#CALM. important distinction that i felt calm and NOT subdued in any way. i did not in any way feel muted

[boilingheart]

Honest to god?

This was the most sane I've felt in years.

Today's my first stay starting on antidepressants, I hope they don't make me worse LOL

[thelastspeecher]

D&D AU - Elf Kid Adventures, Finale

I’m calling this “Elf Kid Adventures” even tho the only person who is a kid for any amount of time in it is Stan, and it’s for like five minutes, because that’s what I called the previous installments of this story arc, here and here.

Do you want some D&D-themed angst?  Here’s some D&D-themed angst!  Plus more McGuckets trying to set up the good ship Stangie.  Enjoy.

——————————————————————————————

              Stan stood in front of Mrs. McGucket, nervously watching as she set out various spellcasting ingredients.  The McGucket parents had finally come up with a way to remove the curse, and Lute had suggested Stan go first.  Thankfully, the McGucket parents insisted that the spell be done without Angie or Lute observing, as they might cause distractions. As such, the siblings were inside the house while the spellcasting happened outside.  Mr. McGucket squeezed Stan’s shoulder.

              “Don’t worry, son.  Sally’s the best sorceress you’ll ever meet.  Even if the curse don’t get removed right, the sit’ation won’t get worse.”  Stan nodded.

              Dunno how much I believe that.  He had never informed the McGucket parents of his orcish heritage, so they were in for a surprise.  If the curse reversal worked properly.

              “All right, Mearl, get over here,” Mrs. McGucket said.  Mr. McGucket smiled reassuringly at Stan, then joined his wife.  “Ready, Stanaximus?”

              “As I’ll ever be,” Stan said weakly, excitement and dread warring within him.  Mrs. McGucket raised her hands.  Stan closed his eyes.  He let out a gasp at the sensation of being splashed with a bucket of cold water. This was quickly followed by all the growing pains he’d had in puberty, occurring at the same time.  He barely subdued the cry of pain at his tusks tearing through his gums.

              “Oh, no,” Mrs. McGucket whispered.  Stan opened his eyes.  The McGucket parents stared at him in horror.  Mrs. McGucket covered her mouth, tears sparkling in her silver eyes.  “Oh, no!”

              “Now, calm down, dear,” Mr. McGucket said quickly. “Stan actually told me not long ago he was the subject of an additional curse, passed down from his father.  This is prob’ly the result of that.”

              “I don’t-” Stan started.  He paused.  The distinctive rasp to his voice was back, as was its lower pitch.  Wordlessly, Mr. McGucket handed Stan a small mirror. Stan looked at his reflection.  A male orc with golden eyes, pale skin, and pointed ears looked back.  Weight he hadn’t realized he was carrying lifted from his shoulders.

              I’m me again.  Stan prodded his tusks, fighting back a smile.  Damn, I was dumb to think staying a kid was preferable to this.

              “Is Mearl right?” Mrs. McGucket asked.  Stan looked up.

              “About what?”

              “That yer appearance is from the curse ya got from yer father.”

              “No,” Stan said.  Mrs. McGucket let out a soft gasp.

              “I messed up!”

              “Should we try to put the curse back on him?” Mr. McGucket asked his wife.

              “No, don’t,” Stan said quickly.

              “Son, ya look like an orc,” Mr. McGucket said gently. Stan took a deep breath.

              It’s okay to tell them the truth.  They love you.  They even gave permission to court Angie.  Not that you needed it.

              “That’s because I am,” he confessed.  The McGuckets stared at him blankly.  “I’m half-elf and half-orc.  When I was a kid, I looked like my mom, but when I got older, I looked like my pops.”  The confusion on Mr. McGucket’s face warped into rage.  He grabbed his nearby staff and pointed it at Stan, the end of the weapon mere inches from Stan’s throat.

              “Leave,” he snarled.  Stan felt like he was being doused with cold water again.

              “What?”

              “Get off my property, boy!” Mr. McGucket roared. Stan looked to Mrs. McGucket for help, but she merely continued to stare at him in shock.

              “I’m-” Stan tried.  Mr. McGucket made a gesture.  Thorny vines burst out of the ground, lashing Stan’s ankles.  “Ow!”

              “You lied to us!”  The fatherly twinkle in Mr. McGucket’s eyes was gone.  “This whole time, you claimed to be an elf, but you were orc.  You pretended to be somethin’ you weren’t.”  At the harsh words from the previously gentle and warm Mr. McGucket, something snapped in Stan.

              “Fine!” he growled, baring his tusks.  Mr. McGucket blanched.  Stan felt a twisted satisfaction in causing the man to be visibly unnerved.  “You want me to go?  I’ll go! After everything you told me, that you never turn down people to help for their race, I expected better from you. But you’re just as bad as all the other elves I’ve met!”  Before he could see the effect of his words on the McGuckets, Stan turned on his heel, fleeing into the woods.

-----

              Stan slumped against the trunk of a large oak tree, staring up at the small bits of blue sky he could see through the forest’s thick canopy.  Desperately, he tried to hold back the tears prickling the corners of his eyes.

              You’re not gonna cry.  You’re not gonna cry.  Sure, the first person who acted like a halfway decent dad to you just chased you away from his home, but-  There was a faint rustling.  Stan reached for his dagger, only to find nothing there.  Shit.  I left my weapons at the farm.

              “Stan?” a voice said softly.  Stan looked over.  Angie melted out of the woods; like her father, she blended in with the trees almost perfectly.

              “I see you’re back to normal,” Stan grunted. Returned to her proper young adult age, Angie sat next to him.  The sunlight trickling through the leaves dappled her hair.  “How much of the shitshow did you hear?”

              “Not much.  But we were watchin’ from a window, so we saw it all,” Angie said.

              “We?”

              “Lute ‘n I.”

              “Great,” Stan muttered.  “The guy who hates me most saw your parents kick me off their property.”

              “Now, I highly doubt I hate ya more than anyone else in the world might,” Lute said, emerging from the woods to join his sister. He was also back to being a young adult. “What about all the people you’ve robbed?”  Stan rolled his eyes.  “Anyways, if I hated you, I wouldn’t have stuck up fer ya.”  Stan’s head whipped up.  “I’m surprised, too.”

              “The second we saw things goin’ south, we raced outside, but we were too late,” Angie said.  Lute sat next to her.  “You were already gone.  And Ma ‘n Pa were fit to fry.”

              “I shouldn’t have been surprised that they were racist.  Elves never treat orcs well,” Stan said.  Angie raised an eyebrow.  Stan sighed. “Present company excluded.”

              “They weren’t upset you were an orc, though they definitely don’t exactly have a good opinion of ‘em,” Angie said.  “They were upset you lied to ‘em.  Tellin’ the truth is important to ‘em.”

              “Then why didn’t you tell them I was an orc the second I started lying?”

              “It weren’t my truth to tell,” Angie said with a shrug.  “And…” She sighed.  “I was worried that yer concern was well-founded, that my folks wouldn’t respond well to the truth.”

              “Thanks for the heads-up.”

              “I’m sorry things went down the way they did.”

              “You should be,” Stan said shortly.  One of Lute’s eyes twitched.

              “Maybe in the future, you should also not try to hide somethin’ this big from allies,” he retorted.  Stan opened his mouth to argue, but couldn’t find fault in what Lute had said.

              “…Fair,” he muttered.  Angie put a hand on his shoulder.

              “Are ya ready to come back to the farm?” she asked. Stan shook his head.  “All right.”  Angie leaned against him.  Stan’s heart began to race.  “I’ll wait with ya until you are.”

-----

              Stan pulled the drawstrings of his pack tight. The bag was fit to burst, filled with enough provisions to last them the trip back three times over.  Angie and Lute had already left the kitchen, apparently because they knew the trick to packing all the food their parents insisted they take. Mrs. McGucket, hovering nearby, swooped in.

              “I do want to apologize again for our reaction to your adult form,” she said softly, resting a hand on Stan’s shoulder. Stan shrugged his pack on.

              “C’mon, Mrs. McGucket.  You’ve apologized a million times.  Where’s that sun elf dignity?” he teased.  Mrs. McGucket smiled.  After Stan had come back with Angie and Lute, the McGucket parents practically fell over themselves in apologizing.  Stan didn’t feel as positively about them as he had before the curse was removed, but he also didn’t feel as negatively as he had when they chased him off the farmstead. He could hear his mom’s voice in the back of his head.

              “There will be a lot of people who have a negative reaction when they first meet you.  If they don’t move on from it, by all means, hold it against them.  But if they try to grow as people, if they work to know you as the wonderful young man you are, let them.  Learning to be a better person is, I think, more important than being born one.”

              “I was never one to follow the sun elf ideals,” Mrs. McGucket said.  Stan nodded.

              “You’d get along with my mom,” he said.  Mrs. McGucket’s smile broadened.

              “From what you have told me, I agree,” she replied. Stan picked an apple off the kitchen table.  “Maybe I’ll have a chance to meet her at the wedding.”  The apple slipped out of Stan’s hand.

              “What?” he asked.  Mrs. McGucket sighed.

              “Mearl said he passed along that you have our blessing to court Angie.”

              “Well, yeah, but that was before you guys found out I was half-orc.”  Stan stared at her.  “You don’t have a problem with that?”  Mrs. McGucket shook her head.  “Really? No concerns about potential future grandchildren having orcish blood?”

