#(only if you care about canon otherwise you can easily screw everything up and be happy)

[lieutenant-amuel]

Calculating characters’ ages so they fit into the timeline of the fic my beloathed.

[bestofbucky]

Run To You - 11

Pairings: Bucky x reader

Warnings: canon level violence, angst

A/N at the end of the chapter.

Divider by me.

Series Masterlist.

Zola walks over to the door, knocking twice on it. You hear the door unlock and three burly men walk in, guns strapped to their hips. Before any of them can make a move you are standing up, still attached to the chair, then flinging yourself onto the floor. The chair shatters beneath you but the three men instantly react, all heading towards you. Your legs are free to move but your hands are still tied behind your back. You manage to easily dodge their attacks, throwing them off balance when their punches don’t land. 

They are starting to get tired. You can tell by the way they are becoming clumsy with their movements. You take advantage of this, using their strength to break the restraints on your wrists. It hurts but it’s worth it and within minutes of your hands being free, the three men are on the floor unconscious. 

“You want me dead?” You turn to Zola. “You’re going to have to do it yourself.” 

Before either of you can make a move, more men are charging into the room. Zola uses them as a distraction to grab a gun, he waits for the perfect moment.

Meanwhile you are fighting as hard as you can. You know you won’t be able to keep it up for much longer so you put everything you have into taking them down. Focusing on the last man standing you realise it's the same man who previously knocked you unconscious. He charges at you and you use all that's left of your energy to duck and trip him up, kneeling on his lower back you grab his hair and slam his head into the ground. Unfortunately you aren’t given long to bathe in the satisfaction of giving the man a taste of his own medicine.

You feel something pressed to the back of your head. You know it’s a gun. You also know that in perfect condition you would easily be able to disarm him, but you aren’t in perfect condition. You have a concussion, you are exhausted, your wrist is almost definitely broken from getting out of the restraints. There is no getting out of this.

You’ve always wondered how your story would end. Sometimes even wanting to write your own ending, take control of your fate, but you never imagined it this way. You take a deep breath, bringing yourself back to the present moment. It’s only then you realise the feeling has gone, sounds of scuffling reach your ears and you turn around.

Bucky. 

Bucky has Zola on the ground. It all happens so fast. A gunshot goes off, Bucky falls to the side with a groan. Your body takes over, grabbing a gun from one of the unconscious men and firing it at Zola before he can take another shot.

The bullet hits him in the arm, forcing him to drop the gun, you kick it away from him and immediately make your way to Bucky, not giving Zola a second glance as you hear him howl in pain.

“Fuck.” All you can see is blood, you have no idea where it’s coming from. “Where were you shot, Bucky?” He doesn’t answer, his face is twisted in pain and it’s clear he needs immediate  medical attention. He is losing blood fast.

“We...need...out of here.” He mumbles and you agree, you help him to his feet, his hand instinctively goes to his abdomen. You guess that’s where he got shot. You place one arm around his back and your other hand over his, putting pressure on it to help stop the bleeding. 

You both stumble through the warehouse, eventually coming across an exit. You see cars in the distance, you know stealing one is Bucky’s only chance at surviving this but it’s not going to be easy or quick trying to get him all that way.

You lean him against the wall of the warehouse. “Bucky?” You stand in front of him, he looks at you with glassy eyes. “Do you trust me?” You don’t know how aware of his surroundings he is so you repeat yourself, this time firmer and louder. “Bucky do you trust me?” 

Time seems to slow as he takes a moment to consider your question. You wonder what is going through his mind as he looks deep in thought. You don’t have time for this though, if you wait too long there will be Hydra thugs on you and there is no way you would be able to hold them all off.

“Wait here.” You tell him, deciding you no longer have the time to wait for his answer. You know he won’t be able to get far with his injury, but knowing Bucky he would definitely try. Just as you turn around you feel him grab your hand, stopping you from going anywhere.

You turn back to him to see him wincing at the sudden movement he just made. He ignores the pain and lifts your hand up to his lips. “I trust you.” He mumbles against your skin and places the most delicate kiss on the back of your hand. 

Such a simple gesture and it warms your heart. Although he took a while, to him it was such a simple answer. He trusted you with his life and you saw that in the look he gave you. 

Knowing you had to do everything you could to save him you reluctantly let go of his hand and sprinted off into the rain in the direction of the cars in the distance. You get to the closest one, smashing the window and unlocking the doors. Thank god you know how to hotwire a car, otherwise you would both be screwed. You drive it back to Bucky, getting out to help him get into the passenger side. 

In your mirrors you see men in the distance, heading towards the other cars. You are plunged back to three years ago. The rain, the chase, the person you care so much about in the passenger seat, depending on you. It’s all the same. You try to accelerate but can’t seem to push your foot down, your brain stopping you from going anywhere.

You hear Bucky call your name and you look over to him but he is no longer there. Instead, it’s Zee. There is so much blood, the colour of her skin is enough to know she has no life left within her. Reaching over you gently take her hand, it is still slightly warm. In that moment you realise there was nothing more you could have done to save her but there is something different about this time. This time, you can save Bucky. 

You are brought back to the present moment by the feeling of his hand taking yours. He has his head leaning back on the head rest, with his eyes closed and the other hand still over his wound. You feel him squeeze your hand and you push the thoughts of the accident from your mind.

Letting go of Bucky’s hand, motivation kicks in and your foot presses on the accelerator, speeding away from the warehouse. You are not safe yet though, you see three cars following you. You try swerving, and taking sharp corners but nothing seems to get them off your back.

Grabbing the gun you stole with one hand, the other hand still on the steering wheel you point it out the window, back at the cars behind you. Firing randomly you inwardly cheer when you finally manage to hit the front car’s tire, causing it to slow suddenly and a car behind to swerve around it. Going straight into a tree.

Two down, one to go. The back window smashes and you duck, bullets are being fired back at you. Looking over at Bucky you push his head down forcing him to duck. The rain seems to get harder and your vision of the road gets worse. You turn onto a familiar road, taking a deep breath you press harder on the accelerator, watching as the speed dial goes up gradually. You can still see the car in your mirrors as it speeds up with you, getting so close they occasionally bump into the back of you. 

They continue to fire at you but you are only focused on the road ahead of you. You see the familiar sign in the distance, it's getting closer and closer by the second and you are starting to doubt whether you can actually pull this off or not.

Three. You start a countdown in your head.

Two. You look behind you and the car is still right up your ass.

One. You swerve right at the last minute, you narrowly avoid the drop but the car behind you isn’t so lucky, they hurtle over the edge of the road, exactly the same way you did three years ago. 

You know you don’t have any time to dwell on what just happened so you push all your thoughts down and continue driving. You continue to push them down when you get to the gates of the compound. Still not letting them back up when Bucky gets wheeled off into surgery or when Sam, Steve and Natasha all meet up with you as the nurses check over your injuries. You don’t even allow yourself to think about anything that happened when the doctor tells you that Bucky is going to be ok.

You can’t be bothered to argue when Sam tells you to stay at the compound, you know you wouldn’t be safe at the apartment you had been living in for the past few weeks. You don’t speak more than you have to, only telling people the basic information they need to know. Afraid if you start to tell them more, you will break down and won’t be able to come back from it.

It’s only when you step inside the apartment that you can’t hold it down any longer. You make it as far as closing the door behind you before you collapse onto the floor under the weight of your thoughts. It’s too much to process and all comes back to you in a jumbled mess. 

Bucky came for you. Zola is still out there. You were almost in the exact same accident as you were three years ago. You saved Bucky. Bucky is a murderer. Zola won’t stop until he gets what he wants. Zee is gone. Bucky is safe. 

The exhaustion is overwhelming but the thoughts prevent you from sleeping. They just continue to bounce back and forth and you are forced to relive it all, feeling everything as if it was happening again in that moment.

Previous Part / Next Part

Let me know what you think by commenting, reblogging or leaving an ask.

A/N: Only two more chapters to go! I have them written. What should I do? Should I post 12 on Sunday then 13 on Tuesday. Or prolong it and stick with the Thursdays.

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Run To You Taglist: @not-another-fangirl​ @syntheticavenger​ @winchwm​ @tcc-gizmachine​ @redbarn1995​ @holl2712​ @hollarious​ @peaches-roses-sins​ @jevans2​ @padmoonyfeorge​ @bandbandeau​ @stuckysavedmylive​ @constantwriter85​ @jamesbuchananbuckybarnes1917 @ladyfallonavenger​ @jhay-fangirls​ @slytherin-25​ @beware-my-thorns​ @marianas-studyblr​ @libbymouse​ @rebelemilu​ @calwitch​ @chocolateeclipseartisanshark​ @whiskeywinter89​ @miraclesoflove​ @catgirl1321​ @ace-27749​ @shamelessfangirl-3​ @ihopeyousteponarosepetal​ @loveyou5everr​ @whore-for-anime​ @ladyacrasia​ @theblackmists​ @stucky-my-ship​ @jassy2101 @buckybarnes1991​ @itsjaybro16​ @mooonmaiden @tinylumpiaa​ @bluelakeee @zeusmyster​ @spookyparadisesheep​ @tanyaherondale​​ 

Strikethrough means I couldn’t tag you so check your settings allow it.

[ithebookhoarder]

Could I get something for valentines day to do with the Shelby gang? I really don't mind what or who. I just feel like I need a little love for the day...

Valentines Day Head-Canons for the Shelby Family

A/N: Of course you can, anon! Hope you have a great day, whether you’re celebrating or not. It’s just a day, really, so I hope this cheers you up ;) Sending so much love x 

Masterlist:

Arthur: 

This man would be nervous as hell that he’d mess up valentines day with you. He’s not exactly known for being the romantic of the family, nor does he have the sophistication of his younger siblings. In fact, he’s sometimes surprised you’re even with him at all. 

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t try, though. Oh no, this man is going all out for the day and nothing is too much for you. He’ll have asked everyone, and I mean everyone, for advice about what to do to make the day special. 

He’s not a many of many words so he lets his actions do the talking for him, giving you a massive bouquet of flowers as he comes to collect you for the evening. 

“Arthur, they’re beautiful. You really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble for me. I mean, you even got orchids - my favourites. How did you know?”

“I remember you told me before, eh? When we were at that place down in London. The one with the fancy window displays.”

“I can’t believe you remembered.”

But that’s Arthur. He’s utterly head over heels for you, which is probably why he turns bright red as you kiss him on the doorstep before hurrying back inside to put them in some water. 

He’d also make sure to open every door for you the entire night, refusing to let you even lift so much as a finger. 

In fact, he even pulls your chair out for you in the restaurant he’s taking you to, glaring at the waiter who was going to do it, in a clear sign to back away if he wants to escape with his life. 

“Arthur. I saw that. Behave.”

“I’m on my best behaviour, love. Promise.” 

“Oh really? What a shame, as I had kind of hoped you wouldn’t be, considering that I’m wearing your present underneath this dress.”

Arthur almost combusts there and then. 

Screw dinner - he wants to devour you and only you. Maybe that’s why he practically drags you out of the door at the end of the night, making you laugh as you hurry after him, the two of you fumbling with each other like horny teenagers.  

Needless to say, you spend the rest of the night wrapped in a tangle of limbs, lost in an haze of pleasure as you gift one another with your bodies. 

John:

Now, considering his kids and the fact they are more than a handful, he knows just how important time spent with just the two of you is. That would be his first and biggest gift, getting one of the family to agree to watch the hell spawn long enough for you two to spend some time alone together. 

It’s just you and him for 24 hours of uninterrupted bliss, with no crying children or screaming babies to think about. 

True, it would be weird at first to have the house so quiet, but that’s exactly what you need for you and John to just talk to one another about anything and everything you’ve missed over the past few weeks. After all, he’d probably have been so busy with work he feels like he’s hardly seen you recently. 

He’s also remarkably in-tune with you and knows exactly how to spoil you rotten. 

“You do so much for me and the kids, it’s the least I can do, right? You deserve the world, but I guess I’ll have to do, eh?”

Who knew John Shelby was such a softie?

He’d have the day mapped out down to the finest detail: Breakfast in bed? check. A hot bath with wine and candles? Check. That new dress you had your eye on when you last went into town? Check. Making love for hours on every surface of the house? Triple check. 

He knows how lucky he is to have you and would spend all day making sure you knew. 

“At this rate, we’ll be having another little one to be bribe Polly to watch next year.”

“John Shelby! I swear to god I am not having another baby-“

“So you want me to put my clothes back on and not fuck you again?”

You wisely say nothing and kiss him instead. 

“As I thought.”

Tommy: 

Considering how busy he normally is, the only gift you could ever want from him was that of time. Time away from the stresses of the company or his family and their never ending messes. 

It’s why you’re eager to subtly remind him about the date every chance you get in the weeks preceding it. 

Little do you know, he’s perfectly aware of the day. In fact, he has plans of his own cooked up for the both of you… you just didn’t need to know that yet. 

It makes the surprise all the more satisfying as he wakes you early the morning of, peppering you with kisses and encouraging you to get dressed. 

“I thought people usually tried to get people undressed on Valentines day?”

“Patience, love. It’s worth it, I promise.”

You laugh and trust him, unable to deny him anything when he looks genuinely happy for once. That in itself is a gift, as is the chance to spend the day riding with him around the estate you called home. 

Tommy is happiest on horse back, and you grin as you eye him clambering on his horse out front. 

You’re quick to follow, not surprised to see he’d had your horse readied too. He really had thought this out, down to the route you take. 

“This way, there are no phone calls or fucking distractions,” he explains, relieved at the utter delight in your eyes. “Not unless one of the staff want to grab a horse and come find us. Good luck to them.”

“They’d need it, especially if they’re stupid enough to risk me shooting them for disturbing us. They’d be idiots.”

Tommy laughs. 

Eventually, he’d stop you both, just on the edge of the woods, revealing the next surprise as he pulls out a blanket and basket (prepared with Frances’s help, of course). 

“A picnic, Tommy?” 

“I told you it was a surprise.” 

It’s the best surprise as you both sit there, drinking and laughing as the sky turns dark. 

That’s when he lights a fire for you both, letting you huddle close by the flames, eyes gazing at the stars above you. 

You listen to him telling you all about the constellations and the stories he learned as a child. The sound of his voice is heavenly and you could easily listen to him all night. 

So much so, you’re quick to wish the night would never end, letting you two stay like this, wrapped peacefully in each other’s arms forever. 

Finn:

This literal angel is sweet as hell. Like, you better be prepared for the hand made card he’ll have made you… with Polly’s help, of course. He isn’t a hundred percent sure his spelling would have been right otherwise, but for you he’s willing to make the effort to try and write it for you. After all, you’ve more than likely been trying to help him learn to read and write since you started seeing one another. 

“Aunt Pol… is heart spelt with two t’s or one?”

“One, Finn.” 

“And does angel have a j in it?”

“No, Finn.”

Everyone else thought it was adorable and proof that he truly does love you. They’ve never seen him work so hard on anything in his life. 

Your own card is much simpler, because you wanted to make sure he could read it without too much difficulty. You also may or may not have got a bit carried away with drawing hearts and other sketches to fill it instead of trying to use long and complicated words about how much you loved him. 

However, neither one of you seem to care. You’re too happy with the cards you receive to care about your own possible mistakes. 

You’re also too busy admiring how much of an effort each of you made with your outfits for your date. Sure, it was just drinks and dancing with some of the other teenagers in Small Heath (basically Isiah and his girl) but you’d both gone full out for the occasion. 

“Is that suit new?”

“Maybe… John helped me pick it out. Why? Does it look stupid?”

“No, Finn Shelby. You look incredibly handsome,” you beam, toying with his lapels before linking his hand with yours. “I’ll be the luckiest girl there tonight.”

“And I’ll be the luckiest man.”

Oh yeah, you two are reals saps, just as most young lovers are. You’re all nervous glances, laughs and touches as you two dance the night away. 

It would also be the night Finn kisses you for the first night, summoning the courage to do it as he drops you off back at your house, just a little after curfew. 

It’s worth the risk and as you kiss him back he swears he’s flying the rest of the way home. 

Micheal: 

Micheal has had his plans in place for weeks, making sure every little detail would be perfect for the two of you. He’s honestly looking forward to it, enough to welcome his mother’s advice as she throws suggestions and tips at him the week before. 

“Women like to feel special, Micheal. What about getting her a necklace? Or some chocolates? Fancy ones from France or something.” 

“Mum, thanks, but I’ve got it covered. Promise.”

“Are you sure?”

Micheal laughs and tries not to be offended at her obvious doubt. Then again, he’s not always had a track record of being the most romantic or thoughtful with women. Still, he really cares about you and he’s determined not to mess this up. 

It’s why he’s chosen the perfect place for you two to spend the evening together: your place. 

He’s determined to spend the time just the two of you, and what better way to impress you than cooking dinner for you? 

With the bottle of champagne he brought and your favourite records playing in the background, you’re quickly at ease, grinning as you watch him effortlessly chop, dice and season the dish he’s chosen. 

How is peeling a potato so sexy when he does it? 

It’s honestly impressive, but also because he’s putting so much effort into it which is a nice surprise. As is the way he dances around the kitchen with you whenever there’s a pause in the recipe or a particularly good song comes on. 

You’re surprised at his soft singing voice as he holds you, humming along. It’s rare he allows himself to be seen in such a way, relaxed with no one to judge him for being soft or a little off key.   In front of the other Shelbys he’s normally desperate to impress them, trying to be tough and nonchalant.

However, you know deep down he’s still the country boy you fell in love with when he first arrived in the city.  

By the time you’ve finished dinner, the candles have almost burned out and you know where the evening is headed as you both start to scurry off to your bedroom. 

Ada:

Ada is probably the most relaxed of all the Shelby bunch when it comes to special occasions. This is Ada we’re talking about. She’s also probably the most sane of the bunch, so she knows how to act like a normal person. 

She doesn’t need anything big or fancy as a gift or some elaborate plan to make her fall head over heels. 

A day in the park, with Karl holding both your hands as you walk to the duck pond, is enough to make her look at you with utter adoration in her eyes. She loves how well you both get on, becoming a little family of you own. 

It’s why it’s no surprise you all have dinner together, with Karl helping to serve you as your two favourite people spoil you rotten. You normally eat together most days, even if Karl doesn’t normally wear a suit or call you ‘madame’ every time he passes you something like a mini waiter. 

Ada smirks at the sight, informing you it’s all Karl’s idea - as is the card he thrusts upon you.

“I made the card myself!”

“You did? Wow, Karl. Look how amazing it is. I love the glitter on the heart.” 

“I knew you would. Mum didn’t think so but I won.”

The look Ada gives you makes you want to laugh until you cry as you clearly sense the frustration she must have suffered in the pursuit of Karl’s artistry. It also explains why you’ve been finding glitter everywhere all week. 

“Well, I love it. Thank you - both.”

You press kisses to both of their cheeks, grinning as Ada purred something about giving you her card later once Karl’s in bed. You’re eager to return the favour, impatient to give her your own card and gift. 

It’s a framed photo of you all, taken one day when you’d all been at the local fair. 

The sight of it is enough to make Ada watery eyed as she gives you yours, watching as you unwrap it and gasp in delight. 

The book is the next in a series you’d recently started and fallen in love with. However, you were pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to be released yet. 

“What can I say? Perks of having a librarian girlfriend with exclusive access to advanced copies we’re supposed to be holding on to until next month. I borrowed one and I’m sure they won’t notice.” 

“Ada Shelby. You stole a book for me?”

“Borrowed. Not stole.” 

You don’t care, too overwhelmed to do anything other than kiss her passionately. 

[gallavictorious]

Seven Days left~ Give us 7 favorite Shameless moments

One day late – whoops! Sorry about that, sweet nonnie; this was the most delightful ask and I was very stoked to get it. ❤️❤️❤️

Disclaimer: I misread the question because I’m a dumbass and went for Gallavich moments. My bad. :o These are seven of my favourite moments, by the way: I just can't decisively pick my ultimate top seven. Also put them down in chronological order rather than in order of how fond of them I am, because it'd would've been too hard to do otherwise.

4x08: “You coming back?” This scene is quite uncomfortable, what with Ian's demand for blowjobs and Mickey's obvious (though temporary) discomfort, but I think that's what has me returning to it again and again (and what has had me writing one very long meta and a fic about it). It represents a shift in their dynamic, with Ian claiming some power in the relationship for himself, and even though it is uncomfortable, it's fascinating to see – and needed to happen for them to work in the long term (even if it maybe didn't need to happen like that – but then again, it's just so in character for both of them, however messed up?). The look Lip and Mickey exchanges after Ian's “relationship issues” never fails to get to me either, and I think it's important to note that Lip makes sure that Ian is okay with the situation and then he leaves them to it; he doesn't try to interfere or dissuade Ian. I keep wondering what that means to Mickey, having Lip – who's certainly not a friend at that point – know about him, and about him and Ian, and not really caring beyond making sure his baby brother is okay? I kind of think that maybe Lip and Mandy both showing Mickey that they're aware of the situation but not making a big deal out of it is really fucking important – people can know he's gay without it having to be a thing and without the world ending. Terry is a horrible outlier.

4x11: “Just wondering if we're a couple or not.” Maybe it's the mutual manhandling, maybe it's them trying to negotiate and sort out the current dynamics of their relationship. There's so much tension and so many layers here, history lingering, even as they're both fond and playful: lots to unpack. Damngoodcoffee once noted that Ian almost looks scared when Mickey pushes him to the bed, and I haven't been able to unsee that since, or to forget that the last time Ian pushed Mickey to verbalize the truth of their relationship Mickey kicked him in the face. I also love love love the lead up with Carl and Ian, “do you love Mickey?” – “I like how he smells.” Please take note of Mickey washing his hands: the dirtiest white boy in American is an example to penis pee:ers everywhere.

5x08: “Sorry I'm late.” Ian's surprise, and the look of hesitant wonder as Mickey shows up and moves to lie down next to him, like he can't quite believe that Mickey is really there, that he actually came. Mickey's quiet apology, no excuses or explanations about how he needed some time to deal (which, you know, it's very fair for him to need); he's there for Ian now, putting his own fears and pain and needs to the side to be what (he thinks) Ian needs him to be. That admittedly doesn't work out great for either of them in the end, but still, in this moment, it is what they both desperately crave: to just have each other and find shelter in the other's arms. Ungh. That gentle kiss to Ian's hair, how Ian finally relaxes and reaches up to grasp Mickey's wrist, holding on. It breaks my heart and soothes me, all at the same time.

10x07: Domestic bitches. Probably the scene I've tag ranted about the most, because I. Love. It. To. Pieces. Ian's so glad to be back in a place where he feels at home and can be useful by doing important stuff like picking up shampoo and shit for Mickey (in prison, I think he was acutely aware of them being on Mickey's turf and him feeling a bit not comfortable with being the one in need of protection?) and he's so damned happy that he gets to be here with Mickey. Gets to help him out and playfully slap his ass and kiss his cheek and squeeze his titty and just love him and be with him. And Mickey, being completely unconcerned about this display in front of Sandy; in fact he seems to adore being so obviously claimed and loved and wanted, and that's such a huge shift from the boy who was once terrified by the idea of letting Ian kiss him even in private. Argh. Just. Them being domestic bitches and loving it – and each other – so fucking much. They're giddy with it here and it makes my heart swell.

10x10: “When you know, you know. Right?” I have an absurd weakness for Ian being petty, and Mickey really had it coming here, so. You know. Allow me an evil chuckle. The Byron of it all is an unwelcome distraction (and Mickey gritting out “the love of my life” makes me cringe so hard every single time), but then I look at the absolute glee in Ian's eyes when he realizes that Mickey is going to a hipster concert and yeah, this is Kee's shriek of delight. Mickey looks very good in his shirt and with the hair and the cigarette, and that's always an easy sell with me. (He also looks so uncomfortable with Ian finding out about the concert but, again, he kind of had it coming.) Aah. Ian's certainly not the only petty character on the show, but it just looks better on him than on anyone else. He's got it down.

