is one other thing about their conversation, which the Poem did not mention.

 They don’t just talk. They whisper, they moan. They bellow, they proclaim in profound orotund baritones. They shriek like the demons of Macbeth’s blasted heath. They burble, grovel, compliment, snarl, sob, ululate, snicker, mimic, plead, project, perorate, bloviate, gargle, snivel, boast, wheedle, insinuate, denounce, exaggerate, hype, summon, denounce, deceive, chatter, natter, blather, yammer, wail, mourn, elegize, mesmerize, scandalize, ingratiate, stutter, sputter, mew, whinge, neigh, hector, harp, emote, ejaculate, envision, exclaim, erupt, elucidate, yowl, yak, jape, jest, jabber, greet, grandiloquize, chisel, charm, chuckle, chitter, crow, brag, argue, segue, toast, threaten, ameliorate, pray, parry, aver, avow, acclaim, attest, affirm, achoo, agree, account, accept, accredit, auction, authorize, augur, theorize, temporize, tantalize, tongue, tang, teeng, tong, and tan two tonsils for every top ticket in town

And there’s one other thing we know. Not from ourselves, because we’d have to die first. But from the machines, who can stay there long, long after we’d wink out.

 If you just stand there, and wait until all the quintillions around you have had their say, they all wink out, night falls; and The Perfectly Clear Light, and then The Trillion Diamond Tiara City, and then The Pearly Cupid’s Bow, move on, on, on into the Inky Way, talking, talking forever

[ineffably-good]

Prompt: Glorious

This is part two of my last prompt, which you can read here. 

Part of the Good Omens 30th Anniversary celebration prompts. You can read all of the ones I’ve completed over on AO3!

--------

Part two: Project Heavenly Slumber

Crowley was in Baghdad in the court of Mamun the Great, giving his best effort toward whatever it was demons did – foster discord, disrupt the rule of law, interfere with justice, Aziraphale wasn’t sure. He miracled himself into the outskirts of town, where he’d sensed Crowley’s presence. He found him haggling with a merchant over a pile of dates. The demon had always had a sweet tooth, although he’d deny it vociferously if cornered about it.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, touching him on the sleeve. “How lovely to run into you!”

“You didn’t run into me,” Crowley said, not missing a beat as he handed over his pile of coins and took the bag from the vendor. “I felt you appear just a second ago. You’re here on purpose. Come to oversee the translations, I suppose?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Translations?”

“Oh!” Crowley grinned. “All kinds of fantastic things are going on here – they’re building this thing called The House of Wisdom. Big building full of scrolls! Translating all the texts from Greece, Persia, Sumeria. Been wondering when you’d show up – right up your alley!”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale fretted. “And here I am stuck in the courts of Charlemagne overseeing stupid wars and conquests! I’d much rather be here! If only we could switch assignments!”

The demon smiled rapaciously. “We could undoubtedly work something out, angel.”

“Oh now,” the angel replied, retreating into his prim default. “That won’t be possible and you know it. But I did come here to seek you out.”

“Oh? Missed my sparkling personality?”

“Hardly,” the angel said. “But I need your advice. I’ve gotten myself in rather a pickle. Is there somewhere we could go to talk?” 

 --

Crowley laughed so loudly and for so long that Aziraphale began to feel quite annoyed. He helped himself to another generous serving of Crowley’s precious date wine, drank it all in one gulp, and then sat back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest.

Still the demon laughed.

“Oh – oh my –” Crowley moaned, wiping his eyes and beginning to calm down. “So sorry angel, but that one is a knee-slapper! Gabriel and his glorious presence overpowering the infant Yeshua into unconsciousness!”

Aziraphale giggled a little too at that one. It never got old.

“And – and now –” Crowley tried to regain breath control, but he was still half-laughing. “And now you’ve got to go teach a bunch of idiot angels how to sleep? Oh, for Satan’s sake. I wish I had your job sometimes. No one in Hell ever says anything funny.”

“Yes, well, that’s the problem you see,” Aziraphale said insistently. “I can barely sleep myself! Hardly ever do it. I was hoping you might have some pointers for me?”

Crowley noticed the low level of the wine jug and waved a hand to refill it to the top, then poured himself a mug of it. He took a sip while thinking carefully.

“I suppose I could teach you a few things,” he said. “Things I learned in China. Breathing techniques. Ways to calm the body and achieve other states. A little bit of hypnotic suggestion, perhaps?”

Aziraphale wrung his hands. “Oh dear, I would be so grateful. Anything you have, anything at all.”

Crowley nodded. “When do you have to report in?”

“Tomorrow!”

“Well then,” the demon said, “we’d better get started.”

 --  

Aziraphale left Baghdad armed with a sealed jug of date wine, several interesting new relaxation techniques designed to help ease anyone into a peaceful sleep, a scroll or two with some interesting guided incantations in them, and a small packet of a powder that Crowley promised would be safe but which he doubted he would ever feel brave enough to use. He still had his doubts about the demon’s intentions from time to time, and he certainly didn’t want to go down in infamy as the angel who got everyone in Heaven hooked on narcotic powders.

He made his way back home, left instructions with his secretary for things to be done in his absence, and then made a show of riding off on his best horse as if he were off on his travels. Once he was firmly out of sight of any and all of the humans, he set the horse free with a gentle command to find its way back to the stables and blend in, and miracle himself up to Heaven to begin his great and glorious work.

 --

Gabriel was in that irritatingly heightened state he got into when he had come up with another new idea for team building or motivating his underlings. If regular Gabriel was hard to deal with, excited Gabriel was almost unbearable. He all but vibrated with self-importance and celebration, bestowing smiles and hearty claps on the shoulder to anyone he met.

“Principality!” he boomed jovially. “Glad you made it on time. Let me show you to where you’ll be working.”

He led the way through a winding series of corridors, each nearly indistinguishable from the next, past the library and on into an area Aziraphale had only rarely visited before – some kind of large, empty conference room, all white and chrome like the rest of Heaven, barely furnished except for a large stack of pillows and blankets someone had thrown in the middle of the room. Sitting in a half circle on the floor around the pile of bedding were eight nervous looking angels, low ranking guardians and office workers, obviously pulled from other duties and deposited here.

“Interns,” Gabriel announced. “This is Principality Aziraphale, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and our premiere expert on humanity. He’s here to introduce you to a human concept called sleep. Please give him your full attention and cooperate with everything he asks of you on this glorious new work. Questions?”

The angels jittered nervously and one fearfully shook her head. Aziraphale thought wryly that this was nearly the nicest thing Gabriel had ever said about him.

“Good then!” Gabriel said, whapping Aziraphale on the shoulder rather painfully. “I’ll check in on you later.”

He strode out of the room and the door sealed behind him.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale said nervously. “Shall we go around and introduce ourselves?”

 --

As the day went by, the gathered angels got less and less fearful. Most of them hadn’t met a Principality before, Aziraphale realized, and they were naturally deferential and timid. Over the course of a few hours, though, they began to loosen up and to realize that this angel, in particular, welcomed questions and comments.

After a few stretching and breathing exercises, one of them raised her hand and waited patiently to be noticed.

“Yes, Anielle is it?” Aziraphale said.

“I’m terribly sorry, Principality Aziraphale,” she said quietly, “but I don’t understand. What is sleep FOR? And why are we supposed to learn how to do it?”

Terribly good question, Aziraphale thought. He tried to remain professional, despite his doubts about the entire project. “No one really knows what purpose sleep serves, but without it humans sicken and die. Also, many of them seem to enjoy it immensely,” he said. “I believe the archangels think we might be able to influence the dreams of sleeping humans, to – well, to guide them towards goodness and help counter demonic influences.”

Another angel raised his hand.

“You don’t really need to raise your hands,” Aziraphale objected. All eight pairs of eyes stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Or for Heaven’s sake. Yes? Plavian?”

“Could we perhaps use it to frighten them back into the path of righteousness, as well?” the angel asked. “In extreme cases of course. Using the nightmares you mentioned earlier?”

About half of the other angels tittered approvingly. Anielle, to her credit, looked upset.

This Plavian, Aziraphale thought, had a bit of Gabriel in him. He was undoubtedly going to be moving up in the chain of command. He could smell the wanker gene on him from here.

“Humans can react very poorly to nightmares,” Aziraphale said crisply, “and providing and worsening them is really more of a demonic tactic than an angelic approach. We’ll focus on methods that don’t actively damage anyone’s psyche. Our Heavenly Mother wouldn’t want us to harm them.”

He stood up. “Now,” he said, “everyone take a blanket and a pillow and find a space to lie down. We’re going to try some relaxation exercises and see if we can get any of you to fall asleep.”

 --

Nothing worked. Nothing. They tried breathing exercises. They tried guided relaxation. They tried tensing and releasing each muscle in their bodies, starting with their feet and working their way up to their eyebrows. They tried calisthenics. They tried music. Finally, in desperation, Aziraphale magically dimmed the lights and read them all a story. He tried to pick a soothing one. A Tale of Two Cities should do, he thought.  

The room was quiet and there was deep, even breathing all around when Aziraphale finished chapter two. He softly closed the book and stood up as quietly as possible, peeking around in the dim light. All eight of the angels were still, their hands folded on their chests, their eyes closed.

Were they – were they doing it?

As he leaned closer to the angel nearest him, he noted that she opened one eye just a crack and grinned up at him.

“I think I’m doing it!” she stage-whispered to him. “It feels really good!”

“It does!” someone else echoed from a far corner of the room. “I think I’m sleeping!”

“Me too!” said a third.

Aziraphale tried not to tear his hair out.

“Class dismissed for today,” he said. “Go home and try some of those relaxation exercises in the peace and quiet of your own abodes. We’ll try something new tomorrow.”

 --

“You want to do what?” Gabriel said.

“I want to bring in a meal for them,” Aziraphale said patiently. “Food makes humans tired, so maybe it will help get them into the proper state.”

Gabriel frowned. “This is highly irregular,” he said, “corrupting them with gross matter.”

“You did want me to be thorough,” Aziraphale said primly.

Gabriel waved his permission, and Aziraphale got to work.

 --

“Welcome back!” he said the next afternoon. “Today we’re going to expand our horizons a bit and try a meal.”

The angels filed in, looking curiously at the table Aziraphale had set up and its contents.

“What’s a meal?” one of the angels asked.

“It’s food! Humans consume it for sustenance.”

“So, it’s like the word of God?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Not exactly. Anyway, please take a seat around the table and let’s get started.”

He walked them through consuming a variety of dishes, taking a nibble here and there himself – fruits and vegetables, savory pies, cheeses and breads in various forms, sweets. The angels gamely tried everything, most of them looking somewhat unimpressed and trying to hide their distaste for the experience. One or two of them, though, took to the meal with slightly more gusto, taking seconds of some dishes and seeming to enjoy themselves. Aziraphale took note of these ones; they were potential future allies in his endeavors, he thought, and unlikely to be appreciated here in Heaven.

After they’d finished, they did some stretching and then he lowered the lights, had them all lay down, and he led them through the relaxation program from the prior day. He hoped that being warm, comfortable, and full would ease a few of them into sleep.

Aziraphale found himself fighting off a yawn. He really had been working frightfully hard the last few days.

 --

The principality woke up some indeterminate amount of time later with the most terrible sensation of being watched. He opened his eyes in a panic and found himself ringed by his students, with eight pairs of eyes staring down at him in complete fascination.

Aziraphale pushed himself up to seated.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” he said. “Did anyone besides me sleep?”

“No,” said one of the students. “But you did it very well, sir!”

“You were making the most curious noise,” another one added. “Kind of like this.” The student opened their mouth and started to make a rumbling noise that sounded a bit like an earthquake.

“No, I think it was more like this,” the original student one said, emitting a noise like a kitten purring, but loud.

“And you seem to have created a liquid,” added a third student. “It dripped out of your mouth onto your pillow. Is this part of the process?”

“We tried to touch your dreams,” Plavian said, “but it didn’t work.”

“NO ONE TOUCHES MY DREAMS,” Aziraphale said, leaping to his feet. The students backed away nervously; they had heard what a principality was capable of, in the general sense, and even more, they had all heard strange stories about Principality Aziraphale and his flaming sword. No one really wanted to see him angry.

“Oh, very well,” he said, pulling a leather pouch out of his robes. “Let’s try a little chemistry, shall we?”

--

“So in total,” Michael said sternly, “you’ve taken eight of our most promising young angels, sullied their corporations with cheese and bread, led several of them to believe that food is equivalent to the word of God, taught them heretical chanting techniques from the Eastern empires of Earth, and gotten several of them severely addicted to opium powder. Is that correct?”

Aziraphale looked at his feet and tried to appear repentant while inside he focused on one thought and one thought alone. He was going to murder the demon the next time he saw him. This was all his fault.  

[mimosaeyes]

Runaan babysits Rayla for the first time. Everything goes much better than expected.

A Ruthari getting together fic.

Credit to the Hot Brown Morning Potion Podcast episode 5, for notes on characterisation. Especially this part. Beta-ed by @sequoiawintersnight. Also available on AO3.

“Um,” says Runaan, after the door closes behind Tiadrin and Lain.

He had braced himself for tears, tantrums — any sort of fuss, really, that a toddler can kick up. But Rayla had been serene as she bid her parents farewell for the day, only giggling a little as they ruffled her tufty hair.

Surely that bodes well. Surely.

You are one of the Silvergrove’s finest warriors, Runaan tells himself sternly. You can handle babysitting your best friends’ toddler for one afternoon.

Rayla looks up from her toy. She watches him with huge, expectant eyes.

“Um,” Runaan says again. Sitting across from her, he’s suddenly realising that he has no idea how to talk to children. Sure, he’s interacted with Rayla before. Plenty, in fact. But it was always with someone else around, whose lead he could follow.

Awkwardly, he crosses his arms over his chest, then un-crosses them again.

Rayla cocks her head at him. “Thawi?” she asks. At least, he figures it’s a question, since her voice goes up at the end of it.

It takes him another moment of staring at her blankly before he understands. “You want to know where Ethari is?” Runaan ventures.

By way of answer, she leans forward to deposit, in his hastily cupped hands, her toy — a small wooden dragon that Ethari whittled for her. Runaan smiles as he recalls how painstakingly he’d worked on it in the weeks leading up to Rayla’s birth.

Runaan would be sparring with Lain when he would wave, and Runaan would turn around to see Ethari lounging in the shade of a nearby tree, using a small knife to coax, from a block of wood, the curve of a dragon’s neck or the fine tessellation of its scales. Ethari spent ages childproofing his design — rounding off any bits that jutted out, sanding everything down to perfect, splinter-free smoothness.

That’s Ethari, though: always putting his whole heart into his craft. It’s one of the reasons Runaan, ahem, admires him so much. And shows up at his workshop with some regularity for advice on proper weapons care (as is only prudent). And trips over his own feet sometimes when he notices Ethari watching their practice sessions. Which, okay, is somewhat embarrassing. Especially when Lain elbows him, or exchanges a look with Tiadrin.

Runaan clears his throat and wiggles the toy dragon at Rayla. “Ethari is busy today,” he tells her, “but we’re in his workshop anyway, since your mum says you like it here.”

Rayla perks up at the mention of her mother, and scrambles to her feet. Runaan watches, bemused, as she runs to a low shelf and tiptoes to retrieve something from it. He lets her, because he knows Ethari wouldn’t keep anything dangerous within Rayla’s reach, not when she comes by so often.

Besides, Runaan is pretty much subconsciously attuned to anything even vaguely weapon-like. He could disarm Rayla of a hazardous object in a heartbeat.

It looks like he won’t need to, though. Rayla returns brandishing two twigs, both filed blunt at the ends. More of Ethari’s handiwork, Runaan would wager.

She leaps about in a very, very loose interpretation of the basic drills she must have seen her parents performing countless times. Her face is scrunched up in concentration, and she exclaims, “Yah!” occasionally to punctuate a motion.

At the end of the display, Rayla holds a pose and looks up at him for approval.

Runaan holds her dragon aloft and bows his head. “Well done, young warrior,” he intones gravely. He suspects she might get a kick out of that.

He suspects right. Rayla lights up, grinning at him, and the thought flashes across Runaan’s mind that Well, you’re not Favourite Toy-Making Uncle, but maybe you can be Serious But Nice Uncle.

Even as he contemplates the implications of this stray thought — is he jealous that Rayla probably likes Ethari more? is he already so wrapped around her finger? — Runaan reaches out and ever so slightly adjusts her stance. He smiles at her to take any sting out of the criticism.

Rayla smiles back cheekily, then puts on her serious face again and waves her twigs at him. She doesn’t come close to landing a hit, so when she very deliberately pokes him with one of the sticks, Runaan makes sure to flail dramatically and fall over, crying defeat.

His eyes are closed, but he can hear her chuckling to herself as she clambers over his legs and flops down on the floor next to him. She pulls lightly on his hair, and he cracks open an eye to peer at her suspiciously.

She remains fixated on his hair, though, perhaps because it’s longer than that of her parents. Runaan gives a mental shrug and resigns himself to lying there on Ethari’s workshop floor, letting a tiny child play with his hair. It’s a pleasant enough, albeit surreal, way to spend an afternoon.

Rayla seems to be attempting a braid of some kind, but her fingers are too stubby for her to manage it. After a while, Runaan props himself up on one elbow so he can see what she’s doing and give her the occasional pointer.

Instead of undoing her flubs, Rayla just moves on to another section of hair, leaving little twists and knots and frizzy locks everywhere. Runaan distantly notes that he would not put up with this from anyone else in the world. And then he continues to let it happen.

And that’s when the door to the workshop opens, and Runaan looks up to see Ethari standing in the doorway.

He freezes — which goes against every principle of his training. He’s simply so mortified at how he must look right now, in front of Ethari of all people, that it takes precedence over everything else. Rayla yells, “Thawi!” and runs over to him, and Runaan is still just frozen in place, gawking at Ethari, thoughts stuck on But he was supposed to be busy today and Oh stars, my hair looks like a moonberry bush.

To his credit, Ethari takes it all in stride. He smiles at Runaan, amused but kindly, and then goes, “Oof,” as Rayla bodily slams into his legs.

“Hello, Rayla,” Ethari says. “I see you’ve had a fun morning.”

Runaan picks himself up off the floor as Rayla nods fervently. “With Wunie!” she chirps.

Ethari makes a noncommittal noise and leans over to place his shoulder bag on a nearby stool. “Oh yes. But are you sure he wouldn’t prefer to be called Wunaan?”