              “Look, once Lute stood up for you, Mearl and I knew we had made a horrible mistake,” Mrs. McGucket said softly.  “For him to tell us we were wrong, after what he went through during ranger training…”  Mrs. McGucket trailed off.  Stan didn’t know the details, but apparently, Lute had some sort of traumatic experience involving orcs while training to be a ranger.  Angie claimed that was the reason Lute had hated Stan on sight.

              “Yeah, I was pretty surprised by that, too.”

              “You’re a good man, Stanaximus, half-orc or not. We’d be honored to have you join our family.”  Mrs. McGucket took a hold of his hand.  “Don’t be afraid to try.”

              Why do they keep pushing this?  I mean, yeah, I’d be an idiot to not make a move.  But they won’t stop telling me that!

              “Why won’t you and Mr. McGucket let this drop?”

              “Because I almost didn’t act on my feelings for Mearl.”

              “You didn’t?  With how you and Mearl talk about it, you abandoned your whole life on a whim.”

              “It felt like that, yes,” Mrs. McGucket said with a sigh.  “But in reality, I nearly lost my nerve.  It’s a big decision, leaving your family and everything you know.”

              “Yeah…” Stan said quietly, thinking of the day he left home.  Mrs. McGucket smiled ruefully.

              “Yes, I thought you would understand.”  Stan nodded.  “But I did leave my home for Mearl, and I’ve never felt that was a mistake, not even for a moment.  Don’t allow yourself to have regrets in love, Stanaximus.”  To Stan’s shock, Mrs. McGucket embraced him.  “Best of luck on your journey,” she said in Elvish.  Recognizing the traditional farewell, Stan completed it.

              “And best of joy while you stay,” he replied in Elvish.  Mrs. McGucket squeezed him as tightly as she could, which wasn’t much, given her sylph-like figure and how bulky Stan was.  She let him go.  Stan picked up the apple he’d dropped and exited the farmhouse.

              “It’s ‘bout time!” a voice said.  Stan turned.  Angie stood up from the stump she’d been sitting on.  “Ya took so long that Lute went ahead.”

              “Really?” Stan asked, pocketing his apple.

              “Yeah.”  Angie cocked her head, a ghost of a grin on her lips.  “But I knew you’d be hopelessly lost without a guide, so I stuck ‘round.”

              “I’d figure it out eventually,” Stan said dismissively.  “I definitely have enough food to last me for however long it’d take to find my way back.” Angie laughed.  Stan’s heart melted at the sound.

              “Yeah, Ma ‘n Pa go a bit nuts makin’ sure we’ve got supplies.  Now, c’mon, we can make it back ‘fore night falls, but only if we get goin’ now.”

              “All right, all right.”  Stan walked over.  The two headed into the forest.  “So, Lute’s really not gonna be going back with us?”

              “Nope!  Like I said, he went ahead.  My guess? He’s been so nice to you lately that he wants some time apart.  Can’t lose that important tough-guy image or whatever,” Angie said.  Stan snorted.  “It’s just us.”

              “Good,” Stan said.  Angie eyed him.

              “Why?” she asked warily.  Stan noticed, to his disgust, that his palms were sweaty.

              Really?  Still? I thought I left that behind when I stopped being a kid.  Well, whatever.  At least I’m not a mess of anxiety and hormones anymore.  Stan grinned at Angie.

              “I’ve got a question to ask you.”

[lavendertwilight89]

Making Amends

Got an ask like forever ago whooooops for a Sess, Inu, and Kag relationship building one from @inuyashaloverforever

I think it will be two parts but here was a good place to end it for now to give something for her to enjoy and keep her wanting more bahahahaahaha 

Posted to Ao3

I’m sorry but not

Rated Teen

tags:

@superpixie42  @cstormsinukagblog @willowandfog @inuyashaloverforever @xfangheartx @clearwillow  @umacaking @bluejay785 @smmahamazing @murdergiraffe @faulkner-blog @sapphirestarxx @swaggingtomboy @sarah-writes-stories @hnnwnchstr @wolverine1092

Inuyasha and Kagome had been mated for about six moons when Kagome noticed some distinct changes in herself. She felt like her hearing had heightened—she could hear people approaching far above what she had used to. It wasn’t as strong as Inuyasha’s, but even he thought it had grown stronger.

Her sense of smell almost grew better. Or worse. Honestly, she felt like the latter. Especially when she found out she was pregnant. That particular change was her least favorite. More often than she liked, she wound up sick and confined in the house making Inuyasha cook dinner at Sango’s or Kaede’s.

At night, she even noticed a difference with her eyesight. It came in handy when a certain half-demon wanted to make love by the Sacred Tree; not that she was ever opposed to that. It was comforting that even after all those years, they found such comfort in the place where they first met. 

Since her first missed bleeding, Sesshomaru had started coming around more and more. Kagome knew from Inuyasha that he had been more present in the village since Rin was left with Kaede. Something that had surprised Kagome since she knew how protective he was of the little girl. But now, it had become like the village was his second home.

While Inuyasha had reservations about Sesshomaru, he had become accepting of his brother and the added protection he offered. Only a few times had the village been attacked in the past three years the jewel had been destroyed, but when they did show up, they meant business. Sesshomaru had stayed near Kagome, keeping her and the demon away from each other. Inuyasha finished it off quickly knowing Kagome was safe.

One afternoon while Inuyasha was working in the forest with some villagers who needed more trees for wood, she felt Sesshomaru’s presence nearby.

She hesitated to call out to him as she stepped out of the hut but decided to test the new waters of the relationship he seemed like he was starting to want, “Brother?”

She heard a quiet scoff but he emerged from the tree line, not annoyed oddly enough, but still fairly unemotional.

“Would you like to join me for tea?” she offered hopeful he would accept the invitation.

“...As you wish,” he said as he made his way towards her.

She stepped back into her hut and poured them both a fresh cup. They sat in silence. To say it was awkward was an understatement. What does one say to a daiyoukai? Small talk was likely out--but with her nerves that was all she could currently think of--Stupid! Think of something!!

“Calm your nerves, miko.”

“Sorry,” she exhaled. “I just, uh, don’t want to bore you or annoy you with small talk but I’m told I babble when I’m nervous. Just something I’ve always done. You should ask Inuyasha about our journey to find the jewel shards. I mean--”

“No need to hide who you are. You are mated to my idiot brother. You are now family.”

“You consider Inuyasha family?” she exclaimed softly.

“He is the second son of the Inu-no-Taisho. He aided in the destruction of Naraku. He unlocked the full power and form of Tessaiga. One cannot overlook such accomplishments.”

Leave it to Sesshomaru to look at this as a logical thing rather than an emotional thing. Well… that actually made her question things. Inuyasha only knew the basics about his heritage and what Myouga had taught him. His instincts were what guided him in other areas, though he couldn’t quite tell her why they demanded certain things than others.

“Sesshomaru… forgive me if this is a rude question but uhm… do demons… have feelings?”

He stared at her impassively. Whoops. Wrong questions?

“I-I-I mean obviously you feel things! God that was a stuid question--what I meant was--uh--how do I put this??”

“Priestess,” he said as if he was exasperated. 

“Right, right, we’re family. I can be myself, hahahaa,” she laughed nervously. When she returned to the feudal era to be with Inuyasha, never once in a million years would she have thought she would be sitting having tea with Sesshomaru. 

“Demons feel things differently than humans,” he offered. She was surprised he answered. 

“What… uhm… what do you mean by differently?”

“Are these questions revolving around your mate? Or demons in general?” 

“No; Inuyasha and I are able to communicate our feelings perfectly fine. This is more of a… question for you and other demons. Uhm, I guess I,uh, also am wondering about his instincts. He doesn't’ always know why they tell him things. Myouga only knows so much about inuyoukai.”

“Do you not house the kit? His scent fills the house. He could have likely explained this to you.”

“Uh, yes, but Shippo is so young. And honestly I’d feel odd asking those kinds of questions to my son.”

“So you’d prefer to ask your ‘brother’?” It was more of a statement than a question but she responded with a nod. “Very well… yes. Demons feel. The emotions are a bit different than in comparison to mortals but overall, similar. Demons become devoted to their partners. It is what human’s refer to as love. When demons decide to mate, it is not a passing or fleeting feeling like some humans often choose to do. Our instincts can sense who would be the most compatible mate and slowly our devotion grows into adoration, or love. It can often be more intense than what humans feel. While a mortal man may defend his family, he could not summon a baser instinct to save the family. Demons will sacrifice themselves by summoning their baser self. Hence why our father died for Inuyasha’s human mother. He was gravely injured but refused to allow her to come to harm.”

“Does… Inuyasha know that?”

“Instinctually, his demon state would take control if you or your pup were in danger.”

“I meant about your father and his mother.”

“No. At least, I have not told him as much.”

“Why… uh, why tell me then? Why not share with him?”

“Our relationship is strained.”

“Why not uhm… un-strain it then?” she prompted.

“The wounds I have once inflicted are not so easily overturned, miko.”

“Kagome. Or sister. But no title references; as you said, we are family.”

“Indeed… little sister.”

“Inuyasha, while he’s still gruff on the surface, has learned to forgive. Trust. I think if you talked to him things would change.”

“Perhaps you are correct.”