11x10: “Hit my husband again, I'll fucking kill you.” Mickey isn't even in this scene, and still. I didn't expect Ian to take such a firm stance on this (considering that Lip is his brother and Mickey was not innocent in the fight) but maybe that's why I love it so much? I swear, the jolt I felt when hearing it for the first time, it nigh on knocked me over. “My husband” Ian says, making a point of emphasising the nature of his relationship to Mickey; the Gallaghers generally strike me as having a general expectation of putting birth family above partners when push comes to shove. Fiona certainly did for a long while, and though Lip's kind of screwing his siblings over to create the life he wants with Tami and Fred this season, I think he still sees the sibling group as Ian's primary unit, and Ian wants to remind him that this isn't the whole truth anymore. Also, protective!Ian is glorious. (I love me some brothers on the porch, so even without this line, this is a great scene. But with it – holy mother of God, I've been slain. I'd feel embarrassed about the number of times I played it on repeat the next day, but I'm too old for that shit.)

11x11: Intro Speaking of protective!Ian... I'm sorry, there's just no arguing with the aftercare vibes and I don't even know how to process that properly. Mickey's a little out of it, seems like, since he's rather slow to respond to the intrusion and displays none of his usual intiative and agression, whereas Ian is very quick to shift from gazing lovingly at Mickey to chasing us out with a determination and anger usually reserved for Frank. I mean, how else would you explain it? (And okay, it's an intro and breaking the fourth wall, so speculating about when it happens in canon is of course foolish, but I'm just saying that they're in their new flat with very little furniture still so it has to happen around the time of the last episode but I very much doubt they played around like this when everything was so weird between them so probably not between 11x10 and 11x11, but say they got back to their place after their reconciliation on their old bed and just kept on reaffirming their bond in all possible ways? Yes? Yes.)

Special mention: 10x06 Deleted Bathroom Scene. Mickey is looking fine as fuck – please, do wear black tanks more often, I am begging you, Mick – and his eyebrow game is in excellent shape, and then we have Ian seeing to his wounds (be still my heart) and pulling at his hair when Mickey's just a shade too bratty and Mickey's little look of 'okay sure I had that coming' and I'm sorry, but I am dead now. Deceased. Only two things detract from this otherwise perfect scene: Ian's titties tattoo on prominent and unfortunate display, and the confusion about whether or not Mickey didn't even learn the simplest Spanish words during his stint in Mexico.

So, that's me. I could just as easily have picked seven completely different moment, but I do love all of these very much.

[haloud]

things we could burn in one go (eminence) - chapter 7

also on ao3

Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Isabel Evans & Max Evans & Michael Guerin, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes, Forrest Long/Alex Manes Additional Tags: post-s2, Canon Compliant, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, starts forlex ends malex, other characters may appear - Freeform, tags subject to update

Chapter Summary: Alive but weak, Michael wanders Alex’s house as he tries to come to terms with the past few days.

Excerpt:

 At night, Alex slept in his bed, and Michael slept in the guest room, but the sheets were Alex’s, the pillows were Alex’s, the walls and floor were built to hold him, he picked out the curtains. Alex was inescapable. And now, neither could Michael escape knowing that he still slept in old band shirts worn soft and peeling, that he composed music with his eyes closed and hid his written notations in books around his house, that he kept all his condiments room temperature and screwed up his nose at the thought of cold sauce on hot food. All these domestic details he’d lived and loved without, stuffed inside the empty spaces in his skull after only a few days.

 What was he supposed to do, knowing this? The little details made up friendships, too, for certainly Michael knew plenty of his siblings’ idiosyncrasies, even kept shelves in his heart for lovely little scraps old one or two-night lovers had left him as parting gifts.

 But things would never, ever be so simple and nostalgic and normal with Alex. Too many years had passed for Michael to even attempt to fool himself. His ribs sung like a tuning fork struck pure, and Michael longed, with the oldest, basest longing, to be anything so useful for Alex to set the music of his life to. And here he was, sharing Alex’s house with Alex and Alex’s boyfriend’s dog and Alex’s boyfriend’s toothbrush on the sink and Alex’s boyfriend’s clothes in the laundry.

 So he’d live with it.

--

 “Fuck!”

 Michael’s water glass flew to his hand but bumped the edge of the table and skidded the last few feet, spilling water across its surface. Still cursing, Michael shoved his chair back and got to his feet to clean shit up the old-fashioned way, on weak and shaky legs, with weaker and shakier lungs.

 Max kept healing him, checking for any possible little injury, but it seemed that Michael was just weakened by the enormous strain Jones’s “teaching” had put on his body, and he’d have to build back his strength.

 So there it was. All his fears about not being to protect anyone, all the needy clamor in his head, all of them led him here, by nothing but his own recklessness and desperation. Weak as a kitten. More a burden on Alex, quite literally, in his life, taking up his space, invading his home, leaning on him to get from point A to point B.

 Fuck.

 He was, at least, too tired to wallow in much, in between long jags of ragged sleep, torn apart by vivid dreams of light and letters and scraps of knowledge just out of reach. But despite the awful aftertaste of near-death those dreams represented, they were almost better than his waking hours, hovered over by a furious Isobel and a Max worried half to death, Valenti inspecting him head to toe the normal way, Maria trying to cheer him up, and      Alex    .

 They hadn’t spoken much since Michael awoke. Alex had to work, and when he didn’t, they, well. Cohabitating was a lot to get used to. But no matter how awkward things got, he offered a perfect porcelain protection, and Michael studied him obsessively for flaw, for the true Alex underneath the façade brought on by Michael’s own foolishness.

 “Everything going okay?” Max asked, emerging from the guest bedroom, Buffy at his heels. She’d become his shadow in the days since Michael’s near-death; it was almost endearing enough to keep Michael from snapping at him, but only almost.

 “Fine,” he snarled, but far from driving Max off, his tone brought Max forward, to sit across the table from him and fold his arms.

 If snapping wasn’t gonna keep people away, why had he been working so hard to not be a total asshole for the past few days, through every well-meaning coddle and condescension from any one of their friends, from everyone but Isobel, who wasn’t talking to him.

 Max sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, and a twinge of guilt disturbed Michael’s surly mood.

 “Go ahead,” he said a little too loudly, before those thoughts could get to him. “Tell me what a hypocrite I am. One of you has to, and it might as well be you. I was fucking stupid after getting on your case constantly, and it almost killed me. Go ahead!”

 “You seem to have gotten a head start, so I don’t see the need,” Max said wryly.

 Michael scoffed.

 Picking up Michael’s abandoned glass, Max ran his finger around the rim as he spoke. “You know, I know what it’s like to lose this. When my heart was still so weak…I pushed myself too hard and almost…well. You know. So I understand. Give yourself time. Let your system settle and see where you are.”

 The words were too kind and too logical for Michael to bear, so he let out another bratty huff and didn’t respond.

 Max just sighed again. “Well. Anyway. Kyle’s going to be here soon. I know you hate him, but he’s—”

 “I don’t.”

 “Huh?”

 “Hate him. Kinda hard to hate the guy after what he did for you. I don’t like the doctor shit, but…”

 That brought out a small smile on Max’s face, and the knot in Michael’s stomach unclenched. “That’s good,” he said.

 A knock on the door saved Michael from having to find a dignified answer, and he stood hastily to answer it—a little too hastily, it turned out, because the world tipped and took Michael with it.

 “How ‘bout you let me,” Max said as Michael dropped heavy back into his chair before falling. He clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “Alex’d kill me anyway if it was trouble and I let you answer it.”

     Alex.    The too-casual reminder that he might have some kind of stake in Michael’s well-being sent him reeling. What was he supposed to do with that information, that perspective? How did he earn it, how was he worthy of it, and how did he keep it from flying away? All questions that were too much to answer—questions he’d asked his ceiling and his eyelids and his stars every night for a decade and was farther than ever from answers even now that he was coming to accept the core truth of the problem’s existence.

 Of course, there was no trouble at the door; it was just Kyle, as expected, and he pet Buffy with one hand while waving at Michael with the other.

 “Hey, Guerin. How’s it going?”

 Michael marshalled himself to answer.

 “How do you think it’s going, Doc? A newborn deer’s got fancier footwork than me right now. But I’m alive, so…”

 “Can’t complain,” Kyle finished the sentence with an amused shake of his head. “That’s one way to look at it.”

 His exam was quick and efficient, something Michael was grateful enough for that he’d die before he ever let Valenti see it, and when he was done he took a seat across from Michael.

 “It’s not exactly a clean bill of health, but your condition seems stable and improving. The condition of your body, at least. It’s hard for me to give any diagnosis about what might be impacting the use of your powers.”

 “Yeah, yeah, wouldn’t expect you to. I’ll figure it out. You’ve done enough,” Michael said, scratching idly at his temple where Max’s handprint lay, thankfully hidden by his hair. “Tell me this, Doc.” He glanced around to make sure Max wasn’t in earshot, and when he spied him through a window throwing a ball for Buffy, he continued, “Have you had a chance to check out Max yet? The healing he did, with his heart—”

 Kyle smiled, and Michael glanced away from his knowing face, shifting in his seat.

 “I did, and you have nothing to worry about. He’s fine. It was a significant strain, but considering the alternative, the outcome could have been much worse.”

 “But what about his condition otherwise?” Michael powered through. “He’s been dealing with depression and exhaustion for months since—"

 The back door swung open and Buffy bounded in for her water bowl, Max following. “How’s it going?” he asked them both, but mostly Kyle, voice full of false cheer.

 “All good,” Kyle said easily, getting to his feet. “It’s going to be fine,” he tacked on the firm reassurance to Michael. “I should get going so I can get ready for work. Catch you later, Max.”

 “Thanks again, man.”

 “Free drinks at the Pony for life, you know my price.”

 As little as Michael cared to socialize with Valenti even now, awkward silence descended when he was gone and it was just the brothers again. What did you say to the guy who saved your life—again—when you had nothing but your own stupidity to blame?

 It didn’t help that Max’s ability to make Michael feel small and stupid and guilty as hell without even trying was still unparalleled, or that he was still too weak to pace it out, or that he was hyperaware of how everyone would perceive him if he sampled some of Alex’s liquor cabinet to take the edge off.

 “I’m going out to the back to get some light exercise,” he said eventually.

 “Okay,” Max said, not arguing or inviting himself along.

 “Thanks,” Michael replied, not elaborating on what for as he passed him at the fastest shuffle he could manage.

 Outside, under the sun, Michael’s head was no clearer, his muscles no stronger. Alex’s backyard was featureless, incomplete, clearly not somewhere he spent much time, unlike the front patio, which at least had some furniture, some lived-in rested energy. And, Michael thought, of course: Alex would spend his leisure somewhere he could anticipate most attempts to accost him.

 Letting out a heavy sigh, Michael ambled from one end of the fence to the other. As he went, Alex’s cameras followed him, and Michael tried not to feel weird about that, weirdly paranoid despite it being      Alex,    weirdly comforted to know Alex could watch him. The whole thing was weird. Living in Alex’s home was…weird.

 At night, Alex slept in his bed, and Michael slept in the guest room, but the sheets were Alex’s, the pillows were Alex’s, the walls and floor were built to hold him, he picked out the curtains. Alex was inescapable. And now, neither could Michael escape knowing that he still slept in old band shirts worn soft and peeling, that he composed music with his eyes closed and hid his written notations in books around his house, that he kept all his condiments room temperature and screwed up his nose at the thought of cold sauce on hot food. All these domestic details he’d lived and loved without, stuffed inside the empty spaces in his skull after only a few days.

 What was he supposed to do, knowing this? The little details made up friendships, too, for certainly Michael knew plenty of his siblings’ idiosyncrasies, even kept shelves in his heart for lovely little scraps old one or two-night lovers had left him as parting gifts.

 But things would never, ever be so simple and nostalgic and normal with Alex. Too many years had passed for Michael to even attempt to fool himself. His ribs sung like a tuning fork struck pure, and Michael longed, with the oldest, basest longing, to be anything so useful for Alex to set the music of his life to. And here he was, sharing Alex’s house with Alex and Alex’s boyfriend’s dog and Alex’s boyfriend’s toothbrush on the sink and Alex’s boyfriend’s clothes in the laundry.

 So he’d live with it.

 His pocket buzzed frantically, and he swore loudly, startled, before he realized it was just his phone ringing.

 “Fuckin’ spam calls,” he muttered as he fished it out. “Why the hell does anyone carry this shit around all the—”

 But it wasn’t a spam call at all.        Ortecho    sat dead center on the screen, and, not knowing what ring it was on, Michael answered immediately.

 “Mikey!” Liz’s breathless voice shouted before he could say a word.

 “Well it’s about damn—”

 “Thank god, are you okay, why am I hearing from Maria that you almost      died,    what the hell?”

 “Glad to know that’s what it takes to get a hold of you,” Michael snarked back.

 “Listen, I—”

 Michael just sighed. “I know. I get it. But we’ve been calling you a damn lot, Ortecho.”

 “…I know.”

 Despite what he said, he didn’t understand. He’d never understand the running, not as someone so stuck in the ground he’d been planted in that he’d die if he tried to rip himself away. But he couldn’t love Alex after ten years without accepting what he’d never understand and knowing how to survive it.

 He hadn’t thought, until now, that maybe he and Max could talk about this shit. But maybe it’d be worth a try. If there was one thing that Michael      did    know, it was that Liz and Alex wouldn’t talk about how the situations made them similar until they’d exhausted all possible escapes from that conversation.

 “Well…” Michael said into the silence. “How’s California been? How’s the Genoryx lab; they better be letting you do all the mad science shit, or else what good’s a shady government drug company…”

 “Don’t change the subject! You haven’t even answered me.      Are you okay?    ”

 “I…”

 What was the harm in being honest? Liz wasn’t even here, wasn’t even talking to anyone who wasn’t dying, so who would she tell? Maybe Maria, but Maria could read it from him like an open book.

 “Gotta tell you, I’ve been better,” he admitted.

 Liz let out a soft, sympathetic noise. “What happened? You can…you can talk to me, if you want. I know I haven’t been the most reliable, but we’re friends. We are. Okay?”

 Shaking his head, Michael paced the length of the fence again, one hand on it to steady himself.  He reached the house and kept walking to the front, leaving the barren back garden behind.

 “There’s not that much to say. Maria probably told you already. I made a bad gamble on Hyde, and Jekyll had to haul my ass out of the fire. That’s it.”

 That version of the story left out the part Isobel played, but Michael didn’t have the words to describe walking his own head as it melted around him, images flying past bright enough to sear his eyes, snatches of conversation, aphasia in every sense, and how empty and cavernous and      bereft    he felt now, knowing what Jones had stuffed inside him—the knowledge of his entire people—knowing he wasn’t      enough    to contain it, weak, corrupted, and now he might never get it back. And knowing Jones did that to him on purpose, gave him more than his body and mind could handle to make him feel this way, didn’t make the feeling it any damn easier.

 Liz went silent on the other end. There was a question she wasn’t asking, but Michael let it ride, gave her the space.

 But finally, he answered it for her. “Max is okay. His heart held up, and so did the pacemaker. And I’ve got a handprint six inches from my nose, so I can call him on it if he tries to bullshit me.”

 “I—okay. Thank you, Mikey.”

 “Don’t thank me. Seriously, don’t. I, uh, said a lot of shit I probably shouldn’t have in your voicemail, about Max. But it’s up to you if you want him in your life at all, so, uh. Yeah.”

 “No, no, it’s fine.”

 There was a thunk on the other line like she’d dropped or hit something.

 “Look, I should go,” she said.

 “Okay,” Michael replied.

 “I’m—really glad you’re okay.”

 “And, uh, it was nice to hear from you.”

 “Okay.” Her final reply was soft and hesitant and awkward as Michael felt making an earnest overture a friend might make. “Bye, Mikey.”

 “Don’t be a stranger.”

 She hung up.

 Michael dropped his arm and let his phone dangle at his side for a little while. His legs shook a little, so he held onto the back of one of the patio chairs to steady himself, but he wasn’t ready to sit just yet.

 Friends or not, clearly he and Liz had plenty to work on if they were that fucking awkward without a project between them.

 Still, this was something. Something unexpected. Michael was too tired to sort through feelings right now.

 But he should have—

 Before he could second guess himself, he pulled his phone back up and dashed a text off to her.

     We all get together on Thursday nights. Open invitation. -G  

 Then he dropped his phone face-down on the seat and sat down several feet away so he wouldn’t be tempted to look at it if she texted him back.

 All the chairs on Alex’s patio were tilted subtly to watch different angles of the approach to the house, so Michael settled in the one that was shadiest. It was too fucking hot to be relaxing outdoors without water or sunscreen, but the air indoors with Max hovering and Alex…everywhere…was just as stifling.

 Max hadn’t asked him why, yet, even though the question itched at Michael’s head, even through the careful distance they were keeping from the handprint bond between them. Which was good, because, in the sunlight, on the other side of the storm, his arms wrapped around his own stomach, holding himself, Michael couldn’t have answered it himself.

 Eventually, though, people would ask. And what would he tell them—should he admit he thought that the pollen would be enough to keep himself from harm, should he confess that he’d been willing—or thought he was willing—to accept the risks if it meant no one would have to take a blow for him?

 The street stretched long and quiet as far as Michael could see. Every now and then, a car would pass from one point on the line to the next, disappearing down some other driveway or just continuing until the heat haze swallowed it whole. The sun hurt his tired eyes, so he blinked slow, and let minutes trickle past, waiting for something to happen.

 Maybe his phone would ring again; maybe Max would come looking for him. Maybe Flint Manes would leap out of the bushes and shoot him. Maybe Alex would come home from work and smile when he saw him. Maybe Forrest would come home early and try and fight him for shacking up while he was gone. Maybe Jones did something to him that was lying in wait and would detonate his heart any second.

 Thinking of possibilities was an endless sort of entertainment for a man who never knew what to do with having a future and who just nearly lost his lease on it.

 As Michael watched the road, a truck appeared on one side of the horizon, moving faster than most would on a residential street like this. It whipped up dust as it went, and Michael rolled his eyes and slouched deeper into the chair. Fucking assholes in their screaming steel overcompensators almost universally considered themselves above getting work done in a junkyard, and that didn’t exactly give Michael a better opinion of them.

 And this piece of shit in particular, Michael recognized. What the hell was Wyatt fuckin’ Long doing on this side of town? Michael tensed as he roared by, just waiting for him to slow or stop—did he drive by often, harassing Alex for dating his cousin? Or looking for his cousin to harass somewhere off the farm where a real adult might stop him?

 He didn’t do either, though, and in seconds he was gone, cowgirl mudflaps dangling behind him.

 Asshole.

 What time was it anyway? Narrowing his eyes, Michael focused on his phone where he dropped it in the other chair and, slowly, tried to pull it toward him. It took seconds and enough strain his head hurt before it moved, but move it did, wobbling slowly towards him. Halfway there, it changed velocity and came shooting toward him, and he only barely managed to catch it before it overshot and slammed against the wall behind him.

 Still, progress.

 It was later than he thought. Shouldn’t Alex be home from work by now? Should he be worried?

 He was just hovering his thumb over Alex’s contact, deciding whether or not to call, when another car hissed along the drive and slowed. This one, though, turned into Alex’s driveway, and Michael relaxed.

 Alex pulled the car to a stop, and Michael stood up to greet him, stretching as he did. Unexpectedly, Maria was also in the front seat, but her presence answered the question of why Alex was late. If he wasn’t talking to Michael, at least he was talking to someone.

 “Hey,” Michael greeted them.

 “Hey, Guerin,” Maria replied.

 “Is everything alright?” Alex demanded.

 “Yeah, it’s fine. Kyle was by earlier. Seems like I’m still on the mend.”

 “That’s good to hear,” Maria said, as Alex said nothing.

 Michael gave her a smile. “Yeah, it is. So…are you staying for dinner? Maybe I can cook something…”

 Side-eying Alex, who stood as stiff and stoic as Michael had ever seen him, shoulders and back soldier-straight, Maria returned Michael’s smile and said, “Oh, Alex just asked me to take Buffy out for her walk for the next few days, so I’m here to see her.”

 “I didn’t want to impose on you for that,” Alex added.

 Michael rocked on his heels, hands shoved in his pockets, chewing on his tongue to hold back any indication of how desperate he was to be imposed upon. The weakness in his legs kept him from making a real argument; despite her age, Buffy was a hell of a walker.

 Was that the reason Alex was asking Maria to step in? Was his leg okay? Michael rocked forward again, swaying toward Alex and tugging himself back, an old, familiar dance.

 “You could’ve. You’re puttin’ me up, I oughtta work for room and board,” Michael joked.

 It didn’t exactly land. If possible, Alex shut down harder, face cold and hard, though his voice was soft.

 “You don’t have to work for me to take care of you when you’re in need,” he said, every syllable clipped and careful.

 Michael should have known something was up then and there, seen it, seen Maria’s downcast eyes and crossed arms, the way she hovered close between them and kept to herself; he should have expected it, Alex to pull some kind of bullshit, but his head didn’t go there. Not yet.

 “So…you going somewhere?” he asked, licking his lips. The thought might have sent a bolt of panic through him, but now that Alex had a life here, a house and a job and roots, the threat was less immediate.

     That didn’t stop Liz,    his mind whispered, but he shook it off.

 Alex wasn’t answering, so Michael continued, “You heading out to meet Forrest in DC? You should have gone with him in the first place, man, take some time off.”

 Maria shot Alex a loaded look, but Alex’s face just hardened.

 “And been across the country when you almost died on my doorstep?” he demanded so fervently Michael took a step back, and Alex closed his eyes, chest rising and falling with a deep breath. “Sorry. Sorry.”

 “No, uh, it’s fine. You’re right. I’m glad you were here.”

 Somewhere deep in his heart, Michael thought that it wouldn’t have mattered where in the universe Alex was when he lifted his foot and stepped across space to get to his door. His thoughts were inside out, tripled and rearranged with pieces missing, he couldn’t have said what he did or the powers he used or how he could do it again, but he could say this: for a brief moment, he’d possessed the ability to reorder the universe to put himself at Alex’s side, and no technicalities of time or distance would have stopped him.

 He didn’t have that power anymore, though, and neither did he have the ability to read Alex’s mind.

 “Seriously, though,      are    you going somewhere?” he asked again.

 “…I should get inside. My phone’s dead, I need to charge it,” Alex said.

 “      Alex,    ” Maria said in a scalded voice.

 Michael, though, was cold. Frozen. It barely registered when Maria reached out and squeezed his wrist to reassure him; he wasn’t reassured, though he was pathetically grateful to her for trying. She was a good friend—better now than she was or he was when they were two isolated points on a severed line, ten years as two stars on an unintelligible constellation, half its lights gone out.

 But that friendship, as cherished as it was—could it hold him up if the new foundation he’d built for his life was ripped away again? Again, he’d built it up around Alex without expectation or intention. It was reflexive, habitual, migratory. He followed a pattern etched into his bones. He didn’t know any other way to build.

 “Alex, I told you,” Maria said.

 “I know. But—”

 “No! No buts. If you can’t even be honest about what you’re doing, you shouldn’t be doing it.”

 “It’s fine,” Michael said. His voice was distant inside his own skull. “I get it. You don’t have to tell—you don’t owe me anything.”

 For some reason, Alex turned back around to face them, then, his face so openly wracked with pain and indecision that Michael had to close his eyes.

 Even less than he could stand to watch Alex walk away again, he couldn’t stand to watch it hurt so bad and him choose it all the same.

 “I’m      not    leaving you, Guerin. Michael. I’m—not. I’m not!”

 He said it again and again, like he was arguing with someone who wasn’t Michael or Maria, both of whom were silent. Maria pressed closer to Michael, leaning her weight against him, wordless but telling him:      I’m here.  

 “I’m not leaving,” Alex said again.

 Michael forced himself to open his eyes. A few feet in front of him, Alex took up the same amount of space he always did, posture helplessly perfect, hands helplessly flat at his sides.

 Through a tight throat, Michael said, “Okay. Then why…”

 Alex struggled for the words. At his side, Michael felt Maria breathe in and release a heavy sigh.

