#(which may sound hypocritical but it makes more sense to warn people that

[crisiscutie]

People have so many interesting theories about Jenova,like her conscious still exists even if her body is decayed and ruined, Sephiroth was seen to be talking to her through telepathy of sorts

My theory after watching crime psychological thriller about Jenova: Is it possible Jenova is like 100% dead and that the "Jenova" or "Mother" Sephiroth conversed with was only a figment in his head,it makes sense since people who experienced severe traumatized breakdown actually became delusional and created creatures in their head. If this theory is true, Sephiroth is gonna be a much more tragic character,bc he's fed so much lies his entire life,he himself became a pathological liar,a severe,irreversible,evil one

This thought kept me up at night sometimes. Hope you don't mind me sharing 😊

-🌹

Not at all!

And yes, Sephiroth is most certainly a pathological liar. The Crisis Cutie is desperately clinging to the last threads of sanity, and creating delusions is his way of doing that. He's a hypocrite who sees the sin in everyone but himself.

Content Warning: Mentions of Pregnancy, Yandere Sephiroth and C.C's ramble.

Your theory is interesting! I don't think Jenova is totally dead, but she very likely doesn't have any sapience by the modern day. It's possible she's just running on her basic instinct now so Sephiroth is communicating with no one.

My view on Jenova's situation is mostly typical: She is there and fully conscious, but subservient to Sephiroth. I think she even talked to Cloud at one point during OG FF7 but don't quote me on that. But yes, whatever Sephiroth wants, she wants it too. Used to be the other way around until Sephiroth's will overrode hers. She still influences Sephiroth, like his goal to ruin Gaia and use it as a vessel to do the same to other planets and such.

When it comes to darling, I will bring up a post I made about the sexual aspect of Sephiroth's relationship with his darling: because of Jenova, he would be much more likely (and deliberately) impregnate his darling because of the sex triggering a breeding instinct from his Jenova influence, as one of her goals is to affect many with her cells as possible.

Also, for earlier in the timeline, I'd imagine that Sephiroth's influence will cause Jenova to feel (or have an instinct close to it to emulate since she's alien) an intense love and devotion for the darling, even before he had taken control. Her reunion and possessive instincts will push her to claim the darling as Sephiroth's hers. These reasonings are why she plays a prominent role in my Sephiroth writings, especially those concerning Yandere Sephiroth.

To conclude, I will say, I find Jenova to be absolutely fascinating! I was somewhat sad to read a fact that a member of the development team of CCR wanted to incorporate Jenova into Sephiroth's boss fight but Nomura shot it down, saying it wasn't faithful to the OG and it would be too soon for that. I completely understood his reasoning though. It really sounds like they may be planning for Jenova to become more than a plot device in the Remake trilogy... Ugh, this talk is making me want Rebirth to come out sooner. Sad thing is, I don't think we will be getting new information about Rebirth until FF16 releases and the hype around that dies, which is also understandable.

[petervintonjr]

"Did I say in an unorganized condition? Yea, had our opponents their way, the very notion of such an institution might have been obliterated in our minds. How strange it is, to see men of sound sense, and of tolerably good judgment, act so diametrically in opposition to their interest; but I forbear making any further comments on this subject, and return to that for which we are convened."

Another biography certain to be hastily deleted from Florida's public school curricula: the life and achievements of abolitionist David Walker. Born in 1785 North Carolina, Walker's father was enslaved (who died before David was born), but his mother was a free woman of colour who later moved to Boston, where sentiments towards slavery were markedly different in the earliest years of this experimental new Constitutional Republic. Walker established a clothing store on Brattle Street and eventually married and had two children, and became very active in local civic affairs, aiding runaway slaves and contributing essays and articles to Freedom's Journal. Of course Walker loathed and despised slavery, but to him that wasn't nearly enough --such an issue demanded many loud voices, raised in active opposition. While the concept of abolitionism certainly existed at the time, it was piecemeal and not formally united nor organized.

Walker's September 1829 publication of An Appeal to the Colored Citizens of the World but in Particular and Very expressly to those of the United States of America changed all that.

Widely distributed throughout the Northern states and with copies smuggled into the Southern states (sometimes sewn into the very linings of the garments that Walker's store shipped), this controversial 26-page Appeal of course immediately came to be regarded as dangerous, seditious and subversive. Besides its call for a more united and organized opposition to the institution of slavery itself, many of Walker's passionately-expressed viewpoints were relatively new and untested topics; including the notion of making land reparations, the concept of Black racial pride, and forcefully debunking the then-popular assertion that slavery was perversely somehow beneficial to Black people. (Good thing no-one makes that silly claim anymore...) The Appeal also took white Christians to task for their role in condoning slavery --even passively-- arguing that such behaviour was not only inhumane, but also deeply hypocritical. Walker also argued against recolonization of Free Blacks back to Africa (a popular idea at the time), and frankly warned of armed slave uprisings and insurrections, frequently invoking Biblical terminology and similar epic-scale descriptions to drive the point home. He conspicuously made mention of the Haitian Revolution (still a touchy subject amongst Southern plantation owners), and even called out the inherent hypocrisy of some parts of the Declaration of Independence itself.

Some southern landowners were sufficiently incensed to offer as much as $3000 bounties for Walker's death; and in the case of Georgia, a reward as high as $10,000 to anyone who returned him alive back to the South. Circulation of copies of the Appeal itself became a criminal offense in some Southern cities, and while Walker managed to evade such threats and vowed to continue to publish further essays and address public gatherings, he was ultimately found dead in the doorway of his Boston home (and its adjacent printing office) in 1830. While the official cause of death is listed as tuberculosis (widespread at the time), there remains to this day speculation that David Walker may in fact have been poisoned. Fortunately the Appeal and its arguments persisted for years, influencing many future abolitionists (including William Lloyd Garrison, fellow Bostonian Maria Stewart, Henry Highland Garnet, and eventually even John Brown, who played a role in its widespread reprinting in the years leading up to the Civil War).

Anyway, enough prelude. Dive in and read the full text of the Appeal here, as indexed at University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill: https://docsouth.unc.edu/nc/walker/walker.html

[olliedollie1204]

honestly, it is kinda weird that there’s a whole argument in this fandom over whether or not to tag stuff in which the canon antagonists aren’t portrayed evilly. like, have you ever seen another fandom that did that? can you imagine if the avatar fandom was expected to tag “sympathetic zuko” on anything written about him not being completely evil before his season 3 redemption arc? like i’m not saying this to bash people who prefer to not see stuff with deceit and remus in it, but it’s just weird to me idk

[inkareds]

Sick Matt Murdock

✧.* word count: 1.6k

✧.* warnings: Mentions of COVID, reader has covid, mentions of symptoms of covid, heavily uneditted (I was too lazy)

✧.* genre: SFW // fluff

inspired by me having covid a month ago and having a covid scare last week. Also guys it would make the world for me if you guys could pls check out my halloween event !! I'm trying something out hehe

“Shit.” You groaned to yourself as you looked down on the positive test on your hand.

Now, that sentence, to some people could sound like a life-sentence, but to you, it was an inconvenience at most. Because, no, you weren’t pregnant, but yes, you had covid. You wanted to bash your head in to a wall after realizing you got covid in 2022. Where it had seemed a good chunk of people were slowly moving on from the pandemic all together.

But here you were, with a scratchy throat, bleeding headache, and a positive antigen test on your hand.

It had started a few days ago at work, you had been feeling off, worsening headaches and burning eyes. Despite this, you had thought nothing of it, thinking that it had been allergies or perhaps the flu. Who would’ve thought that it was the infamous covid.

The thought of trying the antigen test didn’t even cross your mind when you told Matt, Foggy, and Karen about how ill you’ve been feeling these past few days. All before Karen reminded you of the very real possibility that you may have covid. You brushed her off but as minutes ticked by, the paranoia set it, especially because you realized Matt had stayed quieter the rest of the time you four were together. No doubt, scanning your body with his enhanced senses to see if you actually did have it.

Then you got home after kissing Matt’s cheek goodbye as the three of them had to continue working on a pesky case. Matt’s brows furrowed as you usually kissed him on the lips, but again, Karen had planted that idea of you having covid and now you were worried that if you did have covid, you’d infect Matt.

And Matt did not deal with illness well.

When you got home, you quickly raided your medicine box for a test. This was where you had found yourself right now.

Itchy throat, burning eyes, bleeding headache, and a positive test on your hand.

You groaned as you begun to search in your bag for your phone, quickly calling Foggy and Karen as you decided it was too late at night for Matt to not be out devilling.

“Yep, I’m sure it is, well, get yourself tested. I’m sorry if I gave it to you guys before your big case.” You spoke to the two of them, “Also, tell Matt when he’s done with patrolling, I don’t want to stress him out on the field.”

You ended the call with a tired groan. After telling your boss that you’d probably be useless for the next couple of days then go back to working from home until you’re completely healed. You took it upon yourself to rest.

You drank some medicine for your headache and sore throat then prompted to lock all your windows and doors before a vigilante dressed like the devil came knocking in. Which you knew he’d definitely do after he finds out you were sick.

Now on your bed, you try to stay awake by using your phone, but the screen’s glaring brightness just seem to burn your eyes even more than it did before. So, you turned it off and opted to simply stare at the ceiler. Which, wasn’t a very good idea. As soon enough, your eyelids began to drop heavier and heavier.

Just as your eyes were about to close completely, engulfing you in the peaceful darkness that is sleep. You hear a gentle tapping on your window. With a sigh you debated on ignoring it, perhaps you could pretend to sleep.

But knowing him, he probably already knew you weren’t asleep.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t expect this. Matthew Murdock was a hypocrite. He hated when the people close to him got hurt and yet, he himself gets hurt on a daily basis.

With tired steps you slowly push your body off of your bed, feeling your muscles begin to groan and your head begin to spin. This was going to be a long week, especially as the symptoms worsen and then betters.

When you got to the window near your bed, you realized how much longer it took for you to get there. The actual distance was probably a few steps from where you were laying moments ago. But with each heavy step, you could barely take one after the other.

You sat down on a chair near your window, watching Matt with his Daredevil outfit tapping on the window.

“Matt,” you know he can hear you, “Matt go home.” It was times like these you were so grateful you hadn’t moved in with him, despite how much you desperately wanted it.

Matt simply tapped even harder, as if trying to will you to open the window to at least talk to him.

“Not only are you not wearing a mask, and neither am I, so if we talk you’re almost certainly going to get covid, but you’re also supposed to be out there rescuing people!” You argued with him.

Truth be told, even talking was scratching your throat in an irritating manner. Matt must’ve sensed or heard? It. As he stopped tapping and sighed, letting his forehead lean against the window.

“Can you hear me?” Matt spoke, testing if the glass separating the two of you was thin enough for sound to pass through it. “Mhm.” Was your only response as your eyelids began to feel heavier again.

“Can you let me in? I’ll make you some soup that you can warm up tomorrow morning for breakfast, and then I’ll leave, I promise.” Matt was good at telling when other people were lying, but he was absolutely terrible at lying.

You shook your head with a large smile on your face, “No can do sir. If I let you in, you’ll find a way to stay with me until I’m all better, and I’ll feel much too guilty from keeping Hell’s Kitchen’s protector away for too long.” You chuckled as Matt looked even more dejected that you found out his plan.

“Come on sweetheart. You’re sick, let me take care of you like you took care of me every time Claire can’t.” Matt practically begged at you.

He can, eerily might you add, sense your body aching and hear the blood rushing through your veins as it tries to fight off the terrible virus in your system. He can hear the way your voice became scratchier and the way it slurred showed your exhaustion.

Unfortunately for Matt, you knew him better than you knew yourself. You knew if you let him take care of you. He’d get sick right around the time that you’ll start to feel better. Which means he’ll be out of the job for far longer than he would be comfortable with.

And no matter how many times he’s said that you are more of a priority to him than the city. You won’t let him put you on such a pedestal. You know the city needs him, and deep inside, he loves protecting this city. Loves cleaning up the streets one thug at a time.

You won’t pull him out of that.

“If you really want to make me some hot soup you can always just bring it to me, you don’t have to cook inside my apartment Matt.” You tried to find a compromise.

It’d be futile to ask Matt to completely ignore your current predicament, and truth be told, you liked the idea of being pampered. Not having to worry about what foods you’ll be eating, the medicine you’ll be drinking. And seeing as how Matt didn’t live too far away. You thought this was the best option.

When he stayed silent you knew you won the argument.

“Matt,” your voice was soft, caring, understanding, and laced with absolute exhaustion. “The city needs you.” He doesn’t even need to see your face or sense the muscles pulling at your lips to know you were smiling. Just the was you said it made him, hear, that you were smiling.

“I love you.” Was the only thing he could say back to you, which you responded with a chuckle and, “I love you too.”

Matt then stood up, thinking to himself what kind of soup to drop off in the morning when he’ll need to leave for work. Though as he climbed over the fire escape, about to jump off into the night, he couldn’t help himself but lay in another advice.

“Don’t forget to drink a lot of water and don’t work too hard.” He thought he heard you mutter under your breath calling him a hypocrite as you shuffled back to bed and finally rest.

Tomorrow morning you’ll find outside your door, not only a container of soup, but also a myriad of different herbal teas (which you guessed was from Claire), packs and packs of medicine, and a tiny bear with a note attached to it. (The note said something about getting well soon in scribbles, no doubt Foggy’s handwriting).

Aside from all that, was also a bouquet of flowers you can actually smell.

Warmth erupted in your heart when you realized Matt must’ve had the worst time bringing the flowers that most likely smelled so strongly to him. Just to make sure that you could have flowers you could actually enjoy. As he knew the virus would only dull your senses.

Glancing at the container of soup, you have no doubt that he probably spiced it more than he needed to as well.

[solaeter]

can i request any soft casual date headcanons for choso or noritoshi or geto? -akatsukimommy

Soft, Casual Date | Headcanons 

Note: tysm for being my first request! .+:｡(ﾉ･ω･)ﾉﾞ I hope I did these justice, headcanons and I don’t get along because I over think and..it’s a process lmao. I also chose to do all three because I can’t pick between them |ω･)و ̑̑༉

Word Count: 1838

Characters: Choso, Noritoshi Kamo and Suguru Geto

Warning[s]: None aside from possible errors I didn’t bother to check for. 

Request Status: OPEN

↠ There’d be lots of communication, mostly coming from you as the two of you venture about. From shops, food and to culture, you educate Choso while he just is so lost in you. He’s like a puppy, completely in love and hanging onto every word. From how he looks at you, you’d question if he was actually listening. 

↠ A soft casual date with Choso would probably be showing him around Tokyo. This boy will be glued to your side, arms linked together or he’d hold your hand. Regardless, he’s not letting you out of his sight. 

“Did I lose you?” You worried you were babbling on too much and Choso shakes his head. He can’t help himself and admire you, how you knew so much and the level of patience you had for him made his chest tighten. 

“No, continue please.” So polite he is, taking your hand once again as you smile before going into another explanation that leads into a particularly embarrassing story of a past experience. But Choso doesn’t laugh, he is humored, don’t get him wrong, but he pulls you to his side and offers a small bit of comfort. So precious (´•ω•̥`)

↠ After walking around for what feels like forever, you’d drag Choso to a cute little cafe for a chance to sit down and enjoy a snack or drink. 

↠ Choso might feel a little out of his element but having you there is all he needs. So don’t mind him he wears a little frown or looks around curiously. Normal customs are beyond the poor boy though he is quick to catch onto things.

↠ For example, Choso may not like anything in his coffee. So when you look at him with a crinkled nose and a small smile, he’d tilt his head.

“What?”

“Black coffee? I could never.” You stick your tongue in a playfully disgusted manner and if Choso wasn’t in love then, he certainly fell more. You were so cute, innocent and he can’t seem to handle the emotions that swarm him.

↠ Choso.exe has stopped working. 

↠ After the pit stop, the little date would end with Choso seeing you home. He had things to attend to so staying wasn’t a choice unfortunately, but he makes sure to give you one hell of a hug. There’s so much love and he will cherish every moment with you, his actions prove this statement.

↠ Especially when he doesn’t let go immediately, keeping you there and mumbling a goodnight in your ear. It’d have your heart hammering in your chest and if he kisses you, or you to him, you’d both probably be flustered messes.

↠ But that’s alright cause neither one of you will forget the feeling and you’d be left at the door to your home, eyes soft and body warm with your phone in hand to plan the next time you get to see Choso.

↠ A soft casual date with Noritoshi would probably be an evening stroll through the park or sitting at home and enjoying one another's company. It’s not about what goes on, but rather the experience, atmosphere and feelings during that moment. Noritoshi is sentimental and it plays into a lot of things that he does. Especially when it comes to you.

↠ If you went for a walk with Noritoshi, just like with Choso, he’s keep you close. Except it might be a hand on the small of your back or loosely holding your hand. The contact is reassuring to him, it lets him know you’re okay even if there’s no danger in sight. 

↠ He also holds these little dates close to his heart considering he’s busy most of the time with sorcerer work and clan duties. So one the off days where he can see you, happiness and a sense of much needed calmness will radiate around him. And it’s obvious to you.

“You seem happy.” You point out while the two of you stand on a bridge overlooking a quiet stream illuminated by the setting sun. One might say the view is right out of a photo and you’d agree. Noritoshi laughs beside you, sounding so free from whatever shackles held him daily.

“Any time with you brings me much joy. It’s a breath of fresh air. Perhaps even an escape from reality.” He’d say so casually despite the sentence being cheesy as hell. You bite your lip and smile, ignoring the light blush dusting your cheeks. Smooth fucker, how dare he ୧(๑•̀ᗝ•́)૭

Instead of responding because you were lost for words like a fool, you’d hug Noritoshi’s side and enjoy the peaceful view. The contact was all the response he needed, he thrived off of it. 

↠ Noritoshi isn’t opposed to taking you to his home, but he enjoys spending time at yours for a change of scenery. His obligations and duties don’t follow him once inside your humble little abode.

↠ A date can be anything, or so you’ve reassured many times because let’s be honest, Noritoshi doesn’t have the slightest idea on dating. So when you offered to sit at home and ‘chill’, he was completely thrown left field the first time. Now it’s one of his favorite things.

↠ Noritoshi will melt if you let him lay his head on your lap so you can play with his hair. There’s something so, so relaxing about it that he just falls apart over a simple act of affection. Plus you love seeing his content face while you absentmindedly watch tv and chat quietly about the day's events. The domestic atmosphere has your head spinning and mind jumping to thoughts of marriage. You’d bat the thoughts away but you can’t and when you frown, Noritoshi is quick to notice. 

“You okay?” His soothing voice brings you out of your short lived fantasy and you look down at him, noticing the concern despite his eyes never opening. You nod quickly, flashing a reassuring smile.

“Of course! I was just thinking, nothing bad.” You wouldn’t dare admit to thinking about the future that isn’t even certain. Instead of pressing further, Noritoshi brings a hand up to rest along your cheek. His touch was warm and welcoming and you can’t help but nuzzle into the palm of his hand. 

↠ Lovesick fools you both are. 

↠ Noritoshi is attached to you and he knew he was in deep after the first date. Now every moment with you is engraved in his memory, his heart. No matter how simple or quiet or rambunctious, he doesn’t forget. He also makes mental notes to take you out somewhere nice the next time he gets free time. Until then, he relishes in the comfort you bring and the freedom he feels while spending time at your home.

↠ All in all, relaxing at home playing with Noritoshi’s hair after taking a nice walk sure beats going to the movies or staying out into the late hours of the night. You cherish the softness of his face as he lays on you and the way he lets himself be loose around you in private. Nothing can beat the little things. 

↠ A soft casual date with Geto would be getting him out of trouble probably going out to some unhealthy restaurant and eating your weight in a buffet. Why? Geto can eat and will definitely drag you along. Will also make comments like:

“You need to gain some weight [Name], don’t fear the food.” He’s tryna be nice, honestly especially if you are shy or being conservative. But you may or may not take offense to that. So just punch him to shut him up (๑و•̀ω•́)و.

↠ Will talk about anyone and anything. Geto definitely gossip to you about other people that pass by, making up random blurbs that are far fetched or downright dumb. He likes to keep the mood light and fun especially if he just came back from a mission and needed a change of pace. 

↠ Geto is polite in every sense of the way despite his little comments here and there. He holds doors open for you, keeps your hand locked in his and will often bring it up to kiss your knuckles just to wooo you. Only because he knows it works. Every time. 

↠ After dinner, Geto would take you to the top of some building to look at the sky. Why? It’s romantic in his opinion and secondly it’s nice to get away from the crowds and admire the sea of stars while in the presence of the one who so graciously tolerates him.

“You know,” He’d break the silence and look over at you, catching your attention, “I appreciate you for keeping me grounded.” Geto spoke from his heart, referring to the mixed feelings and lingering doubt that covered his heart. The only light that remained was the space you occupied. You blink and sit up on your elbow.

“Where’s this coming from?”

“I don’t know, I just wanted to say it.” He shrugs, flashing you a half smile before pulling you on him for a hug. The two of you would remain like this until lord knows when. Geto wanted to stay like this for as long as possible because soon he wouldn’t have you anymore. 

↠ Which brings us to the new Geto, the monkey hater. If you managed to stay with him through all the shit he did, good on you for being a certified simp! And if you were a non-sorcerer, you are the only ‘monkey’ he tolerates because he loves you so. This bastard will kill anyone for you, even if you’re out on a cute, casual date.

↠ Which would include him taking you out somewhere very nice, like way out of your normal budget. The man loves to impress, always has and always will. 

“Isn’t this a bit..much?” You question, looking at the array of silverware neatly arranged before you. Geto leans forward, his elbow on the table and chin now resting in the palm of his hand. He wore a sly smile, one that was far too relaxed for a cold hearted killer. 

“Not at all.” He reaches with his other hand and takes yours, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. You melt of course, he always managed to take you down, so effortlessly. “You deserve the best.”

“Even if I’m a monkey?” You raise an eyebrow. No one said you agreed with his ideals, but love kept you by his side. Geto laughs, clearly humored. 

“What can I say? I’m a hypocrite out of love.”

(╯°□°）╯︵ (\ . 0 .)\  

↠ As to where you go afterwards, that depends on you cause Geto will take you anywhere. Even though he’s different now, his opinion toward you and how he holds the relationship never changed. If anything, he loves you even more for looking past the monster he became and showing him the love he was scared to lose. 

[thefanficmonster]

Oblivious

Valkyrae (Rae) x Reader (Gender Neutral) ft. Corpse Husband

Warnings: None

Genre: FLUFF, Humor, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: In the most desperate of times, we may or may not be used to hearing the phrase ‘Beggers can’t be choosers’ which is exactly why Y/N’s found themself asking the most hopeless of cases when it comes to love and romance - Corpse, for help.

Requested by Xara. Hi darling! Thank you so much for this wonderful request you’ve sent me - I love writing for Rae (excuse my bi excitement, I’m just a HUGE simp) and I can’t thank you enough for giving me the opportunity to do so. Sorry it’s been two months since you requested this but here it finally is and I hope it makes up for the wait. Love, Vy ❤

“Corpse, I’m in desperate need for help.“ I don’t even bother with a friendly or even polite greeting. Being best friends for as long as we have, Corpse and I excluded the politeness that comes with phone calls a long time ago, especially when calling with an emergency. Though, let’s be honest, if I’m calling him on the phone and not on video chat like I usually do, it is an emergency.

“Given that you’re asking me, I can imagine how desperate you are.“ He has the audacity to laugh in response, causing me to roll my eyes. 

Now, don’t get the wrong idea - I love Corpse with all my heart. Him and I have been through A LOT together considering we know each other since we were teenagers. However, there are some instances in life when he simply doesn’t get me. Not that he doesn’t try to, he does and does so very hard, but he rarely succeeds. Trying is what matters, of course. Given that he is my only close friend, I can only ever turn to him with my problems though I try my best not to bother him too much, but when things get REALLY tough, I can’t help but go and vent to him. Luckily, he’s always been very understanding, but it may be because he feels like he owes me for all the times he has turned to me with his problems. I’ve tried to explain that he shouldn’t feel such a way, but that’s rather hypocritical of me cause I feel the same way.

Alright, enough digressing, back on track!

“Desperate doesn’t even begin to summarize how I feel.“ I sigh, plopping down on the couch in my living room, kicking my feet up on the coffee table as I cover my eyes with my hand. “Brutally miserable is, I think, the correct term to use here.“

I hear Corpse let out a quiet ‘oof’, one I think he hoped I wouldn’t hear. “And what led you to finally give in and ask for help, not that I can offer you much?”

I can’t help but snort at that, a snort that serves as a replacement to slapping myself across the face. “Rae texted me yesterday asking if I’d like to play Minecraft with her and I took THREE HOURS to respond! Not on purpose, I just couldn’t think of something good to say!” I know I sound like a whiney kid, but I think I’ve passed that threshold LONG ago. Of course, this whiney kid version of me only surfaces around Corpse and Corpse only. No one else is allowed to see me like this or that would legit be the end of any sort of pride I may have left in me.

“You mean you couldn’t choose between ‘Sure, I’d like that!’ and ‘Of course, I’d love to!’? Please say yes.“ Corpse already sounds disappointed and he hasn’t even heard the worst of it yet.

“No and sit tight, it gets worse. I...“

He cuts me off, “Wait, no, don’t say it. Let me guess - you turned her down? Keep in mind if you say yes I’m hanging up on you.”

I remain silent, pinching the bridge of me nose and cringing as hard as my facial muscles are willing to allow. I can’t say yes, not cause he’ll hang up but because admitting it makes it more real, and the more real it is the more depressed it’ll make me and I will go back to being a self-deprecating mess that refuses to be productive or properly functioning - aka ‘Whiney Kid Maximum’.

“I’m hanging up.“ Corpse says after waiting five seconds for my response that only comes in the form of dead silence which is more than enough of an answer in and of itself.

“No, please don’t!“ I squeak out despite my agony, “I’ll never break the cycle if you don’t help me, Corpse! I’m a hopeless case!“

“You’re a hopeless case with or without me, Y/N.“ He states, angering me ever so slightly. “Not only cause you really are, but because I have nothing useful to offer you. Not even a single advice. Even if I did, giving it to you would by hypocritical when considered how bad I am on this field myself. Hell, the very person you’re head over heels for is my personal matchmaker. If anything, you should be asking her how to swoon her...“ He pauses.

So does my brain.

For a second we’re both quiet, the silence on the line suggesting big plans are being developed - well, not on my end but still.

“Now there’s an idea...“ He mutters more to himself than to me.

“No!“ I shriek fearfully, “Please, if you love me even the tiniest bit, Corpse, don’t put me in a situation where I have to be alone with Rae! Not IRL not in a Discord call - not in ANYTHING. I close up and end up seeming unfriendly and rude because of my inability to talk to her like a normal human being! I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I just can’t do it! So please don’t make me.“

I maybe can’t read minds, but hell if I can’t at least have a rough guess of what’s on my best friend’s mind - I know he’s already scheming and coming up with odd solutions to my problem - some of which will cause me more problems but let’s not even mention those. That being said, I need to prevent him from actually carrying out any of his absurd schemes, otherwise it’s game over for me.

“Hmm, ok fine, but only cause I wanna spare you your own awkwardness. Consider it charity.“ He sighs, the disappointment even more evident now.

I sigh too, but I do so in defeated relief. It’s bittersweet, to be honest. “Thank you.”

“Don’t.“ He says sharply, “Don’t thank me. It’ll make me feel like I’m encouraging your behavior.“

Well, screw my feelings, I guess. I’m left on this battlefield alone, aren’t I?

Corpse hanging up the call confirms that I am, indeed, alone.

                                                             *  *  *

“Hello?“

“Are you still in bed, for the love of God? It’s noon!“ Not only did he have the audacity to wake me up with his phone call, but now he has the audacity to judge me on my sleeping habits as well. Some darn nerve he has.

“What do you want, Corpse?“ I grumble out, groggy and now grumpy too. The last thing I need is the only person I can turn to turning on me. Especially not now. I don’t need his or anybody else’s judgement of me or my life, it’ll hurt too much.

“I want to know how long you haven’t showered, Y/N.“ He barks back, causing me to roll my eyes. “And when’s the last time you actually ate something healthy and nutritious and not just greasy takeout?”

“I showered last night!“ I straighten up and frown, feeling offended despite his questions being justifiable. I think that’s exactly why I’m pissed off, to be honest - he knows me and my habits too well. “And you’re just being hypocritical on the eating part!“

“Whatever.“ He mutters, allowing me to feel at least a tiny sense of victory for having proven him wrong, “Get your ass up and come play Minecraft with me, you need to be cheered up asap.“ He continues, much to my dismay. “And don’t even think about saying ‘no’. If you do, just remember, I have your address and a strong will to kick your ass into shape.“

“Into shape? We’re going to the gym or something?“ I’m honestly confused and intrigued now. Maybe the gym isn’t such a bad idea, I’m sure I could become really good friends with the punching bag.

Corpse sighs exasperatedly in a way I can basically hear him roll his eyes as well, “Not that kind of shape, Y/N. Just get on Discord, seriously, I’m worried about you.“ 

That sentence strikes a nerve. Something about that genuine concern in his voice reminds me that I still need to move on from focusing so strongly on just my failures, no matter how big or small, and keep pushing forward, if not for myself then for the people who care about me. For Corpse especially, seeing as how he’s sort of been my babysitter ever since my feelings towards Rae started to consume me whole and suffocate me. I don’t know how or when it happened, in fact I can best describe it as the Titanic: I was doing ok and then instead of hitting an iceberg the iceberg of feelings hit me and I started sinking. Corpse was there to offer me a hand to help me keep at least my head above the surface. He can’t pull me out of the water but he’s not willing to let go either. I’m afraid holding on like that will tire him out to the point of letting go of me completely, but I’m afraid of sinking too. You see my dilemma here, no?

“Ok, give me twenty minutes.“

I would have probably continued sleeping or just chilled on social media, refusing to get out of bed for at least another hour, but the debt I feel towards Corpse is stronger than the desire to be a slob so I motivate myself with every power my fragile mind can fish out of the void and push the covers off me, shivering at the drastic change in temperature around my body now that I’m exposed to the rather cool air in my room, my pajamas hopeless at providing me with any warmth.

Twenty minutes later sharp, I’m seated at my desk, in front of my computer with my headphones on, taking one last encouraging breath before entering the call where Corpse is waiting for me.

“Yo.“ I greet him half-heartedly, drawing invisible abstract patterns on my desk with my finger as if I’m avoiding eye contact with him IRL.

“Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of punctuality at least.“ He chuckles, sounding a lot more pleasant and a lot more like my friend Corpse and less like sergeant Corpse Husband who was speaking with me on the phone earlier.

“Very funny.“ I murmur in my now common brooding manner, “Anyway, enough about me, how are you doing? Anything interesting happen since we last spoke?“

“You mean in the past ten hours? No, nothing interesting apart from that I managed to catch a few z’s.“ He replies as I join the Minecraft server, managing to get a smile out of me.

“Hey, that’s nice to hear! Good for you, Corpsie.“ I say, honestly proud and happy for him.

“Yeah, and just so you’re not calling me hypocritical on the topic of eating, I’m currently cooking myself lunch.“ He points out, now just straight up peacocking, “On that note, I got a pot on the stove so you’ll have to excuse me for a sec.“

“Please go. Don’t set your apartment on fire the first time you cook” I snicker, leaning back in my chair and fetch my phone to kill the time while he’s gone to tend to whatever attempt at a meal he has prepping in his kitchen. I feel bad for his stomach, and his kitchen, already.

“Corpse? Hi!“

Oh no. No, no, no, no, no - tell me that was an auditory hallucination and I didn’t actually hear that just now! TELL ME!

“Rae?“ I blurt out, almost falling backwards out of my chair, eyes wide, jaw hanging slightly.

Just then I get a text from Corpse:

Consider me dead and carry the convo. I know you’ve got this, Y/N

Oh that prick is gonna get it!

“Y/N? Hi! Sorry, Corpse didn’t mention you’d be playing with us, but it’s so nice to be hearing from you! It feels like it’s been forever.“ Rae replies, cheery and enthusiastic as ever, just like the absolute sweetheart she is.

With Corpse absent from his position, without his metaphorical hand holding mine, I’m metaphorically sinking and drowning. Maybe the drowning part isn’t so metaphorical after all, considering I actually am drowning in all the thoughts produced by my mind at the moment. A mind that’s going completely haywire, might I add.

“Hehe, well, funny thing, he didn’t tell me you’d be playing with us either.“ I chuckle anxiously, already breaking out in a nervous sweat. I solemnly promise to kill Corpse first chance I get, that way he’ll at least be dead for real.

“He set us up, huh? What’s his game, where even is he?“ Rae asks, properly confused as she should be.

All on-point questions, hun. And I can’t answer any of them logically.

“Um, you know, he’s off doing...something.“ And there go my conversational skills out the window, I hope they send me a postcard one day.

“Whatever, enough about Mr. Ominous. Tell me, what’s been keeping you busy?“ Oh crap, this is the question I’ve been fearing. Mostly cause I’m not prepared for it. “Actually no, let me rephrase: Why have you been avoiding me recently?“

‘Oh crap’ squared. Tripled.

“Whaaat? Avoiding you? Where’d you get that idea?“ I’m aware of my high pitched voice, but it’s not like I can do much to tone it down. Every part of me is in critical panic mode and rationality has accompanied my aforementioned conversational skills out the window.

“I don’t know, Y/N. Ignoring my texts, leaving me on ‘Seen’ and then declining my offer just to accept the same one coming from Corpse - can’t really blame me for finding it shady.“ She replies, her words making me wince and hide my face in the palms of my hands as though it’ll shield me from Rae’s brutal honesty and forthrightness. 

“I’ve been...bad at replying to everyone lately, nothing personal, I swear.“ Yeah, that sounded convincing, good gosh-darn job, Y/N!

“Why’s that?“ Something about her tone suggest she knows I’m lying and is just humoring me and my agony. I don’t know if to thank her for it or wish she’d just rip off the band-aid and confront me head-on. In that case I’d have only one of two options: freeze up or spill my guts. Honestly, I don’t know which is worse. “I thought you’d reach out to me, given you’ve found yourself in a pickle.”

I frown, confused and wary like I’m walking on thin ice over a pool of sharks, “Pickle? What pickle?“

“Corpse mentioned you needed dating advice.“ She replies simply as though it should’ve been obvious and as if it’s the most casual, regular and normal thing. Little does she know...

“Um, yeah, I guess you can call it that.“ I murmur sheepishly, my cheeks reddening.

“Who’s the lucky girl?“ She asks, the excitement now replacing the previous suspicion she was fronting, making me nervous as hell.

My heart skips a beat, “How’d you know I’m crushing on a girl?“

“Uh...“ She stumbles over her words, pausing to collect her thoughts and formulate a response, “Corpse told me!“ When the reply finally arrives it’s as high pitched as mine was earlier, suggesting something ain’t right.

I stay quiet, my mind and heart racing which is quicker. My leg is bouncing, my fingers are tapping the keyboard rhythmically as I rack my brain, pushing it to put the pieces of this enigmatic puzzle together, connect the dots.

When it finally does, I’m left with a horrific end-result, a realization that makes me go pale as a ghost, “He told you who said girl is too, didn’t he?” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. I keep the tone low so she doesn’t notice how shaky it is.

It takes her a few seconds to reply, but when she does I kinda wish she hadn’t, “Maybe...”

My first instinct is to excuse myself from the call, pack all my kitchen knives and drive to Corpse’s house but with my limbs having lost any and all feeling in them that is practically impossible. So, I settle for my second instinct which is hiding my face in the palms of my hands as though they can shield me from the immense embarrassment Corpse has set me up for.

“Listen...“ I start, not sure where I wanna go with this, “You don’t have to say anything, I get the hint. No need to bother with a gentle reje-“

“I like you too, Y/N!“ Rae cuts off my rambling with a melodic laugh, “I’m sorry, but you can be very oblivious sometimes, and I just wanted to give you a taste of your own medicine for a bit. Sorry if I freaked you out.“ Judging by her tone, she’s not sorry at all. In fact, she’s one step away from bursting out into laughter.

“Trust me, ‘freaked out’ doesn’t even begin to describe it.“ I sigh, exasperatedly, sinking into my chair alike a deflated balloon. “You and Corpse are gonna pay for that heart attack you led me to the brink of!”

This time, she doesn’t hold back, letting out the laughter she’s been holding back this whole time, “I don’t know how Corpse will do that, but could I pay my dues with a brunch on Friday?”

My eyebrows shoot up, “Miss Valkyrae, is this you asking me out on a date?“ I ask teasingly - aka with more confidence than I feel.

Please say ‘yes’. Please say ‘yes’. Please say ‘yes’.

“I don’t know, what do you think, Y/N?“ She asks, tone just as teasing as mine.

“Hey, I’m not as oblivious as you claim I am!“ I argue light-heartedly, “Does 2PM work for you?“

“Any time works for me.“ Rae replies, a smile blatantly evident in her voice. A smile that unleashes a flock of butterflies in my stomach.

And just like that, I have a date with the girl I’ve had a crush on for the longest time. It happened so fast it’s practically a blurred part in my mind, but one thing I’m sure will be crystal-clearly imbedded in my mind forever is that brunch on Friday. Just then, I get yet another text from Mr. Schemer himself.

That wasn’t so hard now, was it?

Some nerve he has, I swear to God.

[river-bottom-nightmare]

Nightwing 83 Review

guess who isn't weeks late this time. my opinion of the series is going up a little bit. it's still not great, but i'm not actively put off by it anymore the way i was after 81. not going to tag as spoilers, but be warned that they are under the cut

i’m sure you all are well aware of this but now, but dear god i love bruno redondo’s art. like, an unhealthy amount. the pink and blue is getting to be a theme with either him or just this run, but i am definitely enjoying it. the movement in this cover is clearly obvious, but well done. you recoznize right off the bat that the cover was drawn to drag your eyes down the page until you get to the bottom, but you enjoy the whole ride there. 

also, redondo’s way of drawing a character in stages of action so we can see just how much they’re doing in a split second of movement is quickly becoming something i like to see drawn with dick, and any other character that has that sort of ease of movement and body sense, like cass or sin or maybe a super. 

and he’s in action the entire time! there’s shot drawn just to show off a shirtless comic book character, the way nightwing is so often subjected to. he’s shirtless because he’s changing his clothes, and that’s all we see, no more and no less. very practical, very well done. i like it.

he looks so cute right here oh my god. the little squint, the hair curls. it’s adorable.

but also like. unless melinda has specifically outfitted the door spyhole so that the person on the other side can’t see dick looking through it (and in all honesty she might have) then everyone on the other side can see dick looking through that door. 

bringing your attention back to the “i can’t see melinda’s fbi file oh no!! it’s redacted!! whatever can we do!!” stupidity. redacted files are child’s play for oracle, and definitely doable for both dick and bruce. so that’s bullshit.

now, melinda apparently grew up with the maroni family, then took down part of the family from the inside. the maroni family is a large and notable presence in gotham, one that bruce pays a respectable amount of attention to. he definitely would have grown suspicious when two members of the maroni family were taken down, and with some investigation, he would have discovered melinda’s plan. and it should go without saying that the majority of things you see batman doing? dick can do it too.

it’s not so much that i don’t like how clever the villains/antiheroes are getting. i don’t like how dc heroes are increasingly written as less intelligent. they seem to be relying on pure fighting skills or luck, which may be the case for a couple heroes, but has never been the case for most of dc’s big name heroes, the bat family included. it’s irritating to me to see this sort of stuff pop up as a major plot point when i know that, if dick or bruce had been written with the amount of skill and power that they canonically possess, this entire mess would have been sorted out years ago.

unrelated but dick and melinda have the same hair

this may just be me, but i was always under the impression that dick doesn’t really have a “double life???”

yes, he’s talented enough to create enough differences between robin/nightwing and dick grayson’s mannerisms, way of movement, voices, and speech patterns so that it’s very difficult to put the two together.

but nightwing has never been separate from dick grayson, not the way bruce and batman is. he’s always leaned more towards clark in that aspect: his hero persona is an exaggerated, stately, larger-than-life version of who he really is. there’s no second persona, no real “dick grayson identity” and “nightwing identity.” they’re the same person with the same goals, ideas, and skills. one just pretends to abide by the law, and one gives up pretense of that.

oh good thank god. if he’d trusted her right off the bat (hehe. bat.) i would have slapped him upside the head. at least he’s still got instincts.

gosh the colouring on this is cool. the red has enough purple and pink tones to it that it doesn’t abruptly ruin the tone of the artwork. but it’s definitely glaring enough to take the reader outside of this personal moment they had slipped into between dick and melinda, to put them back in the present where they’re reminded that oh yea there are people hunting dick down. 

the next panel keeps this up too, in a less severe way. melinda’s bodyguard shows up (i forgot her name sorry :[ ) and subtly places us in the middle of an action scene rather than a private, personal scene.

laughing so fucking hard have our little vigilantes grown so accustomed to breaking into places that it doesn’t even register as a crime anymore??? tim coming in through the fire escape to pick bernard up for their date and being very much confused as to why bernard is freaking out.

i really like melinda’s shirt and now despite all the work i have to do and the fucking conference i have to host on monday i want to spend hours scrolling through clothing shops online trying to find this shirt. the mock neck/neckline is so cool i want it

so roland just assumes that a very dangerous vigilante who is highly talented in combat and a very dangerous bodyguard who is also highly talented in combat had a fight that ended with this very dangerous bodyguard being tied up and she looks completely fine? roland just assumes that her having no visible wounds or bruises means that they got into a fight and she lost that easily? uh. aight then

dick what are you doing. legitimately what the fuck are you doing. why are you posing oh my god. you are injured and tired and in absolutely no position to go hand to hand with one of main enemies. jesus christ run away or head to lower ground or something. don’t just stand around letting the floodlights show exactly where you are.

i don’t understand what he’s trying to do here??? blockbuster fully bought the story that dick fought them both, won, tried to get info out of them and failed, then hightailed it out of there. he didn’t have to draw roland out for a fight.

but it does look cool. the way the light just highlights his silhouette and the blue parts of his costume does look badass. he does get style points in my book for this.

w h a t  d i d  i  f u c k i n g  t e l l  y o u ,  d i c k ?

very classic superhero line and it does sound like something dick would say in a fit of righteous rage but also it makes me laugh so hard because all vigilantes think they’re so powerful that the law doesn’t apply to them. dick vigilantism is illegal. you’re acting above the law and pretending it doesn’t apply to you. hypocritical much?

it happens so often in superhero movies, tv shows, comics, whatever and it makes me giggle every damn time.

pretty decent comeback but before i start seeing people writing blockbuster as a thug i’m going to remind you that he made a deal with a demon for genius level intellect. if this turns into another bane situation i’m going to be a little miffed. he’s a smart man, which makes him a dangerous and infinitely more interesting enemy for nightwing.

this is so horribly in character i want to scream. (or. at least. it lines up with one of the versions of nightwing i have in my head.) he’s running right towards the bullets, miraculously doesn’t get shot, while making a sort-of pun. i hate this so much. i love him.

this is cool. this art is really really cool.

he leaped from a building right towards a helicopter that’s actively shooting at him, but none of the bullets are touching him. none of the corruption of the city can touch him no matter how hard it tries, because he’s too good to be corrupted. Comic Book Logic Can Be Good Sometimes Actually.

batman’s belt what??? swiss army knife who?? sorry, i only know nightwing’s bright blue escrima.

this is one of my favourite things about heroes with exceptional abilities, even more so if the hero is human. the things they can do are so far beyond the realm of normal human abilities that it’s equal parts terrifying and awe-inspiring every time they act.

he just used modified grappling wires to hook to the door of a moving helicopter, swung around the helicopter safely without hitting the blades, gained exactly the right momentum to swing upward again right through the opening of helicopter, then fought and tied up the men before they had any idea what was happening. that’s near impossible to do.

it’s stuff like this where i just sort of sigh in contentment. no matter how many times they leave out dick’s detective skills or conveniently forget that he’s actually a master planner and team leader and make him out to be this forgetful dude who makes everything up on the fly because of his “circus roots,” at least they won’t ever take away dick’s sheer physical ability honed to perfection. 

the art, too! in a few panels, dick’s drawn a little lightened or blurred. he’s moving so quickly and fighting so efficiently that he can barely be seen by the enemy. he’s got perfect form all the way through.

and THIS!

there was a helicopter that had five men shooting at him with what looks like machine guns. most people would be dead. some would run away, and be nimble enough to survive without fatal hits. there are very few people, even in fucking comic books, who can look at that hopeless situation and turn it around so quickly and thoroughly that he benefits from it instead.

i just. love nightwing.

it was funny the first time as a comic reader aware of the meme. it’s really not anymore. why the hell would you, in universe, be wearing a shirt that has a picture of your boyfriend being hit in the face by his father. 

okay that was funny. 

look at lil bitewing, so concerned for her human!!! love her sm. 

also a question as to the timeline of things. is nightwing happening before or after urban legends? 

i was so distracted by dick wearing a robe and briefs and nothing else that i didn’t register the second part until later. he slept for two days?? babs, baby, he recently had a very traumatic brain injury. why do you sound so nonchalant?