“Then you’ll consider trying to mend your relationship?”

“In time… Kagome.”

She smiled at the use of her name. “I will also speak with my mate. I’m sure he’ll want our pup to have as much family that he can,” she added stroking her swollen abdomen. She was already showing at four months in and slightly suspected the possibility of multiple pups but until Inuyasha confirmed it or Sesshomaru corrected her, she would refer to the fetus as a singular entity.

“Pups, you mean.” Whelp. That confirmed that theory.

“I had a sneaking suspicion there were two in there. Inuyasha always got weird when we talked about the pup--well pups,” she corrected.

“Likely fearing you’d subdue him after only being mated for ten moons and already whelped you with multiple pups.”

Oh. My. Gods. Sesshomaru was joking. He was joking with her!!! Yes it was an accurate statement but she could tell her had added just a flare of humor! She giggled in response.

“Is there another reason you’d want to stay? Not that I don’t want you to--I love Rin. She’s become an important part of our pack we made and I know she’s very important to you as well. I’d love for you to join us--not saying you’re not family--or not pack--I mean--”

“Sister…” he looked at her out of the corner of her eye that held a slight glint of laughter.

“Right-right sorry. Pregnancy has made my nerves worse,” she laughed.

“The pups deserve their heritage… as does my brother. He deserves to be trained further. As you do you, sister. After mating, I know you experienced changes.”

“Yes,” she bit her lip. “Myouga was only able to tell us so much since your lord father passed before he could fully mate Inuyasha’s mother.”

“Indeed. The bond you share is allowing your auras to merge. It happens between mortals and demons. It was unexpected to occur between Inuyasha and yourself, miko. But he only continues to grow stronger… something he must credit to you.”

“Thank you for that Sesshomaru. I’m sure you can say the same about Rin.”

“Hn.”

She smiled knowing that was as much as she was going to get from the daiyoukai on the subject. Rin was fourteen and a handful. Suitors were coming and going like mad and she refused them all. Kagome held her suspicions as to why and obviously Sesshomaru was going to neither deny nor confirm her thoughts. But the fact he had grown more caring to Inuyasha, saved him from his demon state, spared Kohaku, hunted down Naraku, and gave up the fight to claim Tessaiga for himself all for the little girl was a dead give away.

“May I ask something else?”

“If you must,” Sesshomaru said impassively. 

“Does scent have anything to do with a demon finding the mate?”

“Yes. It is what lures a demon to begin to try and court their mate forming the connection. It is where devotion begins.”

“I see…” She pondered if that was why Sesshomaru kept Rin with him to even begin with.

About to add more to the conversion, she sensed her mate returning. Sesshomaru obviously did as well as he made to stand but Kagome waved her hand down to keep him seated. 

“Now would be a perfect time as any to start mending those bridges, Sesshomaru. Please, stay?” she asked kindly.

For the first time in… EVER she swore she saw the great dog demon look uncomfortable. SESSHOMARU. UNCOMFORTABLE. WHAT WAS HAPPENING?!!?

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Inuyasha said without much gruff as he pushed back the mat as he entered the hut.

Sesshomaru stared at his brother with a hint of annoyance. Kagome sighed and realized it would be harder than she anticipated for them to work out their issues. Sesshomaru was willing to try… he also may have made it clear to her that Inuyasha would do anything for her--or at least his demon side would.

“Inuyasha, why don’t you come sit down and join us?” she asked, trying to add a twinkle to her eye to entice her mate.

He glared at her but huffed as he complied with her request. He took up position behind her and pulled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her and brushed her abdomen lovingly while he rumbled out a low growl. She looked back and him rolling her eyes. Dominance. Obviously a dog-demon thing. Though it was odd, Sesshomaru did not growl in return, he merely looked on. He just observed them as they sat in front of him.  Did he want a mate? Did he want family?

“Inuyasha, Sesshomaru and I were just talking about demonic traits and how they relate to human things. He also said he could explain the changes going on because of our mate bond,” she said, nuzzling his neck. Her plot to butter him up seemed to be working as he seemed to relax little by little.

“Why?”

“It was just conversation. You know how I babble,” she laughed cheerily pressing a kiss to his chin.

“I know what you’re doing,” he rumbled softly into her ear.

“It’s working so I’m going to keep doing it,” she purred in return.

“Fine… what do you want?”

“I think you two should talk about your relationship.”

“WHAT?!?!” he bellowed.

“I can leave the room if you’d prefer to talk in private,” she offered cheekily. His arms tightened around her and he growled making her giggle.

“If you’re done,” Sesshomaru prompted annoyed at the displays of affection. Inuyasha and her were a little more touchy-feely than they had ever been previously. Well ever. But since she returned through the well, it was almost like they had to--it was the only way to feel whole and safe.

“While demons are more expressive in their mate bonds, I do not need to see a full grown dog drool over his mate like a juvenile.”

Kagome blushed madly while Inuyasha scoffed, “Alright ya bastard… Why are you here?”

“Kagome offered tea.”

Inuyasha’s eyebrow raised in skepticism, “And you thought, ‘What the hell? Why not! Not like I’ve said more than ten words to my brother in the past five years that didn’t involve dying or trying to run him through with a sword’!”

“Inuyasha,” Kagome warned.

“What?! That’s a fair question!”

“It is, little sister. After much thought, I thought we should try to mend our bridges. Rebuild the family. Our Pack… Especially because you are expanding your own.”

“Why care now? You had your chance hundreds of years ago--why now?”

“Because you have proven yourself, idiot. You have proven to be far more powerful than our father. I… was wrong. I was angry our father chose you over me. Is that what you’d like to hear?”

Kagome gasped while Inuyasha was able to keep his composure aside from his eyes expanding. The bastard actually admitted in an offhanded way he was wrong? That he had hated him because he was upset over their old man saving him? His mother always told him the story of his father’s death. He never took Sesshomaru’s feelings into account.

“I, uh…” Inuyasha trailed off uncomfortably.

Sesshomaru began to rise and head for the door but stopped before he left the reed mat to turn back and lock eyes with them, “I would like to correct my mistakes with your pups. They should not grow up without the knowledge of our inuyoukai heritage.” He swiftly left without another word.

“Well…?” Kagome asked pensively to her mate.

“...Thank you,” he said as he kissed her forehead.

“I’m so glad that you’re willing to give this a shot,” Kagome nuzzled her face into his neck. “I’m happy our children will be able to be close to one of their uncles.”

He tensed, “Fuck, he told you.”

“Before you start, I’m not mad. I’m actually excited! We’re going to have twins! Twin brothers that will grow up together and love each other.”

“I’m still saying ‘sisters’ wench,” he said, smirking as he tilted her to lay down upon the floor before kissing down her neck, making her giggle in response. He apparently was very pleased with the arrangement and owed her many ‘thank-yous’.

[peacecraving]

@doubtmeifyoumust asked:

“ i——don’t like the way that he looks at you. ”

He was listening---closely, for that matter, but---his eyes were lowered, and there was a breadth of audible silence before he chose to respond.

“ ---I’m not sure that I know what you mean. ”

His gaze remained downcast, and he spoke quietly---his tone passive, and suggesting of relatively little. 

Of course, he was lying. 

He knew very well what the other man was referencing---just as he also knew that he had no satisfying answer to the observation, and no particular inclination to discuss it further. 

It felt---personal, somehow. Complex in a way that he didn’t altogether understand, and therefore greatly doubted that he could explain.

He wasn’t sure that he wanted to explain. Not when it pertained so closely to what was---happening to him. 

In fact, he would have preferred not to think about it at all---he had more than enough to think about. Regrettably, common sense demanded otherwise. 

Finally---with some measure of reluctance, he glanced up, and his gaze was troubled, but---also distant, guarded---enigmatic. 

He looked at Wrathion---stared for a brief moment, and then averted his eyes once more.

“ ---if it’s of any consolation, I’m not overly fond of it myself. ”

He continued in the same manner as before---subdued, impossible to read. 

Kel’thuzad unnerved him---what he likely hoped to gain from their---affiliation, unnerved him.

But, he also understood things, and knew things---things that Anduin needed to know. He’d already more than proven that.

Of course---he wielded the giving of such information to his own advantage. 

On that account, Anduin kept no delusions.

Well---so far as he could trust himself to think clearly in regards to anything---when it felt as though his skull had been split open, and everything within had been twisted, and turned inside-out, and made utterly strange to him.

When he couldn’t sleep, and his ears were ringing, and he startled at shadows, and there was an unnatural chill seeping through his veins---sometimes unbearable, and sometimes---almost calming--- almost familiar.

A distinctly less comforting notion, but---he had reached that point, hadn’t he?

Best not to harbor too many delusions about that either.

He dampened his lips, but---they always seemed to be dry now.

His eyelids flickered downwards.

“ That being said, were it not for his---assistance, I likely wouldn’t be here. ” 

A true enough statement to make, but---it wasn’t quite what he wanted to say, or rather---it wasn’t exactly what was on his mind.

An important distinction, he supposed---in the given instance. 

Since he’d found himself contemplating a number of things that were likely best left unsaid in his present company.

He didn’t trust Kel’thuzad, not remotely, but---he did feel that they’d established some level of---understanding, and it didn’t strike him as complete folly to believe that---within reason, it would be honored. 