 “Talk to us, Alex. Please,” she said.

 Dropping his eyes, Alex replied, “I’m just going to be busy and out of the house a lot for the next few days and won’t have time to give Buffy the attention she deserves.”

 “Really? That’s it?” her voice was close to tears, and Michael unlocked himself to wrap his arm around her. She continued, “I asked you to      talk to us,    not just repeat what you told me before. What business, Alex? You’re scaring me.”

 “What am I supposed to do?” Alex cried, spreading his arms wide. Then he dropped his arms just as suddenly, head snapping back and forth looking for anyone who might have heard the outburst, then he dragged a hand over his face. He continued, quieter, flatter, “I get so wound up about one threat, and another one starts swinging from my blind side. I’m not waiting for Fields to come calling while Michael is here. And Jones—” That awful blankness crossed his face again. “—What am I supposed to do, let what he did to you go without doing something about it? Wait until he tries again? Absolutely not.”

 Every word stung Michael’s senses; he had no response, mouth parted but silent, eyes wide.

 Maria let out a frustrated growl. “And would you have told anyone these plans if I hadn’t forced you? Oh my god, of course not, you both suck so bad! What part of this one,” she jerked her thumb at Michael, “getting his gray matter pureed forty-eight hours ago makes you think now is the time to run off with some lone wolf Rambo act? What’s the point of being able to see the future if no one ever asks or listens?”

 “Did you? See something?” Michael asked.

 “Well. No. But I might have,” Maria replied.

 “Wait, nothing at all? It’s been how long now?”

 “Too long,” she admitted. “It’s not nothing, I just keep seeing our bearded friend standing in a field. I can’t even tell if it’s now or if it’s from before or even if it’s from the home planet. He doesn’t look at me, just…stands there.” She shivered.

 Alex’s eyebrows drew down. “Can he…block your sight? Is that possible?”

 Shrugging helplessly, Maria said, “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure we can’t just ask him. What are we going to do?”

     We.    Part of Michael wanted to protest, in the face of the danger that alliance would pose to two of the people he loved most in the entire world. Standing alone already almost got him killed, left him weaker than he’d ever been, but still part of him would try again, and again, until he was out of second chances, if it meant sparing Alex and Maria anything.

 But that wasn’t in question, was it. They’d made their choice. It was time for Michael to learn to live with it.

 “Thursday’s coming up,” he said. Maria and Alex turned to look at him, and he lifted and dropped his shoulders, curling in on himself. “If you guys are still available. We can talk about a game plan.”

 “      Guerin,    ” Maria sighed. But she smiled when she reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. “Of course we’re available.”

 Alex didn’t reply. Silence fell between the three of them, until Maria sighed again and headed toward the front door.

 “I already came all this way, I might as well spend a little time with Buffy. Since I won’t be walking her after all.”

 As she passed Alex, he made a soft noise, and whatever it was, she understood perfectly, because she turned to meet Alex’s raising arms, and the two of them hugged tightly.

 “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You were right. I’m sorry I didn’t--I shouldn’t have made you--”

 “Stop with the ‘shouldn’ts’,” Maria replied. “Just...don’t make us watch you destroy yourself alone when we’re here for you, okay?”

 Michael flinched. Neither of them looked at him, but her words hit home anyway. He was part of that grief, too.

 Alex nodded against her shoulder. “I won’t.”

 Then she gave him one last squeeze, he let her go, and she went inside, leaving Michael and Alex alone.

 And alone, what was there to say? They hadn’t found it so far.

 Michael’s heart still beat uncomfortably fast in his chest, a frantic effort to keep him standing and sane while his brain and body figured out that Alex wasn’t going to disappear from before his eyes, and it only pulsed harder when—he blinked to clear his eyes and—Alex got closer, closing the space between them in a few long, uneven strides.

 On instinct, Michael took a step back, but Alex stopped six inches away, just staring at him with his dark eyes. They scanned from his feet to his hair, taking in every minute tremble of his damaged muscles.

 Jittery, Michael licked his lips and said, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer--”

 Alex took Michael’s shirt in his fist and pulled him in. They hit, chest to chest, Alex’s arm trapped between them until he pulled it away, down and out, clamped it around Michael’s back and held on, held on for dear life. He didn’t need to hold on so tight; Michael froze with the shock of Alex around him and couldn’t have budged for love or money, not until his mind caught up with his body and he slumped in Alex’s safe arms.

 “I’m so mad at you,” Alex said in his ear, close enough that his hitching breaths stirred Michael’s ear.

 “I know. I know,” Michael spoke back, lips moving against his shoulder. He let his eyes fall shut again. Like this, he didn’t need them, dropped every sense that wasn’t touch, anything that didn’t tell him the only thing he needed to know. Alex was here. Michael was here. They were alive. They were together.

 “How could you? What did I do wrong?” His breathing hitched harder, enough for Michael to feel it in Alex’s entire body.

 Gripping him tighter, one arm around his lower back, one arm around his broad shoulders, Michael murmured, “Nothing, God, nothing. I was stupid. I just wanted—I just had to—”

 “I wanted to protect you. That’s all I wanted—did I push too hard?” Hot, wet heat hit Michael’s neck. “I’m so shit at this, Michael, every time I try, I just make everything worse!”

 “No! No, hey, hey.”

 They were too tightly entwined for Michael to do much, but he maneuvered them enough to press their foreheads together.

 “I just wanted to protect      you,    ” Michael rasped. If he looked at Alex this second, this close, he wouldn’t be able to stand it, so he squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know how to—be protected. You making that sacrifice for me, I don’t know how to be worth it. It’s not your fault.”

 “You don’t have to do anything. Ever. I’m so fucking—sorry, for all the times I made you feel like you had to—earn...”

 They swayed slightly back and forth, half because Michael had pushed himself too far on his weak legs, half because it was an old self-soothing motion one or both of them fell back on, completely alone in the universe as children. They did it together, now.

 “We’ll figure it out,” Michael swore, clasping Alex’s sweaty hand in his own sweaty hand, in the nonspace between their chests, knuckle to sternum, palm to palm, sternum to knuckle. The words tasted like hope on his tongue.

 They opened their eyes, Alex first, then Michael, and they stood like that for a long time. Alex’s eyes were red from crying, but beautiful. Always beautiful.

     We’ll figure it out.    Neither of them believed it fully, but if both of them held a half, maybe they’d manage to make it work.

 “We should get back inside,” Michael said eventually, dropping Alex’s hand, stiffening his own to keep the shape of it held to his side as they parted.

 “Actually, could we, um.” Alex cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe we could sit out here a while longer. It’s a nice sunset? And maybe we could catch up on normal stuff.”

 Michael looked over his shoulder at the sky. It really was stunning, broad beyond comprehension, all alien with pinks and purples and golds.

 “Normal stuff sounds great,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

[marinerofthestars]

the zodai tag

bit of a late arrival to this fandom, but better late than never, i suppose!

1. How did you hear about the books? about a year ago, i was doing research on the zodiac for an urban fantasy project i’m working on, tales from omphalos, when i found the house ophiuchus info page on the zodiac website. unfortunately life got in the way and i forgot the series for a while, but a little while ago i remembered zodiac’s worldbuilding and got sucked right back in!

2. What is your favorite moment from the series so far? it’s hard to choose just one moment, but i’d have to say skarlet and rho’s first meeting in black moon for how atypical it is. we know skarlet is the hypotenuse in rho and hysan’s love triangle, but she doesn’t act like the stereotypical petty Other Woman at all. she’s charismatic, she’s genuinely fun to be around, and she has sympathetic motives and ambitions. above all, she’s actually super nice towards rho, and doesn’t let her feelings get in the way of their political collaboration. (and then thirteen rising assassinated her character. yes i am still bitter about it why do you ask)

3. Which House are you from? house leo!

4. What do you like about your House? artistry pride is something i’d really love to be a part of as an aspiring author, i have blaze and trax (both criminally underrated characters imo) as my housemates, and our zodai wield FLAMING SWORDS in battle. what’s not to love?

5. If you had to change Houses, which House would you pick? since leo really vibes with my passion for art, this is definitely a tricky question! probably either libra (police brutality is a thing of the past with bind, and their government seems like they have their act together), scorpio (much waterworld. much ambition. much cool tech. wow), or sagittarius (diversity, democracies where the voices of the young and non-complacent can be heard, and really vibrant cities are all things i appreciate)

6. Which system would you most like to visit? capricorn, no question. the zodiax is THE single most location in the entire zodiac bar none to me - an ancient complex the size of a planet, its oldest curators having access to transportation systems most inhabitants don’t even know about? an archive of humanity’s collective knowledge, so massive it has hotels and restaurants within it because leaving to sleep or eat is just so impractical? LET ME TOUR IT. LET ME UNCOVER ITS MYSTERIES I KNOW THEY EXIST (i think history is rad okay)

7. If you got to choose, which Zodiac technology would you like to have? probably...the tattoo? i don’t have anywhere enough knowledge about neuroscience/engineering to design my own, but assuming that i did, i’d love to design a tattoo that can interface with my brain and with digital art software, so that i can turn whatever ideas i have in my head into artwork!

8. Which character would you want as a best friend? skarlet. she’s six feet tall, buff as all hell, super attractive, prefers diplomacy to violence but still perfectly capable of kicking ass, and an outspoken risers’ rights activist. what’s not to love? (though knowing the type of people i usually hang out with, i’d probably end up with like. twain or gyzer as my best friend. one can dream though)

9. Which sign would you like to date? aries, because as previously stated skarlet is awesome. (a sentiment i will continue to reiterate) failing that, either libra for their sense of justice, scorpio for their ambition and passion, or aquarius for their innovative mindset.

10. Who do you hope Rho “ends up with?” (If anyone at all!) firstly, thank you for acknowledging that rho might not be interested in romance after everything she’s been through. (aromantic rho? arho?) secondly: skarlet.

this might be a little controversial, but i feel like in some regards, rho has far more chemistry with skarlet than she has with hysan. (ms. russell. i am sorry but. i have. Issues. with ‘centaur smile’ and the context surrounding it doesn’t make it any better) all of their interactions are marked by a noted admiration on rho’s part, and it’s not just merely admiration of her frankly enviable body (there’s more than enough of that, but it feels respectful somehow, there’s no five-page purple prosey ramblings on how the sweat glints on skar’s brow as she lifts weights, unlike with some people - sorry, mathias), but admiration of skar’s personality.

her charisma. her ambitions. her drive to fight for people who’ve been beaten down for millennia, to give a voice to the voiceless. to use violence as a last resort, not a first strike.

even at their absolute worst in thirteen rising, even when they’re butting heads, they don’t let it get in the way of doing what needs to be done. hell, skarlet even points out that she wouldn’t be giving rho such a hard time if she didn’t respect the hell out of rho, if she didn’t think she was tough enough to take it. there’s a sort of unspoken bond between them, a slow orbit that they’re both caught in. at the end of the series, they part way on relatively good terms, and with the hope that maybe, just maybe, that orbit might become something more than just professional acquaintance.

also their oppositional dichotomy of cardinal fire/water signs is an awesome aesthetic that i really wish was brought up more than it was in canon :( 

11. If you could record a Snow Globe, what would you put in it? only A snow globe? you’re not exactly giving me a lot of slack here in all seriousness, if i had to choose one moment to record in a snow globe, probably the moment i first came up with the idea for the urban fantasy project i mentioned above, tales from omphalos. i’ve never been devoted as much time to or invested as much energy in a project as i have with tfo, and i’d like to keep an easily accessible record of my original vision on hand. and hey, if by some chance i manage to follow in romina’s footsteps, get tales from omphalos professionally published, have it become a big success with a respectable fandom, i’d like to look back every once in a while, and remember how it all began.

12. If you had the chance to tell Rho anything, what advice/encouragement would you give her? - lies, especially lies of omission, are necessary a lot of the time to get ahead in politics and life in general use that being ahead to help out the people and groups you care about - don't trust the immortal child-aristocrats or expect them to behave in a way that won't inevitably screw you over - if you must play nice with them, figure out how to decrease gemini’s horrific income inequality, and see what you can do about exporting cell rejuvenation therapy to the wider zodiac - ferez is right, risers are the future and you need to acknowledge that going forward - skarlet is excellent at garnering support and bridging generational gaps, and while fernanda purecell is a bougie running dog, she’s got her head screwed on the right way regarding politics and institutional riserphobia; together, the three of you should be able to make some headway towards making amends for past wrongs - i don’t care if family heads have suffrage, matriarchal aristocracy (aristocratic matriarchy?) is NOT a democracy or a form of government that looks out for the rights of men/NB people/agender people/multigender people/intersex people/you get the idea - romance is by no means an exclusively two-player game, and skarlet has said she would be open to an arrangement; however, if you MUST insist on ignoring that polyamory is a thing, go for the six-foot risers' rights activist - i’m sorry about all the bullshit with your mom. whatever the end result was, whatever her intentions, it does not excuse the way she treated you and your dad and stanton. it’s okay to feel like shit because of what she did to you, and not being able to wall it off doesn’t make you weak or anything dumb like that - you’re already far stronger than she ever was. i know how much it sucks - i was in the same situation as you once - but believe me when i say that things do get better. you’re not alone here, rho. - please you gotta fight the gender binary you live in the FUTURE you gotta do it you gotta-

BONUS QUESTION 13. How would you react if your friend became a Riser? let them know that I love and support them no matter what their house, that being the way that they are is totally valid, and that anyone who says otherwise will have to answer to my fist in their face. if they’re unbalanced, make sure they have access to any resources they need (possibly including memory recap vlogs, definitely including medication and therapy to help out with any health issues they may develop).

[dibleopard-writes]

Make This Chaos Count

Fandom: The Island (2005) Characters: Bernard Merrick, Gandu Three Echo/Alpha, others Rating: Teen for language and brief violence Warnings: Terminal Illness, brief description of symptoms, murder, shooting, brief description of blood, infrequent strong language, CHARACTER DEATH, hospitals, mention of a car accident Additional tags: Angst, fluff and angst, cloning, pre-canon, canon compliant, technically

Word Count: 14,074 Also on Ao3 and Wattpad

Summary: Is it really stealing if you’re taking back something that was stolen from you in the first place? In the wake of his partner’s death, Bernard Merrick thinks not.

Watching the film isn’t really necessary since this is just the lead-up, but you should watch it anyway cause I’m carrying the fanbase on my back.

The study had an absent solemnity to it that Bernard Merrick wallowed in easily. He watched his own fingers tap against the red leather of the sofa. Tap. Tap. Tap. Along in perfect rhythm with the infernal ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

“Stop sulking,” said Steve, who had carefully selected a can of inexpensive beer from a cooler of vintage whiskeys. “Hey, at least I won't leave you a widower.”

Bernard glared at him. He had been hoping to leave the question of their marriage for another day. Still not legal, even after their decade of waiting. Hopefully they would get the opportunity soon enough. He had half a mind to march to the capital and write the bill himself. Steve never quite cared as much about that kind of thing. ‘I mean the tax thing would be nice but really it's just a piece of paper, right?’ He’d said so many times before, when there wasn't yet a deadline hanging over their heads. Bernard would nod, ‘Right’, and wonder if either of them were qualified to select wedding flowers. It was the small things.

“You know drinking will make it worse?” He unlocked his phone to the webpage he had found in the hospital lift. For the tenth time in three hours, his eyes glided over the concise little paragraphs, taking in none of them.

Steve rolled his eyes. “I'm drinking to cope, Bernie.”

“According to the NHS, less than fifty percent of people with cirrhosis live for five more years when they keep drinking.”

“Well then I'd better get all of my living done now, then, hadn't I?” He flopped down next to Bernard, threw one hand over his eyes. “And getting blackout drunk is first on my to-do list.”

Bernard sighed, knowing a losing battle when he saw one, and wrapped an arm around Steve. They still had time.

Months later, in that same room, papers lay on every available surface as well as many supposedly unavailable surfaces. At his desk, Bernard had a sizable stack of documents balanced on his lap and was holding a file in one hand, typing and scrolling with the other. So far his computer had coped with keeping fifty-seven tabs open with only minimal lag. Most were various healthcare websites, some for hospitals nearby, others for the most successful hospitals, and the rest for the best options in their price range. Tinny hold-music was playing from underneath one of several empty mugs; the last few days had seen him drink coffee and tea indiscriminately and, in one memorable instance, simultaneously.

“Man!” There was a crash as several thick hardbacks fell from their perch on the stair banisters outside. Steve’s hand emerged around the door, one foot poised over the paper-covered floor. “You say I’m a slob! What do you call this?”

“Try not to move anything; I've got it all where I want it.”

Steve poked his head around the door, still balancing on one foot, to give him an unconvinced look. “Is this still the same thing as last time?”

Bernard could only meet his eyes for a split second. “What else would it be?”

“Bernie, you can’t keep using your sick days to go looking for something that doesn’t exist. What if you actually get sick?”

“I wouldn’t be as sick as you,” replied Bernard, typing more aggressively than strictly necessary.

“Low blow, man.”

“Listen, I think I’ve found a few that could work.” The printer by the door thunked and juddered before deliberately whirring out webpages in glorious black and white. “There’s a research group in Italy working on artificially grown organs, and a firm in Japan that’s trying mechanical versions. Also, I have a hospital on the line about donation and three more to call by five o’clock.”

Steve took the pages and flicked through them half-heartedly. Bernard couldn’t see him from behind the door but he heard the sigh. He’d been hearing that sigh with increasing regularity. It signalled something in the area of pity, which rankled him more than he liked to admit. He wasn’t the one who had been falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon; he wasn’t the one who became nauseous every other meal; he was not the one with an expiry date hanging over his head. If anyone was worthy of pity, it was Steve, and Bernard refused to subject him to that indignity.

“You know they won’t give me a transplant when I’m still drinking?” said Steve. He did know. He hated it. “Ethics, and all.”

“Then stop drinking, for God’s sake!”

“Bit late for that, don’t you think?” And he could hear the smile in Steve’s voice, the dry humour. “The withdrawal would probably kill me before the liver.”

A sigh of his own, signalling something in the area of anger.

“Look, just– I’ll find something. I’ll find something. I promise you.”

“Promise yourself; you seem to need it more than me,” Steve put the pages on top of the printer, voice somber. His hands were shaking. “Just don’t run yourself into the ground, okay? I need you.”

Bernard nodded, unseen, “Of course.”

Steve’s footsteps retreated in time with the hold music. Bernard stared at his screen, at the file in his hand, at the forest of paper around him, seeing only the potential futures in his head.

“Steve?” He called.

“Yeah?”

“Could I take a genetic sample from you? Just in case?”

“Anything for you, Bernie.”

...

    It was snowing. Bernard Merrick was dressed for the weather in the loosest sense: a long coat, a scarf, but with business shoes and no hat. The frigid air nipped at his ears and the snow soaked through his trousers as he knelt in front of the freshly turned earth, which was only just beginning to turn white. 

Steve Gandu had not been a religious man; there was no church, no service, no stone angel, just a funeral, a wake with a noticeable lack of alcohol, and Bernard paying vigil until the sun set or he collapsed from cold, whichever came first. Who did you pray to, he wondered, when neither of you believed much in an afterlife but you liked the idea of someone keeping him safe, now that he was out of reach?

    It was a strange thought to have, and unproductive. He let it become numb and fall away from sensation as his fingers had.

    The last few months had been bad. He’d been bad. Steve had been coping as well as he could, but was also bad when it came down to it. His eyes had lost their life before the rest of him, the whites yellowing as they became more and more drowsy. Sometimes he’d wake up confused, or blood would end up in places blood shouldn’t be, and Bernard would find him with a can of something foul scrounged from who-knows-where. Those were bad days. 

On bad days Bernard would find himself gravitating towards the study even after he’d promised to leave alone the ‘mad scientist pipe dreams’, as Steve occasionally referred to them. Not all of them were mad. Every now and then there was a spark of brilliance among the paragraphs of otherwise uncreative research papers. He’d pursue the thread until he found the end, which was usually before anything left the realm of theory, a brick wall few were willing to take a sledgehammer to. Ethics, funding, feasibility. All seemed negligible in the early hours of the morning, but apparently biochemistry did not occur before dawn.

Steve would look at him sadly, once he would return to bed, eyes red from screen strain. Bernard would smile at him, and they would both be too tired to do anything about it but sleep.

There was no one left to smile sadly at him anymore. No one to sigh dramatically when he brought up a new idea he’d found, or make snarky comments about death and inevitability and karma. It was just Bernard Merrick and the snow.

The house was empty which meant he could slam as many doors as he wanted. Papers flew as he swept into the study with a crash. They didn’t matter, they hadn’t helped him. Disorder could reign among them until he screwed them up and set them alight in the garden. It could all burn.

His snow-sodden shoes made the print underfoot bleed. Memory stick, wallet, change of clothes. That was all that mattered. Car keys, they mattered too. Only the things he needed to get out and not come back, at least for a night. Toothbrush? Yes, and toothpaste. Nothing else.

Articles were stuck to his shoes as he left the house, door locked only due to a chance remembering in the fervour. He noticed the papers only once he was in the car and threw them into the passenger seat. 

Where to go? Simple enough: work. They did good things at work, things he could use. He would stay in his office. He would find an answer among all of the meaninglessness around him. He would make things better. He would fix everything. He would. He would.

...

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was entirely natural. It’s practically indistinguishable from the real thing. Bravo, Dr Merrick.”

A small crowd had gathered around the plexiglass container. Visually, the contents was unremarkable, if visceral: a wet, reddish mass that was ever-so-slightly pulsing where blood-filled tubes pierced the surface. Beyond the visual, it was the culmination of the department’s collective careers, brought to fruition by Merrick’s own contributions.

Months of work, years for some, and now they had a liver.

“Thank you, Dr Wilson, your feedback is greatly appreciated.”

It was a liver. A real, organic liver grown entirely in the labs.

Grinning, someone slapped him on the back. “You know, Merrick, I think this makes up for all that time off. I bet this’ll be on the other side of clinical trials before the year is out.”

“Just need to consolidate all the data,” added another, “And we’ll breeze through peer review.”

Before all this, he’d expected livers to be bigger, somehow.

“Saving lives, Merrick, this is what it’s all about. This is why you join the industry!”

Adrenaline-fueled conversation filled the room, most of it only half directed at him. His reflection in the plexiglass stared back at him, tight-lipped. Behind the reflection, the liver glistened. It had been made with the genetic material of some poor sod who still had years to live. They’d stopped drinking, presumably, to make the whole venture worth the investment.

The liver wouldn’t bring back Steve. It would save a life – and many more by its legacy – but it couldn’t bring back Steve. It was just one liver, and that wasn’t enough anymore.

“Merrick.”

Trial eighty-one looked up at him with beady eyes; its distinctive black-spotted ear flicked disinterestedly. Only a day old, and it appeared identical to the photos of the original mouse, which had died of old age around the time that trial thirty-seven had woken prematurely and drowned, still half-formed.

“Merrick.”

Trial eighty-one had so far avoided the pitfalls of its predecessors. It had taken sixty attempts to make the switch from accelerated aging, and another twenty to iron out the kinks in developing a physically mature specimen from the initial stem cells. Maybe this time he had succeeded.

“Merrick!”

He blinked. “What?”

“I was being serious yesterday, we need to watch ourselves or we’ll get–” Merrick’s supervisor reached the desk, moving through the jungle of pipes and cables. “Is that–?”

“That,” said Merrick, not taking his eyes off trial eighty-one, “Is our first mature clone to survive twenty-four hours out of the growth-support system.”

“Oh my god. Merrick–”

“I know, I know, but I think we’ve done it.”

“You’ve done it.”

“Well, yes, but it’s on behalf of the company, of course. This is our research.”

“No, no. You don’t– Merrick, the boss needs to talk to you about this. We’ve had people– This is a major thing – way beyond the scope of the project – and we can’t just–” She gestured at the mouse, “Do that. Not– not here.”

“You seem to be overlooking the fact that I just did,” smirked Merrick. His supervisor dug her hands into her face.