@TIM X COFFEE SHIPPERS GET FUCCCCKKKKEEDDDDD

ngl i totally forgot about that dude oops

this comic is giving so many reaction pictures. you know how you always use the worst possible picture of your friend for your friend’s contact picture? i’m just getting so many of these.

leslie!!! the titans!!! lucius!!! dick going to go see old friends!!!! the titans!!! this part made me so irrationally happy it really did. gar being the one to just. offer dick solutions with open arms. this was the best

i wish i could just copy and paste this entire scene, but that would take up way too much space, so i’m just going to talk about it instead. 

you gave me my name, nightwing, and you gave me some of the best advice i’ve received in my life: beautiful little throwback to nightwing’s origin. you’d be surprised at the amount of people who don’t know where the name came from, or who don’t know how much clark means to dick. and the fact that dick still looks up to clark as a hero, recognizes that clark isn’t always perfect and yet continues to hold him in such high esteem, and still looks back on advice that clark gave him fondly just warmed my heart so much.

for a man who has fearlessly stood up to darkseid, bruce will do a lot to avoid a conversation: “grrr. i’m the BATMAN. i’m so DARK and MYSTERIOUS. nobody knows the true me. no one ever will. i will be LONELY for the rest of my CURSED LIFE. such is the price of a hero. ignore my farmer himbo husband in the background”

but i don’t think there’s anything heroic about being a billionaire: another nod to how much dick follows clark’s example rather than bruce. yes, this was a very poignant and important criticism, and i think it’s wonderful that this was published in a pretty popular comic book. but the thing is, there is a way to be a heroic billionaire, but only in fictional universes. the way bruce, ollie, t’challa only ever use their wealth to help people. they donate massive amounts of money to charities that they themselves create so they know exactly how the money is being used. they hire people who aren’t likely to get jobs anywhere else and pay them much more than what a base living wage is. they use their power to help push progressive laws and social change. they are helping. 

dick doesn’t fully see it that way. he spent more than half his childhood the son of a billionaire, but still believes that one could be more heroic when one doesn’t have obscene amounts of wealth. whose example do you think he followed to come to that conclusion?

superman looked up to alfred pennyworth?: i mean yea alfred may have been a wildly irresponsible guardian and one hell of an enabler but goddamn if he didn’t love his kid.

you don’t need my input. you’ve thought it all through: ooooooh this line made me grin. for so long, dick’s treated clark as a mentor and a guiding figure. he’s still seen as a kid, an up and coming, snot-nosed titan with dreams of a better world. clark still thinks of him as a kid, despite watching him grow up. but this little line was something i think dick needed sorely to hear. he doesn’t need anyone’s guiding hand on his shoulder, he doesn’t need to ask for permission. he doesn’t need clark to support him the way he did when he was a teenager. he’s all grown up now, and he doesn’t need clark’s help. i imagine it was a bit of a surprise for dick to hear that. 

honestly, i couldn’t think of a better role model: ohhh but it doesn’t stop there. clark just straight up turns the tables on dick. imagine you’re dick, and you’ve looked up to this one hero your entire life, and then one day he turns to you and says that he thinks you’re so kind and smart and worthy of a person that he wants you to mentor his son!? goes to show just how much clark trusts dick.

i swear to god dick probably cries every time he hears clark compliment him because bruce is so rare and sparing with his praise that clark giving him the slightest hint of approval is just a dopamine rush.

also, now deathstroke and superman have both asked nightwing to mentor their kids. the juxtaposition is fuckin hysterical. imagine either of their reactions when they realize what kind of company they’re with

lets talk colours for a second, because i absolutely adore how classic colour tropes have been subverted in this comic, and in this general run really.

warm tones have usually (usually, not always) been associated with light and comfort and friendship and,,,,,well,,,warmth. whereas cool tones are usually used to unsettle, or make a scene seem colder and put the reader on edge. this varies if a comic only uses cool tones, or only uses warm tones, but if a comic uses both, this is generally well-used.

that isn’t the case in this run.

dark red, orange, and other warm tones have been used to symbolize danger, action, attacks. hot pink isn’t usually included in this colour group, but it’s definitely part of it in this case. in contrast, scenes that have cool colours give us the impression of slipping into a comfortable, calm scene with babs, tim, the titans, and other allies. even the beginning scene with superman has this blue, but then it transitions into something more golden coloured. dawn broke over dick, as his new idea came to light, and that was reflected in the art (and the sunrise setting.)

have there ever been times when dick’s longed for the comfort of his mask because he didn’t feel confident as dick grayson? i can’t think of any. i may be wrong, but this struck me as pretty ooc.

am i just??? gay and reading this all wrong??

cause i was under the impression that when someone says they are grateful for your friendship you don’t immediately kiss them. 

or is this like. normal straight mating rituals.

i mean he’s smiling afterward but still babs aren’t you supposed to at least make sure it’s okay first? you guys broke up a while back after you said something along the lines of “i want to be coworkers with you and nothing more because i don’t trust you or feel comfortable around you as a civilian anymore.” like lmao after you say something like that to someone i would assume that you don’t have the permission to just kiss them whenever you want.

show of hands who else got real sad when they realized dick was talking about himself in this.

sure, he could be referencing the things he’s seen blockbuster pull, and the children on the streets. but “i’ve seen money used for enforcement,” sounds a little too close to dick’s entire life being destroyed by one man threatening the circus to pay protection money for me to completely ignore. and “i’ve seen the poorest and most vulnerable blamed and punished rather than assisted” becomes a lot worse when you remember dick was thrown in juvie for a couple months until bruce was able to obtain legal guardianship, and in there, not a authority figure believed him when he told them his parents were murdered.

he’s lived this before.

a. mother. fucking. typo.

fucking why

i mean i’ve stated my distaste for the batfamily groupchat before but like. this is reaching new levels of ridiculousness. jason sounds like he was written by a fanfic writer. tim sounds like he was written by a fanfic writer. steph sounds like she was written by someone who doesn’t know the first thing about steph and wanted to include her for “family points!!!!!” damian’s supposed to be completely off the grid, and everyone’s searching for him. i do love the way cass texts tho.

well god fuck now i’m crying

dick got a phone call, a sorry, and a thank you out of bruce. i feel so much secondhand happiness for him, if that’s a thing. we’ll just ignore the way bruce looks ugly af and focus on the good parts okay?

and again with the colour symbolism here!

i’m either going to love this or hate this. who knows, we’ll see.

something something hearts something something pink is an evil colour something something. i need to know more about this guy but there’s definitely symbolism there. 

is it just me or does this dude look like the backstabbing traitorous absolutely motherfucking piece of shit villain that killed tadashi hamada in big hero 6?

~~

taggggg list: @woahjaybird @birdy-bat-writes @anothertimdrakestan  @subtleappreciation @screennamealreadyused @bikoncon @pricetagofficial @catxsnow @maplumebleue-blog-blog @sundownridge @thatsthewhump @xatanna-troy @red-hood-redemption​ @capricorn-stark​ @batshit-birds​ @comics-observer @buticaaba​ 

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 5,482

Chapter Warnings: swearing, blood, referenced (temporary) character death

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur overhears a conversation that is not quite meant for him, and then they all set out to pick up Technoblade. It’s not the worst road trip in the world, but it’s not exactly the best, either.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

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Chapter Thirteen: wipe the dirt off of your hands (i)

They settle on two hours as a timeline. Two hours before they leave: he, Phil, Tommy, and Tubbo, the four of them off to the tundra. He’s left the rest of them to decide whether they want to stay in the castle or be among those braving the rest of the server in order to warn the others, to bring anyone who wants to come back with them to their base of operations. Safe and sound, or as much as anyone can be, now.

Two hours. It feels like too long. Dream could be doing anything with that time. The Egg could be doing anything with that time. He feels restless, irritated at the wait, even though he knows it makes sense, knows that pushing everyone too hard too soon will do more harm than good, that two hours, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t very long.

(but isn’t it, though? two hours can change the tide of a battle, can mean the difference between success and failure, life and death, a surrender and a victory)

He finds himself pacing the hallways of the castle.

It’s in greater disrepair than he expected. Almost every room he walks into is coated in dust. No one has stayed here in—months, probably. No one other than Eret, perhaps, and he said he’d been away. It puts him in a strange mood; he remembers this place when it was new, when it was lived in, spilling over with light and movement, and he hated it then, of course, hated what it stood for, what it represented, but it made others happy. Niki, for one; she always liked Eret, despite his efforts to persuade her otherwise. Fundy,

(and the memory is fuzzy, indistinct, because Ghostbur did not want to remember this, did not want to confront his own inadequacy, but Fundy stands in front of him with papers clutched in his hand and he’s saying something about adoption and all that he feels is crushing abandonment, crushing guilt, and it is wiped away in the blue only a moment later but for that moment, he is overwhelmed by the knowledge that he has failed his son, failed him badly enough that he would run to the arms of a traitor, and the word adoption drips like sodden soil, drips like words that die useless on his tongue)

because he always liked Eret too, even though he was there that day, even though he lost a life to his machinations, his betrayal, even though he should have known better. He’s pretty sure he remembers HBomb staying here as well, though he never knew the man well enough to pay attention. But now there is no one, and the castle is empty, and every step he takes feels haunted by ghosts of people that still live.

The castle is a relic. Perhaps he is one, too. A relic of an older time. This server has moved on, has changed so much, and he plays at being the general again, puts on the general’s mask as it is needed, but he doesn’t know if that’s right, if it makes any difference at all, if the general can find his footing in an altered world. How useful is a general that doesn’t know the lay of the land?

(how useful is a general who has not won the war within himself?)

(the part of you that could lead broke a long time ago and you know it and it was not the ravine that did it you were broken before then broken under the weight of a position you did not know how to handle and your shining city stood for freedom stood for those you wanted to protect but it became harder and harder to get out of bed in the morning and you crumpled crumpled like wet paper like the documents that signed your emancipation and meant nothing at all in the end because the ideals fell apart long before you set the final nail in the coffin you built for yourself)

Two hours. Less than that, by now, surely. If Phil were to see him, he’d tell him to rest. Perhaps that’s part of why he’s doing this. Wandering alone. Because if Phil were to see him, he’d tell him to rest,

(hypocrite that he is, because Wilbur knows that Phil is not resting, knows that he’s situated himself at the castle’s highest turret, eyes cast to the distance, shoulders tense and posture still, waiting, a live wire)

but he cannot, cannot dispel the energy that buzzes through him, even though his mind is fogged with exhaustion. He cannot rest, and not least because he doesn’t know what kind of dreams would greet him, what would rise out of the darkness now that he knows precisely what lurks within it.

So he walks. Walks, and walks, and tries not to count the minutes as they pass, walks several laps through the castle’s corridors before the sound of voices breaks him out of his fugue.

“—talking about?” someone says, and it’s Tommy. He slows to a stop outside of a closed door, identical to all the rest but for the fact that there is someone inside.

“I mean it,” comes the reply. Tubbo. His voice is muffled by the barrier between them, but Wilbur can understand him perfectly. And for a moment, he considers moving onward. Whatever they’re discussing, they don’t need him listening in on it.

Instead, he inches closer, and leans against the wall just outside the door. The stone is hard against his back, unforgiving, cold.

“I can do the most good here,” Tubbo continues. “You all don’t need me to come with you to get Technoblade. That’s—Tommy, this is serious, you know?”

“I fucking know,” Tommy snaps. “I don’t see why that means you’ve got to stay behind.”

“Because I can actually help here,” Tubbo replies, his voice rising slightly. “Tommy—listen, Tommy, I know about these kinds of things. Not enough, but some, and I can help. I can try to keep it out. I can put enchantments all over the place and stuff like that, try to make sure it can’t get to us. Try and make it a safe place. That’s something we need right now.” He pauses. “Take Ranboo with you instead, yeah? He lives up there, he’s close with Techno, he should go.”

“I don’t want to leave you here,” Tommy says.

Wilbur closes his eyes. There is more emotion in his voice than this situation alone would warrant, he thinks. More history. More history that he, perhaps, is not privy to. That he hasn’t asked about, that he didn’t want to ask about, because he didn’t want to prod at wounds that have not yet closed. He regrets it, now. Perhaps then he would have context for the crack in Tommy’s voice.

“I know,” Tubbo says, his voice soft. “But you’ve got to. We’ve got to do what we’ve go to do now, big man. You and Wil go get Techno and look at Phil’s books. I’ll be here when you get back.”

He expects strong words from Tommy at that. But instead there is silence. Wilbur strains to hear, leans in closer, but there is nothing.

“This isn’t like then,” Tubbo says after a moment. “We’re both safe. Wilbur won’t let anything happen to you. And nobody here’s gonna let anything happen to me. I’ve got Eret, and Sapnap, and Puffy.”

“Oh, well, if Eret’s here,” Tommy mutters, and Wilbur jerks. Tommy’s voice is choked, wet, and for a second, his instinct is to open the door, to step inside and offer what comfort he can, but his feet feel glued to the floor.

(this is not for you not for you to heal these hurts when the root of the hurt is of you this is them their moment and you are on the outside looking in a trespasser and if you move anywhere it must be to go)

“I thought you forgave Eret,” Tubbo says.

“I do,” Tommy replies. “This is—this isn’t about that, and you know it, I just—”

“I know,” Tubbo says, “I do, I know.”

There is silence after that. A rustle of clothing. And then a few muffled noises. Wilbur knows all too well what it sounds like, someone crying into someone else, allowing themself a moment of grief, of terror, of unbridled emotion. He should leave. Leave them to it. Leave them to this. It’s the least he can do; this is his fault, his fault that they’re involved in this, his fault that they’ve been dragged into conflict once again, his fault that anything terrible happened to them at all. His fault they’re not all still at home, on a server far away, in the house that he and Tommy grew up in and that Tubbo may as well have.

(you took them with you and made soldiers out of them, soldiers out of children. you took them with you and set the weight of the world on their shoulders, and the way their eyes dimmed is because of you. the burn scars on Tubbo’s face, the tremble in Tommy’s fingers that he tries fruitlessly to hide, this is all because of you. you took children and gave them grownups’ clothes and grownups’ weapons and guided their hands to pierce the heart, guided their hands with your own and claimed the blood for yours though it did not change the way their hands were painted, and then you abandoned them, abandoned them to yourself and then, at the last, fully, abandoned them in every way possible, abandoned them to the wolves and the ruins and you should have known better, should have known that even if the land was not important to you it was important to these children, these children you sent to hell with songs on their lips)

(but then, there is this also: they would not have had it any other way. they looked at you with stars in their eyes, and perhaps they were blinded by the fire of you, but they loved you. they loved you then, and they love you still. and they will follow you yet despite it all despite what you have done they will follow you and their eyes are open to what you are and they still follow and it must be for love little though you deserve it it must be for love because love is not about deserving)

He breathes. Puts his back to the wall, and then slides down. Sits. Listens to Tommy cry. Presses his eyes shut, and then presses the palms of his hands to his eyes until spots of color flicker on the back of his eyelids.

He stays there for a long time before lurching to his feet once again.

----------

“I didn’t miss this,” Tommy mutters, rubbing his arms, glaring balefully at Phil as if he controls the weather.

Phil offers a short laugh. Out of all of them, he’s the only one really dressed for the climate; Eret offered them all heavier coats before they left, but there’s heavier coats and then there’s coats meant for a blizzard, and these are not the latter.

“We’ve got some better stuff once we get to the house,” Phil says. “I’ll make us some hot drinks, too.”

“I don’t want your stupid tea,” Tommy says, but he seems mollified.

“I’ll take some tea,” Ranboo says immediately afterward, and Wilbur is having to slowly revise his opinion of this kid. Anxious as all hell, sure. A bit of a pushover, definitely. But he’s got a streak of hardness in him, though he tends to back down upon being challenged. Like right now: Tommy directs his glare toward him, and he apologizes immediately. But he’s a bit of an enigma, this Ranboo. Hidden depths. And Ghostbur liked him, which doesn’t always count for anything, but in this case, he thinks it might.

“Everyone who wants some tea can have some tea,” Phil says, another laugh in his voice. He looks a bit better than he did earlier, though his smile seems strained, his movements rushed, obviously anticipating their arrival at their destination. His wings are hidden again, disguised underneath a thick cloak, and Wilbur hates it all the more, if that’s possible, now that he understands exactly why. He remembers Phil telling him, once, that he disliked keeping his wings under his clothes, that it was uncomfortable, itchy, cramped. And now Phil does it as if it is second nature.

“I wouldn’t mind some tea,” he says softly, and glances away when Phil looks at him.

“Of course, Wil,” Phil says, matching his tone, and then they pass out from under the trees, and Technoblade’s quaint little cottage comes into view.

The windows are dark. No smoke rises from the chimney. It’s a far cry from the last time he saw it, when it seemed to him a bastion against the pervasive chill outside, warm and welcoming, no matter his trepidation about who waited within.

“Well, that’s ominous,” Tommy says, and Wilbur winces.

“Maybe he’s sleeping?” Ranboo tries. “I’ve never lost a life here, but, um, y’know, I used to live on Hypixel. Did some of the arena stuff, respawned a few times. It always made me tired.”

“That’s probably it,” Phil agrees, but his eyes are pinched, and Wilbur can tell that he’s worried. It is an easy thing to read, Phil’s worry. Easy to read, for how common it is. He strains to remember whether this stress he carries with him was nearly as prevalent when they were kids, and he comes up empty.

“Well, let’s go wake him up, then,” Tommy declares, and strides forward with determination, still talking. “I fucking hate this place, it’s such a stupid little house—” Ranboo follows after him, but Wilbur grabs Phil by the arm, delaying him for a second even as he tracks the kids’ progress ahead of them, like they’ll fall into some misfortune if he looks away for a moment.

“You’re worried,” he says.

“Respawn can be tough,” Phil says. “I need to lay eyes on him for myself.”

He knows, of course, what Phil is talking about. He remembers the sensation all too well. Remembers the pain

(in his throat as Punz slashed it, his lifeblood spilling out on his hands as he clutched the wound, his voice silenced, silenced as he tried to breathe but choked on thick copper and it took him a full minute to bleed out on the floor, every second edged with desperate, consuming fear)

(in his back as Punz’s shot sailed true, hit his heart, his vision darkening around the edges as terror flooded him, terror not just for him but for Tommy, for Tommy, his little brother who he never intended to bring down with him)

of dying, and then the void, but not the true void, not the void he remembers all too well,

(not the void that cradled him even as it ate away at all he was)

but a transition, a place both within life and out of it, and a howling second-minute-hour in which he could feel nothing at all. And then, slamming back into consciousness, every nerve burning with the phantom agony of disembodiment, of every cell destroyed and then forced back together, made anew,

(but there was no time to rest no time to work through it because they needed to go needed to run)

gasping back to the living world shaking and barely cognizant.

Respawn can be tough. Is tough. He knows that Techno has experienced it before, if rarely, but that was on different worlds, worlds that do not limit a person’s lives. He has not lost one here. Has not lost one that counted so dearly.

But there is nothing to do now but walk forward.

The house is cold, the fire unlit. Tommy has sobered, and his arms are crossed, almost hugging himself. Ranboo shifts uneasily, gaze flickering around the ground floor, the unlit furnaces, the chests stacked against each other, the windows slanting thin light into the room. Wilbur catches Phil’s eye, and Phil sighs.

“Up here,” he says, and starts up the ladder. He waits a beat before following, something in him oddly reluctant.

He didn’t venture up here, when he visited—how long ago? Not more than two weeks.

(two weeks breathing, two weeks living, and it feels like so, so much longer)

He’s not sure what he was expecting from Techno’s room, but it was probably something like this: chests shoved against the wall, a bell out on display, an emerald block for good measure, bookshelves in every available space. It is very Techno, sparse and yet not, filled with only the things he cares deeply about, cramped but lived-in. But the bed is empty, and it takes a moment for Wilbur to spot where Techno is. When he does, his heart leaps into his throat.

Techno is sitting against the wall, and on first glance, he looks fine. But only on a first glance, because a second tells Wilbur that his breathing is labored, his eyes screwed tightly shut, sweat beading his forehead. His fists are clenched, and fine tremors run through his body, a constant shuddering that must be exhausting.

There is a new scar on his neck. Thick and white.

Ranboo makes a sound, a startled warble. Tommy inhales sharply, and is silent.

Wilbur feels frozen where he stands.

Respawn can be tough. But somehow, this feels like something else.

(his brother is supposed to be invincible unstoppable impervious to pain he is not supposed to be hurt he is not supposed to be hurt and he doesn’t know what to do for something of this magnitude because he knows how to help when the voices get to loud when his voices drown out everything else and give him migraines but this is not that this is deeper than that worse than that)

Phil steps forward, robes swishing as he kneels by Techno’s side. His hands hover, but he does not touch. Wilbur wants to join him, wants to help, but he still can’t make himself move. He’s not sure why this sight has frozen him so; perhaps it’s because he wasn’t prepared for it, even with all his knowledge of the possibilities, even being well aware that no one comes out of losing a life unscathed, ready to jump back into battle, not even Technoblade.

Perhaps there really isn’t anything that can prepare him to see his brother in pain. Even now.

(and the general is useless here, because this is family)

“Hey,” Phil says quietly. “Techno? You awake?”

To his surprise, Techno stirs. Shifts just a bit in place, wincing, and then his eyes crack open. They are dazed, glazed over, the usually piercing red dull and clouded and—

Gold. There is gold in his eyes, too, flickering, flashing, and every time Wilbur catches a glimpse of it, Techno jerks, a convulsion just barely distinguishable from the rest of his shaking. It is a shimmering gold, the same color as the burst of light that hailed his resurrection, that hailed his renewal, that hailed Technoblade never dies, the burst of energy that vibrated in his bones and sent heat skidding across his skin. The light of the totem is in Techno’s eyes, somehow, and it—

It is hurting him.

“Shit,” Phil mutters. “I was worried about this. Techno, can you hear me?”

Techno swallows, his throat bobbing, and Wilbur’s eyes are drawn

(Dream’s axe in his throat and the blood spurts hot and red and he only has a moment to stare at the gaping wound before the sentence comes down and his brother is)

to the scar again. Almost imperceptibly, Techno nods.

“Okay,” Phil says, and his hands finally land, one on Techno’s shoulder and one on his hand, and Techno immediately grasps his fingers in a death grip. Phil winces, but makes no protest. “Okay, you’re gonna be okay, Techno. Not much to do but wait it out, but I can get you some pots that should help. Would that be okay?”

Technoblade huffs, and then nods. Again, just slightly. His eyes flicker around the room, half-lidded, and Wilbur’s not even sure that he’s aware they’re all there, except then, his gaze lands on Tommy and stays there. Tommy flinches, face paling, and he edges back toward the ladder, hands clenching and unclenching, like he thinks that Techno is going to leap up and attack him, somehow, in this state.

(but that’s not it at all—this is the attack, seeing him in this way, seeing him weakened, seeing the result of the action he took, because Wilbur knows himself and he knows Tommy, and he knows that for all his efforts, Tommy takes after him in some ways. Tommy internalizes a lot. internalizes blame, takes responsibility for things outside of his control, things with vast, terrible consequences, even as he avoids responsibility for minor faults, things that no one takes much issue with in the first place. he’s strange like that, Tommy, but he knows all too well that Tommy watched Technoblade die in front of him, for him, and decided immediately that it was his fault. he would have done the same thing. has been doing the same thing)

(Dream’s voice, smooth and confident and hated: how many people are gonna have to sacrifice themselves for you before you learn?)

(the answer: at least one more, always one more, but somebody needs to get it through Tommy’s skull that he is worth it, worth a sacrifice, worth everything that people are willing to give him and more. someone needs to tell him, because he doesn’t think he knows)

Technoblade grunts something, short and clipped, and it takes him a second to realize he’s speaking in Piglin. Not for the first time, he regrets his barely rudimentary knowledge of the language. But Phil understands, and something that is just slightly too pained to be a real smile passes across his face. He answers in kind, and Technoblade relaxes marginally. He sighs, eyes falling shut, and he tips forward a bit, resting his head against Phil’s chest. Phil begins carding a hand through his hair, the motion seemingly automatic.

“Any of you have a weakness pot on you?” Phil asks, switching to the common tongue. “Healing and regen will do more harm than good for him right now. Best thing for him to do is sleep through it.”

He certainly doesn’t. Tommy shakes his head mutely. But Ranboo raises a tentative hand.

“I don’t have any on me, but I might have one at my house?” he offers. “I can go see.”

Phil nods. “Thank you, Ranboo,” he says, and Ranboo nods back, climbing down the ladder, casting once last glance at Techno before he goes. The front door opens and shuts a moment later, and the four of them are alone.

“What’s wrong with him, then?” Tommy asks, after a pregnant silence. “I mean. Respawn fucking sucks. But why is he like this?”

He’s trying too hard not to sound concerned. No one in this room is going to fall for it, except maybe Techno, who seems too out of it to be listening at all, really. But Phil doesn’t call him on it, just grimaces.

“I’ve seen it a few times before,” he says lowly. “Various wars I’ve been in. People could use a totem and then die again in their next breath, if they were unlucky. Respawning from that is always difficult, because the magic from the totem doesn’t have time to work its way out of your system, and it’s not the kind of thing that a respawn wipes away. It’s the opposite, actually. So he’s still got that shit raging through him, except now there’s nothing for it to do, so it’s stuck there until it dissipates. And it’s not—it’s not pleasant, from what I’ve seen. That shit’s potent. Not good to have it in you for too long.”

“And there’s nothing we can do about it?” he checks.

“Short of killing him again? No,” Phil says. “Even that might not work. It’s been a few hours, so he should be coming out of the worst of it pretty soon. But until then, he just needs to rest.”

“C’n hear you,” Techno mumbles suddenly. He shifts so that his face is half-visible, and Wilbur’s not sure he remembers the last time he saw his brother look so vulnerable.

(on a stage in front of a crowd, perhaps, perhaps, peer pressure that he knew Techno would be unable to withstand, an impossible situation laid out before him, to blow his cover or not, to blow his cover and ensure the death of he and Tubbo alike, perhaps, perhaps, and which is better, to pull the trigger and save yourself or refuse and damn you both? but Techno made his choice, and he can only imagine what his face was doing, because a mask covered his expression that day, as it did so many of those days, a barrier between him and his brother. a barrier between the man he became, dark and shadowed and laying out plot threads like he thought himself one of the Fates, a man with the power to chose his own archetype, a barrier between that man and the man he strung along in his wake, cold, impersonal, intimidating, distant, and nothing like what he should have been. what they should have been, together)

It is hard to imagine that this man prides himself on being undefeated. Hard to imagine that only hours ago

(and it feels like days, like weeks, like a month)

this man was gleefully engaging Dream in combat, was winning before Dream decided to play dirty, before he dragged Tommy into it, before he took advantage of what he must have known Technoblade would do if Tommy was threatened, if his final life hung in the balance. Because for all his feelings of betrayal, for all his insistence that he’s done, finished with them, finished with trying, finished with involving himself in their troubles when he gets nothing in return, for all of that—

For all of that, Technoblade still cares for them. He knows that. And Technoblade is loyal to those he loves. Despite it all.

(and it is a bitter pill to swallow, after everything, but if Techno did not want to stand by their sides, he would not have come, whether Phil asked it of him or not. but he did. he did, and this is the price, the consequence)

“Yeah? Then can you hear me calling you a bitch?” Tommy says, and absolutely none of his usual bravado makes it into his voice.

Techno huffs, and if he’s going to say anything, it gets interrupted by the door down below opening and closing again, and then the ladder creaking as Ranboo climbs up.

“Weakness potion,” he says, holding it out, and Phil accepts it, handling it where Techno can see it.

“Taking this ought to help, Tech,” he murmurs. “I know it’s not your first choice, but there’s no point in you being awake while your body sorts this shit out.”

Techno flicks his fingers, a gesture that might loosely be interpreted as meaning go ahead, and then he sags, as if even doing that much has taken up all the energy he has left. But Phil takes it as an affirmative, and he guides the flask up to Techno’s lips, and Wilbur looks away as he prods Techno into swallowing its contents. It feels strangely intimate, uncomfortable, like he’s intruding on something private. Which should be a ridiculous thought; this is his father and his brother, and perhaps he’s never seen Techno hurt as bad as this, but he’s seen him hurt, and Phil has taken care of all of them like this at one point or another.

(but you see this and you cannot help but project and perhaps the intimacy discomfits you because it is not for you because you cannot help but imagine it for yourself and come to the conclusion that you do not deserve it would not deserve it if your positions were reversed)

(or perhaps you see this, and you see yourself standing there, doing nothing, not even speaking a word, and you just feel useless)

“He’s out,” Phil says, only a beat later. “He should be better by tomorrow, maybe even tonight if we’re lucky. These things just need to run their course.” He smooths a bit of hair back from Techno’s face, which is more peaceful now, slack in sleep, only a vague tightness to hint at disquiet.

“Um, well that’s good,” Ranboo says. “What do we do until then?”

“What we came here to do,” Phil says, and gets to his feet, lifting Technoblade in his arms in the same motion. It looks a bit awkward; Techno has more than a foot on Phil, but Phil carries him to his bed with apparent ease. “We came here for information, so that’s what we’ll try to find.” He pauses, frowning. “I don’t like leaving him alone in this state, but he should be alright, and we’ll be—”

“I’ll stay with him,” Tommy says.

Wilbur blinks. Tommy scowls. He looks a bit surprised, almost, like he didn’t expect the words to come out of his mouth. But when faced with the attention of the entire room, he doubles down on it.

“Look, someone should make sure he doesn’t keel over again in his sleep, right?” he says. “Not that I care, but it’d be—it’d be downright inconvenient, now, wouldn’t it? So someone oughta stay, and if we’re gonna be looking at, at books and shit, well, that’s not really my thing. Could be, if I wanted to! But y’know, it’s boring, and I have better things to do quite often. Like, like women and shit. So, maybe if you want to be doing research, I’m not—ugh, maybe I’m not the best man to help with that. So I can stay here with him.”

Phil cocks his head, apparently bemused. “I suppose?” he says. “But, Tommy, are you sure—”

“Oh Prime, yes,” Tommy says, and flaps a hand at all of them. “I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t sure, would I? So go and, go and look through all your stupid old man books, and I’ll stay here. Look, he’s even got a seat for me already.” He stalks across the room and throws himself down on the emerald block, pulling his legs up to sit criss-cross. “It’s like it was made for me. An e-mer-ald throne. Go on. Shoo. Fuck right off.”

His cheeks are a bit flushed. Embarrassment, no doubt, at being caught caring about Technoblade, because that’s what this is, deep down. But he’s fidgeting, too, like he’s nervous, though nervous about what, Wilbur isn’t sure. Nervous about being alone in a room with Techno? Maybe, except Techno is out like a light. Nervous about the rest of them confronting him on it? Also maybe, and Phil looks confused enough to push him on it, so Wilbur decides to step in.

“Good of you to volunteer, Tommy,” he says. “Come get us if he starts making odd sounds or something, I suppose.”

Tommy pulls a face. “Odd sounds,” he repeats dubiously. “That right there, I don’t appreciate the way you said that.”

“Ookay,” Phil says. “Right, then. Come get us if you need us, Tommy. Wil, Ranboo, I’ll show you where we’re going.”

Wilbur follows Phil back down the ladder. But not before looking at the scene one last time. Techno in bed, dead to the world. Tommy perched on an emerald block, staring at their brother with intensity, something dark and inscrutable flashing in his eyes. Wilbur wonders at the wisdom of leaving Tommy alone here. There is bad blood between them. Bad blood, despite what Techno just did. And it hurts a bit, having to consider things like this, having to consider the likelihood of his brothers trying to murder each other if they’re left alone together,

(and it is partially his fault, he knows, one more thing to add to the list, the pit looming large in his memories)

but there’s nothing for it now. If he brings his concerns up, Tommy will just buckle down further, his pride rearing up. So Wilbur follows Phil and Ranboo down the ladder, and tries to think positively.

It’s difficult. He’s out of practice at it.

“Alright,” Phil says, and once again, Wilbur is struck by how old he looks, how worn down. “Suppose I’ll show you two the stronghold, then.”

A beat passes.

“The what—”

[random-imagines-blog]

Seeing Stars (Thranduil x Reader Oneshot)

Requested by: Anonymous Wordcount: 2189 Summary: A snowy walk with Thranduil goes slightly awry.

You’ve never breathed in air that felt so crisp and clean before. The cold was so much that you could barely feel it as you walked among the trees, bare during the winter. Your breath was coming out in a misty vapor, nearly freezing the tip of your nose, but once more, you could not feel it. The snow had paused for the moment, which was why you had decided to take this walk, and to your surprise, the grand King Thranduil of Mirkwood had decided to join you, leaving his covered throne room to walk outside. The stars were beautiful tonight, though the King was a distraction from the sights around you. And the sounds, since you could hear the animals in the forest scurrying around, getting the last of the food before hiding away for hibernation. There was no such thing as perfect in the world, but if there was - this was the closest that you believed anyone or anything could come to it.

“Is it hard to live in the forest during the winter?” You found yourself asking, then realized with horror that you had not addressed Thranduil in the way that he liked. “Your majesty,” You quickly added on. He, being taller than you, flicked his eyes downwards with amusement at how you hastened to add on the title.

“It  has flaws, though they are few, of course. We elves have learned to deal with things like ... temperature.” You could feel the ego in his voice. The ‘better than thou’ attitude that you had gotten used to from him, but you never spoke aloud about. Because you also knew that it was all just on the surface. If he truly thought he was better than humans, he never would have kept you around, surely.

“With your very long lives, you might have learned some manners?” You said, more as a suggestion. You really were overstepping your boundaries, you knew, but you were of the human reason, which automatically meant a stubborn streak. He raised an eyebrow at you, very much like the Drama King that he is.

“Manners?” He pondered, looking straight ahead of him. He’ll rise to the bait, he supposed, if only to prove you wrong. “Will you accompany me out of the forest tonight?”

“Why, what’s out there?” You asked, a shiver going up your spine. There may be peace in middle earth now, with Aragorn as King, but there were still dangers lurking about, like wild animals and bandits.

“Less trees, I imagine,” Thranduil said. He offered you his arm, and you took it. This was very rare indeed, since it’s not as if you were of elven nobility. You were just a messenger that Legolas had sent from Minis Tirith, a human that he trusted to get the message across. You had expected to return right after getting an answer, but Thranduil had invited you to stay and curiosity got the better of you. It wasn’t everyday that you were invited to stay in a beautiful Elven city.

“I almost think you’re up to something, your majesty,” You added his title on quicker this time. He seemed to like that since his hand patted your own which was against his arm. His footing was sure, quick and light, while you felt like an Oliphaunt next to you. While he didn’t make a sound against the ground, managing somehow to avoid any fallen brush and branch, you sounded like you were trampling through a forest thicket.

“At least any animal would be scared away by your noise,” He retorted. You curled your nose at his direction but didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. He hummed, amused by that, as you walked out of the borders of the forest, and into wide open space. It was almost scary how far you could see. How far, perhaps, someone could see you. The thought made you hold onto him a little tighter. “It’s not as lonely if you look up.”

So look up you did.

There were so many stars that at first, you thought that you had walked out to see a swarm of fireflies. But it was the wrong season for those, and once it reached your mind that it was indeed the sky, and that the cold of the night whisked away the clouds so you could see them properly, and the moon was barely a sliver so it’s light was not a distraction, your breath caught in your throat. Your neck started to hurt from bending it upwards at the angle, but that didn’t matter.

Thranduil stood beside you, not looking up, but looking at your profile. His eyes were narrowed at your reaction, a curiosity with a touch of confusion. He’d seen the stars many times, but did not pay them attention the way you did.

“I’ve heard that humans have stories for the stars. Tell me,” He commanded gently. He stood with his hands clasped in front of him, waiting somewhat patiently. He didn’t like to not be the center of attention for the moment. He wanted you to look at him, or at the very least to speak.

“Stories?” You asked, finally giving your neck a break, and turned to face him. “Oh, I guess that there are a few. Don’t the elves have special meanings behind the stars?”

“Yes.” He said, but gave no other answer. He was still waiting for you to do as you commanded. There was an expectant look in his eye that drew you in, which made your mouth start to form the words.

“I guess the big one is shooting stars,” You started. “When you see one fly across the sky, you’re supposed to make a wish. It’ll make it come true. Though I haven’t tried that since I was young. My wishes never came true. I decided it was a waste of time and-”

“What did you wish for?” Thranduil cut in.

“Adventure,” You said with a laugh. You looked back upwards for a second. “I guess that it did come true, though it took some time.”

“Patience is a virtue,” He said, rather hypocritically, but you weren’t about to point that out. “Let’s begin the walk back.”

“Alright,” You said, falling back in line with him, but a step behind. “We also use constellations to find our way.”

“So humans do have some sense after all,” He said, the corner of his mouth going up in a rare smile. You laughed a little at that, smiling down at the ground.

“That’s almost a compliment, King Thranduil. Are you feeling alright?”

“Perfect,” He responded. “Does everyone wish for adventure on these shooting stars?”

“No, I imagine not. People want a wide variety of things. Love, maybe. Money, definitely. Gold. Power. The list could go on and on.” You two walked in silence for a moment, before a thought came to you. “What would you wish for?”

He turned to you, his perfect white hair hardly moving as he did so. There was not even a trace of a wind here amongst the trees.

“I am King of these woods. What makes you think that I have want for anything?” He questioned you. It wasn’t as severe as the words would have made you think. He was softer at that moment, like he had thought of something. It seemed more that he knew something was missing, and he was asking you to tell him what it was. You crossed your arms in front of you to keep in the shivers, as the still air still had a chill to it. You could smell snow in the air.

“A wish could be outlandish if you wanted it to be. The only limits are your imagination.” You let yours spread as you looked at the canopy that blotted out the stars above. “I would wish, right now, for my mother’s cooking. The way that she made bread, oh and the wine, and the cakes that were always moist! If I think about it anymore, I’ll be beside myself with hunger.”

“You’ve never tried elven cakes,” Thranduil said, as close to snorting as a distinguished elf could be. “They’d put your mothers to shame.”

“I ought to slap you for even making that comment. You’re lucky that you are a King, your Majesty. Such a thing is almost treason back home.” Your cheeks were starting to get red, as well as your ears. Those very words were fighting ones. Were you not getting closer to the company of guards, you would have yelled at him.

“And then I would have to imprison you for laying hands on the King. I’d end up having to keep you here forever. Perhaps that would be my wish,” He said, with a smirk that made orcs seem tame. Your human temper was flaring up now.

“That would be a cruel use of a wish. If I were you, I would use it on something more important, like a personality to go with those looks,” You shot back, your irritation was definitely clouding your judgment. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m the only person who spends time with you who isn’t a part of your guard. Maybe that should tell you something.”

“That I should attempt to swat the gnat that flits around my face?” He asked, clearly enjoying himself while your mood went darker and darker.

“You’re cruel,” You said with narrowed eyes, stopping your walk by going in front of him and standing. You were not the tallest human by any standards, not even as tall as Thranduil, but you knew some tricks to make you seem big. Puffed out chest, head held high. “And you’re arrogant, and you’re-”

As you leaned in to try to seem more threatening, your mind gave you a bunch of warning signs. A guard could come along and shove a sword through you at any moment for threatening the King. Thranduil himself could knock you away from him in a blink of an eye. He was a skilled warrior, after all. You froze, only a few hair widths away from the face of the King, who looked as if he were made of stone. He wasn’t moving. You weren’t moving.

But then thinking about all that he had just said, the fire returned. How dare he? Just because he was an elf, he thought that he was better than you. He thought that he could just imprison you.

You wanted to scream into his face, but that would just make things worse for you. An elf would come along and take your arm with ease and lead you to the dungeons. The tale of Bilbo and the Dwarves had reached your ears some time ago, but you would not have the same luck escaping, you knew that much. So you did something else. Something that Thranduil’s all-seeing eyes would not have been able to see coming.

Your soft lips touched his own cold ones, right at the corner where they went into a dimple, leaving just a trace of a kiss there. There was a thin line between love and hate, between lust and anger. Let him stew over this reaction for a while.

You blinked and settled back onto the soles of your feet, having somehow managed to go on your tip toes without realizing it. Thranduil stared at you still, not having blinked once during the encounter.

“I should keep you here,” He said, his voice low.

Well, that wasn’t the reaction that you wanted, or were expecting. And now you became nervous, almost terrified at the prospect of him locking you up because you went with a smug impulse. You weren’t so smug now, that’s for sure.

“That is my wish. There is a shooting star somewhere. I’ll wish on that right this moment. I wish for you...” You closed your eyes like a coward, expecting the worst. “- to stay here in Mirkwood with me for the rest of your natural life.”

“I don’t know if your son would like it that his friend,” You emphasized the word, though you were more of a messenger than a friend to the elf, “-is being kept a prisoner by his father.”

Thranduil laughed. Oh, he laughed, which would be damn adorable if it didn’t seem so threatening given the circumstances.

“Perhaps prisoner is a strong word,” He said, a rosy glow on his cheeks, which you noticed when you slowly opened your eyes once more. “I’d like you to continue to stay as my guest.”

“As your guest?” You questioned. “Even though I just kissed you?”