Rayla tilts her head back to check with Runaan, who finds himself somewhat helplessly shaking his head.

“Wunie says no,” she reports.

“Alright then,” Ethari says mildly. There is the faintest hint of a smile playing over his lips. Runaan is momentarily entranced by it.

Ethari retrieves a jar from his bag. “How’s about some of your favourite Moonberry Surprise?”

Rayla’s squeals of joy could probably be heard from the top of the Storm Spire. Ethari sends her off to search a cubbyhole for cups, and sets about unpacking the rest of his things. From the look of it, he’s been around the village, trading for supplies and materials. Just watching his calm, systematic mannerisms sets Runaan at ease.

Which is why he takes a moment to react when Ethari indicates the jar and says conversationally, “Tiadrin sprinted out of the council meeting to give this to me. She was oddly insistent that I leave the rest of my errands be, and go back to my workshop to enjoy it.”

A creeping suspicion sidles into Runaan’s mind.

Ethari continues, nonchalant. “It would’ve been Lain, I think, but I doubt he could’ve kept a straight face.”

Runaan blinks. “What do you mean?” he asks, half-sure he knows the answer but needing to hear it from Ethari. To gauge his reaction, and to be sure this isn’t all wishful thinking on his part.

Ethari bends down to accept two cups from Rayla, who can’t hold a third one at the same time and has to go back for it.

“I mean,” he says after another moment, “that I think we’ve been set up.”

Try as he might, Runaan can’t read much from Ethari’s neutral tone and facial expression. He’s implied that he knows their friends think… well, that there’s something between them. But is it a one-sided something, or is it reciprocated? Runaan still doesn’t know, not for sure.

He formulates — not for the first time — a dozen different ways to ask. He rejects each of them in turn. Also, obviously, not for the first time. The silence stretches on until he’s saved by Rayla returning with the last cup.

Which seems to have been custom-made for her small hands, as he absently notices. Ethari really does spoil her.

He pushes away the accusatory thought: So do you.

“Up?” Rayla asks Ethari hopefully, and he sits down on one of the stools so he can hoist her up onto his lap. For a moment, Runaan doesn’t so much envy his easy way with her, as wish he got to observe it more often.

Among the Silvergrove elves, Runaan has noticed, Ethari’s relative pacifism means he avoids publicly showing this side of himself. This truth about himself, which Runaan sees anyway, in glimpses: empathy and kindness, rather in excess of what Moonshadow society approves of.

All the while he’s thinking this, Ethari is bouncing Rayla up and down between sips of her Moonberry Surprise, making a game out of it. The sight of them playing, and the sound of her laughter, are beyond endearing to Runaan.

Then Rayla notices him watching and holds out her little arms to him. “Up!” she demands.

Runaan spares a moment to reflect that there was definitely a time when he was not a total pushover. Then he stands and lifts the tiny elf girl up onto his shoulders.

Ethari helps settle Rayla securely on her newfound perch. “Hey! When did you get so much taller than me?” he teases her, prompting another brief giggle.

His hand rests on Runaan’s shoulder as he speaks. Probably accidentally. Runaan tries not to think about the warmth of his touch, or wonder whether it lingers a moment longer than it has to.

He holds on to Rayla’s ankle, wary of dropping her. “Don’t squirm,” he warns.

But Rayla is already distracted by everything she can see from so high up. She pays him no heed, listing from side to side as if wanting to touch all the things on Ethari’s workbenches and shelves. When Runaan doesn’t immediately move toward the objects of her curiosity, she makes a pathetic whine in the back of her throat.

“You’re like a Moonstrider pup,” Runaan informs her, even as he obliges and takes a couple of steps forward.

Rayla just burbles and pokes at something shiny sitting on top of a cabinet. When Runaan peers closer, he sees that it’s one of a pair of horn guards — and that there are several more beside it, in various stages of completion. Of course. Although the elves of Silvergrove primarily go to Ethari for weapons (his are the most versatile and perfectly balanced), they also seek his services for engagements and jewellery in general.

Runaan gently nudges aside Rayla’s hand. “Careful,” he admonishes, but without much heat. “These are delicate.”

He glances at Ethari, who shrugs.

“I don’t make anything purely ornamental,” he says, then turns to address Rayla. “Wunie’s right, though; these do mean a lot to people. I have some other things you might like, over here.”

Runaan follows him to the far side of the workshop, where Ethari takes down a plain box and sets it on the table. Still seated on his shoulders, Rayla leans forward in anticipation, inadvertently pushing against Runaan’s head.

He laughs at how eager she is. “Alright, little one,” he says, and carefully sets her down.

They both watch as Ethari snaps open the catch on the box, and lifts the lid.

Inside is a collection of — Runaan doesn’t even have the words. Rationally, he recognises that these are ordinary household items. Small plates, hair clasps, buckles for securing supplies when travelling. They’re functional. But they’re also beautiful: engraved with swirls and curves, never a straight line anywhere. The silvery patterns remind Runaan of the way water moves in a river or brook under moonlight. They look like art, and yet they’re also textures begging to be touched. With careful hands. With reverence, or love.

Sitting cross-legged on the counter, Rayla’s eyes have gone wide.

“I didn’t know you made things like this,” Runaan says in awe. “Out of — what, scrap metal? Left over from your main work?”

Ethari shakes his head. “Not for these. Sometimes... people bring me weapons I can’t fix. Or won’t. Fine blades ruined because they were wielded improperly. Daggers they want to dispose of, that have drawn innocent blood.”

The mood turns sombre between them. Things happen. They both know it.

Ethari continues, “I never destroy them. I melt them down and reshape them.”

Runaan reaches out and runs his fingers over a hair clasp. It moves him, he realises: how much beauty Ethari sees in the world — even in the ugly, discarded parts of it — and brings out through his craft. Which he does, not out of obligation or necessity, but simply for the joy of creating something special out of something unwanted.

He remembers, abruptly, Ethari knocking on his door over a year ago. It was pouring rain and Ethari had been as sodden as the shivering bundle of fur cradled in his arms. The abandoned Shadowpaw pup had grown up hale and hearty under his care, after that first night when Runaan invited him in, offering him hot tea, blankets, a place by the fire. And — surprisingly, in retrospect — no questions as to why he showed up there.

He sees, with sudden clarity, that Ethari has always had a penchant for taking lost and broken things, and making them feel needed and whole.

“They’re amazing,” Runaan tells him, and bites back his next words. You’re amazing.

Instead of responding to the compliment, Ethari clasps his hands together nervously. “I, ah. I made that for you, actually.”

“What?” Runaan does a double take and stares at him. His fingers go still on the hair clasp. His heart thuds in his chest, thunderous.

Ethari quite deliberately unfastens his hands from each other. Pausing only to glance at Runaan, as if asking for permission, he leans forward and tucks a lock of Runaan’s hair behind his ear. The gesture is tender and shockingly familiar, as if he’d done it a hundred times before.

“It’s your heart,” Ethari tells him simply. “That’s what inspired me. You scowl and bluster, and goodness knows, you fight like a raging storm. But you also lay on the floor playing with a child because it makes her happy. You turn down the honour of joining the Dragon Guard with your best friends because you would rather stay and protect your home.”

He touches his shoulder. “Your heart is kind. It deserves something just as beautiful.”

Silent, stunned, Runaan watches him for a moment longer.

Then he surges forward and kisses him.

It’s only the briefest press of lips. He registers closeness, warmth. A huff of air from Ethari; he’s taken him by surprise. The other elf only begins to kiss back when Runaan is already pulling away again.

He gulps, instantly panicky. How many times has he dreamt of doing what he just did? And there he goes, rushing through it and probably ruining everything. He never even explained—

“I was wondering if you’d ever do that,” Ethari breathes.

Runaan blinks. “You knew?!”

Coming from a normally mild-mannered person, the look Ethari gives him then is exceedingly sassy. “Runaan, you come into my workshop with requests three times as often as any other elf. You volunteer to test out my weapon designs so we can talk shop and you can compliment my work, because you can’t figure out how else to express affection.”

He smirks at Runaan, but his voice is indulgent. “I love you, but you can be a real idiot sometimes.”

A beat.

“Oh,” Ethari mutters. “That just slipped out, didn’t it?”

And he rests both hands around Runaan’s neck, and pulls him into another kiss. This one is deeper, longer. Runaan is still stunned, but he quickly relaxes into the embrace. Just for a moment, he lets himself melt.

They only break apart when Rayla makes an indignant noise at no longer being the centre of attention.

She holds up some sort of rectangular, metal item from the box. “Mine?” she asks.

“What is that?” Runaan wonders aloud.

“A harness buckle,” Ethari supplies. He wags a finger at Rayla. “Maybe when you’re old enough to ride.”

Rayla makes a moue.

Runaan sighs as if very put upon by her (in all of two seconds, yes). “I’ll teach you,” he promises.

“Softie,” Ethari teases.

Runaan smiles lopsidedly. “I do my best.”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. They find ways to entertain Rayla, or more often, she comes up with them. At one point, having refused for over an hour, Rayla finally dozes off for her nap, curled up among some soft cloths Ethari uses to clean filigree. While she sleeps, Runaan and Ethari tiptoe around, putting things to rights around the workshop. Ethari offers him a comb he finds lying around, and shakes his head fondly when Runaan mouths the words, “I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

By the time Tiadrin and Lain return from their meeting, Rayla has roused from her nap to sleepily play a little more with her toy dragon. Lain picks her up without any bother from her. Leaning over her father’s shoulder, she waves goodbye to Runaan and Ethari.

Runaan waves back until she looks away to nuzzle her face in the hollow of Lain’s neck. Lain coos softly at her. It still surprises Runaan how differently his jokester friend behaves around his daughter.

He turns his attention to Tiadrin, who is hanging back. There’s a tension around her eyes that wasn’t there this morning. “Everything alright?” he asks, worried.

She hesitates, but nods briskly. “It will be. How was Rayla?”

“A perfect angel,” Runaan starts to say.

At the same time, Ethari nudges him and says, “Utterly spoiled by this one.”

Tiadrin tilts her head at them both, visibly taking in how close together they’ve subconsciously begun to stand. Runaan is struck by how much Rayla is picking up her mannerisms. They have the same intelligence behind their bright eyes as they puzzle him out.

“So,” Tiadrin says slowly, beginning to smile at them.

Runaan narrows his eyes. “So,” he says back at her.

On some level, he does mean for that to serve as confirmation of Tiadrin’s suspicions. Watching the way she glances between him and Ethari, looking genuinely pleased for them, Runaan knows she’s gotten the message.

Tiadrin lowers her voice. “You do realise Lain is going to be unbearable when I tell him that his ridiculous plan actually worked.”

“Was it really orchestrated by you two then?” Ethari asks.

She shrugs. “We just figured if we could find you an excuse to spend an afternoon in close quarters… you might work out the rest. Finally.”

“‘Finally’?” Runaan repeats. Tiadrin raises an eyebrow at him. Ethari holds up his hands in the universal gesture for I’m not getting into this.

Runaan groans. “Was I seriously the last one to know?”

“Seriously.” Tiadrin winks at him; she knows one of his pet peeves is when people answer rhetorical questions.

She moves toward the door. “You’re welcome,” she calls back over her shoulder as she leaves.

And Runaan is left in the same position as a few hours ago, when this whole adventure began. Only this time Ethari is standing right by him, close enough to touch, and he can do that now. He can stop wondering what that would feel like; he knows.

He also knows what it feels like to hear him speak the words I love you.

Runaan just isn’t as emotionally open as he is. He’s not built that way, no matter what Ethari may believe about his heart.

Ethari seems to know, somehow, what kinds of thoughts are running through his head. Quietly, into the hush of a room suddenly bereft of Rayla’s boisterous energy, he says, “You don’t have to say it back.”

Runaan looks at him. He… he wants to. He just doesn’t quite know how.

Biting his lip, he picks up the hair clasp from the table. The one Ethari said he’d made especially for him. Beauty out of broken bits. Something soft out of loss.

Runaan holds it out to Ethari. “Mine?” he says wryly, mimicking Rayla earlier. And all the while thinking, How do I tell you I love you?

Whether or not Ethari understands what he thinks but does not say then, Runaan may never know. But Ethari smiles, takes the clasp from him, and threads it gently through his hair. “Here,” he says. “I’ll teach you.”

[internet91370htco-blog]

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The Ghost of You (Dragon Age) Chapter 12

Available on FanFiction.net at: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6891181/12/The-Ghost-of-You

Rating: M

Status: Multichapter, chapter 12

Pairing: Fem!Hawke/Fenris

Wordcount: ~8,500

Summary: He knew he should have torn his old master’s heart out when he had the chance. Now, Fenris and the woman he loves are paying the price for his folly. They are enslaved, powerless, but Hawke refuses to forget him… even if he has forgotten her.

Notes: Written in March 2012, fic completed May 2016. Some minor tweaks to correct now-incorrect lore aspects, along with punctuation issues.

“...You’ll be supervising her training from now on, along with several guards of course. You are not to train unless at least three guards are present, and you will use practice weapons. I want her to be able to at least put up a decent fight for several minutes by the end of the month. You’re to do three hours of training a day; more if your schedules allow and the guards are available. The training does not excuse you from your regular duties. Am I clear, pet?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good. Now, leave. My new apprentice will be here soon, and after that I’ll be in my workshop for the rest of the day, so I expect you to make good use of the ample time available to you.”

“I will, Master. Thank you, Master.”

Keeping his head inclined in a bow until he had backed out of Danarius’ office and closed the door, Fenris paused outside of it in thought, before heading off down the corridor.

Why Danarius wanted to train Hawke with weapons all of a sudden, Fenris didn’t know. But it was an opportunity to spend more time with her, so he couldn’t complain even in private.

By the end of the month... the only notable event at the end of Parvulis was the Masquerade for the new magister. Perhaps Danarius intended Hawke to act as a secret bodyguard? Such a large, populated event would be the perfect opportunity for an assassination; and any decent assassin would be able to pick out Danarius’ armed guards, and Fenris himself of course, and plan for them. But would they take note of a simple house hold slave? A fragile scrap of a woman, there only to look pretty and pour the wine? Hawke could be ideally placed to counter a surprise attack.

Or to take the hit herself, the grim, pragmatic side of him noted.

Either way, Fenris reflected as he absently side-stepped a red-haired woman heading in the opposite direction he was, Danarius had seen it fit to appoint him as Hawke’s trainer.

He didn’t know if that should worry him or not. Did Danarius suspect they’d met each other – several times, in fact? Or was he aware that if he appointed a guard as her trainer, Hawke would learn nothing; instead having to fight off their advances or endure their mindless criticism and jeering the whole time? At least Danarius knew Fenris would teach her how to fight, not just make it a necessity to survive the hours relatively unscathed.

Fenris was unable to decide which was more likely. He was certain they’d been discreet in their meetings – he was positive that last night, at least, no one had seen either of them entering the slave quarters, nor him leaving.

But that first day, in the courtyard – there had been plenty of people present; walking between jobs or standing guard. Anyone could have reported them – he wouldn’t be surprised if Danarius had asked his guards to inform him if they saw Fenris and Hawke interacting at all.

Some part of him argued that Danarius wouldn’t have waited this long to act on the report, but Fenris knew his master could be patient. Once, when Danarius had been in a particularly fine mood, he had deigned to explain why – not that Fenris had asked, but the magister had a habit of gloating when in a good mood. Apparently an assassination attempt Danarius had been masterminding for the past five years had finally been carried out flawlessly. Danarius had loathed the magister targeted, but he had been quite capable of waiting half a decade to kill the man, just to make sure the plan worked. If Danarius could wait that long to kill a political opponent, he could easily wait a few weeks to deal with an errant slave.

Even if it hadn’t been the meeting in the courtyard, there were all those times in the hallways, when she’d been avoiding him... Danarius could have seen her turn and begin walking in the opposite direction... or he could have seen the frustration it caused Fenris, whether Fenris was aware he’d shown it or not.

There were too many possibilities to consider. All Fenris could do was tell Hawke so that she was aware of what Danarius may or may not know, and exert even more caution. He’d have to ensure their interactions were those of strangers, so that the guards had nothing to report other than orders dutifully being carried out.

First, however, he had to find Hawke.

The slave quarters were empty at this time of day; everyone was out working. There was no list of who did what chores, obviously – it would be useless to most of the slaves even if they were allowed to look at it – and Fenris had no idea what jobs Hawke had been assigned.

His only clue was the time she’d been summoned to Danarius’ office the night after the guards were killed. She’d been cleaning the entrance staircase, and one of the ballrooms before that – the west one, he remembered.

He’d check the staircase first.

He planned on snagging any slave he passed on the way there to ask if they’d seen Hawke and shorten his time searching, but corridors tended to be cleaned first thing of a morning or last thing at night, so the only slave he saw on the way to the staircase was at the far end of the corridor, and they’d turned into a side passage and vanished into a room by the time he reached the place he’d seen them.

When he reached the grand staircase, there was no sign of Hawke kneeling on the stairs or attacking the banisters with a cloth, so Fenris called up to a young elf on a mountainous step-ladder, polishing the individual crystals on the magnificent chandelier.

“Tu, puer, vidistis Hawke?”

The boy jumped, the crystal ringing out in surprise as he turned on his precarious perch.

“Qui?”

“Hawke,” Fenris repeated, giving a quick description when simply speaking louder only drew a blank look.

“Ah! Etiam, ambulo istac. Recidivus victualia,” the elf replied in serviceable but amateur Tevene. The boy must have been a foreign captive, learning the native language. He pointed down one of the many corridors containing stock rooms with an oddly wide, companionable grin for such a simple message. Fenris nodded his thanks, hiding his bemusement, before heading down the indicated route, hesitating outside the door, remembering Hawke’s explanation about the ‘system’ the slaves had worked out.

With a quick glance around from beneath his hair for guards, Fenris copied the actions he’d only half-noticed at the time; waiting patiently for the single knock that admitted him into the room.

Hawke had already turned away from the door, and was standing on one of the lower shelves of a storage unit and stretching up to reach the top one, a large, heavy jar in her outstretched hands. An upturned bucket, lower than the shelf she was standing on, lay abandoned on the floor.

“There we go,” he heard her mutter under her breath as she finally got the bottom of the jar above the level of the shelf and nudged it further back with her fingertips.