And that---within reason, the lich would be useful to them. Necessary, even---when it came to---fixing him.

If there was indeed going to be any ‘fixing’ him.

His mouth tightened, and he tried to swallow---feeling suddenly sick with himself.

He pressed on regardless.

“ ---quite possibly, I wouldn’t be anywhere. ”

His voice remained quiet---introspective, and he breathed a moderate sigh---sounding as though he didn’t necessarily believe this, but---was nonetheless open to the possibility.

He may not have felt that he was going to die, it may have seemed that he could withstand the Jailer’s efforts, but---he was mortal, flesh and blood---anything could have happened. 

Whatever the case---and whatever his precise reasoning, Kel’thuzad had intervened, and for that---something was owed.

For now---that something appeared to be a little tolerance. 

And---for better or worse, it was alleviating, in a way---speaking to him, knowing that he was near. 

Easier not to dread what Kel’thuzad may have been thinking about him---not that he faulted Wrathion or Valeera for whatever doubts they surely harbored---by the Light, he encouraged them, but---stomaching that fact was another matter. 

And certainly---it was easier not to be afraid of what he himself might do, or say---or look like. 

Easier not to feel so---grotesque, and ashamed.

[eternalcantarella]

Entropy - Chapter 1: Siege - Joker/Reader

Entropy

 Summary: We all seek for some measure of uncertainty. Working against the mob is a dangerous game, you might as well be signing a death warrant. You would think it was all by a stroke of chance, the multiple run-ins with Gotham’s Jester of Genocide. When crooks begin to make more sense than do-gooders ― that’s anarchy. He’s no ordinary crook, however. And he’s still wrong. At least that’s what you'd like to tell yourself.

 Word count: 10.4k

 A/N: First entry, just felt like contributing something to the Joker fandom. This fic is multi-chaptered, and the main pairing in this is Joker/Reader. TDK/Ledger Joker specifically. We follow the story of our reader who is a junior data analyst working in the corporate world, trying to expose Lau for the fraud he is. Of course, meddling with the dichotomy of lawful good and evil would naturally lead to her butting heads with the Joker sooner or later. Somewhere along the way, she is left questioning the validity of her moral code and ends up trading answers with the Joker himself. The goal, of course, is to prove each other wrong. I didn't feel like creating another original character, so I used John Blake from TDKR for her colleague. Apologies for the non-canon compliance regarding John Blake. Rated T for now, but will probably be escalated in future. Gonna be pretty slow burn with build-up, if you're into that. Enjoy!

Available to read on AO3! Check my blog description for link to my AO3.

###

“That is why I propose that we continue this joint venture between Lau Security Investments Holdings and Gotham Press Holdings.”

  The lone presenter clasped his hands together, ending off his presentation.

  “I firmly believe that it is in both our best interests to do so, and it is what’s best for business.”

  Reservedly, a light smattering of applause pulsated through the board executive room. You looked pointedly towards the man to your right, typing furiously into his laptop. Chewing your rose-stained lips while you collected your thoughts, you knocked a pen absently against your coffee cup. Subdued murmurs and discussions could be heard as a low rumble across the room, not long before the presenter opened the floor up for a question and answer segment. Multiple hands shot up, competing for the attention of the corporate powerhouse.

  The room smelled a mixture of two distinct smells, cologne and freshly ground coffee. You recalled that you had silently muttered a ‘thank you’ to no one in particular earlier this morning, when you found out the ancient coffee maker had been replaced. Perhaps the company was lucky enough to have bosses who listen to their employees’ caffeine needs and have no problem shelling out for a new and improved machine. The room was painted a bluish gray from top to bottom, with tall glass windows teetering on the edge of an unhindered view of Gotham City.

  You sat round a large conference table with people whose suits probably cost more than your monthly rent. Board meeting perhaps would be the right name. Dress shoes, egos, no smiles that weren’t plastered on, or opinions unfiltered enough to contribute anything significant to the discussion. A conglomeration of people who almost deliberately attempt to create the most monotonous environment and experience for working possible.

  “Eight percent annual growth, huh. A little too good to be true.” 

  You craned your head towards the young man beside you while maintaining your gaze on the data projections presented on your laptop screen. You received a hum of assent in response to your subdued remark. The sound of his dry hands rubbing contemplatively against his chin accompanied afterwards. The tapping of your pen got harsher and more deliberate, as you narrowed your gaze on the lone presenter, none other than the founder of Lau Holdings himself. 

  The data simply did not make sense. Even with the vast economic expansion of China, the numbers seemed at least a little bit inflated. Your hand tensed as you shifted forward in your seat, smoothing out your blue pencil skirt. Your partner seemed to have caught sight of this. His hand darted to press over yours in a flash. Slightly startled, you flashed him a look of annoyance. 

  “Now listen, we’re not here to change anyone’s minds, calm down.” 

  Seemingly easy-going, his soft words still conveyed an undertone of warning. Indignancy blossomed in your chest as you clenched your jaw shut. Your findings and suspicion over the past months were almost in fruition. How dare he tell you how to do your job. You gave one last defiant glare at your coworker and then whipped your head around, zoning your focus in towards Lau. You raised your other hand and caught Lau’s gaze, as he gestured an open palm towards you. 

  You regarded each other coldly, his eyes devoid of any signs of sincerity save for an icy smile for the sake of pleasantries. As you stood up, you could see from the corner of your eyes that your partner had so kindly sank back in his chair defeated, resting his elbows on the table with his head in his hands. A little too melodramatic for your tastes, even for someone like you.

  “Thank you CEO Lau for the wonderful speech. I’m going to cut to the chase and raise an issue here. Frankly speaking, your powerful economic potential, while surely enticing to keep working with, is a little concerning.”

  Lau’s smile showed cracks in its facade. Perhaps this was an unexpected little wrench in his plan. Somehow you took victory and pride in gaining a reaction, no matter how small, out of a cold and calculative man of his calibre, and it took all your will and strength to maintain a stoic composure without your lips curling into a slight smirk.

   “Surely your company had to have had a hefty tax levied on this revenue you’ve raked in. Not to mention, upon further assessment it seems that Wayne Enterprises has yet to conclusively accept your business proposal to them. Not to throw insult to your endeavours, but is this as promising, or stable, as you make it out to be?”

  Perhaps you are assimilating to become one of them, the beautiful people, what you called them. Perhaps you had let your ego show a little bit too much. But you’d be damned if you didn’t feel badass standing up to a multinational company giant like this, in front of other multinational company giants. It’s not every day you let an opportunity like this be passed.

  You felt a collective shift of heads as you suddenly felt about ten pairs of eyes lock onto you, but it felt like ten thousand. Under the magnifying glasses of scrutiny, you felt like you were encapsulated in a glass display as you were studied and picked apart by higher forms of life. You were an alien. An alien who spoke a language they refused to understand and come to accept. A pregnant silence fell over the room and the stares were too much. It was as if they had a morbid fascination with you, patronisingly waiting to watch you fail. Incredulous smiles of pity and disbelief that they failed to hide were spotted on a few in the crowd and you felt the dread pool in your stomach. You tried to maintain the puff of your chest but your fidgets merely deflated it, as you kept your gaze straight on the presenter, unable to look him in the eye.

  You could see a visible twitch of his neck as you stared at his grey dress suit, straining a smile on his face. His breath had seemingly gotten heavier and he tongued the side of his mouth, clasping his hands together. He cleared his throat, and only then had you mustered the courage to look him again in the eye. Subtle shades of malice roamed dangerously behind his onyx eyes.

  “I will say this once and once alone. We are undoubtedly a legitimate business. And I will not stand for anyone questioning the integrity of my establishment.”

  This was a threat. No doubt. You felt hot and humiliated, and nothing beats being shamed in front of the board of directors, speaking of whom, shared panicked glances shifting between each other before one of them dismissed the meeting. It was a walk of shame as you and your partner were singled out by a hand gesture to the front of the room, while everyone sashayed past you, their glances lingering far longer on you two than what was necessary, with the CEO of Gotham Press Holdings watching you reproachfully. A reprimanding was in order, you supposed. CEO Lau had been escorted out of the executive meeting room by other directors in hopes of coaxing him to calm down. You and your partner you’ve unintentionally dragged through the mud stilled in front of the man in control, CEO Loeb.

  “Did I hire you to do something so incredibly stupid? For God’s sake you two are here to take care of our financial transactions and fill up board meeting spaces. Nothing more.”

  The bite was stinging. It felt like you had been slapped across the face. The welling of tears could be felt behind your eyes but you refused to let them show. You stared at your chief executive officer’s forehead, with shallow lines that ran horizontally across them. His brows which resembled caterpillars were furrowed deeply as he found it difficult to find the right words to say to you without uttering a string of expletives, which you admittedly did deserve. You buried your gaze deep into his crown of white hair as a form of distraction and you hoped dearly that he would show just a shred of mercy.

  “Financial Consultant Blake, I hope you understand your place and educate your little Junior Data Analyst lady friend.”

  Your coworker clenched his fists and nodded.

  “You young people always have an inflated sense of self-importance. Keep your mouths shut next time and this is the last warning. Keep treading on thin ice, both of you.” 

  With that, he stormed off, leaving you and your partner. The chestnut-haired man, at a loss for words, shifted his weight and looked at you. He tried to say something, but refrained from doing so upon seeing your pathetic state of emotions. You desperately tried to keep it all together, the rage of indignancy staining a crimson tint on your face and embarrassed mortification flushed against your neck hotly.