“It was certainly unexpected,” He said, offering you his arm to continue the stroll despite being near his palace once more. “I’m curious as to what you would do if I gave you compliments rather than teasings.”

[allisfairinnullandvoid]

Okay. Killer Teddie AU time. Full spoiler warning ahead for P4 and even a bit of P5. Full timeline of all events in order up ahead. Smaller details and ideas at the very end of it. Some of this might not make sense or have an explanation because, at the time, I hadn’t finished base game Persona 4 and had no idea of stuff like Izanami, Sagiris, and so on and so forth. Even now, I haven’t yet finished P4G. The next time I work on this AU will be after I’ve finished P4G and have a good grasp on everything to change what doesn’t make sense and add stuff that does. For now take what I’ve worked on thus far. Sorry if some of my explanations are a little wonky. Extremely fucking long post ahead, I’m seriously not joking around this time.

And, before I start, I’m not the only one who worked on the AU! This is a team project between me and my gf! I know it’s not much to say, but I want to give half of the credit to her rather than taking all of it for myself, cuz while a lot of these ideas came from me, a lot came from her, too.

So, let me explain why Teddie’s a killer in the first place. It starts when he’s still just a mindless Shadow, and he comes face to face with a group of Persona users that existed long before the investigation team, consisting of Tohru Adachi, Mayumi Yamano, and a lot of miscellaneous unnamed characters who may or may not be made into proper characters in the futures. Why this first group existed and consists of those characters is one of those things that hasn’t been fully thought through yet. But, one thing’s for sure, they love going into the TV world and just beating up Shadows for fun every once in a while. At this point in the story, Shadows aren’t necessarily hostile yet, so basically, Teddie witnesses a bunch of his own kind get slaughtered for no reason and, probably because he’s starting to grow some kind of consciousness at this point, goes buck wild and kills the whole group save for Tohru Adachi, who manages to escape. This is how Mayumi Yamano meets her demise and also, how Teddie grows a proper body - it isn’t that bear suit of his though, it’s a human body, most likely the result of humans being the only thing he was exposed to aside from Shadows in that world. From that point forward, a fiery hatred for humans begins to develop within him.

Y’know how Teddie’s real crafty, making those glasses for the Investigation Team to use to see better in the TV world? Well, after a while, he decides he’s tired of walking around bear naked and makes himself some clothes to wear. Those fingers aren’t dexterous for nothing. Not too long after he makes these clothes, Saki ends up in the TV world - for another reason that wasn’t thought through well enough yet, but it’s something like she has a Persona too. This AU is very generous with who gets Personas, I know, please bear with it for now. She ends up bumping into Teddie, the two interact, and because Saki’s a little bitch she finds Teddie to be quite strange, what with the way he talks and how he apparently “comes from the TV world,” and is very verbal about it - very rude about it, too. This first impression with a new human + Teddie’s already intensifying hatred for humans = Saki’s gruesome demise. “Are all humans like this?” Is what Teddie thinks. “Are they all cruel? Are they all mean?” Teddie now has a stronger hate for Humanity that only grows stronger and stronger the more he’s forced to sit in that quiet TV world and think and think and think and think about it.

And along with that hate for humanity, comes a hate for his current human form. So he crafts himself that bear suit of his, and wears it all the time - I believe he also makes it so whatever he bumps into next doesn’t think he’s weird sounding or weird speaking or weird… looking, which, I’ll describe now rather than at the end of the post. Teddie doesn’t look all that different, but the main changes are that his eye colour is now a duller, greyer shade of blue, he is overall even paler, and he is also a lot skinnier. No real reason for these design choices aside from self indulgence without going too overboard. Moving on from that, not too long after he makes the suit is when Chie and Yu and Yosuke go in for the first time. Teddie keeps on a facade of innocence and happiness for a “good first impression,” and nothing changes from then up until the appearance of Yosuke’s Shadow. Since a Shadow is the side of oneself that they don’t want to acknowledge or see, it’s chock full of bad traits and negative emotions - further solidifying Teddie’s belief that all humans are just awful, sinful, nasty creatures.

One thing that Isn’t well thought out at all, and something that I have no clue where to put on the timeline, is this whole deal between Teddie and Namatame. Basically, Teddie communicates with Namatame through the TV (can’t remember if he just talks through it, or sticks his head through), and convinces Namatame to start pushing people in not to save them, but for something along the lines of how he “secretly wants them to die.” Maybe it was because Namatame shares Teddie’s beliefs of humanity being repulsing, but it’s too vague a memory to make heads or tails of it. Don’t know how things would work out without it, though, so it’s sticking around as is for now.

Also, as of right now in the AU, the IT is completely unaware of Teddie’s human form hiding right under his bear form/bear suit. Good lord, I am already tired of typing this all out, this post is so long. Still got a long way to go, kind of.

Here’s another loose idea that hasn’t been fully thought about, and it’s when Teddie encounters his Shadow in Rise’s dungeon. My memories are a bit foggy on this one, but I’ll try my best to remember. So, his encounter with his Shadow stays largely the same, with maybe a couple of his Shadow’s lines being changed to represent how not only is he hiding originally being a Shadow from his teammates, but also how he’s hiding the fact that he’s the killer they’re trying to find - all of it is too vague for the IT to piece together, though. But also a thing that’s changed is his reaction to his Shadow is a LOT more aggressive, a slip up to show a small glance of his true personality - but again, the IT doesn’t think anything of it because, Teddie’s facing his Shadow here, of COURSE he’s going to act different when he’s coming face to face with a part of himself he wants to ignore. Eventually, he manages to accept his Shadow, but for one way or another, a second Shadow starts to develop within him. Maybe it’s because he only partially accepted his Shadow, maybe it’s because of something else - like he didn’t accept his Shadow for the right reason, I can’t remember. But it starts to develop. I remember wanting to give him a second persona akin to what Akechi has in p5 - one for lies, and one for truths, but this is one of those things that will either need to be completely cut out or heavily modified in my opinion.

Teddie kills more frequently in this AU. In between when he’s helping the IT rescue people from the TV world, he’s throwing in people on the night that it fogs up so the IT doesn’t have time to see people appear on the TV/doesn’t have time to go in and save them, resulting in their deaths. Teddie so far has only thrown in people who have been assholes or scum in his eyes, and these are the only people that end up dying in the TV world even with the advent of the IT. Teddie gets away with this by sneaking out at night sometimes and either witnessing these people do disgusting things, or overhearing about it. Two candidates/victims are the two girls from Yosuke’s social link (hopefully you know who I mean) and the bully/bullies from Chie’s social link. Though, for the two girls, I like the idea of it being AFTER Teddie comes to the real world for real and shows off his human form, and starts working at Junes. He’s “working overtime,” late at night, calls up those two girls and asks them to come to Junes to “help him stock shelves” - “I’ll make sure you and your friend get payed extra for it. I’ll take it out of Yosuke’s paycheck.” Next thing you know, they’ve been knocked out and thrown into the TV because they’re heartless assholes in his eyes.

Only way Teddie would get away with a killing like that, though, is through having an outfit to disguise himself from Junes’ security cameras - so, at some point in the timeline, that’s what he does. Repurposes his old clothes from the TV world into an outfit to disguise his identity, to let him keep killing, and he keeps it tucked away either somewhere in the real world or in the TV world. He probably does this before he “becomes human,” so that his clothes are kept secret from the IT team, and that whole “I’m like a newborn in here” scene can happen.

Also, just for clarification, that hate Teddie felt for Yosuke’s Shadow? And how it solidified his hatred for humanity yet further, and his belief that they are all scummy beings? This keeps happening for every single Shadow he sees. Chie’s, Yukiko’s, Kanji’s, etc.

Mitsuo Kubo is the only one thrown in by Teddie who doesn’t die, so that the plot can progress normally, but also because it probably went something like this. Teddie sneaks out late at night to find more disgusting humans to kill, to “purge the earth of such horrendous beings,” and comes across Mitsuo killing Morooka. A human? Committing murder? A human being slaughtering another human being? How sinful. How disgusting. How treacherous. Teddie has to deal with this immediately. So he throws Mitsuo into the TV world without waiting for the fog to settle first (it’s too dire of a situation to ignore, after all). He’s kind of hypocritical, thinking Mitsuo is a terrible person for committing murder (he is, though) and then going right ahead and throwing him in the TV, aiming to kill. He’s just cleansing the world, though - that’s how he sees it.

Also, I believe for most nights when he decides to sneak out, he’s wearing his disguise outfit, so that he doesn’t get caught if he’s in a situation like that where he kills someone on a whim - or just to avoid being caught when he’s out so late snooping around for more victims. Random fun fact by the way: the idea for this whole AU started from the fact that Teddie could use his knowledge of the TV world and how it works to easily get away with using it to commit crimes. Moving on now.

Another thing that doesn’t yet have a place in the timeline is this small thing. I like to think Teddie has a tendency to stay up later into the night because of his occasional nightly outings, and he doesn’t really have enough time to fix his sleep schedule - or he actually just CAN’T. But anyways, he’s keeping himself busy at night while he can’t sleep, maybe playing on an old console in Yosuke’s room, when Yosuke wakes up and starts talking to him until he also gets tired enough to fall back asleep. He says to Teddie that he’s worried about him. “You’ve got bags under your eyes, and you’re basically made of flesh and bone.” He says. Maybe Teddie’s skinny enough his ribs show a little. “This isn’t the first time you’ve stayed up this late, either. Like you’re restless about something.” Sometimes Teddie just paces around the room until he gets tired enough to pass out. “And, what time is it, like, 2:00 AM? I’m really worried about you, Ted.” And that really gets to Teddie. He starts to cry. Here he is, devoting his time to hating humanity, to killing humans, to putting on a happy go lucky, innocent facade around his “friends” to hide his true nature and keep himself emotionally distant from them - and poor Yosuke over here is oblivious to it all, worrying for his dear friend and roommate like this is all unnatural when it’s what he truly is on the inside. And for just a moment, Teddie feels truly bad, and he just keeps crying and crying and crying, probably while Yosuke holds him and tries to comfort him, until he exhausts himself, goes to sleep, and pushes it all out of his head the next morning. But on that night, he had let his guard drop, and he had let himself be vulnerable, and he had allowed himself to get a little closer to Yosuke - a little more attached to him than before. It was only a little, but it was enough to be concerning… it was “just a little” too much for comfort. He can’t let himself get close to that thing.

Oh no, I’m starting to lose focus. We’re nearing the end now. So, you know how Teddie makes that promise to Nanako, right? That he’ll stay in their world to play with her and such? He probably makes the same promise in this AU.

I say probably, because depending on wether he did or not leads to two separate endings, and I can’t decide on which I like more.

So, if he DOES make the promise, HE’S the one who pushes Nanako in. The reason? He’s getting too attached. He’s letting his guard down around a human, and that scares him. He’s getting emotionally attached and invested, and that scares him. He’s starting to care about something that he hates with all of his heart, and that scares him. So he pushes her into the TV, because he’s not allowed to do that, because all humans are evil - no exceptions. This results in Teddie being outed because, when Nanako dies in the hospital (don’t know how that happens yet without Namatame, plothole), he can’t handle the guilt anymore. It’s overwhelming him, suffocating him, drowning him. He falls to the floor, completely breaking down, screaming and sobbing about how it’s all his fault. Then, he either runs out of the room and throws himself into a TV after realizing he’d outed himself, or Yosuke throws him into a TV in a fit of rage and because he feels like Teddie betrayed his trust by pretending to act all innocent when he was the killer.

If he DOESN’T make the promise, or at least, doesn’t get attached, Namatame throws her into the TV and things play out the exact same until they get to the top of Heaven, where Teddie completely loses his shit at Namatame. Maybe he goes to beat the fuck out of him, maybe he’s screaming and shouting at him, in any case, he’s showing his raw personality now. That isn’t what outs him, though - it’s Namatame. “I recognize you.” He says, either through his voice or his appearance. “Why are you so mad at me? I’m doing what you told me to. I’m doing what you want.” Something along those lines. “What?” The IT reacts. “Teddie, is this true? Have you been lying to us?” And the only thing Teddie can do is freeze up, and run away, out of the dungeon - probably not without beating up Namatame a little more for outing him. “Fuck you.” It’s like an endless stream of insults and vulgar language pour from his mouth. “You’ve gone ahead and exposed me, you bitch. You little shit. I hate you. It’s all your fault.”

Now on to Teddie’s dungeon. This part is, uh… Pretty dark. General content warning for death ahead.

So, to contrast Nanako’s dungeon Heaven, Teddie’s dungeon is Hell. There are two concepts for this dungeon though - one is that it’s just conventional catholic/christian Hell, and the other was that it’s based off of/is the frozen over Hel in norse mythology. Because, Teddie has ice attacks, you know? But they’re both largely the same, if not visually. In the earlier floors, there are some objects strewn around like burnt and torn up images of Teddie and the IT, Teddie and Nanako, his bear suit, and maybe one or two other objects of some importance to him. The voices that are heard at the beginning of all the early floors consist of Teddie sobbing and dealing with his inner turmoil of hating humans but getting attached to the likes of Yosuke, Nanako, the IT overall, and the like. “They’re humans.” He thinks. “They’re humans, and all humans are awful. I hate all of them. But I love them. They’re different… They’re nice to me. I don’t deserve it.” “Maybe humanity isn’t so bad after all…” “*sobbing* I’m sorry, Nana-Chan…”

You know how earlier dungeons like Yukiko’s and Kanji’s have that floor in the middle of the dungeon where you encounter the Shadows and that weird title card thing appears? That exists in Teddie’s dungeon, and on the floor right before it, the voice at the beginning of the floor is just Teddie screaming hysterically, maybe even crying. Why? Well, when you go to that next floor…

There’s Teddie. Standing in front of the hanging corpses of Nanako and Yosuke, hesitantly reaching out to them like he can’t process what he’s looking at. And when the IT calls out to him from behind him, the way he looks at them is estranging. He looks terrified, he has to do a double take because one second he was staring at Yosuke’s corpse, then the next moment, he was looking at him, perfectly alive, with the IT. They try and reach out to him, but he’s like a spooked wild animal, and he runs away to the next floor.

The later floors are now decorated with Nanako and Yosuke’s corpses, possibly even the rest of the IT, and the voices now are just Teddie arguing with himself and screaming hysterically, like he’s going insane being in such a horrible place, like he’s becoming more and more deranged with every passing moment. “This is how it should be! All those heartless monsters DESERVE to die! They deserve to hang lifelessly this! But they don’t! I don’t want them to die! I don’t think like that! But I do! But I don’t! These guys are horrendous- no, they’re my friends! THEY’RE SCUM OF THE EARTH! NO, I DON’T THINK LIKE THAT!” And so on and so forth.

When they finally reach the last floor, the deepest floor, the final circle of Hell, they find Teddie there, deranged to the point of practically being a different person. That second Shadow that was developing within him now is toying with him, messing with his head, whispering things to him that make him clutch his head and beg for it all to stop. The IT can’t get through to him now, and he either snaps, gets hostile at them for being “heartless, monstrous, evil humans,” and forces them into a fight, or that Shadow ends up possessing him (either fully, or to a certain extent), and they have no choice but to fight him and knock some sense into him. In either case, he gains his second Persona - something that will most likely be similar to Magatsu-Izanagi, not sure yet - and also, for the sake of self indulgence, it’s like he can control wether or not he is more or less like a Shadow. AKA, goopy black forearms fitted with deadly sharp claws instead of fingers.

I can’t actually remember what EXACTLY happens after the battle, aside from Teddie Goes To Prison, but here’s another battle outcome I almost forgot about that I am DETERMINED to add into the final product. Remember at the beginning, when I specified that Adachi was the only member of the first group of Persona users to survive Teddie’s slaughter? Well, at some point, he overhears the IT talking about Teddie being the killer and the TV world’s existence and decides to butt in. “Can I come along too?” He asks. “I’m a Persona user, just like all of you. You’re talking about catching the culprit here, right? The same culprit who killed Mayumi in the beginning? The same culprit who probably almost got me, then?” Something along those lines. So, he goes in with them, and would you look at that - Teddie still hasn’t forgotten his face. So, in the case of “Teddie snapping and going all hostile on them,” it’s most likely because he sees Adachi mixed in with the IT and alllll of those emotions from so long ago come flooding back… combine that with his hysteria, and boom, you’ve got a raging Teddie hell bound on taking his revenge and getting some closure before he either goes to prison or dies trying not to.

And… I think that’s it. Only thing left to mention is that at some point, right before my hyperfixation ended, me and my gf were trying to figure out a way to implement an accomplice ending and a Teddie Arcana Change, but the end of my obsession came too early in the development of both of those, so there’s not much to say. Also, in this AU, I’m thinking of making Shadows hostile because of the first group of Persona users, like how Teddie hates all of humanity almost purely because of that group. Also, small detail, he’s wearing that disguise of his during the fight - dunno how he got it, but I do wanna add it in somehow, though. This post is also already long enough, so I should stop myself here.

Speaking of that, holy fuck, thanks to anyone who’s read this entire long ass messy post. Like that is just so awesome, I commend you for it. Seriously this post took actual hours just to write down, it’s way too long for any NORMAL person to read all the way through, heavy emphasis on normal (affectionate). Asks about this AU are welcomed and appreciated, if there are any. If not, seriously literally just the fact that anyone might be reading this message at all is enough to sustain me.

[mythykl]

UNSPOKEN,, *todoroki x (f) reader

Genre : fanfic, smut *aged up* (shoto is imagined to be 21yo or something,, and reader as 19yo)

rating : explicit, NSFW, 17+

Warning : fingering, oral?? todo is pretty horny overall. starts w a pretty intense bg story, so you gotta read through all that to get to the good stuff. cool.

words?? idk, it’s pretty lengthy tho.

our todoboi is a pretty lovin’ bf in here.

————————-

“I’m really sorry for yesterday, Y/N. I-I did’n-”

You clench your fists as you sit on the couch beside him, and interrupt, “Whatever it is- save it, I don’t blame you to begin with. I-I’m just mad. I’d spent almost a week for that chapter, to give justice and bring perfection in what I wanted to put across to the readers. Well- its not even about the time; I had thought through it so much, and atlas thought of typing it out yesterday- I mean- whatever crap that I had even written, I was proud of that- until,, your ignorant ass decided to show up in the room and fuckin’ switched off the computer assuming it’s already logged off, o-or whatever. You could’ve at-at least- fuck-” yup ya ass is livin’ in the worst nightmare of a writer, stay steady

You of course cried, and even threw a tantrum for an hour or so once you realized what had happened. But primarily, you were just mad- mad at yourself for not saving that damn file, and even at him cuz ofc. 

Todoroki certainly didn’t take it well, since he is sad at present, and can’t even look in your eyes. He apologized multiple times since last night and had even prepared a breakfast for you before leaving for work; on the other hand, you haven’t even answered to his appeals yet with clarity.

Out of the blue you just cup his cheeks, making him instantly look up- at you, and then get up with an audible sigh, “Go get ready, I’ll prepare our dinner by then.” That gesture somehow took him aback. 

He gets up instantly and blurts out in confusion, “I d-didn’t expect you to prepare a dinner for me, and on top of it- wait for me so we can have it together. You should’ve ate already, it’s almost midnight.”

You turn back to him, walking towards him to hold his hands, "I honestly don’t know what to reply. My heart- just thought it is the right thing to do that; one mistake isn’t enough to just hate you all of a sudden, Shoto. Moreover we are talking about this, it’s not like you’re being arrogant or things are left unsaid- and you’re genuinely sorry. I can see that in your eyes. I’m just- I don’t know. I’m depressed a bit- yes, but it can’t be helped now. I need some time to think, maybe.” 

Little did you know that your kind words pricked him like thousands of tiny needles against his skin. He loves you, and however seemingly ‘small’ mistake this might be, he hates himself for hurting you- the person he loves so dearly. He thinks of his mother, his complicated family life- which had made him seemingly unemotional. You were one of the people to break through that forged cold wall. He had finally accepted you as his reality than his mere escapism and live with you, but here he is- bringing tears and fueling anger in you, like a good for nothing- just like his father.

After a slight pause, he just busts his arms open and pull you close to him, in his warm embrace, “What did I possibly do to deserve such an angel?” He almost whispers in his beautiful voice.

An angel? 

“So talented, pretty, wonderful, real and warm. Remember. I love you. No matter what. I always will. And I respect you- your passion, interests, talent, likes and dislikes, freedom, strengths-weakness, your work, happiness- everything. Throw all the tantrums you want and cry all you want- more than just agreeing and being there for you- I’ll always make sure I understand you first. I’m sorry for being so ignorant lately.”

It may seem as if he’s crying, but he’s not. He said all that with a tough stance and gratefulness in his tone, a faint disbelief of having you as his significant other. While you just stood there, in surprise. You aren’t oblivious to his past and his journey through it. Is he blaming himself? or Is he again thinking that he doesn’t deserve happiness?- you’re at the loss of words and a mind fumbling all over the place. You simply subside the chaos, and hug him back. 

“We’re definitely working, Todoroki. Understanding each other more than just being in love- something that many fail to do. Isn’t this great?” You at last blurt out.

“Yes. I guess,” he says as he detaches himself from you, “I’ll be right back- until then, read what I’ll send you as you have dinner. Gonna sound stupid of me- but I already had dinner at office. I assumed that you’d not prepare a meal for me and- would be asleep by now as well.”

“Wow icyhot, I’m mad at you even more now,” you say playfully as you walk towards the kitchen.

“I-”

“Save it. You would be saying that for the millionth time now,” you chuckle as you grab your phone, lying on the dinner table.

Before serving your food, you decide to see the text, only to find an attachment with a rather strange message- ‘Hey, here’s an headcanon for chapter 37, that I wrote. Enjoy.’

Wait-

Headcanon??

Wait did he- read your wattpad book? And moreover, came up with a theory to what might happen in the ne- next chapter.

Nice. jk. Ofc you lost your shit

For the sake of getting back to senses, you legit do the deep breathing shit- which your therapist always recommended you to do.

Now what?

You serve yourself some noodles instantly, since you don’t feel hungry anymore, rush to the dining table and start chomping on the cold noodles as you open the attachment.

What made you almost throw up was that the mention of word counts. Which is 3k by the way, though no where near how much you usually write.

Shoto is definitely not the kinda guy to have read any wattpad books, or more specifically even have come across the word 'headcanon’.

He probably noticed how you mention it as well at the end, but decided to put it in the beginning,, for god knows what reason?? Or, he did decide to go through the fanons- which your readers’ posts on tumblr. This eases your nervousness, you clearly urge for more.

You swipe down, reading furiously fast, yet scanning every word and sentence- atleast twice. The chapter, honestly, was mediocre. He had ideas but couldn’t put them across- with excessive repetition of words, but he is almost close to-

“Honey, are you done?” Todoroki’s voice almost scares you. You look at your bowl ready to grab another bite- but you had already finished the meal.

“Earth to Y/N. Don’t tell me my words were that mesmerizing,” he says with a smile as he rubs his hair with a towel.

“Let’s be honest, though you don’t have the talent of a writer, your idea was- kinda similar to mine. What I’m sayin is that you almost. GOT. IT. RIGHT. Well, kuro did spy on KAORI’S house that unfaithful night, and he didn’t have any sources as such, which does mean that he is hiding his real quirk- but, no- I’m not telling you more than that.”

“Since you already know that I read all your chapters, and did like the book- I certainly can’t wait to understand why KURO would possibly do that.”

You just smirk off his curiosity; “You gotta wait boy,” you say as you as you walk back to kitchen counter with your bowl. Todoroki marches behind you to grab the cleaning cloth to clean the table, as you do the dishes.

“Put that towel in the washing machine, please.”

“Yup,” you almost feel an ounce of happiness in his reply. After he closes the machine’s door, you at last ask, "So what are your thoughts?“ It has never been one of you expectations for the people to you read your books or even, praise you for writing, but a review wouldn’t hurt, would it?

"Uhh- well, I love how everything is now just coming together, as one can foreshadow that the book’s gonna end. The use of words was elegant, and the plot is bewitching. Has been a while since I even read anything in thriller, that too- this good. Fuck. Reading kaori’s point of view just the day before the murder was- unbelievable. And characters, they all are just great.”

That is indeed a Todoroki kinda explanation. 

“Wow you did read all of tha-” but before you could complete your statement, shoto just grabbed your hips and stood tall behind you, now speaking in an extremely low tone, “And not to mention- the first sex between Kaori and Braun, it literally was like the depiction of ours. Except, they were awkward and slow, we weren’t.”

You pause. what took over him all of a sudden?

He continues, “That gave me a whole another perspective to what sex really means, and moreover what intimacy mean to you. It was.. surreal. Reading it, was as if- I’m living through that afternoon again, but with more emotions, and a bit more of you.”

“It’s not like I’ve explored much to actually wri-”

 “Oh, is that so?”

“I’m not complaining, of course, but these are the moments I believe must be left to cherish and our intimate times just feel more- sacred to me like this??” Sigh, “Ugh. Now, how do I explain?” Well, that is true, even though Todo and you’ve dated for almost two years now, it was just four months ago that you lost your virginity with him, on your nineteenth birthday. 

He had already lost his with the previous girl he was with. Though he never implied, it felt as if you were obliged to do it for him, due to your own insecurities. Once he got to know that, his reaction was nothing as what you had thought. He said that he loved you, and such things are nothing related to love; that sex is overrated, and continued on saying dorky yet adorable stuff like- cuddling was much better and what not. Since then, you had sex with him just thrice. None of you were really against this unspoken agreement, to not have-

Wait, an unspoken agreement?

Unspoken.

You instantly feel like an hypocrite, since you had just claimed to have nothing unspoken between you both.

Sudden a sharp pain in the skin of your neck brings you back to reality. Shoto is sucking on your skin, kissing ever so lightly. As if marking you.

An audible morn escape your parted lips as the bowl just falls on the kitchen sink. Todoroki leans forward and simply closes the tap and whispers, “So you do like to be 'submissive’, don’t you? Had this discovery while reading one of your books, 'Starless nights’.”

The exact book for which you had to watch vintage porn to make the chapters with intercourses more sensual and intresting.

Again, taking you by surprise, he simply turns you around as you continue stare at the ground with your hands wet, in front of you like dog’s pow.

“So I assume you liked my headcanon.”

“Yup; was much better than the crap I write, let’s go to-” but you’re interrupted-

“Now baby, we both know you’re the better writer, and that you just lied.”

“That was sarcas-” but he just pulls you closer and spanks you hard. You hiss as the pain spreads all over your butt cheeks.

“Never interfere, Y/N.” Wait wut-

Your immediate reaction was biting your lips- is he saying the words from the book? Not exactly inacting them but attempting to set a similar atmosphere, which you lowkey craved for in your wildest dreams.

“Since I’ve anyways taken this unspoken, unofficial oath of keeping you happy and stuff, now why not help you with some satisfaction- with all those juices flowing down your-”

You suddenly push him back and blurt while blushing hard, “Stop with this teasing and aw- awkward co- conversations todoroki! Fuckin’ juices, seriously? I’m not co- comfortable with-”

But then, you notice his right hand in your shorts. Or more like the sheer coldness against you clit, almost like there’s ice against it. When did his hand go in there? You end up clenching his T-shirt, as you jolt up on your toes.

“You. Clearly. Want. This. Don’t. You.” Suddenly, he pulls his hand out as he grabs your ass tight as he pulls you even further. Then, he brings his hand up to the height of you face and simply starts stares at the dampness on his fingers, “Wetter than I suspected." 

Now behold the unbelievable.

He keeps staring at his fingers, opens his mouth as he places his fingers into them and suck it as you watch this piece of art in awe.

"Can’t believe that I had you like- just thrice before this. You do live up to what I usually call you, honey.” He continues, “I hope you’ve noticed my creativity as well, as i used my coldness to.. nudge it.”

“You’re being quite quirky today, aren’t you?” This statement just makes him go still, and the next second he’s found laughing. His deep voice, almost reverberating in the silent room. He steps back, brings one hand to his face as he looks down and continues to laugh. The mere sight of him in this way gives you so much warmth, this is the moment you realize that this is the true home. With him.

When he finally looks up, the mere sight of you blushing so hard makes him lose his composure again, but this time it’s a nervous laugh. 

Approaching closer, you set your hands on his torso and continue, “That was quite execrable pun to chortle at, we were doing excellent just now-” but in reply, he simply cups his hand around your cheeks and say, “Shit y/n. You’re going to be the death to me,” and continues grinning like an airhead.

Why is he being annoying now? After so much sexual tension, how can he stop? In midst of you cursing yourself in your head, he leans at your height and kisses you.

Finally being out of patience, you look at the ground and stutter, “Ca-can we do i-it al-alrea-”

“Quite frankly, I’d like if you stay quiet, you shall take what I’ll give you, right?”

You look up immediately into his beautiful heterochromic eyes and say without any further doubts with a smirk, “Go ahead, Shoto, who am I to deny?”

“Sedective. umm, I like that.” he smirks too.

“Know that I love you,” and that’s it. Within one second, his hands are in your hair and his face is buried in your neck, digging deeper into you, as if uprooting releasing your soul from your body.

Skin glistening on your collar bone now and colours warming up on your cheeks, you whimper under his dominance, as he squeezes your waist and lightly nips against your shoulder. You shiver, with pretty evident  goosebumps, in spite of the heat you both bear at this point. 

Your breath gets hitched in your throat as he moves inwards below your collarbones. while his hands rest on your waist. You involuntarily climb a bit on him, intending to close the gap, but more to feel his manhood against you. Your hands firmly on his shoulders, almost pushing him back- maybe because it’s too much pleasure to feel at once. 

At another rise of your hips, Todoroki places his hand on your waist and pushes you back down, “Easy, easy princess,” he mummers before getting back to fiercely kissing me. You run your fingers through his hair, as you body slowly commences to accept an indeed new experience bombarded at you. 

Suddenly, you remember something. In heist, you shove him back and say, “Wait! We need to wash our hands- I- I mean we have just did chores. Well, at least partially and I need to wash myself- I mean I’m clean,” but then you stop to look at him just to find him in utter shock. 

“Shoto! I mean I want this but hygiene is impor- fuck. I’m. Such. A. Boner. Killer. Ain’t I?”

“Point made.” Todoroki picks you up in bridal style and rushes towards the bathroom.  for some reason i thought of adding this,, lmao

“Wait what-?”

“No time to waste.”

This makes you giggle a bit. You wash yourself while he as well washes his hands, and you practically pull him out of the bathroom, grab him by his collar and kiss him deeply as his hands slowly move up and down, feeling your torso- flesh untouched due to s mere knit. 

His hand unapologetically moves to the hem of your sweater, and further inside; but within one move of his, you stood there shivering, exposed. 

Immediately, you move forward in order to close the distance between you and shoto out of nervousness. His eyes drop down to your heaving chest and you’re painfully aware of that.

“Don’t. Don’t hide,” he mutters, grabbing a hold of your hands and locking them behind with one of his own for you to stay still; as he slides his other in your shorts. You feel his gentle hand running down the slit.

“Honey you’re dripping wet, what have i done to this innocence?” It seems that he expected a reply, but you didn’t. You just couldn’t. He then pulls the other hand to you face, diving in for yet another passionate kiss- accompanied by a battle of tongues this time. You are going breathless, but he refuses to move away.

The creasing in your folds level up to three fingers now,. He isn’t generous anymore, with aggressive circles in there, he finally commands, “Say my name.” 

“Sho-shoto.” Your moans only fuel in his lust and desires, his want, an indeed selfish want to have you all for himself, to offer the utmost satisfaction.

He pushes a finger into you as you instinctively let out a small breath hold his busy arm with both of your hands. This makes him push you against the wall with his free hand.

“M-my legs, it’s going numb,” on hearing this, he removes his own shirt and slightly repositions himself, with one hand now on the waist and the other back in there. He kisses your forehead as you look down, unable to keep up with his pace.

That’s when the coldness returns.

 “I- ah- can we ge-get to the bed first?” Your stuttered words only results in a widened smile from him. He is enjoying the sight, clearly in love with the effect he has on you. His head shakes, further sliding another finger inside you, “You can do it baby. You’re taking it all in without questioning.”

You nod quickly, as you start climb up a bit again. In return, he slowly curls his fingers- more and more with each passing second making you almost cry out this time, “Please n-no, this is too intense for me.”

“Yet my princess didn’t make Braun stop after that, I read in somewhere that Kaori secretly wished for him to not stop even if she said so. Just go on.”

You didn’t know how to come back at it, because it is true. You want your Shoto to push those limits you’ve set for himself, and you’d as well be fine if he simply throws off you cliff at this point. 

“Now now, spread your legs y/n.” 

Did he say something? You couldn’t listen. With eyes rolled back, you can’t comprehend anything to begin with.

“SPREAD YOU LEGS or else I won’t play nicely.” You’re eyes shoot up, and find his already searching for yours; before leaning in and gently kissing you. Your legs not being shut anymore, todo takes the opportunity, making his finger get stuffed deeper. His two digits start moving faster and harder, pounding against your walls- all while he feels you squirm to slow down.

“You can take it hun’,” he definitely knows what he’s doing, and you’re totally in for it. “Y-yes,” you moan softly. This is when he slides in a third finger, now really making you scream.

You attempt to gasp and struggle to stand, but then he says,”Stay,” as you unknowingly slide down the wall. Your nails dig in the skin of his back as you try to stable your stance on your tip toes yet eventually, your legs give out on you.

Suddenly, you feel him hit a spot which just pulls something inside your stomach. Todoroki on the other hand, notices your unusual hitched breath and starts hitting the SAME. EXACT. SPOT.

His free hand goes to the back and around your waist, holding you evermore tightly so that you won’t hurt yourself.

“I feel- like that- again-,” you manage to blurt.

“Like what?”

“Like pe-peeing, b-but different. Just like th-the last time we-”

He simply smirks, “We what?” He sighs and growls in your ear, “Is princess gonna squirt for me?”

Your body shudders against him as you moan his name, again and again, “Shoto, I-I-”

“That’s it. Squirt for me y/n,” with that he removes his hand entirely for one second, only to push two digits inside again, now thirsting harder and curling tighter; with his thumb against you slit. His hand grows even more colder, almost stinging down there, making you restless. 

“Now.”

He watches you open your mouth and moan loudly, as his hand only gets wetter, feeling you squirt against his hand. You shake hard in his hold. He doesn’t let you go. A tear escapes you eyes, but simply doesn’t seem to care,”Shoto, for some reason I-I feel s-so great wi-with yo-,” but you are interrupted as he shoves you further against the wall , sliding down your shorts and undergarment, again with three fingers in.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises you while curling those fingers inside and then removing them together. He further continues, “seems like you’re ready,“ as he rubs the wetness inside the slit, giving special attention to your clit.

Saying that, he kneels down, now facing lower abdomen and plants a kiss over there. You simply look down at him, still struggling to balance, searching for even a slightest hint to know what is there to come.

Maybe he’ll stand up an carry you to the bed? or How about making him feel better this time?

But then, his face smashes his face on your dampness; almost attempting to bury in it as he holds you up and pushes. your legs apart. You clearly know where this is going, todoroki will be showing no mercy whatsoever.

"That wasn’t even the start honey,” he confesses in midst of you moans and begs for him to go slow. It doesn’t hurt anymore as much as it gives an unbearable form of pleasure.

You moan and whimper, yet he continues to suck in your clit. You can feel a finger inside, or maybe two, as they go in and out. Practically shattering you all at once while fusing you once for all.

Your hand travel its way to his hair. Ruffled enough to make the red and the white parts almost indistinguishable.

Oh dear.

Though your eyes are close, hands are fumbling around for support and legs are strictly held in place by Shoto, yet you can feel his tongue moving. As if in patterns, not that you could figure out. It either went in for an eight or just licked off entirely as one does while eating an icecream. You moan his name again and again, the same sensation building up block by block as he paves deeper and denser.

“I can’t take this anymor-”

“What makes you think that’s gonna stop me from eating this pussy.”

Little do you know that shoto can’t hold back anymore, it’s not just that he is in control but he has lost control. At the sight of your dark flushed red cheeks, delicacy and vulnerability, he only gets faster and tougher on you. His other fingers reach around and grips your ass, with his fingers slightly grazing across your unused hole.

That’s it, that was enough for you to go stagnant again, in your mind atleast. Your legs start shaking, with your mouth parted yet again. Shoto quickly stands up, with fingers still inside, to help you stay stood up. You feel yourself about to pass out, but in actuality are fully awake and aware. He kisses you, now moaning with you as well, as he fingers you until you cum.

His teeth take in your lower lip as your eyes flicker up at his unmatched ones.

Shoto, with one hand against the wall, halts for a minute. He stands tall in front of you, while holding you as you struggle to stand.

In midst of huffed breaths, you manage to say, “I- I, I mean- can I make you feel good as well?” On listening thise words, he goes still, “Baby, you can barely stand.”

“Still-” but again, before you could say anything, he picks you up in bridal style and dropping you on the bed; letting you lay back while he removed his left over garments.

This is when his erect manhood is finally exposed, refilling your memories of your first time when you had simply wondered how would you take all of that in. You did, though it was painful. But this time you refuse to be scared by the length, you know this is going to feel the best and you’re willing to take him in, deep inside you.

Shoto sighs and walks to the bed, “No-”

“Shoto?”

“Tonight is about you. Let ME explore you.”

“I wa-wanna hug you,” you blurt out.

He giggles, “sure, all that my y/n wants shall come true.”

But when you attempt to get up, your legs just fail to response. Even the slightest movement feels like a bolt of electricity run through you. At the sight of you falling back on the bed, Shoto simply smirks and says, “By the looks of it, I think I did a pretty good job at pushing your limits.”

“Don’t- I can’t even walk.”

“Wait,” he climbs on the bed beside you, sitting with back against the headboard while you lie against him, still breathless, still attempting to move.

“Don’t move princess,” saying this, he carefully pulls you up, with your head on his thigh. He helps you sit up slowly, while embracing your body against him, and finally hugs you, like a child clenching onto his teddy favourite bear.

“You are so beautiful,” he says as he gets up, while eyes glued on you. He moves to the end of the bed and pulls you towards him as he climbs in again. His two digits reenter your dampness, almost making you hiss at first but it’s soon replaced with moans.

Your back arcs as you mumble, “Sho-shoto, I’m very sensitive ri-right n-now. ah-”

While on his part, he receives it as a signal to level up to the next stage. He slowly penetrates in, soon pacing up. Warmth filled in your hearts and sweat glinting the lustre. He repostions you both a couple of times, giving you different forms of pleasures with each go. 

You as well witness his fire quirk leaking out at times. He kisses you deeply and claims you as his own as he repeats the words, “I’ll never let you go.”

Now it’s past 3am, as your exhausted bodies lay next to each other; that’s when he whispers, “I love you.” Maybe he thinks you are already asleep, but you are not. He clearly can’t leave anything unspoken.

i hope this has left you baffled 

[cryptovalid]

The weird politics of the Blip

The more the MCU fleshes out the events after Avengers: Endgame, but especially in Falcon and the Winter Soldier, the less sense the geopolitics of the MCU makes to me. In this essay I will be sharing my perspectives on politics in the MCU. If you’re not interested in that sort of thing, don’t feel obligated to engage. Also, by the very nature of this essay it will involve spoilers for the MCU and discussions of topics like state violence and terrorism, so consider this a trigger warning.

It’s an understatement to say that the world would change radically if half the population would randomly disintegrate, and I understand that speculating on the consequences of those people coming back after five years is no simple task. There might even be story considerations I am unaware of.

But the idea that the world’s governments would immediately start forcibly removing people from the homes they lived in for five years, to accommodate people who were declared dead five years ago sounds really strange to me. Let’s explore this.

If you were the survivor of a disaster that cut the world’s population in half, what would this look like to you? You’ve presumably went through a lot of hardship and trauma in the years following. You’ve sold some of the things belonging to your deceased loved ones, or bought stuff from other people in a similar situation. You may have relocated, started a new family. Grieved.

And suddenly those people you literally saw turn to dust in front of you just appear again, like nothing happened? Literally in the same befuddled state in which they died. 

And I have to stress: they died. there is no way to suggest that a person can be atomized and still be alive.

So why would you even trust that this was the same person? In a very real sense, it’s an identical copy of your deceased loved one. Similar to teleportation, this should cause us to wonder if they were truly resurrected, or merely cloned. What kinds of rights do they have, being legally deceased? Would we even know if these were impostors, if the situation changed them somehow?

I’m not saying there’s no answer to these questions, just that people should disagree on this. People would have high-minded philosophical, scientific and religious debates. Conspiracy theories and fistfights. This is by far the most world-changing event ever recorded. It should have massive ethical, political and spiritual implications.

And what I think we should think about is that these people who returned have nothing. They have no memory or lived experience to prepare them for this different world, all of their material possessions belong to someone else now, and by definition, all political, economic and military power is held by those who stayed, who now have a material conflict of interest, because if they acknowledge that you are the same person and deserving of the things you had 5 years ago, they have to give it back. Even without the administrative nightmare this would represent, the returned have nothing. Even their work experience is practically meaningless, especially in high-paying jobs. 

What would happen if Steve Jobs somehow magically returned, having no idea what Apple had been doing in the last couple of years, and demanded to be put back in charge of Apple? It’s not exactly an easy ‘yes’, is it? The world’s power balance would be forever shifted. 

I’m not saying everybody would be unsympathetic to the plight of the people who unblipped. But I am saying there would be a massive movement or series of movements opposed to giving them back their stuff. And I’m saying that movement would not only be popular but also backed by every powerful business interest and government.

Because realistically, the unblipped would be the refugees. They are the ones who would have lost everything, fighting an uphill legal battle to even be recognized as alive and as the same person they were 5 years ago. They would be the ones in camps, waiting for supplies.

Ironically, they would be the ones most hurt by the status quo returning to normal, as there is no way to keep massive famines and shortages from happening in this situation without international coordination. 

So why did the MCU decide on the opposite idea? There are two arguments I can think of: one narrative, and one political. On a narrative level, speculating on a changed world is complicated and risky. If Marvel wants to make stories relevant to us in our world, they have to more or less get back to a status quo we would recognize before it would complicate their properties going forward.

The second reason, I think, is that to truly explore a world like this is radical and potentially a liability for Disney, both in terms of their audience and their relationship with the US military.

Of course any real discussion on policy in this situation requires the heroes to at least pay lip service to a political opinion, which could cost them a lot of fans. We are talking about the legitimacy of borders, of private ownership. Any examination of the edge cases will cause people to have Strong Opinions of their own. In a crisis like this, can people squat in empty houses? Do these people have human rights and refugee status, and how should those be protected in the real world? Can any state justly displace people and if not, are these people allowed to disobey the government or even fight them?

Since the US military subsidizes Marvel’s use of military hardware, it has script approval. So that can also explain why they can’t make the US government the bad guy or present a truly different world where the US military is rightfully no longer in control. 

Who can legitimately deprive people of things they need to survive in a crisis like this? What’s more important: the right to own a house and keep it empty if we so choose, or the right to live in a house? 

If we get too deeply into it, Karly’s position (in theory) seems very compelling, like Erik Killmonger’s before her. And so, they have to make her (like him) a hypocrite who goes too far, so it doesn’t seem like the MCU is advocating violence against the state. 