“Tu opus aliquid, Vasilia?” she asked over her shoulder, her words slow and badly-pronounced as she carefully stepped down from the shelf. Fenris walked around her as she cautiously clambered down her make-shift ladder, staring in concentration at the shelves, leaning in close to them to avoid pulling the whole unit down.

He couldn’t help but grin when she jumped at the movement in her peripheral vision, clutching at a wooden box full of cleaning rags and half raising it as though to crack him over the head with it, the cloths tumbling out like disturbed, half-asleep bats, before jumping again when she recognised him, hissing a decidedly Common curse in alarm that only made his mouth curve further.

Easily tugging the box out of her shocked, unresisting hand, Fenris couldn’t quite resist the little comment that sprang to mind.

“Sorry to disappoint, Hawke, but I’m not Vasilia. And while I don’t need any cleaning utensils, I do need to speak with you. Preferably in Common; I won’t subject you to a full conversation in Tevene just yet,” he smiled, quite pleased that she was speechless, and not simply refusing to talk for once.

When she could finally articulate a response, it was a retort.

“Give me some credit; I’ve only had a few months to learn! At least I know what I’m saying now, instead of just repeating random phrases I heard and getting odd looks,” she said, altogether defensive, but from the way she folded her arms and smiled around her words, he could tell she wasn’t truly offended.

He chuckled, conceding with a nod.

“And you seem to be doing remarkably well, all things considered.”

“Being stranded in a foreign country is quite a motivator,” she agreed mildly, pointedly avoiding all references to being enslaved. No need to dampen their good moods, after all.

“I imagine so,” he replied, storing the box back on its designated shelf as Hawke snatched up the fallen cloths and deposited them back in their container.

“You know so,” Hawke muttered as the last cloth dropped silently onto its fellows, catching the surprised lift of Fenris’ head with a mischievous grin. “Come on, Fenris, I didn’t teach you Common or Qu-” she clamped her jaws shut on the words, her hand half-shooting to her mouth before the motion became redundant. Fenris, however, had heard enough.

“Hawke? Were you about to say Qunari?” he asked suspiciously. She fidgeted for a moment, whispering a berating tirade at herself under her breath that Fenris heard every word of, before sighing and saying so sheepishly it was almost a question, “shanedan, Fenris.”

He opened his mouth to ask what she had just said, before the meaning crashed into his mind, followed by a deluge of other words, sentences, a whole language.

Yet not one image or sound of where he’d learnt it.

“Fenris?”

He nearly jumped when he blinked and Hawke was at his side, looking concerned. He’d been utterly unaware of her moving closer, nor of her hands hovering inches away from his arms as though to steady him in case he fell. From that alone he guessed some of his shock had shown on his face.

“I am... well. Just... sorely confused. It is an odd experience, to recall a whole language at once,” he murmured, sounding the slightest bit shaky to his own ears. Evidently Hawke heard the fine tremor as well, as she grimaced in sympathy and gently rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Again, he expected pain and it didn’t arrive. He relaxed under the gentle pressure with a sigh, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as he forcefully ordered his thoughts. He could explore this new language later; for now he had a job to do.

“It is fine, Hawke. I came here to deliver a message, and I’ve delayed long enough,” he said, injecting some firmness into his voice as he straightened. Hawke was already drawing back, seemingly having read his decision simply through the contact with his shoulder, or perhaps his body language. All he knew is that she was reining her concern back almost before he had collected himself.

“Master Danarius has ordered that you complete at least three hours of combat training a day, and I’m to be your supervisor. Of course, we ourselves will be supervised by the guards,” he added, finding just an edge of unexpected bitterness in his tone.

Why should he be bitter? Danarius had every right to have them guarded; they were his slaves. Simple property. The lack of freedom or even privacy had never concerned him before.

“Combat training? Me?” she gaped at him when Fenris nodded, feeling slightly wary at how incredulous her voice had become. “Is that old git insane?” she hissed, plunging into a burst of action, throwing her hands up and pacing, utterly ignoring or oblivious to Fenris choking on the shock, reprimands, and – if he were honest – stunned laughter of their master being addressed as such that queued up in his throat at once.

“I mean, if I get to fight, I won’t complain, but – oh, shit-” the violent curse that left her, along with her abrupt whirl to face him made Fenris even more edgy, suddenly unsure of how Hawke would react. She’d always been unpredictable, but not like this. Before, it was because she was apt to run at the slightest thing. Now, Fenris could detect a distinctly predatory excitement about her, as though instead of run, she was more likely to lunge forward on the offensive.

“You’re to be my supervisor? He specifically said you would be?” she pressed, switching from distracted shock to an intense focus that Fenris couldn’t help but relate to a warrior.

Solemn, already knowing what Hawke had realised, he nodded. She swore again, returning to pacing – or stalking in the short space.

“How did he find out we’d met again? Why else would he put you as my supervisor? Why does he even want me trained again anyway? It’s utterly pointless. I’m never going to be in a situation where I’ll need to fight; he knows I can’t use it against him... ” The growl in her voice grew throughout her agitated theorising until she gave a suppressed, wordless scream of frustration, her hands dragging at her unbound hair, her eyes unfocused but darting across the floor as though chasing invisible spiders.

“Hawke.” Fenris’ sharp demand cut into her disquiet, and she slammed to a stop in the middle of the room, rocking on her feet as she drew her balance back while her momentum tried to drive her forward. She closed her eyes, visibly drawing calm around her, before opening her eyes. She didn’t look at him, but he knew that small motion as a sign to continue.

“I don’t know if Danarius knows about us-” Why did that sound like they were illicit lovers? “-but he mentioned the end of Parvulis. He wants you to ‘be able to put up a decent fight for several minutes’ by then. He didn’t say why, but the only notable event at the end of the month is-”

“-the Masquerade,” Hawke intoned along with him, waving away his curious look. “Slaves hear everything, word gets round. Why does he want me to fight by then?” she murmured this last to herself, her brow furrowed in thought.

Fenris gave a tired, one-shouldered shrug.

“I couldn’t say. Perhaps he wishes an extra body guard; one he can disguise as a simple domestic slave? I’ve heard him say that he’ll but surprised if fewer than ten assassination attempts occur at the masquerade; it will be a huge venue, and the centre of public attention. The perfect place to make a political statement. He may believe he will be the target of such an attempt. He hasn’t survived this long without such paranoia.”

Hawke gave a low huff and a grimace of what could only be disappointment. Fenris tilted his head, curious.

“You... dislike our master?” he asked carefully. Hawke simply gave him a flat stare, as though he’d stated the painfully, stupidly obvious, but then some of her old worry crept in, oddly belated. She looked away again, chewing on her lip in what Fenris recognised as her ‘debating over an answer’ expression.

“I resent having my freedom stolen from me,” she finally replied, her words slow, deliberate. She carefully avoided mentioning Danarius in person, Fenris noticed.

He shifted, uncomfortable. He’d never been able to understand the captive slaves’ attitudes towards their new master.

“He is a magister. It is his right to own slaves,” he muttered, feeling inordinately uneasy, as though he were insulting her. When he lifted his eyes to hers, she was staring straight at him again, a new coldness in her eyes – but not for him, he realised.

“It is no one’s right to own another person, Fenris. It’s abhorrent,” she said quietly, with untarnished conviction. Despite the odd thrill that tore down the inside of his spine and spread across the back of his throat, Fenris looked down again, ashamed and conflicted. The magisters owned slaves, it was that simple. They always had. Slaves were meant to be owned. They were property.

But we’re also people, something tiny inside him insisted.

Hawke broke him out of his reverie, stepping closer and peering under his hair, her eyes uncommonly tender when compared to the glacier they had just housed.

“Hey,” she murmured, giving him a small smile, the sadness in the motion somehow negating the lightness of that single word, giving it a solemn gravity. “Don’t ever feel embarrassed by what he’s done, Fenris,” she urged him gently, slowly reaching out to brush his hair behind his ear. He couldn’t quite stop his eyes from trying to close; or from leaning against her hand when her fingers skated down behind his ear and the side of his face. “-Including how he’s made you think,” she finished with a smile as his eyes half opened again, meeting her gaze evenly.

His lips quirked up in the smallest, yet most sincere of his smiles.

“I’ll try,” he murmured, sighing as her thumb whispered underneath his eye, soothing the skin there.

There was no tension, no inexplicable urge. It just felt utterly normal – right, even – to close the gap between them and gently ghost his lips across hers. She responded instinctively with the lightest pressure, then stilled for a moment in delayed shock, only to relax again with a soft sigh of what might have been relief. It was simple, sweet, as comforting as it was romantic, but right then it was all either of them wanted.

It was such a curious sensation to have her lips curve up into a smile against his, that he found himself smiling with her, before both of them laughed softly, eyes opening to see each other chuckle.

With a low hum of humour, Hawke rested her forehead against his briefly, feeling secure for the first time in three months. Idly, Fenris realised that his arms were wrapped loosely around her, while hers rested over his collarbone, untroubled by the coolness of his breastplate.

They both held onto the comfort for a few seconds more, reluctant to break it, but eventually Fenris sighed and shifted. Hawke was already starting to look up, her eyes resigned but gentle as they pulled apart.

“We should make our way to the training ring,” he murmured, even his hushed tone seeming rudely loud in the quiet solitude they had built. “No doubt Mas-” he was cut off by Hawke’s fingertips coming to rest against his lips, refreshingly bold as she replied with a rueful twist to her voice.

“Don’t you dare,” she murmured wryly. “He’s not going to ruin this, too.”

Fenris frowned, bemused, but Hawke simply smiled, dropping her hand to kiss him softly again, savouring it, before stepping back, facing the door and rolling her shoulders as though bracing herself for a brisk winter wind.

“Ready? I believe you said something about training,” she smiled back over her shoulder. With a slightly helpless shake of his head, Fenris started to nod, but paused.

“Hawke?” she turned; her hand resting lightly on the handle, but attentive. Fenris shifted uncomfortably, hating to spoil what had just happened. “When we’re out there, we’ll have to act as though we barely know each other. We can’t be... familiar with each other, at all,” he muttered, reluctant but practical. The fear that Danarius would discover these meetings with Hawke festered and simmered at the back of his mind, driving his words. But while he’d imagined Hawke to be disappointed or upset, she simply gave him a thin, knowing smile.

“Don’t worry, Fenris. I think you’ll find me to be a more than satisfactory actress. I’ve been lying through my teeth to Templers since I could talk, after all,” she laughed. Fenris’ head jerked back in surprise.

“You’re a mage?” he asked, utterly disbelieving and, if he acknowledged the coil of fear dripping around his spine, slightly panicked. Hawke smiled sadly and shook her head, however.

“Not me. Father was, and my little sister Bethany. They were apostates – I had to lie to protect them from the Templars. If we hadn’t, Father – a practicing apostate – would have been killed or made Tranquil, Bethany taken to the circle to grow up there.” Here, Hawke gave a bitter little laugh. “Not that it made much difference, in the end. Father still died, and Bethany still ended up in the Gallows. Ironic really.” Fenris watched her, observing the grieving tilt of her head towards the door and the hopeless drop of her shoulders. Before he could say something he hoped would be more supportive than tactless, Hawke gave herself a small shake and lifted her head, pushing her shoulders back pointedly.

“But we’re not here to chat about my family. We should go,” she said with forced brightness, this time opening the door without giving him a chance to object.

By the time he had followed her out of the door; her expression had been completely rearranged.

She looked confused, slightly nervous and... intimidated? Suddenly, he realised that she looked the same way most of the other slaves did when they spoke to him.

Clever girl.

He led her down the corridors, Hawke only half a step behind and just visible in his peripheral vision, so he saw when she started worrying her lip again – a sure sign she was about to say something she didn’t particularly want to. But he pretended not to notice this small clue, waiting for her to speak before glancing around at her, and eyebrow half-lifted in question.

“Um, Fenris? I, er... I can’t fight in these clothes.”

Fenris blinked. Of all comments, this he hadn’t expected.

“Those... clothes... ?”

She nodded sheepishly.

“The skirt, really. It’s too long – impractical to fight in. I’d need either a shorter skirt or a pair of breeches. Preferably breeches. If that could be arranged,” she added hastily, dipping her head meekly, her eyes darting across the floor that passed beneath them.

She really could act.

Fenris turned to face forward again, thinking.

“It should be acceptable. We should be able to find some spare breeches in either the laundry room or one of the guards’ supply rooms, correct?” Hawke nodded. In addition to it being the place where the slaves cleaned the clothes and sheets of the whole estate, it also acted as a store room for surplus linens and clothes.

They detoured to the laundry room, where Hawke rifled through the excess uniforms, finding a pair of breeches that more or less fit and closing herself in the storage closet to change, emerging with a spare shirt and pair of soldier’s boots as well as the breeches, though her thick belt remained. Fenris raised his eyebrows at the additions, but didn’t comment, instead allowing Hawke to hide her own clothes in a discreet corner before leading her out to the training field.

He couldn’t help but notice the unusual confidence she had as she walked, utterly comfortable in the trousers and knee-high boots.

According to her, they had spent time hunting slavers somewhere called the Injured... no, the Wounded Coast. So she must have at least some skill in fighting, he assumed. He was admittedly curious to see just how well trained she was – by looking at her, he would have doubted her ability to even lift some weapons, never mind wield them with any level of efficiency.

There were several guards in the arena, sparring, shooting at targets or simply socialising, if the groups standing around the perimeter were anything to judge by.

A gruff voice calling ‘elf’ drew Fenris’ attention to the captain of the guard, who approached the pair with a disgruntled air.

“I’m told you’re going to train this... woman,” he stated, the last word rolling in something between amusement and disgust. Fenris merely remained silent and nodded, carefully controlling the affronted roil of anger in his gut as the captain continued. “And some of my men are to be your babysitters until you’re done?” The captain was outright scornful now, evidently seeing this as an utter waste of time, and quite possibly an insult to his ability. Fenris held his gaze evenly, purposefully keeping his tone neutral.

“If you object to Master Danarius’ wishes, I’m certain you could ask to speak with him and arrange and alternative solution,” he intoned, picturing the rank-smelling scorch mark on the floor that would be left if the captain actually had such gall. From the man’s withering look, he knew what the consequences of questioning Danarius would be too.

“Don’t get smart with me, elf. You can spar. My men will watch. Don’t expect more than that,” the captain growled through the sneering shape of his slim-lipped mouth, seeming even more frustrated by Fenris’ calm nod of acceptance. With a last glower at the two of them, the man strode off towards a training dummy, snagging a sword from near the wall as he went before starting to hack at it with unnecessary violence.

Fenris glanced over at Hawke, noticing now that she had her head down – presumably to make the captain think she was scared or submissive, but Fenris had an odd suspicion that she was struggling not to laugh.

When she lifted her head, however, she was perfectly composed, if shooting wary glances at the soldiers around them.

With an almost imperceptible sigh, Fenris lead Hawke over to a large bench, upon which assorted weapons lay, all blunted or wooden for training.

Before Fenris could ask her preference, Hawke had dived for a pair of blunt steel daggers; simple, straight blades, no decoration. The moment she had them in her hands, she relaxed, an easy smile passing briefly across her face as she tested their balance.

“Not bad,” she muttered, giving the two several experimental flips, to Fenris’ surprise.

To disguise the errant emotion, he started to set aside the greatsword Danarius had provided him with, reaching instead for a training one when Hawke shook her head.

“You don’t have to do that. Use – you can use your own one if you like,” she offered, obviously biting her tongue on an unconscious order. Despite the temptation, neither glanced around to check if she’d been heard – it would have only broadcast that they had done something they shouldn’t. Instead, Fenris nodded and resettled his usual blade against his back, though he did silently resolve to be more cautious about his attacks. He didn’t want to accidentally kill her because she was too slow to dodge.

Hawke started rolling her shoulders and flexing her hands, the only warm-up she allowed herself. It was more than she usually got during the numerous ambushes she’d experienced in and around Kirkwall, and she’d learnt to adapt to the sudden jolt into rapid action without warning her muscles. Her comparatively weak physical state concerned her – she was sorely out of practice, but she couldn’t really help that.

Still, having the reassuring weight of a pair of daggers back in her hands calmed her immeasurably, and she found herself settling easily into her sparring stance, Fenris doing the same opposite her.

Luckily, she had the advantage of prior knowledge here. Although Fenris was vastly stronger and most probably faster than her by now, even without using his markings, he no longer knew her fighting style. Hawke, however, knew his every move, his every ‘tell’, as Varric would call them. She knew what slight tremor of muscle meant he was about to lunge or jump or feint, what subtle quirk of his mouth or tiny frown said about his confidence against his opponent.

His wide eyes of surprise when he feinted left then swept around to try and cut her right leg off at the hip and she easily leapt back and parried the blow was so satisfying, Hawke couldn’t help the wicked grin she shot him as she darted forward, insistently pressing him back with quick jabs and sudden twists to strike at his side or back. But even startled as he was, Fenris didn’t allow it to cloud his instincts and recovered quickly. He strafed around a well-timed combination of an overhand swipe at his sword arm and jab at his neck, bringing his sword around and over his head in a strike that could easily cleave her in two. Instead, Hawke spun aside, the movement tight enough to bring her almost back-to-back with the elf. He leapt forward before the two daggers could strike his kidneys, turning sharply and, instead of swiping again, he kept his shoulder lowered and used his momentum to charge forward, trying to surprise the rogue and knock her clean off her feet.

She wasn’t where she should have been, having rolled sideways as he turned, and instead he felt a helping hand on his back and an extended leg against his shins as he ran past her. He caught his fall with one hand, managing to keep his sword arm extended so he didn’t cut himself to pieces on the greatsword as he followed the movement through and forward rolled, coming straight up on his feet and turning in time to block her mid-air strike at his head and throat.

Both of them were grinning as they blocked and parried, and soon they were turning around the ring, ducking and spinning around each other, forgetting that this was meant to be an experimental spar only.

Yet barely five minutes of intense fighting had passed before the strain really took its toll. Her breath was already heaving as she shoved Fenris back a step, attaining some desperately needed room. With a jolt of self-disgust, she realised her arms were trembling with the effort of holding the blades aloft.

She saw Fenris watching her carefully, saw his stance loosen slightly, on the verge of offering a break.