  “Listen, John…”

  He looked down and placed a hand on your shoulder, an obligatory act of comfort towards you despite feeling quite frustrated himself. Tears beaded at the corners of your eyes as you blinked them away. You will not cry. You were a strong woman. A mantra you meditated whenever you felt the urge to break down.

  “I’m, uhm, just really sorry. Really sorry that I dragged you into this. I... I’m just so goddamned naive and selfish. And I don’t know why, but I just-”

  You took a deep breath and shut your eyes, before reopening them, willing the constricting feeling back down your chest.

  “I just felt the need to prove something.”

  He let out a huge sigh and pat his hand two times soothingly on your shoulder. As if to tell you it was okay, but he was still mad. He brought his other hand to his temples and closed his eyes. His jaw shifted around absently, possibly to ease the tension that was there from clenching it too tightly. There was really nothing much he could say to you. After all, he did warn you, but he was nice enough not to say ‘I told you so’.

  After getting the apology off your chest, the humiliation subsided slowly like a beach wave into a dull headache. You took your hand to his wrist and squeezed the top of it reassuringly, to let him know you would be okay eventually. He took this as a sign for you both to take your leave, away from the sterile walls of the meeting room that seemed to cave in on you.

  As you turned round the corner of the large glass doors of the meeting room, you nearly bumped into the CEO of Lau Security Investment Holdings. It had seemed that he had left something behind in the room. You were face to face with him, widening your eyes and noting to yourself that he was a man of short stature. There was a brief moment where time seemed to slow down around the two of you and you two were the only ones on this plane of existence. There was nothing but a look of disdain on his face. A subtle twist and contortion of his face, the corner of his lips tightened and raised on one side of his face. His eyes were devoid of any spirit, seeming to look through you instead of looking at you. Nothing but pure unadulterated disrespect and contempt for you. Small and worthless you were, this was your standing in this world of beautiful people. You were fundamentally different from all of them. Fundamentally loathsome.

  And you’d be damned if you didn’t confront this head on. 

  You hardened your gaze with eyes of defiance with lips suggesting the hint of a snarl. Something about the look he gave you re-ignited the flame within you snuffed by shame, and it showed through your eyes. 

  And just like that time sped up for you, and you were thrown back into the normalcy of the rush of office life. John Blake watched you and let out an audible groan.

  “You really don’t know when to give in do you, kid?”

  While visibly frustrated, a little smirk played at his lips, clearly amused at you and the turn of events in spite of himself. 

  “Always bursting in, castle crashing like the siege engine incarnate you are.”

  Clicking your tongue in annoyance at this long-time God awful nickname bestowed upon you by none other, you hastened your speed with strong strides, having done nothing but prove that nickname to be characteristic of you today. He kept up the pace, noting to himself that you had gotten over yourself and more or less returned back to normal. You took the meeting card from today out of your pocket and bent it, snapped it into two halves and discarded them into the bin you walked past. You needed to forget this incident. Clipboard and laptop hooked onto an arm, you prodded at your updo then pulled at the hem of your white blazer. Gussying did help ground you back to reality in providing you with a sense of unfounded control. 

  “We aren’t going to take this lightly. We need to get to the bottom of this. Lau一Lau is going to ruin this place.”

  Alarmed, John Blake grabbed your shoulder and wrenched your form to face him, stopping you in your tracks. He stared at your eyes scanning and darting his eyes around your face for any signs of whether you were serious or not. It dawned on him that dear god, you weren’t kidding at all. Before he could start on his tirade that the two of you couldn’t even dream of changing how things worked in this company, or the world for that matter, you shrugged yourself off his grip.

  “Don’t you forget why you teamed up with me, John.” You raised your voice slightly. 

  “Don’t forget the reason you launched Blake Accounting Consultancy. Need I remind you of what you believe in?”

  Jarred by your emotional declaration, he knew what you said were mere rhetorics. He noticed people were starting to stare at the commotion between the two of you, thus he resumed a slow walking pace with you. You kept observing his internal dilemma, noting the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, and how his perpetually furrowed brows deepened even more. You needed his help. And he needed yours. As your walking speed hastened back to normal, the people at the reception area took fleeting glances at your gait but never longer than needed. You took a short glimpse at your watch and signed out of the register with Blake.

  The self-assured clacking of the heels on your pumps down the descent of the stone steps, marking the entrance of the imperial office building, was a pleasant familiarity to you, as it signaled the end of an exhausting work day. It was especially empowering on a Friday, such as this one. At the base of the steps you awaited his answer. Clearing his throat and adjusting his tie, he stepped onto the same level as you.

  “Alright, you’ve convinced me. There’s no point in doing this,” he pointed between the two of you, “And our arrangement if we don’t do it right. You are my partner after all and you’re here to keep me from losing sight of what’s important. To the both of us.”

  You smiled and felt the warmth blushing across your cheeks. Yes, he had hand picked you for this job and he was so confident you were the right one. You restrained your smile to revert back to a professional feminine composure and tilted your head coyly.

  “Then I don’t need to tell you why we’re doing it the right way, do I?”

  “For hope in the goodness of Gotham. This generation’s gotta do some cleaning up after our very thoughtful predecessors.”

  The crinkle in his eye after he spoke was all the reassurance you needed. After being given a satisfactory answer, you gave him a knowing look and turned away from him as he began tapping hurriedly into his tablet. As undignified as John Blake could appear to be at times, you had to hand it to the man. He was worthy of your respect and had been nothing but an inspiration to you. The two of you shared more things in common than most and provided each other an intellectual challenge. Of course, mostly one thing was considered upon deciding on this mutually beneficial partnership in business. And it wasn’t because you two were sleeping with each other, despite common belief. Before you began walking again, you asked.

  “What do you reckon our plan would be right now?”

  Still fiddling with his tablet, he stalled on his answer for a few seconds. Clearly mapping something out in his head, you turned back to give him your full attention. 

  “We’re heading to Gotham National Bank. Let’s just say, there’s been minor speculation that it’s been involved in activities not short of... illicit. Yes, I suppose that’s how we’ll put it.” 

  He treaded carefully.

  “Now, the companies we work for, both Gotham Press Holdings and Lau Holdings, have some shares in this bank. The catch is, it would be incredibly difficult to prove Lau’s activities as fraudulent.”

  Seemingly defeated, Blake hung his head and rubbed the back of his neck. However, he peeked his eyes at the building in front of him, a smugness quirking at the corner of his lips.

  “Fortunately for us, they didn’t call me a forensic accountant for nothing.”

  Beaming at him, you grabbed at his forearm shaking it a few times, giddiness bubbling inside of you, before letting it go. For you, there was nothing but a mischievous glee, the kind that feels like icing on cake and splashing at beaches. All this for one shared vision. The two of you were visionaries. To this, his smile was that of happiness blooming as a spring flower would. You could see it coming from inside of him to the light of his eyes, and spreading across his chest. He was happy to see you filled with hope, and you could feel it in the way he spoke and the way he relaxed. It was nothing short of genuine. You bubbled up and joked around with him.

  “John, frankly speaking, is this even legal?”

  “It depends.”

  You felt the excitement die down a little bit as you realised the seriousness in his tone. It was replaced by an uncomfortable premonition pervading your senses. You gave him a look, pressing him to tell you more.

  “I meanㅡTechnically we could do this. We have enough authority to access banking information. The problem is if they come to know we had been snooping around.”

  “Oh my god John are you really sure about this-”

  “You just have to trust me, we have to take a risk. Just as I have taken a gamble on you. I have a plan.”

  Your eyes widened at his statement. He was right, he couldn’t gain anything else from working with a hothead like you. He had taken a chance on you. What else did you have to offer to him? It was a sobering statement. After all, you did prove to be a handful in the meeting today, it was a pretty big mess up. You two could only have trust or you would have nothing. And you would hate to be a liability to him. 

  The two of you stared ahead at the streets, bustling with the cacophony produced by the city at midday traffic. The winds picked up, with fallen leaves and litter on the semi-empty street dancing to their own choreography. A chill ran down your spine, signalling the approach of nightfall. You both had decided then that it was best you get a move on to the bank before rush hour traffic befalls upon you.

###

The buildings galloped up where your sights could reach, Gotham National Bank standing out as a nostalgic hue of ivory, marbled with contours of magnificent antiquated architecture. Small fragments crumbled from the pillars encircling it, exalting it to an unmatched quality of regality as if there stood an ancient and historic piece of post-American Renaissance. This unusual lavishness caught the eye in the heart of Gotham. You both sauntered up the stone steps with a comfortable rhythm. The wooden framed glass doors pushed to the side as you both turned round the bend. The confidence you two shared initially was faltering as you realised the danger behind the work you were going to do.

  The place reeked of opulence, a feeling of vastness with high ceilings, yet you still felt suffocated by the scent of luxury vanilla tobacco perfume. The air felt still and frigid, despite its warm rustic tones and yellow ceiling lights. You would never fall for this false allure and fabrication of a cozy and comfortable environment. It lulls you into a false sense of security. A carefully crafted institute that tries to evoke trust is nothing but lies. Money, whether little or a lot, is a source of stress in the lives of people after all. How the bank could portray themselves as anything but was beyond you. Your lips tightened as you walked to the bank tellers. Surprisingly the foyer was not as crowded as you had expected. It is well enough that the people of this city did not understand the banking and monetary system, for if they did, there would be a revolution by the next morning.