Karly’s ideology is muddled by the writers because the violence she performs has no chance of actually achieving her goals of global solidarity. It feels tacked on to make her less sympathetic. Realistically, someone like Karli would be holding political rallies, sit-ins. Writing op-eds, staging marches and organizing her community into self-sufficiency. Possibly getting into fights with the cops during evictions or protests. If you read Falcon and the Winter Soldier as a kind of allegory for American politics, then Walker represents Trump, Sam represents Obama, and Karly represents... whatever conservatives think socialism/BLM is?

So it feels like FatWS is trying to thread the needle: Nationalism is bad, but so is statelessness. A state should have integrity, and benevolence. And it can have those things, if represented by the right people. Then, the violence is just and measured. It’s barely even violence at all.

I’m kidding of course, the kinds of solutions the MCU offers are basically ‘Co-Intelpro, PMC’s and neighbourhood watches... but run by morally perfect people’. It’s the way a propagandist would represent clandestine domestic espoinage or police brutality: Sam and Bucky would never kill anybody defenseless, and they would never interfere with legitimate polical movements. Because the writers create a perfect world where it’s always clear what everybody’s intention is before the fighting starts, and non-lethal violence is a reliable default option, no more morally problematic than some rough-housing by rambunctious kids.

I know I can trust Sam and Bucky because the writers would never give them realistic implicit biases in a way that would endanger their moral character. They are perfect because they are not real.

The robots, aliens and wizards are not the only unrealistic thing about the MCU. we have to be aware of how artificial the politics are, even if we want to suspend our disbelief. Or else we end up trusting politicians when they embrace a fundamentally immoral status quo, and let thousands die to maintain it (I know, a WILD hypothetical that will surely never come true, but worth keeping an eye out for.)  

The politics that a blip would realistically set in motion are so different from our own, that it would call into question the legitimacy of private ownership and the state. In order to avoid upsetting its fans and its financiers, the MCU has to return to a status quo where those political realities can be taken for granted.    

[thebladeblaster]

Rebirth of A Samurai (Final Part)

Summary: This fic is a what if scenario to SMT4 Apocalypse. I would go into more detail, but I don’t want to spoil too much of what this fic entails. If this fic gains traction I may continue the story on from this one-shot. Warning: This is a long one.

This may be the last I write for awhile with college right around the corner. I won’t stop completely, but it will become a lot slower.

He only heard it when he got like this. When he became blind to anything else, but rage.

“A man who forgets kindness is no worse than a demon.”, he suddenly remembered Jonathan’s words as a feeling crept up inside him.

A part of him was also yelling at him to stop and realize what he’s doing. Flynn blinked trying to regain his sense of self which became blotted out by rage when Nanashi taunted him about Isabeau’s death. No. No. No matter what Nanashi had done this was far too cruel. He had to stop, he had to give him a chance to explain himself. The angered voice practically roared at him thinking that. But, he ignored his angered voice he remembered where exactly losing himself has gotten him. If he had a clearer head then his mother would still be alive. No he wasn’t going to listen anymore!

Vishnu-Flynn stopped his assault, greatly confusing and relieving Dadga. Flynn felt all the blood coating his skin like back then and he felt just as disgusted as he was then if not worse. He lowered his blades as he looked down at Nanashi’s mangled form which regrow itself. His blood ran cold after finally stopping and seeing what exactly he’d been doing. What was wrong with him?! No matter how angry he was, this was just...unacceptable.

Ryou rejoiced in seeing for once he reached Flynn. His feelings didn’t often reach Flynn because of how buried he was, but he finally got through to him.

Flynn waited for Nanashi to prepare himself before he pointed his blade at him. It wasn’t to attack him again, it was just to make sure he didn’t try anything. He could see the fear in Nanashi’s eyes as he looked up at him. He felt like looking away in shame, but he kept his gaze locked on Nanashi.

Nanashi was completely perplexed as to why Flynn stopped, but he wasn’t complaining. He was glad to finally take a breath. Though, he didn’t exactly need to breathe it calmed his nerves, something he desperately needed after that. He couldn’t help but tremble. He didn't want to look like a scared kid but...How was he supposed to keep cool after that massacre?! Vishnu-Flynn cast a massive shadow over hit feeble form. His gold and red eyes gazed into his soul. He shouldn’t have killed the others at least not before facing him. He needed their help, in his overconfidence he bit off far more than he could chew. His heart nearly jumped out of his mending chest when Vishnu-Flynn pointed his blade at him. He couldn’t hide his trembling now, his fear that Vishnu-Flynn wouldn’t stop trying to kill him till in stuck.

“Why did you do it? Why did you betray everyone?”, Vishnu-Flynn asked, he sounded hurt.

“I-I!”, Nanashi stuttered, still not completely together mentally believing if he said the wrong thing the former samurai would continue his assault.

He met Vishnu-Flynn’s gaze which was a lot less cruel and enraged now. He could see in his eyes he wanted to forgive him, to understand why he did this. The gaze brought up a distant memory from within him of a kind man with sympathy even for demons, Ryou. It helped him relax a bit and made him feel he wasn’t about to be killed on the spot for saying the wrong thing.

“I-I thought it was the only way...To free humanity from YHVH forever…”, Nanashi admitted.

“You think that was worth betraying everyone? Why don’t you just kill YHVH?”, Vishnu-Flynn questioned.

“Because he’ll come back and he’ll keep coming back as long as people long for gods. In our new world there will be no gods, people will stand on their own two feet, not relying on others or praying for help like weaklings. The others would have gotten in our way since we were going to destroy this universe before creating ours.”, Dadga said, revealing himself.

Dadga was taken aback when he heard Vishnu-Flynn wheeze and completely break into laughter. Dadga’s eye twitched he was laughing at him. He could feel a bit of condescension in his laughter.

“You’re a hypocrite like Lucifer and Merkabah. You claim you want people to stand on their own and not rely on others when you’re relying on someone yourself. A vulnerable fifteen year old boy is the one you chose to have do your bidding, Dadga. You're pathetic.”, Vishnu-Flynn said in a scathing and venomous tone.

“You tore apart that fifteen year old boy yourself! Oh great Tokyo Liberator your just as much as a fucking monster as Shesha.”, Dadga shot back.

“Way to change the subject...I guess that’s an admission. I won’t deny what I did, you're right I am a monster. To the point when I fight I sometimes completely lose myself like just now. But, I would never dream of betraying good loyal people like you did. If things had continued as they had I may have ended up killing Jonathan and Walter myself, but that’s because they had lost themselves and were going to ruin the world. But, if they hadn’t changed if they stayed themselves like Isabeau I would have never even thought about killing them. You on the other hand betrayed your own allies so you could create your stupid universe. Well, I don’t care what silly justification you give to justify for committing genocide on a entire people no universe,...I don’t care who you are. If you intend to sacrifice innocent lives for your plans I’ll wipe you from this Earth.”, Vishnu-Flynn said, staring into Dadga’s eyes with a fiery resolve.

Dadga grew nervous knowing he was serious about killing him. He could tell about looking into his eyes he had the eyes of a godslayer and a killer. That’s what he truly was. That’s what godslayers were and that’s why every faction wanted him for themselves. They wanted his monstrous power on their side so they could topple their enemies. He knew he was stuck. He had an idea before to make him pause, but he realized it might end up making things worse for them. His godslayer was a shivering wreck right now. He clicked his tongue. He’s going to have to cut his losses right now and hope Krishina doesn’t regain control over Flynn to bring about his salvation then try again. Dadga was ambitious, but he wasn’t stupid he knew right now neither he nor his ‘godslayer’ couldn’t defeat Flynn and he was almost out of power. So he ran. Before Vishnu-Flynn realized what he was doing he disappeared leaving behind Nanashi. Considering him a failure Dadga withdrew his powers from the boy, deciding that he’d start again.

Vishnu-Flynn’s attention snapped to Nanashi’s when his body clattered on the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. The form Vishnu-Flynn melted away leaving Flynn who ran to the dying Nanashi.

“Nanashi!”, he called out bending down over him.

“Why the fuck..do you sound so concerned..you fucking moron?!”, Nanashi questioned, genuinely confused as to why Flynn was showing him any sympathy.

Ryou, he’s back. Even now after all the shit he’s been through he still chose forgiveness. Damn. His current self right he is fucking moron. He always told Ryou that he didn’t have to feel sympathy for everyone. That he didn’t have to always apologize. Some people are just shit that’s just how it was. Yet, that idiot never once listened to him and continued to be stupid even when it tore him apart. After seeing Flynn’s rampage he realized that it was probably for the best Ryou never listened to him. Even after that rampage, Ryou's compassion once again entered his incarnation's eyes.

“Because you were used just like I was by Krishna. I think he sat back because he wanted me to kill you for him. Besides nothing’s wrong about having some by your side while you die. Everyone deserves that.”, Flynn replied, making Nanashi scoff.

He winced as he felt all feeling starting to leave his body. His vital organs were shutting down.

“That’s why...I called you a moron...You're hopelessly sappy...like Asahi...ah...I wonder if even she’ll be glad I’m dead...After everything I done…”, Nanashi muttered, weakly.

Flynn shook his head no at Nanashi’s words.

“I don’t think so. I didn’t know her for long, but I don’t think she’d hate you that much. I think even if they're mad at you now, one day everyone will forgive you.”, Flynn replied.

“Ahh...Bullshit…”, Nanashi muttered, he couldn’t help but chuckle at Flynn’s naive comment.

Flynn held Nanashi’s hand as it grew continuously weaker. He felt like Nanashi was trying to say more, but he lost the strength to speak. The younger boy’s hand shivered weakly and he stared into Nanashi’s natural brown eyes. Something about them felt vaguely familiar to Flynn, but he couldn’t remember where. Nanashi closed them knowing soon he would never open them again. Soon, he could no longer feel his grip and his hand slid down lifeless. Flynn closed his eyes, before he used to pray for those who passed, but after meeting real angels he couldn’t do that in good conscience. If left him not knowing what to do when someone died, the only thing he could do now was tell the others of his death. With a heavy heart he reclaimed Masakado’s katana.

Flynn got up leaving the room noticing Krishna was still worryingly silent. He froze when he saw the dead bodies of Isabeau and the others. He was shocked to see Nozomi; he didn’t know she joined Nanashi. Besides that he didn’t know many of the others who had been with Nanashi besides Asahi. He bent to looking to Isabeau’s crumpled form.

“I’m sorry...I was too late.”, Flynn apologized quietly to the fallen.

After that he went to Fujiwara and Skins who were glad to see him free, but confused that the others weren’t there with him.

“Krishna took control of me and made me kill them. I was too late to break free, most of the Divine Powers are dead and Krishna is still out there somewhere.”, Flynn lied.

“That’s…”, Fujiwara muttered.

“I’m sorry I failed everyone. I’m going to do what I should have done a long time ago after that...I don’t know what I’ll do.”, Flynn said softly, before walking past them.

“Wait Flynn!”, Skins called, out but Flynn looked away and kept walked.

He went before the boulder in the 4th district crosswalk in Ginza.

“Masakado. I need your help to rebuild the world.”, Flynn said as he unsheathed the katana.

However, neither the sword nor the rock reacted.

“What?”, Flynn questioned.

Did Masakado give up on him? Does he no longer believe in him after he failed everyone?

“Tokyo no longer needs me.”, Masakado said from within the boulder.

“I need you! I’m lost! I don’t know what to do now!”, Flynn thought with bits of panic.

“Masakado?”, Flynn said.

“You no longer need my protection. You wish to remove the dome and restore Tokyo to its rightful form, no? That is no longer necessary.”, Masakado explained.

“W-what are you talking about?!”, Flynn questioned, not knowing why the god suddenly changed his mind.

“It is now possible for Tokyo and Mikado to coexist, just as you tried to with Nanashi. The two peoples can help one another regardless of the dome’s presence. This is something I realized when Shesha cut a hole through the dome. With Krishna sealed within you. I will rest. Shall fate call again, we will meet once more. The two lands now move through time the same, and gaze upon the same moon. I leave Tokyo’s protection to you, Flynn.”, Masakado explained.

“Me?!”, Flynn questioned in shock.

But, he failed Tokyo! His weakness led to more people suffering! Why was Masakado leaving everything to him?! That’s what got them in this situation! Because everyone left EVERYTHING up to him!

“Farewell, Flynn. May the future you build be filled with hope.”, Masakado said, Flynn’s eye twitched as he listened to Masakado.

A column of light bursts from the rocks and climbs into the sky. It fades from view as it stretches beyond the great blue blanket above. Flynn trembled, still gaping in disbelief at Masakado’s words.

“Hoy what the fuck are you saying?! Come back here you bastard!”, Flynn yelled and in a moment of rage kicked the god’s boulder.

Skins and Fujiwara sweat dropped as they walked in on Flynn yelling at Masakado.

“H-hey?!”, Masakado questioned, taken aback.

“Hoy to yourself! The reason we got in this mess is because everyone relied on me! Only me! What I learned from all of this is that an entire people should never saddle their hopes on one person! And what’s with you changing your mind all of the sudden? Me and Isabeau planned to bring the people down here so they can finally reunite with their kin, but you want to keep them divided by the firmament?! You think a stupid hole will truly reunite everyone?! Are you forgetting that Tokyo still has no freaking sun?! Do you want them to live without one forever?! How does leaving things like that make sense? Get off your ass and finish this with me!”, Flynn yelled as he continued to kick the boulder harder this time.

“He’s completely lost it.”, Skins commented, looking stunned at Flynn’s behavior.

“This is exactly why no one respects you gods! You just sit around and do nothing yet expect people to worship you anyway! You’ve done nothing so don’t peace out on me like you did something!”, Flynn yelled.

“It’s even freakier since he looks exactly like Ryou.”, Fujiwara commented.

Now, the mental image of the mild mannered Ryou kicking Masakado and yelling at him like he was a deadbeat husband was in their minds.

“I saved Tokyo from the nukes!”, Masakado yelled back.

“After I dragged your ass out of your sleep and made you do it! Tokyo was going to be blown to bits while you slept like some deadbeat guardian!”, Flynn yelled back.

“R-Ryou?!”, Masakado questioned, wondering how Flynn remembered that when the specific circumstances before he was used by his previous incarnation weren’t explained.

“If you’re not going to actually do something to reunite Tokyo and Mikado I’ll convince them all to come down here, remove the firmament myself and drag YHVH’s sorry ass off his throne!”, Flynn yelled, kicking Masakado for the final time

Masakado was stunned into silence by the outburst, but he remembered Flynn had been captured and likely tortured for days by the Divine Powers leaving him at his wits end especially with many of his allies gone. With Krishna inside him it probably wasn’t best to leave him in that state. He could feel Flynn has become a god far more powerful than even him.

“Y-you’re right.”, Masakado replied nervously.

“You bet I’m right Masakado take your chalice. I’ll give you the okay when everyone has been evacuated from Mikado.”, Flynn replied.

Then Flynn left for Mikado leaving the stunned Skins and Fujiwara behind.

To be continued?

[badgersprite]

Fic: Desiderata (10/?)

Chapter Title: Collide

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob, Jack

Pairing: Miranda/Samara, I told you it was a fucking slow burn 

Story Rating: R

Warnings: I don’t think any specific warnings apply for this chapter. Certainly nothing that doesn’t apply to the fic as a whole. Just assume any past warnings remain relevant.

Chapter Summary: The ‘flashback’ storyline comes to an end at the party on the Citadel. In London, Miranda’s insomnia is affecting her worse than ever before. Then Samara shows up at her door. And everything implodes.

Author’s Note: “If I'd have said I love you, she'd have said it back. And then everything would have been different.” - Sue Trinder, Fingersmith. Featuring Citadel dates that aren’t dates except they’re totally dates part II. I’m not going to lie, I’m kind of proud of myself here with the contrasts and parallels going on between the flashback scenes and present day scenes. People at their best, versus, well, close to their worst. Spotify playlist below the cut again.

(Link to Playlist)

*.    *     *

Miranda had been on the run from Cerberus for so long that it still hadn’t fully sunk in. She wasn’t hiding anymore. Wasn’t looking over her shoulder every waking moment. Didn’t get startled awake by every sound she heard in her sleep.

Somehow, she’d done it. She’d turned against The Illusive Man, and lived to tell the tale. For now, anyway.

The events at Sanctuary were so fresh in her mind that she’d barely had the chance to stop and catch her breath since. The bruises had mostly healed, but she still felt lingering echoes of her fight with Kai Leng, which could have ended a lot worse had she gone in unprepared. Not even ten days had passed since she hugged Oriana on Horizon and said her goodbyes, perhaps for the last time.

And yet she wasn’t thinking about what lay ahead. Not really.

Miranda was here. Living in the now.

For this one night, she was able to just...stand in one place, and enjoy the moment. That was something she had never taken the time to do previously, before all this came to pass. On an unconscious level, she had always taken tomorrows for granted. Never stopped or cared to appreciate today.

Suffice it to say, her head hadn’t quite fully caught up to where her body was, and that this was no mere illusion. It felt like at any second she would wake up and find herself alone in the dark again, scurrying like a rat through the shadows in hidden passages of the Citadel where nobody but the keepers could find her. 

But this wasn’t a dream. It was really happening.

It meant all the more that at this particular moment she was surrounded by familiar faces from The Normandy she hadn’t seen in months, plus a few new ones. For a while there, it had felt like she would never see them again.

It was something to savour. So she did. 

Miranda drew a deep breath and allowed herself to be present. To exist. To not be in her own head. She took in the scene as she made her way through Shepard’s apartment, letting her eyes wander the party going on around her, her gaze landing on each person she could see as she passed them by.

Liara and James Vega had spent a good portion of the evening arguing whether biotics were superior to brawn, or vice versa, with Jacob and Ashley having joined in on the great debate earlier. That still seemed to be ongoing, from what she could tell. The answer should have been eminently obvious to anyone, Miranda thought. Then again, she didn’t feel the need to convince anybody why her own preference was correct when she already knew she was right, as usual.

On a related note, Miranda might not have been the best judge when it came to reading signals between people, but even she was starting to get the sense that James and Ashley might be more than just shipmates by the end of the night, if they weren’t already. Good for them.

Tali, the last time she’d seen her, had been very much enjoying how uncomfortable EDI was making Samantha Traynor, talking openly about the crush Sam had on her voice. Although, come to think of it, Miranda was pretty sure Traynor had at long last managed to escape that awkward conversation and gone to hide under a table somewhere. Or maybe she’d just locked herself in the bathroom until she felt safe to emerge again. Either way, fair.

Speaking of potential couples, it hadn’t eluded Miranda’s attention that EDI and Joker had definitely become, shall it be said, a lot closer ever since EDI got a body. In retrospect, that wasn’t surprising, although the idea of the two of them becoming...entangled in that way had obviously never occurred to her before. Why would it have? But, come to think of it, the two of them had always bickered like an old married couple even when EDI was just a disembodied voice. From that perspective, Miranda supposed it kind of made sense.

And lastly on the list of possible relationships, there was also a...vibe coming off of Tali and Garrus, which was by far the most unexpected. And a little weird. Jacob had picked up on it before Miranda had, and she wished he hadn’t pointed it out. It was like finding out that two people she had thought of as more of a brother and sister might be hooking up. But it was none of Miranda’s business. In any event, the two of them seemed to mostly be avoiding each other. Perhaps they hadn’t confronted whatever this was between them yet.

She’d also caught sight of Zaeed and Samara admiring the artwork adorning Shepard’s new apartment. Miranda had thought about intruding on that, since that duo included the one person at this party she had been hoping to speak to tonight above all others, but she ultimately elected not to disturb them just yet. There would be other opportunities to catch up with her.

Somehow, she got the sense that Zaeed had finally been brave enough to shoot his shot with Samara after all this time. Judging by the expression on his face, and given that he was now drinking alone and very much not with Samara, presumably it had gone exactly as smoothly for him as had been predicted a year ago. She would be lying if she said she felt sorry for him.

A big group that included Joker, Garrus, Wrex, Steve Cortez and Javik had been arguing about guns and target practice or some similar nonsense, which hadn’t sounded particularly riveting to her in all honesty. Boys and their toys. They were still in that discussion from what she could hear. Unfortunately, Shepard seemed to have encouraged that line of thinking, which Miranda wished she hadn’t. Guns and alcohol were not the best mix.

Meanwhile, Kasumi had been popping in between all groups almost as much as Shepard had, like the perpetual snoop she was. She always loved getting up in everybody’s business. Miranda would have been a pretty big hypocrite to take issue with that, though. Although, when Miranda spied on people, it was for entirely professional reasons, not because she liked to gossip.

She had heard Grunt yelling at party crashers over the intercom a while back too. Who better to be a bouncer for a party than a genetically perfect krogan? She didn’t care to interrupt him. He’d done a good job of keeping the riff raff out.

And, honestly, for as much as Jack still grated on her nerves, a small part of Miranda had been somewhat relieved to see her there too, because if nothing else that meant she had survived long enough to attend this reunion. Miranda may not have liked Jack in the slightest, but if anybody thought she was actively rooting for any of her former Normandy comrades not to make it through this conflict, even Jack, then they really didn’t know Miranda at all.

Sure, they had instinctively traded barbs when they unintentionally crossed paths, because god forbid Jack actually behave like a fucking adult for once. But then Shepard had appeared out of nowhere and, for some bizarre reason, suggested that they, quote unquote, ‘work out all that unresolved tension between them’ and go have sex, or words to that effect.

In a weird way, that stupid comment had inadvertently somewhat doused the animosity between herself and Jack because, for once in their lives, they finally agreed on something - being that that would never fucking happen, and they would sooner drink broken glass than even think about it.

Credit to Shepard, though, Miranda and Jack hadn’t fought after that.

Maybe that had been the point.

Unfortunately, not all members of The Normandy had made it this far. There were missing faces. Only a few, but too many. From what she knew, they had all gone out like heroes, whatever that meant, and if it made any difference.

Thane had died giving his life to protect the Council from Kai Leng when Cerberus attacked the Citadel. Mordin had sacrificed himself to end the genophage, undoing what he had in retrospect come to believe was his greatest mistake. And Legion, well, to the extent that Legion could be considered ‘dead’, he had certainly ceased to exist in any recognisable form - giving up his ‘individuality’, for lack of a better word, to achieve peace between the quarians and the geth.

It wasn’t until after being forced to go into hiding for so long, believing some Cerberus agent would find her and put three bullets in her head before she saw any of her Normandy comrades again, that Miranda began to regret that she never took the chance to get to know her shipmates better, especially now that there were some with whom those lost moments could never be reclaimed.

What was that saying - you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone?

Yeah, this was definitely one of those instances.

She’d always liked Thane, come to think of it. There was little to dislike. He had been one of the few on the ship who had never been anything other than extremely civil towards her, even when, admittedly, Miranda hadn’t been particularly courteous in return, misjudging him as a man of tenuous loyalty.

He never complained or questioned any task he was given. He just did it. A consummate professional. Exactly the kind of person she would want on any team.

Mordin, she respected. Hadn’t trusted, no, nor completely understood, but respected. They’d teamed up on a fair few field missions with Shepard early on when they were still studying the Collectors. Between her warps and Mordin’s incineration tech, they could tear through any armour in seconds. And he was undeniably a genius. Back on The Normandy, he was probably the only other person who’d spent as much time hard at work as Miranda. Maybe more.

With the benefit of hindsight, she wished she had taken more of an opportunity to pick his brain, and work with him on his endless list of projects. Even if he did talk at a million miles a minute, it was only because he had so much to do and no time to waste doing it. A sombre smile came to her face as she thought how many of the galaxy’s ills the two of them could have solved given enough all-nighters and enough pots of coffee between them.

And then there was Legion. In truth, she hadn’t had much time to speak to him, much less get to know him. He had been on The Normandy so briefly. Less than a month had elapsed between finding him, and Miranda being forced to leave. He was the one she knew the least. But he was unique.

She had been wrong about Legion, hadn’t she? Miranda still didn’t fully know where she stood on the whole question of whether machines could be considered ‘alive’, but that wasn’t the point, was it? Did it even matter if they weren’t? Either way, it would have been wrong to send him to Cerberus, like Miranda had initially suggested. If that had happened, Rannoch might not be at peace right now. With his final sacrifice to unite the quarians and the geth, Legion had definitively proven himself to be more than the mere sum of his programs.

So the question remained. Why hadn’t Miranda taken the initiative to get to know them? To speak to them? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known that the time Thane and Mordin had was short, irrespective of intervening events. She’d just...not bothered.

It hadn’t occurred to her back then to think that was something she ought to have done. The old Miranda hadn’t cared to do such things. Because other people didn’t really matter to her.

By the time Miranda had started to defrost and emerge as a more tolerable (and, in turn, more tolerant) person to be around, it was already too late. The mission was over. The Alpha Relay was destroyed. And everyone went their separate ways.

But there was no changing the past. Perhaps there was no sense in wondering what could have been, or what she would have done differently if she had known then what she knew now, or if she had been the person back then that she was now, because that just wasn’t possible. And Miranda could do many things, but even she couldn’t make the impossible possible.

Well, not usually.

She couldn’t have those days back. But she still had this day. This one night. Best not to dwell on what was missing or the mistakes of yesterdays gone by when there was so much that she had to be thankful for. And, moreover, so much which she had, for once in her life, finally learned to appreciate.

And it wasn’t lost on her that this one night of joyful reunion was almost certainly the last one they could ever have like this. The last time they would all be together. The last time that all the faces in this room would still be here to celebrate as one. 

Because they wouldn’t be alive much longer.

The reality was, the whole galaxy was at war. And it was a war they were currently losing. Their chances of victory were slim to none. From what Miranda had gathered, all organic life was essentially banking its hopes on some ancient miracle superweapon passed down from previous cycles called The Crucible that they didn’t even fully understand or know how to use yet. And if that failed?

...There wasn’t a plan B. Not yet, at least.

Even if The Crucible worked and they somehow defeated the Reapers, the chance that more than a handful of people in this room would survive the war was infinitesimally small. And, perhaps more than anyone else at that party, Miranda had no expectation that she would be among the living when the dust settled. Because Miranda had never been happier than she was right then. Never had more to live for. And if that wasn’t a curse that put her right at the top of the list of ‘most likely to die’, then she was not only naive, but delusional.

The universe was a cruel place. The people who had the most to live for were always the first to die. There was no way that Miranda could rationally believe that the future she now saw for herself and Ori after the war might ever actually come to fruition. Because, if there was one thing that Miranda’s thirty-six years had taught her, it was that she would never get to be that fucking happy.

Things like that just didn’t happen. Especially not to people like her.

Or, if they did, then they shouldn’t.

Seeing what Cerberus had become, knowing she’d spent just shy of twenty years of her life working for them? No, she didn’t deserve a good ending.

As that thought went through her head, Miranda glanced up, and spotted a singular, solitary figure standing alone by the second floor balcony, watching the scenes playing out below. Samara. Somehow, that she was by herself was the least shocking thing Miranda could have imagined.

Finally sensing her long-awaited chance to catch a private moment with the one person she had been more eager to spend time with than any other, Miranda ascended the stairs, a glass of wine curled in her grasp.

“Not mingling?” Miranda asked as she joined Samara’s side.

“I am content to observe,” Samara replied, maintaining an upright posture with her hands clasped behind her back. She seemed to mean it, preferring to watch and listen from a distance than to be directly involved in the action for the most part. Considering she was about four hundred years out-of-practice when it came to this sort of thing, being a passive onlooker probably genuinely was the most enjoyable way for her to experience this party at her own pace.

“Normally, I would do the same.” Miranda leaned on the railing beside her.

“Yet you appear to be enjoying the festivities,” Samara noted, pleased with that.

“I know. It feels incongruous, doesn’t it? Me, being social? A year ago I would have been telling you all to stop wasting time and focus on the mission,” said Miranda, finding it rather bizarre to consider how far she'd come from the cold, aloof person she was previously. Well, not that she couldn't still be those things. But she was less so now. Especially among this dysfunctional bunch of misfits she had reluctantly become fond of, despite her better judgement.

Being part of The Normandy crew had changed her irrevocably. More than she'd realised at the time. Meeting her sister had done that too. And Samara, of course. And so had losing all those things when she went on the run. It made her appreciate aspects of life she wouldn't have otherwise.

It was almost enough to make her call them all her friends. Even Jack.

...Almost.

“You do not need to deprive yourself for my sake,” Samara assured her, gesturing towards the party going on beneath them, as if believing Miranda was only approaching her out of a sense of obligation to ensure she didn't feel excluded.

“I'm not. I enjoy your company. I always have.” Nothing had changed in that respect. No matter how much time had passed, Miranda would never feel any less at ease in Samara’s presence. She just had that effect on her. A vague smirk came to her as she thought back on the last time they spoke, toying with her wine glass. “I was right, you know?” she said, recalling her own words from all those many months ago. “I did miss you more than anyone else.”

“Even Shepard?” Samara inquired, her lip quirking with amusement.

“Even Shepard,” Miranda confirmed, taking a sip. “Don't pass this on, but Shepard was always barging into my office when I had a lot to do. Ask Garrus and he'll tell you the same thing about his calibrations.” She gestured to their comrade, currently setting up a number of glasses on the bar, resembling a firing range. That was going to end badly. “That was something I always liked about you.”

“What was?” asked Samara.

“You might be the only person I've ever met who never wanted anything from me,” Miranda explained, having had plenty of time to think about that in her loneliest moments this past year. “Not to be presumptuous, but it wasn’t because you simply didn't care, or wanted to get rid of me. You just...accepted me, as I was. I never felt as though I had to earn your approval, whether through my usefulness, or my accomplishments, or even through keeping you entertained with conversation. I could just...do nothing around you – literally, just sit there and say nothing in your presence, and that was fine with you.”

That was no exaggeration. They had spent hours together in serene silence, or in meditation. Maybe more than they had spent talking. It never mattered what they chose to do. One was never any more or less welcome than the other.

“It was,” Samara confirmed, her voice soft and reflective. “And, no, you are not being presumptuous. You may be more forthright than I am about such things, but, if I ever desired to be left alone, believe me, I would not have made a secret of it.”

“Ah, good, so you weren’t secretly dreading it whenever I showed up because you were too polite to tell me to bugger off this entire time,” Miranda joked. She already knew that, of course, but it was nice to have it on record.

“I am unfamiliar with that term. But no, I was not,” Samara answered kindly. “I would be a fool not to value your abilities. The things you have accomplished are remarkable, let alone what you have yet to achieve. But such things are only possible because of who you are. That is what is truly important. And I asked nothing of you, because I already enjoyed your companionship.”

Miranda wasn’t prone to blushing like an idiot, but it took an uncharacteristic amount of effort not to glow at such sincere praise. “You aren’t so bad yourself,” Miranda wryly replied, gently nudging Samara with her shoulder. 

“No, I am terribly dull. I assure you, I am aware of this,” Samara replied, a self-effacing smile tugging at the corners of her lips at the misplaced compliment.

Miranda snorted at that assertion. “Are you kidding? You were the only one out of this lot I found even remotely interesting to talk to most days. And, considering the company we keep, that’s saying something,” she said, indicating their cohorts below, who included some of the most famous heroes and infamous outlaws in the galaxy. “You’re one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever met. Besides, I owe a lot to your wisdom and advice. More than you know.”

“It pleases me that you feel that way. However, if I may, I do not consider myself especially wise,” Samara humbly responded, downplaying her role. “If I appear so, it is only because experience has taught me one lesson that can make even the most dimwitted person appear well-considered in their thoughts, and that is to speak as little as possible, until I have something worthwhile to say.”

“See? That’s the most intelligent thing I’ve heard all evening,” Miranda pointed out, earning a faint chuckle from Samara. “In all seriousness, though, I really have been looking forward to catching up with you.”

“And I you. Much has come to pass since last we met. For both of us, I suspect,” Samara reflected, as if she had often wondered in her journeys where her friends were, how they were faring, or what they might be doing. Miranda knew, because she had done the exact same thing. “If it would not trouble you to share it--”

“I killed my father,” Miranda nonchalantly answered, filling in the gaps of what had transpired over the past few months before Samara could even ask her to, bringing up the subject about as casually as she might remark on the weather.

“Good,” Samara enthused, without a hint of hesitation. She didn’t even need to ask whether or not he deserved it. She already knew the answer.

That Samara took it so in stride almost made Miranda laugh. That exchange would have sounded so bizarre out of context. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer man,” Miranda commented, taking another drink from her glass, nearing half-empty. “So, yeah, I’ve gone from having the absolute worst year of my life so far to feeling pretty bloody wonderful, if I’m being honest.”

“I am glad to hear you say that. However, if I may...are you sure you are alright?” Samara asked with the warmth and gentleness Miranda had come to expect from her. Although her own experiences with Morinth were very different, no doubt they gave her an insight that, irrespective of how much Miranda hated her father or how justified she was in her actions, killing the man who had been her only family for sixteen years of her life might unearth some complicated feelings. “It would be no failure on your part whatsoever if you are not.”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Believe me, if there was any small part of me left that might have wanted to let him live, or might have felt something resembling an attachment to him, that part of me died the moment he hurt my sister,” Miranda declared, her voice unwavering. She glanced down. “Unfortunately, I...should have gotten there sooner. Oriana’s adoptive parents weren’t spared. They didn’t make it.”

“I am sorry,” Samara said, her sympathy sincere. “Is there anything you could reasonably have done to prevent this from happening?”

“No, probably not,” Miranda acknowledged. She had been fighting so hard just to survive some days. To stay one step ahead of The Illusive Man and his agents. She’d kept an eye on her as best she could, but it hadn’t been possible to watch over her and protect her the way she used to from such a position of powerlessness. She hadn’t even known she was in danger until it was too late.

“Then you must not blame yourself,” Samara encouraged, ever the voice of compassionate wisdom. “If your actions could not realistically have changed anything that transpired, then you cannot be held responsible.”

“I suppose not,” Miranda conceded, staring down at her glass.

More than anything else, Miranda hated that feeling of helplessness. Knowing that Oriana had suffered and felt pain she never wanted her to experience, and there was nothing she could do to shield her from it. She would have traded her own life in a heartbeat to take it all away and wind back the clock for Ori and her family, if it were within her power. But such things weren’t. It couldn’t be undone. It couldn’t be fixed. They just had to keep moving forward.

“Enough about me. How about you?” Miranda changed the subject. “I tried to keep tabs on everyone but...you are a hard woman to find, Samara.”

“That is my way,” Samara affirmed, calm and quiet. “I have no possessions, but that which you see before you. And I often journey through very remote places.”

“You’re off-the-grid,” Miranda translated. Certainly, Samara was about as disconnected from galactic society and unplugged from the network as it was possible to be in this day and age, short of eschewing those things completely.

“You could say that, yes,” Samara gave a firm nod, accepting that description. She stepped away from the balcony, gesturing with her hand as she spoke. “You may not know this, but there are villages in remote parts of asari space where people have...returned to a simpler way of being, rejecting modernity and embracing tradition in every facet of life. Even though their ancestors may have come to those worlds by spaceflight, they prefer to live as their predecessors did thousands of years ago. It would not be an exaggeration for me to state that several such places I have visited recently would still not currently be aware there is a war going on as we speak, and would never have heard the term ‘Reaper’.”

“Doesn’t sound that strange. There are people and places on Earth that haven’t changed at all in the past two hundred years, if not longer. As long as they aren’t holding back social and scientific progress for anyone else, why force them to adapt?” Miranda shrugged. If people wanted to stay stuck in the past, that was their business. She would happily continue moving forward and enjoy all the trappings and privileges of modern life that they rejected.

“...I have always liked such places, at least since I became a Justicar. They remind me of my temple somewhat,” Samara confessed, her eyes losing focus, drifting into thoughtful contemplation. “Just as there is tranquility in being surrounded by nature, there is truly no wiser woman than she who is content with her life, however humble it may seem. Would that we could all achieve such harmony.”

The hint of sombreness in Samara’s final words wasn’t lost on Miranda.

“Speaking for myself, give me twenty-second century technology any day,” Miranda remarked, both because it was true, but partly in an effort to lighten the atmosphere. It wasn’t clear whether Samara even heard her, in all honesty. “So where did you go after that?” Miranda asked casually. Given that she was here, she must have run into Shepard again somehow.

At those words, a sudden flicker of sorrow passed across her features. Samara turned away, one hand falling across her face, as if struck by a surge of sadness, and needing a moment to collect herself.

Needless to say, that reaction definitely didn’t escape Miranda. She moved closer to Samara, concerned. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Samara summoned a heartbroken smile as she looked up at her once more. “Forgive me. My thoughts turned to the day I encountered Shepard,” she began, a hard story to tell. “I heard that the monastery where my daughters were taken four centuries ago had issued a distress signal, and none who had been sent to investigate had returned. As soon as I knew they were in peril, I did not hesitate. I had to go to them. I feared the worst, and my fears were not misplaced. The Reapers were indoctrinating Ardat-Yakshi, turning them into…” Samara couldn’t even say it. There weren’t words to describe those creatures.

Miranda listened to her recount the events in heavy, dread-filled silence. Nobody had told her that. She had no idea about any of this. 

“Fortunately, both Shepard and I arrived in time to rescue Falere from that fate. However, we were not quick enough. I lost...I lost Rila.” Samara’s voice caught in her throat, choked by a sob as she relived the all-too-raw pain of her death. 

Her oldest daughter. Gone.

Miranda’s heart sank. “Samara, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know,” she said with heartfelt remorse. Miranda never would have brought this up if she had suspected anything had happened to what little family Samara still had left. Why hadn’t anybody said anything? Why had no one told her about this?

“No, it is…” Samara shook her head, raising a hand as if to signal that it was not her fault for inadvertently touching upon an open wound. As if she thought the only misstep made was her own for letting grief cloud the moment, when she had so much still to be thankful for. “I should not. Not today.”

Miranda didn’t quite know what to make of that reaction, but if Samara didn’t want to talk about the death of her child, she couldn’t exactly blame her. She certainly wouldn’t force her to.

Their moment of quiet was interrupted by glass shattering somewhere below.

“Oh, God,” Miranda groaned miserably, getting the sense that the boys were in fact about to break out the guns and start shooting after all. She was not particularly keen to be near them when that happened. “Do you want to go somewhere a little quieter?” Miranda asked, thinking that would be best.

“As you wish,” Samara replied, gesturing for her to go ahead, composing herself as she followed in Miranda’s footsteps. With that, they retreated into Shepard's bedroom, seeing that it appeared empty.

Out of the corner of her eye, Miranda glimpsed something. Shepard's closet was open, but the clothes were shifting ever so slightly as they hung there. Hmm. She had a fair idea what was causing that. However, this wasn't the time to address it. Not when this moment with Samara could be one of the last they ever had. She made a mental note to file her theory away for a little later.

Ignoring the disturbance, Miranda stepped inside. She supposed they could have sat on the bed, but, somehow, that just didn't seem fitting. “Here, for old time's sake,” she said, sitting down on the floor, her legs crossed, patting a spot beside her. “I know the view isn't as good, but—“

“I have spent many years gazing out over the stars, and I will see them again before my days are at an end,” Samara interrupted Miranda, joining her by her side, mirroring her posture. “In comparison, I have spent far less time with you. This is more worthy, do you not agree?”

“Definitely.” Miranda glanced down, having reflected on that sort of thing a lot recently. “Cutting myself off from...everything like I did made me appreciate the value of how I spend my limited time in this universe. I’ve come to understand what I want to do with my life, after all this is done. Assuming there is an ‘after’. And it turns out you were right, but you probably already knew that.”

“I...do not,” Samara replied, mildly perplexed. “If I said something in the past that you are referring to, I am afraid that I do not recall it.”

That happened a lot, Miranda thought. She had a near-perfect memory, by human standards. It felt entirely natural to her to harken back to conversations that had taken place long ago as if they’d happened only yesterday when, almost invariably, by that stage, the other party had forgotten them completely.

“You remember how you would encourage me to concentrate less on devoting all my energy to my work and other external achievements and to focus more on my inner development instead? Well, you asked me once which of those two things ultimately has greater meaning to me,” Miranda refreshed her memory.

“That does sound like something I would say,” Samara acknowledged, certainly remembering words to that effect, even if a few more specific details had faded.

“You did. And you were right,” Miranda continued. “I had a lot of time to myself these past several months. Completely to myself. And when that crushing isolation was just starting to tip me over the edge, I thought of you. I thought of us, our time together. And so I tried my hand at meditating again. It succeeded at calming me down and clearing my head but, more importantly, finding that state of tranquility gave me the first chance I’d had since leaving Cerberus to really stop and think about my life, and the direction it was heading, even before this.”

Samara’s expression revealed she knew that epiphany all too well, as if she had undergone something similar in her own life. Possibly more than once. It was no wonder she considered meditation such an essential facet of her existence.

“Serenity is the key to mindfulness. The only key. Even the simplest truths are often lost to us in the noise and chaos of life, or clouded by impenetrable shadows of anger and despair,” Samara spoke sagely, from the benefit of experience. 

That was the truest and most astute thing Miranda had heard anyone say in a long time. And beautifully poetic. And, as she looked at Samara then, Miranda had to once again wonder how she could possibly believe herself to be dull or unwise, even if she had only made those disparaging remarks about herself in jest. 

“What came to you in the silence?” Samara prompted, keen to hear it.

“I thought of the person I was before I met you, and, out of nowhere, it suddenly hit me - really hit me - that all that time I spent working for Cerberus was...wasted. It meant nothing. And I knew it meant nothing because all I could think was that, if Cerberus did catch up to me and kill me, then I would be leaving behind absolutely nothing that I could look back on and say, ‘Yeah, you know what? I’m satisfied with that.’ Not one thing. Except for bringing Shepard back, but any contentment I feel about that has less to do with me, and more to do with Shepard.”

“Because you were never satisfied with anything you produced,” Samara intuited, sensing what Miranda had come to terms with. “Nothing could ever truly meet your own unattainable standards that you set for yourself. And no amount of work could ever fill the void that you felt inside. A void that festered because you were...completely avoiding focusing on your inner life.”

“Yes, I was. And, no, it couldn’t fill it,” Miranda confirmed, seeing now what she had been too distracted to see before. “And, although I didn’t realise it at the time, I really did not like the person I was when I was working for them. I was not happy. I thought I was, compared to the life I had before. But, in actuality, I wasn’t any less trapped with them than I was with my father. I was like Shepard’s stupid hamster, running in a wheel, doing the same things over and over again, thinking I was getting somewhere, but going nowhere. Deep down, I was...I was fucking miserable. And...honestly, I think I was lonely.”

Samara watched on, her eyes glistening with unfeigned sympathy and understanding. “I gathered as much,” Samara admitted, barely above a whisper. Miranda wasn’t surprised to hear her say that. She wasn’t sure at precisely what point it had occurred to her to suspect that Samara’s spiritual intervention in her life might be intentional, but she’d made no secret of her guidance. 

“I’m glad you noticed, because I never would have. It was you who gave me that gentle push that made me re-examine what I was doing with my life, how badly I was treating myself, and reflect on what really mattered to me,” said Miranda. Hell, Samara had known what Miranda was missing better than she knew it herself. “So, as I was having this moment of insight and meditating on all those things you said to me, it made me think, maybe the path I’ve been taking until now isn't what's fulfilling to me. That's why, once the Reapers are defeated, if I make it out alive...I think I'm done,” she stated frankly, shrugging her shoulders.