With a snarl, Hawke threw herself forward again, funnelling her frustration with herself and her almost manic rage at Danarius for reducing her to this into her screaming muscles and lungs instead of oxygen. Fenris fell back under the surprise onslaught, his eyes once again wide for a second until he blocked and knocked her back, gaining ground and an equal footing in the spar again before Hawke, her breath deep gulps of ragged air interspaced with furious growls that stretched into something more like screeches, launched forward again.

Fenris allowed it for another few seconds, batting away the weakening yet increasingly desperate strikes with ease as Hawke exhausted herself.

Finally, when she was practically staggering towards him, blades extended in the hope she’d hit something, Fenris knocked her back and planted his blade into the soft sand of the arena, holding his empty hands up before she could fall at him again.

“Take a break, Hawke. You’ll only hurt yourself by continuing like this,” he ordered. For a long moment, she glared at him, as though contemplating ignoring him and lunging again, but finally she nodded, throwing her daggers, blades-first into the sand as well and turning towards the arena wall, apparently only her momentum carrying her the last few feet, upon which she slid down the wall, her head bowed between her knees, shoulders still heaving.

Only slightly winded himself, though with an unexpected new respect for the woman on the ground, Fenris gave her a minute to berate herself – he’d heard her vicious hissing under her breath as she’d walked away – as he went to the well and drew up one of the buckets stacked by the ring of curved stone blocks.

By the time he returned to Hawke, bucket full of shade-cooled water, she had sat back so her head rested against the wall and had stopped talking to herself, but was still glowering at the burning Tevinter sky. She only looked around when Fenris set the bucket down next to her before sinking down the wall to sit with her, gesturing at the bucket when she just looked at him.

“You first,” he muttered, letting Hawke cup the water in her hands to drink or pour over her head. When she sat back, the collar of her borrowed/stolen shirt wet and her breath finally calming, Fenris took his own drink, listening patiently when Hawke started muttering again – to him, this time.

“I’m sorry for this. It must seem like a waste of your time, only being able to spar for six or seven minutes at a time. It’s pathetic,” she said savagely, one clenched fist beating the ground beside her ineffectually, before sighing in frustration.

Fenris couldn’t help snorting. When Hawke glanced over at him, surprised and – despite her own declarations of weakness – slightly hurt, he quickly shook his head, eager to avoid any misunderstandings.

“Forgive me, but I have to disagree with you. Your stamina may-”

“Be abysmal?” Hawke suggested; which Fenris all but ignored except for an amused quirk of his mouth.

“-need improvement, but your skill with blades is excellent. If you were in top form, I’d be exceedingly wary of actually fighting you. You’d be a dangerous opponent, at the very least.” Of all the compliments to make a woman smile like a bashful teenager, Fenris wouldn’t have picked that one, but there was Hawke, grinning awkwardly and staring at her boots.

Before the quiet could become uncomfortable – or charged, which could be just as bad, given their present company – Fenris straightened up, falling back into a training mindset.

“But obviously, you are out of practice, and your muscles are severely atrophied.” At this assessment, Hawke sobered and looked up, her expression level but open. “I think a lot of your training will be simple stamina and muscle building, along with resistance training – the skill is still there, but the support it needs isn’t. Your diet may need adjusting as well, if possible, although... ” Here, Fenris trailed off, and Hawke grimaced in understanding. He was barely fed enough to sustain his current strength, denied meals often for the slightest fault, and he was Danarius’ personal bodyguard. As a domestic slave, Hawke must find it near impossible to get any decent food.

Danarius would be expecting a report on her progress and Fenris’ initial assessment, however, so Fenris could list Hawke’s lack of nutrition as a severe detriment to her ability to fight. If Danarius was in a pleasant mood, he might even avoid a punishment for impertinence.

Pushing aside his concerns about Danarius’ reaction, Fenris returned his focus to Hawke, sitting with her eyes half-closed against the sharp sunlight.

She lifted her head when she saw him move, attentive once again.

“Master Danarius said you’re to do three hours of training a day, in addition to your usual duties,” he said, trying not to let a note of apology into his voice when Hawke simply closed her eyes, resigned and exhausted. “To make it easier, try taking the jobs downstairs; or less strenuous ones if you have the choice. I know your work is tiring, but try not to work yourself too hard, otherwise we’ll have no hope of doing three hours each day – you’ll only cripple yourself with exhaustion or torn muscles,” he suggested as Hawke opened her eyes again.

She nodded, rubbing her temple wearily. “I’ll try and arrange it. I’m more concerned about the ‘every day’ bit. Does he know that training every day can do more harm than good?”

Fenris shrugged, uncertain. “He may. However, if Master wishes us to work that hard, we will. I’ve done so before, so it is possible,” he offered in an attempt at support. Hawke snorted.

“You never lost all your toning, Fenris. Trust me, I’ll struggle,” she said bluntly, not allowing embarrassment or anger to cloud her voice. She sighed, looking out at the ring, her eyes narrowed against the sun reflecting up from the sand. “I’ll do it though. What Master wants, he gets, after all,” she murmured softly, her tone far too bitter for Fenris’ comfort.

To distract them both he stood, purposefully ignoring the irritated glare of the guard captain.

“Come, we’ve rested enough. Are you ready?”

Hawke grimaced, her nose wrinkling like a displeased lion’s, but she nodded and hauled herself to her feet with a low mutter.

“No, but the sooner three hours pass, the sooner I can go to bed and collapse.”

Varric sat back from the maps, documents and speculation scattered across his table, sighing and closing his eyes, ignoring the pile of mail left at his elbow by a disgruntled Edwina.

Three months. Three; and still no leads.

How the two could just vanish like that astounded him. Ancestors knew, even he would struggle to find two more distinctive people in this circus of a city.

At first, he and the others had simply thought the two had locked themselves in one of their mansions for several days, and only he and Isabela would even dare to imagine interrupting that little liaison.

But after two full days had passed, Bodahn Feddic had arrived at the Hanged Man, wild-eyed with concern. Varric had had to shove a drink into the man’s hands to stop them wringing.

According to the dwarf, neither Hawke nor Fenris had returned to the mansion since the night Danarius died. After the second day had passed with no word from Hawke – unusual, for her, seeing how considerate of her staff she was – Bodahn had gone to Fenris’ pit of a mansion and found it deserted.

Varric had reassured the manservant that the two had probably gone on an impromptu trip somewhere outside the city, to put the haggard man’s mind at ease.

As soon as Bodahn had left, however, Varric had walked towards the door, intending to grab Isabela and tell her, when the pirate herself had entered his room, none of her usual swagger present.

Varric hadn’t even commented on her eavesdropping, simply looking at her for a moment.

“Time to grab Blondie and Daisy?” he’d suggested.

Isabela had nodded.

“No need to get Aveline’s smalls in a twist just yet – they could have just ran away for a few days,” she’d said, though they both could hear the doubt there.

They’d collected Anders and Merrill – deciding it was best not to mention anything to Hawke’s family, Aveline or Sebastian until there was real cause to worry – and had headed for Fenris’ home, Isabela briefly retelling her conversation with him the last night anyone knew the pair were still in Kirkwall.

As Bodahn had said, the mansion was empty, with only one set of recent footprints in the thick layers of dust in the foyer. Even the main room upstairs – the one Fenris lived in – had only the dwarf’s prints, and the cold air of a place unlived in had already encroached from the other areas of the mansion.

When the group began looking closer, they started to worry. Anders recognised magic scorches on the floor and walls; Isabela and Varric found splintered, blistered craters in the table and floor, possibly from mauls or hammers. Merrill found the blood.

A small stain, mistakable for wine at first, in a dried-out puddle on the floor. Then other, smaller drops – sprayed against the wall, across the table.

By the time the four had left, everyone was visibly shaken, even Isabela.

“It definitely wasn’t like that when I left. And I saw no one, Varric, not one person when I left. If I had, I’d have gone straight back in, long-overdue making up be damned, and warned them... ” she said, a trembling arm around Merrill’s shoulders as the young elf sobbed, her huge eyes magnified by the tears in them.

“It’s not your fault, Isab-” Varric started; only to be cut off by a distraught wail from Merrill.

“Why would anyone want to do this to Hawke, or Fenris? They’ve never hurt anybody! Well, they have, but not- not, I mean-”

“We know, Daisy. No one should have been able to do this. We’ll find them, if they’re not already out of trouble and on their way back to Kirkwall this minute,” he’d said, trying to keep a supportive look on his face.

From the unusually grave look Merrill gave him, he realised that she didn’t believe him anymore than he did, but she appreciated the effort.

They’d pulled themselves together and split up to inform the others – Isabela going to Aveline, Merrill to Sebastian, Anders to Gamlen (Varric wouldn’t let him go near the Gallows without Hawke there to act as a deterrent) and the dwarf to Bethany.

Within an hour, everyone except Gamlen and Bethany – either drinking away the shock and grief or locked in the Gallows – had gathered at Varric’s suite, all demanding the full story and, in Aveline’s case, why she hadn’t been informed immediately. She’d been only slightly mollified when Varric had reasoned that if it had been a false alarm, she would have been worried for nothing, which could have impeded with her job.

“Rivaini and I only waited to get Daisy and Blondie in case there was an ambush waiting for us, otherwise we would have gone straight there ourselves,” he’d explained.

“I suppose that makes sense,” the guard captain had muttered eventually, before they’d all descended into speculation on what could have happened and who was responsible.

After five hours, several of which took them into the next day, Varric had thrown himself back in his chair, rubbing his eyes and staring at a point on the table to try and convince them to focus again.

“I just don’t get it. If that magister was still around, I’d pin it on him. He’s certainly got the money and the resources, but the Elf took care of him. We all saw that,” he said, looking in particular at Isabela – who’d jumped straight into the fight when it broke out – and Anders, who grimaced at the memory.

“Even if it was him, why take Hawke too? He was only ever after his runaway pet,” the mage grumbled, trying to sound more like he was quoting the magister than agreeing with his assessment. From the varied looks he received from around the table, he’d not succeeded very well.

“A hostage? She got in the way? Or for status – she’s the Champion, for Maker’s sake. Even outside of the Free Marches, that’s not something to underestimate,” Aveline suggested, the almost permanent shadows under her eyes prominent now, her gloves long discarded on the table as she rubbed at her face again.

Isabela sighed loudly, dropping her boots from where she’d kicked them up onto the table, falling to all four chair legs with a resounding thud.

“Look, this is getting us nowhere. Resources or vendettas or not, that wrinkly old bastard’s dead. We’re wasting time thinking about him,” she said firmly, to everyone’s reluctant nods and mumbles of agreement.

“Rivaini’s right. Who else do we have, the sister?” Varric asked. The theory had already been chewed and regurgitated like cud several times now, but they kept bringing up the same topics in the hope that something new would strike them.

“Pathetic. Whiney. No resources, no reputation, no respect. She couldn’t have done it by herself, mage or not, and if Fenris had to send her money to bring her here, then unless she was an extremely popular part-timer at the Rose, she wouldn’t have had the cash to buy the number of mercenaries necessary to take those two down,” Isabela said immediately, ignoring Aveline’s muttered comment on her get-money-fast theory.

“You never know. Magic can balance even the most drastic odds,” Anders countered, more on principle than anything.

“Sweet thing, did she look particularly competent to you? She cowered by the wall and squealed during the whole fight. I don’t think she’s capable enough to organise a violent kidnap like this,” Isabela shot back with raised eyebrows, waiting until Anders lifted his hands in surrender and sat back, even his feathers seeming to deflate.

“So it’s not Fenris’ sister, we can agree on that. How about the Magistrate?” Sebastian asked; his normally neat hair stuck up at odd angles from the number of times he’d ran his hands through it.

“The murderer’s father? Could be. He’s pretty high on my list, anyway. I’d just think that he would have tried something earlier than this. It’s been, what, five years now? That’s a long time to get revenge, especially without even small token attempts before hand,” Varric mused, running a hand over his stubble in thought. “I dunno though, I’ve just got a feeling that it’s not him. Like we’re missing something,”

“But what? We searched everywhere in Fenris’ house, Varric. We can’t have missed anything,” Merrill asked, her tone oddly sharp with desperation for the usually hare-brained elf, even though she was weaving in her seat from exhaustion.

Varric shrugged.

“I don’t know, Daisy,” he said softly, “I really don’t.”

They all subsided into an uneasy quiet, until Aveline sat back with a decisive sigh, reaching for her gloves.

“Well, we’ve talked in circles for hours now. I say we all go home, sleep if we can, then start fresh tomorrow morning. I’ll ask my guards if they saw anything odd on patrol last night,” she said, tugging the gauntlets on as Varric nodded, sitting up at last.

“Good idea. I’ll get hold of my contacts tomorrow, collect on my many outstanding favours. Someone must have seen something in this place.”

“I’ll ask mine, too. I can ask at the Rose, as well.” At the disbelieving stare this earned her from everyone, Isabela sighed and rolled her eyes. “The workers hear far more than you’d think. There’s not much in this city that goes on without them knowing about it,” she explained with exaggerated patience.

“I’ll notify the Grand Cleric also – she may have heard a key confession in the past few days, or she can spread the word amongst the congregation that if anyone has information, to speak to her or myself,” Sebastian volunteered.

“Well, let’s hope she takes a more active stance in this than she has in the mages’ plight,” Anders muttered, loud enough to be heard by everyone.

Sebastian merely met the mage’s challenging gaze evenly.

“The difficulty with the mages is not illegal, Anders. The abduction of two Kirkwall citizens – one being the Champion, no less – is. Elthina will act.”

While Anders huffed and Merrill volunteered to try asking her fellow elves about anything unusual they had seen, the others all stood, stretching and leaving with subdued ‘goodnight’s.

Three months, hundreds of contacts, and nothing except that a ship had possibly left the harbour the night that Hawke and Fenris had disappeared, and that an old man, a foreigner, had been seen in the area earlier in the day. The foreigner was probably Danarius, so Varric dismissed the information. The rest of it told Varric a couple of things, however.

Whoever was responsible was obviously highly organised, highly motivated, powerful, and keen not to be seen. That meant that they were aware of the fallout if it was known who had abducted the Champion of Kirkwall.

It was as he was about to head to bed after another frustrating day when he heard pounding footsteps on the stairs.

He had enough time to grab Bianca warily before Isabela burst into the room, wide-eyed, fuming, a letter clutched tightly in her hand. She paused only to glance at the forgotten pile of mail before letting loose a stream of curses picked up from years at sea, diving at the papers and disregarding Varric’s irritated yell, scattering them across the desk and plucking one from the mess.

“You stupid man, of all the days to not read your mail!” she ranted, shaking his letter in his face.

“Rivaini, what in Andraste’s holy underwear is so special about my mail?” he asked, batting away her hand, trying to avoid a black eye. He froze, however, at three words.

“Hawke and Fenris.”

[cyberkevvideo]

Throne of Night, Annex of Encounters Part 3 (Book 5)

This will be a lot shorter as there’s not much in the way of art for Book 5, and mom starts her radiation therapy tomorrow morning, so I can’t stay up too late. Her health obviously takes priority.

As always, for space reasons, I’ll be cropping the entry.

All images shared here were done by the forever fantastic and amazingly talented Michael D. Clarke, aka SpiralMagus

I have a Ko-Fi page (linked) for anyone who wishes to support me monetarily. There is no pressure or obligation to do so, however.

Finally, before I get to it, I hope everyone’s staying safe right now.

This one is going to be lacking in encounters mostly because most of them, honestly, were already built as monsters with class levels and the such. Most of the creatures in this one were way too low of a CR to be an honest challenge, so it had to be that way. No matter how much it wasn’t that way, there’s no way three aboleths at CR 7 (or CR 8 with the Advanced template, and even CR 12 with the Mighty template), could have possibly thwarted the party.

Like before, the level estimation is based entirely around the fact that I’m assuming that Gary would have stayed in line with his writing for “Way of the Wicked”, and would try to hit the same beats as much as possible.

Getting into it, here’s Book Five: Sailors on a Sunless Sea (Level 16-18):

With Taaryssia dealt with either by war, assassination or alliance, the PCs began to realize that they may face an enemy greater than either drow or corrupted dwarves. Caravans start to go missing. Reports of strange aberrations appearing in the depths come to their attention. And everywhere there are dark omens that something of terrible magical power is awakening the deepest depths of the earth. To find out more and to reach these rarely visited depths, the PCs must cross the great Sunless Sea.

The PCs are given (or possibly steal) a boat, and head out onto uncharted waters (for them). At best, they might be acquire a limited map that shows them a few miles in various directions. Anything further might be too pointless or treacherous for the standard drow to consider. Hopefully one of the PCs (and players) is a decent cartographer by this point.

I have no stats for these, but these are just some of the “bizzare” life forms that are swimming around these strange sunless seas.

Even underground it seems that fog rolls in off the water. As well, hidden dangers are all around, and the PCs won’t likely know that any of it is coming. It’s here that we’re told “portions are shrouded in mists.” and ”Other seas boil like a hot cauldron over a ceaseless fire. Some are the domain of monsters never dreamed of by the sunlit realms.”

Unless someone in the party can see through fog, which is highly unlikely, or have ranks in Profession (sailor), everyone’s going to new to using the boat.

Speaking of the boat, a large rowboat with 60 hp would likely be the best option for this portion of the game.

As for encounters for this portion, it sounds like there might be things hidden in the hog that could attack at any time.

To be a proper threat, they don’t necessarily all need to be CR 16 or greater, as the boat will be the target more often than not. If the party doesn’t have mending and either version of make whole, they might be swimming back home (assuming they live that long).

For a fog monster, a Mighty Id hungry fog would be a terrible encounter to fight in such close quarters, even with it only being a CR 12, and if you have more than one? Malicious. (There are three links in total in that monster suggestion.)

While it’s taken directly from another published module, instead of creating your own ‘boiling sea’, a CR 15 burning geyser would be a nightmare to deal with as no one knows where those might spring up. It’d definitely make it more troublesome for the party is those geysers triggered earthquakes and the low ceiling to suddenly crumble into a falling rocks.

Aquatic Terrain

It’s at this point that the party will have to deal with rapids, quick currents, and the reality of being swept away (or smashed into rocks). Looking it over, and reading what’s available, it would seem this book is let about monster encounters and more about skill check challenges. Hopefully none of the PCs are wearing medium or heavy armor.

Either a shallow shore line, or the stalagmites have been growing due to an over abundance of mineral deposits. Regardless, this looks to be another skill challenge, and the closest I’ve been able to find is the razor rubble special terrain. Because the boat has hardness 5, increase the damage from 1 point to 6 points. This way every time the PCs fail, the boat is slowly chipped away. If they critically fail a challenge, and the boat has already taken half damage, this might also mean that the boat has sprung a leak.