“Listen, just– the boss needs to talk to you. Now.”

“Of course. I think I’m just about finished here,” he replied, gently scooping up trial eighty-one and putting it in a small enclosure.

“Yeah, I think so too. You’d better be up there ASAP.”

His new lab was in an unassuming building in the outskirts of the city – the industrial sort of outskirts, filled with warehouses and trainyards all in various states of rust. The main entrance looked more like a side-door, painted in flaking blue, opened from the inside with a crash bar designed for fire exits. In the corridor, the plaster was flaking off the walls, coating the exposed pipes in pale dust. The few rooms he had been allotted for his exile, however, had been repainted and retiled upon his arrival. It still wasn’t the old labs, but it was clean, it was big enough, and it was his.

There had been an ultimatum: he could no longer work towards human cloning while openly under the company’s employ. Covertly, however, with reduced funding and a team only of those who volunteered for a supposed career suicide, he could continue. He would owe the company money for their investment, but their name would be kept from any research papers and, by extension, any controversy.

The deal was fine by Merrick. At least, it would be if some of the supposed volunteers were actually trustworthy. He could have sworn that one of them was reporting on him to someone a phone call away. Another was far too eager to know the ins-and-outs of the process. Merrick kept his office locked.

A small menagerie of animals had come and gone by the time he felt ready to take on the endgame. The success rates were climbing, and their equipment was no longer as foreign as it had been – not to mention bigger.

It was after hours. Everyone else had left and Merrick was staring at the completed designs for the final growth-support system. 

Could he do it? 

Obviously, he could do it, but could he do it with so many suspicious eyes on him? Was it safe to make this final step in the lab, which had less-than-stellar security? What would happen if the spy reported to an ethical committee? Or if his work was stolen and misappropriated? What would happen to the clone, if anyone knew about it?

Finding out was not worth the risk, he decided; he would have to find another way.

He took the design sheet, downloaded the digital backup, and put a coil of tubing in the boot of his car. None of it would be missed, and now he needed it in his own hands – his hands alone.

...

It took two months to gradually assemble everything in his basement, and in that time he finally got used to being alone in the house. He’d never been superstitious, but he couldn’t help but shiver every time he had heard the boiler knock on the walls or passed the cold spot halfway down the basement stairs. There were two new locks on the door and he hadn’t opened the curtains in the front room since he had begun to work on the project at home.

In the lab, the construction of the new growth-support system was months behind, interrupted by small, hard to find mishaps that threw the entire system out of balance. Two loose bolts one day, a punctured tube another. Poor luck, said one scientist. A sign, said another. Merrick simply tapped the desk irritably and said that there had better not be any bad luck tomorrow. Often, there was. Funny how things happened like that.

He had requested a new genetic sample for the lab’s first test, claimed the one he was originally planning to use had been damaged in the freezing process. Now, in the safety of his basement, he carefully placed Steve’s sample into the analyser. The computer whirred for a few minutes and he watched, drinking the fifth coffee of the day, forcing his hands not to shake from caffeine or otherwise. Readings flicked onto the screen. The sample was safe. It would work. Just another month, and he could hear Steve’s voice again.

A few taps of a keyboard, and the arduous process of creating the first human clone began. He pulled up a chair, his eyes not leaving the system until he fell asleep hours later, still sitting upright in front of the foundations of a human skeleton.

...

The clone was not Steve. Perhaps that should have been predictable.

It did not have his memories, it did not have his wit, it did not have his rough-around-the-edges smile or his world-weary optimism. But it did have his eyes, and, once it learnt to speak, it had his voice, albeit stilted as his never was. It was a newborn in Steve’s body, with Steve’s brain if not his mind.

It was not Steve. It was a facsimile. However, it was Steve enough to put the thrill of success through Merrick’s nerves. The clone was a second iteration of Steve, similar but different. Manufactured. Gandu Two Alpha.

Good enough. He would always be good enough.

After the initial birth, as it were, after fluid splashed across the floor, soaking his shoes and the air was filled with gasping and begging and “breathe, breathe, breathe,” after choked sobs in two voices had abated, after eyes had opened, clouded with unfamiliarity, after Merrick felt the blow of being a stranger to those eyes, after he locked the pain away with viscous practicality and helped dry everything down, after all of that, he left the basement. The deed was done. It was alive.

That night he cried himself to sleep, back in the bed they had shared for the first time since Steve’s death, and the clone remained alone downstairs.

Eventually, he collected himself. The morning was spent teaching the clone to walk and then helping it up the stairs into the kitchen. There was no conversation, only Merrick’s monosyllabic encouragement and the clone’s attempt to catch the eyes that looked anywhere but its face.

In the days following, when Merrick wasn’t at work, he was guiding the clone – someone had thought of another term, a euphemism, but that was what it was: a clone – through human experience. The messy basics, initially, hygiene and eating and drinking, but then speech, abstract ideas, self-sufficiency. He set boundaries but allowed free roam around the house, not that he could have done much to stop it. Alcohol had long been banished from the house, so he needn’t worry about that, and he had long forgotten to pay the cable fee, so there were few opportunities for the clone to see something Merrick wasn’t ready to explain. The basement was locked again, cleaned and relegated to the back of his mind.

A finger gently prodded Merrick in the sternum, eyes questioning, brow furrowed with the intent seriousness of a three-year-old with a mission. 

“Yes, this is me, Bernard.” 

“Bernard,” confirmed the clone’s achingly familiar voice, “Me.” 

“No, no, you’re you, I’m me.” Merrick took the unnaturally soft hand in his own and pointed it at the clone. 

“Me?” Repeated the clone. 

“Yes.” 

The clone smiled, somehow managing to make it too wide, even if Steve had always smiled more than Bernard. It was strange that Merrick was more aware of those little details now than he had been when the real thing had still been right in front of him.

“Bernard?” The clone’s hand hadn’t moved from where Merrick had put it.

Merrick pointed to himself. “I’m Bernard. That’s my name.”

A nod of understanding, clarity, then, “My name?”

The clone wasn’t completely dopey, not anymore; it knew what it was asking. Perhaps last week it would have been a case of parroting, but now the clone was beginning to attach meaning to words. It took a few tries, sometimes from different approaches, but slowly things were clicking into place and comprehension was dawning.

Still, the gaze was fixed on Merrick. Still, Merrick found it difficult to meet.

“Bernard.” Not a question. Deliberately so. “My name?” A demand, skewing strangely into an English accent, imitating Merrick’s own tone.

What was its name?

He had named it on the documents, but the thought had been fleeting in his mind, where he mostly thought of it as ‘it’ or ‘the clone’ or, if he was feeling particularly morose, ‘not him’. The name was comfortingly clinical, distant and inhuman. He could shorten it to just ‘Gandu’ but that was a step too close to calling the thing ‘Steve’. If he couldn’t look it in the eye, he couldn’t call it by his name.

“Your name is Gandu Two Alpha,” he said, ignoring the way it felt strangely final, as if this, of all moments, was the one he couldn’t turn back from.

“Gan-du Doo– Gand-u… Two Alv– Gon–” The clone stopped with a huff, frown morphing into one of frustration. Apparently ‘Gandu Two Alpha’ was more of a mouthful than ‘Bernard’. Who’d have thought?

“Me,” decided the clone.

    ...

By the time the lab’s version (which had been completely dismantled and reassembled in an effort to fix several loose connections, twice) was ready for its first trial, Gandu Two Alpha had mastered basic speech and was gradually learning to spell. If it tried, it could probably work its mouth around its name, but it seemed content with writing ‘me’ instead, and if Merrick hadn’t wanted to push Steve’s name onto the thing, there was no one meaningful to judge.

Work, however useless it was becoming, was still taking up half of Merrick’s day. From what he could tell, the clone spent most of that time pottering around, inspecting inconsequential little details. Merrick had hidden all of the photos of Steve in a box under his bed, but it was only a matter of time before the clone got curious enough to venture there. Already, it had blindly reorganised the bookshelf in the front room, presumably by spending hours taking each book out, scrutinising every aspect of it, and then forgetting where it had originally been and putting it back at random. At least it hadn’t moved everything around in the kitchen.

Every now and then, Merrick would catch himself smiling as he watched the clone stumble through life. It was still painful to see that face with none of Steve behind it, but he found himself growing used to the differences and the clone had a captivating innocence to him– it– that was more endearing than Merrick wanted to admit. The smile that the clone often gave him when Merrick came back at lunch was not Steve’s smile by any stretch, but it was earnest and the fact that Merrick was the cause of that smile somehow made it better.

The clone had all of its own little eccentricities: an accent that was a strange mesh of the one its mouth was adapted to and the one it heard Merrick use; a fascination with water (Merrick had once come home to all of the taps running and the clone staring into the bath); and an insatiable sweet tooth that earned Merrick a wild grin anytime he made jam on toast. It was easy to forget that the clone was ever intended to be Steve, and that somehow made it easier to be around him– it. They had a strange little harmony between them that hummed beneath the heartbreak and the stilted navigation of conversation.

It was nice, and Merrick learned to accept that it was.

One evening, they were sitting at the kitchen table playing Scrabble – Merrick had decided to put the clone’s memory and spelling skills to the test – when there was a knock at the door. The clone jumped, skewing the tile he was placing. He realigned it with deliberate precision, eyes darting between the board, Merrick, and the hallway.

“Over,” he read.

Merrick smiled, rising, “Good, v is quite high scoring. I’ll be back; I just need to see who this is. Stay here, okay? Don’t follow me.”

“Okay. Is it work?”

“Usually I go to work, not the other way around,” Merrick replied, dryly. The clone tried to smile, but the anxiety of the unfamiliar made it flicker. The door knocked again, more loudly.

One of Merrick’s peers from work was behind the door when it opened. “You’re a hard man to get hold of, Dr Merrick. You keep your phone on silent or what?” He didn’t, he just let the calls ring through. They were never worth his time.

“Ambrose, what brings you here?”

“Oh, nothing much, just that some of the guys were working overtime and got the system up and running,” he grinned. Ambrose was a relatively young man, the kind instilled with that insufferable swagger that made Merrick want to put him on admin duty for a month. “We need a sample, preferably before the thing falls apart again.”

“And you came to me at eight o’clock in the evening because…?”

“Well, we need your go-ahead before we can make any decisions about this sort of thing, y’know? You are the one in charge. And you still haven’t got back to me with that new sample you were talking about months ago. After the first one got... damaged...?”

Ambrose’s eyes were fixed on something beyond Merrick’s shoulder. Urging himself not to sigh too heavily, he turned around to see the clone standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Good morning,” called the clone.

Ambrose swallowed, nodding. “Evening.” Then he looked back at Merrick. “Is that–”

“No.”

“I thought he was de–”

“No.”

Ambrose grinned in a way that Merrick didn’t like. This was the problem with normal humans: they always had an ulterior motive. At least Two Alpha was always genuine or, failing that, a terrible liar. This time Merrick did sigh. “You’d better come in.”

Ambrose didn’t hesitate, his attention fixed on the clone, who smiled nervously back and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Oscar. Oscar Ambrose. What about you?”

“What about me?” Their voices moved into the kitchen as Merrick worked on relocking the door.

“What’s your name?”

In his mind’s eye, Merrick could see the frown on Two Alpha’s face as he worked on recalling it. The last lock clicked into place.

“Gandu Two Alpha.”

Ambrose shot Merrick a disbelieving look as he entered. “Dr Merrick–!”

Merrick glared at him and played his turn on the Scrabble board. Resolute. Two Alpha mouthed the spelling to himself, expression somewhere between indignance and admiration. It was a long word by his standards and Merrick had so far been playing five letters maximum.

“Work on your turn. Ambrose and I need to talk upstairs. Stay here. Really, this time.”

“I did stay here; I didn’t leave the kitchen.”

Cheeky brat. Merrick rolled his eyes, unable to maintain his stern facade. Ambrose was still staring, so he dragged him up to the study by an arm. 

As soon as the door was closed, Ambrose was talking. “‘Two Alpha’? What sort of name is that? Is he actually an agnate, you really did it? Wait–” He stopped dead, processing something. “Are you the reason the system keeps breaking? You want the tech all for yourself!”

Merrick thrust the desk chair across the room. “Sit.”

Ambrose’s legs gave way as he sat. Behind his back, Merrick’s own hands were shaking. “None of what you’ve seen or heard today will leave this house, understand?”

A skeptical narrowing of eyes. That damn arrogance, even as the man was slumped in Merrick’s shadow. As if there weren’t an innocent life at risk, sitting downstairs and playing Scrabble, unaware of what damage loose lips could do to his entire way of life. Irreverent bastard.

He lunged forward, pinning Ambrose’s wrists to the armrests. “I said: do you understand?”

Ambrose nodded unconvincingly and then winced when Merrick leaned into his hands. Merrick spat, “Yes, I sabotaged the system. No, it was not to hoard it. None of you can be trusted, not with him, so I did it myself. I needed you to be delayed.”

“So he’s your…”

“His genetic donor was my partner, yes, not that that’s any of your business.”

“And… Sorry, I can’t get over that name–”

“It’s better than Human Trial One.”

Ambrose gave a conceding nod, “Point taken.” Then, “Hey, could you ease off a bit? I can’t feel my fingers.” Merrick pushed into him, perhaps taking too much pleasure in the way he folded at the pressure, before moving to lean against the desk. Hissing, Ambrose tried to rub the pain out of his wrists. “God, you don’t do things by halves, do you?”

Merrick glared.

“Okay, okay, whatever, water under the bridge, doesn’t matter, but– do you know what this means? It works! You’ve made a human agnate! Have you– have you done any testing? Like, genetic analysis? Is he one-for-one identical?”

The main negative to having someone in your house, Merrick decided, is that you couldn’t walk out. “I haven’t taken any samples. Cognition has been my main focus, if not his survival. He seems accurate enough, physically. He has no memories, though, and he’s had to learn everything practically from scratch.”

“Sucks. Bet you were hoping for a carbon copy, memories and all, huh? Hang on, have you…” 

Merrick could see the way his mind had turned and was unimpressed. Let him wade through the embarrassment, Merrick wouldn’t fish him out. “Have I what?”

“...Kissed him?” Ambrose’s shoulders were hiked up to his ears. Idiot.

“Mentally, he is a child, Ambrose, get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Sorry, sorry. Had to ask, though, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t.”

Ambrose sighed as if Merrick was the insufferable one. “Look, I think we’re overlooking just how massive this is. If we could make this on a mass scale, we could– I don’t know. This is the kind of thing that very wealthy people would pay a lot of money for.”

“Millions of dollars for… an organ transplant?”

“Millions of dollars for an organ transplant with a wait-time of days, maximum, practically zero chance of the body rejecting it, and it would be up to the client to decide whether or not they should get a transplant – no lifestyle changes necessary just to tick boxes. That’s millions of dollars for twenty more years of life. Maybe more! If I were the kind of person who had a billion just lying around…”

Steve hadn’t had a million, let alone a billion dollars collecting dust in a drawer somewhere. If he had – if either of them had – would it have made a difference?

“Hell,” continued Ambrose, “at that point immortality is within reach. Imagine that, Merrick! Once the surgical world catches up, you could just keep going forever!”

“And we just keep harvesting from the agnates,” His voice was far more somber than he intended it to be.

“Yeah, I mean, if you think about it, the net result is positive. In terms of life, that is. If you count them as real people, which– which I wouldn’t, legally. Not if we wanted to sell anything.”

At some point, Merrick realised, he had begun to think of Two Alpha as a ‘he’. Somewhere else – before or after, he didn’t know – he had begun to care for him as an individual. Perhaps it was latent love for Steve, or perhaps it was an independent affection for someone who was slowly learning who they were as he guided them along. Either way, something in the back of his mind reared at the idea of Two Alpha being killed for parts. 

If Two Alpha had existed before Steve had died… 

Part of Merrick wanted to say that he wouldn’t have sacrificed him, that he’d have kept both for as long as possible and accepted Steve’s death when it came. The rest knew that he wouldn’t have given himself the chance to care for him – Two Alpha would have been on the operating table before he knew how to cry for help.

Sometimes Merrick hated himself.

“And we could do it on that scale?” It was hardly a question.

“You’re the one to ask.”

“We could.” He ignored the sound of the kitchen tap being turned on and off, on and off. “If we had enough money to do so.”

“Well that, my friend, is where you’re lucky I was the one to find out.” Lucky was a strong word. Merrick didn’t feel very lucky. Oblivious to it all, Ambrose continued, energised and far too loud for the time of evening, “I’ve got some sway with one of the banks, and if we proposed the project to, say, the Department of Defense, I’m sure they’d be more than willing to make an investment. I can handle all of the marketing, networking, whatever, you’d just have to get the science going.”

“You’re saying we start a new company – not research-based – to sell organs grown in…” He wanted to say sentient beings, or humans, but already he could tell that it was a dangerous train of thought, “Agnates?”

“I doubt the boss wants us to do it with his funding. Breaking off is the only way to go.” It was a valid point and Merrick had already been one bad day away from walking out and never returning, but starting an entirely new business venture had never been on the table – he was a scientist, not a businessman.

“Why should I agree to this?”

“Why not?! Millions, Dr Merrick, why would you turn that down?”

“Agnates are hardly cheap on the production end, not to mention upkeep.”

“They’ll pay for themselves, you know they will. What’s your problem with this? Your real problem.”

The real problem? As if he would spill his emotional turmoil to the kid with the supposed business skills. No. Merrick lied, “I feel you’re underestimating exactly how much time, money, and resources this will take.”

“And I feel you’re underestimating how worth it it will be.”

Sighing, Merrick took off his glasses and began to clean them, using the distraction to sort his thoughts.

Two Alpha had never left the house. He would never need to know exactly what Merrick was doing if he agreed to this plan. Merrick could create hundreds of agnates and keep Two Alpha safe for himself, all the while he would be saving lives like Steve’s from preventable deaths. If he just didn’t talk to them, if he didn’t stimulate their individual development beyond the physical, didn’t allow them to be much more than walking organs, they wouldn’t really be people. Not like Two Alpha. They would just be insurance policies, clean and clinical.

He put his glasses back on. They were smudged.

“Fine. I’m in.” Ambrose’s grin returned and Merrick wondered if he’d regret putting this much trust in the man. “But we’re doing this my way. I don’t want any surprises, understand?”

“Of course, Dr Merrick.” He held out a hand. “I think this is the start of something incredible.”

Merrick shook it. “I want you in my office tomorrow morning; we need to plan this properly.”

Ambrose was already moving back downstairs, “Nine AM, sharp, Dr Merrick.”

“Make that eleven.” God knew he wouldn’t be able to cope with the man so early in the day. He unlocked the front door and waved Ambrose out.

“You won’t regret this!”

“Make sure of it.”

With the door finally closed, Merrick could acknowledge the headache worming its way into his eye sockets. He needed to sleep this off.

“Is he gone?” asked Two Alpha, standing by the kitchen door, just barely behind the threshold. His weight was shifting from foot to foot anxiously. 

“Yes. I trust you haven’t run the taps dry?”

“No,” the clone smiled, “There’s still water in them, look!”

Merrick put a glass under the tap as Two Alpha demonstrated, nodding seriously. “Very good. And did you play your turn?”

“Yup, error. I had a bunch of R’s.”

He drained half of the glass and stared at the board. “Do you want to continue? It’s getting late.” 

Two Alpha seemed to disagree with that assessment, but he also seemed to have hit his energy limit for the day because his objection was broken by a yawn. “Maybe,” he conceded. “What was Oscar Ambrose doing here?”

They left the Scrabble untidied on the table, climbing the stairs to the guest room that Two Alpha now occupied. 

“He just wanted to talk to me about work, nothing to concern yourself over.”

“He seemed nice.”

If only you knew the things he is planning, Merrick thought, before saying, “I suppose he did.”

Two Alpha nodded, content in his first assessment of any human beyond Merrick. “Goodnight, Bernard.”

“Goodnight.”

...

    In far less time than was reasonable, Ambrose had wrangled the lab’s growth system and plans out of the company’s possession – easy, he claimed, when they had refused to have their name on any of it – and into the asset pool of the newly christened Merrick Biotech. Soon enough, they had enough investors to buy land in a barren part of the Arizona desert, specifically an abandoned missile facility complete with underground silos and outdated wiring.

    “The missiles were Titan II’s, you know?” said Ambrose, unlocking the facility for the first time. “They were going to be replaced, that’s why they were decommissioned, but the replacements were never produced.”

    “Fascinating,” Merrick lied. He had never been to Arizona before, but the desert reminded him of Steve, beautiful in that rugged, slightly unforgiving sort of way. Even after only fifteen minutes of direct sunlight, he could feel his skin burning.

    They stayed in the nearby motel for days at a time, returning home for a few weeks at most before something else required their supervision. Two Alpha remained at the house, alone. Merrick found it more anxiety-inducing than he anticipated, unused to no longer being able to check in every few hours.

    One morning he came downstairs to see Two Alpha intently scribbling on printer paper, seemingly trying to cover the whole sheet in graphite.

    “You don’t always come back,” he said, not moving his gaze from the table.

    “Of course I do,” replied Merrick, surprised by the sullen attitude, “I’m here now, aren’t I? So I must have come back.”

    “But not always.” Two Alpha had the look on his face that betrayed his frustration when he couldn’t convey his thoughts properly. It used to be an almost permanent fixture but months later his communication had improved to the extent that Merrick struggled to remember the last time he saw it. “Sometimes you’re not here when I go to sleep or when it’s morning and I don’t know what to do. Sometimes you come back and it’s good and you don’t go for ages. But then you do go and you don’t come back.”

Merrick sat next to him, put an arm around him. “I’m sorry. Work has changed. It used to be nearby but now it’s far away, so I have to stay there for a few days every time. I try to stay here as much as I can, I promise.”

Two Alpha stopped scribbling, eyes distant with thought. “What’s promise?”

It was always jarring to find the little gaps in Two Alpha’s knowledge, the oversights and the things that seemed too obvious to miss. Each one would be filled, however, and Merrick took care to do it well.

“A promise is when you say something and you mean it. If you promise to do something, you should always try your very best to do it. Don’t make them lightly and don’t break them.”

“Do people break them anyway?”

“Yes, some people. That just means you shouldn’t trust them when they promise things. Especially big things.”

“Do you break promises?”

Yes, he thought, though his promise to Steve was not one he wanted to talk about. “I try not to,” he said instead, “But sometimes I get carried away and make promises that I could never hope to keep.”

“Big promises?”

“Yes, though I don’t think anyone expected me to actually fulfil them. Except myself, maybe.”

“And you promise to stay here as much as you can?”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been doing.”

Two Alpha refused to look him in the eye and returned to his paper. “... I’m not sure it’s enough.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t promise much more.”

An understanding nod. “The promise would be too big to keep.”

“Yes.”

Two Alpha processed the conversation and Merrick waited. Eventually, Two Alpha sighed and leaned into Merrick’s hold. “But you’ll come back eventually. You won’t always be gone.” Two statements, more self-reassurance than anything.

Merrick nodded. “I… May be able to get you a phone. So that you can talk to me when I’m far away.” It was a risk, of course, a hole in the protective wall of isolation that Merrick had erected around him, but it would put both of their minds at ease. He could try to put restrictions on it, to prevent internet access and unwanted calls. A curated library of apps would help keep him occupied while Merrick was alone. Yes, it was worth the risk.

“That would be good,” Two Alpha agreed.

    ...

The phone proved its worth but also highlighted Two Alpha’s loneliness. Previously, it had been relatively easy to forget that every hour Merrick spent away was another for Two Alpha to kill at home. On Merrick’s first day away after buying the phone, Two Alpha called almost hourly until Merrick had to tell him to ease off while he was working, after which the calls came every three hours on the dot.

On his second trip, three weeks later, Merrick was flicking through the channels in his motel room when the fourth call of the day came through.

“Hello?” Even after so many of these calls, his voice still raised as if there was any question as to who was on the other end. It felt silly. Distant.

“Hi, Bernard.”