“Done?” Samara echoed, curious as to her meaning.

“Done being that person,” Miranda clarified. “Done leading my life that way. Or at least I’ll try to be someone different for a while, until I figure out what I really want to do now that there’s nobody controlling me anymore. I'm not planning to be a puppet for another shadowy organisation. I'm not going to go off on some grand mission to save the galaxy. I’m not going to spend sixteen hours a day hunched over my computer screen, stressing over worthless administrative tasks to meet the arbitrary standards of people who don’t care at all if my crippling addiction to perfectionism sends me to an early grave,” Miranda announced, voicing that commitment aloud as though it were a vow. “If I’m finally going to take charge of my own life, then I'm going to focus on what's most important to me.”

“And what is that?” Samara asked, suspecting she already knew.

“My sister,” Miranda answered without hesitation. Oriana was her be all and end all. Whether she knew it or not, she always had been, ever since she was brought into this world. She made Miranda feel complete, or as close to whole as she had ever felt, anyway. “I made a promise to her that, when this is over, we're going to find some nice, quiet place on a colony world and start living our lives together as a family. And that's the only thing I want to do. The only thing I know will make me happy. I don't care about anything else.”

“You are...retiring?” Samara inferred, tilting her head in questioning.

“In a manner of speaking, I guess you could say that,” Miranda affirmed. As she glanced over at Samara then, it wasn’t lost on her that, while she was clearly impressed with the level of growth Miranda was demonstrating, suffice it to say that there was a hint of scepticism. “What?” Miranda prompted her, always preferring people to be direct rather than refrain from speaking.

“Forgive me. It delights me to hear that you have chosen a path which you believe will bring you inner fulfilment, but...with greatest respect, after our many conversations, I find it difficult to imagine you content with embracing idleness,” Samara noted with interest, even though she obviously supported her decision. She knew it drove Miranda crazy when she didn’t have enough work to do. She was perpetually busy, by choice. She hated being bored more than anything.

“No, I'm not saying I’ll be idle. I mean, I am only thirty-six, and...well, you've seen what I'm like,” Miranda conceded that fault, aware of her workaholic tendencies. She didn’t expect those qualities to fade, and she wasn’t sure it would be a good thing if they did. They were part of her personality. “But the point is that I’ve been doing the exact same thing for twenty years and getting nothing in return - except money, I guess. Before that, I was my father’s prisoner. I’ve never had the chance to be my own woman. I need a clean break. A hard reset. To steer things in a new direction. I need some time to...do or be something else, for the first time in my life. I need to…” She trailed off, struggling for the right words.

“Find yourself?” Samara suggested.

“Something like that,” Miranda confirmed. She’d never had a chance to discover herself and her identity except insofar as it related to her upbringing, or to her career with Cerberus. What else was there? Who was Miranda Lawson when she wasn’t working? Or wasn’t busy solving all the galaxy’s problems?

She would have loved to know. It was a shame she wouldn’t get to live long enough to meet that person. But, God, did it feel good to live in denial, and allow herself to hope, for just one night.

“I don't know how long this experiment will last, or what this phase of my life will look like,” Miranda continued, “And I'm sure that at some point in time I'm going to find ways to keep myself productive, because I probably can't do otherwise. But, whatever I decide to do with my time and my skills, I'll be doing it of my own volition. Not because I'm tethered to anybody else. Not because somebody else is running my life and telling me what to do. It will be because I took time to think about it, and found a way to devote myself to something that actually makes me feel good when I do it. Whatever that ends up being.”

That was the core of it, when it came down to it. She wanted to be her own master. To have control over her own life. To be her own boss. Wanted the freedom to cut ties with anyone or anything that was toxic to her quest for self-actualisation. 

“Either way, from now on, all those other things are going to be secondary, because my family is my priority. Oriana is,” Miranda professed, and that was immutable. “And, while I already knew that, you helped me realise what that means. So thank you for that.”

“If I was able to be of any assistance, then seeing you embrace your innermost desires is thanks enough. I am glad that you and your sister have found one another,” Samara said, her sincere smile reaching her eyes. “Truly, you have come so far from when I first met you. Wherever your path takes you, I wish you nothing but happiness. And I hope you both lead very long and peaceful lives.”

“Don’t we all?” Miranda remarked. That was the hard part, though. The entire galaxy was under attack by genocidal, unknowable cosmic horrors. But nobody wanted to think about them right now. Not tonight. “What about you and Falere?” Miranda asked, hoping she wasn’t treading on too sensitive ground by asking that question. “Will you do the same with her?”

“...I cannot; my adherence to The Code does not end with the salvation of the galaxy,” said Samara. Though it was clear she accepted that, her response left her visibly conflicted. No doubt, she wished it could have been otherwise. “I am the last of my Order. When I perish, so do the Justicars perish with me. It may seem futile to continue to walk this path when there is no one left to demand it of me, but I must. I must, for those who can no longer walk it with me.”

Samara’s devout pledge carried a hint of sadness, but it was well-camouflaged. What she personally wanted was irrelevant, ever since she'd renounced her former life and sworn her service to the Justicars. Being their sole living legacy only further cemented what had already been true. She wouldn't turn her back on her obligations, no matter how tempting it was to savour every moment she could with her daughter. She could never forgive herself if she did.

“However, I have also promised Falere that I will return, if I survive – when I am able,” Samara continued, though her tone did not change. It remained distant. Almost resigned. Layered in over four hundred years of history between them.

Miranda couldn’t quite make sense of the mixed emotions she sensed in Samara’s voice. Perhaps she was disappointed that they couldn’t be as close as she would like - that there were restrictions standing in the way of them fully reuniting in the same kind of way Miranda and Oriana had. Falere was still an Ardat-Yakshi, after all; she could never live a normal life. It was too dangerous.

“But you will see her? You will have a life together?” Miranda surmised, in a subtle attempt to encourage Samara to think of her circumstances more positively.

“...Yes,” Samara answered hesitantly, deciding that was indeed true, in part.

“Then, if both of us have reasons to survive, I don't like the Reapers' chances,” Miranda spoke with false confidence. If she said it with enough self-assuredness, perhaps she might actually start to believe it. But she wasn’t trying to convince herself. Only Samara. “If we've said we're going to do these things, then we already know what the outcome of this war has to be.”

Samara didn't share in her display of bravado, but she did appreciate her sentiment. “Though I am not afraid of death, I certainly have found a great deal more to live for than I ever thought I would have again...” Samara trailed off at that thought, her eyes briefly drifting out of focus, almost pensive in her reflection.

“Here's to living,” said Miranda, raising her mostly empty glass in a salute, finishing the last of her drink.

At that, Samara shook herself from whatever temporary trance had come over her. “Yes. Indeed. As you once said to me, I will…’see you on the other side’,” Samara echoed Miranda’s words from The Collector Base, nodding her head in agreement. There was nothing more worthy of affirmation than the desire to emerge from the ashes when all this was over. “The hour grows late, and I fear I have kept you too long. Do you wish to return to the festivities?” 

“You go on ahead,” Miranda encouraged. “And don’t just sit in a corner and meditate all night. Go...fucking have fun, Samara. You deserve it.”

Samara uttered a soft chuckle. “I am not entirely sure what that means, but if you are insistent, then...I will try to avail myself. The atmosphere is certainly...energetic,” she commented, as if sounding faintly overwhelmed by the party.

Miranda didn’t need to be a genius to recognise that it had been a long, long, long, long (too many longs to possibly put into a sentence) time since Samara would have experienced anything like this. The young Samara she had heard tales of had definitely been a wild child, but she had ceased to be that person even before her personal tragedy befell her. As a Justicar, she had been travelling alone, in total solitude, for over four hundred years, barely even speaking to anyone for most of that time, except as required to carry out her duties.

How many centuries had it been since she was able to get together like this with a group of friends? Since she even had a group of friends? Since she...relaxed and unwound? It was no wonder that, so far, she seemed content to watch from the sidelines more than actively participate in the unfolding chaos. 

Still a little sad, though. At least from where Miranda was sitting.

“Will you join me?” Samara asked, extending her hand as she got to her feet.

“In a bit,” Miranda declined. “There's something I have to take care of first.”

Samara didn't ask what Miranda meant by that, respecting her decision. “Very well. May we speak again soon,” she said, taking her leave and rejoining the others. 

Once Samara was gone, Miranda uttered a faint disgruntled sigh. “I know you're there, Kasumi,” she said, annoyed. “Samara may not have noticed, but I did.”

“Aw, what gave it away?” Kasumi playfully whined, de-cloaking in front of Shepard's closet.

“The movement as you rifled through those clothes,” Miranda answered plainly.

“Ooh, you're good,” Kasumi acknowledged. Most people wouldn't have seen it.

“Genetic enhancements. Superior vision. You've heard this story,” Miranda explained, waving that nonsense away. She elected not to ask what Kasumi was doing by rifling through Shepard’s clothes. That was the least unusual thing about this. “So, were you riveted by our conversation?” she asked.

“Actually, yes,” Kasumi replied, her answer apparently unfeigned. “Samara wasn’t kidding; you really have changed your perspective for the better. This new you, it's nice. You seem happy. I hope everything works out for you and your sister.”

Miranda couldn't quite manage to be cross with her after that kind response. “Yeah, well...I’ll never hear the end of it if the crew thinks I’ve gone soft and sentimental, so don’t go telling anyone. Besides, I haven't changed so much that I won't be capable of making your life hell if you let word of this spread around,” Miranda idly threatened, not meaning it at all.

Kasumi lost any trace of heartfelt sincerity after that. “On the other hand, I was also enthralled because I thought your little love session was going to end with you and Samara christening Shep's sheets,” she teased.

Miranda arched an eyebrow. Her and Samara? How absurd. “Of all the comebacks you could make...Really? A gay joke? In this day and age? What century are you from?” Honestly, it was the lack of creativity and wit that disappointed her more than anything. Kasumi was normally funnier than this.

“Who’s joking?” Kasumi wryly replied. “I was going to take bets from the others on which one of you topped. I picked you, for the record.”

Miranda snorted, not even humouring this nonsense. “Sure. If you say so.” 

“Be dismissive if you want, but I was right across the hall from Samara. I overheard more than one of your conversations. I know nobody else knows how much time you spent together, but I do. Besides, Shepard has it all wrong; Samara's a much better match for you than Jack would ever be,” Kasumi nonchalantly commented.

Miranda sighed heavily and let her head fall in her hand, massaging her forehead in visible annoyance. “What is it with everyone tonight--”

As soon as Miranda began to utter the question, she found that Kasumi had already cloaked herself and disappeared, leaving her by herself. Miranda rolled her eyes, not even slightly shocked. Kasumi had done that to everyone all night.

Seriously, though, why was everyone suddenly so intent on getting her to sleep with women at this party? They knew she was straight, right?

*     *     *

Drip.

Drip.

She stirred at the disturbance. Her right eye flickered open, but the other didn’t respond. Twisted metal and exposed wires loomed over her against the backdrop of an empty sky.

Drip.

Drip.

A body hung out of the seat above her. Half a body. A cracked ribcage visibly protruded from a burned uniform. Entrails dangled from the open corpse. Droplets of blood ran down a lifeless arm swaying limp in the light breeze.

Drip.

Drip.

Miranda had been here before. So many times. But this time, she was frozen in place. Trapped. Stuck. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t shift her body. Could only feel the blood and the viscera. It surrounded her. She was practically floating in a pool of it beneath her.

It was still warm.

Drip.

Drip.

She could taste copper in her mouth. She was covered in sanguine from head to toe. She wasn’t sure how much was hers, and how much was the pilot’s.

Drip.

Drip.

Her eyelid fluttered as a drop landed directly in her iris. As she blinked, she noticed something she’d never seen before. The pilot’s neck was bent back the wrong way. But there was a head. Half a head. Split clean open. Down the middle.

Her helmet had come off, exposing blonde hair. Stained with a crimson mask.

Drip.

Drip.

Miranda’s instincts reacted before she did. Her heart began to race - her pulse quickening with a deep, abiding dread. Adrenaline surged through her veins. And she didn’t know why. Until she saw.

Until she saw the body above her move.

Drip.

Drip.

That bent-backwards broken spine shifted consciously. And, with a wilful snap, suddenly that limp neck was above her. Hanging. That half-skull hovered directly over her. Looking at her. Appraising her.

Drip.

Drip.

Miranda tensed with the urge to fight or flee, but she was frozen in place, as if made of stone. She couldn’t move a single part of her body below her neck.

Drip.

Drip.

That torn face, broken in two, shifted back and forth, as if studying Miranda. Examining her. Asking itself…why did this stranger live, when I died?

Drip.

Drip.

With one click of a button to release her harness, the pilot dropped to the floor, freed from her restraints. Miranda could only watch as that unliving corpse of the woman blasted in half by the Reaper unnaturally positioned itself above her. Then the thing looked over to one side. Its eye was fixed on Miranda’s left arm.

Her wounded limb hung like dead weight from her shoulder. Fractured. Lifeless. Her forearm was twisted around completely the wrong way from the elbow down. Miranda couldn’t so much as twitch her fingers in self-defence.

Drip.

Drip.

Without warning, it seized her left hand.

“Ah!” Miranda gasped in pain, but couldn’t fight her off. Couldn’t move.

All she could do was lie there helplessly and watch as this dead creature lifted her broken, mangled arm. She willed herself not to scream from how much it hurt. Not to give it the satisfaction of breaking her.

Drip.

Drip.

The pilot stared down at her, unmoved by her anguish. It felt nothing.

It never broke eye contact with her as it lifted her backwards-twisted hand towards itself. Until Miranda’s fingers were almost touching that split-open face.

Miranda would have resisted if she could, but it felt like her arm would rip clean in half at the elbow if she pulled back with even the slightest force.

Drip.

Drip.

And then the pilot opened her mouth.

And a river of maggots came pouring out.

Wriggling.

Writhing.

Miranda could do nothing except watch as those horrible, crawling larvae spread from her fingers, down her palm, and to her wrist. And everywhere they touched, her flesh was consumed with rot. Infection. Disease. Death.

She could smell it.

She could fucking smell it.

And they just kept coming.

Drip.

Drip.

Some of the vile things fell onto her abdomen, there were so many of them. And the rot took hold there too. Turning her skin sickly septic. Pestilent. Necrotic. 

The pilot let go of her arm, letting it fall to the floor as the maggots swarmed her.

That half-body reached down and grabbed a fistful of the squirming things that were feasting on her still living corpse. It held that pulsating mass above her.

Drip.

Drip.

“No,” was all Miranda could say, knowing what it intended.

But there was nothing she could say that would stop it.

Drip.

Drip.

It shoved that handful of maggots directly onto her face.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Instinctively, Miranda reached over and slapped the alarm off before anyone else would hear it. The next thing she did was bite down on her pillow to keep from screaming, or vomiting, stifling the lingering echoes of her nightmare.

Once the panic subsided, Miranda flopped onto her back, catching her breath.

Four forty-five in the morning.

This had been her bright idea to get some sorely-needed rest. She’d set her alarm to go off every half hour - to wake her before she could dream. It worked for the first three cycles. That was the fourth. Another failed solution. Another plan that hadn’t helped. Every time she slept, it was hell. It was always hell.

Miranda lay there in darkness, staring at the ceiling, listening to her ear ring. At least she’d got two hours before the nightmares struck this time. Thank Christ for that small mercy. But she was still so tired. She was so fucking tired.

Miranda could run on far less sleep than the average human. Persevere longer before frayed edges started to show. But even she had limits on what she could withstand. The longer this went on, the harder it got just to function.

How long did she have before she was physically incapable of staying awake?

Miranda had given up trying to pass time during the night. With anything. Didn’t use her computer. Didn’t read. Didn’t listen to music. Didn’t go out for walks by the river. Didn’t do any of the things she turned to in the past.

It was all so...boring. Everything was. Every single thing in her life that she used to use as a crutch to ward off these dreams had lost its lustre. Nothing was worth the effort of doing anymore. Expending the energy. All she had to keep herself awake anymore were her thoughts. And that sound.

That relentless

Fucking

Sound.

Days bled together in a blur. It almost didn’t feel like the past few hours had even happened. Fresh memories were like watching scenes from someone else’s life. What little release she’d had from getting off with Shiala earlier that night had already worked its way out of her system. It had been nothing more than a fleeting distraction, which offered scant relief from the problems that plagued her. And now she was back to this. A torment she’d been living with for so long that she no longer even remembered how it felt to be rested.

But thinking about literally anything else was preferable to dwelling on the nightmares, and she could only count the same cracks in the ceiling so many times before that would drive her clinically insane. So Miranda replayed the night in her head, trying to make sense of it all, and where it left her.

If sleeping with Shiala had accomplished one thing, it had proven that her feelings for Samara weren’t just in her head. No, the desire she’d felt when she imagined Samara in Shiala’s place, picturing her body beneath her, had not been some mere delusion. Those physical reactions couldn’t be faked or exaggerated. The sheer fucking want. That was real, vivid, stark, and intense.

So that was just great. After all that, not only had she not managed to convince herself that she was any less in love with Samara, she was now painfully conscious that she was sexually attracted to her. Extremely so.

It was the opposite of what she’d hoped to achieve. Fucking Shiala hadn’t been a release for her feelings. If anything, it had only crystalised them.

It was no wonder why Samara was dominating her thoughts. This obsession with her was about the only thing Miranda could feel at all anymore, outside of her nightmares. When it came to everything else in her life - all the death, the destruction, her own survival, her injuries, and the loss of all but a small handful of people she knew - everything else that should have provoked her to feel something, anything...there was nothing there. A hole. A void. An empty space.

She was just so fucking…

Blank.

Neutral.

Numb.

She couldn’t feel anything at all. Just hollowness. Except when Samara was there. And then, when she looked at her, when she felt her standing by her side, everything got so intense and so achingly real and corporeal that it burned. She came so alive in her proximity that she damn near couldn’t stand it.

But Samara wasn’t there.

She had gone again, leaving her to wilt in the dark.

And there Miranda lay. Staring at the ceiling. Avoiding her dreams. Listening to her ear ring. And she felt dead inside. Like every breath she took, she wasn’t getting enough air. Like she was asphyxiating, bit by bit. Suffocating so slowly that nobody would even notice if she simply stopped breathing. Not even herself.

But what the hell did she have to complain about?

She was still here.

Millions of others weren’t so lucky. Hell, billions. 

As her mind began to wander in the way that minds could only wander when they were desperately tired and teetering on the verge of sleep, she thought about The Normandy. About the shockwave that had destroyed the mass relays, and all ships anywhere near them. The faster-than-light blast that killed her friends.

Miranda hadn’t even been conscious when it happened. She’d only heard descriptions of what it looked like when the Crucible fired. It painted a pretty grim picture. Jacob had told her how he’d seen people standing only a few feet in front of him scream as they disintegrated in front of his very eyes. Torn apart on a cellular level, in a single, bright, flash.

Was that what happened to The Normandy? Had it been sudden? Had they been scared, in their last moments? Had they felt pain? Did they even know that they were in danger? That they were going to die? Or did they just...blink out of existence, blissfully quickly?

Did it matter?

People didn’t go anywhere when they died. There was no soul. No afterlife. No heaven. No hell. There was just...nothing. People were, and then they weren’t.

They would never even find any trace of them, would they? They would never have anything to bury or lay to rest. Even reading out their names as she had done hadn’t added a sense of catharsis or closure to it. It still didn’t feel entirely real, even though Miranda knew it had to be. The Normandy would have either reported in or been found by now if anyone had survived.

And then she thought of the people who were serving aboard The Normandy when it disappeared. People she had spoken to only a few months ago - a mere matter of days before the battle for Earth. People she would never speak to again. People she probably hadn’t earned the right to call her friends.

Tali, Miranda had never had a problem with. They only talked when it was directly related to the ship or the mission, which had been an ideal working relationship from her perspective. She wasn’t on The Normandy to make friends. That wasn’t something she wanted or thought she needed back then. It was only around the time of Shepard’s party on the Citadel that Miranda had finally begun to twig that Tali actually did not like her at all, and never had. To her credit, she had simply been far too professional to let it show, or interfere with her job.

That was perfectly fine, honestly. And, if Tali really did hate Miranda this whole time, that made her not a bad judge of character, in fairness. She hadn’t realised it about herself when they served together but, in truth, Miranda hadn’t liked herself all that much either. Still didn’t, on some level.

Garrus, by contrast, was notoriously snarky and sarcastic towards her. She’d never thought turians could smirk before, but Garrus had proven they could. He would meet her commands with smart-arse quips and a wry glint in his eye. He never took Miranda’s shit. Needless to say, she hadn’t been his biggest fan because of that but, in retrospect, she couldn’t blame him. With the gift of hindsight, she now recognised she had been pretty intolerable to be around at times. If she’d had a better sense of humour, they could have traded some witty banter. But the old Miranda took herself far too seriously for that.

Liara, Miranda had met earlier than any other member of The Normandy, save Jacob. Miranda had enlisted her help to retrieve Shepard’s body from the Shadow Broker, before it fell into the hands of the Collectors. It was strange to think that that brief crossing of their paths had set all subsequent events in motion.

Miranda had been so focused on her own goals at that time that she never formed particularly strong impressions of Liara, beyond a mixture of respect for her capabilities, tinged with appropriate suspicion and mistrust. That mistrust had mostly faded through a combination of being there when Liara took down the Shadow Broker, and perhaps more importantly from getting to know Shepard well enough to trust her judgement about the company she kept.

She didn’t know Liara well enough to speculate as to whether she shared that sentiment. Miranda rarely cared to ponder others’ opinions of her. Presumably Shepard didn’t have quite as many positive things to say about Miranda as she did about Liara, given their relationship. But they’d never had any issues.

James, Javik and Ashley, Miranda obviously didn’t know. She’d barely been introduced to them, really only meeting them when Shepard threw that party. She hadn’t formed particularly noteworthy opinions of any of them, beyond that James was a bit of a meathead (albeit, a fairly charming one), Ashley was what happened when the quintessential military brat grew up and became a soldier, and Javik was coping with being the loneliest man in the universe by staying alive through the sheer burning willpower to avenge the destruction of his people. 

Then again, maybe she was wrong about them.

Joker and EDI, though, Miranda definitely knew. Joker had never been shy when it came to talking shit about everyone on the ship. Miranda was no exception, although he was more cautious about her than most, given that she scared the crap out of him. Still, that hadn’t stopped him from spending an entire week humming the Wicked Witch of the West theme every time Miranda approached - a reference Miranda hadn’t understood (because of course she didn’t) until Jacob explained it to her, which led to her swiftly putting a stop to that.

And EDI? Well, EDI was The Normandy. The closest thing it had to a soul.

It was difficult to say whether Miranda could truly consider her a ‘person’, but on some level she supposed she did. She did think of her as one. Miranda had always found herself being instinctively polite to EDI, even in moments when she didn’t extend the same politeness to anyone else. But for as calm and helpful as EDI could be, she also had a personality. A sense of humour. Desires. Wants. In some ways, maybe she was more human than Miranda herself.

And then there was Doctor Chakwas, and Gabby and Ken, and Engineer Adams, and Kelly Chambers, and Mess Sergeant Gardener. So many people. So many faces that had become part of her world. She didn’t even like all of them, but they were there. And now they weren’t.

And Shepard.

Where did she even start when it came to Shepard?

Meeting Shepard had changed Miranda’s life on a fundamental level. She’d led by example, and shown her a different way of being. She was the undeniable proof that being kind and empathetic wasn’t a weakness, but a strength. That making friends with the people around her wasn’t a distraction from more important work, but an essential tool she used to build a strong and loyal team.

She was, without exaggeration or qualification, as close to a perfect human being as Miranda had ever met. If humanity strived to be more like Andrea Shepard, then the galaxy would be a better place.

Huh. What would Shepard say if she could see Miranda now?

Do you even miss us?

At all?

Good question, Miranda thought. Was this what it was like? Was this how a normal person was supposed to act when they missed people who had died? Because it didn’t feel that way. If this was a test, she was failing. Despite what Samara had said about there being no correct or incorrect way to grieve, it certainly didn’t feel like she was mourning the right way, whatever that meant.

Do you even care that we’re gone?

You haven’t cried.

Not once.

Not even the faintest sting in your eye.

No, she hadn’t. She’d never really been able to do that. Only Oriana ever brought that out of her. And Miranda wasn’t speaking to her right now. Because she still had nothing positive to say.

At this rate, it wasn’t looking like that was going to change anytime soon.

Miranda lay there in the dark for two more hours, forcing herself not to slip into slumber. It was seven in the morning when she finally willed her weary limbs to get her up and out of bed. She had already heard the pipes going, so she knew some of the kids were awake. Sometimes she got up before them, but she usually waited for them to stir as her signal to stop pretending to sleep. It aroused less suspicion if she wasn’t the first one up every morning. And her ruse must have been working because so far none of them had noticed.

She got up, had her shower, got dressed, and joined the early risers for breakfast.

“Morning, Miss,” Leah Brooks greeted her.

“Morning.” Miranda opened the fridge, her voice slightly hoarse. She stopped, blinking as she glanced back at the students. “...Is that actual fresh milk in the fridge?” she asked, wondering if she was just hallucinating from insomnia.

“Sure is,” Rodriguez confirmed.

“How on Earth do we have that?” said Miranda, on a slight delay.

“Black market,” Rodriguez answered with a shrug.

Miranda gave her a single nod of approval, grabbing the glass bottle. “Good girl.” She was teaching them well. It was worth every credit to have food that didn’t come in powder form whenever they could manage to get their hands on it.

With that, Miranda poured herself a bowl of cereal and joined the kids at the table. They ate in silence for a solid two minutes. Despite not paying the students much mind, she didn’t fail to notice that they were sneaking surreptitious glances at her, and being awkwardly quiet. They were usually chattier. She didn’t ask them what this was about, because she didn’t care. It was always some teenage nonsense with them. As long as it was harmless.

“...Screw it, I’m gonna ask her,” Reiley eventually broke the silence.

“Don’t! Don’t fucking ask her,” Rodriguez warned, hushing her voice as if that would somehow make her imperceptible, even though Miranda was sitting right across the table and could see her and hear every single word uttered between the two of them. “I’ve played this game, it doesn’t go we--”

“Miss…” Reiley began, completely ignoring Rodriguez’s protestations. “Is it true you banged an asari last night?”

Miranda fumbled her spoon.

Fuck.

“First of all, that’s a very inappropriate question,” Miranda responded, not at all impressed with Jack’s students. And she stood by that assessment, even if she knew damn well she was being a giant hypocrite, because she was also prone to asking questions she wanted to know the answers to without caring who she offended in the process. But the key difference there was that she did that to other people, and this was now happening to her. And that was obviously unacceptable. “Secondly, where is this even coming from?”

“I overheard you talking to Mr Taylor last night,” Leah solved that mystery.

At that, Miranda’s normally faultless composure cracked. “You...what?”

“We sleep right there.” Leah pointed at her room. “Voices carry.”

Instead of coming up with some elaborate fiction, which she was far too drained to do, Miranda simply ran her fingers through her hair and uttered a frustrated groan. Damn it, Jacob. She should have guessed at least one of them might be awake and listening through the door when she came home.

“Holy shit. You were right. She did,” said Rodriguez, finding all the proof she needed in Miranda’s reaction, and complete lack of any defence.

Leah made a gesture with her fingers. “I told you. Pay up.”

“You know it's rude to eavesdrop on people,” Miranda pointed out, displeased.

“Pfft. You would do it to us,” Reiley remarked.

“No, I wouldn't. None of you have anything remotely interesting to say,” Miranda countered, going back to her cereal, seeing little point in denying the truth, although there was no way in hell she was going to divulge anything further.

“Yeah, well, if we did, you would,” Reiley replied with a shrug.

Miranda never liked admitting when other people were right so she didn’t respond.

“Was it Samara?” Rodriguez asked, immensely intrigued, or at least pretending to be for the purposes of screwing with her. “I know I sensed a vibe between the two of you. So were you lying when you said she wasn't your girlfriend?”

Miranda rolled her eye. She hated her life. She hated everything.

“You will run out of cereal eventually, and then you’ll have to talk,” Leah teased.

Miranda fixed her with a one-eyed glare as she ate, making it plain that this pestering would get them precisely nowhere but ignored. She really did wish that Jacob hadn’t made her be nice to these teens. Back when they were intimidated by her, they never would have pulled this stunt.

At that instant, Prangley emerged from his room, half-asleep, rubbing his eyes.

“Jason. Good to see you,” Miranda called his attention to her, seeing an opportunity to escape this torment. “Do me a favour. Bring my pistol over here and shoot me with it, would you?” Miranda requested with an entirely straight face.

Prangley blinked blearily, certain he must have misheard. “What?”

“Kill me,” Miranda reiterated, in the same tone. “I don't want to live anymore.”

“What? Why?” asked Jason.

“She boned an asari last night and Leah overheard her and Mr Taylor talking about it,” Rodriguez explained. “It was totally Samara,” she added in an aside.

“Oh. Nice,” said Prangley, continuing his march to the kitchen, unfazed.

Miranda exhaled in annoyance. “Damn it, Jason.” He’d been her best hope of backing her up and putting a stop to this. And he’d failed her. She was disappointed. “You were this close to being my favourite,” she complained in jest, holding her thumb and forefinger a small distance apart.

Jason shrugged. He wasn’t about to interfere with this. She was on her own.

“Samara seems really cool, Miss,” Reiley commented, nodding in approval.

“And also super hot,” Leah chimed in. “And I mean that in both a feminist way and a lesbian way. So, you know...good for you.”

Jason snorted. “Did you just congratulate her on who she had sex with?” 

“Yes. Absolutely,” Leah confirmed. “I mean, have you seen Samara?”

“It wasn't Samara!” Miranda insisted, finally getting fed up with this.

Rodriguez gasped excitedly. “So you're seeing someone else? Who is it? Is she your girlfriend? Is that why you and Samara aren't together? Wait, oh my God, Miss, are you cheating on Samara? Is that why she left London?” 

Miranda let her head fall forward and hit the table with a thud. This was why she normally chose to stay silent when they tried to get a rise out of her like this. Shame she’d forgotten that strategy in her exasperation.

“Wow. You’ve officially done it. You’re all dead to her now,” Jason noted.

“Oh, I crossed that boundary a long time ago,” Rodriguez assured him, evidently proud that she’d finally managed to break Miranda. “I have nothing to lose.”

“How about the roof over your head,” Miranda retorted, picking up her cereal, deciding she would rather starve than continue to be subjected to this.

“Pfft. You don’t mean that,” Rodriguez brushed her off. Miranda just silently arched her eyebrow at her as she limped away. Rodriguez began to sweat, turning to her partners in crime. “She...She doesn’t mean that, right?”

Jason just pulled a face, as if to say he’d warned her.

*     *     *

“I heard a rumour about you,” Shepard began, approaching Miranda near the lounge on the second floor.

The party had gone fairly late into the evening by that point, and the energy was starting to wind down. Miranda hadn’t asked but somehow she got the sense that everyone was planning on crashing at Shepard’s for the night, since nobody had made any motions to leave yet. 

“I’m the subject of many rumours, Shepard,” Miranda dryly replied, sitting back against the armrest. “You’re going to have to be more specific. Although, if it’s the one about the incident with the drop bear, I swear that only happened one time and only three people died.”

“Drop bear?” Shepard echoed curiously, tilting her head, as if trying to work out whether that was Miranda’s serious voice or her sarcastic voice. Miranda just gave an ambiguous shrug. If Shepard couldn’t tell, then she wasn’t going to spoil it. “Nah, it was nothing that exciting. Although remind me to ask you about that later. I’ve been told you’re considering an early retirement?” 

Miranda sighed, not needing to guess where that had come from. “Kasumi...”

“Mhmm,” Shepard confirmed the source of her information. “And, from that look, I'm starting to think it's true. So, this is really it for you, huh? Once we get rid of the Reapers, you're out – you're done.”

“Well, not immediately. I'm not about to leave people dying in the streets. But yes, you heard correctly,” Miranda replied, taking a sip from her freshly refilled glass of wine. It was a relief that not every single bottle or glass had been destroyed when Garrus set up that makeshift shooting gallery. “I’m my own woman now.”

“Really?” Suffice it to say, Shepard didn't seem to be buying it. “Not working for anyone at all, other than yourself. Ever. You're sure?”

“I haven’t made up my mind about ‘ever’, but yes. As of right now, that's the plan,” Miranda answered.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but who are you and what have you done with the real Miranda Lawson?” Shepard teasingly remarked, since this was the single most uncharacteristic thing the Miranda she had come to know a year ago could possibly have said or done.

“Oh, she’s dead. I buried her under the floorboards. I probably should have mentioned, I’m also an escaped Cerberus clone. You are the fake Shepard, right? Because if you’re not, then this is a joke and you should forget I said that,” Miranda responded, her tone completely deadpan.

Shepard laughed, moving to sit across from her on the opposite sofa. “Seriously, what brought this on? Where is this coming from all of a sudden?”

Miranda exhaled, shifting until she was seated on the armrest, deciding to stop being snarky and start being direct. “Being on the run this past year...It's been the worst year of my life. Including all the years I lived with my father. But if nothing else, being on my own for so long made me realise that, for as long as I've been alive, everything about me has always been controlled by other people. In one way or another, I've never been free to make my own choices. Except for a few months with you. I need to take some time away to breathe. Just be me, without anyone expecting anything from me. Figure out how to be...”

“What?” Shepard prompted, when Miranda fell silent.

“I was going to say ‘an actual fucking person’ and then I realised how depressing that was,” Miranda muttered with appropriate self-awareness, earning a light chuckle from Shepard. “I guess that’s the whole point. I don’t even know who I am when I’m not working myself to the bone. I could be anybody under all this.” Miranda vaguely gestured at herself.

“And what if you can’t stand having nothing to do?” asked Shepard. 

“Then I change plans,” Miranda answered plainly. She wasn’t so attached to this idea that she couldn’t be flexible if it didn’t work out, and she wasn't sure why it mattered. As it stood, the chances of any of their dreams for the future coming to fruition were slim at best. “But how can you be so certain that I'll hate it? I'm not; I've never had the freedom to do nothing before. Maybe I'll thrive.”

“But you were always putting yourself under pressure to stay busy, even when you didn’t have to. You love how much of a workaholic you are. Don’t deny it. You were practically begging me to give you more stuff to do towards the end there. What would you even do with your time if you’re no longer devoting yourself to some kind of high-powered career?” Shepard wondered aloud.

“I don’t know. There are a lot of things I’ve never done before, and never thought I’d do.” Miranda shrugged. “Maybe I’ll try being a blonde for a while. Maybe I’ll get a tattoo. Maybe I’ll become Wiccan. Maybe I’ll get fat.”

Shepard stared at her sceptically, sensing the obvious sarcasm.

“What? Don’t think I couldn’t do it if I set my mind to it. I’m secretly a foodie at heart, you know,” Miranda pointed out, her tone drier than her wine.

“And you have a superhuman metabolism,” Shepard countered.

“Ah. Right. Scratch that one off the list then,” said Miranda, taking another sip from her glass. “Blonde, tattooed Wiccan it is.” Shepard laughed, entertained.

“Well, when Hell freezes over a million years from now, I look forward to meeting that version of you. But, until that happens, you know it’s not a two-party system, right? You don’t have to choose between going in a totally new direction forever, or staying exactly as you are right now. There's a lot you can do that isn't either of those things,” Shepard reminded her, gesturing as she spoke. “You'd excel at anything you tried. It doesn't have to involve life or death struggles over the fate of the galaxy. And, if you’re sick of bringing people back to life, you can retire from science and move onto something else. I could definitely see you taking well to life as a lawyer, or a CEO, or even a political leader.”

“Politics?” Miranda snorted, reaching out across the gap with an insincere handshake. “Hi, I’m Miranda Lawson, former terrorist. Vote for me.”

“Point taken,” Shepard conceded.

“You also realise that all the professions you listed have a higher than average ratio of sociopaths compared to the general population,” Miranda noted.

Shepard scratched the back of her head. “Sunday school teacher?” she offered.

“Can’t do that. I’m becoming Wiccan, remember?” Miranda quipped. “Did you really come and find me just to try and talk me out of this?”

“No. No, I didn't. It's...actually the exact opposite,” said Shepard, shaking her head and leaning back against the cushions. “Because the truth is I've been thinking the same thing; that this is the end for me too,” she confessed, piquing Miranda's intrigue. “If I make it through this...I don’t know if I can keep fighting other people’s battles anymore. If I can, I don’t know if I want to.”

“I guess after stopping a galactic genocide, all other conflicts start to look petty in comparison,” Miranda mused, swirling her glass, strangely empathising with that sentiment. What would be the point of Shepard saving the entire goddamn galaxy from the Reapers, only to then continue imperilling her life, risking getting shot and killed day after day over some insignificant political squabble that didn’t matter the slightest bit in the grand scheme of things? 

Shepard had been lucky enough to get a second chance at life. Literally. She had more reason than anyone to realise how precious that was. And also how fragile.

It would have been beyond tragic if Andrea wouldn’t get to savour a calm, peaceful future if the war with the Reapers ever ended - a future that would only be possible because of her. Because she was the one person who saw what truly mattered, and valued collective unity over selfish, shortsighted division.

“Don’t take anything I’ve been saying about you as an attack. It’s not,” Shepard assured her. “I'm just surprised, and maybe projecting a little, because...I have no clue what I'm going to do after this, and it's terrifying to me. I’ve never...I’ve never not been a soldier. I don’t even know how to be an...an ‘actual fucking person’, like you said. And neither do you. And yet here you are, and that doesn't bother you at all. I thought it would have been the other way around.”

“Me too,” Miranda conceded. “But things are different now.”

“You mean you're different now,” Shepard added, impressed by Miranda’s growth.

“You helped,” said Miranda. She crossed the floor and sat down beside Shepard, sinking into the seat, leaning her head back on the lounge to look up at the ceiling. “I’ve been cognisant for a very long time that I’m not a normal person, Shepard. Not only that, but...I don’t have the faintest clue how to pretend to be normal,” Miranda elected to be frank about that flaw. Though she rarely showed weakness, she felt safe sharing that with her. “My whole life, I’ve never seen the point trying to fit in with other people when I know I can’t, and don’t even want to. So, while I might not be showing it...I am more scared than you think. But I’m also just kind of over worrying about anything anymore? Maybe because I’ve spent most of this past year living in constant fear. I think I got sick of it.”

Shepard paused, considering Miranda’s words. “Can I be honest with you?” she began, after several seconds had passed. Miranda gestured for her to go ahead. “I also have no idea how to be a normal person. I think that’s what’s freaking me out about what comes next. What if I’m bad at it?”

“What a horrible thought. Being bad at mundane problems,” Miranda dryly commented, hoping her sarcasm would help Shepard put her anxieties into perspective. “What if you mix up your recyclable plastics with your non-recyclables? Perish the thought. That’s a disaster, right there.”

“I’m being serious,” Shepard insisted, though it was obvious she got the meaning behind Miranda’s comment. “Look, you get what I’m going through better than anyone. You and I, we’re both...not to sound arrogant, but we’re both fuckin’ good at what we do,” Shepard stated plainly. And she wasn’t wrong. They were the best of the best. “What if we suck at everything else?”

Miranda shrugged. “Then it was a fun experiment, both of us trying to be ordinary people for a while. I think it will be worth it.”

Shepard exhaled, and rested her head on her hand. “So...what does being a regular, everyday person look like to Miranda Lawson?” she wondered aloud. “What does a nice, safe, boring future look like to you?”

That was a question Miranda had no problems answering. She had a singular vision. “I’ve promised Oriana that we’re going to find a quiet spot on a colony world. We’ll buy a big plot of land far away from anyone else, and build our dream house. Somewhere with a view, where we can sit out on the deck, watch the sunset, drink wine and eat sashimi while we talk about our day,” Miranda revealed, trusting Andrea enough to tell her what she said to Ori before she left.

“...That sounds pretty great,” Shepard said softly. In that simple description of what life after the war meant to her, and the goal she was fighting for, it had instantly clicked into place why Miranda was so content with the idea of ‘retiring’.

“What about you?” Miranda asked, gently nudging Shepard’s knee with her own. “Where does Andrea Shepard see herself in five years’ time?”

“That’s the million credit question, isn’t it?” Shepard spoke quietly, barely above a whisper. She sat forward, electing to just give voice to what was in her heart. “Honestly, this is going to sound corny as hell, but...when I think of my future, I can’t see anything but Liara. That’s it. Nothing would make me happier than just...I don’t know, having a boring fuckin’ house with a yard and a white picket fence, and lots of little blue children running around.”

“Maybe I’m getting sentimental in my old age, but that might possibly be the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Miranda commented, eliciting a sheepish chuckle as Shepard rubbed the back of her neck.

“Oh, God, we are getting old, aren’t we? And we’re only in our thirties,” Shepard realised aloud, as if it had hit her that both of them had been through enough to fill several lifetimes. No wonder they both wanted to ‘retire’ so young.

“Mhmm. And I’ve got five years on you, so I can promise you it’s all downhill from here,” Miranda confirmed, taking another sip of wine. “But I meant that, though. Don’t be ashamed of that dream. Lots of people would kill for something like that.” Herself included, she thought. “And you will make an excellent…father? Father’s the correct word in this context, right?” Miranda asked aloud, earning a nod. “Take it from someone who killed hers: you would be the best Dad ever.”

“Now you’re just making fun of me.” Shepard gave her a light knock on the arm.

“I’m not. I’m really not. Okay, I know it sounds like I am, but…” Miranda trailed off for a moment, a thought occurring to her. “Huh. You know what? I just realised something. You and I actually both have the exact same dream,” she pointed out, turning to face Andrea. “We want a family.”

“...Yeah. Yeah, we do, don’t we?” Shepard nodded in agreement, seeing the clarity in Miranda’s words. “Ours just look a little different from each other.”

“So, that settles it. We’re both going to hang up our weapons and retire somewhere nice and dull so we can each have the families we always wanted,” Miranda reiterated. Despite her efforts to be hopeful, at those words, she couldn’t keep a pessimistic sigh from escaping her. “Now, we both just have to convince ourselves that we'll live long enough to do that.”

“I'd bet on you,” Shepard acknowledged, glancing over at her.

“And I’d bet on you,” Miranda replied with a bittersweet smile, but it lacked the conviction to reach her eyes. “Don't get me wrong; I haven't given up, and I'm going to fight for that future as hard as I can. But I can't believe that it's going to happen until I'm standing in the rubble and the Reapers are all gone.”

Shepard exhaled heavily, sinking lower against the couch. “That makes two of us.”

The more Miranda thought about it, the more it became painfully apparent that their odds of getting to lead those lives they were imagining were slim to zero. Even if by some miracle they did find a way to defeat the Reapers, it was virtually impossible that both she and Shepard would survive whatever came next. At best, it seemed like a binary choice. One or the other. And Miranda knew which of the two of them was least likely to endure if push came to shove.