  There was no line at the counter where you two were expected. John Blake regarded the bank teller with a tightlipped smile and firm handshake. You noticed Blake’s calloused hands, they weren’t too big and certainly did not look fitting for that of a white-collar accountant. He flashed his identification card from the companies you two were liaised with and requested to be granted permission for a thorough evaluation of their financial statements. Fingers crossed, you and Blake shared a look as the young man behind the desk studied the card in its holder skittishly. Clearly, he wasn’t experienced at all.

  “Sir, I’m sorry but I think I would have to check with my superiors if I could authorise your entry into our systems.”

  He brought a hand to his collar and nervously adjusted his tie around his neck. Your heart sank as you prepared yourself for the worst. Multiple scenarios rang through your head. They could be notified. You could be fired for attempting unauthorised entry into confidential records. Blake hurriedly reached into his coat pocket in a last-ditch attempt, stopping the young man from approaching higher-ups.

  “We are directly associated with Mr. Lau of Lau Security Investments Holdings, and as the official Financial Advisor of Gotham Press Holdings and part of the directorial meeting board, we are granted perfect autonomy in ensuring and cross referencing the accuracy of our financial statements.”

  John Blake maintained a stone cold composure, not a single crack in his facade, presenting a separate placeholder card from today’s meeting with the company stamp embossed on its surface. Although, upon closer inspection you could see him grip the sleeves of his dark blue suit in his folded arms. He could fool a silly junior bank teller, but not you unfortunately. You held your breath. Upon hearing the name of the CEO roll off his tongue, the young man inspected the card and his shoulders slackened a considerable amount. He cleared his voice.

  “Of course. I will access the statements for you in just a minute.”

  He began keying into the laptop in front of him and dialing numbers into his keypad. You suddenly remembered how to breathe as you let out a puff of air held in your lungs. In a wash of relief, you brought your hand to John’s back and gripped onto his suit reassuringly. You could see that he had his eyes downcast, his tight hold on his sleeves loosening. His jaw was still tight and jutted forward. You looked him in the eyes as he was vulnerable for a moment, you softened your gaze as if telling him something.

  You don’t have to be so strong anymore.

  It was a tough call. You could tell he was scared out of his wits. He didn’t like to lie, he didn’t like to use deceit. You two had abused your positions after all. You had taken advantage of the inexperience of the young man behind the desk. You were surprised he had done it at all. Hell, he had been the one who spontaneously suggested the idea anyway. You understood though. He had infracted his moral code for something bigger and more important. All this went unnoticed by the bank teller who was so engrossed in fumbling about with card keys and entering the right code. You smiled at John encouragingly.

  To signal he was done, the bank teller turned his laptop around to face you two. The two of you stared into the records presented on screen. This was your golden opportunity. Blake gave you a look and nodded, and immediately you knew what to do. For him, all signs of remorse had dissipated like cotton candy on a tongue and his senses were on overdrive. The impressive work ethic of Blake had begun to override his emotions and you saw his propensity for achieving results.

  You loaded the data into a thumb drive and jammed it back into your laptop. You processed the data with Microsoft SQL. This allowed you to store, read or manipulate the data. Then you loaded the data into Tableau to start data visualisation. Concurrently, you fetched a code for a machine learning algorithm you had worked on and were familiar with. You looked over at Blake as your computer was processing, chewing on your lips as he loaded a graph on his screen. He had been analysing the datasets provided by your company which you had prior access to.

  Well, as can be expected, most transactions are non-fraudulent. To find evidence was like finding a needle in a haystack. But you were an expert at detecting outliers. For an imbalanced dataset, you needed to think out of the box. If you projected the sets into a scatter plot, you could visualise the clusters of fraudulent and non-fraudulent transactions. Bingo. You could generate synthetic samples from then on. However, all this prediction was meaningless without insights from Blake. Your work could only substantiate what he was able to find. You tried to make sense of the data and tugged at your hair, nervously shaking a leg. Seemingly in a state of distress, he tugged his hand on his chin with pressure increasing by the second. He was onto something.

  When he was done, he shifted your laptop over to his side of the desk and compared both of your graphs and excel tables. After a grating amount of time, he let out a burning stream of air that was searing the walls of his lungs. He looked over at you and nodded solemnly. That meant only one thing, this was it, you guys had done it. You had proven Lau’s fraudulence. He instinctively leaned over to you, voice nothing more than a raspy whisper. 

  “In more than a few accounts, extra digits were added to the fees recorded.” 

  He gesticulated towards the data and scrolled in.

  “For example here, if the fee initially recorded by the clerk was $5,234, a five was added to the first position reporting the fee as $55,234. In that single month, production fees were overstated by several hundred thousands of dollars. This explains why they could evade taxes so easily.”

  You narrowed your eyes. He added more discernment to the situation, a form of scum reading if you will. Of course, he did so in hushed tones, to prevent the bank teller from catching on.

  “Not to mention, the dates of the frauds you identified tie in and correlate heavily with reports of organised crime in Gotham.”

  Your eyebrows raised and you snapped your head to look at him in disbelief. Never had you imagined things to be this bad. This was a massive case you had uncovered. Blake chuckled lowly, a slender brow quirked incredulously at you with mixed amusement. He was always one to be tickled by your over-dramatically animated reactions to things.

  “Always on the ball, aren’t ya kid? Like a true siege machine. I couldn’t have done this without you. Excellent work.”

  You felt your face heating up at this statement. You suddenly felt awkward. Your actions suddenly, not within your control, became demure and coy. You even went as far as to attempt to hide your features behind your fingers, as you brought a hand to your face. You hated it when this happened. You could never admit this to yourself. You had always put on a tough front for John. Yet no amount of training could prepare you for moments like this. You thrived on being able to impress him, to prove yourself worthy. That you were no mistake he made.

  This revelation was nothing but a testament to the remarkable teamwork and chemistry you two had. It was nothing short of an incredible feat. Your skill sets heavily complemented each other, and your lines of thoughts and cognition heavily resonated together. You truly felt invincible at times with him. You could do anything with him. You could build an empire. You tasted something akin to victory on your tongue, despite not really having won anything yet. It felt like snowflakes had settled on your tongue, except instead of icy coldness you felt a sugary golden warmth. Blake had reached his arm around and patted you on your shoulder reservedly, denoting the conveyance of commendation from a coworker. Shrugging his hands off you, you sent him a sidelong glare for daring to interact with you on such a formal basis, as if you hadn’t skirted past a professional connection long ago. 

  Your attention was caught on your screen as you realised the data visualisation for Gotham Press Holdings was also complete. You realised that movements of funds to Lau Holdings had increased 342 percent for the past month. This was definitely a suspicious transaction that had gone unreported in the official financial statements. You dug deeper and deeper and you cursed at the power Lau had, and resolved to bring this up to the higher-ups at some point. The ire in realising your company had been pulled into Lau’s heinous mess tore through your chest like a claymore blade, and thoughts raced through your mind. Anger coursed through your veins like a lifeforce in and of itself, tugging at your fingers like puppet strings as they twitched involuntarily. Blake noticed this and called out your name. It was futile. You can’t listen to him like this. You wrenched your attention away from the screen and onto Blake in an attempt to explain the situation and―

  Gunshots ripped through splitting the still air, its sound piercing like that of blithe firecrackers, a bangarang seeming to come from nowhere as screams of terror rang. You blinked, hands haphazardly thrown in front of you in reaction, a dulled instinct of your body lost years ago. You blinked again, and you were on the floor all of a sudden, not really sure how you had ended up there. You searched around with your pupils, registering that Blake had an arm tugged around your shoulders and another pulling at your white sleeves. You peeked upwards furtively through the curtains of your hair framing your face, trembling with your chin strained against your sternum to watch men clad in suits with frightening clown masks run through the space.

  “Alright everybody, heads down! I said hands up, I’m makin’ a withdrawal here!”

  To you, the man had the most venomous voice you’ve heard, straight from the depths of hell. You squeezed your eyes shut, not daring to stare at them as if it were a mortal sin that would grant you the eternal punishment of death if you did. It was a long time ago when you had last been placed in such a compromising situation, since the Batman had taken to cleaning the streets. You forgot the feeling of fear. It was almost invigorating in a sense. This was life on the edge as you know it.

  “Obviously we don’t want you doin’ anything with your hands, other than holdin’ on for dear life!”

  These words didn’t really mean much to you. Just jumbled sloppy threats, obviously unplanned and entropic in nature. Perhaps they didn’t mean exactly what they were saying. Yet this frightened you so much more. Clowns were unpredictable. You thought back on the various cirques and circuses you had patronised in the past, remembering the many archetypal clown personas they assumed. Their traditional slapstick humour, mischief in demeanor always put you on edge. You never knew what tricks they might pull on you, they were masterful tricksters. You saw the clown pass what looked like a grenade-shaped time bomb to the man at the counter next to you. An epileptic meditation swept over you, foreshadowing the prelude of a nervous collapse. Blake pulled you closer into his form upon seeing the time bomb, caging his arms around you. You were unsure if he did this to comfort you or if it was for his self-reassurance.