Usually it was at this point that Two Alpha would choose an arbitrary conversation starter, anything from the weather to where paper came from. Instead, there was quiet. Merrick pulled the phone from his ear, checked the call was still working, then put it back and asked, “Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” came the voice, strained in the way voices were when their face was pressed into a pillow. “We don’t need to talk. I just…” There was a staticky sigh. “We can just be together like this.”

Something hurt beneath his collarbone and he pretended it had nothing to do with the creeping guilt rising in the back of his mind.

“Okay,” he replied, voice strained in the way voices were when emotion pressed into them. Strange how such abstract things had such physical symptoms.

Steve had liked these moments, the ones where the conversation had run dry and there was nothing but companionable silence. Nothing owed, no performance, no give and take, just being near someone you loved. That was what he lived for. He enjoyed the rest of it, sure, but this– this was what the it all amounted to. When he had explained this, half-asleep on Bernard’s shoulder,

Beyond Steve, however, Merrick found people’s presences grating. They were always watching too intently or not listening enough or putting far too much thought into the act of existing near him. It made him hyper-aware of every infuriating aspect of the situation, on guard and tiring. Steve made it easy to drift, semi-conscious, relaxed. With Two Alpha he had never been truly on edge, rather wary of his own tongue slipping, saying something that would break the translucent illusion he now lived in. As such, the silence of Two Alpha was comforting in a completely different way; no chance of error when there was uncomplicated quiet between them.

Merrick lay back and allowed himself the calm.

Construction was underway at the facility, installing new wiring and digging out new space. He didn’t pretend to know much of what any of it meant, why any of it was happening the way it was, but the schematics that he had been talked through seemed sound enough to his inexpert eye. Ideally, he’d be able to let the construction team do their work and stay home, but such projects were never without their hitches and Ambrose was never without his impatience.

“I know you have your hang-ups about this whole thing,” he had said that day, having dragged Merrick into an unpainted office, “But we need you to be here. Like, really be here. Whatever’s going on in that head of yours can’t take up so much of your attention; yesterday you signed off on a cement order that was ten times under what we need – if I hadn’t caught it this morning we’d be another week behind schedule.”

“You said I wouldn’t have to handle any of this.”

“Cross-checking numbers hardly needs a business degree, Merrick! Your head isn’t in the game. I’m here a week more than you per month. What’s your excuse?”

“Well, unlike you, I have responsibilities at home.”

“What? The agnate?”

Merrick had clenched his teeth and tried his hardest not to glare too venomously – the last thing he needed was to get over-defensive. That way lay exposing himself to a man who would not hesitate to attack such weakness in the name of the bigger picture. Ambrose took his terse silence as a confirmation.

“The agnate can manage by itself – it has so far. This is so much bigger than that, this needs you to put the effort in. What difference will it make to the agnate? You just won’t be around three goddamn weeks a month – who do you know with that sort of time off? It doesn’t happen! This is work, so treat it like work. Prioritise.”

“My private life is just that: private,” Merrick had replied, enunciating sharply, “You would do well to remind yourself of that, Oscar.” And then he had left, wondering if he regretted using Ambrose’s first name. In the end, he decided that he didn’t, which was the easiest problem to solve.

The entire conversation had been repeating in his head like a blinking indicator, only silenced once the underlying issue was confronted. It was true that his total working hours had tanked after leaving the company and it was true that he rarely had more than seventy-five percent of his brain focused within those hours, however there was an entire life hinging on his own and it did so far more directly than the abstract lives that Merrick Biotech could save.

Two Alpha hated being alone and Merrick was loath to extend that time anymore than he had. Already, Two Alpha was navigating more negative emotions than he had ever felt and Merrick could only guide him so well with an entire week of absence looming over both of them, let alone two. The dependence could be called unhealthy if not for Two Alpha’s age.

Still, the tension was undoing them both, the phone simply a loosened valve to release the pressure before something exploded. A coin-sized valve in the Hoover dam, more a weak spot for the pressure to crack than any real aid. Perhaps Two Alpha needed to learn to alleviate the tension by himself, reduce his dependence just enough that there wasn’t such a weight on Merrick’s shoulders.

But how to do it?

He would need to do some research – out of work hours – but he should let Two Alpha down slowly before he could let himself get caught up in radical solutions. Gradually easing him off calling so regularly would help. That was a simple enough step to take.

The phone told him that the call had lasted over ten minutes, most of which was dead air. Their silence hadn’t yet been broken. He sighed.

“Hey.” Thinking about it, he’d never addressed him as Two Alpha. Perhaps it was a bit too inhuman. But was now really the time to think of a more endearing name? “You know that I get charged per minute?”

“For what?” The voice was soft, the tension melted away. Merrick hated the way that his couldn’t do the same.

“For these calls.” Silence. “So– so I’m going to have to go now. We can talk tomorrow. Or not talk. Up to you.”

“Oh.” Soft again, but not in the same way. Damn it. “Okay.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Bernard. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, instinctively, though he didn’t quite know what for. In the moments it took for him to wonder, the line went dead.

...

Merrick stayed in Arizona for three days longer than he had originally planned, if only to get Ambrose off his back. Two Alpha had kept his calls to twice a day, morning and evening and kept both strictly within ten minutes. Merrick supposed that his words had gone deeper than intended and Two Alpha was hyper-aware of the time and money Merrick was using to talk to him. It was charming, in a bittersweet kind of way.

He was hoping that Two Alpha hadn’t noticed his extended stay, and as such he hadn’t brought it up. He would be back soon enough.

On the morning of his last day, the phone rang at eight o’clock exactly.

“Where are you?”

“I’m at work.”

“You can’t come back?” 

“Unless there’s an emergency,” he lied. Two Alpha had clung to his promise, used it to reason his way through Merrick’s absence. It felt cruel to exploit that trust, break the promise, but the semantics of whether or not he truly could have returned earlier saved him from complete self-hatred.

“No, no emergency. Is there an emergency with you?”

“No, why would there be?”

“I dunno.”

The rest of the conversation was subdued, though Two Alpha often tended to grow withdrawn in his loneliness until Merrick returned and he bounced back. Nothing abnormal. No reason to be concerned. None at all.

Hours later, when Merrick was digitising spreadsheets at something resembling a desk, the phone rang again. He frowned at it and picked it up with a speed he would never admit to being panicked.

“Mr Merrick?” asked an unfamiliar voice.

“Yes?”

“I’m calling from St Luke’s Hospital about a patient we’ve just received from a recent motor incident. You were the only emergency contact.”

“What?” he croaked.

“Unfortunately, the patient had no ID and was unable to provide a name. Are you able to come to the hospital at this time?”

No. No. It couldn’t be–

“I– I’m in Arizona, I can get there in– nine hours? Where did you find him?”

The matter-of-fact tone of the answer didn’t help calm him as the caller listed an address barely ten metres from his house. Already, the spreadsheets were abandoned in the wake of his strides to the nearest exit.

“What condition is he in?”

“I can’t tell you much without you here to confirm your identity and relation to the patient, but his prognosis is poor. What did you say his name is?”

Merrick hung up. That was not a question he would ever be able to answer, not to anyone other than Two Alpha himself. Even then…

No. Now was not the time.

He ran.

...

Since the 2007 American Transport Initiative, high-speed maglevs connected major cities down each coast and across the southern states, drastically reducing travel times on even cross-continental scales. Unfortunately, there was still a two hour drive to the Phoenix station – perhaps once the system was more established he could petition for another to be built in Tucson, the drive was easily the most grating experience of his life – a four hour trip along the Latitude Line, and another three hours of sporadic stop-starting up the Eastern Seaboard. His loose interpretation of the speed limit in Arizona cut thirty minutes off his prediction but the extended adrenaline high made the journey feel like aeons.

He was already hammering the open door button when the train hummed to a stop and squeezed through the moment the doors allowed him. No one batted an eye at the sight of yet another smartly dressed man rushing with no regard for those in his way and he wouldn’t have noticed if they had. The route to the hospital memorised on the journey, he was a gale force wind weaving between the crowds.

Merrick practically collided with the reception desk, making the receptionist jerk back in her rolling chair.

“I’m here for–” he gasped, caught his breath again, “For a man. Admitted about nine hours ago, no ID. I was called–”

The receptionist typed in the number he showed her once he fumbled his phone over the desk. “Well, the numbers match but we’ll need a proof of identity for you and also what relation you have to him.”

“I’m– I’m Bernard Merrick. I’m all he has, he has no family– except– except me. Please, I need to see him.”

“He has no name on the record, do you–”

“Where is he?”

“Just follow the blue line, he should be in room six. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

Merrick just about managed, “Thank you,” before he was moving again. Blue line. The signs blurring past identified it as the route to the ICU but the blurring was in his head as much as his vision. All he could see was the line. It was all he needed to see.

There was a man standing outside room six. Merrick almost missed him in his determination to pass through the door, but he stepped in the way, placing a hand on Merrick’s shoulder. The hold was probably meant to have some compassion to it, but all he registered was the firmness keeping him from entering.

“Mr Merrick, I presume? Please, a word before you go in.”

There must have been something wild in his eyes when they met the man’s face, because the grip on his shoulder became tighter.

“I’m Dr Colby; I’ve been looking after the patient since his arrival in the department. He is… gravely wounded. Honestly, I’m amazed he’s lasted this long. When you go in there, please, be gentle. The state he’s in may be shocking to see, but you must stay calm, for his sake.” Colby caught his eyes as they darted to the door. “Breathe, Mr Merrick. And… prepare yourself – it is unlikely that he’ll recover.”

Blood was rushing through his ears but those final words rang through his mind clear as anything. They couldn’t be true, the doctor was just pessimistic; he’d seen too many deaths in his career, he was seeing a ghost where there wasn’t one. Two Alpha would make it through. 

Nevertheless. “I need to see him.”

“He has been somewhat aware of his surroundings, so he may be able to talk to you. The best we’ve got from him is what we believe to be his first name, Alf, right?”

Merrick nodded, no longer feeling tethered to reality.

“The worst injuries were elsewhere – his heart has been… erratic. Try to keep any conversation from working him up. Just be there for him, okay?”

Frustration bubbled up – I know, that’s what I’ve been trying to do – but it was distant, as if it hadn’t accompanied him all the way from Arizona. All he could do was croak, “Please.”

Colby nodded solemnly and opened the door. Behind was a small room made smaller by the abundance of machinery, most of it feeding back to the pale shape on the bed. Merrick moved in, suddenly slowed as if moving over sacred ground.

“Hey,” he said, softly, and the eyes opened and his own began to sting. Two Alpha’s eyes were bloodshot to the extreme that the whites of one had become rust-dark. They looked up at him drowsily.

“...Bernard?” His voice was raw, from disuse or pained screaming Merrick couldn’t tell. He took the hand that tried to lift itself off the bed, weighed by the IV line. The fingers were cold but they wrapped around his, fitting like Steves’ had, positioned like his didn’t. 

“Yes, it’s me. I’m here.” Merrick had taken Steve’s left hand, at the end, traced the ring there, covered the back of his hand with his own. Now, he was on Two Alpha’s right, and the hand was upturned, nothing to trace but those lines he didn’t know how to read. Life line. Heart line. Fate line. Illegible.

“Good… I was… worried about you.”

“Worried? Why should you be worried?”

“You didn’t come back. I know you said–” Two Alpha’s voice caught on its raw edges and on the shortness of breath. Perhaps it caught on something else, Merrick could hardly judge. “You said that you would always come back, if you could, and you couldn’t always because of work but– usually you’re back after seven days, sometimes it’s eight. So I waited and– you were away for ten days, no coming back, so I thought–” He sniffed, a thin tear track catching the light to become visible. “I know– I know it wasn’t– you were still on the phone. Looking back, I shouldn’t have worried ‘cause you were still answering, but– I thought maybe something had happened so I went out, the way you go when you leave. To find you.”

He was openly sobbing now, the monitors around him grumbling at the strain it put on his respiratory system. Merrick knew that if he turned his attention to himself, he would see the same sorrow and regret on his own face, but he didn’t, his focus purely on the man on the bed. The man who, if he was willing to admit it, did look terrifyingly delicate. 

It was only in comparison to the clinically white sheets that Two Alpha’s skin looked at all alive. There were bandages covering half of what was visible, bruises covering what remained. Every movement, down to blinking, was measured, pained, subdued. All except the crying.

“I don’t remember– I walked for a bit, I think, then–” He tried to screw his eyes shut as if to block out the sensations still wracking his body, but the bruising was too much to do more than furrow his brow.

“It’s okay,” said Merrick, beginning to stroke the hand with his thumb. “It’s okay. I’m here now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. I should have kept you informed, that’s my fault.”

Two Alpha simply opened his eyes to look at him grimly. There was a depth, a weight to him now that there hadn’t been and Merrick desperately wished to relieve him of it. He met his gaze, unflinching, and let it hurt.

After a while, Two Alpha whispered, barely audible over the machines, “What’s going to happen to me?”

Merrick wished he could offer some spiritual belief, some promise of heaven or of rest. He wished that his first thought in response hadn’t been death, that clinging to his hope of Two Alpha’s survival wasn’t as hollowly delusional as it suddenly felt. He wished that he had anything to say that wasn’t a lie.

“I don’t know.”

“I– I never thought about it. ‘Cause I can only remember being alive, and you being alive too. But, now that… There must have been a time when I wasn’t alive, right?” He watched, a warped half-pride at working it out in his eyes, as Merrick nodded. “So… I think that maybe it’ll happen again. ‘Cause I feel like I’m… running out.”

Merrick felt himself slump forwards, head on their hands, his breathing refusing to work normally. It couldn’t happen again. Was it inevitable? If he tried again, would he be forced to watch this face die again, inhabited by yet another person with his own quirks, his unique endearing traits, a new name? A different death; illness, injury, what else? How many cooling hands would he have to hold for daring to pursue a different, kinder fate?

“You’re okay,” he said into the sheets.

“It hurts.”

Pulling his head back up, he moved one hand to Two Alpha’s shoulder, holding as lightly as he could to avoid causing any further pain. “I know,” he said, “But I’m here now. I’m here as long as you need.”

A weak smile. “Thank you.”

As he returned the smile, he pushed all of his sincerity to the fore. “I love you.”

It wasn’t the same love he had for Steve, but it didn’t need to be, because this was Two Alpha and he was enough. Love was the thing tearing him down from the inside, no regard for dignity, undeniable. Two Alpha deserved to know. If Merrick didn’t love him, he’d have lived his entire life unloved.

“Thank you,” Two Alpha repeated, “I love you too.”

With that, tears finally fell, landing on Two Alpha’s arm. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“It’s okay,” he added, echoing Merrick’s speech the way he had when he was still learning. How long ago? A year? He was so painfully young… “You’re okay.”

All Merrick could do was repeat, “I’m sorry.” You deserved better.

“I think, maybe…” mumbled Two Alpha, eyes becoming drowsy, “Maybe it’ll just be like… those times on the phone. When we don’t talk… and we can’t see… but we’re together anyway. I’d like it, if it was like that.”

“Perhaps it will be.” The tears made his voice wet, but the words didn’t taste of cruel deception. It sounded like a good afterlife, for one invented by a clone with barely any life lived to speak of.

A twitch of lips, probably intended to be a smile. “I’m glad you came back.”

“Me too.”

Then Two Alpha closed his eyes and his breathing slowed. The fingers in his hand slackened their grip. Merrick didn’t take in much after that, even as the flatline drilled through his skull and medics bustled around him. What did any of that matter, anyway?

The important thing was that face, tranquil despite the wounds, motionless again. The important thing was Two Alpha and the heavy silence between them. He half expected to hear the click of a phone disconnecting.

...

This time the aftermath had no storm to it. He didn’t march home, threatening to burn everything in sight. He didn’t go to work and start shouting at Ambrose – though he probably deserved it. No, instead he began to make a list of criteria for the new facility. If they were going to have half an army of walking organs biding their time underground, they would need to do it properly.

The plan as it stood was to teach the agnates hygiene, nutrition, exercise, but nothing that would constitute a normal education. Speech would be necessary, reading less so but perhaps convenient. They would simply need to keep themselves healthy until their time came. Minimising contact to just staff members was also outlined in the initial protocol, though it sat uncomfortably with Merrick. He had no better plan, however. If they could communicate with each other, they would eventually catch on that some disappeared and never returned.

It would be easier, he found himself thinking at least once a day, if they never woke up and could just remain in those gel sacs until they were needed. Unfortunately, all of the animal trials proved it impossible or at least too much effort to be a better option. Once the agnates reached the end of their growth cycle they would wake up regardless of whether they had been taken out, occasionally drowning if they weren’t removed quickly enough. And if they were kept unconscious from there, they would atrophy – brains never finalising their development quite right, muscles never developing, digestion system shutting down without ever being used properly. Unfit for transplant donation.

The investment required to keep them in any fit state was major either way, but at least there were fewer fatal risks when they were allowed consciousness. So, living beings. Care to be taken to do it right.

From his list, Merrick found a sense of purpose in monitoring the construction efforts, making sure everything was as it should be, compiling another list of potential scientists, maintenance workers, caterers, making sure there was enough accommodation in the area, streamlining the growth-support system, getting a small team of lawyers to handle NDAs.

Maybe there was a storm, but he had found the eye more quickly than last time – a numb haven where he could work until he collapsed, ignoring the chaos beyond.

“We need a test run,” Announced Ambrose, walking into the break room where Merrick was lamenting the lack of kettle.

“A test run?”

“Yeah, like your guy, just to make sure everything works. We’ll give it a better name though.” Though Merrick was the one who had garnered a reputation for being cold simply by virtue of his general demeanor, Ambrose could be downright cruel. Not that Merrick had discussed Two Alpha at any length; he wasn’t a masochist.

“And do you have a genetic sample ready?” He asked in lieu of dignifying his jab with a response.

“No, ‘cause I’m not familiar with collecting that kind of thing, but I was thinking we should clone me.”

Merrick simply looked at him, disbelief readable enough without any expression. When Ambrose failed to elaborate, he collected his mind enough to ask, “You?”

“Yeah. Me.” The poor man. His brain must have been damaged from inhaling fumes from the construction. Or perhaps there was unhealthy amounts of radon this far underground. That would need to be checked. “All great pioneers of science end up trying their stuff on themselves, it’s practically a rite of passage. Besides, I can’t sue myself if it all goes wrong, now can I?”

“The legal team still needs to finalise the consent forms…”

“We don’t need it if I own the company!”

“You don–”

“Sorry, if we own the company. Point still stands. Bet this is why all those scientists do it.”

Should Merrick really stand in the way of such a misled endeavour? It was one thing to clone a dead partner, it was another to clone a man who was still alive and in regular contact with the project. Still, it would be interesting, for data collection purposes. Far too much of their current plan was based on hypotheticals. On one hand hubris, on the other… 

“I’ve heard the physicists get on just fine without it,” he said.

Ambrose waved a hand dismissively. “Physicists.”

Merrick made a conscious effort not to put a hand to his eyes, turning instead to what passed as a kitchenette. “And what do you intend to do with your agnate?” 

How did people make tea without a kettle? Would he have to microwave a mug full of water? Was that even legal?

“Dunno, figure it’ll be an insurance policy like the rest. Maybe teach it how to do my paperwork.”

“I’m sure that will pay back the millions it will take to do it.”

“Investment, Merrick, I know you’ve heard of it.”

“And I’ve yet to see the benefit.”

“You’re taking jabs at me ‘cause nothing’s happened while I’m telling you to make something happen!”

He sighed, “If you really think it’ll be of benefit to us, be my guest. Just don’t make the decision lightly. If I find out that you thought of this five minutes ago–”

“You wound me, Dr Merrick, when have I been anything but thoughtful with this venture? This is a great idea – what do we have to lose? It’s the same thing we’ll be doing in a few months anyway, just contained so we can troubleshoot any issues. A prototype!”

This was not a battle that Ambrose was about to lose. Merrick hardly knew which side he was even on. Why not humour the man? 

“Give it a week so I can train the skeleton crew on the initialisation and get everything calibrated,” he said, giving up on tea and instead filling his mug with cold water, “Make sure you’ve thought it through. If you want to go ahead, I’ll get your sample on Thursday.”

“Great!” exclaimed Ambrose, already halfway out of the room, “You won’t regret this, Dr Merrick!”

“You keep on saying that,” Merrick mumbled to the empty doorway. Mug water wasn’t as nice as glass water, he decided, but that hardly mattered.

...

In the end Ambrose went through with it. He dubbed the endeavour ‘Project: Pelasgus’ in the files, though Merrick could think of several more accurate titles, ‘Narcissus’ for one. Was he in a position to pass such judgements? Perhaps not, but there was no one else around to do it and Ambrose was in severe need of someone to temper him.

A great chamber had been hollowed out near the base of one of the old silos, fitted with a surprisingly expensive drainage system and the equipment needed to keep up to twenty-five growth-support systems, only one of which had actually been installed. Merrick viewed the room with much the same strange discomfort as he did the version in his basement, which was probably rusting with neglect. It was the discomfort of an ugly yet unregretted truth and he didn’t like how much of his life now had that tint to it. Sometimes, among the haze of work and his general distaste for Ambrose, he wondered if he too considered the whole affair to be ugly. Then he would decide that Ambrose had no such depth to him and, if anything, thought it cool.

When, eventually, Pelasgus was up and walking, Ambrose holed him away in the large office that was by now his own small apartment. Apparently there had been a scene regarding the staff seeing the agnate’s naked body – more out of concern for himself than the agnate – but Merrick could not bring himself to watch the security footage back to scan for any other red flags. This was Ambrose’s agnate, Merrick had had his chance already.

Which wasn’t to say that he hadn’t been tempted to stick his foot in.

“Check this out.” A memory stick collided with his forehead as Ambrose entered, no knocking as always.

Merrick remained motionless at his desk. “What is it?”

“You need to watch it. I showed Pelasgus a mirror this morning.” He didn’t know how he could say that name so seriously; it was ridiculous. Ambrose picked the memory stick up from where it had fallen, removed the one already in Merrick’s computer, and plugged it in before any preventative measures could be taken.

“I was using that!”

“Hope you save regularly,” replied Ambrose, unrepentant, “This is more important, anyway.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Just watch the damn video.”

The video began with a scene featuring Pelasgus having a simplistic conversation with two technicians that had probably been dragged in from the corridor, camera jerking about until the agnate was centred in the frame and Ambrose moved into view.

“Hey, Pelasgus, can you tell me these guys’ names?”

His response was a dubious look, as if the agnate knew it was a stupid question. Ambrose had probably introduced him to them ten minutes previously. 

“Clyde and Bill.”

“Which is which?” asked Ambrose, to the tune of an even more unimpressed glare.

“Clyde,” poking one, “Bill,” poking the other. Both technicians, wearing matching dusty coveralls and stony expressions, seemed to share the agnate’s attitude.

“Good. You two can go about your business.”

Clyde and Bill seemed all too happy to comply. How the agante had mastered complete disdain so early, Merrick didn’t know. It was almost impressive. Apparently these thinly veiled tests were a regular occurrence and consistently skewing beneath his capabilities.

“Now,” continued Ambrose, moving to uncover a mirror he had leaned against the wall, “Who’s this?”

“You,” said the agnate to his reflection. Then he paused, mind visibly working as he watched his reflection move with him.

Ambrose apparently grew impatient and stepped beside the agnate, grinning. “You.”

A frown creased the agnate’s face as he watched their two reflections, identical if not for their expressions and clothing.

“You look like me,” explained Ambrose as if the agnate hadn’t already worked it out.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I made you to. You’re a copy of me, a clone.” 

Merrick fought the urge to bat him around the head. No subtlety. He had mentally run through the scenario of Two Alpha finding evidence of Steve a hundred times, preparing for each a gentle way of responding to any range of reactions to the inevitable revelation of Two Alpha’s origins, and Ambrose had just barreled through it, no awareness of any of the variables Merrick had mapped a route around.

“A copy?”

“Damn right.”

“Why?” hissed the agnate, half in shocked confusion, half in indignant outrage.

“God, you sound like Merrick saying that–”

“I stand by that statement,” interjected the Ambrose watching over Merrick’s shoulder.