Note that most skill challenges assume numerous skills for options such as Acrobatics, Knowledge (geography), Knowledge (nature), Perception, and Profession (sailor). You can also use regular ability checks if the party doesn’t have the proper skill. As well, players who think up really interesting and unique ways to use a skill, that the GM feels would work, can attempt that too. For example, Intimidate wouldn’t work, but Survival likely would. Another example could be maybe the PC has a Fly or Swim skill and wants to use one of those to help maneuver the boat around the hazardous terrain.

If you’re not familiar with skill challenges from Pathfinder Society, you can instead use these rules and come up with your own scenarios for how you want the party to bypass these special hazards. PFS style challenges, on the other hand, uses the Easy/Average/Hard system, and it’d look like this: Skill Checks and Combat Maneuver DCs Level 16: Easy DC 27; Average DC 32; Hard DC 40 Level 17-18: Easy Skill DC 28; Average Skill DC 34; Hard Skill DC 42 Saving Throw DCs Level 16: Easy DC 23; Average DC 26; Hard DC 30 Level 17-18: Easy DC 24; Average DC 28; Hard DC 32

And the reason I know these numbers is thankfully PFS got this high of a level, so I can use the adventures I used to run from when I was a Venture Lieutenant as a reference.

If you use the E/A/H method, then for the rapids, then it would go something like: When the PCs hit the rapids, at least half must succeed at an Easy Profession (sailor), Average Knowledge (nature), or Hard Perception DC 40. A PC that succeeds can aid one other creature for every 5 points they beat the DC by. On a failure, they must succeed at an Average Acrobatics or Reflex save, or be thrown from the boat.

After that, it’d be Climb checks to get back in the boat, Swim checks to keep up with the boat/stay float/etc.

And this can be used for the razor rubble, additional geysers, cave-ins, etc. Note that skill challenges are worth experience just as any combat encounter, and can take anywhere from one minute to one hour, depending on the situation the PCs are involved with.

Nightwave Nightshade (CR 20)

It’s not specified exactly when the PCs are supposed to face this, but this picture comes before that of the three aboleths, so it can’t be the final boss.

There’s also talk of “strange tribes of weird creatures rarely even heard of by the those who dwell above. The PCs must conquer them either by guile or by force”, and I can’t help but wonder if those might be gillmen. Where there are aboleth, the gillman race can’t be too far. And, interestingly enough, if things went really south, and PCs started to drop like flies, a gillman PC as a replacement isn’t the worst thing. Maybe it ends up being a TPK, and the a dwarf or drow body is discovered by a gillman that has speak with dead in their repetoire, whether it’s prepared, known, or a scroll. That fallen dwarf or drow might tell that PC what happened, and of its quest to stop the kidnappings from Taaryssia. The new gillman PCs take up arms, and finally decide that enough is enough, and after all these years, it’s time to take on the aboleth and stop this from continuing, only to discover that they’re just pawns being controlled by something far greater and alien.

----------------------------------------

I’d like to bring up that I did a speculated level build for the submarine the PCs find, and said it was Book 5. To be honest, that’s just an assumption, and I honestly don’t know when they’re supposed to discover it. It would either be in Book 5 or the absolute earliest part of Book 6, as that’s when the PCs infiltrate the aboleth city. However, there are a few encounters that the PCs are supposed to face in Book 5 that the art looks as though they take place under the water, but I can’t be 100% certain. As such, there’s more art that I want to put here, but I’ll save that for a “miscellaneous” post. So look forward to that.

Next time, will be Book 6 and the final encounters of the AP.

[guesswho-mp3]

—•—Sunset—•—

Au: superman!johnny Pairing: superman!johnny x loislane!reader | Warning: angst, loneliness, you get thrown off a building, poorly paced and poorly written fluff | Rating: E for Everyone | Word Count: 2k

Listen to Exo’s Universe album while reading for max effect.

Johnny I hope that one day you find more friends that adore you, and that you’re happier than you’ve ever been before.

John’s reflection stared back at him, hair slicked back and button-up on, a far cry from the white t-shirt and flannel he usually wore. His flight to Metropolis was set to leave in three hours, but since the nearest airport was over an hour away away from the farm he’d have to leave early to get there on time. Of course he could’ve flown the distance in three minutes but he didn’t want to miss the truck ride with his parents. “John, let’s get a move on,” his mom called. He put his new glasses on to finish the transformation into yet another facade of himself in order to hide his true identity.

It got overwhelming to be so many things at once. Different personas he had to keep in check from melding together so that the others wouldn’t be put in danger. He was Yun - Seo, the last son of Krypton sent careening to Earth when both his planet, and his people exploded. He was John Lang, the farmer boy bound for bigger and better things in Metropolis. And he was Superman, the man of steel that worked to help others, and maybe even save the world every so often. What did all of these personas have in common though? They were all very very lonely.

His origins as an alien refugee meant he was different. He was other. Once he learned of his powers he actively avoided interaction with other kids, worried he would do something to hurt them, even when he was the gentlest little boy anyone could ever meet. Now that he was venturing into Metropolis the only people he was leaving behind were his parents and his dog.

The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting shadows and spirits over the little farmhouse and whisps of corn. He hated it when the sun set, and not just because the ball of fire was where his powers originated from, but because it was just another reminder that deep down he was on his own, not even the sun sticking around for company. Maybe he’d find someone in Metropolis. For now he couldn’t dwell on that dream though, he was starting a new job in a new city, away from the small town he was used to.

“Kibum Paek,” a hand stuck out from behind a newspaper ,” your new boss here at the Daily Planet. Let’s get down to business, this way.” He abruptly stood up from his desk and led him through the maze of cubicles, stopping at one where a few people were gathered. Paek rapped his finger on the divider to get their attention, and that’s when he met you. ”Everyone, this is John Lang, our newest reporter joining the team. Let's all do our best to welcome him and show him the ropes.”

You stood up first, introducing yourself before shaking his hand, your palm warm in his. “Welcome to The Planet,“ you beamed and he was instantly put at ease, but still feeling a little shy. He gave you a polite close-lipped smile, briefly meeting your eyes as he clutched the strap of his saddle bag and was ushered to his desk that was right across the aisle from yours.

“So John, where are you from,” you asked later that day in the break room, popping in to make a fresh brew, staying to chat while you added cream and sugar.

From that point on, catching up over coffee was a tradition, you always appearing at his desk with a steaming mug at the end of work, made just the way he liked it. Over a period of months the conversations drifted from more facile, like shared complaints about Paek’s “don’t apologize just be better mantra” to more personal and intimate topics. The things that made you both laugh, upbringing and childhoods, you obviously sharing more about the latter than him. But he appreciated the effort you made to befriend him, even if he didn’t always return the sentiment. In his mind it was for a good, if not a lonesome reason.

“Uh, Smallville, Kansas,” he told you.

Your eyes widened in surprise and you laughed. “Well, you’re a long way from home.”

He chuckled and pushed up his glasses. You had no idea.

Months had passed and John could safely say he had been hit with a dilemma. He enjoyed your company, he truly did, often reliving your encounters in his mind when he went back to his cold, quiet apartment. But he also knew that you would eventually find out about his “side job” as a hero, there being only so many excuses he could make as to why he would come back from a bathroom break with soot stains in his hair. That knowledge though, ran the risk of you being in danger, something he absolutely wanted to avoid. But it's hard to steer someone when they’re headed straight into a moving train at the speed of light. Much to his dismay you were headed straight towards conflict with none other than the biggest thorn in John’s side.

The greedy sociopathic megalomaniac (your words, not his) that was Kyungsoo Kim was planning something BIG, and you were intent on breaking the story. He always admired your tenacity, however he worried for your safety, even if it was technically required of the job to be put in sticky situations for the sake of the report.

Kim was notorious for shutting down news outlets and investigators that were digging too much into his business. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t listen in on your interviews you conducted with your sources. Sometimes becoming so engrossed in what you were saying halfway across the city he would zone out while staring at his computer screen for minutes on end. He received a few nasty glares from Paek as a result, but it was worth it if it meant he knew you were safe.

It all came to a head though when you discovered Kim was planning on creating a gene splicing therapy marketed towards the public. An anonymous tip sent to you revealed that Kim planned on using the DNA editing software to give regular human beings superpowers, thereby morphing them into metahumans. With the corrupt types the business magnate attracted, there was the possibility that things would go awry for the citizens of Metropolis, possibly even the whole world if criminals were given the powers of Gods. The powers of Superman.

While you were keeping tabs on Kyungsoo Kim, he was most certainly doing the same for you. He knew you were poking around where you shouldn't have been. After numerous attempts at trying to buy your silence and intimidate you, finally Kim finally decided that if he couldn’t gag you, he’d just throttle you instead.

One day you left work early to get a testimonial, promising to be back in time for coffee. Hours passed, it was nearing nine o’clock and he had already warmed your coffee with his heat vision ten times. No call, no text, no update. He got desperate though when he realized he couldn’t hear your heartbeat. The comforting little thunk that he always heard in the back of his mind noticeably absent. It was then that he heard it. Your strangled shouts of distress coming from the other end of the city.

Thank heavens he was in an alley, headed towards your apartment, the speed at which he ripped off his clothes to reveal his suit must’ve been a new record before he sprung into the air. The force broke the sound barrier, causing a ripple effect that rattled the surrounding buildings.

And there you were, falling from the top of KimCorp. Tower. Everything slowed for him as he pushed his body to go faster, your figure drifting mid air, fear palpable on your face. He caught you with ease, your panicked shouts diffusing in a little gasp at feeling the pressure of him against you when seconds before you were free falling. He didn’t bother to deal with Kim, more focused on getting you somewhere safe. He deposited you on top of the Daily Planet building, raising himself up some ten feet, the dimming light of the evening obscuring his face from view.

“Are you alright ma’am,” he asked, putting on his “professional” voice. Your hair was wind whipped, pupils dilated from the adrenaline rush, and your heart was thudding faster than a horse.

“John, you can come down. I know it’s you.” Smart as a whip, as always.

Following the earlier debacle you both decided to unwind. You explained to him that the meeting was a trap, having arrived at the location you were chloroformed and thrown into the back of a van before waking up to Kim's bald head staring at you before promptly being thrown off the building. He unfolded his entire backstory to you, the ups and downs, discovering his genetic line, the people he’s saved. All of this was said over coffee and a bag of chips after John flew down to a little bodega, Superman get-up and all to retrieve snacks and drinks from a very shocked cashier.

“So you’re one of the last Kryptonians alive and your parents adopted you after you crash landed here,“ you recounted to which he nodded,” you discovered a ship in the Arctic that contained your people’s history and the suit where you learned of your origins. You came here to lead a lowbrow-ear to the ground kind of life and you have a cousin named Tiffany, a.k.a Superwoman who lives in National City?”

“Bingo.”

“Wow.”

“Yep,’ he popped his lips, sipping on his coffee. It was silent for a moment, both of you breathing in the moment. A slight chill flowed through the air and you shivered, John immediately taking notice and wrapping his cape around you.

“How’d you know it was me,” he asked, swirling the contents of his little paper cup.

“Johnny I may not have x-ray vision but I could recognize my best friend anywhere,” you replied with a laugh, pulling him closer to you and laying your head on his shoulder. At that moment he felt like he was weightless, suspended in the clouds as warm rays of sunlight bathed his form. He felt like he could fly a few laps around the globe without getting tired; or lift the whole planet he was that…that... happy. He was happy. He finally could say he had a best friend.

“Johnny?” He questioned, unable to hide his joy.

“Yeah, a nickname.”

“I’ve never had anybody call me Johnny before.”

“Wait, you’re telling me no one ever gave you a nickname, your parents? Friends?” He shook his head no, the movement causing your hair to tickle his chin.

“I like it though,” he admitted, closing his eyes, floating in serenity.

And he did. He liked it alot. This was the first time in a long time Johnny had felt comfortable opening up to someone about himself. Being vulnerable without the fear of doing harm and being harmed. He realized that he could use his alter ego as a source of protection. To be your light, be your hero. But call it silly— ludicrous even, that the man of steel, impervious to bullets, crack a mountain with a single punch, invincible Superman felt safe and at peace wrapped up from the cold with a simple human.

“I’ve never had one before,” he said offhandedly.

“Mm,” you hummed in question, peering up at him.

“A friend,” he clarified,” I’ve never had a friend.”

Your arm tightened around him on instinct at his heart wrenching confession. You were pretty sure you were crushing him against you but he made no sign of discomfort. Probably the alien genes. You knew Johnny was shy and took a while to open up, but the sacrifices he made in his personal life to try to appear normal finally dawned on you. A bittersweet smile appeared on your face as you peered at the horizon, hoping Johnny would never have to be pulled from the safe haven you two were in. “Well, you’ve got one now. And I promise, I’m not going anywhere.”

The sun was just setting, blushing pigments of pink and orange kissing their eyes as they sat with each other. He nuzzled into you further, and you took his hand, your palm warm in his. Maybe sunsets weren’t so bad afterall.

[pardontheglueman]

The Lost Genius of The Go-Betweens

The next time you’re down the local boozer with your mates and there’s an uncomfortable lull in the conversation, consider striking up a discussion based on the following question - which is the best band never to have had a top forty hit?  Now, obviously, this is a version of the hoary old chestnut that’s passed many a drunken hour for the sports fan down the ages - who is the best footballer never to have played at a World Cup? The answer to that is a rather obvious one, of course, George Best. The musical variation of this question may be more stimulating.

Whilst Robert Lloyd and the various re-incarnations of his Brummie post-punk combo, The Nightingales, would make any respectable critics’ short list, his guttural, sub-Beefheart squeal was aimed more squarely at the underground than at the mainstream. The same uncompromising mindset also undermines the case for New York’s Suicide and David Thomas’ experimental avant-garage group, Pere Ubu.

Soon enough, however, somebody will alight upon the only truly acceptable answer, at least the only answer acceptable to me, and a good number of other men and women of a certain age, who are each the proud possessors of a pair of rose-tinted glasses. It simply has to be those doyens of guitar pop, the Go-Betweens. The inexplicable absence from the singles chart of these Australian Indie-pop pioneers remains a mystery to this day. Not once, during their illustrious lifetime, 1978-2006 (allowing for a hiatus from 1989 to 2000) did their melodic epistles ever threaten to deliver them pop stardom here, or in America. Incredibly, they even failed to secure a top 40 hit in their native Australia. This, surely, constitutes the greatest miscarriage in the history of popular music since the time Al Jolson blacked up for The Jazz Singer, declared brazenly “you ain’t heard nothing yet” and shamefacedly went on to make his fortune.

Just how the Brisbane based guitar heroes, led by singer/songwriters Robert Forster and Grant McLennan failed to achieve even one solitary week in the top 75, despite crafting a plethora of heavenly pop songs that should have made them household names on both sides of the Atlantic, is a mystery that genuinely scrambles the brain. Indeed, it prompts the group’s longtime fans to ask the age-old question, the one that escapes from our lips every time we drunkenly stumble upon a recording of Barry Manilow’s ‘Bermuda Triangle blaring out of a pub jukebox; ‘why did you let this happen, dear Lord, why?’

Consider some of the flotsam and jetsam that has (dis)graced the charts since the advent of Rock ‘n’ Roll. In no particular order, I give you Vanilla Ice, The Bay City Rollers, Duran Duran, Milli Vanilli, Arthur Mullard and Hilda Baker, Black Lace, MC Hammer and Sting. And, that’s just the tip of a very embarrassing iceberg!

Even more puzzling was the regular presence on the chart of bands that might best be described as second-rate Go-Betweens. The very ordinary Deacon Blue springs to mind here, as well as the Trashcan Sinatras. And, how on earth do you explain the continued presence in the charts, throughout the eighties, of bands that made comparable music, both in terms of substance and style to the Go-Betweens themselves. Aztec Camera, for example, chalked up 12 hits and 74 weeks on the chart while Lloyd Cole, with or without his Commotions recorded 15 hits spread over 62 weeks.

After the band split up in 1989 Forster and McLennan each took a stab at solo stardom, in theory doubling their chances of a hit, but still, the record buying public remained unpersuaded. McLennan in particular, penned a succession of gorgeous ballads throughout the nineties, the best of which, ‘Black Mule’ (1991) and ‘Hot Water’ (1994) are arguably the finest of all his compositions.

Even the French, not exactly renowned for having their finger on the pop pulse, have made the Go-Betweens something of a cause celebre. A 1996 issue of leading rock magazine Les Inrockuptibles pictured the band on its front cover with the strap-line ‘Le groupe le plus sous-estime de l’histoire du rock?’ Which, broadly translates as -  The Go-Betweens the most underrated band in the history of rock? The magazine also ranked ‘16 Lovers Lane’ in its list of the best albums of the period from 1986-1996.        

           Publié en novembre 1996.

The Smiths: The Queen Is Dead

Pixies: Doolittle

The Stone Roses: The Stone Roses

The Go-Betweens: 16 Lovers Lane

Portishead: Dummy

PJ Harvey: Dry

Tricky: Maxinquaye

Morrissey: Vauxhall & I

Massive Attack: Blue Lines

Beck: Mellow Gold

The Feelies: The Good Earth

REM: Automatic For The People

James: Stutter

The Divine Comedy: Liberation

The Smiths: Strangeways, Here We Come

My Bloody Valentine: Loveless

The La’s: The La’s

De La Soul : 3 Feet High And Rising

Bjork: Debut

Jeff Buckley: Grace

This re-appraisal of the band’s standing, together with an invitation to play at the magazine’s 10th Anniversary bash prompted Forster and McLennan to reform the group.

For a brief moment, true devotees of the group allowed themselves to believe that a great wrong might be righted. Perhaps the band might strike lucky and have a song included on the soundtrack of some mega Hollywood Rom-Com. There was a precedent of sorts. The Triffids, their compatriots from Perth and themselves a seminal indie band of the eighties, nearly managed to fluke a hit when their classic song, ‘Bury Me Deep In Love’, was chosen to play over the cheesy wedding scenes of Harold and Marge on the popular daytime soap, Neighbours. The band, profile duly raised, punched home their advantage; they’re follow up single, “Trick Of The Light”, spent a glorious week in the charts, at no 73, in early 1988.