  “Nobody make a move! Nobody! Stay down!” 

  One of them lazily swung his gun around, uncaring as he pointed wherever a group of people clambered. You huffed. Clowns and their general nonchalance, clearly exaggerated in their movements. What is this little regard they had for human life? What is human life to them?

  You continued watching a clown terrorise a blonde woman behind the counter. You heard an internal time bomb ticking, echoing away as the dissonance of razors on violin strings bled through your ears. The icy fingers of apprehension wrapped tightly around your spine, much like the way Blake held you, they tugged at your bones until they felt ready to tear past your flesh.

  Bang!

  You jerked your head and out of John Blake’s grasp. You saw an explosive shattering of glass from the main counter which was encircled by a glass and wood partition. The gunswinger had been taken down. A man in a grey suit, who you recognised as the head bank teller, wielded a powerful shotgun. You pressed your wrists together, you still had a fighting chance. This man was a glimmer of hope for the victims. He shot a couple more shells at another clown, but he missed all of them. He let out a yell. You bit down on your bottom lip, nails digging crescent shapes further into your palm. He exuded a sense of confidence and self-assuredness, with an upright posture and puff in his chest unbefitting for someone who has to sit the entire day for his job. He trudged onwards with his mighty steps with more pumps of his shotgun, a masculine energy that was striking enough. You felt a collective sense of relief from the other victims as you all rooted for him in silence.

  “You have any idea who you’re stealin’ from? You and your friends are dead!”

  You pondered this statement from the grey suited man. What kind of threat was this? It was a minor detail that you could be overthinking. It was definitely out of the ordinary for a generic banker to say something like this. But it all makes sense now, especially with everything Blake had led you to believe, and the realisation dawned upon you. This was indeed a mob bank. And believe that no one who robs a mob bank leaves alive. You started laughing at yourself internally, perhaps you were going insane. Oh how the tables have turned, the only salvation in this situation was that a member of the mob was your only hope in escaping this place alive. It was a bitter realisation, you cursed the irony in the situation. Perhaps Lau had indirectly saved your life, given his ties to organised crime.

  You saw the two clowns regroup and discuss something. You noticed that one of them hadn’t spoken the whole time since their arrival, and simply nodded his head fervently at the other. He wore a clown mask that had a blue frown. You recognised him as the one who handed out and unhooked the time bombs. You narrowed your eyes at him. He was too quiet. 

  The man with the shotgun had missed his last shot as the other clown, the one with the spiked hair, stood up. It seemed that he had emptied the barrel of his shotgun, and fumbled with it within his hands. Oh no. Blake had sunken backwards further into the floor. In a split second, what hope you held onto swiftly dwindled down, you saw some of the other terrorised folks’ faces fall as you let go of your closed fists, the heat of the blood rushing through doing nothing to warm up your cold and clammy hands.

  The clown with the blue frown took advantage of this and swiftly stood up, with a sort of careless grace that was strangely unique. Idiosyncratic even, how could that man possess a quirk so paradoxical and contradictory in every sense of the word? He fired a flurry of shots and the man wielding the shotgun shook violently, falling to the floor in an undignified manner with the clinking of bullets ringing onto the floor. 

  The clown quirked his head to the side with his eyes trained on the fallen man with mild intrigue, almost in lackadaisical amusement. It was patronising, frankly. A mockery of a quizzical look. It reminded you of the morbid fascination the beautiful people had shown you earlier today. Your face twisted into a snarl. Your gut was right about this man. He was dangerous, not your average goon. He looked like he did this on the regular for fun. 

  The clown with the spiked hair squabbled with him over something that seemed to be important. But he still said nothing. He stayed while the other clown left to head to where you presumed to be the vault. He walked down the aisles between desks with leisurely footsteps, and a relaxed hunch in his posture that looked feigned. He swung his arms around his body candidly, like how one would on a leisurely stroll when you were out on a boring trip with your family. His masked eyes swiped across every gentle shadow the room forged. He was extremely observant. More so than the rest, as he constantly took note of the surroundings and mapped the location out. However, he only gave passing glances to the people on the floor, as if they weren’t really there at all. He didn’t seem to care at all that he was, as a matter of fact, carrying out a godforsaken bank heist right this very moment. Was this a joke to him?

  Nothing could dissipate this horrible feeling you had about this man, how gut-wrenching it felt to be in his presence. You tried to stare at John Blake covertly, trying to search if he had found out a way to get out of this mess alive. But he had his eyes trained forward and hands gripping at the floor tiles, seemingly paralysed with fear after the man with the mask walked past you two. The man looked at his watch, with an unreal sense of patience. You tried to get Blake’s attention, but it was no use. He was scared stiff. You dared not move as you were sure that the clown would have no qualms shooting you then and there. You observed as he turned his back to you, and you noticed he had messily dyed, faded green hair. You craned your head. What kind of twisted criminal was this...?

  The spiked hair masked clown returned with many navy duffel bags, some on his shoulders and some dragged across the marble floor. The other clown lugged a couple bags along, pooling them at the center of the back entrance, in front of three wooden framed glass doors.

  “That’s a lot of money!” The spiked hair clown jibed, clearly in greed. “If this Joker guy was so smart, he’d had us bring a bigger car!”

  The clown with the blue frown turned his back to the other clown. Immediately when he did this, a heavy clicking noise was heard. You noticed a sort of hesitance in his movements, realising he had made a mistake. The other clown had turned on him, reloaded his handgun and pointed it straight at his back. The air was tense. He slowly turned his head to face him again, almost defensively so that he wouldn’t trigger the other clown to make any rash decisions.

  “I’m bettin’ the Joker told you to kill me as soon as we loaded the cash.”

  The hand holding the gun was quivering. Whatever game it was that they were playing, it was dangerous. You noticed the two of them were the only clowns left. Whoever this ‘Joker’ person they talked about was, he was calculative. He managed to turn them all on each other, and they weeded each other out. The man with the frown pulled back his sleeve to check his watch, and grumbled. His life was on the line and he was still playing games. Your brows tightened. Enough of this feigned indifference.

  “No, no, no, no. I kill the bus... Driver.”

  This was the first time he spoke this whole time. He sounded like how a real clown possibly would. A raspy timbre from years of smoking and a nasally tone in wry jest. At the corner of your eyes, you saw the fallen bank teller try to turn his body, but to no avail. He seemed affected by this statement, for reasons unknown. The clown side-stepped, out of the gun’s line of sight.

  “Bus driver?”

  The man holding the gun delayedly tracked him with his gun, stepping backwards tentatively in tandem with the other clown. The clown continued stepping to the side, acting defenseless with his hands in front of his waist as a gesture of nonaggression despite holding a gun, to cajole the other man. They kept at a distance apart and circled each other. The clown with the frown cocked his head to the side as he stepped, as though in confusion at the situation at hand. However, it felt unnatural to you. This simple act was definitely deliberate. You could almost see the gears turning in his head. Whatever it was, he was cold and calculated. Every one of his actions seemed carefully thought out and he did not do pointless things. He only spoke when absolutely necessary. Every move he has made thus far, he had done so with intention and purpose. 

  The air hung with uncertainty. Blake, seeming to have regained his senses with this distraction, turned his body to face you. The man with the gun grew impatient with this lack of an answer and he shook his head.

  “What bus drive-”

  In the blink of an eye, the wooden frames of the doors burst apart and glass flew everywhere. A yellow school bus had crashed through the gates like a battering ram. It drove directly into where the clown holding the gun stood and at break-neck speed, knocked him out cold. The bank was silent at that moment, not really knowing how to register or react to this turn of events. John Blake forced your attention on him and took full advantage of this distraction, whispering to you.

  “Whatever happens, when this is over make a run for it. Through that hole in the wall.”

  You gave a grunt of acknowledgement. The door slid open to reveal another goon with a clown mask.

  “School’s out, time to go. That guy’s not gettin’ up, is he?”

  Not one for small talk, the clown with the frown threw him the duffel bags to load them into the bus. The other clown continued jibing in excitement, especially after seeing how many filled bags of cash they had to toss into the bus. He threw the last duffel bag at him. Having just arrived, the talkative man clearly did not understand the circumstances that had led to this point. You felt bad for him as he seemed naive.

  “What happened to the rest of the guys?”

  Without even looking at him, the clown with the blue frown offhandedly shot him with a round of bullets. You squeezed your eyes shut. You could not get used to this nasty sound. He did not even give him the time of day. Not a single care in the world. He ambled past you again to pull the last duffel bag and tossed it into the bus. The question of why he always gave this impression of detachment from the reality in front of you remains unanswered. 

  “Think you’re smart huh?”

  He pulled his hand onto the edges of the doorframe and was about to climb into the bus, but he turned around. Perhaps this was not a part of his calculations. He had one foot on the steps, but pulled his foot back down and adjusted his mask to stare at who it was daring enough to speak up to him. The bank teller struggled and floundered on the ground, coughing and sputtering. He curled into himself even more, much like a fetus would, looking absolutely pathetic. He was fighting back a grimace on his face.

  “The kind that hired youseㅡThey’ll just do the same to you…”

  The masked man’s interest was seemingly piqued by his speech of open defiance. He brought his arm behind his back into his back pocket and staggered across the floor. That couldn’t-care-less grace acted again, his attention wavering as his gaze flitted between the man on the floor and the surroundings. He pulled something out of his pocket. You could not recognise what the object was.