“I had lots of reasons. You’re just the first in a line of agnates that will revolutionise our ideas about illness and the human lifespan. Not to mention that it’s breaking scientific boundaries and starting a whole new industry!”

“How?”

“How what?”

“How does me looking like you change our ideas about illness and the human lifespan?”

At this point Ambrose seemed to spot the hole he had dug himself into. The chances of Pelasgus knowing the meaning of everything he was saying was unlikely, but there was no way that he would misunderstand what being an insurance policy entailed.

“Uh, well, there’s something to being able to create an adult human without the physical development of childhood…” Ambrose rambled as he walked back to the camera.

“What’s childhood?” Merrick had to stop himself from snorting. Ambrose was out of his depth, that much was clear.

The video cut out as he began, “You know what–”

Amused, Merrick looked up and saw that Ambrose’s ears had turned faintly pink.

“So you see, Pelasgus can differentiate between two different faces and identify that we look alike. It even seems to understand the general idea of cloning.”

“Perhaps you should provide some support with that,” Merrick said, as if there was any chance of it being a bad idea, “I can’t imagine that’s an easy pill to swallow.”

Ambrose waved a hand dismissively as he plucked out the memory stick. “It’ll be fine. Introduce the idea early and it’ll be normal. The rest’ll have to come to terms with it.”

“Will they? I was under the impression that we weren’t disclosing that to them.”

“What? You’re saying we should just lie?”

Sighing, Merrick pulled up the document he had been working on. Pelasgus was going to be a psychologist’s nightmare by the time Ambrose was through with him. He almost wanted to move him into his own office, but that was probably just the grief-echoes talking. Ambrose would turn it into a situation anyway, and Merrick was here as a scientist, not a caretaker.

“If your Project doesn’t see any issues arise because of this, we can consider telling the first generation. If.”

Grinning in the disconcerting way that he did, Ambrose strode backwards to the door. “You’re a pessimistic man, Dr Merrick,” he jeered before spinning into the corridor, exclaiming, “Self-recognition! Incredible!”

...

Conversation with Pelasgus would have been easy to avoid if Ambrose didn’t insist on keeping him in his office rather than in the purpose-built accommodation that would benefit from the prototype’s test run. At any given moment, Merrick was at most only half convinced that Project: Pelasgus was actually intended to be a true prototype and not a vanity project. Either way, Ambrose left them in the same room together far too often for Merrick’s liking.

The agnate had gradually accumulated a sort of static around his person that crackled every time Ambrose waltzed in. Existing in the same room as the two of them made Merrick exhausted and often left him with a pounding headache. Ambrose, of course, was too wrapped up in his fantasies of power and wealth to notice.

When he wasn’t there, suspicion was still thick in the air, which Merrick supposed was not helped by the small library of sci-fi and murder mystery films that was strewn about the TV. Although he had decided not to involve himself, he couldn’t bring himself to truly ignore the agnate. Initiating conversation felt a step too far, but throwing what he felt to be a comforting look in the agnate’s direction, or offering him coffee from Ambrose’s machine was fair game. If no-one did it, something would snap, so why not the only person in the godforsaken facility who didn’t look at him like either a freak of nature or a point of fascination.

Occasionally the agnate would say something and they’d talk until Ambrose returned and transformed the air into electricity. He’d often choose far heavier topics than Two Alpha had. Or at least topics that were heavy in context.

“Do people not like me because they don’t like Oscar or is it because I’m a copy of him and they don’t like that?”

“No consideration that they dislike you for your own merits?” Merrick asked, dryly. It was probably less than sympathetic but the agnate seemed to be on his wavelength about such things. The equally dry look he got in response affirmed this.

“How likely do you think that is? I don’t want to talk to them, but that’s because they already don’t like me. So do you think it’s because I’m a clone or because I’m Oscar’s clone?”

“Honestly? Given the people who work here and Oscar Ambrose’s general demeanor, it’s probably a bit of both.”

The agnate swore.

“Quite.”

...

At some point or another there was an incident in which Ambrose was mistaken for his agnate – or was it vice versa? – which had sent Ambrose into a somewhat vindictive frenzy, culminating in him commissioning an entirely new security system featuring RFID keys and a tech-filled bracelet that was quickly locked around the agnate’s wrist to prevent any further misidentifications. It would be amusing if not for the ire that was now constantly palpable between the two of them and the new glint in the agnate’s eyes. 

Apparently there had been an argument and Ambrose had started shouting.

“Do you even know what being an insurance policy means?!” a security officer had quoted when he offered to show Merrick the footage, finding it to be far more hilarious than it was. “It means you’re here for parts! I own you! The moment I get sick or injured, you’re done and I live on! Don’t start thinking you can go around being me. Don’t think you’re on my level. You hear?”

Subsequently, Merrick tried to keep himself away from the administration and management block, instead investigating a way to keep the commercial generations from ever even considering the possibility of their grim prospects. Evidently, the truth had a negative impact. Who knew?

...

Merrick was taking one of his unfortunately necessary brief visits to his own office when it happened. All he had in warning was a percussive commotion sounding from down the corridor, then Pelasgus was in his room, knocking the door as he passed it and appearing noticeably ruffled.

He stood up. “What–”

“Please,” gasped the agnate, “I don’t– I–”

The uncharacteristic desperation was written over his entire body, shaking and wide-eyed. Footsteps thundered on concrete and the agnate began to stumble forwards.

Merrick was halfway around his desk when the dark uniforms of the security team filled the doorway.

“Dr Merrick! Move away from the agnate, he’s dangerous!”

He froze as he spotted the firearms in their hands, the blood flecked on the agnate’s trousers. Slowly stepping backwards, he asked in a voice that thankfully didn’t shake, “What’s going on?”

“It killed Mr Ambrose, sir, we caught it on the cameras.”

The agnate step forwards again. “I–”

The reaction was instant. One, two, three shots. Merrick jerked back as the agnate toppled over. A member of security rushed over to usher him away from the rapidly pooling blood.

“Sir, are you okay?”

He nodded, still trying to process. It was hard to ignore the shape on the floor even as he was guided out of the room. Everything had happened in the space of a minute and now… 

“We’ll get someone in to clean up. You should find somewhere else to be.”

“How did this happen?” he asked.

“The agnate attacked him. Unarmed. Slammed his head against the desk, I think. Blood everywhere. We’re gonna cordon off the area until this is sorted.”

“Christ.” He needed a drink, though he didn’t own any alcohol. One of the maintenance workers would have something under the board, surely?

...

Death was one thing, seeing a man get shot was another. Nightmares plagued him. Faces in double, growing resentment, blood. The sensation of falling, over and over again. Two Alpha flatlining as he entered the room, moments too late. Pelasgus trying to retake control, fighting the man keeping him trapped. Ambrose dismissing and dismissing and dismissing.

Merrick found himself unable to sleep, spending his increasing waking hours reorganising the accommodation sector. Isolation was evidently asking for trouble, so the agnates would need regular contact. He couldn’t exactly hire people for them to talk to, so they would need to talk to each other in order to build proper social networks. But then how would staff be able to take them out of the active population for donation without arousing suspicion? How could he keep them from trying to find a way out? How, how, how?

In the end he hired a writing team to fabricate a world-ending event that had turned everything outside the compound into a dangerous hellscape unfit for living things. A Contamination. One that hadn’t reached a single small haven in the middle of the ocean, where a chosen few would be sent to repopulate humanity in the outside world. He didn’t want competition inciting violence within the group, so the method of selection would be presented as truly random, a lottery.

This all necessitated bringing in a further team to imprint artificial memories: the life before the Contamination, which they could hope for on the Island and make the staff’s memories of real life seem unextraordinary; and the devastation that the Contamination caused.

It was all quite elegant, in the end. Everything was explained neatly. The agnates would keep themselves contained, not needing to trust the word of the staff since they had memories of exactly what they were being told about. Perhaps this was the sort of lie that Ambrose had wanted to avoid, but Ambrose was dead by his own stupidity, so Merrick could continue as he wanted to.

He ordered the construction of new exercise facilities, various forms of entertainment, and a rudimentary educational curriculum all to keep them occupied so that they wouldn’t be bored into unpredictable behaviour. A techie had suggested that they get the clones to do some of the manual labour involved in maintaining the growth-support systems and hydroponic farms, which filled in the impression of ‘work’ given by the false memories and Merrick’s staff having obvious jobs.

Yes, all very elegant.

Now all that remained to be done was the agnates themselves.

...

The first generation was called Alpha.

Merrick watched as the first batch of samples got loaded into the system. Most of them were high-ranking officers in the Defense Department. A few were from notoriously flagrant billionaires. One was the only remaining genetic material from Steve.

He wouldn’t interact with Gandu Three Alpha out of course, he had learnt that lesson. Three Alpha would just be another face in the crowd, making friends, finding himself, living. But Merrick would be able to see his face, hear his voice. Steve and Two Alpha would live on through him. He would never be able to talk to them again, but he wouldn’t forget their face. It would be a silent phone call, staring at a photo across the room.

That was all he needed.

[messedupessy]

if your head canons are still open, do the UF boys or SF boys play minecraft? i’m playing right now and the thought popped into my head lol

Duh I haven’t said otherwise so yes they open, wide the fuck open xD but we got a little bit of problem here, I only do 3 characters per ask, but since I’m feeling like it I will allow all 4, but only this once, or if I just feel like it pft

Though fun thing tho, I have been watching allot of Minecraft vids lately, and I have actually answered this before on a server I’m in xD but just wanna add that technically these boys don’t actively play Minecraft, so my answers will be more if they tried it out etc, but here goes!

Red:

Red isn’t really into playing video games,  but he is way too much up for causing havoc for others and be an ass, so he will fuck around with everyone and be a fucking ass, but might after awhile actually get into it somewhat. 

Since he is a science guy deep down even though he so do deny that he is because daddy issues etc, but there is allot of science and engineering you can do in Minecraft which is totally up Red’s alley, so he will be doing lots of red stone stuff.  

He will still be an overly big arse towards people tho, because he finds it fun. 

Edge:

He is way too busy with his work to spend time playing Minecraft, so he will be hesitant to even try it out as it can become way too easily a distraction from his real life work, like he got work to do. But as soon as he starts playing he will get hooked pretty damn fast.

In game he will pretty much make himself mayor of a village, where he will do his best to protect all of the villagers with everything he got, so he will be making complex puzzles and traps, proper defenses, all over the place, but also build very beautiful buildings that looks amazing, he is an artist after all at heart. So the village will quickly turn into a proper town/city with proper roads etc and with proper protection to keep everyone who lives there safe.

When playing with others he will end up doing this also, but he will also end up taking care of everyone else that plays with him too he will come to their help and give people resources if he can spare it, even while playing games so do he still take it upon himself to make sure everyone is protected and safe.

While he will be enjoying the game a whole lot, so is he taking some things way too seriously at times. 

Rus:

He would mostly just fuck around, at least when he is playing with others and not playing alone, as when he is alone he would really get into redstone stuff as he likes engineering and mechanical stuff, so building with redstone would be something he would enjoy.

But playing with others though oh boy he will be screwing around with literally everyone and will either get kicked out or constantly killed by other players because they are so tired of his constant shit.

Playing with a SO tho so will he be way softer about stuff, he won’t screw around with the others that much and he sure as fuck won’t mess with his SO’s stuff, unless that’s their dynamic they got going, he will still prank them time to time and be irritating but nothing that ruins anything.

Oh also he will build really dumb stuff like giant dicks etc all over the place. 

Scratch:

He will absolutely refuse to play it at first, it’s a video game and video games are for kids and he is not a kid! But after some persuading or nagging/goading him a bit, challenge him by saying he can’t possibly play it and he will instantly try to prove you wrong, but he will give it a try and then instantly gets frustrated and pissed when a creeper ends up destroying his hard work and killing him.

Which instantly means war, he needs to win and completely conquer this game now.

So he will keep playing like a man possessed, fucking up allot and dying so many times and getting so frustrated and angry that he almost yeets his computer/controller. But yet he be learning and gets better, eventually swallows some of his pride to ask the one who got him to play Minecraft to start with how to do it, while pretending he already knew shit, badly, while reading up and researching on the internet about all the things you can do in Minecraft.

He will literally make those boards with red string connecting shit a conspiracy board but for his research about Minecraft with diagrams and graphs etc.

Eventually he becomes really, really good at it, he got his own complex ways of doing stuff and got things very, very orderly af. If playing with others he will be on extreme alert at all times and please do not mess with his stuff or he will get seriously upset, and he will end up trying to tell people what to do and so on, he really needs to calm his shit down as he is way too deep into Minecraft now.  

[theartfuldodger26]

Fandom ask

Thank you, @bellamort1993 for sending me Harry Potter, Bellamort and Bellatrix as prompts. Feel free to do the same (or different to your choosing).

001 | Send me a fandom and I will tell you my:

Favorite character:  Bellatrix Lestrange and Voldemort. No, I don’t have one favourite. Bella is the closest to my heart, but apparently I waste the most brainmatter on Tom/Voldemort, so *shrugs* Harry is my favourite light character, he’s an admirable person.

Least Favorite character:  Umbridge, as is universally accepted.

5 Favorite ships (canon or non-canon): Bellamort (which is canon, bitches) Delphi/Harry (it will become canon, you just wait for TCC part3) Tomarry but not Harrymort(nearly counts as canon judging by how often Harry comments on Tom’s looks) Drarry  Delphi/Victoire

Character I find most attractive: Bellatrix, hands down. Then Voldemort can do things to me too, but Bella would be my first choice. 

Character I would marry: No one, I’m happy by myself. Delphi can be my angsty fuck buddy with whom we meet every once in a while, bitch, get drunk, cry and fuck. 

Character I would be best friends with: Harry, tho I’m not the best of friends and his friends do have a high mortality rate for my taste. I wouldn’t mind if Voldemort killed me tho, so *shrugs*

a random thought: The wizarding world makes zero sense in so many places. They haven’t had an Industrial Revolution and they seem to be stuck in the Middle Ages in many ways, even if they dont seem extremely Christian as these times actually were. It’s really confusing. As for their economy? How does that even work if you can conjure a chair out of thin air, or replicate food? 

An unpopular opinion:  Idk what’s unpopular these days. Aside from Albus’ name, I actually liked the Epilogue. In contrast to what people thing, it doesn;t show *everything* that happened after the war, meaning it’s no obliged to show the PTSD and the fights and the pain. It just passes the message: depsite everything, in the end they were happy. Not always and not easily, but they lived, and built and did good. And that’s not always possible with survivors. It’s our job as fans to add the rest, all the author needed to do was say ‘yes, they made it out okay.”

My Canon OTP: BELLAMORT Seriously, I have screenshoted the details of TCC where it shows they’re canon. 

My Non-canon OTP: Harry/Delphi

Most Badass Character: Bellatrix, handsdown.  McGonagall out of the good people. 

Most Epic Villain: Voldemort, we’d have no books without him. He can be dumb, but it’s cute.

Pairing I am not a fan of: I’m not huge in non-canon Hermione ships, and anything with Snape is gross.

Character I feel the writers screwed up (in one way or another): ...Snape? Not his character, but the light she gave him by naming Harry’s kid after him. It appeared she was clear on him not being an admirable person, but then he’s the bravest bloke ever? No, ma’am. 

Favourite Friendship: The Golden Trio, they work as a three-man-group better, I won’t devide them. 

Character I most identify with: PostAzkaban!Bellatrix feels she’s letting her master and herself down, and so do it. I keep looking for my former self. Who wasn’t much after all, but had some qualities I should recultivate. 

Character I wish I could be: ... I’d like to have some Bellamort qualities that I lack, but in general I’m fine working on myself.  

002 | Send me a ship and I will tell you:

When I started shipping them:  After I finished the books, so that’s since 2007, 13 cool, angsty years. 

My thoughts: I love them, they’re my evil babies. In fact, I don’t even have reasons for loving them, as most shippers do, I’d just die for them. 

What makes me happy about them: That theyre complicately made for each other in their unique goth way. And that in the end they had a kid, which I think helped Voldemort out a lot with his issues with intimacy and emotions. 

What makes me sad about them:  That they died *sobs hysterically*. Also that they’re proud idiots who don’t communicate well. Also in the books they have like two scenes together. (HE SCREAMED THO)

Things done in fanfic that annoys me: Seeing Bella’s character butchered down to a snivelling, slavish idiot, though these aren’t Bellamort fics usually.  In Bellamort fics, it feels like a cheat when it says Bellamort but it’s just Bella pining and Voldemort really not caring. I don’t have a problem with the POV, but it needs to be tagged as unrequited. Otherwise I’m open to perspectives. 

Things I look for in fanfic: Good writing, mostly. I’m also a huge fan of Muggle!AU’s, so if you have that, I’ll read it, no questions asked XD

My wishlist: On Amazon? :P I presume this means wishlist on fics/art with these two, but do correct me if I’m wrong. I dont have one, since I write myself, so whatever I want to read, I write. Right now I’m on a bit of a writing hiatus (but don’t take my word for it, my emotional world is fucking rollercoaster), but at some point I’d like to see a mermaid!AU and a lot of exploration between Voldemort and his mother, while Bella holds his hand. 

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: Alone and miserable. I guess Bella would have been okay with Rodolphus, had Tom/Voldemort never been born.  And Voldemort/Tom would have been fine too with some nameless pretty woman he did not love but had to marry to keep face.  But I think that they would have never been truly happy with anyone else. especially Tom, he’d never be really comfortable with anyone. 

My happily ever after for them: VoldemortWins!AU, they conquer Europe, Bella is Minister for War, Voldemort the Emperor. Maybe they have a kid, maybe a couple more or none at all, who cares, the point is they live and fulfull their dreams of revolutionising the Wizarding Wolrd.  I also have a sappy afterlife!AU where for a while Bella is imprisoned at the family castle for having a halfblood little bastard, goes half-insane, as Voldemort searches for her (they had a spat right after they got there), and Delphi kills herself and goes to find her dad in small-child form. They finally get tgether and live death happily ever after in some Norwegian fjord in the frozen tundra. (it’s also my personal happy ending, only it’s cats and snakes)

003 | Give me a character & I will tell you:

How I feel about this character: I love Bella. She’s a bitch and a sadist, but I love her. 

Any/all the people I ship romantically with this character: The one and only, his majesty the Dark Lord himself. 

My favorite non-romantic relationship for this character: Rodolphus, he’s her only friend.  Also, sad HC: Bella was very close to Andromeda until she got too involved with Voldemort and his cause, and they drifted apart. No one wept harder than Bella after Andy left, and it was her who spent days banging on the Tonks’ door to let them speak to her. Voldy could squeeze tears out of his shirt after she fell asleep crying about it. 

My unpopular opinion about this character: Again, not sure about unpopular.  I believe she suffers from genuine mental illness that tortures her a lot and makes her life (and her shared life with Voldemort too) very hard. Also I find her more self-doubting and reserved than most authors, hard working and largely indifferent to people who aren’t Voldemort. 

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: Actual romantic scene would have been nice, but HE SCREAMED after all. Let’s not ask for too much. 

Favorite friendship for this character: Rodolphus and Andromeda. Recently I’ve started Brotp-ing Sirius with Bella too, before they parted ways. 

My crossover ship: I don’t really have any other fandoms, but I have been exploring the world of the Witcher as of late, so I’d love a showdown between Bella and Yen. It’d be so hot.

Well, this was fun! Thanks, @bellamort1993 for sending the ask. I have this feeling that I’ve replied to this before, but for some reason it’s still in my drafts, so I’m posting it. If you’ve seen it before, I apologise for bothering you... 

[blurhawaii]

yuletide 2020

dear yuletide writer,

hello and happy yuletide! i’m pretty sure my letters get longer and longer every year and yet i’m still terrible at putting what i like into words. just know that the prompts are just suggestions--if you’ve got something else in mind, go for it. and sorry this is so disjointed.

likes:

dysfunctional relationships eg. codependency, messed up father/son dynamics, enemies to lovers, power imbalances.

vulnerability in men, uncertain intimacy.

UST, slow burn, first times.

magical realism/cosmic horror. weird hints of it in an otherwise normal universe.

redemption arcs.

found family.

big loyalty kink. love it when trust is earned and kept.

praise kink.

open and honest communication between partners.

polyamory. it’s the journey of them getting together and making it work that interests me the most. or how a couple goes about bringing in a third person.

stories set in canon. or a divergence of canon. fix-it fics.

dark/bleak fics. don’t be afraid to drag characters through the mud. happy endings are welcome but i like the struggle.

i’m fine with anything from gen to porn but would be happiest with something in the middle.

canon typical violence is fine and to be expected from some of my choices.

characters and their relationships are more important than plot for me.

dislikes:

AUs that are completely disconnected from canon e.g. high school, coffee shop AUs.

established relationships

crossovers

genderbending

feminisation of male characters

fics that are entirely fluff

A/B/O fics

PWP

mpreg 

first person fics (i have no problem with second person fics tho if you think that could work.)

The Departed (2006) *Billy Costigan                    *Sean Dignam

one of my favourite films ever. i request it every year so you can't really go wrong with this as i'm just thirsty for anything.

most of my love is for dignam and his tough love attitude towards his job and the undercovers he's responsible for. i am endlessly endeared by his wild card quality, expletive fueled speech and hair trigger temperament. the father/son relationship with queenan that’s contrasted against billy’s father/son relationship with queenan. his complete disregard for everyone else in that office, especially sullivan. and how despite all of that, it's obvious that he cares. i don't think you could do a job like that and not care, and it’s those few and rare moments where we see him soften around billy --we need you, pal-- that's what i would like to see more of. that juxtaposition of good cop/bad cop coming from the same guy. shipping fic is preferred but whatever you are comfortable with is fine. due to the nature of the film i am perfectly comfortable with violence and the screwed up relationship they are bound to have. the friction born of the situation vs the fact that they need each other to get through this is what i am all about.

things that really get me with these two: codependency, power imbalances, the enemies to lovers trope, vulnerability, the whole constructing intricate rituals which allow you to touch the skin of other men thing they have going on, as seen in the gif above.

fics where billy survives are my usual go-to. i'd love something that explores the angst of billy's ‘where the hell were you when i needed you’ reaction towards dignam following queenan’s death all the way up to the ending, and beyond that assuming billy lives.

i’ve spent far too much time thinking about the line --why don’t we just meet up, sweetheart, let me buy you an ice cream. the jokey seriousness of it just kills me. if you can somehow write that happening in a believable, in character fic you would earn my eternal respect. whether that’s a clandestine meeting during billy’s undercover period or some kind of post-film scenario where dignam makes good on his promises, i have no idea.

daemon au - very curious how this would impact going undercover. daemons expressing feelings that the characters otherwise can’t. the intimacy of touching/comforting each other’s daemons.

soulmate au - either having their names on each other or their first words. this is admittedly a longshot but interests me for the same reason the daemon au does, because i’d love to see how this would work in a universe where you’re undercover.

time loop/groundhog day fic where things go better. or worse, i guess.

Godless (TV 2017)

*Roy Goode              *Bill McNue               *Alice Fletcher

i’m a massive fan of westerns. the harsh way of life, the violence, the isolation, drawn out revenge plots, the murkiness of good vs evil or sheriff vs anti-hero, the importance of honour and heroism and how that differs for men and women, especially in this universe and its town full of widows. having said all that, i’m still very much a sucker for cool cowboys in a shallow female way.

my favourite thing to do is turn every love triangle into an ot3. so i’d love a fic post canon where roy comes back once he realises his found family is just as important as his real family. i imagine bill would try to do the gentlemanly thing of bowing out and letting roy and alice be together but i’d love for alice to have the agency of choice, getting to have her cake and eating it too by choosing both roy and bill. however you jigsaw them together my main thing here is that i don’t want bill to get left out.

i feel the roy/bill aspect in particular could be explored a lot more. i love the earned mutual respect and how easily they move around each other during the gunfight at the end. (bill’s deteriorating eyesight side plot fascinates me, how it goes with his loss of purpose and comes back when teaming up with roy to defend the town.) the usual ideas of western masculinity get all twisted around when roy and bill are in the presence of alice and they both seem kind of subby towards her, which yes please. the way alice kisses the scar she gave roy and the fact that he simply lets her is *chef kiss*

i’m actually very okay with letting them be soft with each other after all of their tragedy.

honest communication between partners could work wonders here.