Sadly, despite recording a batch of very fine comeback albums, particularly 2005’s  ‘Oceans Apart’, with its standout tracks ‘Here Comes A City’, ‘Born To A Family’ and ‘Darlinghurst Nights’,  a familiar pattern soon re-emerged - critical acclaim on the one hand and commercial indifference on the other. The Australian media wasn’t averse to chastising the band for their perceived failure either. ABC’S current affairs show The 7:30 Report announced their return to the stage in the following manner -

“The Go-Betweens have been described as the quintessential critics’ band. They made an art form of commercial failure. But as Bernard Brown reports, they’re happy to have earned the industry’s respect, even if the dollars didn’t follow.”

Good old Bernard concluded his report with “But the band���s influence far outweighed its record sales and they wear the tag of commercial failures”.

Any hope that the Go-Betweens could somehow turn the tide disappeared once and for all with the unexpected passing of McLennan in May 2006 at the age of 48.

Any discussion of great songwriting partnerships in popular music would rightly begin with the likes of Lennon and McCartney, Bacharach and David, Leiber and Stoller, or Jagger and Richards. You shouldn’t, though, have to look too far down the list before coming across the names of Forster and McLennan, probably bracketed right alongside Difford and Tilbrook or Morrissey and Marr.

McLennan and Forster, back in harness

Both were capable of writing supremely catchy songs and both had the propensity to pen an eye-catching lyric. Grant McLennan’s ‘River Of Money’, from the ‘Spring Hill Fair’ album (Beggars Banquet, 1984) whilst rather atypical of his output (it’s more of a prose-poem than a pop song) is such a unique lyric that it demands to be quoted in full.

                        River Of Money

It is neither fair nor reasonable to expect sadness to confine itself to its causes. Like a river in flood, when it subsides and the drowned bodies of animals have been deposited in the treetops, there is another kind of damage that takes place beyond the torrent. At first, it seemed as though she had only left the room to go into the garden and had been delayed by stray chickens in the corn. Then he had thought she might have eloped with the rodeo-boy from the neighbouring property but it wasn’t till one afternoon, when he had heard guitar playing coming from her room and had rushed upstairs to confront her and had seen that it was only the wind in the curtains brushing against the open strings, that he finally knew she wasn’t coming back. He had dealt with the deluge alright but the watermark of her leaving was still quite visible. He had resorted to the compass then, thinking that geography might rescue him but after one week in the Victorian Alps he came back north, realising that snow which he had never seen before, was only frozen water. I’ll take you to Hollywood I’ll take you to Mexico I’ll take you anywhere the River of Money flows. I’ll take you to Hollywood I’ll take you to Mexico I’ll take you anywhere the River of Money flows. But was it really possible for him to cope with the magnitude of her absence? The snow had failed him. Bottles had almost emptied themselves without effect. The television, a Samaritan during other tribulations, had been repossessed. She had left her traveling clock though thinking it incapable of functioning in another time-zone; so the long-vacant days of expensive sunlight were filled with the sound of her minutes, with the measuring of her hours.

Not the stuff of the three-minute hero, I appreciate, but the pair were equally comfortable writing the standard verse, chorus, verse pop song that chimed in at a radio-friendly 2.56 and wouldn’t have frightened the horses. From ‘Spring Hill Fair’ they released a trio of pristine singles. McLennan’s pop-by-numbers opener ‘Bachelor Kisses’ was the first to hit the shops (and stay there, in the bargain bin) followed by Forster’s heart-achingly sad confessional, ‘Part Company’;

“That’s her handwriting, that’s the way she writes

From the first letter, I got to this her Bill of Rights”

‘Man O Sand To Girl O Sea’, the final single from the album, found Forster in a more self- assured frame of mind;

“Feel so sure of our love

I’ll write a song about us breaking up”.

This sequence of starry-eyed singles should have seen the Go-Betweens clasped lovingly to the bosom of the pop establishment. Instead, they remained exiled in the wilderness, otherwise known as the John Peel show.

Still, at the time it seemed to be only a matter of time, before their streak of bad luck would break and the Brisbane boys would be basking in the sun-kissed glow of chart success. Two robust albums followed, ‘Liberty Belle And The Black Diamond Express’, (Beggars Banquet, 1986) and ‘Tallulah’, (Beggars Banquet, 1987) each spawned excellent singles in Forster’s ‘Spring Rain’, and ‘Head Full Of Pride’, as well as McLennans’ ‘Right Here’ and ‘Bye Bye Pride’.

The great British public, though, remained sceptical. Peel sessions, stadium tours in support of the band’s longtime admirers, R.E.M, contractual tie-in’s with a host of high profile record companies including Rough Trade, Postcard and Capitol, made not the slightest difference to the band’s outsider status. If a pop group can be described as persona non grata, then they were it! The frustration was beginning to tell, driving McLennan to comment that he’d;

“given up on the commercial success thing, which is very good for my state of mind”.

Forster, Morrison, Willsteed, McLennan, Brown - the line-up at the time of 16 Lovers Lane

The reality was, though, that their most “commercial” album, indeed their masterpiece, was still to come but in attempting to break into the charts the band would succeed only in breaking itself apart. The omens were not good from the outset. First off, bass guitarist Robert Vickers, who had been with the group since 1983, handed in his notice. His successor, John Willsteed, seemed the perfect replacement though, and his playing certainly brought a clarity and polish to the band’s sound, in keeping with their new direction of travel. He is credited by some insiders as having played a number of the more intricate guitar parts on ‘16 Lovers Lane’. Unfortunately, Willsteed was a somewhat disruptive personality who seemed to relish making enemies within the band.

Furthermore, Amanda Brown, recruited after contributing violin to the Servants sublime second single ‘The Sun, A Small Star’ began a relationship with McLennan. Suddenly, word leaked out that Forster and Morrison had been in a relationship of sorts for years. Battle lines had been drawn.

At the exact same time as the Forster/McLennan friendship, begun long ago in the Drama department of the University of Queensland, was starting to disintegrate, the power-brokers at the group’s management company were trying to push McLennan into the limelight at the expense of Forster. Author David Nichols, in his book The Go-Betweens, is clear about the re-alignment that took place “every promotional video from ‘Right Here’ onwards shows Forster completely back-grounded”. Seen today the video for ‘Was There Anything I Could do’ makes a toe-curling Exhibit A, with McLennan and Brown cavorting centre stage while Forster is stationed well to the rear. Morrison was deeply unhappy, particularly about the decision to draft in producer Craig Leon. In an interview with Sydney’s ‘On The Street’ she was scathing about the shift in emphasis;

“He was chosen to make this single accessible to people, to get us to crawl out of our cult corner.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGUxZvuRe9k  (Exhibit A)

Despite the recriminations that would inevitably follow, the next five Go-Betweens singles would all be McLennan compositions.

On a more positive note, Forster and McLennan were working on the songs for ‘16 Lovers Lane’ together, rather than working individually. The spirit of collaboration instead of competition at least extended as far as the song-writing! Released in August 1988 (Beggars Banquet /Capitol) and produced by Mark Wallis, who’d worked with the likes of Marianne Faithful, Tom Jones and R.E.M, ‘16 Lovers Lane’ was a sublime collection of glimmering guitar ballads and sugar-spun indie anthems so glossy and sun-kissed that you had to wear dark glasses just to listen to it.

On the release of their debut single ‘Lee Remick’ back in 1978, Forster and McLennan had talked about capturing “that striped sunlight sound” which Forster later defined as being;

“A romantic phrase, but it is abstract. It could be the sun coming through blinds as you play a record. It’s the shimmer of a Fender guitar. It’s harmonies and tough-minded pop songs. It’s lying on a bed beside a window reading a book in the afternoon. It’s the sun on a girl’s shoulder-length hair. It’s Buddy Holly in the desert the day they recorded ‘Maybe Baby’. It’s t-shirts and jeans. It’s Creedence. It’s Bob. It’s Chuck Berry.”

On ‘16 Lovers Lane’, made twenty years after they first articulated the concept, they came closest to perfecting its meaning.

Opening with the McLennan’s unashamedly summery ‘Love Goes On’;

“There’s a cat in the alleyway

Dreaming of birds that are blue

Sometimes girl when I’m lonely

This is how I think about you”

and ending with Forster’s majestically romantic ‘Dive For Your Memory’

“I’d dive for you

Like a bird I’d descend

Deep down I’m lonely

And I miss my friend

So when I hear you saying

That we stood no chance

I’ll dive for your memory

We stood that chance,”

‘16 Lovers Lane’ (once voted 24th greatest album of the eighties, by none other than Rolling Stone magazine) could also boast another pair of McLennan classics in the ‘Streets Of Your Town’ - a song that should have occupied a place in the nation’s pop consciousness in the same way that The La’s ‘There She Goes’ or The Human League’s ‘Don’t You Want Me Baby’ have done, and the wistful, heart-breaking lament,’ Quiet Heart’.

“I tried to tell you

I can only say it when we’re apart

About this storm inside of me

And how I miss your quiet, quiet heart”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJfP6G0LSEA

‘Streets Of Your Town’ was such an obvious choice for a single that they had two cracks with it, releasing it first in October 1988 and then, refusing to accept defeat, the following summer. Sandwiched in between the twin versions of this neglected classic were two more ‘easy on the ear’ contenders, ‘Was There Anything I Could Do’ (McLennan) and ‘Love Goes On’. Both met the same miserable fate – they were steadfastly ignored.

The failure to impact on the charts, with such an obviously radio-friendly song as ‘Streets Of Your Town’, must have come as a crushing blow to Forster and McLennan and was probably the final nail in the Go-Betweens’ coffin. Broke and broken-hearted they went their separate ways.

That the Go-Betweens had swallowed their pride and danced to the tune of their paymasters, there could be no doubt. They’d flattened out the kinks in their song structures, planed off the angular edges and streamlined their sound until, with each passing record, they began to sound less and less like The Velvet Underground and more and more like Abba. Not that there is anything wrong with Abba or ‘16 Lovers Lane’ itself, indeed in parts it’s a breathtakingly beautiful record. It’s just that 3/5ths of the band didn’t really want to make that type of record anymore. The Go-Betweens sold their soul, but they still didn’t sell any records!

To make matters worse there wasn’t even the consolation of making their mark in the album charts, where more mature bands could be expected to have their egos massaged by a loyal fan base, successfully built up over a lengthy career. All the Go-Betweens could muster, though, was a week at no. 91 in June 1987 with ‘Tallulah’, and one week at no. 81 for ‘16 Lovers Lane’ in September 1988.

The Go-Betweens, however, did make minor inroads upon the UK Independent Charts. Before signing for Beggars Banquet the band had recorded for Rough Trade and Situation 2, qualifying them for inclusion in the Indie charts. Between 83 and 86 they had three entries in the top 40. ‘Cattle and Cane’, an autobiographical McLennan song voted by the Australasian Performing Rights Association in 2001 as one of the country’s 30 greatest songs of all time, reached no. 4 in March 1983, while ‘Man O Sand To Girl O Sea’ charted at no. 24 toward the end of the same year. A 12 inch only release of ‘Lee Remick’ peaked at no. 7 in November 1986. And there the trail runs cold.

To speculate, now, on the spectacular failure of the Go-Betweens is to set oneself an impossible task. Maybe, it was simply because they never really established a British fan base, maybe Australians appeared less cool than Americans or the dynamic duo just lacked sex appeal. It could be argued that both Forster and McLennan were not distinctive enough as singers, even that they sounded too erudite at times, for daytime radio. Maybe it was Forster’s controversial decision to play a Capitol Records promotional launch of ‘16 Lovers Lane’ in an olive green dress (the company scaled down the record’s promotional budget the very next day). Or, perhaps, it was just that fate was against them all along.

In September 1985 the band had signed with Elektra, hoping for better promotion and distribution of their work. Forster was in optimistic mood “We’ve gone with Elektra – start our LP in just over a week. Without any doubt the songs are our best, we are playing our best, and with ourselves producing this unknown masterpiece, it might be great.” Within weeks Elektra had gone belly up and the band was back to square one again, much to Forster’s chagrin;

“I do think we have a sense of anger – no one’s ever been able to present us to the British public in any sort of cohesive or intelligent way.”

One thing is for sure, they had a fistful of great songs and in Forster, they had someone who gave the band personality. His art-rock background led him to pay particular attention to his stage performance, although we can only presume his tongue was firmly in his cheek with this analysis of his ‘dancing’;

“Bobby Womack himself once told me that I am a soul man and that as far as modern music is concerned there are only three soul men left: himself, me and Prince. Prince came to Brisbane and took the colours, the moves, his whole act from me. It’s true! He’s seen my moves!”

Perhaps The Go-Betweens’ drummer Lindy Morrison, speaking in 1992 was nearer the truth than I, and others, would care to admit when she offered this overview;

“We might have been one of the most lauded bands in the country, but we sold bugger all records. That’s a shame. So let’s not go on about it being one of the most lauded bands in the country, cause who cares? We didn’t sell records, we weren’t a popular band, and I’m sick of hearing about the fact that we were so fabulous – because if we were so fabulous, why didn’t anyone buy our records?”

Forster managed a slightly more laconic response;

“It was quite freeing to realise, our group is so good, and we’re getting nowhere. After a while, the lack of recognition was so absurd it was funny”.

Following their initial break up, the compilation album ‘1978-1990’ was released and allowed the music press to pass their verdict on the life and times of the Go-Betweens. Melody Maker’s Dave Jennings could barely contain his anger; “The fact that the Go-Betweens never became massive is a disgusting injustice…..take the Go-Betweens to your heart, where they belong.” In 1996, writing for Select magazine Andrew Male wrote that “The only problem with listening to the Go-Betweens now is that they can’t help remind you of how crap the eighties were. The Go-Betweens produced records of quiet brilliance and got nowhere. Sting sang about a sodding turtle and became a millionaire.”  

Even now, though, there isn’t exactly a critical consensus. Simon Reynolds in his definitive account of the post-punk years 1978-1984, “Rip It Up And Start Again”, devotes only one sentence to our Antipodean protagonists; “The Go-Betweens, who hailed from Australia but had a spare, plangent sound similarly rooted in Television and early Talking Heads”. It should be noted, of course, that at this stage The Go-Betweens only had ‘Send Me A Lullaby’ and ‘Before Hollywood’ under their belt. Bob Stanley in his widely acclaimed book “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah: The Story Of Modern Pop” (2013) omits them entirely from his 800-page anthology.

Any discussion of Literate Pop, though, if you are inclined to concede that the genre actually exists, if you believe great pop can be thought through, rather than instinctively felt, be cerebral rather than corporeal, would have to take into account the Go-Betweens’ collective body of work. Their singular form of romanticism, their shimmering chorus’s, their quirky, idiosyncratic lyrics and their wry pop sensibility all combined to make them one of the great post-punk pop groups. They made two albums, ‘Spring Hill Fair’ and ‘16 Lovers Lane’ that would lose nothing in comparison with Costello’s ‘King Of America’, Lloyd Cole’s ‘Rattlesnakes’, Scritti Politti’s ‘Songs To Remember’, Mickey Newbury’s ‘Look’s Like Rain’ or the Manic Street Preachers’ ‘Everything Must Go’. In this context, their work will be remembered long after their more commercially successful contemporaries have disappeared from the recorded history of popular music.

To end, though, at the beginning. In 1978, after the local success of their debut single, ‘Lee Remick’, Forster dreamt of setting sail for England. Given the torturous fate that awaited them on these shores, his words seem remarkably poignant now.

“England, I think, has the greatest acceptance of new music, they’re more open-minded. They write it in the NME and people buy your records. Any country that can accept Jilted John, X-Ray Spex and the Only Ones……there’s a place for the Go-Betweens.”

http://www.go-betweens.org.uk/

[hectorgicm693-blog]

Student Loan Consolidation - How is it Done?

It's a recognized fact that huge numbers of Americans now have financial obligation issues, and that a growing number of individuals are joining them daily, so it should not come as any type of surprise that much of these individuals are looking for financial obligation settlement companies that carry out to help them minimize their debts.

These business claim to be staffed by experts, and they use to call financial institutions and to work out lowered terms and balances for their clients, and what's wrong with that?

What's wrong, is that you have to transfer around 15% of what you owe before they'll do anything, and most of them charge a regular monthly handling cost as well.

Moreover, just to add salt to the injuries, if the company saves you more than $600 then you'll likewise owe income tax on it.

The variety of companies now offering debt settlement services has actually mushroomed over the last eighteen months, and the unfortunate and stressing thing is that in most cases, they make a having a hard time individual's monetary problems even worse.

It's not difficult to understand why these companies are flourishing though.

Worried people get up and switch on the radio or TELEVISION, and they hear and see advertisements that provide to rapidly cut individuals's debts in half. Half convinced, they open their early morning newspapers, or have a look at the Internet, only to find more fantastic sounding offers.

Not all financial obligation combination companies are bad obviously, and there are options and safeguards, but the large bulk of Americans that are dealing with big financial obligation milebrook financial yelp issues for the very first time have no experience or info to direct them.

If you're having installing financial obligation problems, then the first thing you need to do is to contact your financial institutions yourself, and while it's not likely that they will forgive any of your debt, they will frequently lower interest rates, and will probably remove some costs as well.

Near to a dozen leading credit card companies just recently consented to help consumers that are in trouble, and encouraging reports are currently can be found in which suggests that they're truly making efforts to assist.

If you're still in trouble after calling credit card companies that either assisted you or didn't help you, then your next step ought to be to contact a credit therapy agency. Their charges are a fraction of those charged by financial obligation consolidation business, and in many cases, somebody will investigate your situation, and then make your suggestions for between $20 - $100.

An excellent credit therapy agency will also negotiate you a lower interest rate, get costs eliminated, and may even set up a financial obligation management strategy, which indicates that you pay a lump sum monthly which gets divided up between your different creditors.

By far the best method to discover trustworthy companies is to consult your local BBB (Bbb), and also with the state chief law officer's workplace to discover if there have been any problems. The best and most trustworthy companies will also be members of either the National Foundation for Credit Counseling or the Association of Independent Consumer Credit Counseling Agencies.

Things like year-end rewards, home equity, and extra credit cards, often provided individuals a little breathing space, but because those things are now primarily pipedreams, you might feel that going the debt combination path is your only choice, other than insolvency.

If you do select financial obligation consolidation, then make sure to check out any business that you're considering with the BBB, and understand that if you don't have a big adequate lump sum to deposit into a third party account, that many debt combination business will need you to make payments into an account till the overall agreed-upon quantity has actually been deposited.