Her body tensed imperceptibly. An apprehensiveness fell over her. A sense of urgency rose in her stomach. Words she couldn't leave unsaid.

“...Shepard,” Miranda began, her tone serious. “If anything happens to me—“

“Miranda,” Andrea attempted to cut her off, but Miranda ignored her interruption. She couldn't forgive herself if she stayed silent about this.

“Just listen, Shepard. If I can’t be there for her, for whatever reason, promise you'll keep an eye on Ori for me?” Miranda persisted, needing to hear Andrea give her word on that, because she understood what this meant to her, and she would absolutely follow through. Even if Andrea had to die to honour her commitment to Miranda, it wouldn’t stop her. “Make sure she's okay.”

“You can do that yourself,” Shepard replied, either refusing to fear the worst, or determined not to let her crew see that she possessed any doubts that they would live to see those tomorrows, come what may.

“Hypothetically, then,” said Miranda, rolling her eyes at Shepard’s reluctance to answer the question. “If something happened to me, whether now or twenty years from now...I need to know: would you look out for Oriana if I couldn't?”

Andrea relented, realising what she was asking, and why. “Of course I would.”

“Do you swear?” Miranda pressed.

Shepard sighed, and held up her pinkie. “I swear.” Eyeing that gesture somewhat peculiarly, Miranda eventually extended her own little finger. However, Andrea pulled away before they could interlock. “Uh uh. But before we do that, I need you to make the same promise to me. So, if--”

“Liara does not need protecting, Shepard,” Miranda reminded her. 

“You had your turn. Let me finish,” said Shepard. Miranda signalled for her to take the floor. “Thank you. Now, if anything ever happens to me...you’re the one person I trust more than anyone else to step in for me when I’m gone. No matter what, you’ll have your shit together, and you’ll do what needs to be done. So, if I can’t be here��” Instead of articulating it all in words, Shepard flicked her gaze out towards the balcony, down to the lower floor, where everyone else was. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but...just do what you can for them. Watch over them for me. Make sure they’re alright. And, if they’re not...do what you think I would do.”

At that request, Miranda softened. It hadn’t been what she’d anticipated Andrea would say, but perhaps she should have seen it coming. Shepard loved her crew like family. She was their North Star. A guiding light who united so many disparate personalities in a common cause, and brought out the best in all of them.

Shepard really was a hero.

A bloody icon.

How could Miranda possibly say no?

“What else is a second-in-command good for if not that?” Miranda extended her hand once more. At that, Shepard finally locked pinkies with her, swearing on it. “You know I’ve never done this before - pinkie promised,” Miranda noted, finding it a bit juvenile. 

“Of course you haven’t.” Shepard shook her head, not at all shocked by that. It was at that particular moment that a certain AI came up the stairs, into view. Shepard called out to her. “Hey, EDI. I have a question for you.”

“What would you like to know?” EDI asked.

“What the hell is a drop bear?” said Shepard.

Miranda arched her brow, and took a long drink, saying nothing.

“One moment.” By the time she finished saying ‘one moment’, EDI had already concluded her search of the Extranet. “Here is what I’ve found: the drop bear is a hoax Australian folklore creature. The origins of the drop bear hoax are unknown, though it appears it may have originated as a campfire story in the early-to-mid-20th century. Australians have been known to pretend the drop bear is a real creature so as to frighten and confuse tourists and non-Australians for their own amusement.” EDI paused for a beat. “It is a joke.”

“Thank you, EDI,” said Miranda, concealing a smirk. Way to ruin the fun. 

Shepard slowly turned to her, eyeing Miranda in quiet bewilderment. “...Did you of all people just prank me with a two-hundred-year-old joke?” 

“Not that I’m that attached to it, but I’m pretty sure I would be stripped of my citizenship if I didn’t do that at least once before I die,” Miranda informed her.

Shepard’s expression didn’t change. “Mhmm.”

*     *     *

“So are you gay now?” was the first thing Jack said to her the next time they saw each other, a week after their last meeting.

Miranda sighed. God damn it. Nobody could keep their mouths shut about anything, could they? “I’m something,” she muttered, taking off her wet jacket. It had been raining all day. And not the usual soft English drizzle that didn’t even warrant mentioning, but actual rain.

“Good for you,” Jack replied, not actually interested. “Let’s play.”

Miranda slumped down into the chair across the table from Jack, the raindrops pittering off the windows behind her. “Your advice was terrible, by the way,” she told her as she moved her first piece.

“Nah, you’re just a shit lay,” Jack countered, making her own opening.

Miranda flicked her eye up at her, unamused, but decided it was best not to validate that comment with a response. 

All of a sudden, Jack started laughing at something unsaid.

“What?” Miranda asked suspiciously.

“...‘Meh’-randa,” Jack remarked, making an appropriately nonchalant gesture.

Miranda exhaled heavily, rubbing her temple in annoyance. “Jack, I need you to understand this,” she began, placing her elbow on the table and leaning forward as she spoke, eerily calm. “One of these days, you will forget that this conversation ever happened. You will go on with your life, and there will come a day when you are blissfully ignorant and happy. And on that day, I will come to wherever you live. And I will break into your room. And I will suffocate you in your sleep.”

“Fair,” Jack conceded. “Worth it, though.”

Miranda leaned back in her chair, oddly relieved to have gotten that off of her chest after biting her tongue for so long. “God, that felt good. Why did I ever stop insulting you?” she wondered aloud, starting to think she should snap back at her more often instead of taking every jibe Jack threw at her in stride. 

“Because you’re a fucking pussy now apparently.” Jack shrugged, focused only on the game. “Shut up and play me.” Miranda didn’t need to be asked twice.

She didn’t know what it was about that particular day. Maybe it was the dreary weather, and the sound of the rain making the tinnitus a little less abrasive for once. Maybe it was how long both of them were taking between moves. But, for whatever reason, Miranda found herself stifling yawns as the game went on.

She moved a pawn, and leaned her head against her hand as Jack studied the board, weighing up her strategies, keen to avoid falling into another trap.

God, she was so fucking tired.

It had been three days since she last slept. Or...wait, was it four? She couldn’t remember. Six or seven days seemed to be her absolute limit before she started passing out irrespective of willpower, and that was because she was, quote unquote, a ‘genetic freak’ as Jacob had once put it. She’d only managed two hours of thirty-minute naps the last time she got any rest at all.

Her eyelid felt so heavy. Every single time she blinked, it stayed dark a little longer, and it took a little bit more effort and time to open it again. 

What harm would it do to just rest her eye for a second, she wondered? It wasn’t like she was going to fall asleep, sitting up like she was. Although, leaning on her hand felt so fucking comfortable. She didn’t want to move.

So Miranda let her eyelid drift shut for a moment, listening to the rain.

…

…

...

“Hey, eyepatch.”

…

…

...

“Eyepatch?”

Miranda was vaguely aware that someone was talking, but it didn’t reach her in the darkness. That was, until Jack hit the table, hard, and startled her awake. Miranda’s head slipped off her hand. At that jolt, she panicked and reflexively reared back so hard that she damn near fell out of her chair.

“What? What? What is it?” Miranda took a few moments to blink and remember where she was after being shaken from her stupor. It only clicked when she found Jack sitting across from her, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“Am I boring you?” Jack remarked, arms folded across her chest impatiently.

Miranda shook her head, trying to save face. “It’s called ‘thinking’, Jack. You should try it sometime,” she retorted, moving a piece quickly as if to prove she hadn’t just blacked out for a couple of minutes.

Jack glanced down at the board. “You can’t do that.”

“What?”

“That’s not a legal move,” Jack pointed out. Miranda checked the board. She honestly didn’t even know what piece she’d just touched. Jack reached across, and dragged her knight back to where it should have been. Jack sat back in her chair and fixed her with a stare.

“...Fuck me dead,” Miranda muttered under her breath, realising she actually had to stop and concentrate to figure out her next move.

“Forget it. I’m out.” Jack pushed her chair back from the table and stood up.

“No, no. I’ve got it,” Miranda insisted.

“I don’t care. I don’t want to beat you when you’re like this. That wouldn’t even count,” said Jack, gesturing listlessly towards her, having lost all interest.

“I’m not ‘like’ anything. I’m just…” Miranda trailed off, staring at the board, stuck for a move. Her head was so full of fog that she couldn’t see any options. The whole table was a blur. A featureless mush. Every piece looked the same. She couldn’t even fucking think. If someone asked her to name a single rule of the game in that instant, she would have drawn a complete blank.

“Go home. Take a fucking nap or whatever. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you look like death, by the way. More even than usual,” Jack casually observed, opening her fridge and pulling out a can of energy drink.

“I’m fine!” Miranda barked, a little too loud, willing that lie to be the truth.

“I honestly don’t care. You could jump off a bridge for all the difference it makes to me. I wouldn’t stop you,” Jack said frankly, nonchalantly gesturing with her drink in her hand. “All that matters to me is making sure you don’t have a fuckin’ excuse when I destroy you. So get the fuck out of my apartment, and don’t come back until you stop sucking at the only reason I keep you around.”

Miranda swallowed a groan, the pain in her head only growing. Jack obviously wasn’t going to change her mind. This game was over. “Alright. Fine. Suit yourself,” she grumbled as she got up, collecting her things. “See you next week.”

“Only if you don’t look like complete shit by then,” Jack commented, prepared to close the door in her face if she wasn’t going to play her at her best.

Miranda left and went out into the cold December rain, which showed no signs of easing. The problem was, she didn’t have anywhere to go. She couldn’t go home. There was nothing there to keep her awake. And she absolutely was not ready to fall asleep, and contend with the nightmares that awaited her.

She couldn’t go to the bar, because drinking would make her tired. The last time she got drunk, the nightmares were so visceral that she woke up vomiting. 

She thought about it a bit longer, and then one option came to mind. She still had a key to her office. Bailey had banned her from working weekends out of concern for her wellbeing if he didn’t, sure, but he wouldn’t be there. Even if he was, she could avoid him seeing her. Nobody else would question her presence. She ranked above them. They would just assume something had come up, and most of them were too intimidated by her to talk to her anyway.

So Miranda fell back on her one and only crutch. Her only coping mechanism. Her favourite distraction from her problems. She buried herself in her work.

“Director Lawson,” the man at reception greeted her. She glanced at his name tag to remember who the hell he was. “What are you doing here on a weekend?”

“Losing control of my life, Ian,” Miranda remarked as she limped right past him, heading straight for the lift without stopping.

He chuckled at that. “Aren’t we all? You have a good day, now.”

Miranda rolled her eye as soon as he looked away. As predicted, there were no interruptions between her and her office. Nobody thought to question her.

She didn’t even glance at the clock as the hours ticked by, and file after file went across her desk. Task after task got done. When she finished her own matters, she moved onto work delegated to her subordinates, just to stay there longer. Nobody bothered her. Even without distractions, it was hard to concentrate. Her mind was full of fog. Everything she did was lost in a haze, forgotten mere seconds after she did it. But, in the present, it was something to focus on.

It wasn’t easy, though. She had instances where she...lost time. Just drifted into space for a few seconds, here or there. When that happened, she would go and fill up on coffee. She only decided she’d had too much when she started to feel her heart beating a little too fast in her chest, and her fingers got jittery, and she had to flex her hand to keep it from shaking. If she had any more she would probably start hallucinating, as if she wasn’t on the verge of that already.

So maybe she’d hit her limit as far as caffeine toxicity went.

But she was awake.

She was fucking awake.

It was dark out, and still raining by the time she was snapped out of her work-induced daze by a text message alert. She already knew who it was. Miranda squeezed her eye shut, resting the base of her palm against her forehead, fighting off the constant, nagging pain that had become her permanent companion. She knew she shouldn’t look. But she had to. She couldn’t resist hearing from her.

Miranda opened her message tab on her computer, and clicked on Oriana’s name.

“Still not talking, huh?” said the first message. And then a second and third popped up. “Okay. That’s fine. Take your time. I’ve got more jokes.”

Oriana could see that Miranda was reading her messages in realtime. She would know that she was there on the other end at that very moment, not replying back. And yet, in typical Oriana fashion, she wasn’t calling her out on it or judging her for it or demanding a reason for her silence. Just letting her be.

“A horse walks into a bar and the bartender says, ‘Why the long face?’ And the horse says, ‘I have crippling depression, Steven. I’ll thank you not to mention it’.”

When that joke garnered no response, Oriana sent another.

“A glazier invited me to high tea. It didn’t go well. Turns out people in glasshouses shouldn’t throw scones. Eh? Worked on that one for ages.”

Miranda felt the warmth of a single, stray tear trickling down her cheek. God, she loved Oriana. She loved Oriana so much it physically hurt. No one else could be so...bright, and radiant, and happy, and genuine about it. Her positivity and cheerfulness wasn’t faked, or feigned, or insincere. She was just like this. Just funny, and kind, and...and fucking perfect.

“Why did the funeral director need to go to the doctor?” Oriana asked. “Because he couldn’t stop coffin--okay, no, that one was atrocious even for me. I’m sorry. Please delete that. You deserve better.”

If she were in a better mental and emotional state, all of this would have brought a smile to her face. Of course it would have. Oriana always did. Miranda thought about finally texting her back. Saying something. Anything. Even started to type. Just wanted to let her know she was okay. Just wanted to talk to her. Needed that connection with the person who mattered to her most.

But she stopped herself.

What the fuck did she have to offer Oriana right now? What could she say to her that was worthwhile when she was this dour and miserable?

She could just see how it would play out. She would say something, and then Oriana would eventually start asking questions. She would need, and deserve, some sort of explanation as to why Miranda had been so quiet. So distant. Any half-hearted excuses would be recognised for the lies they were.

Oriana would ask her if she was okay, because of course she would. And, then, if Miranda started telling her the truth, that she really wasn’t, and hadn’t been for a long time, she didn’t see how she could stop the floodgates from opening. Everything she’d been holding back since the shuttle crash, Oriana would bring it out of her, like a torrent after a storm. And she just...refused to be that person. Refused to drown her little sister in her unresolved trauma.

Oriana was the Sun. She was light, and warmth. Basking in her presence for even a few minutes could make even the lowest person feel uplifted, and stronger, and brighter. She was doing just fine without Miranda. She always had.

Why bother her? Why disturb that?

In fact, all the best times in Oriana’s life had been the moments when Miranda had pushed her as far away as possible. When she wasn’t involved. When she kept herself at a distance. Ever since Miranda introduced herself to Oriana on Illium, Ori’s life had only gotten worse. Never better. A downward spiral. 

Perhaps that was a sign.

What did she really think was going to happen when they met up with each other again anyway? That they were going to spend the rest of their lives together? As if. Oriana was twenty. She would be twenty-one before too long. She was only just starting to grow into her own as an independent adult. She would want to go do things normal twenty-one-year-olds did, without anyone cramping her unique personal style, or getting in her way as she formed new connections.

The Reaper Invasion had cut short her degree and compelled her to start work earlier than expected, but she probably planned to finish her education at some point. Chances were she would want to move in with friends her own age. Eventually, of course, she would meet some boy she liked (who Miranda would absolutely hate) and she would want to find a place with him. Statistically speaking, that would happen more than once over the course of her life.

She wasn’t a kid anymore. Oriana was an adult. At exactly the age where families like theirs...tended to drift apart from one another. When young women like Ori wanted to go out into the wider world and discover themselves, and carve out an identity free of any ties to their childhood. And it was at that moment that a thought abruptly struck Miranda that had never connected before.

When she and Oriana had talked about finally getting to be a family, they probably had very different ideas of what that looked like.

And Miranda’s vision of that future was completely fucking delusional.

It always had been.

She wasn’t helping Oriana by being near her. Wasn’t protecting her, because the man who posed a danger to her was dead. With Henry Lawson out of the picture, Ori didn’t need her in her life. In many respects, she never had.

Miranda wasn’t some noble self-sacrificing big sister anymore. She was a fucking leech. Sucking her sister’s energy and her positivity, consuming it for herself. She was a chain holding Oriana down, when what she truly deserved was to spread her wings and fly wherever she wanted like the free spirit she was. 

Wasn’t that precisely why Miranda had denied herself the connection she craved with Ori in the first place? Wasn’t that why she had given her up? Because she knew it was the right thing to do? Because, deep down, she knew that the best thing she could do for Oriana was to ensure that she grew up completely isolated from her - so that she could become as unlike Miranda as possible?

She’d succeeded at that, at least.

Where Miranda was cynical, Oriana was optimistic. Where Miranda was closed-off and antisocial, Oriana was outgoing and friendly. Where Miranda was rigid and concrete, Oriana was creative and open-minded. Where Miranda was bitter and sarcastic, Oriana was lighthearted and funny. Where Miranda was cold, Oriana was warm. Where Miranda was dark, Oriana was light. Where Miranda lacked empathy, Oriana was sensitive, and the kindest person she knew.

They couldn’t have been more different.

And Miranda wanted it to stay that way.

None of her qualities were things she would wish upon Oriana. And, if Oriana did become more like her, Miranda wasn’t sure she could ever forgive herself.

The most loving thing Miranda could do for Oriana was just let her live her life in peace, the way she had done for her before. She really would be better off just being cut loose, without her older sister weighing her down, shackling her to the weight of despair, damage and loneliness.

So Miranda didn’t text. She deleted the message she’d started typing, and the three dots to signal that she was writing were erased. She closed the app, got up and left her desk, deciding to head home.

She didn’t see the next message her sister sent.

“Miranda? Whatever is going on with you right now, please just remember that you are my most important person. I love you more than anything. And I’m here for you whenever you need me. You do know that, don’t you?”

Miranda limped home in the dark in the rain. It was freezing. She didn’t know how late it was. She hadn’t kept her eye on the time. She dragged her weary body up the stairs. Aside from the fact that her head was killing her, parts of her body that had never hurt before were starting to feel sore, and tight, and tense.

“Hey, Miss,” Seanne greeted her when she heard her key in the door. A few of the kids were gathered together in the main lounge, watching some sort of movie on the television. “We saved dinner for you. It’s in the fridge.”

“I’ll have it later,” Miranda muttered, not hungry at all. Just tired. 

“No problem,” Seanne replied, too focused on the film to pay her any mind.

Without another word, Miranda retreated to her room, and shut herself away, prepared for another night of staring at cracks in the ceiling in the darkness in a desperate attempt to ward off her dreams.

She slumped on her bed and ran her hand through her hair, staring into space.

And that was when it hit her. She didn’t...know what she was doing with her life anymore. Or why. She didn’t have a plan. A goal. For the first time since she’d reunited with Oriana, she no longer had a future she was working towards. Because that hope, that dream, had been snuffed out. A lie. A delusion.

The one thing that had made getting up every morning worth it since the shuttle crash - believing that, one day, she and Oriana would start a new life where nothing tore them apart ever again - had been exposed as a figment of her imagination.

With that dream dead, when she pictured her future now, there was...nothing.

Absence.

An empty, black abyss. Filled only by the ringing in her ear.

Miranda lay down on her bed. Curled up. And stared. And listened to that perpetual sound. And her mind, like her future, was blank. She watched the time tick by on the clock. Barely even registering it in her fatigue. 

One hour.

Two hours.

What was the point of anything anymore?

What was the fucking point?

Three hours.

Four hours.

It was after midnight when she was disturbed from her near-catatonic state by an urgent knocking at the front door. It came once, such a strange and unexpected sound that, at first, she wondered if it was just a trick of her mind. But then it came again, even more insistent. 

Reluctantly, Miranda dragged herself out of bed and shuffled into the entryway, not even bothering to grab her cane. She saw the door to one of the students’ bedrooms was open. Jason was leaning out, as if to go investigate. 

“I’ve got it,” said Miranda with a dismissive wave as she limped to the door, assuming it was probably for her. “Go back to sleep.”

Jason gave her a nod, but lingered in the doorway, just in case.

The frantic knocking came again. With an annoyed grunt, Miranda undid the lock, wondering who the hell was bothering them at that ungodly hour.

“Jesus Christ, what is it--?” The words caught in Miranda’s throat the second she flung the door open. Her weary eye flickered wide awake. “Samara?”

*     *     *

Miranda stepped over snoring bodies and discarded glasses on the floor, not keen to wake anyone up when half the crew were spread out at various points on the spectrum between ‘fast asleep’ and ‘passed out drunk’, and all of whom were likely to be very cranky if awoken. Miranda hadn’t drunk as much as most of the others, and neither was she prone to going to bed early. 

Indeed, she was very much awake, not even close to tired. And it was not her idea of a fun end to the night to hang around being as quiet as a mouse, forced to pretend to doze off because everyone else was such a goddamn lightweight. 

With that in mind, Miranda crept over near the door to where Shepard kept her keys, pinching them for herself so she could let herself back into the apartment. Shepard wasn’t going to miss them. She and Liara had gone to bed some time ago for very obvious reasons. They wouldn’t be seen again until morning.

However, Miranda’s cunning plan was not one concocted purely for herself. A thought had occurred to her while she waited for everyone else to nod off, being that there was one other person she expected might be awake. Someone who, by all appearances, had not been a drinker for centuries. Someone who Miranda was eager to spend a lot more time with one-on-one, particularly given that it was not lost on her that this might well be the last opportunity they ever had to do so - the last time they might ever see one another.

Sure enough, she found that very person meditating under the stairs.

“Samara,” Miranda whispered just loud enough to be heard. Blue eyes opened, and shifted her way. “Can’t sleep?” Samara did not respond verbally, but let her current state speak for itself. “Me neither.” At that, Miranda held up Shepard’s keys and made a signal towards the door. “Feel like going out?”

Samara glanced at her slumbering companions scattered over the lounge. After a moment, she held a finger to her lips, and silently stood.

Taking that as acceptance of her invitation, Miranda stealthily snuck over to the door, and held it open for Samara. She closed it behind them as quietly as she could. There was a faint ‘click’ as it automatically locked.

“Do not mistake my surprise for protestation, for it is not, but...to what do I owe this?” Samara asked, once they were safely out of earshot of the others. Evidently she had not been anticipating this - that Miranda would seek her out. 

“What, did you really think I’d just forget about you after a single conversation?” Miranda rhetorically remarked. “I told you I missed you more than anyone else.”

Samara allowed herself a small smile, touched by her intentions. “You did.”

“Since you and I are both still awake, and I have way too much energy to sleep, I figured, hey, the Strip is right here, and nothing ever closes - let’s go enjoy it while we can,” Miranda offered, circling Shepard’s keys around her finger before slipping them into a discreet pocket. “Nobody will even notice we’re missing.”

“No, they certainly will not,” Samara concurred, clearly not regretting her temperance when it was apparent most of the crew would be nursing hangovers come morning. “I must admit, given I saw you partaking earlier, I did not expect you to be in such a better state compared to our other comrades.”

“Good genes, plus I know how to pace myself,” Miranda casually explained. She gestured for Samara to follow her. “Come on. Let’s go be stupid for a while.”

Samara suppressed a chuckle. “An enticing prospect. Very well. Lead the way.”

“I was planning on taking you back to my favourite sushi place - you know, the one we went to before. Unfortunately, it’s not open right now.” Miranda sighed, putting a hand on her hip. “There was an incident. Shepard was involved.”

“I see. That is unfortunate,” Samara commiserated, needing no further explanation as to what had happened. For as much as they both loved Shepard, it was no hyperbole to say that trouble followed her everywhere.

Ultimately, Miranda didn’t have a preference as to where they went, or what they did. This entire venture was little more than a flimsy excuse to spend time with Samara without anybody else interfering. A throwback to those intimate moments on the Starboard Observation Deck, and a means of paying her back for all her kindness, assuming Miranda succeeded in showing her a good time.

“There is the casino,” Miranda thought out loud. She’d been there before, and didn’t mind the atmosphere of the place. Plus another drink or two wouldn’t go amiss to kick things off - she was still a fair few away from her limit. 

“After you,” Samara gestured for her to go ahead, trailing in Miranda’s footsteps. A reverse of the last time they had visited the Citadel together.

Unlike the Presidium, the Wards didn’t operate on artificial day and night cycles. Virtually everything on the Citadel stayed open at all hours, with everyone resting and working shifts according to their own personal needs and wants. Thus, when they came to the casino, to nobody’s shock, it was still as busy as ever. 

The people here had been affected by the war, of course, but there was a sense of safety and security that existed nowhere else. As all the homeworlds fell, the Citadel stood strong as the heart of Council Space - the one place most species would unite to protect. If anywhere would survive the war, this was surely it.

“Can I get you anything? The food here’s not bad, if you’re hungry,” Miranda offered as they both made their way up to the bar.

“Just water, thank you,” said Samara. Miranda ordered something much stronger for herself, and the bartender filled up their respective glasses.  

“So, how have you been, Samara? Really?” Miranda asked, keen to make up for lost time. Now that they were alone, they were free to talk as long as they wanted, which was something they couldn’t really do at the party. That was precisely her intent in sneaking out like this. It would be several hours at least before anybody else woke up and wondered where they were. The Silver Coast Casino was no Starboard Observation Deck, but it would serve well enough.

“That is a...complicated question,” Samara acknowledged, still a little caught off guard by Miranda’s genuine eagerness to catch up with her, as if she hadn’t expected to warrant her attention. “Some days have been kind to me. Others have not. Many somewhere in between. I imagine you could say the same.”

“Most of my days have ranged between terrible and awful since I left. I’m glad you had some good ones.” Miranda took a sip of her drink.

“Forgive me. I am aware this past year must have been difficult for you.” Samara bowed her head, as if she had misspoken. “As a Justicar, I am not unfamiliar with the peril of knowing there are many people who would seek to have me killed, nor am I a stranger to looking over my shoulder expecting to see a gun each time I turn my head. Although, by the same token, my status affords me many privileges. Many asari will lend me aid or support without question, for no other reason than because they see my armour, and know what I am. You do not have that luxury.”

“No, sadly,” Miranda confirmed. Hiding like a cockroach in parts of the Citadel not fit for human habitation had not been fun. Having any allies she could have safely turned to, beyond her few limited contacts with Shepard, would have made a world of difference. “But I’m out in the open now. If anybody still wanted me dead, I would have been executed days ago. I think it’s safe to say what little is left of Cerberus no longer sees the point in targeting me.”

“I hope you are correct.” Samara instinctively cast her eyes about the place as she said that, scanning for signs of any suspicious activity. Miranda picked up on that, of course. “If it would be safer--”

“Samara, seriously. It’s fine. You can let your guard down. You don’t need to be on alert. Not for my sake,” Miranda assured her, reaching out to touch her hand to make sure she understood that. Nobody was hunting her anymore. 

“If you are certain…” Samara took her at her word, despite a hint of hesitancy.

“Yes. Relax. I insist. If you don’t, it somewhat defeats the whole purpose of going out,” Miranda pointed out. At that, Samara seemed to concede she was right. Being paranoid would only spoil their time together. “Enough talk of serious subjects. Have you kept up reading human literature?”

“When I have been able, yes. Although, I must confess, I did not have such access when I was travelling in asari space. The Citadel libraries have been a source of great assistance. Tell me, I must know, was this ‘King Arthur’ a real person?” As soon as she asked, Samara just as swiftly changed her mind. “No, no. On second thought, I would prefer you do not answer. I fear I would be disappointed.”

Miranda laughed, endeared by Samara’s odd, childlike fascination with such figures. If it wouldn’t have sounded so patronising to describe a woman in her mid-to-late 900s as ‘adorable’, that label definitely would have applied.

“Oh. That reminds me. Kurosawa,” said Miranda. Samara tilted her head in questioning, not sure what that meant. “Not an author, but a director. I’ve been told, if you’re interested in samurai media, his films are the place to start.”

“I see. Thank you.” Samara nodded, taking that recommendation on board.

“What is it with you and this sort of thing anyway?” Miranda decided to finally broach the question that she had been wondering for a while, earning a curious glance. “Knights. Samurai. Why are you so interested in them?”

Samara did a poor job concealing a grin. “Yes, why would I, a lone wanderer who adheres to a strict moral code and seeks to bring justice to the places she visits, see any appeal whatsoever in stories about virtuous, heroic wanderers who adhere to strict moral codes and seek to bring justice to the places they visit?”

Miranda couldn’t argue with that logic. “I withdraw the question.”

“You did not withdraw it. I answered it,” Samara corrected.

“No, no. I withdrew it,” Miranda maintained in jest, as if she had come to that conclusion entirely on her own, without any assistance. Samara affectionately shook her head. During that pause in the conversation, the song changed.  “You know, I saw you dancing before,” Miranda said with a smirk, indicating the dancefloor. “I’m glad you listened to me about enjoying yourself tonight.”

“I did. However, if I remember correctly, you once stated to me that you would dance when I danced,” Samara reminded her. Miranda raised her eyebrows and took a drink, averting her gaze. She’d really hoped Samara had forgotten that conversation. “And yet you did not join me. How perplexing.”

“Oh, so you haven’t noticed that I’m a pathological liar until just now. Good to know,” Miranda joked, toying with the stem of her glass as she placed it down. 

“You must be. You keep insisting to me that you are not funny, even though you clearly are,” Samara cleverly countered, a glimmer of mirth in her kind eyes.

“I--” Miranda stopped before she could retort, taken aback by that comment. Nobody had told her that before. Nobody thought she was funny, because she wasn’t. According to everyone else, she was just mean and sarcastic and unpleasant to be around. Eventually, Miranda awkwardly rubbed the back of her head, managing to mumble a response. “I think you have a very different definition of ‘funny’ than everyone else in the galaxy, but...if you say so.”

It didn’t seem lost on Samara just how much that compliment actually meant to her. But she didn’t harp on it, letting it stand unchallenged. “There is still time for you to keep your promise to me before we part ways,” Samara pressed and, though her tone was lighthearted, it was evident the offer was genuine. “After all, there is a dancefloor here, and I am finding this music rather persuasive...”

“Still time for me to continue breaking my promise forever, you mean? Yes. I intend to. Glad we’re in agreement,” Miranda remarked. Samara’s enquiring gaze didn’t shift. “...Okay so I did dance at Shepard’s tonight, just a little bit.” Miranda reluctantly held her thumb and forefinger slightly apart.

“Good. I am delighted to hear it,” Samara enthused, pleased to see that Miranda had heeded her own advice and let herself go, and allowed herself to have some fun at the party. “My only regret is that I did not witness it.”

“You didn’t miss anything,” Miranda assured her. “But I fulfilled my end of the bargain.”

“No, you did not. This imbalance must be rectified immediately,” Samara persisted, getting up from her seat and extending her hand. Miranda did not accept the invitation, quite intent on not moving anytime soon. “You made a promise to me, Miranda Lawson. As a Justicar, I must insist that you keep your word. You said you would dance when I danced, and I am going to dance. Hence...”

“No. You knock yourself out, but I am very comfortable on my stool.” Miranda shook her head, waving Samara off, making her stance plain.

“Then hand me the keys, and I will return to the apartment,” said Samara.

That got Miranda’s attention. “What?”

“You were the one who said, and I quote, ‘let us go and be stupid for a while’, and it was you who suggested we both sneak out after midnight for this purpose,” Samara noted. “That was the evening that was represented to me - one spent in inane, ridiculous frivolity. Yet, so far, you are being extremely sensible. If you are not going to do this with me, then I fear I have in fact been misled.” 

Miranda saw right through Samara’s feigned disappointment. “You’re evil.”

“In this moment, perhaps,” Samara conceded, but she still extended her hand.

“This is peer pressure,” Miranda complained.

“Yes, it is,” Samara confirmed, without shame, her mischievous smile widening.

Miranda sighed, but it was hard not to be uplifted purely from seeing Samara this outgoing and cheerful. That was a rare privilege. The last time she’d seen her like this was...well, the last time they visited the Citadel together, which must have been around nine or ten months ago by that point.

“You’re in an abnormally good mood tonight, aren’t you?” Miranda observed, certainly not complaining, but wondering what had made her so upbeat.

“Why would I not be?” Samara asked plainly. “I am with you.”

Miranda’s heart skipped a beat. Honestly, Miranda was so thoroughly charmed by that response that Samara could have asked her to do anything in that moment, no matter how embarrassing, and she would have been powerless to resist.

“...If you’re trying to butter me up to get me to dance with you...good strategy, because it’s working,” Miranda admitted defeat, seeing no point in even pretending to warn her otherwise. No doubt Samara could tell the warmth in her cheeks had nothing to do with the alcohol. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Samara was evidently entertained by that reaction, but equally quick to dismiss any notion that her words were coming from an insincere place. “It is not falsity. The time you and I spent together aboard The Normandy was the most I have enjoyed myself in many years. Longer than you can possibly imagine.”

“Oh, wow, that's depressing,” said Miranda. “Because I am not fun at all.”

“Neither am I. Perhaps this explains it,” Samara quipped. 

Miranda didn’t agree with that, but that wasn’t the point. “You’re not dropping this are you?” she deduced, realising she didn’t have a choice in this.

“I am afraid I cannot,” Samara confirmed, as if the decision was out of her hands. “Just as you have sensed that I am in a good mood, I have also been astounded by the change in you tonight. I have never seen you so unshackled from your burdens as you are now. So, if we are ever going to keep our promise and share a dance together, I fear this will be our only opportunity. We may not get another. And I cannot abide a broken promise,” she pointed out.

She wasn’t wrong. Tomorrows weren’t exactly guaranteed.

“Well, you bloody got me, alright? Now that you’ve accused me of being good company, I feel compelled to live up to the hype.” With that, Miranda threw back her head and downed her drink, determined to be ‘fun’ for once in her life. “You get one song.” She held up one finger. “And only because it’s you.”

“One song will suffice,” said Samara, taking Miranda by the hand at long last, leading her to the dancefloor. That was all she had been promised.

Maybe it was just the drinks talking, but as she let go of her inhibitions, started moving to the music and surrendered to not caring whether she looked stupid, Miranda found herself having a far better time than she would have thought.

Most of all, the best thing about it was getting to see Samara let go of her usual restraint, and glean a rare escape from the harsh and austere lifestyle that she was required to abide by as a Justicar. It went without saying how much she deserved this reprieve. Not merely to have fun and enjoy the evening, but to have a chance to let her walls down and be herself. Her real self, beneath the armour. Just one fleeting night in however many centuries, free of worries or cares. 

If Miranda could give her that, then making a fool of herself would all be worth it.

Miranda didn’t know what had suddenly made Samara so open to things like this she would have politely declined a year ago, aside from the same ‘carpe diem’ reason that applied to everyone at the moment, nor did it really matter. The point was that they were here and they were doing it while they could. And any time spent with Samara, no matter what they were doing, was never time wasted.

One song turned into two. And two into three.

In truth, because the music all blended together with similar rhythms and chord progressions, it was hard to tell where one track began and another ended. And, for the first time, Miranda began to understand that perhaps that was the whole point. It would have been pretty jarring and moment-ruining to have the flow disturbed by each new song. So, for now, she stopped being critical of that.

It was as the music changed to a fourth song that they were rudely interrupted.

“Heyyyyy, ladies,” a complete stranger wandered up to them, making finger guns and clicking his tongue. “Can I be the meat in your sandwich?”

Miranda gave the man an unimpressed look. “Mate, if that line ever actually works on a woman...she deserves you,” she said, earning a confused expression in response as the insult went over his head. 

“...Is that a no?” he asked, clueless.

“Yeah, look, I’m in a good mood, so just save yourself some embarrassment and…” Miranda signalled for him to walk away, not particularly keen on wasting time and effort verbally destroying him when she would rather not bother.

To his credit, he took that rejection without a fight and left without causing a scene.

“Sorry about that.” Miranda turned to Samara. Unwanted male attention was something that happened to her a lot, so she was used to dealing with it.

Samara seemed more perplexed than perturbed. “He made this gesture.” Samara somewhat awkwardly mimicked his finger guns, as if she’d never seen anyone do that before. “...I assume I should not interpret that as a threat.”

Miranda blinked. Then, as soon as it clicked that Samara was in fact joking, cracked up with laughter. She’d never forgotten how funny Samara could be, but that sneaky delivery of hers still took her by surprise when it came out.

“Why are you laughing? We may be in grave danger,” Samara feigned ignorance.

“Alright. That’s it. That was the last song,” Miranda declared, taking that disruption as their cue to leave. “Since neither of us are gamblers, I think we’ve seen as much as there is to see of the casino. We should move on.”

“Where should we go next?” Samara prompted, letting Miranda take the lead.

“Hmm.” Miranda pondered that. What she would ordinarily do versus what Samara would expect of her on a night devoted to frivolity were two very different things. Fortunately, the Strip did serve the latter quite well. “There's an arcade not far from here. Did you know I've literally never been to one?”

Samara looked rather impressed with that suggestion, given that it was entirely out of step with Miranda’s usual character, and hence very much in keeping with the evening of inane silliness she had been promised. “I believe you humans have a saying that 'there is a first time for everything'.”

“Alright. Arcade it is.”

It certainly wasn’t far to get there. And Miranda wasn’t kidding when she said she had never had the simple pleasure of playing these games in her childhood. Or any games. She had been deprived of anything resembling fun growing up.

That being said, the lightgun game came pretty naturally to her, even if Miranda did maintain the only reason she didn’t score higher was because the controller was a shitty piece of plastic and the sensor must have been broken. If Samara thought otherwise, she just smiled and didn’t correct her.

By contrast, Samara definitely did recognise some of these games from her youth.

“You’re telling me that some of these machines basically haven’t changed at all in nine hundred years?” said Miranda, arching a sceptical eyebrow.

“No, they have not,” Samara happily confirmed, an audible tinge of excitement colouring her voice at the prospect of coming across something familiar.

Miranda snorted. So much for creativity.

“Oh. This. I remember this.” Samara went over to a particularly old-fashioned machine in the corner. ‘Whack The Thresher Maw’. “It was not thresher maws when I played it. I do not recall what it was. But I was very little. I could not have been more than...twelve? I remember vividly; it was shortly before my father left Thessia to come live here on the Citadel. That was the only day I spent together with both my mother and father - the only day that they ever both took me out together,” she spoke softly, nostalgic for that fond memory.

Miranda’s eyes twinkled as she stood by her, listening to Samara reminisce about her past. She said nothing as she waived her credit chit over the machine, spurring it to life. When Samara glanced at her in questioning, she leaned against the wall, and gestured for Samara to go ahead and play. And she did.

The next game they played was a version of what Miranda would have called air hockey, using a virtual puck. Miranda was winning up until Samara cheated, using her biotics to subtly move Miranda’s wrist away from the goal. 

“I would never cheat,” Samara professed, not even trying to conceal her guilt.

“Mhmm.” Miranda fixed her with a knowing look. Two could play at that game. The very next round, she used her own biotics to move the table right when Samara least expected it, allowing her to get her goal back. “I would never cheat,” Miranda echoed back to her, mirroring Samara’s false innocent voice.

“Hey!” At that, one of the arcade workers pointed at a sign behind the counter which clearly stated ‘no biotics’, giving them no further warning than that.

Keeping track of the scores kind of went out the window when they could hardly make it through the next few rounds without cracking up. They called it a draw and gave up before they did something that got them both banned for life.

They moved on. The next thing that caught Samara’s eye was the claw machine.

“I used to be very good at these,” Samara noted, examining it.

“Really? I thought they were all rigged.”

“No, not at all. Certainly made to be difficult, yes. But if you could not win, that would be illegal. There is a skill to it,” Samara explained. Miranda gestured for her to go right ahead and show her. “I have no money,” Samara pointed out. “And I could not keep the prize even if I won.”

Miranda sighed. “...Just because I’m doing this doesn’t mean I don’t know this is a waste of money on the same level as gambling,” she said, making it clear that nobody was to know she had done this. She put credits into the machine.

Samara appraised the prize spheres to see which would be the easiest to grab. “Aim for that one,” she advised, indicating a sphere that was higher up than the others. “It may take more than one attempt, but if you line it up correctly…”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it,” Miranda waved off her backseat driving, still sceptical that it was even possible to win.

The first time, she didn’t get it at quite the right angle, and the claw slipped off. The second time, she was sure she lined it up properly, but the claws snapped shut above the prize sphere, without picking it up, like the prize was too heavy.

“See? The machine is rigged,” Miranda insisted. “It’s not possible.”

“You are very close. And you have one play left,” Samara encouraged. Miranda rolled her eyes, reluctantly deciding she may as well use the game she had already paid for. “Try coming at it slightly more from the left.”

Miranda did as Samara suggested, and this time, the claw grabbed it. She blinked as the claw lifted the prize and took it all the way to the chute. “Huh.”

“I believe the appropriate phrase is ‘I told you so’,” Samara teased.

“Alright, alright. No need to get cocky,” said Miranda, opening up the prize sphere to see what she’d won. It was a keychain in the shape of Blasto the Hanar Spectre. She uttered a tssk. “I’ve never seen any of these movies. They look like rubbish.”

“Sometimes, that is precisely the appeal,” Samara advised. Miranda didn’t share the sentiment. “I think that triumph signals that we have overstayed our welcome here,” said Samara, aware they were still being watched by the same employee from before in case they cheated again. “Where to next?”

“Hmm.” Miranda glanced around as they left the arcade, thinking of options.

“There is a combat simulator here, is there not?” Samara piped up, as if she’d been holding onto that idea for a while. “I would be eager to try that.”

“By all means. Though what people find fun about a laser arena is somewhat lost on me,” Miranda remarked, probably because her father had subjected her to similar combat programs when she was a kid. “It just feels like training.”

“Its intent is to recreate something we experience as a regular part of our lives. It is fun for them because it is unfamiliar. For us, it is not a deviation from the norm, save that for once we have the liberty of not being in any actual peril,” Samara astutely observed. She had a point, Miranda thought. It wasn’t the most relaxing pastime, but Miranda could run combat sims in her sleep. She had no problems teaming up with her if that was what Samara wanted to do.

“Okay, that absolutely was rigged,” Miranda loudly complained as they emerged from the combat arena a while later. “I hit that soldier dead between the eyes, and he still had twenty percent health left? That's nonsense. No human being could possibly survive that,” she argued, gesturing as she spoke.

“We still did extremely well,” Samara pointed out, content with their performance.

“If this program was realistic, my name would be on top right now,” Miranda proclaimed, waving her hand towards the scoreboard. She was nothing if not competitive, when she wanted to be anyway. Her rant was interrupted when Samara uttered a quiet, amused chuckle. It was impossible not to soften, seeing the unfeigned affection shimmering in Samara’s gaze. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Samara shook her head, her smile reaching her eyes. “I simply...I did not forget how much I missed spending time with you, but...in a way, I forgot just how much I missed spending time with you,” Samara acknowledged, well aware of the contradiction in her own words, but unable to say it another way.

Miranda knew exactly what she meant. Memories of the Starboard Observation Deck were no substitute for the real thing. They didn’t do justice to just how at home she felt in Samara’s company. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And do not think I did not notice,” said Samara, a very proud look coming over her. Miranda tilted her head in questioning. “Reave. You mastered it,” Samara clarified, somehow wholly unsurprised to witness that.

“Oh. Right. That.” Miranda brushed that off. It wasn’t a big deal.

“Do not undersell yourself. It is not an easy feat,” Samara told her, not about to let this go unremarked upon. “Well done, Miranda. You are the first, and I suspect only human ever to learn this ability. And it would be a great achievement even if you were asari. Indeed, I have personally never met anyone, other than some fellow Justicars, who have mastered it.”