Locke (2013)

*Ivan Locke                            *Donal

i honestly think this film is an underappreciated masterpiece. a hour and a half long car ride that's totally compelling, and it's all down to tom hardy and his welsh accent that's not even welsh. of all the relationships broken down, strengthened, or tentatively started, it's the one between ivan and donal that interests me the most. you're given just enough background to know there is a history between these two. whether donal is his right hand man on the project or is just an assistant that effectively gets promoted because he's the only one still there willing to take ivan's call. either way, there's trust there, on top of the shared knowledge of donal's capacity to get drunk on the job --this has clearly been a problem before-- but ivan still trusts him enough to get his baby of a building built when he can't be there personally, and that fascinates me.

the film ends very much in a lurch and i can't bring myself to see the ending in a positive light. a baby with a woman he doesn't particular like is not a recipe for a fresh start and i honestly can't see ivan not following up on the progress of his building.

i have this image of ivan sleeping on donal's couch because his wife won't take him back, bethan realises she just wants the baby and not him, he's lost his job and he has nowhere else to go and so he's just backseat driving this buildings construction through donal’s position. you've got this man who's lost everything and an alcoholic just wallowing together, maybe clinging to the idea that with this buildings success, they can fix themselves.

i also ship it and if you manage to take it in that direction i would be totally into that too. i guess i'm just looking for something post film with these two.

i don't know anything about concrete farming tho so feel free to fudge that as much as you need to.

The Boys (TV 2019)

*Billy Butcher                          *Homelander

what i like about this show is that it’s dark, it’s violent and the relationships between the characters are about as fucked up and convoluted as you can get. i am specifically interested in the relationship between billy and homelander and how the power is constantly shifting. i’d love something that just takes into account every horrible reason why they want to kill each but also all the reasons why they haven’t. ship fic is more than welcome.

details that interest me the most:

all the bizarre family dynamics - their shared bad relationships with their fathers. loved the scene where billy learns about homelander’s childhood and how that tiny humanising moment might affect his view of the man. especially in season 2 where we see them both interacting with ryan. love the inverse of homelander trying to be a good dad and billy wanting absolutely nothing to do with the kid. i wish we could have seen more of the dynamic immediately following the cliffhanger at the end of season 1. what happened between that moment and billy waking up somewhere else. maybe some kind of bizarre hostage situation family in this small suburban home.

i am fascinated by the idea of having the buffer of both becca and ryan between them. not being able to kill each other at the end of season 1 because of the deal becca made, and then again at the end of season 2 with homelander not wanting to be seen as a villain in front of ryan. maybe billy doesn’t ship ryan off at the end of season 2. maybe he thinks he can keep him safest by raising him himself and you get this weird co-dadding situation where the kid is the only thing keeping them from killing each other.

the public cleaning of the slate post-season 2 with billy not being a wanted man any more and homelander having to appear as a united front with the seven. would love something with billy pushing things in public because homelander can’t do anything about it.

homelander’s desperation to be loved. the potential of obsessive one sided relationships.

thank you writer and best of luck.

[chillin-at-partys-bar]

THE POSITIVE & NEGATIVE; Mun & Muse - Meme

fill out & repost ♥  This meme definitely favors canons more, but I hope OC’s still can make it somehow work with their own lore, and lil’ fandom of friends & mutuals. Multi-Muses pick the muse you are the most invested in atm.

My muse is: canon / oc / au / canon-divergent / fandomless

Is your character popular in the fandom? YES / NO (Though he’s only in a few panels, I think he ends up being many people’s first fave?)

Is your character considered hot™ in the fandom? YES / NO 

Is your character considered strong in the fandom? YES / NO

Are they underrated? YES / NO (I think he’s very nicely rated, but also parts of him need more attention)

Were they relevant for the main story? YES / NO

Were they relevant for the main character? YES / NO / THEY’RE THE PROTAG.

Are they widely known in their world? YES / NO

How’s their reputation? GOOD / BAD / NEUTRAL 

How strictly do you follow canon?

I try to follow what is known at the moment. I’ve done math to figure out when people would be joining his crew, and I try to stick as close to canon as I can. However, we don’t know a lot about him or his crew honestly, so I end up supplementing a lot of my own things. I do have an intense, crippling fear of being wrong so I try to only make safe headcanon guesses even though I know most people won’t care. Also, I'm not a huge fan of no women seen so far on his ship so I just... adjust some things and stick my OCs there. I have a feeling I know part of why there aren’t any women, and I don’t like it even if it fits in with sailor and pirate lore, so I’m just gonna fix that bit. Shanks is so decent otherwise. 

SELL YOUR MUSE! Aka try to list everything, which makes your muse interesting in your opinion to make them spicy for your mutuals.

Shanks has a lot of different parts to him. He’s great because he can get along with most everyone for an evening of drinking. He doesn’t care who you are, and he’s really hard to upset but he can definitely troll other characters very well. He’s kind and will rescue your character from certain death if need be, but he’s also strong and will challenge them if they threaten those he loves. He can be a really fun character to ship with as he loves very hard and people mean a lot to him. So if someone writes with him he is guaranteed to have strong thoughts on yours and will be more than likely to call them a friend by the end of the day. He’s also very attractive and good with kids, so that’s nice. He’s very much a pirate too, so if you want a pirate for your story but you don’t want the kind that will strike you down, he’s a great option. He’s forgiving too so you can screw him over and he’ll find a way to forgive you. Maybe. Depends on the kind of screw up. He’s also got a long range in terms of moments to play in his life, some really dramatic canon moments and some headcanoned ones. So it’s very possible to write with kid, teen, young adult, and adult Shanks. 

Now the OPPOSITE, list everything why your muse could not be so interesting (even if you may not agree, what does the fandom perhaps think?

It can be a bit difficult to create conflict with Shanks. Although it lets him pull off some great crack moments and have some great fun chaos, it also means that even powerful antagonists are hesitant to challenge him or fight him. Or even bring harm to him as canonically it means starting a fight with the Red Hair Pirates - which it’s also canon that not many are eager to do. This means a lot of the threads end up being talking or verbal threats as the opponent may make threats or Shanks will threaten but he doesn’t feel action is warranted unless action is done against him or a friend (if that makes sense). And even then circumstances mean a lot. I’d love to be able to play more physical rps and put him in more harrowing positions, but it’s difficult with how powerful he is and his reputation. 

What inspired you to rp your muse?

I actually really, really like pirates. I have some books on pirates and I’m really drawn to stories about pirates. A long, long, long time ago I had just read a cheesy romance novel called To Catch a Pirate and I really wanted another book where the pirates weren’t necessarily the bad guys. I was volunteering my summers at the library at the time and they had the first volume of One Piece. I set my sights on Shanks and never looked back. He’s just everything I crave in a pirate story. The dashing rogue with a heart of gold, you know. So I was sold. 

What keeps your inspiration going?

I think just the character and the new interactions that we get to come up with. Also, he’s a really unique character to rp culture as well. He’s insanely powerful, which is something that is more frowned upon with creating OCs for better or worse. Also, because he really won’t abuse this power except for like, something silly, I get to really play with him. I feel I also get to help people play with versions of their characters they haven’t been able to play before. Characters who are used to strong-arming and violence to get their way suddenly can’t do that, because Shanks is too powerful. So they have to come up with another way to express themselves and seeing these muns work with their characters to figure that out is really fun. 

Some more personal questions for the mun.

Give your mutuals some insight about the way you are in some matters, which could lead them to get more comfortable with you or perhaps not.

Do you think you do your character justice? YES / NO

Do you frequently write headcanons? YES / NO

Do you sometimes write drabbles? YES / NO

Do you think a lot about your muse during the day? YES / NO

Are you confident in your portrayal? YES / NO

Are you confident in your writing? YES / NO

Are you a sensitive person? YES / NO

Do you accept criticism well about your portrayal?

I’m going to be honest. I really need to steel myself for criticism. I’m a perfectionist to the point where it’s really, really bad sometimes and I have walked away from a character because one person said they didn’t like how I played them. I try to go back to that character but I just can’t really. RP is fun for me, and I want this world to be a place where I can feel free to do what I want. So I prefer no feedback here. 

In before someone says “but criticism is how you grow” - okay. I get that. I really do. I’m a graduate student so I’ve had feedback from teachers. I have a few writing groups where I get feedback on my creative work. I get feedback on things that are meant for a larger audience and I get the feedback often. It hurts a bit but I am getting tougher. A few weeks ago, my group ripped apart (in the nicest way possible) a comedy sketch I was proud of. It took a bit to get over but now it’s better than before. 

So here I might not open things up for critique. I don’t really want to hear it (I accept positivity because I’m a jackass like that). If you don’t like how I write Shanks, that’s fine. Please don’t tell me and leave me be and let me do this my way. If you want to critique something of mine, let me know and I’ll give you a short story, some character notes for a book, one of my sketches, my sitcom pilot script, or my full-length movie treatment, hell I have a 2500-3500 word reflection essay for my grad program due next week so read that. Those- feedback, yes please. I need them to be stellar. This? No. Shanks is my toy and I’m here for fun not to worry and stress and get anxious about posting.

Do you like questions, which help you explore your character?

I accept questions! I also accept questions asking about my decisions. Those I don’t view as criticism and working through my thought process can be helpful. Some answers might not be as complete as others but I definitely do accept them!

If someone disagrees to a headcanon of yours, do you want to know why?

Not really. I don’t even want to know they disagree unless it’s a huge problem. I had a disagreement over a headcanon once get super out of control and the person got angry with me so... I really don’t want to know. Unless it’s something significant I guess? But I can’t think of anything that would be of that magnitude. I just want to have a good time. Please just let me have fun my way and if you really hate it, just write Shanks yourself and let me be. 

If someone disagrees with your portrayal, how would you take it?

I don’t want to know. This is the theme here. Just don’t tell me. I don’t see the point in telling me you don’t like how I write. I am very sensitive sometimes and I’m working hard through therapy and my own work to not be so sensitive, but I’m just not prepared for that sort of feedback here. In my writing groups, yes - definitely prepared for disagreement and push back on decisions. Here? No. Please no. If you hate my version of the character that much, please just block me. Or just vanish into the abyss. Don’t tell me. I will try to avoid being sad about it but I will not be successful. I know it’s not great and I really don’t want people to try and tell me to get over things like this because I know I need to and I’m working on it but gyah. Now I’m upsetting myself, haha. i cry easily guys. 

Some people: i don’t care if the truth hurts. I’d choose the truth over a lie any day. 

Me: no just fucking lie to me if you have to tell me something. let me be ignorant here.

If someone really hates your character, how do you take it?

I’m sure some people hate Shanks. And that’s different from hating my portrayal. He’s not my character, so whatever you want to do go ahead and hate. I don’t like a bunch of other characters in the world. Just remember whenever shitting on a character, and this is something I learned while interning at Marvel this last year: every character is someone’s favorite. So in Marvel that meant you had to treat every character with respect. Even if it’s like, Electro in Spider-Man - he’s someone’s favorite character so treat him with respect. That doesn’t mean let him get his way, just don’t treat him like junk or a filler. 

Are you okay with people pointing out your grammatical errors?

See above with “trouble making mistakes.” Also, but why?

Do you think you are easy going as a mun?

Wow, this whole thing makes me look difficult - doesn’t it? I’m really just here for fun and to enjoy myself and have a good time writing. I do think I’m pretty laid back about things, I don’t have triggers and I’m really forgiving about mistakes. If someone needs to talk to me about something technical that’s fine and I love hearing ideas. I just also want to keep this as a place for fun, you know? I want to make sure I’m not afraid to come on here and write some things, so I just try to make it a space for me to be comfortable. 

That’s about it, congrats for filling out!

➸  Tagger: @godlivesonthemoon and @seraphiixa ((thank you guys so much!!))

➸ Tagging: u and ur face

[scaryscarecrows]

Stagg’s Folly

AN: Stagg’s a dick and I don’t feel bad. He lived. He’s fine. This *could* be canon, I guess; this is based on the tape you use to obtain Stagg’s fingerprints on the airship, so yeppers, you can go to YouTube to watch this (mostly) play out with no dialogue.

* * *

Simon Stagg has interacted with the Arkham Knight very little. For better or worse, he’s mostly had the opportunity to speak with Jonathan Crane. But he’s seen the man, once or twice, and his soldiers are always milling about, getting in the way and demanding information that, quite frankly, isn’t any of their business.

He thinks he should have taken better precautions, now. Made a dummy Cloudburst, or rigged the damn thing to...to...he doesn’t know. Something. Anything to make the man not storm his airship.

He had five minutes’ warning, and he’d hoped to get the booby traps operational. He’s a few keystrokes away from that when a black-gloved hand slams against the desk next to the keyboard.

“Found you.”

Simon’s never heard the man speak. His voice is robotic, two or three layers of distortion making it sound like something out of the horror films his daughter loved as a teenager.

“I-I--”

The hand moves to his shirt and he’s dragged towards the railing, bent backwards until his pen tumbles from his pocket to the floor below.

“Oh, God--”

“Think he’ll survive if I throw him over?”

“PLEASE--”

“He might not stay conscious, boss,” a man says from near the computer. Then, “Booby traps? Wow, man. Screw you, too.”

The hand gripping his shirt tightens, fabric drawing together enough to choke him. Simon scrabbles at it, nails scraping thick leather.

“Shame.” The Knight hurls him to the floor by the desk. “Where are the damn files, Stagg?”

“F-files?” Playing dumb is his only defense. It might even work.

Or not; the Knight seizes him again, half-carries-half-drags him towards the stairs, and throws him down them. He can see more soldiers below, and the one from the computer desk looking awkwardly apologetic.

“I’m not an idiot,” the Knight snarls, coming down the stairs towards him. “And I don’t appreciate you thinking otherwise. You can tell me and be out of your misery, or my men down there can drag it out of you piece. By. Piece.”

“I don’t know what files you’re talking about,” he pleads, putting up a hand in a desperate attempt to ward the man off. “Please--”

“Really?” The Knight tilts his head and laughs. It’s not a nice sound. “Hear that, boys? Mister Stagg here has memory problems.”

A jeer goes up downstairs and somebody shouts, “I read a knock on the head can shake things loose!”

“No, no--”

Too late.

“I read somethin’ similar.”

And then he’s tumbling down more stairs, limbs flailing against the railing and finger snagging-and then cracking horribly-when it catches between the steps.

“I can’t access them!” Maybe that will work. “It takes three fingerprints, and my assistants are either gone or dead, thanks to you baboons--”

“I’m sure the fingerprints don’t need to be alive,” the Knight growls. “Or, for that matter, attached to a hand. Somebody stand by with a bone saw.”

God, no, make it stop!

“I’m not telling you!” he screams, because maybe that’ll be enough? He’s not worth the effort, he’s just not. “Leave me alone!”

The Knight laughs again and follows after him.

“They always say that,” he says. “And they’re always wrong-well, well. Isn’t that interesting.”

He stops just above Simon’s head, helmet flickering. Somebody prods him with their boot.

“He looks squishy.”

“These money-types are always squishy,” somebody else says authoritatively. “They get manicures and shit. My wife uses less lotion than these bastards.”

“We gotta be careful with him.” Bless this one. “If he kill him by accident, he’s useless, and Scarecrow’ll start bitchin’ about ‘my files’ and ‘useless cretins’ and blah, blah, blah.”

Never mind.

“Yeah. If I never have to hear him lecture again, it’ll be too soon-shit. He can’t hear me, can he?” His friends laugh at him. “Shut up! It’s a valid concern.”

“Whoo-ooo-ooo, Scarecrow’s gonna get ya.”

“Fuck off.” There’s a space a few feet away. He shifts towards it, just an inch or two, and this time the boot to the ribs sends him rolling onto his back. “None of that.”

“I have money-like. Like Bruce Wayne! I’ll share, I promise, just don’t hurt me--”

“Oh my God, shut up.” Another prod, this one a little firmer. “Can’t stand a sniveler...think we should test how hard we can hit him? For, uh.” The man looks around and spreads his arms. “Science?”

“As long as you get viable information out of him, I don’t care what you do,” the Knight says suddenly. “When you’ve got everything, shut him up. I don’t care how. Just don’t drag it out, Batman’s on his way.”

Batman? Batman’s coming? Thank God, he’ll be saved!

“You got it, boss.”

“Yeah, by the time we’re done, we’ll have his grandma’s first boyfriend’s name!”

“You’d better.” The Knight turns away. “Drouot! Ages! With me. The rest of you, get to work.”

“If you cut anything off, keep track of it,” the awkwardly apologetic one says as he steps around the crowd to follow. “If you lose a finger, you’re the one checking drainage grates to find it. And put it on ice!”

What? No! They wouldn’t. Would they?

He looks at his throbbing index finger. Above him, there’s a fresh burst of chatter.

“So how bad do you think we should rough him up?”

“He’ll crack soon. Betcha that’s his first broken bone.” The speaker crouches down and a switchblade pops out inches from his nose. “That doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun, though.”

Adrenaline kicks in and he surges to his feet, tries to run. He doesn’t get anywhere; yet another man grabs his arm and slams him back down. His head bounces against the tiles and somewhere, there’s the sound of the chimps shrieking. They sound excited.

“Did I say you could run?” the man with the knife growls. “I didn’t say you could go anywhere!”

“Please--”

“Shut up. You think you’re hurting now? You got no clue how bad we can make you hurt. First, I’m gonna cut off your fingers. S’like cutting a carrot. Even makes the same kinda sound.”

“Drouot said--”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll make sure they don’t roll away,” the man says impatiently, presses his knife to Simon’s right pinky finger. “Relax. Now. Where. Are. The files?”

“I’m not telling you troglodytes anything!”

“S’like the boss said,” the man says easily, shaving a few hairs off his knuckle with the knife, “they always say that. Last chance, or I’m gonna start with the fingers, then the hand, and we’ll see how far I have to go before you share.”

THE END

[thedarkestdragonknight]

LFRP/LFC - Jacques Cresent (Mateus)

Jacques Cresent, the Dragon in Disguise

The Basics ––– –

Age: Thirty-Three (33)

Aliases: Grumpy Dragon (by close friends), The Primal Killer

Birthday: 5th Sun of the 5th Umbral Moon (October 5th)

Race: Au Ra, Xaela | Great Wyrm/Dragon (Genetically modified by Garlean Experiments)

Gender: Masculine, Male (He/His/Him Pronouns)

Sexuality: Demisexual, Polyamorous, Demiromantic

Notes on his Sexuality/Romantic Side: Jacques is categorized as a demisexual with strong homosexual or androsexual leanings. He is open to sexual activities but only once he has forged a strong enough emotional bond with the person that he will have sex with (Such as his partners P’shali and Swath for example), he simply prefers men in most cases. This also ties into him being Demiromantic as he has to have that strong emotional bond before he feels any such love/romantic attraction to a partner. (Thanks to @talechaser-ffxiv for helping me out on this one!)

Marital Status: Single

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral for the most part, he can sometimes delve into Chaotic Evil if situations come up that break him. He can also lean into just straight up neutral.

Server: Mateus

Canon Divergent: For the most part, I do my best to keep Jacques as best as I can leaning into the lore of the game. However, him being what he is (IE: he can turn into what is essentially a ‘primal’ of sorts) is more than just a bit lore breakery. This rarely comes up in RP unless the person that I am RPing with is comfortable with it obviously and it is something that I keep very well guarded. Overall I am a person who tries her best to keep things lore and canon friendly but I am very open to the ‘screw this’ option as well since myself and my IRL partner often times fall into that category with our RPs. Never be afraid to ask if I’m open or okay with something folks <3

Physical Appearance ––– –

You can find more detailed information about certain things on Jacques’ character page. Specifically his scales, horns, etc.

Hair: Jacques’ hair is actually extremely long, when he doesn’t have it up in the ponytail and braided it reaches down to just below the base of his tail. His hair is very silky and soft as well since he generally tends to put a lot of care into it. Color wise, Jacques’ hair is a very brilliant silver color which shimmers in the right lighting and has a slight iridescence to it. His hair also has very light aquamarine/teal (mako colored if you would) highlights in it though they are hard to truly notice.

Eyes: Jacques has very bright Aquamarine/Teal (Once again a ‘mako’ color if you would) eyes by default with a very bright Teal Limbal ring around them. However, because of events one of Jacques’ eyes has turned into that of a Great Wyrm to tie him into his dragon form. His left eye is his wyrm eye and it appears a lot like the eye of Hraesvelgr or Nidhogg in terms of looks with the colors ranging from Reds/Crimsons, Oranges, Purples and Blacks to tie it into his ties with Bahamut, Nidhogg and Midgardsormr. His right eye is his normal eye which is the Teal coloration mentioned previously.

Height: Jacques is a giant standing at a tall 7 foot 1 inches (The maximum height for Au Ra), the only things that are usually taller than him are Roegadyn’s and even then it’s not by much.

Build: Jacques is a very muscular and toned male Au Ra, he’s got broad shoulders and tends to have a slight ‘taper’ to his waistline, a sorta hour-glass look to it really but nothing to the extreme. His arms and legs are both extremely muscular due to constant battles and fighting on the front lines. Generally speaking he’s basically a very athletic build and his many years that he’s spent fighting show through either his choice in armor (Which is generally form fitting) or in his more 'casual’ attire which he doesn’t often go around in. Basically he’s a big, buff dragon man who can probably break anyone in two if they pissed him off enough.

Distinguishing Marks: The major things to note about Jacques would be that he has far more scales than your typical Au Ra. The entire lower half of his arms from the elbow down are covered in thick scales with plating along the backs of them (from the elbow down to the back of his hand basically) and the same is said for his lower legs which also have dragon like feet instead of normal humanoid feet. Jacques’ facial scales are mostly around his eyes with small ‘stripes’ on his cheeks, his entire back starting from the top of his neck is covered in scales with an alligator/crocodile like appearance to them (chutes if you would) and they wrap slightly around his sides. These scales carry all the way down to his tail which is longer than your typical Au Ra tail and it ends in a large flail/fin. Honestly a good idea of his appearance would be this piece that I recently did of him.

Common Accessories: While Jacques isn’t the sort to actually wear jewelry in recent days he has taken to wearing a singular ring on his left (our right) hand, the reasons behind this aren’t really known at the moment but it ties into his relationship with P'shali Talechaser and Swath Lodestone. Other than the ring on his hand he will sometimes wear 'earrings’ which will hang down from the base of his original horns, these tend to vary and depend on his current mood so to speak.

Additional Features: Basically looking at the image above for an example of what he looks like he has dragon like feet which have ‘toe beans’ (AKA Paw pads) on the bottom, more scales than your typical Au Ra. His tail is longer and has a long line of spines that run down the length of it as well as a fin like flail at the end. Three sets of horns and a large scar over his chest. Not shown is the more recent scarring around his Left Eye (Wyrm eye) due to taking a straight up gun blast to the face.

Personal ––– –

Profession: Sort of a Mercenary for ‘hire’ so to speak but otherwise he really doesn’t have a profession at this point.

Hobbies: Crafting housing items and general carpentry. He loves cooking and more specifically baking and making elaborate dinners. Fishing in his spare time is a big one as well, lastly he loves singing when he is alone.

Languages: Common, Draconic

Residence: Could be considered a Drifter, but has a house in The Mist with his partners Swath and P’shali

Birthplace: Rumored to have been in Ivalice (Potentially Rabanastre) but he doesn’t know for certain

Religion: For the most part Jacques doesn’t really have any sort of Religious beliefs nor does he really care too much about it.

Patron Deity: Azeyma, the Warden

Fears: Failure, Betrayal, Losing himself to madness, losing his mind, falling to insanity, Hurting his Loved ones

Relationships ––– -

Spouse(s): P’shali Talechaser and Swath Lodestone (While not married it’s pretty much a given that they are basically spouses by this point), Polyamorous relationship.