Without having the required amount of money on deposit, financial obligation settlement companies either can't or will not begin negotiating on your behalf, and if it takes you months to fulfill the needed quantity, then you'll accrue more interest and charges during that time.

Debt settlement is only one action ahead of the personal bankruptcy, and 'paid by settlement' will appear on your credit report, next to your accounts, and your credit score will suffer appropriately.

[kuromikoneko]

Diving into Fresh Water

Again, I am behind in cross-posting my works (apparently stopping at AO3 and not posting on ffnet or here). So I am terribly sorry that these will be posting throughout Saturday, but if you’ve not read them, I hope you enjoy and share!

“Cat once told Kara she will always have a job with her. Now that she's left CatCo, Kara is considering taking her up on the offer. That consideration leads to her realizing the true meaning behind her feelings for Cat. Needing help unraveling her feelings, Kara is afraid to once again put the focus on her own needs so rather than turning to Alex, turns to her sister's sweet, understanding, new girlfriend, Maggie.“

Diving into Fresh Water

Kara felt lost and adrift at sea, or...space if she were to equate it with actually true experiences she had vague memories of. Her career at CatCo seemed to be plummeting, or perhaps floundering is the better turn of phrase in this instant. Winn was coming into his own at the D.E.O. becoming more confident and honing his skills, even going so far as to start some physical training with Alex. Alex...oh sweet Alex, was  dating. And Kara couldn't be happier about whom Alex was dating. Maggie seemed so sweet and protective and compassionate toward Alex. They really got each other in a way not even Kara would understand, at least in regards to their workaholic tendencies, and Alex was so much happier now!

James was being suspiciously vague and adamant toward The Guardian's escapades and Kara was certain he was pulling away from her as though hiding something. Perhaps breaking up with him had been a poor decision no matter how wrong it felt once they were dating. It was as though he was attracted to the idea of them being together, of her being Supergirl more than her being...her. Mon-El was...frustrating at best, infuriating at worst and would never listen to her. Perhaps his working at the alien bar was a good idea for now. If he didn't want to be a hero, see what the thrill of helping others was like, Kara decided it wasn't her place to push him or berate him. Not any more.

Her boss was seemingly despondent and shut her down at every angle. She made her stand the other day about what type of reporter she wanted to be, a subtle comment from Snapper after she exited (because, yes she did hear) but Kara was only getting about one article a month published and it was grating on her nerves. She wanted to do more, be more useful. Never was there a dull moment as Cat's assistant.

“ Whatever comes next—for what it's worth—you'll always have a job with me if you want it”

Kara was near close to damning her superior alien brain for remembering such powerful words, the urge to find Cat stronger than ever now. It had been subdued before, suppressed due to the uptick in alien attacks, of the change in job, and Alex's personal journey, but it was always there at the back of her mind. As cliché as it sounded—accompanied by a classic Cat Grant eye roll—Cat was Kara's compass in so many ways. She was the glue that kept Kara Danvers, ex assistant/failing reporter, and Supergirl, not feeling so super alien, together. Cat's advice grounded her in the same way that Alex or Eliza's hugs did, in the same way that talking about their lost worlds with J'onn felt.

But leaving CatCo to...what? Be Cat's assistant again? That wasn't wise decision, not when Cat had put so much expectation and pride into knowing Kara was meant to be a reporter, sending her off into the world to dive into those crazy water metaphors she was fond of. And it hadn't helped the Cat was in that deep blue form fitting dress that night, the lights of her office casting the softest of glows on her flawless skin, the green of her eyes adding to the effect. But this was diving in a sense, right? Just...not the way everyone expected. Kara wondered for a brief moment if this is how Alex always felt in regards to Eliza. That overbearing responsibility to be the perfect daughter, be the perfect sister, be the perfect student and be the perfect doctor before things went to shit. She made a quick note to thank J'onn once more for helping save Alex's life before she fell any further.

Perhaps it was more than a lack of helpfulness in her job, there seemed to be less passion flowing through her veins. Kara still got a rush of joy when she rescued citizens and enjoyed it very much, overhearing the previous week from Maggie that the crime rate in National City was at an all time low thanks to Supergirl. But Kara Danvers was drowning by the anchor that was her brought on responsibilities. Perhaps...perhaps she should be like Alex and do something for herself to be happy, be like Cat and dive. But that meant going after Cat.

And going after Cat would mean facing possible disappointment, possible rejection and fear gripped at Kara's heart, a strange churning of her stomach giving her pause. She had always admired Cat, looked up to her and wished to be like her one day. Be the badass boss bitch, confident in her swagger and life to not let anything affect her overtly. It was starting to happen as Supergirl, in part because of the suit and the people she surrounded herself with at the D.E.O. but she had been wavering lately without Cat's consistent presence. Kara had gone to the trouble of flying home in order to collect their old VHS tapes of Cat's old show just to recall her voice. It was strange hearing the younger version, but she knew the woman so well she could hear the precise inflections that outlasted her youth and mingled with her voice at present.

Throwing her career away for a woman. Some would say that was foolish, something seen only in cheesy romcoms. But then Kara thought about her lingering looks at Cat in hip hugging dresses, dipping down to show the briefest hint of cleavage, the way her legs looked propped up in far too high heels and she realized the warmth in her body wasn't the warmth she felt toward her friends or even her family. It was...how Alex looked talking about her crush on Maggie before they were together, it was the way Alex looked talking about Maggie now.

 Oh Rao!

Kara didn't have a crush on Cat, she...she couldn't. That's insane, that's totally inappropriate, they're coworkers...but not...anymore. It could never work though right? Kara had never considered herself interested in women, not that she was opposed. Krypton was all about equality and freedom of self and body, half of the community in same-sex marriages for crying out loud. Though Kara had always been predisposed toward male celebrities, pressured to pick her favorite or moon over the cutest—Oh! Was that what heteronormativity was? She really needed to figure this out, to talk with someone about it but she didn't want to bother Alex, the feeling of guilt settling in her gut as it pushed past the previous desire toward Cat to reign supreme. Alex had only just come out a few months ago and Kara had been playing her problems as low-key as possible to allow her time in the spotlight, time she had so often stolen incidentally. Often times this would be viewed as a power play for attention and though it was necessary to understand herself better, Kara couldn't allow herself to stomp on Alex's...triumph of sorts. This was her time to shine.

And that was how Kara once again found herself at the sparsely populated, thankfully Mon-El-less, alien bar awaiting Maggie Sawyer's arrival. She had been simple and concise in the text she sent Maggie, asking her presence at the bar as soon as she could manage to discuss an urgent dilemma. She had ordered the largest helping of fries once she arrived, begging the tender to allow the milkshake she had picked up on the way to be brought in as well. Kara was in desperate need of the comfort food and she would not relinquish her chance to wallow in her worries.

Slurping at her makeshift ginormous milkshake container (filled with three regular sized milkshakes), Kara was so distracted she missed the door to the bar opening and closing as a swift pair of boots made their way to the table.

“Mini Danvers, what's the matter?” Maggie asked in a swift breath of air, hair tousled and jacket still zipped up. If not for that last detail, Kara would have thought the woman had run over from work.

“Nothing serious, Maggie. Well...it's serious to me, but not like...like life threatening of anyone's and it's not about Alex. Don't worry,” Kara stumbled through her thoughts, jumping from one to the next to assuage the detective of her concern. She was surprised a little miffed that Maggie had phrased her question in a vague way instead of immediately asking if it was about Alex. But considering Kara hadn't called perhaps she  detected  that it wasn't as critical a meet up as it could have been. “Sorry,” she muttered.

Maggie sighed, running a hand through her long hair before loosening her jacket and sliding into the booth opposite of Kara. “You had me worried, kid,” she chastised lightly, trying to peer into Kara's face curiously. “Is this personal?” she asked softly?

Kara nodded before dropping her head pitifully to rest on the table. Surprised that Kara had come to her instead of Alex when she so obviously seemed to need the comfort and care of a sibling versus their sibling's girlfriend, Maggie extended a hand across the table to grasp Kara's hand in hers and squeeze as hard as she could so the alien could feel. Kara looked up, brows creasing down in mild confusion as to why Maggie was putting so much effort into holding her hand. Before she could ask, her fries were deposited on the table to her left.

“Thank you,” she muttered, carefully squeezing Maggie's hand back.

“Beer, Mags?”

“No thanks, Darla. Just a pop.”

The giggle that came from Kara caused a smile to alight Maggie's face. “Sorry,” she said again.

“Hey, hey...it's okay, Kara,” Maggie promised, making a mental note to use the term 'pop' more often around the younger Danvers sister to cheer her up. “What are you...struggling with?” she asked.

Kara took a moment to collect a few fries to munch on as she pondered how to go about this, hand fidgeting under Maggie's touch, not out of discomfort but revealing what was on her mind. She knew she couldn't be unspecific or last very long beating around the bush so she decided to  dive. “I have a crush on Cat Grant,” she admitted, almost too quick for Maggie to hear.

“Don't we all.”

Kara's eyes darted between the co-speakers Maggie and Darla who had arrived with the soda, placing it on the table before turning to return to bar side. “You...you...”

“It's no question Cat Grant is impeccably gorgeous. Any bicurious woman is attracted to her,” Maggie commented casually, eyes keen on Kara's reaction, a spluttering mess of non-words as she flapped her hands nervously.

“Wh...what are you talking about? That's silly,” Kara tried to wave off further questions, cutting herself off with a giant slurp of her milkshake. She endeavored to look anywhere but at Maggie's kind and compassionate face. She now understood how it had been so easy for Alex to tell Maggie she might be gay before her. There was no judgement, no amusement, no fear or pressure. It was...perfect. Rao, was Kara grateful for Maggie waltzing into her sister's life, finally both on the path toward mutual happiness with each other.

Maggie frowned slightly, realizing that Kara didn't want to talk about what was going on for some reason. A reason beyond feeling fear that her family would reject her, that Cat Grant would not reciprocate her feelings (though if memory serves, Kara was the longest assistant the mogul had ever kept). Something else was creasing her unfairly perfect face. It was obvious that Kara leeched her bravery from Alex, using her as an example to follow, and though it was easier for Alex to come out to Maggie, she felt Kara would need some gentle prodding, a different approach.

“Kara...” she used her first name purposefully to get her attention. “Are you bisexual?” she asked in a hushed tone. Kara's impossibly blue eyes widened, pupils dilating as she nearly inhaled a sip of her sweet treat before regaining control of her bodily functions.

Liquid consumed, she began to scoff and giggle and shake her head furiously, once again refusing eye contact. Maggie stared at Kara, carefully composed, waiting for Kara to calm down and begin to accept the possibility of something new in her life. When Kara was done with her jerk reaction of laughing uncontrollably and hardly voicing her denials, unable to wrap her lips around any of the LGBT words that could describe how she felt, Maggie smiled slightly and tilted her head to the side.

“May...maybe I am,” Kara whispered, more in awe than in fear, stunned.

“Are what?”

“What, uh...what you...bi...bisexual,” Kara bit her lip afterwards, trying to draw strength on her memories of Cat's prevalence for details and using words precisely.

Maggie grinned, dimples shining through. “Wow...quicker on the uptake than Alex. Good job, Supergirl,” she said with pride.

Kara blushed, head bowed. “Thanks...wait, what?!” she asked, looking at Maggie startled.

“Did Alex not...tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“That I've known for a while. Told her after you came back from wherever you vanished to. The glasses really don't help much, Mini Danvers,” Maggie leaned closer with the comment about her 'disguise'.

Kara sighed. “It's a wonder everyone doesn't know,” she muttered.

“So, why did you come to me instead of Alex?” Maggie asked, figuring she should direct Kara's attention away from her failed attempts at staying hidden in human life.

“Uh...” she mumbled, fiddling with the fries in her hand once more. “I didn't...want to rain on her parade. It's...it's  always about me and I was the reason she never had a real relationship growing up because she never got the chance to figure that out because of protecting and prioritizing  me  and she never gets to be in the spotlight and this would feel like a betrayal, like a vie for attention and I can't do that to her, not again, I—”

Maggie cut her off with a finger to her lips, Kara looking her straight on once more. “I think Alex would be proud to stand at your side as you come into your own sexuality, Kara. She wouldn't feel slighted or jealous, I think she would feel even closer to you than she did before. Your support has been everything to Alex—I truly cannot thank you enough for being there for her—but knowing how she feels to come out at this age, to relate on that level...that is the best gift any family member could wish for,” Maggie said, voice growing soft and trailing off at the end. Kara immediately reached for Maggie's hand and gave it a light squeeze, drawing tiny smile from the other woman.

“Sorry,” Kara replied for sympathetic values more than forgiveness. Maggie nodded briefly. “You're probably right. But even if she is like that cause I know she will, what if she internalizes it and thinks that I'm simply copying her and looking for attention to be focused back on me, by our friends or by Eliza? She's very good at hiding that from me,” she asked, truly and fully concerned.

“I...I'm not sure,” Maggie admitted, not quite as adept in the Danvers family dynamic and this strange power position the sisters were in or how Eliza treated both. She had a feeling Alex was always pressured to be the perfect child, as much had been revealed by Alex, but Maggie sensed it went deeper than that too what with Kara in the picture. “But you and Alex don't have a typical sisterly connection, and not just because you're an alien or adopted when you both were teens. There's very little rivalry between you two and you hardly ever fight. And I believe that's what makes you stronger together, not tear...each other...up on the insi...What?” Maggie petered off her words as Kara had begun to giggle.

“The s on my suit. It's not an s,” Kara could barely get the words out through her laughter, the amusement at Maggie's unintended comment along with how perfectly she would fit into their strange little super space family the perfect combination to set her off.

“I figured as much,” Maggie said, a little impatience slipping into her tone as she leaned back with crossed arms. “Spit out, Mini Danvers,” she added.

“It's my house crest. It stands for our motto too, which is...heh...stronger together,” Kara finally explained, able to catch Maggie's eye when she finished to drive the point home.

“Ahh...I see,” Maggie smirked, understanding dawning on her face.

Kara smiled, reaching over to squeeze Maggie's hand again. “Thank you, for listening, helping. You...you're truly a great girlfriend,” she complimented, a tiny blush coloring her ears.

“Anytime, Mini Danvers,” Maggie replied, quirking an eyebrow in question as she peered at the large pile of fries still available. Kara bobbed her head in assent watching as Maggie stole a handful and began to talk about lighter subjects to calm Kara further.

After sharing a few innocent stories of Alex's youth, even comparing some of the major differences between Earth and Krypton due to Maggie joining the Super Friends (much to Kara's chagrin at using Winn's preferred term), Kara had made her way back to her apartment. She had already sent an email into work, calling out due to a case of strep throat after checking with Alex on the validity of the statement, and texted James so he could back up her story.

She was coming to terms with the fact that she was bisexual or...biromantic. Definitely demisexual because Kara was hardly ever attracted to people she didn't know which is why her feelings toward Cat were so surprising and confusing. She hadn't ever felt this way toward anyone before and now found herself unable to contemplate dating the woman, holding her hand, kissing her gorgeous collarbones, laying naked in her bed.

Kara shook her head, gulping in alarm. She took a deep breath of air and released it slowly, glad she had opted to open her windows when she got home; the fresh air was doing wonders for calming her nerves when they reappeared after her chat with Maggie.

So now she had an even bigger problem. Did she want to quit CatCo to work at Cat's side because of a probably forgotten promise and failing career, or because of her attraction toward the woman? Knowing her luck in affairs of the heart, it was probably a little of both, but would it be worth it?

Smiling shyly to herself, Kara hoped for the best, realizing it would be worth it, if only to be with Cat in a platonic sense. She could learn to tamp down her feelings and be professional. She had for two years though she hadn't entertained the thought of attraction beyond familiarity and admiration, though noticing Cat's obvious beauty daily. She had to try. She had to dive.

Sending a bold text off to Cat in regards to a visit from Supergirl, Kara reheated some leftover takeout and settled in for a comfy afternoon of binge watching Grey's Anatomy (a show Alex refused to watch purely for all the promiscuity in medical situations) while waiting for a reply. She planned to drown out her nervousness until the time came she could speed off to Cat and ask for a job with her. The feelings, she figured, may have to wait until she determined if Cat felt even remotely the same way.

The reply came in at 6pm, such a long wait that cause Kara to question why anyone would be texting her during dinner time but upon seeing it was indeed Cat, further shocking her, she knew that Cat was probably at dinner and bored out of her mind. A smile came to her face and she tapped out a quippy reply: “Your date so boring you'd rather text your former assistant? What did he do?

The answer was almost immediate: “Yes, she is,” causing Kara to drop her phone in surprise. Cat...was on a date? With a woman??

Collecting her phone she headed for the bedroom to change into her super suit, hoping it would add to her bravery rather than detract. Then she replied: “Want a rescue?”

“St. Regis. DC,” was Cat’s reply.

Kara hummed in approval, figuring it normal that Cat might try her hand at something political, her views often causing dissention in her publications. She had been especially amused when Cat organized a handful of women in Supergirl merchandise to march on Washington with signs reading “Don’t try to grab my pussy, it’s made of steel”. If she could have joined them as either the hero or as Kara Danvers she would have, but some aliens had taken what they assumed to be an advantage and attacked National City that day.

Her concerns for not being there supporting every suppressed person had been assuaged by Maggie's stories of the people, famous and otherwise, she had met during the Los Angeles March. The stories made her especially happy and now that she knew Maggie was privy to her secret, she understood why she particularly focused on the tales of Supergirl inspiring many present. But the bigger question leading off into this tangent was what precisely Cat was involved in currently.

Long since changed into her super suit and flying through the air, Kara stayed high in the sky to feel the chill of near space on her flushed cheeks. Flushed at the thought of sweeping Cat off her feet in front of a potential suitor. She knew it was petty of her and foolish to think Cat would feel the same, but Kara's imagination had always been a wily demon. Sliding in and out of the damp clouds, she felt plesantly refreshed before she was comfortable in her skin once more and she descended on the country's capital.

Kara's fear was edging back int her consciousness, heart pounding in her throat, blood rushing in her ears, drowning out all other noises except the steady heartbeat of Cat's. She sighed and focused in on the woman, to both locate and calm herself down for barging in and essentially ruining the date, but she wouldn't do it if not for Cat's request.