“Well, I owe that entirely to you. So here. Present for you.” Miranda held out the Blasto The Hanar Spectre keychain she'd won from the claw machine earlier, as a token of her appreciation for Samara’s teachings a year ago.

Samara smiled, politely raising her hand to decline. “Although I am grateful, I am afraid I cannot accept this; Justicars eschew personal possessions.”

Miranda's brow crinkled, looking down at the stupid thing in her hands in abject incredulity. “...It's a keychain.”

“That is not the point,” Samara reminded her, although clearly not at all shocked or offended why someone who had not chosen a religious life might fail to understand this. The fact that the gift had no material value did not make it any less of an indulgence. “I have sworn an oath to the Goddess. I can own nothing but what you see before you - my weapons and my armour - for that is all that is essential for me to carry out my duties as a Justicar.”

“Alright. Allow me to rephrase,” Miranda began, sensing a solution to this issue. “This is a...tactical keychain,” she informed her, arching an eyebrow as she twirled the chain around her finger. “It provides an entire additional square inch of armour plating. So I insist that you take it for your own protection.”

Samara laughed, more freely than Miranda had ever seen her do so. “There is that sense of humour you maintain you do not have again,” Samara wryly commented. “I will never comprehend why you insist on claiming that you are not funny.”

“Because I'm not.” Miranda shrugged, wearing a small, self-deprecating smile. “You also described yourself as ‘terribly dull’ earlier when you’re by far the most captivating person I’ve ever spoken to, so if we’re going to start this debate right now, then I’m pretty sure I’m going to win.”

“You would not be a stranger to that, would you?” Samara sighed, realising Miranda would not relent from her position. “Very well, then. You have convinced me.” She took the keychain, clasping it in her fingers. “Make no mistake, this is still yours,” she said, pointedly. “However, I will hold this in safekeeping on your behalf. And I will return it to you the next time we meet.”

“See? Was that so hard?” said Miranda, glad they'd reached a compromise.

Samara tried not to smile, because it was evident that she knew she was technically stretching the rules by accepting this gift, even on loan (though Miranda naturally assumed that she was kidding about intending to return it later), but despite her intentions she couldn't really fight it off. Not tonight.

“If you do not mind my asking, I know what your plans for the future are in the long term, but what of the short term?” Samara asked her, curious to know where Miranda would go when she left the Citadel.

“What else is there to do but get ready for whenever Shepard needs us?” said Miranda, leaning against a nearby railing overlooking a lower section of the strip. “I’ve taken command of a small ship and started putting together a team of Cerberus defectors. So, whatever happens, I’ll be there.” She looked over at Samara. “I suppose I don’t need to ask you, but...what about you?”

“I am as I am,” Samara answered, confirming Miranda’s assumptions. “When the day comes, I will walk into the fire, alone, with nothing but what you see before you, and fight to my last breath. And, should I die, I can only pray that my final acts honour the memory of all the Justicars who perished before me.”

“...I don’t see how they wouldn’t,” Miranda said softly. “I mean, you’re you.”

Samara didn’t respond to that. “Miranda, I...” Samara hesitated. Her expression was unsettled, but she swallowed, quickly finding an equilibrium and settling on what she intended to say. “Though I imagine we will be fighting on the same battlefield in the near future, it has not eluded me that we may not get a chance to speak like this before that time comes to pass. Or...ever again.”

“I know,” Miranda admitted, glancing down. The same thought had been swirling in her head even before Shepard’s party. She wasn't sure if they were meant to address that, or if that looming spectre of death was an open secret they weren't supposed to confront, but she was glad Samara had raised it. The problem was, there were too many things she wanted to say if this was going to be the last conversation they ever had. Thoughts she hadn’t even put into words in her mind, and could never fully express. “...I really am sorry about Rila,” was where Miranda chose to begin. It would have felt wrong not to tell her that.

Samara swallowed and nodded her head, trying to stay strong. Then her resolve cracked, and the tears came. Her hands went to her face, unable to stem the tide. Even the strongest woman in the universe could only carry so much.

For a split-second, Miranda thought she had made a mistake bringing this up, seeing how much Samara was hurting over her recent loss. But then it occurred to her. Maybe Samara breaking down in front of her didn’t mean she’d done anything wrong. Maybe it showed just how much she needed this moment of connection with someone she trusted - to allow herself the vulnerability to be hurt.

Had anyone even comforted Samara at all since it happened?

Had anyone given her the chance to grieve for her daughter?

“I did everything I could to save her. Even though I should not have. Even knowing it might mean putting myself in the position of choosing between my children and The Code. Even while the rest of my Order gave their lives to save so many on Thessia.” Samara drew a deep breath, but it wound up shallower than she intended in her sorrow. “...I violated one of my Oaths, Miranda.”

“What do you mean?” Miranda asked, not knowing enough about the Justicars to understand what that meant. “You mean you broke The Code?”

“No. No, I would never...never break The Code. Not while I draw breath,” Samara insisted, making that clear, even through her tears. “But the first step to becoming a Justicar is to take the Oath of Solitude. That means you are forsworn from any family, including children. I did not utter a single word to Falere or Rila in four hundred and thirty-one years, save for when I wrote to them a year ago to let them know Mirala was dead. However, when I heard their monastery may be under threat...I did not go to them as a Justicar.” Her breath hitched as the moisture trickled down her cheeks. “I went to them because I am their mother.”

“Of course you did,” said Miranda, feeling nothing but sympathy for her, and a touch of anger towards the Justicars for subjecting Samara to that dilemma in the first place. For depriving her of the shattered, broken remnants of a family she had left, and making her feel ashamed for protecting her daughters from certain death. “There’s no oath in the universe anyone could swear that would make a mother stop loving her children. Not a mother like you.”

“No, there is not,” Samara confirmed, her voice breaking under the strain as her body was racked by another sob. “I saw so little of Rila before she died, but what I saw...I could not be prouder of the woman she became, in spite of the cruel hand fate dealt her. I always knew her to be the most responsible of my daughters, always taking care of her younger sisters, though she was barely any older than they were. But she was so strong, Miranda. I never knew she was so fearless. So ferociously protective. She gave her own life so that Falere could live.”

“And you,” Miranda added. “So that you could live too.”

Samara didn’t reply to that.

“How’s Falere?” Miranda asked, after Samara didn’t respond.

“She is well. Alone, but well.” Samara glanced down at her hands, her tears beginning to dry on her cheeks. “She was always a gentle and sensitive soul, so much like her fath--” Samara’s voice caught on that word. She couldn’t say it. It hurt to speak of her. “The woman she has grown into...she is so much kinder than I could possibly have imagined. She had not seen my face or heard my voice for four hundred and thirty-one years. She had every right to hate me. But, instead, she...when all was said and done, she embraced me.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” said Miranda, thinking that should have gone without saying. “She’s your daughter. She loves you.”

“That is more than I deserve.” Samara’s voice was low, barely above a whisper.

Miranda couldn’t stand to hear her talk about herself that way. “Samara--”

Samara raised a hand to silence her. “Respectfully, Miranda...It is no fault of yours, but there are some things that are beyond even your understanding. I believe this is one of them. I would prefer not to argue with you.”

Miranda sighed. She hated to admit it, but Samara had a point. If she felt that way, it wasn’t like it was a poorly-considered opinion. She had lived her own life for nearly a thousand years, and the disconnect between Samara and Falere had been there for centuries. It wasn’t Miranda’s place to debate with her about her perception of herself, or where she stood with Falere, much as she wanted to.

“...But you weren’t lying before, right?” Miranda pressed, unable to leave that thought alone. When Samara said things like this, it made her worry about her. “You are going to keep seeing Falere, aren’t you?”

“My Oaths say I should not,” Samara acknowledged.

“But you will,” Miranda intuited.

Samara held back the last of her tears, the first signs of a conflicted, broken smile coming to her lips. “I have no choice. In truth, there is no power in the universe, nor within myself, that could force me to stay away,” she said honestly, recognising she did not have the willpower to resist seeing her daughter again, especially knowing Falere had nobody else to look after her.

“Good,” Miranda forcefully enthused. For as much as she respected Samara, she might have had to slap some sense into her if she said otherwise. “No offence, and I know this is easy for me to say because I don’t have a single religious or spiritual bone in my body, but any oath that would compel you to stay away from the one person in your life who makes you happy isn’t an oath worth keeping. For me, that person is my sister. For you, that person is Falere.”

At long last, Samara allowed herself to smile again, her eyes glistening from her tears, but shedding no more. “She is.” Her voice was soft, perhaps even fragile, but Miranda had never heard it filled with so much tenderness. “I should not permit myself to feel this way, but...if you thought you perceived a change in me tonight, Miranda, you did,” she admitted. “Though losing Rila broke my heart, and my wounds for her will bleed until my dying days...even so, I have never felt more at peace than I do at this moment. Or, if I have, then I cannot remember it.”

Miranda could only imagine. In her own life, she had gone without seeing Oriana for nineteen years. And, the moment they met on Illium, it was like a weight she hadn’t even known she was carrying had been lifted off her shoulders. That was nothing compared to what Samara had endured.

Going four hundred and thirty-one years not seeing her daughters, the people who mattered most to her...it must have been torture. Now, that torment had finally stopped. Even though Rila hadn’t lived long enough to be part of this new reunion, Samara had still regained a connection with Falere she never thought she would have again. She had some semblance of her family back.

That was life-changing.

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Miranda said sincerely. After everything she’d lost, Samara had more than earned her just reward. "And, for what it’s worth, I hope this is merely the start of newer and brighter things for you and Falere.”

After recollecting her composure, Samara faced her. “Thank you, Miranda.” 

Miranda was not anticipating that shift in focus. “For what?”

“For this. For tonight,” Samara clarified, gesturing at their surroundings. “For allowing me to enjoy myself more than I have in centuries. And for reminding me to savour these effervescent glimmers of happiness while I still can.” She paused for a moment, averting her gaze down towards her hands on the railing. “I think, perhaps, on some level, you sensed I needed this. But perhaps you do not appreciate just how much I did. So, again, I thank you for spending your night in the company of this poor, tired old woman, when it was not required of you.”

Miranda hesitated at that. Of course, it meant a lot for Samara to tell her that she had gotten so much out of their time together, and that it had helped her in some way. But Miranda never liked it when Samara made those resigned, self-defeating comments about herself. They made her sound like some washed up, retired old racehorse about to be put down with two barrels behind the garden shed. And that was the furthest thing from reality.

Samara was amazing. Beyond compare. She had not lost a step. Aside from being a matriarch and continuing to get stronger with every passing year, she did not show a single sign of age. It certainly hadn’t hindered her yet, and probably would not for many decades yet to come. Asari regularly lived to be over a thousand years old. Hell, although hitting eleven-hundred was rare by most accounts, even that wouldn’t be unheard of. Not by a long shot.

Not that Miranda was an expert, but just from knowing her, she would guess Samara was still a long way off from the natural end of her life. About as far off as any of the human members of The Normandy. So why did she so often talk about herself like she was past the point where she had anything of worth left to offer - a broken relic of a bygone age to be carelessly discarded and cast aside?

Did she think Miranda was just doing this because she felt sorry for her?

“...I didn’t invite you out with me because I pity you,” Miranda broke the silence, glancing over at Samara. That had never been what this was, and she would correct any such mistaken assumptions as promptly and frankly as possible, so that there was no chance for misinterpretation. “I wanted to spend time with you because I like you, and I care about you. You know that, right?”

“I do,” Samara confirmed, returning Miranda’s gaze. “And I hope you know that I did not spend time with you because I was merely seeking some distraction from what has come to pass in recent weeks.”

“I do,” Miranda replied in kind. She folded her arms across the railing, seeing no reason not to continue being so transparent. “This probably isn’t going to be a shock to you, because there aren’t exactly a lot of contenders for the title, but did you know you might very well be the best friend I’ve ever had?” 

Jacob may have been her friend for longer, sure, but they butted heads a lot, often on pretty fundamental things. There were some things she hadn’t told him, and may never tell him. Some things she couldn’t go to him about. Whereas Samara just...knew her so intimately. She got her on an entirely different level. One that didn’t even require words, a lot of the time.

Samara’s eyes dipped slightly. “It...occurred to me, some time ago, in fact, that...I could possibly say the same thing about you,” she replied. Miranda was taken aback by that, and it must have shown on her face. “You doubt me, but you have a stronger claim to that position than you know.”

Miranda brushed that off, finding it too hard to believe. Samara had been alive for over nine centuries. She’d definitely had better friends. “You’re just being nice.”

Samara squinted at that comment, visibly perplexed. “I do not know where you have garnered this impression that I am ‘nice’, or would say things I do not mean just to be thus. I can assure you, I have never at any stage of my life been renowned for being particularly ‘nice’ to anybody. Quite the contrary,” Samara assured her, wanting to clear up that mischaracterisation. “I mean no offence, but...in that regard, you and I are more alike than you seem to think.”

“None taken,” Miranda nonchalantly replied. She supposed she understood where Samara was coming from by not accepting that description. If anyone tried to tell Miranda she was ‘just being nice’, she would have looked at them like they had grown a second head. “And I guess you do have a point. I mean, the first time I met you, you crushed a woman’s skull with your foot.”

“You would have used a gun,” Samara noted.

“Yeah, probably,” Miranda conceded. “You were always nice to me, though.”

“Not always. There were times when I challenged you. Like you, I am not prone to remaining silent when I disagree with someone. If I am less stubborn and stern than I once was, it is only because experience has humbled me, and I have spent many centuries practicing patience and mindfulness,” said Samara. 

Samara wasn’t wrong about any of that, Miranda thought. Samara had indeed called her out on her bullshit a couple of times, although whenever she did offer advice she had always treated it as something constructive rather than an exercise in judgement, which was largely why it had been so effective.

“However, if despite all that you perceived me as being especially nice to you...I probably was,” Samara admitted with a small sigh, willing to concede that wasn’t misplaced. “It is easy to be nice to a person you are already fond of.”

“Why though?” Miranda couldn’t help but ask, earning a confused look. “That’s something I’ve never been able to figure out. Look, I know I’m not the most self-aware person, but I’m better than I was. And, God, I could be fucking intolerable sometimes.” Miranda grimaced in annoyance at her own memory of herself, eliciting a faint smirk from Samara. “But even at my worst, you never had a problem with me. So, why did you like spending time with me?”

“How long do we have before our absence will be noticed? Because, if I answered that question comprehensively, we would be here a very long time,” Samara stated. That was, without question, the most heartwarming thing Miranda had ever heard another person say about her. “If I am being truly honest, I have often wondered the same thing about why you chose to spend your time with me.” 

“Is that a joke?” Miranda asked, not sure how Samara could even question that.

“You know very well that it is not,” Samara said astutely. She wasn’t a liar.

“Well, then, you and I remember things very differently, because you had countless things to offer me. Wisdom. Insight. Friendship. A place where I could just sit in silence for a while. You've taught me so much, but somehow you never made it feel like you were lecturing me. Even when you clearly were,” Miranda remarked, with a hint of teasing to her tone. “The only problem is that I've gained so much more out of knowing you than you have from knowing me.”

“That is not true,” Samara firmly insisted, the quickness of her response catching Miranda somewhat off guard. “The life of a Justicar is a solitary one. We meet many people, but have no companions. I had no companions. Until you. The connection we share is unlike any I have known in centuries. Or...even before that. You have enriched my life. I am better for having known you.”

“You don’t mean that,” Miranda instinctively replied. Samara was...well, she wasn’t a ‘perfect’ person per se, because they didn’t exist. But she was as close as Miranda had ever seen to one. She was a perfect version of what she strove to be. So how could Miranda make her better than she was? How could she possibly do anything to improve upon such sheer mastery of the self?

“Goddess, you do not even know…” Samara’s suddenness took Miranda by surprise. She watched as she let her fingers fall across her face, sighed deeply and shook her head, choosing her words carefully. “Forgive me. It is difficult for me to say this, but...when we travelled together, there were times where I thought…” Samara stopped herself, as if reconsidering what she intended to say. “Perhaps I did not always recognise it then, but in hindsight there were days where I do not know how I could have withstood my burdens if you were not with me.”

Miranda didn’t know what to make of that. It just...didn’t make sense. Samara was so strong. “But I didn’t do anything,” Miranda pointed out. 

At that, Samara uttered a quiet sound, almost like a short, sombre laugh. “But you did,” she said, meeting Miranda’s gaze once more. “You were there. And you have shown me nothing but kindness from the moment we met.”

Miranda still couldn’t accept what she was hearing. Besides, she didn’t remember doing anything that would strike a normal person as especially compassionate, because that wasn’t who she was. “But I’m not kind,” she said.

“No, perhaps you are not,” Samara acknowledged, never blind to the person Miranda was. She was not known for being sensitive or sympathetic, for good reason. “But you were to me,” she stated plainly. That was all that mattered.

Miranda didn’t completely agree with that. But she was glad Samara thought so. And, if nothing else, it was true that Samara did make her want to try to be a better person than she was, and had brought different shades out of her in a way that nobody else had, irrespective of whether they came naturally to her.

That was the thing about people like Samara, Miranda thought. When a person had a special connection with someone else, a special relationship, then they got to know a version of them that didn’t exist for anyone else. Parts of them nobody else ever saw. Truths nobody else ever knew. So maybe the Miranda reserved for Samara's eyes only really was gentler than the one everybody else had met. But, if so, that was only because their friendship brought that out of her.

As the silence lingered, the memory of one very unkind thing she had done emerged in Miranda’s mind. It wasn’t lost on her that there was still one regret she had in their friendship. One mistake for which she’d never made amends.

It was not something she had forgotten about. She recalled with discomforting clarity how she’d never taken her numerous chances back on The Normandy to confess to Samara about looking into her past without her consent. She’d never apologised for it, though she had intended to do so, eventually. She would have done it after The Collector Base but, when the Alpha Relay was destroyed, the thought had genuinely completely fallen from her mind amid so much death. By the time she thought about it again, it was too late. They had already parted ways.

So many months had passed since all of this transpired that part of her just wanted to let sleeping dogs lie, and not raise the subject now. But Miranda knew this was the only chance she would get. If she was ever going to apologise, this was her moment. She had to take it, or live with being a coward.

“...Samara, can I say one more thing?” Miranda broke the silence.

“You may always speak freely with me, Miranda. Indeed, that you always say precisely what is on your mind is perhaps my favourite thing about you. Certainly, one of them,” Samara said with a charming twinkle in her eye.

“Okay, then.” Miranda took Samara’s encouragement at face-value, and elected to come out with it, even if it was a heavy subject. “What happened to your family wasn't your fault,” Miranda began, deciding to approach the topic from that angle. The unexpected shift in the conversation caused Samara to stiffen visibly. “And you know I'm not the sort of person who'd say something I didn't think was true purely to make you feel better, no matter how much I like you. But you didn't do anything to make that happen. None of it is your fault. None. So please stop blaming yourself for what happened four hundred years ago.”

Samara didn't seem to know how to react to Miranda’s words, as they were the last thing she had anticipated. It was obvious it was a message she struggled to accept, even after all this time. Of course, she had no idea how much Miranda knew about her past, beyond the broad picture she’d painted. Not yet.

“Has anyone ever told you that before?” Miranda asked, curious.

“...They have not,” Samara answered, no less taken aback. From prior conversations, Miranda knew she had scarcely spoken about her past. Her daughters’ diagnoses made her a pariah as soon as they happened, leaving her nobody to turn to, and Justicars did not discuss the people they were before they swore their Oaths. Samara had carried her burdens alone every day since.

“Then I'm glad I said it,” Miranda replied, already feeling a sense of relief just from stating that out loud, though she knew she was far from finished when it came to things she had to get off her chest. “I should have said it a long time ago.”

“Then may I also say something I should have said a long time ago?” Samara cut her off, speaking rather quickly. Miranda gestured for her to go right ahead. If she was being that abrupt, then it must have been important. “I wish you loved being Miranda Lawson as much as everybody else believes you love being Miranda Lawson,” Samara spoke plainly. “Because she is and has always been a far, far better person than you seem to think she is. And there is not a single thing about her that makes her a ‘failure’. It wounds me whenever you think otherwise.”

Miranda was totally blindsided. She hadn’t expected Samara’s response at all, since she would never say anything unless she truly meant it. In fact, any prior thoughts Miranda had were completely ripped from her mind.

Samara didn’t need to ask whether anybody had told Miranda that before. She knew they hadn’t. Evidently, that knowledge bothered her a great deal.

“Miranda, I...” Samara reached out and touched Miranda's arm, as if considering saying something more. She swallowed, glancing away for a moment before meeting Miranda's eyes. “I think we have been gone longer than we ought. We should return before our absence becomes a cause for concern,” she said, mustering a faint smile, sensing they had both lost track of time.

“Of course,” Miranda concurred, too dumbstruck by Samara’s confession to remember that there were words she had left unsaid. “After you.”

With that, Samara led the way back towards Shepard's apartment.

As she trailed behind her, Miranda discreetly wiped at the corner of her eye, maintaining her composure, masking any lingering signs that betrayed any frailty, and just how much Samara’s words had touched the core of something she hadn’t even known was as raw and vulnerable as it was.

It may have been a scant two hours that they’d shared there alone on the Silversun Strip, but stealing that precious time together felt like the best decision Miranda had ever made. It may have been over sooner than she would have liked but, if nothing else, at least she could look back on this night in the coming days and feel content with the way she left things between them.

She wanted to part ways with Samara on a high note. After all, deep down in her heart, Miranda knew it was the last time Samara would ever see her again.

*     *     *

Of all the people Miranda had expected to be banging on her door in the middle of the night, Samara was not high on that list. She hadn’t expected to see her anytime soon, given she had left only two weeks ago. And, when they eventually did meet again, Miranda hadn’t imagined Samara would look like this.

“Samara, what are you doing here? It’s freezing out, and you’re drenched--”

“I must speak with you,” Samara cut her off, her voice firm, and her eyes ablaze with a strange intensity Miranda had never seen in her before. It seemed as though Samara didn’t even feel the ice-cold rain on her. “It cannot wait.”

Judging from her tone, that wasn’t a request.

“Uh...Of course,” was all Miranda could mutter as she held open the door for her, closing it behind her. It wouldn’t have even occurred to her to say no. Not when Samara was in such a state, moving with such urgency. “In here.” Miranda gestured towards her room. Samara marched in without hesitation.

Suffice it to say, Miranda was a little stunned. What the hell was happening?

She followed her inside, and clicked the door shut. There wasn’t much space in her small room, but Samara found enough to pace back and forth. She was uncharacteristically wringing her hands as she wore wet tracks in the floor. These were things Miranda had quite literally never seen her do before.

“Samara, what is this? What’s going on?” Miranda asked.

“Forgive my intrusion. But I needed to see you. I could not...the way we left things, I…” Samara paused for a moment, meeting her gaze. “I fear that perhaps you already know what has brought me here, and what I wish to discuss.”

Miranda said nothing, too disoriented and sleep-deprived to be capable of doing anything other than staring at her in a dazed silence. She had no idea what she was talking about, or what could make her act so out-of-sorts. Miranda had never seen Samara so dishevelled. So discombobulated. So...frazzled.

“Oh. Oh, I see. You do not. I see. Very well, then. I…” At that realisation, Samara resumed her pacing, running her hand along her crest. “I suppose I shall have to start from the beginning, then. I do not know why I expected to avoid this.”

“Samara, please slow down.” Miranda raised her hand, her mind far too clouded with fog to make sense of any of this. Even just watching her march back and forth felt like running a marathon, which would have been an exhausting prospect even if she had slept in the past four days. Her request fell on deaf ears.

“Miranda, I was...I was dishonest with you the last time we spoke,” Samara began. “No, worse than dishonest. I have been deceiving you, for no other reason than because I have been too craven to admit the truth. What is worse, I fear that you have sensed my deceit, and that this is what has damaged our friendship. I cannot...I cannot abide this. I cannot continue to lie to you.”

Miranda could barely even make out what she was saying as she paced. She was speaking so quickly, and with such adamance that it felt like she might spontaneously combust from internal friction if it weren’t for the rain soaking her skin. Miranda had never seen Samara in this state. She was like a completely different person. A stranger wearing the face of someone she knew.

Samara was so restrained. So dignified. So elegant. She was a woman who had walked alone, unflinching into mortal peril thousands of times with no regard for her own life, and somehow emerged unscathed, even where countless others had fallen around her. She was the most fearless individual Miranda had ever met. 

There was none of that here.

She was...overcome.

Her proverbial armour had cracked.

“Samara, respectfully, you’re a category five hurricane right now. I need you to bring it down to a stiff breeze,” said Miranda, gesturing for her to cool her frantic energy just a little bit, because right now this was impossible to follow.

At last, Samara halted, and stood still. “...Yes. Yes, of course. You have my apologies,” Samara replied, no less anxious, but at least she seemed able to recognise what an incoherent onslaught her words must have sounded like. 

Miranda leaned back against the chair that was tucked into her desk, gripping it with her hand to take some weight off her bad leg. Whatever could have left Samara so shaken, it had to be serious. Nothing ever rattled her.

Except apparently this.

“What have you been lying about?” Miranda asked, that being about the only thing she had managed to make out of Samara’s hasty, jumbled rant a moment ago.

At that question, Samara held her stare, a distant expression falling across her face. “...After all this time, you truly do not suspect, do you?” she asked aloud, the realisation sinking in, as if that was a possibility she had not contemplated.

“Suspect what?” was all Miranda could say, tempted to utter a desperate laugh as she shrugged her good shoulder, not because there was anything remotely funny about this, but because she was so fucking tired, and so fucking lost.

“Why I abandoned you as I did. Why I fled this city and deserted you. Why you have been forced to contend with so much pain, suffering and death alone, when I ought to have been here to share those burdens with you, and taken care of you when you needed me by your side,” said Samara. Her voice was shaking.

Miranda softened when she heard that. Did Samara really think she was angry at her for leaving? “Samara, no.” Miranda shook her head, unconsciously gesturing with her amputated arm as if to strike that thought from history. “Of course I understand why you left. You’re a Justicar. You have your Code--”

The moment that word left her lips, Samara laughed a humourless laugh, laced with turmoil and despair. Miranda was struck mute by that. It was so unlike her.

“Oh, my sweet Miranda, you truly still believe that about me?” said Samara, her hand on her forehead, as if she couldn’t fathom what she was hearing - that even now people still trusted her at her word. “No. No, my dear, it is a fiction. A comforting lie. A shadow I hide behind.”

Miranda damn near recoiled in abject confusion. “But you are a Justicar.”

“Yes, but that is not why I acted as I did. When I turned my back on you, it had nothing to do with The Code,” Samara unburdened herself at long last, revealing a secret that had been silently killing her. “When I left, it was for one reason only. And that was because I...because I could not be here to watch you die…”

Samara’s voice cracked on the last word, and her hands covered her face as tears began to swell from beneath the surface.

Miranda was dumbfounded - rendered speechless from utter astonishment. She had only seen Samara break like this twice before. Had only seen her cry twice before. That was when she killed Morinth. And when she opened up about losing Rila. Only the deaths of her daughters affected her like this.

Samara trembled, her hand over her mouth. Her eyes shone with remorse as she met Miranda’s frozen visage across the room. “I am so sorry,” Samara told her sincerely, her words cut by the hitch of a breath. “I know my contrition means nothing, but I am so deeply, deeply sorry. I do not blame you if you despise me. You should. I know I deserve it, because the truth is that I failed you. I failed you because I am weak, and I am broken, and I could not...I could not lose you.”

Miranda’s heart tore in half when she heard that. Her head fell, and she pressed her palm to her eye, squeezing it shut. Was this why Samara thought Miranda had snapped at her the last time they spoke? Was she responsible for hurting her like this? God, she regretted that day even more now than she already had before.

“You didn’t fail me, Samara,” Miranda quietly assured her. “You saved my life.”

“That, too, was selfishness,” Samara confessed, owning up to her sins. “When the dust settled, I saw you had not returned. When I realised how close you had been to the Conduit, I went searching for you. And only for you.”

“That’s not true,” Miranda interjected, refusing to let Samara denigrate herself for what had been unparalleled heroism. “You saved dozens of lives in the wasteland.”

“Because The Code demanded I must, and my life would be forfeit if I did not. Every time I came across another survivor, I had to stop and render aid. But, though The Code compelled me to do everything in my power to rescue those in need, I tell you plainly I did not want to. I did not care about any of them. I would have abandoned every single one of them if I could,” Samara said starkly, stripping bare her truth. That revelation hit Miranda like a shockwave. It was something Miranda would have said. Not Samara. “People thought me brave, but I was not. People thought I was saving lives, but that was never my goal. My deeds should not entitle me to praise, but rather scorn, because I was selfish. I was so selfish. My only reason for going out there again and again was to find you.”

Samara swallowed. Miranda would have, but her mouth was suddenly dry.

“...And I did,” Samara continued, her features softening as she gazed upon Miranda. “You were caked in blood and dirt when I found you. So much so that I could barely recognise you. And then you...and then you stopped breathing.”

Samara took a moment to compose herself, affected by those painful memories. She drew a deep breath, and wiped a stray tear from her cheek.

“I did not merely believe that you would die. I knew it. I was certain of it,” Samara quietly admitted. “The infection had already reached your blood. It was shutting down your organs. There seemed to be no hope that you would survive. The only reason you were breathing was because machines were doing it for you. Your pulse was so weak. Your condition showed no signs of improving. As I sat by your bedside, I came to understand that I was doing nothing but watching your life slip away before my very eyes. Every day, you were slowly dying in front of me. And I could not endure it. I...I broke. I ran away, rather than face it.”

“But you left me that message,” Miranda pointed out, struggling to fit the puzzle pieces together in her clouded head between things she already knew, parts of the story she had been told by others, and what Samara was saying now.

“A lie,” Samara said bluntly, her voice too strained to speak louder than a whisper. “To convince myself that I had not forsaken you. That I was not hiding in the shadows from my fears. That I was merely doing as I ought to, as a Justicar. A lie that rang hollow.” Samara glanced down at her feet, ashamed of her actions. “If I truly believed that you had any chance of recovering, I tell you from my heart, I would not have left. Never. And, if I had sincerely been forced into some temporary departure by my Code as I claimed, I would have placed a much better message beside your bed for you to find when you awoke. But I did not do so. I did not do so, because I could not bear to step into your room again. I was afraid each time I went near you, it would be the moment you would…”

Samara couldn’t even finish that sentence. She didn’t have to.

Miranda didn’t interrupt her, too overwhelmed to respond. 

“This is why I have returned now. To apologise for my selfishness. Not to seek your forgiveness. Just to apologise,” Samara explained, repentant for her recent failings. “You have earned nothing less than that.”

“I…” Miranda didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t...form the words. It was a lot to take in. She could scarcely process it in her heavily fatigued state. She couldn’t think. She was so tired. So confused. “I still don’t understand. You’ve seen death before. Why couldn’t you be here? Why did you have to leave?”

“Goddess…” Samara turned away, facing the wall. “You truly do not know…”

“No, I don’t. So tell me,” said Miranda, growing exasperated with how Samara kept doing things like that. Acting like there were things she should already know, which she didn’t. She wasn’t psychic. She couldn’t read her mind. Obviously not. Samara had come all this way to throw this confession at her feet out of fucking nowhere. Why hold back now? “You’ve already said so--”

“Because I could not bear the pain of losing you!” Samara snapped back, her voice sharper and louder than before, as if she had to force the words out, fighting against herself to speak them. But, once they were said, they couldn’t be retracted. “I did not trust what I would do. How I would withstand it. Goddess, Miranda, I was coming apart. I had already broken The Code for you!”

Miranda’s eye widened. “What do you mean?”

“You know this. You said it yourself.” Samara faced her once more, moving a step closer. “I...I threatened to murder doctors, because they wanted to turn off your life support,” Samara confessed, hard as it was for her to say. “You were functionally dead, and I was prepared to harm innocents rather than accept it - to use violence against healers so I could keep you hooked to those machines.”

Miranda’s heart stopped in her chest.

Wait, what? That wasn’t something Jacob had just misunderstood? Her weary mind went black. She couldn’t even comprehend that revelation. 

“I breached two tenets, in total. Not only by threatening innocent medics, but that I lied about The Code in order to compel them to spare you,” Samara confided in her, exposing her transgressions, her shame. “This is not permitted. I was unjust. Had I any sisters left to judge me, I might be expelled from the Order for this. At worst, perhaps even executed. Though, if there is but one small mercy to be found, it is that my words, evil though they were, were only words. I took no violent act, drew no weapon, and made no attempt to carry out my threats. Had I done so, The Code would not suffer me to live. Nor should it.”

“...You…wait…” Miranda couldn’t hear herself, her ear was ringing so loud.

What the fuck was happening? This couldn’t be real.

“In what small part of me was still capable of thinking rationally, I knew my behaviour had made me a danger to myself and others,” Samara continued. “If you passed, I could not take the risk of what I might do. At least, that was what I told myself. In truth, by that stage, I was simply too afraid to stay. Afraid of how much it would hurt when you...” She trailed off into silence, her meaning clear.

Miranda didn’t even catch all of that, her thoughts blank. No, this didn’t make sense. Samara was a Justicar. A servant of her Code. She was the embodiment of her way of life. She stuck to it rigidly. She never bent the rules, much less broke them. She would never do that. She was so disciplined. So loyal to it.

Samara hadn’t even broken The Code when it came to her own daughters. An Oath, yes. But not The Code. From what Miranda understood, that was the difference between breaking a promise, and breaking the law. She had told Miranda straight to her face that she couldn’t do the latter. That she would never.

And yet now Samara was standing there in front of her telling her that she had not merely violated The Code, but that she had done so consciously. For her.

Twice.

“Now you see me for what I truly am. Frail. Weak. A fraud.” Samara glanced aside, accepting that what she had done would forever tarnish her in Miranda’s sight, as it should. “So, like a coward, I ran. As far as I could. Every day thinking, is this the day she died? Is this the day? Surely, she must have passed by now, Samara. Just go back. Just go. Confront this. Be with her. But I could not. I could not return, because I was not ready to know. Because I was not ready to feel--”

Her voice caught, rendering her unable to finish that bleak thought.

Miranda felt a heavy tide rising inside her. Like she was swimming in a maelstrom. Sucked in under the water. Unable to breathe. Unable to think or react. It was so much all at once. It was as if she’d been consumed by a tsunami.

“...Why are you telling me this?” Miranda asked through the haze.

“Because you do not deserve to believe you are at fault,” Samara insisted, taking another step towards her. “I abandoned you in your hour of need, not because you mean nothing to me, but because you...you are so important to me it scares me. But that is my burden, not yours. You should not have to suffer for my lack of bravery. I could not bear it if you thought that I have treated you so carelessly because you have slighted me in some way. You have not. I am to blame. Only me. The failure is mine, and mine alone. I am the monster here. Not you.”

“Please don’t say that,” said Miranda. It hurt to hear Samara berate herself like that. She was the opposite of a monster. “I wouldn’t even be here if not for you.”

“But I should have been here.” Samara took another step. As the space between them shrank, Miranda felt a shiver pass through her body, but not because it was cold. “I should have watched over you. Cared for you when you awoke. Been by your side as you rebuilt this city. Weathered the terrible news with you when you learned what became of our friends. But I could not. Instead, I left you. I let fear take hold, and surrendered to despair. Worst of all, I gave up hope. I did not have faith in you, when I should have known you are beyond extraordinary.”

“You don’t owe me anything--”

“Please.” Samara quietly cut her off, refusing her forgiveness, feeling unworthy of it. Even so, she could not refrain from reaching out, curling stray strands of hair back behind Miranda’s ear. Miranda’s pulse spiked, thundering like a drum. “I was distraught for so long. Too paralysed with sorrow to return, and face the news. So convinced that everything I dreaded had come to pass. That I had been too late when I found you in the wastes. That you had succumbed while I was away. That I would find nothing here but your grave.” Samara’s eyes shone as she looked upon her, a warm smile coming to her face. “I do not know how I ever doubted you would defy the odds. You are truly incredible. You always have been.”

Miranda didn’t dare to breathe, Samara was so close. All those bottled up feelings came flooding to the surface. It felt like somehow Samara should just know. That she should be able to lay eyes upon her, and glean from a single glance how easily Miranda came undone in her presence.

God, the things it did to her for Samara to be this near, her fingers on her skin. It was too much. She should have withdrawn and pulled away, but she couldn’t. She didn’t want Samara to stop. She needed her, with every fibre of her being.

Miranda couldn’t take it. For her own sanity, she had to force herself to turn her head away. To look somewhere else. Anywhere else but Samara.

"Do not hide from me.” Samara’s fingers curled beneath her chin, lifting her head, compelling Miranda to lock her eye on Samara once more. “I know I ran before, but it was not because of you. Do not think it was ever to do with you.”

She realised then that Samara must have assumed the reason Miranda averted her gaze was because she’d felt self-conscious in that moment. Of her wounds. Of the scars on her face. Little did she know that had nothing to do with it.

It became achingly apparent then as she got lost in that shimmering sapphire stare that Samara had no idea what Miranda felt towards her. And that those feelings were so powerful and intense that they were threatening to devour her. 

How could Samara not see what she was doing to her? 

She was laid open. Bare. Exposed.

Samara’s fingers combed through Miranda’s hair until they grazed the cord that held her eyepatch in place. Miranda was so transfixed that she almost didn’t even feel her touch it. “May I?” Samara asked her permission to remove it, gauging whether Miranda trusted her enough to show the extent of her scars.

Miranda swallowed and nodded, giving her consent. That was never the problem. Least of all with Samara. Miranda stood stiff against her desk, knuckles turning white against her chair as Samara carefully slipped it off.

Samara released a slow exhale as she set that black cloth down on the table, a wave of heartfelt warmth washing over her features as that barrier fell by the wayside. As if on instinct, her fingers reached out to touch her face, but she stopped her hand just short of Miranda’s scarred cheek. “Will it hurt if I…?”

Miranda shook her head, almost too tense to speak. “Not if you’re gentle,” was all she could manage. And when was Samara ever anything less?

With Miranda’s tacit approval, Samara softly cupped her cheek. Miranda’s breath hitched. How could she be so on edge that such a feather-light caress could make her feel like her entire world was on the verge of exploding? 

“I have been devout in my faith for a very long time, and yet...Believe me when I tell you, the only time in my nine hundred and seventy-one years of life that the Goddess has ever answered my prayers was when I turned around on that balcony, and saw you standing there in front of me,” Samara professed.

If she moved so much as a single muscle, Miranda wasn’t sure there was any power on Earth that could stop her from crashing her lips against Samara’s, no matter how wrong she knew it was, or how bad of an idea. She willed her body to stay stone still, because it was all she could do to control herself.

If Miranda hadn’t been leaning so heavily on the desk and chair behind her, she was certain her legs would have given out right from under her. Samara’s skin was still so cold from the rain, but her touch was hotter than fire, and Miranda like wax beneath her fingertips. She could have melted into a puddle on the floor.

“I know I should not, but…” Without another word, Samara tilted Miranda’s head down, and pressed a tender, savouring kiss to her forehead. Miranda’s palm shook against her desk. She was trembling like a leaf. When she parted from her, Samara let her head rest against Miranda’s, cradling her jaw. “...I am sorry, but that is all I have wanted to do ever since I learned you were alive.”

Miranda’s heart wasn’t just pounding. It was screaming.

Somehow, she just knew, if she dared to utter a single sound, she wouldn’t be able to keep from shouting the truth at the top of her voice. The desire to say those five pivotal words seeped from every pore. She was bursting at the seams. 

“No, I should not have done that.” Samara shook her head, taking a step back. It was only then that Miranda realised she hadn’t taken a single breath in the last minute, and sharply gasped for air. “I have been selfish. Allowed myself to…” Samara stopped herself, as if suddenly coming to her senses. “Forgive me, Miranda. I have said all I needed to say. I should--”

The instant she turned to leave, Miranda’s hand shot out and seized Samara by her wrist, grabbing her as tightly as she’d ever held onto anything in her life.

“Don’t you dare walk away,” Miranda growled. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Samara hesitated, caught off guard. “...I thought you did not want me here.”

“Why would I not want you here?!” Miranda shot back, her tension built to breaking point. She felt like she was going insane, trying to find her balance on shifting sands. Nothing made sense anymore. For all Samara’s honesty, she still didn’t understand what the hell was going on.

“Because I abandoned you,” Samara answered. That had been the whole reason for her confession. Her apology. “Because I hurt you. Because you hate me.”

“Hate you? Samara, you idiot, I’m in love with you!” the words tore themselves from Miranda’s chest before she could stop them. Samara froze. Miranda released her tight grip on Samara’s wrist. Her hand flew to her mouth in horror as she realised what she’d said. But it was too late to stuff that confession back in.

God damn it. She’d really just said that out loud, hadn’t she?

“Fuck…” Miranda cursed under her breath, realising there was no going back. It was out there now. She had to confront it. “I’ve never...you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel this way. It’s like a kind of madness.” She wasn’t sure what to say, or whether it was even a good idea to keep talking. But she had to. Now that she’d said it, she had to. “That was why I asked you to leave me alone before. Not because I hate you, but because...I feel the exact opposite.”

Miranda pressed her hand to her forehead, fighting off the incessant pain in her skull. The insomnia that made it so hard to think. To put these complicated feelings into words. She was so not in the right frame of mind to have this conversation.

Yet here they were.

“I’m pretty sure I have for a long time, actually. I was just too bloody stupid to figure it out any earlier. But...” In place of adding anything further, Miranda simply gestured, leaving her feelings out there, in the open, for Samara to do with as she wished. It was a horrible position to be in. She hated every second of it.

“...No,” was the first thing Samara said. Her voice sounded so distant. And it was tinged almost with a sense of...dread. “No. You do not. You should not.”

“I know I shouldn’t, but I do. I do. I think about you all the time. And I don’t...I don’t know what to do about it,” Miranda admitted, shrugging her shoulder. 

“No,” Samara repeated herself, more insistently. Her suddenness startled Miranda a little. “You...you are mistaken.”

“I’m not,” Miranda reflexively answered back. She couldn’t help but get defensive, hearing Samara tell her she was wrong about her own feelings, when she knew painfully well she wasn’t. “I tried to convince myself that I was, but--”

“You do not know what love is. And you do not know who I am,” Samara coldly shut her down, refusing to hear this. “If you did, you would know there is nothing about me that is worthy of you.”

“Fucking hell, Samara…” Miranda ran her hand through her hair. This was not how she would have planned this to go. For one thing, she never anticipated she would have to contend with Samara being in staunch denial about her dramatic love confession. But then she paused, as the final part of Samara’s sentence gradually registered in her tired mind. “...I’m sorry. What did you just say?”

“You…” Samara swallowed heavily, realising she had perhaps revealed more than she ought. Maybe because she thought her own feelings had already been blatantly obvious, and it hadn’t occurred to her to think Miranda wouldn’t have realised them by now. But she didn’t take it back. “No, I cannot do this.”

Samara moved for the door as if to leave. In response, Miranda extended her hand, biotically lifting Samara six inches off the ground, holding her in place.