Children: None

Parents: Unknown, his parents were killed when he was young and he doesn’t remember them.

Siblings: None

Other Relatives: None

Pets: Erebos (Black Chocobo, Retired Racing Bo and now Fighter), Midgardsormr (Grumpy Great times a Thousand Grandpa companion)

Traits ––– -

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between /  Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

Additional information ––– –

Smoking Habit: Jacques is a very heavy smoker though he tends to try and keep his smoking to more private areas so not to disturb anyone around him. He’ll smoke a lot when he is stressed or simply having a bad day in general. It helps to not only calm him but to take his mind off of everything happening around him. Drugs: Nope, Jacques hates any sort of narcotic due to his past. He has good reason to not trust any such things and will avoid them. If he is pushed to try them he can easily lose his temper and lash out violently. Alcohol: While he doesn’t heavily drink, Jacques has been known to toss down a drink or two when in good company. He tends to however prefer actually drinking things like Teas over any sort of Alcoholic beverage.

RP Hooks ––– –

Honestly, when it comes to Jacques I am open for anything really. I can’t really think of ‘hooks’ per-say so it’s often hard for me to think of situations or settings. I tend to be very open with my Role-play and I do not mind plotting things out, I’m pretty much an anything goes kind of person so long as it’s okay with both parties. Jacques’ RP’s can be either very fun and slice of life to dark and brutal depending on what anyone wants. So really, all anyone needs to do is ask and we can see about setting things up! Basically, I’m all for plotting out things and just going from there! Whatever works for my RP partners and the like, I’m pretty much okay with just about anything and everything lol doesn’t matter if it’s fluff/fun times or dark themed. I’m game!

The major things that I ask is that characters don’t know too much about Jacques (IE: his capability to transform into a dragon, the Wyrm Eye [Though this can come up in RP since he doesn’t cover it anymore] or just things that they shouldn’t know upon a first meeting), rumors and such are fine (Such as people whispering about the massive dragon that attacked Foundation during the events of the Vault or the dragon that killed Nidhogg, etc.) but characters knowing too much are a bit of a turn off. Jacques isn’t the sort to go out and just let all of this information out for the world to hear, he’s very secretive and keeps so much hidden just so that he feels ‘safe’.

On another note, while Jacques is with both P’shali and Swath their relationship is open meaning that he is very much okay with having more ‘mature’ moments with people whom might catch his interest. Any romantic relationships or anything that might come up from such things will be kept separate in their own ‘story’ so that things won’t get too confusing obviously.

Hook

Hook

Hook

Hook

Hook

Contact Information  ––– –

For the most part Tumblr DM’s, Asks or Submissions are the best way to get my attention or to spark an RP. Other than that, Tells in game if I am online will also be a means to get into contact with me. If you wish to contact Jacques in game please message me on Tumblr first before doing so. I do not share my Discord with people as it is a safe space for me and I prefer keeping it private to people that I feel are a good fit and good friends.

On that note I tend to be very shy and hesitant with RPing with people I have not RP’d with before. So please bear with me if I seem hesitant to RP with you if I do not know you, ESPECIALLY if it is a more mature RP. I am glad you enjoy my character(s) but I’m still learning how to be more involved in the community and not have major anxiety whenever I speak to new people.

@mooglemeet | @ffxiv-crystal-rp

[heroicrow]

18 and 29 i'm here for suffer

42 Character Development questions || Accepting!

18. What kind of person could they become in the future? What are some developmental paths that they could take, (best, worst, most likely?) what would cause them to come to pass, and what consequences might they have? What paths would you especially like to see, and why?

lays down

So I love love love this dweeb in part because of all of the different ways his development could go. He’s technically a wildcard, so he has infinite potential or something, but he’s been so thoroughly screwed over by the world that it really manifested in the worst way. 

As far as in the story goes, there are a few fun things to consider. If he never got his powers, for example, he would have either: fallen into the pit of despair, because it was so ingrained in him from such a young age that he was nothing but a burden to society and that he didn’t belong and wasn’t wanted and wasn’t going to go anywhere in life. So he could have just gone along with that, succumbing to having to struggle to survive. Or he would have succeeded in making something of himself, probably out of sheer spite and willpower alone, and potentially become just like the adults he despises because of anger towards the world and the feeling that no one helped him, so he doesn’t need to help anyone else. Or, hell, maybe he would have met Akira without [holy grail noises] and been able to go down a path towards seeking real justice for those wronged.

As for RP character growth directions, rubs me hands together.

If I had taken him from an earlier canon point, it would be harder to move him from his path of being a snakey snake asshole who would do anything to achieve whatever goals he had, but his confrontation with the Phantom Thieves really knocked him down a few pegs and the whole thing just completely threw him off his trajectory. Learning that his plan never would have worked; being shown kindness, and being told what he did wrong, by the phantom thieves; and otherwise, y’know, dying really kind of sent him back to square one.

So, worst case, he ends up being manipulated (again) by another malevolent person or being to aid in some nefarious plans, since despite how clever and cautious he is, it’s still shockingly easy to do. 

Another not great case is that he feels so royally alone and screwed by everything and miserable that he continues to care extremely little about the well-being of others and thus gives up trying completely and gives in to his own twisted desire for chaos and destruction. And / or just decides to do whatever he needs to for his own benefit, since he’s concluded selfishness remains the only way to get anything in this fck of a world.

And then there’s the ideal path, and hopefully it’s the most likely (but who knows! if you’d like to wreck goro akechi plz im me). This one would depend on him forming real bonds or being shown kindness. He’s actually got a very large capacity for being kind, sweet, and considerate, if those traits are nurtured. It’s really in his nature to want to help others and care about people and care about things like justice, but the vast majority of his life he’s been taught that stuff like that only allows other people to use or trample on you and that it’s a sign of weakness. He’s been taught that none of it matters or makes a difference, anyways, and that people who are kind suffer just as much as those they tried to help. If some of that can be unlearned, though, or his environment changes to support and promote those behaviors, he can easily become soft like mash potato.

There are probably other paths for him, too, that I just haven’t thought of. I’m interested in anywhere he goes, though, and will be bouncing in excitement no matter what happens.

29. What kind of activities, interests, and hobbies do they have? What significance and impact do these have in their lives, both positive and negative?

This was answered here!

[jendarknight-blog]

SO YEAH BOY HOWDY I’M GOING TO TALK ABOUT AN AU THING. 

If you’re not interested, feel free to skip this post. There’s a lot of rambling in it. Warning: TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF. Also, Domestic!Baku.

Weirdly when I took notes on this idea, I ended up in Baku’s headspace while I was writing it, so uh. Yeah. When I get to some of the bullet points it’ll almost look like in-fic headspace prose. 

For those who don’t know, Kare Kano (”His and her Circumstances” or “His and Hers” for short) is a romantic comedy / drama anime and manga from the 90′s that centers around two students: Yukino Miyazawa and Souichirou Arima. Both are model students, but both have hidden depths: Yukino likes attention and being number one, while Souichirou tries to be perfect in order to please the parents who took him in and raised him. After Souichirou takes the number one spot on their first day of high school and steals Yukino’s rightful debut, it begins a tense one-sided rivalry in order to become Top Dog, which ends up leading into a strange, sweet, and fulfilling romance as they not only understand themselves, but each other. Initially, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go Todobaku or Bakudeku with this, because both could easily work, but I went with Bakudeku because Todobaku would be far too close to how canon ACTUALLY ends up.

And I wanted to include the “Childhood friends” and shared history angle. In Kare Kano canon, the big secret is that Yukino is a lazy egomaniac while she acts like the perfect angel at school, but since Baku is...well, there isn’t a lazy bone in his body, domesticity comes to the rescue every time. And I’m weak to Domestic Baku, sue me. And in original Kare Kano canon, Souichirou blackmails Yukino into doing his work when he finds out her secret, but...yeah, Deku’s far too nice to blackmail him, but not nice enough to not screw with him. Note: This is told in bullet points. -Specifically, Baku desperately wants to be number one. Quirks aren’t a Thing, and for most of his life, he was the best at everything. People were intimidated by him and worshipped the ground he walked on, and you know? It felt pretty damn good. He was a winner, and winning was his fucking life. He competed against everyone in everything; he made sure his skin was perfect, his body was flawless, his grades were flawless, and everything else he could think of, and he worked his ass off to be as good as he was. That said, he wasn’t untouchable. He liked to look like the sun that everyone wanted to reach, but he was actually...not as hard as people thought. Turns out, he’s close to his two very young siblings: Eri and Kouta. They were adopted as babies (from a very close friend of the family who had passed away, and they took them in as requested in their will), but due to his family circumstances, he ended up more of a surrogate parent than a brother. Kouta worships the ground Baku walks on and wants to be just like him, and Eri has Baku wrapped around her little finger. He always is the one who makes the family meals, does the shopping, takes care of spring cleaning, and even does Eri’s hair every morning, since his parents are often out of the house due to work (on trips and otherwise) and needed someone to watch the little ones. -He’d known Deku since he was a kid, but only through school; their mothers knew each other, but after they started school, their parents didn’t bring them over on playdates, especially after their relationship soured. Deku sucked at everything, and that was just sort of the way things were. Even if he kept trailing around behind him all through elementary school, they went to different middle schools so he thought he was finally free of the nerd.  -Then, High School happened. They both were not only admitted into one of the top High Schools in the country, UA, but Baku did not get the top marks. Deku did. Not only that, but started school popular and getting all kinds of praise and adoration (which he had the nerve to be fucking shy about, the stupid fuck). Baku kind of liked the lack of attention, but he hated that fucking Deku won against him, and had the sway of the classroom just on the tip of his finger, even if he didn’t realize it. Oh, and Deku had to fucking realize it. He had to be looking down on him and pitying him all the goddamn time, why else would he give him those fucking looks every time Baku turned around?! God, he pissed him off. -Eijirou and Denki are his next door neighbors (Eijirou lives on one side, and Denki lives on the other), and alongside Mina, they’re pretty much his only friends, and had been since Junior High. Unfortunately for him, they went to one of the nearby public schools rather than UA, so they couldn’t exactly stick with him or share his pain. Eijirou especially has heard his angry rants about Deku, and tries to be the voice of reason. It goes about as well as one would think it does. -So, he might have...studied. A little. Okay, no, he studied a LOT. Baku became a man possessed, trying his best to knock Deku off his high horse (”Bro, aren’t you the one on the high horse here?!”). He studied harder, worked out harder, and overall kept pushing to beat fucking Deku (and his friend, stupid half-and-half, fuck him too). He does, in fact, get the top score on the midterm. But instead of being crushed or defeated or just...something, Deku smiles his dumb-ass smile and just says: “Wow, Kacchan, you really are amazing. I won’t lose next time!” -It attacked his brain, and stuck with him. He didn’t know what the hell to think about it. Deku’d fought to get to the top, so he clearly was trying to kick him down a peg, so why wasn’t he at least a little mad about it? And why did he have to look at him with those huge eyes, and why were his cheeks so pink? Well, he would get his answer. One morning, Deku left a note on Katsuki’s desk, and told him to meet him by the big tree after school. And, ready to give that asshole a piece of his mind (maybe he wanted to fight -- he didn’t want to soil his reputation, but the thought of giving Deku a good...well, deck, like when they were little and scuffled on the playground, was a nice one), he went to meet him. Turns out, uh, that’s not what happened. 

“Look, Kacchan, I..I know we’re not on the best of terms. I know you probably don’t even like me--”

“Can we hurry this up? I’ve got--”

“Let me finish.”

“Tch.”

“I know you probably don’t like me, and you know what? I probably shouldn’t like you. You’ve been nothing but a jerk to not only me, but everyone else around you. But you always told me that I was useless, and maybe in this case, you’re right. I am useless. I don’t know how to like--Ugh, this isn’t coming out right.”

“...”

“Kacchan, no--Katsuki. I love you! I’ve always been in love with you, and I don’t think I’m ever going to stop being in love with you. I...just. I don’t know. I think I needed to get that off my chest, before it drove me crazy. A-anyway, I don’t expect anything, don’t worry. I’ll...I’ll just be going now. U-um. See you around.”

-Katsuki is too stunned to respond, and he can’t explain why his stupid fucking heart feels like it was just put in a goddamn blender. So stupid Deku is not leaving his head. And he starts to notice things. The smiles. The brushes of shoulders whenever he walks past him; they feel deliberate, staged. Like he would run into the room at just the right time just to get an excuse to touch him. Had he been acting like a lovesick dumbass this whole time instead of just...whatever he was trying to be? Was that why he praised him? Also, what was Deku doing, confessing to him like he was a fucking girl? What, did he think he was some sort of secret maiden who wanted to swoon at the sight of his nerdy ass? As if. (That said, Deku was starting to work out; but the dude still watched Tokusatsu shows and could even do the poses on command like a kid! He even had a Kamen Rider pin on the lapel of his uniform jacket -- how did he even dress himself in the morning without being embarrassed?) Fucking Deku with his fucking muscles and his weird looks and stupid confession and ugh why was this so fucking complicated? Fuck it. Deku was an idiot, always would be an idiot, and nothing he was going to do would change that! He was going to win, and Deku was clearly doing this so that he could find a chink in Katsuki’s armor--well joke’s on him. Motherfucker is completely covered in armor. He’s 100 percent armor and no squishy bits deep inside. 

-He refused to tell his friends any of this, though Kirishima did get it out of him when Denki and Mina weren’t around. He really hoped this was going to be the last real conversation he ever had with Midoriya fucking Izuku.

-Of course it was never that simple. One night, after taking the kids home from kindergarten, he’d dressed down in his house clothes and his usual apron to get dinner started. He’d been expecting a package, so he didn’t even think twice about the doorbell ringing, or rushing to get it with the apron still on and All Might house slippers still clinging to his feet. Lo and behold, it’s not the mailman, but Deku, still in his school uniform, staring at Katsuki like he’d grown a second head.

“Take a picture, fucker. It’ll last longer.”

“Kacchan--is that an apron? And All Might sli--”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t slam the door in your face, Deku.”

“I-I um. Have your uh. Notebook? You left it at school.”

“Okay, good, you gave me my fucking notebook, now go the fuck away--”

-Too bad Eri decided to peek out the door and see him. She was usually so shy, but she had no problems talking to Deku, of all people, and even tried to get him to eat with them. Thankfully, Deku caught the hint from Katsuki’s glare and hightailed it before he had to yell at him in front of a six-year-old.

-...That didn’t stop him from coming around a lot more often. One day, it was because he left his pencils on his desk. Another, it was because he was asked by a member of the cooking club to send him a message (like he couldn’t just text him). He ends up staying for dinner one day after Eri ends up letting him in while Baku was in the bathroom (he can’t even be mad; she was doing exactly what she was supposed to do if his friends came over -- except those two weren’t friends, but how was he supposed to explain that when he was one of the first people she was actually enthusiastic to see? She didn’t even greet Mina or Denki with that kind of enthusiasm!). This leads to more dinner dates, until Deku just ends up coming over for dinner every day, and it only pisses Baku off more and more that he’s getting comfortably familiar, even though all he ever does is (at least in his mind) condescend him. 

-Eventually, at school, when they’re both there late due to required club activities, they have an argument. Deku runs away in rage, Baku chases him, they leap out the school window onto the track, and they have a small punch-up as they address their grievances -- well, specifically, Katsuki’s. He isn’t condescending to him, never was, and never wanted something so stupid as attention. He worked so hard so that Katsuki would acknowledge him, and he came over all the time so he could have an excuse to talk to him, and maybe, at least, be his friend. They end this encounter as friends -- as Baku’s only friend in UA.-Then over time, Baku realizes that he’s falling for this idiot nerd, but doesn’t know if he still feels the same way. After a series of ridiculous mishaps and attempts to TRY to confess, he is about to give up when he notices Deku’s hand dangling on the train, so he reaches for it. Quietly, Deku squeezes his hand, and the two ride together in silence, their fingers not untangling until they get to Baku’s front door.

UGH I’M SORRY THIS WAS LONG BUT IT WAS SO CUTE IN MY HEAD I HAD TO DO SOMETHING IDK IF I EVEN WANT TO DO ANYTHING WITH IT BUT I JUST HSDFLKHSD:FLKHS:DLKFJS:LDKFJSDF

[aurantia-ignis]

please do pokespe, specialshipping, and gold!

This turned out way, wayyyyyy longer than expected so I’m putting it under a cut!

PokespeFavorite character: Tie up between Red and Yellow, I think!Red is a wonderful boy; courageous, kind, intuitive. He’s got a good heart, a great head for battle, and a passion to achieve his goals with his companion Pokemon. Blaine’s words about him always struck me:”Pokemon Trainer. Someone who spends his life with, trusts, and is trusted by his Pokemon. Someone like you, Red.” He may not be a perfect child (overconfidence in his earlier chapters stick out quite a bit, and of course, they showcase his character development!), but, like Blaine, Red is everything I’d aspired to be as a Pokemon Trainer. Yellow is a lovely child with a golden heart. She represents a sort of kindness that I sometimes wish I had more of. Her battle with Lance yielded this conversation:“Pokemon aren’t tools for killing! Even this battle of yours has hurt not only humans, but Pokemon as well!”“I hate fighting… I’m truly sad when any Pokemon are injured… Even my opponent’s!” “Aren’t Pokemon your friends too!?“ Despite her pacifist nature, she’s willing to fight with all she has to protect those she cares for. She feels guilt and pain whenever she has to hurt Pokemon, but goes through it anyway, to fight for what she believes in: humans and Pokemon living in harmony together. And though she may not have the same sort of battle sense that Red does, she can still pack quite a punch, and she has a few ingenious ideas of her own, too (see the Team Rocket on the ship battle).  Least Favorite character: Pryce, I think…? His entire arc was just ridiculously melodramatic, and it didn’t make a lot of sense ^^;  5 Favorite ships (canon or non-canon):Red/Yellow, Green/Blue, Daisy/Bill, Gold/Silver/Crystal in a happy threesome family, Ruby/SapphireCharacter I find most attractive:It might have been N or Steven, but unfortunately, Yamamoto’s art when he was drawing those two was horrendous. ^^;; I mean, dude, noses don’t work like that! So probably Lance from the Mato era… or Red. Character I would marry:Maybe Falkner? He has a day job and he’s a good guy, and he makes gym leader! Otherwise, Steven’s very good husband material. Character I would be best friends with:Maybe Ruby? I too would like to groom my Pokemon endlessly and exclaim over how beautiful they are.A random thought:The Pokemon world is just so fantastical, there’s no way to make it realistic without having to revamp almost 70% of the entire world. ^^: Despite Pokespe seeming like a semi-realistic portrayal of it, there are way too many questions about the way things work in there that a reader still has to suspend disbelief in order to enjoy fully XD;;; An unpopular opinion:I really, really don’t much like Whitwo. :/ My canon OTP:Red/Yellow! The two of them share similar worldviews, something that I think is instrumental for building a good relationship.Red’s words in the same chapter as the Blaine one from above: “Mewtwo’s a pretty scary creature, all right. But all it knows is being held prisoner in a lab. All it knows about humans is that we’re arrogant and cruel. But what if it learns something different? What if it learns that not all humans treat other creatures badly? Find out, Blaine. Teach it.” His optimism and willingness to believe in the world is absolutely beautiful. Yellow had a similar scene in her battle with Lance. “It’s true that humans have done selfish things, taking away Pokemon’s homelands… Stripping them of their food supply… I’ve seen the results of that on my journey!”And later, with Dragonite: "Of course you feel rage toward humans. But think…. His way isn’t the answer! Humans don’t deserve death–any more than Pokemon! Humans and Pokemon can live together! I know it!”Despite knowing how terrible humans can be, both of them still believe that the rest of the world can come to understand things the way they do; that Pokemon and humans are all beings that deserve a chance to live in the same world, in peace and harmony. I love these scenes, not just for the parallels between my ship, but because they really define Red and Yellow as who they truly are. As a note, I put this under canon despite there being no official confirmations or confessions, because I think there are enough scenes (especially in the later volumes) that blatantly hint at the creators pushing them together. Although I’m not completely happy with all of them (some of the writing is way too forced, man), I’m glad that at least Kusaka seems to want them together. XD;

Non-canon OTP: Green and Blue! Although they don’t have a lot of shippy moments in canon (most of the time he’s just going TSK WHAT A NOISY WOMAN at her), I like their pair character dynamics, and the thought of their everyday life together never fails to make me laugh. XDMost bad*** character:Red! But also Ruby. The boy is very, very cool. Other than the humans, Mewtwo and Pika are pretty badass Pairing I am not a fan of:Black/White. I did enjoy the BW arc, but I felt like the two protags suffered from not enough character and relationship development. I was more inclined to ship White with N based on their writing, except of course canon moments obviously support BlackWhite more. For me, however, a few ‘romantic moments’ without any proper relationship developments don’t make me feel like shipping two characters. Bill and Daisy didn’t get any, either, but they’re supporting characters who don’t appear very much, after all. Character I feel the writers screwed up (in one way or another):GOLD. I love the boy, he was so amazing and hilarious, but the fact is, his character arc was completely screwed. Aaaaand I’m going to elaborate on this in the last section of this ask.Favourite friendship:Red and his mons. Also Yellow and her mons. Between the humans, Gold and Silver make me particularly happy, but the Kanto Four together are great too. Specialshippingwhen or if I started shipping it: I think I thought of it as a jokeship at first, when Prof Oak was thinking “Does this child have any thought in her head that isn’t connected with Red”, but I only really started seeing them as a serious ship at the end of the Yellow arc, when Kitty/Piisuke’s String Shot was connecting them wwwmy thoughts:I uh…. I think I covered this in the OTP section above HAHAHAWhat makes me happy about them:The way they’re both happy together just talking about Pokemon and loving them What makes me sad about them:The awkward forced romantic hints that popped up here and there after Mato left :Things done in fanfic that annoys me:I can’t stand it when they’re written out of character. :/ Things I look for in fanfic:Anything in-character. HAHAHAHA. I also appreciate when, despite the humans being the main focus, the Pokemon also play an active role in the story. Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: I guess I could sort of see Red going with Blue and Yellow with Green… My happily ever after for them:Yellow opens a Pokemon Sanctuary somewhere and Red takes over the Gym of that town. GoldHow I feel about this character: As I mentioned above, Gold was completely screwed up by the writers. Up until he read that letter from Professor Oak in Vol 14, he had just been fighting on his own terms. Yet suddenly, when he received a letter that he had originally hoped to contain tips on how to win an upcoming battle, he goes into an existential crisis because Professor Oak didn’t acknowledge that he has any ‘special abilities’! “What about MY abilities? There must be something! Don’t I have an ability that places me alongside the other Pokemon trainers?! TELL MEEEEEEEE!” That melodramatic panel of his silhouette is just… melodramatic. He respected Prof Oak, but not to any extreme degree. Why would he have felt so lost and denied just because a Professor he had barely met a few times didn’t know what his abilities were?To top the ridiculous off, the scene continues with them finding an extra page of the letter and going “WAIT GUESS WHAT. PROF OAK THINKS YOU’RE A BREEDER” and Gold conveniently hatches the Pichu egg at the same moment. And they fly off to fight. And then everything’s okay again? ….DID I MISS SOMETHING! *angry Timon noises* All that angst a page before would have been easily avoided if they just took every page out to begin with! And if it was solved so easily, it obviously isn’t worth angsting over! Gold could have been a great, great character, if only they hadn’t made his point of realization “YEAH I’M A BREEDER BECAUSE PROF OAK SAYS SO”. )o)All the people I ship romantically with this character: None, reallyMy non-romantic OTP for this character: I love his interactions with Silver. wwMy unpopular opinion about this character: I don’t ship him romantically with Silver or Crystal. :/ One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon:PROPER. CHARACTER. DEVELOPMENT. *SOBS*My OTP: NoneMy OT3:With Silver and Crystal as a family! I love the fact that Silver camps out at his house to watch Proteam Omega.