When she landed, she looked around for a moment, only a few passersby gawking at her sudden presence. Kara smiled and nodded her head before moving toward the entrance of the St. Regis. Normally she wouldn't have been considered to gain access much less waved through with a star struck expression on the man's face. They didn't even ask her the purpose of her arrival and though that unnerved her with last year's Bizarro incident and this year Cyborg Superman stealing her blood (because though she agreed to protect her mentee it was still a form of theft in her mind) to sneak into the Fortress of Solitude, Kara was relieved to not be questioned.

It was easy to spot Cat in the luxurious restaurant, a prime spot for all to see and snap photos of the stunning pair. A coil of jealousy formed in Kara's stomach as she watched Cat's date reach out and rest her hand on Cat's forearm, the twitch of muscle underneath the skin undetectable to the human eye. But Kara saw. She noticed everything about Cat. Shaking her head of her troubling thoughts, Kara moved toward the table and calling on her Supergirl confidence she placed a solid hand on Cat's shoulder.

“Miss Grant,” she greeted, not entirely sure what their escape plan was, a few ideas circling her mind.

“Ah, Supergirl. I wasn't expecting you so soon,” Cat drawled, turning her sparking eyes to gaze up at Kara, a smirk pulling at her lips.

“Is something the matter?” Cat's date asked.

“No, nothing imminent, however Supergirl and I have a meeting with a beautiful refugee family needing to look at apartments. They're sensitive to light and no realtors will show them residences at night, so I asked for Supergirl's calming presence,” Cat explained, taking another sip of her wine befor dabbing hr immaculately painted lips with her napkin and beginning to rise. “Oh, look at the time. I'm afraid I will have to leave early,” she said, fingers curling around Kara's bicep as she moved to leave.

“Oh—okay. I will talk to you soon then, Cat. It was truly a pleasure,” she responded, a little befuddled at the whole situation, stunned at the superhero's appearance.

“Don't mention it,” Cat replied, waggling her free hand's fingers in a dismissive manner. She would not be speaking with that woman again. “Shall we, Supergirl?” she asked, peering up with a sly expression.

“Yes, Miss Grant. Let's,” Kara said, swallowing her own surprise at Cat's brazen disregard for her date as it seemed she was flirting with her alter ego. Moving toward the door, the attendant collecting Cat's coat from the check-in and helping her before wishing the pair a good night.

Once they were out in the fresh winter air, far cooler than National City due to its more northern location, Kara attempted to pry her arm carefully from Cat's vice-like grip. She had the urge to put some distance between them for her own sanity and crush on Cat.

“Problem, Kara?”

Kara nearly tripped over her boots, glancing around them swiftly to see if anyone had heard but apparently the woman spoke softly enough only the Kryptonian could hear. “Not at all, Miss Grant,” she promised, trying to ward off her concern.

“Is my touching you uncomfortable?” she asked, stopping to look at Kara seriously. Kara followed suit but didn't turn to look at Cat just yet. She took in a deep breath before turning and found her breath knocked out again.

“You...you look stunning,” Kara found herself saying in awe, eyes wide. The moonlight reflecting off the small snowbanks on to Cat's defined features, the curve of her plump lips, the green of her eyes brilliant was an image Kara wished to engrain in her memory forever. It gave her the strongest desire yet to paint and it stirred the warmth in her belly once more.

Cat huffed out in annoyance, jutting out a hip and placing her hand on it. “Really?” she asked, the 'k' of Kara's name cut off before she could chastise the woman fully. She was speaking to loud and this wasn't the place. She sighed and shook her head. “Fly me to my hotel room. There's a balcony. Always a balcony,” Cat said, voice dropping an octave as she revealed the notion of Supergirl visiting had crossed her mind as she travelled.

Biting her lip, Kara nodded absentmindedly before stepping forward. Cat stepped up onto her boots and Kara wrapped her arms securely around Cat's middle, pulling the smaller woman flush with her front. It made her blush but she managed to assuage Cat's fear in a calm voice. “I will never drop you,” she promised, Cat's arms looped around her neck as she took off.

The flight was relatively silent except the pounding of both heartbeats in Kara's ears and the slight shiver from Cat as the moved through the chilly air. Thankfully Cat's room wasn't far off and they soon landed on the balcony and stepped inside. Kara was about to ask about the excuse Cat at made, if she had finally found her waters to dive into and how it was going but Cat spun on her and pointed accusingly.

“Not ungrateful for the save from the most boring date I've had in years, but what the hell are you doing here, Kara?” her tone started off anger and fizzled into something short of affection, hidden behind the sharpness of her eyes.

Kara gaped for a second at the juxtaposition of Cat's reaction. “You're welcome,” she managed to say with some spite, causing Cat's head to jerk back in mild surprise. Kara looked down and sighed. “I...texted you because I...don't get me wrong, I love that you think I'd make an excellent reporter and I want to report the truth, show justice to the kind, but nothing feels right anymore without you there, Miss Grant. I keep getting sidelined for the rest of the reporters, all of my articles falling flat on their faces per Snapper's hate for anything important and topical to today's issues. I'm only getting one byline a month IF I'm lucky and I still feel like I'm floundering. I just...” Kara flopped unceremoniously on the couch in the middle of the room with a groan.

“I never said it would be easy,” Cat hedged as she finally took off her peacoat and came to perch on the coffee table beside Kara.

“I know. But I enjoyed working for you, Cat. I hate it with Snapper and I know it's part of growing up and being able to work with different minded people but you actually care. Not about me because that's selfish but about the same issues and topics I want to bring to the forefront of media. I learned more in a single week as your assistant than I have in six months as Snapper's reporter. Cat, I...” Kara cut herself off, an arm moving to rest over her face in a failed attempt to hide the blush coating her cheeks, the fact she had used Cat's first name twice glaringly obvious now. She almost revealed how deep her feelings for Cat ran too. That would not bode well for her.

Kara sat up and faced Cat straight on. Straight, hah. “You once said that I will always have a job with you. I know this is selfish and probably sounds pathetic, but whatever you're working towards now, may I please work at your side again?” she asked as confidently as she could, thankful the suit gave her that extra boost of bravery.

Cat leaned back slightly on the coffee table, regarding Kara was an unreadable expression, lips pursed in concentration. Kara waited patiently, not backing down or looking away to drive her point home. It was strange but she didn't feel...complete without Cat in her life and perhaps this was an extreme measure to take, she honestly didn't feel another solution come to mind. Cat looked down at her clasped hands and shook her head.

“Always surprising me...�� she muttered affectionately. When Cat caught her gaze again, Kara was stunned to see it as open and expressive as when she speaks with or about her sons. “I left...in part...because of you Kara. It was,” she paused trying to find the right word. “...suffocating being around you as you pined after James. As the hobbit attempted to win your affections.”

Her breath caught in her throat as she leaned toward Cat, eyes wide and searching unfocused green. “But you don't feel that way, do you?” Cat practically scoffed, raising her gaze to Kara's subtly pleased smile. “What” she whispered as Kara's hands came to rest softly on Cat's cheeks, leaning further toward the woman. Cat's eyes closed of their own volition and soon Kara's lips met hers tentatively, but not frightfully. There was definite purpose to the kiss but a sense of inexperience mingled in and so, as she always did as Kara's mentor, she kissed back firmly, a hand tangling in Kara's locks to hold her close.

Kara had never felt this connection to a person before, not with James, not with her first boyfriend, or the shared kisses with college students. It was entirely different and so, so much more, so much more intense and meaningful. Attributed to the overwhelming attraction that had been building between them for two years now, though only just realized by Kara, but it didn't diminish how fresh and new and electric their kiss was. She could easily drown with her want to never come back up for air again if only to keep kissing Cat for the rest of her life.

The warmth of their breaths mingling when they pulled back was intoxicating and Kara knew she would never get used to that feeling of perfectly melding affection intertwining with delicious heat bubbling below the surface, lighting her senses on fire. “I think it was always you,” Kara muttered, thumbs rubbing Cat's cheekbones lightly.

Cat peered into Kara's face, finding nothing but the truth there in how relaxed she appeared, in the depth of her tone and in the gentleness she handled her. She sighed and wrapped her arms around Kara's shoulders to draw her into a hug, needing a stronger centering of her world right then. Kara's hands on her back were light but noticeable and Cat made a note to ask about Kara's distribution and control of her strength at a later less prominent moment in time.

“Well I could use Supergirl's help as Alien Refugee Ambassador...” Cat said with a light smugness, quirking a brow when Kara pulled back in curiosity. “With the Alien Amnesty Act, I figured they would need help getting settled on Earth, and though our reach is mostly within the States right now, who would be better suited than I? And if I had a little alien of my own to step in and welcome them...all the better for everyone involved, yes?” Cat explained, smirk crossing her face.

Kara's eyes lit up in wonder and excitement. “That's so amazing, Cat. I think that's a great idea!” she said breathlessly, pride swelling in her chest at the strides being made for aliens globally.

“I have a direct line to the President and am fed alien intelligence through some super secret underground black ops unit I've yet to be briefed on. Probably some Men in Black type deal like Agent Mulder's elusiveness during Leslie's little meltdown,” Cat explained further, brushing off the Leslie/Livewire situation as though it hadn't given her nightmares for weeks, causing her to be more snappish than usual at work. Her precious two hours (if that was even true) of sleep saturated by the fear of being pursued and electrocuted, falling to her death in a corrupt elevator and seeing the life drain from Supergirl's body. Kara could only guess on many of those reasons but two years spent endlessly by one's side gave her an advantage few would understand.

Kara smiled stiffly but refrained from commenting, should she reveal too much too soon. She didn't want to step on the President's or J'onn's toes for when they do brief Cat and the woman gets the jump on their attempts at subtlety or dramatics. “I'm sure you'll learn about them soon enough,” Kara said, pulling at Cat's hands lightly so the woman would join her on the couch and save herself the discomfort of sitting too long on the wood table.

Cat nodded gratefully, a little too prone to staying in strange positions for too long, and moved to sit beside Kara. She leaned against Kara's side, right hand holding tightly to Kara's left, a calm settling over them both. “So...does that...mean...we are dating?” Kara asked cautiously optimistic. She didn't want this to be a one time deal (not one night stand because Rao, she was not ready for that intimacy).

“Do you want to date? Be my girlfriend?” Cat asked.

Her response caught in her throat at the idea of calling Cat her girlfriend. Now Kara knew why Alex had been so giggly and odd using the term girlfriend to refer to Maggie. She felt giggly as though she were struck by a love beam and she was unable to hold it anymore. Kara giggled, nuzzling into Cat's hair as she did so. “I'd love to be your girlfriend,” she admitted with a deep breath of air, eyes sparkling at the prospect of dating Cat.

“One stipulation, Kara...” Cat held her finger up, Kara's face nearly falling. “I want you to keep writing for CatCo,” she began, settling the digit against Kara's parted to argue lips. “Reporting on our progress. The advances we're making in alien affairs. That needs to be published. But you can write from home if you prefer,” Cat smiled while Kara's face lit anew. “But for the love of god, Kara, do not use yourself as a source again, so help me,” she finished, glaring at the woman.

Kara bit her lip, bowing her head shamefaced. “Sorry,” she replied sheepishly. Eyes darting between both of Cat's she questioned, “Can we go back to kissing now?”

Cat chuckled freely and nodded her head. “Of course,” and pulled Kara in for another mind-blowing kiss.

[marymosley]

How to Obtain a Student Loan Without A Cosigner

With the cost of law school on the rise, many students need to bridge the gap between scholarships and financial aid with loans, first federal and then private. Unfortunately, about 90% of new private student loans require a cosigner. In the absence of a willing or qualified cosigner, though, the good news is there are private lenders who will give out non-cosigned students loans.

Many of the lenders we list later in this article will offer loans to students with a caveat or two—namely, that you have a decent credit score,  good credit history and that you meet any other credit requirements established by the bank. Others judge your future earning capacity to ensure that you’ll be in a good position to repay them. Thankfully, as a graduate student, you’ll have had a few years to build your credit history and pay off credit cards such that the credit check should deliver good news. 

Before you go shopping for the loan, prepare yourself for the private loan application and selection process to save time, hassle and money. We’ve included some helpful tips for you as you look for the best ways to finance your education. 

How to shop for a student loan without a co-signer

Start with federal student loans. 

Fill out the FAFSA (Free application for federal student aid) to apply for federal loans to initial meet your financial need. These loans, which are provided by the government, usually have low interest rates that are better than many private lenders. Direct unsubsidized loans are the most common and lowest-cost ways to cover graduate school costs.

Plan to take out direct loans before you move on to private loans as they are often more flexible and affordable. Federal loans are also eligible for income driven repayment and several different loan forgiveness programs, which will be important if you decide to take a public sector job. 

Private loans can help you make up the cost of attendance difference between what federal loans will cover and what you need to pay for school. Be advised that private lenders don’t offer any loan forgiveness programs and normally don’t offer income-based repayment options. So, private student loan companies should be considered a lender of last resort but I know that many of you will need more money than your Stafford loans and Plus loans offer.

Related: How to Pay for Law School

Get your credit in order. 

At the end of the day, lenders want to make sure that you can pay back the money that they lend you. The more creditworthy you are when you apply, the better your chances of approval and the lower your interest rates will be. 

Check your credit score early and often as you prepare to apply for private student loans. Aim for a 690 or better FICO credit score to get the best loan terms. 

Raise your credit score by disputing and correcting any errors on your credit report.

Pay your bills on time and keep your credit utilization low. Try not to spend more than 30% of your available credit at a given time, and try not to open too many new accounts. Taken together, these factors make up the majority of your credit score. 

Compare apples to apples. 

Take some time to go over the fine print of each loan offer. Obviously, lower interest rates will be more attractive, but also consider if there are additional student loan options that may suit you. 

The option to postpone payments of the entire loan amount (e.g. hardship or deferment) may be something that may be important to you down the road. Also look at any application, origination, or late fees. See if your lender has any prepayment penalties and take them all into account as you figure out what the true cost of your loan will be. 

When you receive all of the terms of your potential loan, use a student loan calculator to see exactly how much you can expect to pay each month. Factor in your APR’s, any fees or discounts and all of your repayment options to get a clear picture of what you’ll be facing when you graduate.

Look for a fixed interest rate.

While provide student loans will offer higher interest rates, a fixed interest rate (as opposed to a variable rate) will make sure that your loan repayment doesn’t increase over time. While I’m generally a fan of variable interest rates once you’re in the mode of paying off your loan, I think you can only make that decision once you’ve established your income and have regular recurring checks deposited into your checking account. For now, I’d stick with the fixed interest rate to ensure that you’re comfortable making monthly automatic payments under your repayment plan as soon as you graduate.

Think about refinancing in the future. 

After graduation you may be able to refinance your student loan debt and secure a lower interest rate. Going through the effort of refinancing can save you money by reducing your monthly payments and it’s typically easy to check rates using a tool like Credible where you can check a bunch of interest rates at the same time.

Private lenders offering student loans without a cosigner

Now that you know what to look for to secure the best loan terms, here are some lenders to consider. All of these listed lenders provide private student loans to graduate students without a cosigner. You’ll find the most lenient, accessible lenders at the top of the list, though. 

Ascent

Ascent offers non-cosigned private student loans. Their fixed rates start at 4.09% and cap at 13.03%. If you’re an upperclassmen or graduate student without a credit history, you may want to check out an Ascent loan. 

The main issue with Ascent is their high interest rates. Those high rates are due to the fact that Ascent only requires a relatively low credit score of 540. Also, you don’t need you to have any income or cosigner when you apply. Rather than relying solely on your current financial situation, Ascent considers your future earning potential when they assess your ability to repay their loans. Their approval process will take into account your future earning potential rather than your current creditworthiness. 

Ascent will also allow you to defer your loans while you’re in school. When you’re ready to repay, enrolling in auto-pay will net you a 1% cash back incentive or a .25% interest rate discount.

Sallie Mae

Sallie Mae is the top private student loan lender in the US. They offer private loans to most graduate students without a cosigner. Good credit is necessary for all applicants, but graduate students are still likely to get approved. 

CommonBond

CommonBond provides loans to both undergraduate and graduate students. In many cases, they’ll lend to graduate students—especially those enrolled in med school—with requiring a cosigner. 

CommonBond also offers a low origination fee and several different repayment options, including a residency deferral so that you can manage your loans gradually as you enter the workforce. 

Citizen’s Bank

Citizen’s Bank will also lend to graduate students without a cosigner. They do require that you have good credit, but will not charge you and application or origination fees. 

They offer lengthy repayment terms, from 5-15 years depending on how much you borrow. Citizen’s Bank will shave up to .25% off of your interest rate if you enroll in autopay. You can earn an additional .25% interest rate discount if you already have another account with them. 

Discover

Discover will establish private student loans without a cosigner, but they do insist on good credit. If your credit history isn’t established or your credit score isn’t high enough, Discover will require a cosigner. International students can apply for loans from Discover, but they must be secured by a cosigner who is a US citizen. 

MPOWER

MPOWER offers private student loans to international students or students with DACA (deferred action for Childhood arrivals) status. MPOWER offers 7.52% to 13.63% interest rates for individuals from 180 different countries. DACA students don’t need a social security number to qualify and MPOWER doesn’t require an established credit history for approval. 

How to shop around for the best deal

Once you’ve reached the maximum federal loans provided through the department of education, private lenders offer some competitive selections to make sure that you have the money that you need for tuition. The private loan options listed in this article offer a great way to finance your education.

Before starting the application process, make sure you have everything in order for your applications. Every lender wants to know what risk they’ll take on by lending money to a client, so making sure that you’re creditworthy is valuable to everyone on this list. Sallie Mae and Ascent offer loans to most graduate students, but you’ll improve your chances of approval and get better rates with a higher credit score and good credit history. MPOWER and Discover will provide private student loans to international students and those with DACA status. MPOWER doesn’t need a cosigner to do this. 

The other three lenders—CommonBond, Citizen’s Bank and Discover—will lend to graduates student who have good credit. To make their programs stand out, Citizen’s Bank and Ascent will even provide incentives like cash back or a discount on your interest rate to encourage timely repayment of your loan. CommonBond offers a residency deferral program for med school students.  

In short, it’s possible to secure student loans without a cosigner, and as an independent student you do have some choices. Each of these lenders is available to help you bridge the gap towards financing your professional education on your own. Weigh their requirements and benefits so that you’re able to find the best loans for your needs.

Originally posted on How to Obtain a Student Loan Without A Cosigner

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