“No,” Miranda sternly commanded her, not letting her run off and hide again. She was getting pretty bloody sick of that. “We’re talking.”

Samara could have overpowered her easily if she wanted to. Miranda was no match for her biotic prowess, especially not in her current state. She could have broken out of this grip with little more than a shadow of a thought. They both knew that. But she didn’t fight. She didn’t resist.

After a moment, Samara just gave her a nod, as if to confirm she would stay. Miranda let go. Samara’s feet hit the floor. She didn’t so much as stumble.

“You were saying,” Miranda prompted, losing patience for her evasiveness.

“...You heard what I said. It is as it seems,” was all Samara could bring herself to say, not denying Miranda’s suspicions. She would not lie to her.

“Do you feel the same way about me?” Miranda asked, forcing her to acknowledge it out loud. To put it into words. There was no room for misunderstanding here.

“That is not the point,” Samara responded, tersely.

Miranda sighed heavily, intuiting what she meant. “Of course. You’re a Justicar,” she said. It didn’t matter what Samara felt about her, if The Code forbade it.

Samara’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “I...am uncertain what you mean by this.”

Miranda’s expression mirrored Samara’s, equally bewildered. “Doesn’t the Justicar Code forbid...?” Miranda didn't finish that sentence, simply glancing down at the space between them, choosing to be deft in her words. Using any specific term that entered her mind might be perceived as demanding or presuming too much, or too little, and she wouldn’t risk that. 

Samara stared at her, the open-ended meaning not lost in the silence. It was obvious from looking at her expression that she wished her status as a Justicar permitted her to speak falsely. That would have made things so much easier. “...It does not,” she replied to Miranda's myriad unspoken questions, and the words running through her mind. It was the same answer for all of them.

At that, relief dared to trickle through Miranda’s skin. 

“That was never the problem,” Samara continued, not allowing Miranda to think that information changed anything. It didn’t.

“Then what is?” Miranda replied. “There’s obviously a connection between us. We both feel it. And if your Code says there’s nothing wrong with that, then--”

“Because I deserve to be alone!” Samara professed. “That is my penance.”

Miranda recoiled. It actually, physically hurt to hear that. “How can you say that?”

“Miranda, listen to me,” Samara implored her, holding her focus. “You are a remarkable woman. You are brilliant and exceptional, in every respect--”

“So are you,” said Miranda.

“No, you are not listening.” Samara raised her hands, determined to continue. “You are so young. You still have so much life ahead of you. So much potential. When others see you, as I have seen you, the entire galaxy will fall at your feet. As it should. You have nothing to gain from me. I am...I am regret, and ruin,” Samara told her, a faint glint of unshed tears in her eyes. “If you truly saw me for what I am, you would know there is only death and misery for you here.”

“I do know you, Samara,” Miranda spoke quietly. “I know that, despite all the tragedy you’ve endured that would break a lesser person, you somehow still manage to wake up each day and choose to be warm, and kind, and good--”

“I am none of those things,” Samara assured her.

“You are to me,” Miranda persisted, undeterred. “I know you are, because you found me when I was at my most jaded, my most cynical, my most closed off--”

“Miranda, no.” Samara shook her head, pleading with her not to feel this way.

“And, instead of rejecting me, you...you reached out to me,” Miranda continued, talking right through any interruption, or resistance. Because this needed to be said. “You made me smile more than anyone has ever made me smile. You showed me that...that opening up to someone you trust and letting yourself be vulnerable around them isn’t a weakness, but that it takes bravery and strength.”

“Please stop this,” Samara begged her, her voice a whisper.

But Miranda didn’t stop. “You single-handedly made me a better person than I was before I met you.” There was no denying that. Without Samara, she wouldn’t have learned from her past mistakes. She would have kept perpetuating the same cycles, and never stopped to reflect on her preconceived notions about what mattered to her, and what made her happy. “So, if you’re unworthy of love, then what does that make me? Because, from where I’m standing...Samara, there aren’t enough superlatives to describe you.”

“Enough!” Samara swept her hand across her body, signalling for this to cease.

But Miranda wouldn’t.

“No.” Miranda pressed forward. She was pouring her heart out. She’d never done this before, because she’d never felt this way about anyone. And, now that she’d started, she couldn’t stop. “Don’t you get what I’m saying? You’re it. You’re it for me. I will never feel the way about anyone else that I feel about you, and I know because I’ve tried, and those efforts failed so hard I didn’t even think the ability to fall in love with someone existed in me, until I met you. You’re not just beyond comparison to everyone else. God, you’re...you’re fucking transcendent.”

“Do not...say these things!” Samara cut her off, her voice so loud and forceful that there was no doubt it bellowed through the whole apartment. Miranda had never heard her raise her voice before, let alone like that. “You know not of what you speak. You love a shadow. Nothing more.”

Miranda’s gaze narrowed. “What is it you think I don’t know, Samara?” she challenged, determined to prove herself. “I know more than you think.”

“I killed the last person I loved!” Samara shot back, refusing to subject herself to that indescribable agony a second time. She would never let that happen again.

“No, you didn’t, Samara. She killed herself,” Miranda curtly replied.

“You know nothing of it!” Samara insisted through her teeth.

“I know everything,” Miranda interrupted, unshaken by what Samara thought were secrets. They weren’t. “I know every little fucked up detail you didn’t want me to know. I know you tried to kill yourself too, and the only reason you failed is that your neighbour found you. I know you blame yourself for Mirala becoming Morinth because you think whatever you said to her the night before her test scared her into running away and melding with her best friend to prove she wasn’t an Ardat-Yakshi. I know the police blamed you and wanted to charge you with something, anything, and that you broke down during your interrogation and told them you blamed yourself for everything too. I know the whole world turned against you for something that wasn’t your fault. I know it all.”

Miranda’s response thrust Samara into stunned silence. Miranda had the decency to look contrite, already seeing the fire of betrayal in steely blue eyes. Exactly like she expected. Exactly why this admission had been so easy to put off.

“There’s nothing about you that’s a mystery to me,” Miranda continued, quieter than before. “I looked into your past when we were aboard the SR-2. I’m surprised you didn’t already assume I did. I mean, this is me we’re talking about.”

As that slowly sank in, Samara stepped away and shook her head. “I am disappointed in you, Miranda. Yet I suppose you are correct; I cannot claim this was a shock,” said Samara, in a tone Miranda had never heard before. “After all, you have at all times been nothing if not transparent about your duplicity.”

Miranda’s eye darkened. That hurt.

“Fuck you, Samara. You don’t get to turn this around on me right now. In case you haven’t noticed, between the two of us, I’m not the one lying.”

“Yes, how very dare I be hurt by your treachery,” Samara countered, looking her in the eye once more, her words laced with biting sarcasm. “I should know better than to criticise you, or confront you with consequences for your actions. After all, you are Miranda Lawson. You can do nothing wrong.”

“I’ll apologise as much as you want later. But that’s not what this conversation is about. So don’t change the subject,” Miranda snapped. 

“What more is there to say?” said Samara, her arms folded across her chest, unwilling to discuss it further. This hadn’t helped. “You know my answer.”

“There is so much more to say, because you’re pulling away and I don’t even know why. To punish yourself for some imaginary sins? Is that it? Look…” Miranda crossed the distance between them, reaching out and gently clasping Samara's hand, guiding it to rest upon her chest, where she could feel her heartbeat. “Whatever this is, I...I want this,” Miranda assured her. “Do you?”

Samara withdrew, resisting the temptation. “What I want is irrelevant.”

“Why is it irrelevant?” Miranda pursued her. “You’re a person, Samara. An incredible one, but still just a person, with feelings, and wants, and needs. You've spent four hundred years being selfless, to a greater degree than your Code required you to be. You don’t have to do that. You’re allowed to feel things. To want things. To need things. You’re allowed to...to move on with your life.”

“Move on?” Samara echoed incredulously. She turned her body away, refusing to look at her, visibly caught up in a tempestuous tumult of conflicting emotions.

Hurt.

Anger.

Grief.

“If you knew me half as well as you claim to, you would understand what an insult it is to me that you would tell me such a thing,” said Samara, shaking her head in contempt and disbelief. “‘Move on with my life’. The audacity...”

“I'm not saying that to get something from you. Genuinely, I'm not. You don't have to...” This wasn’t working, was it? “What I’m trying to say is that, whatever this is between us, this doesn’t have to go the way I want it to. I’m not even sure what that is, or what that would mean. I was so convinced this could never happen. But don't you deserve a bit of happiness?” she asked, trying to catch Samara’s eyes, though she was intent on avoiding her. “If I bring that to you, then—“

Before she could finish, Samara exhaled heavily and stepped closer, until the space between them virtually evaporated. Miranda trembled as she stumbled backwards on instinct, until she could go no further, and hit the wall near the door.

“Do not speak of happiness.” Samara pinned Miranda in place without exerting any force whatsoever. Without touching her. Whatever Miranda had intended to say before swiftly fled her mind. “My happiness died centuries ago. And I promised myself -- I promised myself, I would never...never betray that.”

Miranda moved to protest, but stopped abruptly when it became apparent Samara wasn’t really talking to her, but rather that she was arguing with herself.

“But, I...you were not...you were not part of that plan. I did not foresee how much I would...how much I would come to...” As her dilemma tore at her soul, Samara grimaced and braced herself on the wall, as if in physical pain. “I do not know what to do. I know I do not deserve this, but...perhaps we can, without...”

“Yes,” Miranda all but whimpered. Whatever she meant, her answer was yes.

She wanted this. So bad. Even if it might have been a terrible mistake. Even if it might have ruined everything they already had. At that moment, she didn't care.

Miranda wanted to kiss her. To sink her teeth into her neck, and tear her armour off. Her body was screaming at her to do those things, desperate to touch her, and powerless to resist if this was what Samara chose. But, in what little part of her brain could still think, she knew she had to let Samara take the initiative for whatever happened next. If she didn’t, she would push her away forever.

They probably only stood like that for a few seconds, but time moved so slowly it felt like minutes. Miranda could see the cogs spinning in Samara’s head. The conflict. The indecision. Temptation. Torn between resistance and surrender.

Samara’s fingers brushed her bare arm. She’d leaned so close Miranda felt her breath against her lips. Then, blue eyes went black. And Miranda felt the magnetic sensations she recognised as a meld beneath Samara’s fingertips. 

In an instant, everything changed.

A wave of sheer, uncompromising despair crashed over Miranda, plunging her into the deepest, darkest, blackest abyss she had ever known. It felt as if her very soul had been ripped from her body and murdered in front of her, leaving behind only a hollow, empty shell. Any memory of happiness or joy was stripped from her mind, and shattered into a million pieces at her feet.

She had never felt more devastatingly, crushingly alone.

Bereft of hope.

And, although it had come over her as suddenly as the blink of an eye, it felt like she had never known anything else.

Abruptly, Samara glowed blue, her biotics repelling Miranda, like a barrier between them, pressing her back against the wall. The meld ended only a fraction of a second after it began, leaving both of them visibly shaken. The moment they separated, Miranda's hand flew to her lips, trembling as tears spilled from her eye, coursing down the unscarred side of her face, beyond her control.

Samara staggered backwards, as if she had seen a ghost. “No, I...I cannot.”

“No, don't...” Miranda could hardly speak, overcome by a grief that she could not name. She shook her head. What was happening? She never cried, unless her sister was involved. But this sorrow. It had lasted only a fleeting moment, but it was intense and crushing and it dwarfed any sadness she had ever felt. So much so that it hurt just to breathe. Just to be alive. “I'm sorry, I don't...I'm not...I'm not normally like this. I don't know why this is happening.”

“Because it came from me,” Samara answered, her lips scarcely moving.

“...What did you say?” Miranda lifted her head, staring at Samara, shellshocked. But she hadn’t misheard. Whatever she was feeling, these weren’t her own emotions. In that brief instant that they had started to meld, Samara had inadvertently transferred whatever she was currently feeling onto her. 

“I did not mean for this to happen. I am so sorry. I...I thought I could contain myself. My boundaries. I never wanted you to experience this...” Samara whispered until her words trailed off into silence, confirming it to be true.

That realisation struck Miranda to her core, that agony still permeating her being.

“...Is this how you feel about me?” Miranda asked, a deep, dull ache pooling like lead at the base of her heart at the very thought - that this was how miserable she had made her by putting her in this position. Samara didn’t respond, neither confirming nor denying it. “Is this how you feel all the time?”

“It does not matter. This cannot happen,” Samara stated, her voice hollow.

“Samara.” Miranda reached out for her, but Samara raised her hand, signalling for her not to come closer, convinced this had been a terrible mistake.

“In another time, or another life, this would have been...” Samara didn't finish that thought, shaking her head. “I cannot contemplate this. I must not.”

“So, what? You’re just going to run off again?!” Miranda’s shout was enough to momentarily stop Samara in her tracks. Her throat was strangled with emotions that weren’t entirely her own. But some of them sure were. “Tell me, Samara, when did the strongest woman I’ve ever met turn into such a pathetic coward?”

“This is what I have always been!” Samara hissed in response, despising herself for this horrible misdeed. There was no hint of the stoic, composed, restrained person Miranda previously knew. “I have always been a coward. A fraud. A monster. A mistake. A worthless, selfish waste! I have the blood of over a thousand murders on my hands! I am nothing! I should not even be here!”

“Then why don’t you just fucking go!” Miranda shot back, lashing out in pain.

Samara took her at her word, looking at her one last time before she stormed out. Miranda heard the front door slam. The instant it did, Miranda slid down the wall, tears spilling from her eye, the weight of what just happened combining with Samara’s despair, still coursing through her body.

She felt so cold. Like everything right, or good, or light was just...absent.

There was only shadow.

Only grief.

A shaky exhale escaped her lips. What had she done? This was exactly what she’d been afraid of. She’d told Samara the truth, and pushed her away forever. They would probably never speak again. Not after this.

She didn’t even realise that the door to her room was still open until a few heads peeked around the corner to see her. Obviously, they’d been roused by raised voices, and the door slamming. The walls weren’t that thick. They probably hadn’t heard everything. But they would have heard enough.

“Are you okay, Miss?” Reiley asked, visibly concerned.

Miranda wiped her eye and picked herself up to her feet, refusing to let herself look vulnerable in front of them. Even though it was too late for that. “I’m fine,” she said through gritted teeth, taking her eyepatch off the desk and putting it on.

“You don’t look fine,” Jason pointed out as Miranda limped her way past them.

“Samara left in a hurry. And we heard fighting,” Rodriguez noted, not really sure how to approach this. “...Did you fuck things up between you?” she asked, in what sounded like an effort to be understanding and comforting. It wasn’t. Jason chastised her insensitivity with a light slap to the back of her head. “What? It’s fucking obvious they just had a fight…”

Miranda ignored them, grabbing her things, pulling on her jacket and scarf.

“What are you doing?” said Jason, shaking his head at her. For a second, it almost sounded like he was the responsible adult in the house. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” Miranda answered stonily.

“It’s 1:00am,” Jason pointed out, as if convincing her to see reason.

“I don’t care.” Miranda slipped on her shoes, and took hold of her cane. She couldn’t stay there. Couldn’t lie there and think about this. Couldn’t feel this.

“Are you coming back?” said Reiley, confused.

Miranda was tempted to lash out at them and say no out of sheer bitterness and spite, but she couldn't. Unlike Samara, she didn't run from her problems.

“...I'll see you in the morning,” she said, before she closed the door and left. None of them knew it then, but they would not, in fact, see her in the morning.

And, when they did see her again, they would wish they hadn’t.

So would Miranda.

*     *     *

[jonathanrook]

legally i have to give you intern 2

em you have awoken an ungodly beast inside me so i need to warn everyone that this post is. incomprehensible. but so is mymusic so i guess we're all used to it.

How I feel about this character:

i watched mymusic as it was airing/running/coming out specifically bc i'm a jack stannie, and as a kid melvin was my second favorite character (w scene being in first, obvs) for mostly that reason. he basically hovered around this ranking until my most recent rewatch in the summer of 2020, which was actually spurred by some events in my personal life that vaguely reminded me of scene's season two arc w jeff, and i thought it'd been a funny/nostalgic way to get my mind off things.

(i want to side note here that -- i know you didn't ask, but -- i love jeff. i have since i was a kid. like, obviously not as a person but i think he's honestly the best written character in the series, w indie close in second. idk what it says about the f*nes that their most interesting and well rounded characters are the villains, but i digress. to this day i'm salty that jeff never got added to the theme song and wasn't really included in promotional merch.)

however, in said rewatch, certain things about how he was written started to really get under my skin, and certain moments in particular have really stuck out to me in a negative way. like, for the entirety of season one and a good chunk of season two he's one person, and then he leaves mymusic and we have an entirely different person, but not in a nuanced character building sort of way.

i've said a few of these points before but i'll repeat them here regardless. at the risk of sounding like i've put on a tin-foil hat, it's my sneaking suspicion that scindie was supposed to be endgame, but since fan reception to it was pretty neutral, and scenechart stans were, at the very least, more vocal, changes were made to the intended finale, which is why in the last scene he's basically just. indie. like, if everything about the show was exactly the same but indie was the one who had ended up w scene in the end that would have made so much more sense since a) scene had a crush on indie that he/everyone knew about and b) indie was kind of a dick despite the half-assed attempts at redemption, so both combined make it slightly less weird/out-of-nowhere that he kisses her w/o her consent (since, even though like. implied consent is not real at worst and a fuzzy subject at best but you could argue that scene would want indie to kiss her); and this isn't even taking into consideration that c) melvin is heavily queer-coded in both seasons, with his friendship with nerdcore being, dare i say, homoerotic at times, and his arc about leaving the company and changing his name mirroring nerdcore's almost perfectly (with nerdcore being a character who b*nny [at least] has all but confirmed is actually gay).

i've also been on the fence about melvin's behavior in that final scene making more sense for indie's character being an intentional decision as a way of shoe-horning in a theme about the lasting effects of abuse/cycles of abuse/the corruption of power but i also don't think the f*nes are smart enough for that. however, for the sake of defending my straw theory, i also point to the scene where indie comes to visit the acid factory after melvin told him to shut up, and we see melvin use reggie as a foot-stool, going as far as to say that it feels good to do so (which, in all honesty, i think is a bit that was entirely improvised, since the f*nes were "notorious for never saying cut" [paraphrased from a bts video], but work w me here). he's also given a seltzer mug that perfectly resembles indie's kombucha mug. in these moment melvin is directly emulating the behavior of his previous abuser, purposefully or not, literal moments after being promoted to an equal position of authority, which was totally just included as a joke, but could also be argued is meant to show that he's becoming indie; or, if we acknowledge that the f*nes have no fucking clue what they're doing and were just directing like chickens with their heads cut off, it at least shows that melvin's new position of power is leading him to understand where indie was coming from, which is supported by their conversation in the finale.

the following contains a couple brief mentions of irl sexual assault so if that's something you'd like to avoid skip to the next section!

HOWEVER, that alone isn't what i have a problem with, since i think melvin is completely justified in being a dick to indie (and also reggie enthusiastically consents to being used as an ottoman so good for him i guess). the issue comes completely in how he treats scene in the scenes where the f*nes clearly thought what they were writing was super romantic. like, the fact that the only thing he's got hung on his cubicle wall is a single picture of scene taken from the fucking opening credits (like. how hard would it have been to have. literally any other photo[s] esp since there's an abundance of cute bts pics of the cast in costume that could have been put there) and him scrolling through her twitter at work really creep me out (and at the risk of oversharing the weird, like, social media stalking angle really fucks w me bc that may or may not have been the exact fucking thing i was trying to escape in rewatching mymusic in the first place). also, having him sexually assault scene as a means of comforting her after she had just been sexually assaulted in the same way by someone else was... a choice (which is also, uh, personally familiar).

again, i recognize that demonizing melvin wasn't what the f*nes were trying to do here, and i perhaps seem hypocritical for opening liking jeff, but what makes jeff work is he's intentionally "the bad guy." having melvin do the same things as indie and jeff uncritically only proves further that the f*nes can't write for shit, and ruins his character which had, up until he quit mymusic, been unironically good. like, it's obviously not beneficial that the exact asshole things he does are personally triggering, but the character would still be a mess and i would still dislike him regardless.

i want to say though that jack delivers a surprisingly great performance despite how shoddily his character is constructed and how little experience he has as an actor. like, it's clear he was having a lot of fun on set and i would love to see him in something, like, good; i think he could pull off even like, guest television roles, which is a lot more than can be said for other youtubers.

-----

All the people I ship romantically with this character:

nerdchart should have been canon i'm sorry. i know that close, nonromantic male friendships are valuable, esp between queer men, but also gd wouldn't it have been baller to have a canon interracial mlm ship. like. c'mon. and they could have been such a good friends to lovers story! we already got to see how melvin was the only person nerdcore could really be himself around so it would have been so cool if melvin's self-advocacy arc/flowchart arc had revolved more around nerdcore with a little role-reversal! and then they kiss! like god intended!

also i ship him and indie bc i'm a grubby little gremlin man ohoho. enemies w weird sexual tension? sign me up. not even enemies to lovers i'm not saying this one should have been canon i just love the vibes. do you think melvin and indie ever explored each other's bod-- *gunshot*

-----

My non-romantic OTP for this character:

i wish him and scene had just been bros. god remember in season one when they were just bros that was the life.

alternatively, i wish we'd seen more bonding w him and metal, as a means of reconciling that. uh. moment from season one. along similar lines i would have loved to see him get closer w rayna in a similar way to how she bonded w nerdcore in season two. i think that could have also worked to show how she'd grown between the two seasons.

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My unpopular opinion about this character:

HIM. AND. SCENE. SHOULD. HAVE. JUST. BEEN. BROS. (though i think my general dislike of him is pretty unpopular, lmao).

when the show was coming out i don't think it's unfair to say that scenechart/scenetern 2 was the most popular ship (aside from potentially techstep whatever) but luckily we're all gay and have better taste now. unfortunately i totally fell into this camp and scenechart was even my otp for years (until it was arguably more unfortunately usurped by reddie in 2019) and i didn't even realise that it's a hot mess until, again, the summer of 2020.

when actually watching the show the choices the f*nes made in regards to how the ship actually became canon are so odd and out of place, too? okay, so, on one hand everyone just shipped scenechart bc it was the whitest hettiest ship in the show (esp in season two when idol left) aside from scindie (and we already discussed what's wrong w that). but, on the other hand, lainey and jack clearly also just got along? and i suspect that lainey probably also admired jack's work and was happy to be working with him bc we have so many shots throughout even the first season when the ship wasn't the intended endgame of lainey scene looking really fondly at jack melvin at times when it doesn't make much sense at all, esp since she's smitten w indie? this trend continues into the second season which arguably works but it still seems really out of place for him to be the one to ultimately make the first move on her since it's clear she was the one crushing this whole time and also he's gay! this bitch is gay what the fuck!!

-----

One thing I wish had happened with this character in canon:

at this point i'm struggling to think of anything i haven't covered yet. oops.

i've talked at length before about how he should have been a woman/lesbian, but the tl;dr is that it would have solved a lot of the queer-coding "problems" that just didn't get resolved in the show. if he'd been a lesbian then not only would the friendship w nerdcore still made sense, but scenechart would have as well (not even mentioning that both of scene's other relationships w men make a lot of sense as comphet anyway).

[leviathanswingman]

Touch Up; Solomon/Asmodeus

TW: eating disorders, body image issues

Asmodeus was lounging on the couch, lost in thought in the middle of flipping through a fashion magazine as he felt the most peculiar feeling. It was uncanny, an unbearable tickling filling him from head to toe, prickling almost to a painful degree.

Almost immediately, he knew he had been hit by a magic spell. Although judging from the way he was feeling right now, he could safely say that the culprit hadn't been Solomon. He had been spelled by him a couple of times already, and could safely say that Solomon's magic felt entirely different after all, more intoxicating and not this clumsy. The spell Asmodeus had just been hit by gave him the impression of a toddler taking its first shaky steps.

He sighed deeply as he put down the magazine, stopping dead in his tracks as his gaze fell upon his hands. Instead of seeing slender hands with perfectly manicured nails, he was now faced with slightly more pale, rougher hands, the purple nail polish that was decorating his nails chipping away roughly.

„What in the,“ Asmo mumbled as he rushed towards his full body mirror. What he then saw choked the air out of his lungs.

The only thing that had remained closest to its original form was his face. His body however, had been badly compromised.

Asmodeus studied himself with wide eyes. Going off the clothes he was now wearing, there was no mistaking it. Whoever had hexed him had put him in Leviathan's body, switched out like someone had ripped off the head of a mattel doll and sloppily glued it onto a no brand barbie's body.

��This can't be,“ he muttered in terror. A certain kind of anxiety took a hold of him, heavy and dark, weighing him down so much more intensely than his own occasional bouts of panic would do. His heart was beating up to his chest as shaking fingers travelled over that body that wasn't his, taking note of dry hands, gangly limbs and ripped abs.

Not that Leviathan had a bad body, he was surprisingly ripped for a hikkikomori, and after all, Asmodeus had no problem finding beauty in any kind of body, no matter the shape or form. However, even though he knew how hypocritical it sounded, Asmo couldn't apply those principles to his own self.

As the demon of lust, he was known across Devildom as the most perfect demon to walk the grounds. So to maintain this title, he was stuck in a circle of strict training regimens, daily weigh-ins and caloric restriction to keep up this unattainable perfection. Asmodeus stuck to the perfect calculations of a weight slightly below average, followed by immense guilt and shame whenever it surpassed a certain point. After all, he knew everyone desired him the most when he looked tiny and dainty.

For the majority of his life he had believed otherwise, had clung to the assumption that he would be loved, no matter what, but after a certain incident, his mind had been reset.

The imagine in the mirror looked disturbed to him. Sharp collarbones and slender hands with small wrists, a slightly protruding ribcage and soft yet firm muscles were nowhere to be seen. Asmodeus could practically feel his self worth going down the drain. Everything he had worked for so passionately and desperately was gone. How could people love him when he wasn't the poster child of perfection?

With shuddering breaths, he touched his face, his imagination already painting pictures of decaying skin and rotting teeth.

He stayed like that for a minute, just staring at that version of himself in the mirror, so common yet so painful.

Then, he suddenly heard noise coming from the common room. He took a deep breath, picked himself up and headed towards the door. Considering the fact that he himself had changed so drastically, it was quite logical to assume that he wasn't the only person this had happened to. In the least, Leviathan had to be compromised as well, judging by the fact that Asmo was currently residing in his body.

Before he could even reach the common room he already heard his brother's voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus.

As he entered the room, the first thing he saw was Yuuta trying to calm down his brothers. They all looked incredibly messy.

Mammon was clad in Lucifer's clothing, his body looking more broad and less lanky, looking incredibly inappropriate. He was currently arguing with Satan, whose body had apparently been switched with Asmo's. Levi, sporting Satan's ugly lime green sweater was eyeing the books on the shelves with an uncharacteristic sort of interest.

Asmodeus turned his head, looking for the rest of his brothers. Beelzebub and Belphegor were sitting next to each other in comfortable silence, observing the room, their bodies switched out as well. They seemed to be dealing with this strange situation the best.

Yuuta was standing in the middle of the room as he cleared his throat nervously, looking properly ashamed. “Guys!” he brought out, his voice cracking slightly. “Ahem, guys,” he repeated himself, this time with a sturdier voice. “So I don't really know too much about what happened, but it's my fault, I'm so sorry! Solomon taught me a spell which was supposed to make you switch bodies with the person in front of you.” He worried his lip as his eyes darted from brother to brother. It didn't really work out the way it was supposed to, I'm really sorry.”

Satan sighed in slight annoyance. “It is what it is. Nothing much we can do about it now, so don't feel too bad. Speaking of feeling bad though, shouldn't he feel more guilty?” Satan pointed his finger in the direction of the accused. “Solomon, why did you go ahead and teach Yuuta something like that? Such a spell practically begs for trouble.”

Sitting on one of the couches, one leg crossed over the other, Solomon chuckled quietly. “Hmm, you could say I did it out of  childish curiosity. Anyway, I didn't expect it to turn out like this either. What an an interesting development.”

“I just want my own body back, FML!” Levi cried, looking decently uncomfortable. “Lucifer, fix this please!”

Lucifer, who had just entered the room, not perplexed in the slightest, looking completely out of place in Mammon's bad boy attire, crossed his arms and tilted his head to one side in exasperation. “Levi, I can't just snap my fingers and fix everything. Besides, I already attempted to reverse the spell. It did not work.”

“Huh?!”

“Even Lucifer can't fix it? Then it's that serious?!”

Leviathan pulled at the edges of that horrid lime green sweater which, in Asmo's humble opinion, deserved to be burnt to the prettiest pile of ashes. “Man, this dumb normie sweater is so itchy! I think I need to- Huh?!” Levi stopped in his tracks, pulling at the sweater once again. “ Stupid piece of crap! I can't take it off!”

Lucifer sighed once again. “At least that gives me some kind of reassurance that none of you will cause the bodies any harm.” For one reason or another, Lucifer's gaze was locked on Mammon as he mentioned this.

Asmodeus pulled on one of his sleeves testingly. The fabric really did not budge.

His heart was still racing to his chest and he could feel cold sweat running down the small of his back. In a state like his current one, he couldn't help feeling unclean, dirty.  All he wanted to do was lose himself in the routine of his facial care or the familiar warmth of a bath until he felt perfect and pure again. Then suddenly, realization hit him.

“Wait a sec,does that mean I won't be able to take a bath? There's no way I'm taking one with my clothes on. This hoodie is so heavy, I'd probably drown in it anyway,” Asmo ranted, throwing  himself onto the couch next to Solomon in a moody little fit. “How much more cruel can life get?”

As he sat down he shuffled uncomfortably. He was hyper aware of the feeling of his stomach when he was sitting down and it made him nauseous to the core. Subconsciously, his fingers wrapped around his wrist, measuring the width of it, checking whether his thumb and his pointer could touch.

Instead of sitting normally, Asmo changed his position and leaned against Solomon instead, his body sprawled partially over the couch and partially over Solomon's body.

Lucifer watched his little brother and cleared his throat with a raised eyebrow. At this point, Asmodeus was pretty sure Lucifer had caught on to the fact that there was something going on between Asmodeus and Solomon, but was kind enough to not ask about it. Even if he did ask about it, Asmodeus probably wouldn't know what to say. His relationship to Solomon was special and not easily definable.

“That leaves us no other choice.” Lucifer's eye twitched slightly. “Solomon, if you're not too busy putting your hands all over my little brother, would you mind telling us if there's a counter spell you could use?” he asked as he was tapping his foot on the ground impatiently .

Solomon smiled at Lucifer as he threw his arm around Asmo's shoulders and inched even closer, that challenging smile still on his face. “There is no counter spell, I've already tried everything I could.”

In response, Lucifer's finger's twitched in warning as a dark look crossed over his face. Although surprisingly, he kept quiet in face of Solomon's obvious teasing.

Sensing the weird atmosphere, Yuuta quickly cut in. “Isn't there any other way for them to get their normal bodies back?” he asked Solomon.

For a moment, Solomon simply sat there, thinking about the possibilities they had. ”A way to return everyone back to their normal selves...” he mused. “The best option would be to let those affected know that you care for them, no matter how much their bodies and personalities may have been temporarily altered. In this case, honesty is key. If you lie it won't undo the spell.”

Lucifer nodded his head in understanding. “So what you're saying is that we have to convey our true feelings? That sounds simple enough.”

Asmodeus perked up, his head shortly lifting off Solomon's shoulder. “Oooooh! It sounds like something straight out of a fairy tale,” he gushed half-heartedly. He had spent the last five minutes of their conversation slowly and inconspicuously slouching lower and lower until his head laid on Solomon's chest, listening to his heartbeat. It helped distract him from his own mind when he listened to the rhythmic thumping. To his brothers, it would just look like he was being clingy, which was nothing new for them. After all, in the same way that Asmodeus attracted attention, he was also suspiciously good at evading it.

Belphie rolled back his shoulders to ease any sore muscles, apparently not tired for once. “As long as it's not too much of a hassle. Let's all give it a try.”

For a moment, silence filled the room and the brothers eyed each other awkwardly. “Yeahhh, no. I don't think that's' gonna happen,” Mammon threw in and Beel nodded.

“I don't think we're capable of expressing stuff like that, I agree with Mammon.”

“I don't know if I can agree with you two,” Asmodeus threw in. “But I think someone in this room certainly cares enough about us to be fitting for the job.”

The room was filled with silence as most of their gazes shot to Yuuta. Solomon was busy checking his fingernails as the brothers sat there in momentary awkward silence.

“Why is everyone looking at me?!” Yuuta panicked. “Stop looking at me like-” he paused and then pointed at his chest, eyebrows lifted high. “Do you mean me??”

Asmodeus made finger guns towards him. “Bingo, it's you! It's safe to say that we're all counting on you to break the spell!”

They all started talking all over each other again until Lucifer announced that the first turn would be his. He lead Yuuta out of the room, his hand hovering inches apart from Yuuta's back, both of them looking quite uncomfortable.

“Damn, I would pay good money to see this,” Mammon drawled as he leaned against the door frame, looking after the two. “Lucifer better not try to do anything dirty to my dearest Yuuta!”

Picking up a book and putting it down almost immediately after, Satan chuckled. “There's no one more emotionally repressed than these two. I can ensure you that the only thing happening over there will be awkward small talk. Anyway, I don't feel like wasting my time waiting, so I'm heading out.” He waved with one hand as he left the room.

Slowly but surely, they all trickled out of the room, minding their own business.

In the end, Asmodeus and Solomon were the only people left. A heavy sigh left Asmo's lips as he snuggled against Solomon for a moment more, taking comfort in his warmth.

“Will you now tell me what's been bothering you?” Solomon eventually asked as he slowly let his fingers run through Asmodeus' hair.

The demon went stiff in his arms and suddenly sprung up. “You're imagining things!” he quickly brought out, turning his back to Solomon. “There really is nothing wrong with me, I just remembered I need to be somewhere, that's all!” he yapped on before turning around for a second, flashing Solomon a blinding, yet obviously put on smile. “I have never been better!”

“Asmod-” Solomon started, but Asmo had already bolted out of the room.

Although Asmodeus was dazzling in person and character, he was a terrible liar, had always been one and would always stay one.

Perhaps, Solomon had grown used to the demon after having spent so much time with him, had grown used to deciphering the hidden messages which were out in plain sight and had learned to figure out Asmodeus' true character, not the persona he put up so effortlessly.

After all, he could tell that Asmodeus was not coping well. He had been twitchy and on guard ever since the spell had gone backwards, a state that seemed rather unusual for him.

With all of their bodies and possibly also parts of their personalities swapped, Solomon knew he wouldn't find Asmodeus at one of his usual spots. He had to find him though. Solomon reached inside his pocket and pulled out his spell book. Of course, he could just summon Asmodeus through their pact, but something told him that that wouldn't be the correct approach at the moment. He flipped through the pages, looking for the tracking spell he knew had to be in there.

After having fled so cowardly, Asmodeus found himself taking refuge in Levi's room. He couldn't tell what had led him there, but he found himself feeling slightly less panicked over there, alone and encased by four stony walls, the room softly illuminated by the giant aquarium. Pulled over his head was the thickest blanket he could find, bringing him a childish sense of security. He tried not to think as he trembled under the weight of his thoughts.

If there was one thing he couldn't deal with, it was his emotions. Usually, he'd carefully repress them, wouldn't think about them on purpose and lose himself in the safety of a warm body worshipping him. Now, that safety had been taken from him, mixed in with Levi's feeble state of mind, forming a whirlwind of disaster.

Without thinking, Asmo grabbed a controller that was near him on the ground and switched on one of Levi's consoles, almost as if he'd been doing this for all his life. Mindlessly, he started playing a game which didn't require too much attention, thankful for the distraction.

After a while, he heard footsteps behind him and paused the game, pulling the blanket further over his head as he took his knees closer to his body. Maybe if he stayed like this the intruder would mistake him for a rock or a gigantic pillow and just leave him be. All of a sudden, he felt someone touch the blanket on his head, hand resting there before the person stepped around Asmo's body.

The first thing Asmo saw were boots, followed by legs clad in their school uniform. Then, the person kneeled down in front of him, hands grabbing either side of the blanket that had been framing Asmodeus' head.

“I think we both interpret 'there's nothing wrong' in different ways,” Solomon said as he stared at Asmodeus' face. “You look like there's plenty of things wrong, so don't fault me for being worried.” Carefully, he placed his hand on Asmo's cheek, only for Asmodeus to turn his head away from it.

“Stop it with the act,” he mumbled, letting go of the blanket and hugging himself tightly before dropping his hands quickly down onto his lap. “I'm disgusting, aren't I? It must take you so much effort to even look at me. I wish nobody could see me like this, I'm a nightmare!” he forced out, limbs trembling as he shook his head. “See?! How can I live looking like this! I am the Avatar of Lust, and look at me! I am not perfect, my skin is breaking out and my hands are dry! I am the definition of a disaster! How could people ever love me when I'm not the picture of perfection? I worked fucking hard to have the perfect weight, the most agreeable personality and the most alluring of presences. No one can lift the spell when I'm like this! Everyone-”

Solomon inched closer as he shushed Asmodeus, eyebrows drawn together. “No one will think of you any different. Your emotions are being negatively influenced right now since you are in Leviathan's body. If you would just-”

Terror was painted on Asmo's face. “If I would do what? What, if I would just calm down everything will be alright? Is that what you're trying to say?” A dry laugh escaped his lips as he tilted  his head backwards, staring at the ceiling. He took in a shuddering breath to calm himself. “Do you know what happened the last time I got sidetracked and let myself go a bit?” he asked, his lips trembling. “It was all over the tabloids. The whole thing was more of a scandal than that one  time someone had secretly taken a photo of Lucifer sneaking into Diavolo's chambers late at night. All the magazines were all over me, saying the same thing over and over. Asmodeus is losing his charm! The Avatar of Lust has gained weight! Asmodeus is looking more healthy and less thin these days?!” A tear rolled down his cheek and he wiped it away furiously. “ There's no pleasing them, no matter what I do I am not enough. So excuse me if I can't believe you when you say blatant lies like you're worried about me. I've learned and I now know better. People love me for my body and that's it. They see what I want them to see and whatever's left just doesn't matter in the end.”

Solomon gripped Asmodeus' face, forcing him to look him in the eyes. Asmodeus blinked back at him out of teary eyes.

“Look at me, Asmodeus. We are in a pact, aren't we?”

“Y-yes.”

“And you know me. Would I form a pact out of grossly superficial ulterior motives?” Solomon asked bluntly.

Slowly, Asmodeus shook his head. “You would never do that,” he muttered as Solomon started to stroke his cheek. Subconsciously, Asmo leaned in to the touch.

“You're right. After all, I formed a pact with you because you are powerful and dangerous. The way you look couldn't bother me any less. You are charming and you elude the most alluring of energies, that's why I find you so irresistible. What other people say does not matter, they don't know you like I do,” he said firmly. “They don't need you like I do.”

In the blink of an eye Asmodeus threw his arms around Solomon, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Wet tears started to stain Solomon's clothes, yet he remained in place, putting his arms around Asmodeus as a soft light started to surround them and the spell finally lifted itself.

“There, there,” Solomon mumbled as he softly let his fingers run through Asmo's hair. For several minutes the demon didn't move an inch. He simply took solace in the comfort of Solomon's body. Eventually, he lifted his head again and distanced himself a little.

Solomon took Asmo's hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it lightly. “All better now?”

Asmodeus simply stared at Solomon until his gaze wandered over to his hand. Now, he saw nothing but his perfectly manicured nails,chipped purple nails nowhere in sight. He had changed back.

“How-” he started, but then froze in place as realization hit him. His eyes widened. “Solomon...” he whispered as the man in question still held his hand softly. “Did you just-”

“Use magic? No.”

“Then why did I change back?” he asked reluctantly.

Solomon froze in place and shifted slightly uncomfortably.

He was one of the greatest sorcerers the world had ever seen, yet dealing with intimacy and most of all honesty was incredibly difficult for him. He generally preferred to be seen as a mysterious, unreadable man. For Asmodeus however, he had to make an exception and jump over his own shadow. “I figure the requirements to lift the spell have been... fulfilled,” he finally said and Asmodeus' face lit up reluctantly.

He already felt much better, taken the fact that he was back in his own body. His thoughts were still racing, his insecurities much too obvious, but the missing presence of Levi's anxiety helped alleviate his mood a whole lot.

For a moment, Asmo pondered over Solomon's words. The wheels in his head were turning until he finally came to a conclusion. “Oh!” he exclaimed softly, feeling uncharacteristically shy. Slowly,he reached out towards Solomon, grabbing the jacket of his school uniform. “Can I-” he nodded towards Solomon's chest.

Solomon simply nodded. “Go ahead.”

Quickly, Asmodeus took off Solomon's coat before starting to work on his shirt, hands that were still shaking undoing the buttons skilfully. Seconds later, Solomon was sitting there, chest exposed, countless of sigils littering his skin. On his chest,right over his heart was the one Asmo had been looking for; the sigil that had sealed the pact between them.

Carefully, he let one finger run along the dark lines as he felt a light buzzing running through his body. Looking at the sigil, at the sign that depicted the importance of their bond, filled Asmodeus with the gooey-est feeling of pride. A deep sigh escaped his lips as he lowered his head to plant a soft kiss on Solomon's chest, right over his heart where their sigil was. He planted a few more butterfly kisses all over until he pulled himself up, one hand on Solomon's shoulder, the other on the base of his neck.

“Thank you,” he mumbled as he closed in, brushing his lips against Solomon's in an innocent manner. Solomon smiled against his lips in relief.  

“My pleasure,” he simply said, knowing that when he was with him, he didn't need to explain himself for Asmodeus to understand. They didn't need big words or empty phrases. Their bond was strong and alive. As long as they could support each other without any limits, they would be fine, since from the moment they met, they'd been connected by the string of fate.

Asmodeus deepened the kiss, his hands roaming over Solomon's body lazily. Time around them seemed to slow down as they simply relished in each other's company. Solomon parted ways with Asmodeus' lips as he made his way down his neck, leaving soft kisses before he started to softly suck on the skin, taken over by a certain kind of possessiveness. Noticing what Solomon had in mind, Asmo simply tilted his head to the side, granting him better access.

After all, Solomon found himself to be quite possessive when it was about Asmodeus. He wanted to mark him all over so the world could see how loved he was and how appreciated he was, no matter what everyone else thought or said. Asmodeus was, after all, perfect in every way and deserved to be treated accordingly.

Just as Solomon brushed his tongue over a big hickey he'd just left, someone knocked on the door and they both jumped a bit in surprise. Seconds later, Yuuta entered the room. “Asmo?” he asked  before his eyes zoomed in onto Solomon and Asmodeus.

For a split second, they all just stared at each other without saying a word, Yuuta standing in the doorway, Asmo straddling a shirtless Solomon who had one arm wrapped tightly around Asmodeus' midsection and the other on his neck. None of them moved.

“I- I guess I'm not needed here!” Yuuta finally blurted out, slamming the door behind him as he rushed out of the room.

Solomon and Asmodeus stared at each other, perplexed for a moment before breaking out in laughter.