  No, why couldn’t you have just kept your mouth shut?

  “Oh, criminals in this town used to believe in things… Honour, respect.”

  The bank teller spat. The masked man continued walking and stopped before him, imposing. There was a momentous promise in his gravity, a hint of catastrophe in the tilt of his head. He bent down and crouched to the fallen man’s level, bringing the object to his face.

  “Look at you. What do you believe in huh? WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE IN?”

  He shouted the last statement, blood-curdling and grinding around the edges. It seemed to be a last final effort display of dominance, his ego refusing to allow him to submit before he was stifled and his words fell off with a gagging noise. The man had shoved a black cylindrical device into his mouth. You felt the same internal razors on violins escalate in intensity, and your heart constricted with the crescendo.

  “I believe,” 

  The masked man started, this time his voice different, sounding smooth like butter. It felt like a balmy breeze sending chills down your spine, wrapping around your neck with smooth fingers. It was laced with an anarchic menace.

  “Whatever doesn’t kill you simply makes you,”

  He removed his mask, and looked to the side. Then, he looked down at him again. No one amongst you could comprehend what they were looking at. The violins had reached its loudest forte, and in a thunderous roar it came crashing down. He gave a slight twist of his head.

  “Stranger.”

  His tone shifted and he uttered that last word with his nasally rasp instead. His eyebrows lifted a fraction off his face, in mock honesty. He smiled and withdrew quickly, vanishing away from the scene like a shadowy wraith.

  “Kid, run.” Blake urged. You just stared at that spot where the apparition appeared.

  You had just seen a ghost.

  Silly little girl. Maybe there is a ghost, maybe... It’s only you.

  “Hey, are ya listening? Get ready.”

  He was a phantom. You could not scratch off this disturbing feeling about him. Thousands of spiders had crawled up your arms to reach your face, paralysing you in your wake as dread was siphoned into your head, numbing your brain. No matter how much you gouged and clawed at your skin, the arachnids could not be torn off. You thought back on his face. He was soaked in nothing but pure malice, doused as if an arsonist had poured gasoline on him. You saw him enter the bus and slid the door shut, a cord extending from the back of his pocket to the man still on the floor. Your eyes focused onto the black cylindrical gadget in his mouth

  Alarmed, you snapped out of it. 

  It finally occurred to you, this man was about to die. This man who valiantly fought for you people and tried to save the bank. You didn’t care at this point if he was part of the Mafia or whatever blasted gang it was that ran about in Gotham. He was a citizen of Gotham, no less than you. You broke free of the grasps of the arachnids, and stood up and ran to the center of the back entrance, heels clicking sharply against the cold floor. Blake watched your back in horror, swapping glances between you and the yellow school bus which hadn’t left. You could feel gazes of scrutiny, all unsure of what to think of your spur-of-the-moment effort.

  You had to do something about this. You made up your mind, there’s no convincing you out of this. Not even from Blake.

  What about me?

  The ghost flashed in your mind.

  You ran so fast, when you stopped in front of him you felt the whiplash of inertia propelling you further. Snapping out of it, you bent down in front of him and tried to yank the butt of what was in his mouth. You looked him in the eyes, noticing how wide and blue they were, and they were close to watering. You frowned, tears threatening to break at the corner of your own eyes. You felt as helpless as he did as you were unable to pry the object out of his mouth.

  You attempted again, trying to attack it from a different angle. You tried to ignore and dull the twinging sensation pricking your nose. Your brows pinched upwards bridging at a peak, your methods administered were to no avail. The man looked at you as if his life flashed before his eyes. You can’t give up on him. Not with the way he practically stared into your soul.

  “Hey, listen to me alright. We will get you out.”

  Your voice was shaky. You stared into his eyes with determination. You observed how his mouth curved around the object. His jaw was like a vice in a workshop space clamping on tightly to the object. A vice was made of metal however.

  “Okay, this is going to hurt. But don’t you worry it will work.”

  You used your fingers to pick up the drool lapping around his mouth. Then, with the warning you gave him prior, you forcefully jammed your lubricated fingers into the sides of the entrance of his mouth. He let out a long and drawn out moan of pain as you hooked your fingers around the foreign object, wrangling it out of his mouth, feeling the scrape of his teeth against your fingers and the smooth walls behind the hollows of his cheek.

  At long last, you trawled the object. However, while you held it triumphantly in your hands, the bus had driven off with a force that pulled you backwards slightly. You felt the string dislodge and it released a noxious gas that bellowed columns like thickets around you and the bank teller. The small dose had proven to be debilitating, and you coughed and moved your hand to cover your nose. It burned. In a swift motion, you tossed the smoke bomb to the other end of the room, something you should have done long ago.

  That’s too bad then. Maybe next time.

  You collapsed onto the ground from the strong inhale of the gas that filled your lungs, finding it difficult to get back on your feet. It scorched your air passages. You heard the sound of hurried and loud footsteps frantically pounding against the floor tiles as the people were running towards the hole in the wall. You tried to grab onto the man to lug him as you crawled, but it soon proved to be difficult. You cursed as you lost your strength.

  However, before you knew it, you were suddenly hoisted onto the shoulders of a man, your upper torso hanging down his back. Disoriented and sputtering in anguish, tears clouded your vision as you tried to spot the bank teller and you yelled.

  “Someone-help the man who was shot!”

  “Still worryin’ about him at a time like this? Not sure if that’s very smart of you.”

  This voice was unfamiliar. You couldn’t recognize it. The man who carried you was running towards the entrance and you felt this in the bob of your torso. You knocked your arms frantically at his lower back, though it probably felt quite pathetic given your current state.

  “Relax, relax. Someone else’s got him.”

  You relented upon hearing that, and thanked him for telling you that. As you exited the building you looked forward and your vision was blurry, however you could make out Blake catching up to you. He held a stack of laptops and tablets. He was panting and when he made it, he caught your hand and clasped it in his. This reassured you. You felt a little safer.

  The adrenaline was draining out of your system quickly. The lightheaded fatigue was settling in. You felt like you were in a bad dream. The sounds of traffic and sirens whirred past you in a blur, sounding louder than they should have. You felt the comings of a migraine swallow around your head. It almost felt like your world was spinning, and you just wanted to sit down.

  The recoils in the steps were too much. Your stomach lurched, and you clutched at your mouth. You tried looking at Blake, but you couldn’t see him. He looked ghoulish. Like a creature of the underworld. 

  He lurked under a veil of alabaster, blotted onto his canvas were two black cavernous holes gouged in place of his eyes, deep like the plunge basins of a calamitous waterfall, one that roared with stygian ink. But this was perhaps not the most terrifying part about him. 

  You saw a bright spark in front of your eyes, unsure of what was happening. Blake squeezed your palm even tighter. It must’ve been the bombs from earlier going off. 

  His grin extended far beyond the realms of what would be normal, unsettling and sinister as a macabre smile was carved deep into his white flesh, dripping blood red over ridges and grooves that swirled and curved along the sides of his mouth, peaks pushed together and formed after millenniums of cataclysmic terrain shifts. 

  You gave Blake’s hand a crushing grip. Anything to snap out of this terror.

  When he grinned he revealed a set of discoloured teeth, yellowed and rancid with dread, the earth no longer fertile and only bore fruits of death. 

  All of a sudden, you could see and you saw people gathered around, safe and sound. Blake had a concerned expression.

  You sniggered inwardly, looks like that clown had a miscalculation in his steps. All the small victories mattered to you. The running had stopped and the feeling of vertigo had been alleviated slightly, but was not gone completely. The man set you down as you slumped heavily against the sidewalk. You looked around you and you were suffocated by the imposing high rise buildings of Gotham City.

  “Hey, look―About that comment regardin’ the man who was shot…”

  You steeled yourself to stare at the man who saved your life, pushing past how dizzy looking up made you feel.

  “Look, I’m sorry about that alright. If you hadn’t done that… Then perhaps others like me wouldn’ta done what’s right.”

  Still in a state of befuddlement, you stared at him blankly. Slowly, you registered the meaning of his statement and a blush crept over your cheeks.

  “That’s really all I have to say. Uh, thank you, I guess.”

  With that, your mystery saviour left you with Blake. You wished you had at least been in the right mind enough to ask for the man’s name. John Blake skirted around you and supported your weight as he sat beside you. He smirked at the ground, an unreadable look in his downcast eyes.

  “You know kid, I really hate to admit this to you. And I’m only really saying this because you’re in this sorry state.”

  He flicked your forehead with his fingers. You reeled backwards and patted your hand across the area where he inflicted his damage.

  “That was pretty damn badass of you back there. But you could have died.”

  Groggily, this barely registered in your head, and your head lolled about, the motion lulling you into a dream. You were out, and your head rested against Blake’s shoulder. Alarmed, he recalled that you had taken a direct hit from the smoke bomb. He had to act fast.

  “Guess we have to drag your sorry ass to the hospital.”

  He stared forward at the ambulances arriving, dragged your arm across his shoulders and tightened his grip on you, preparing to lift you over there. Before the ambulances stopped, he looked motionless at the ground. He felt an uneasy sense of discomfort build within his chest. What had he done in that whole debacle? Looked on at the sidelines like a sitting duck? 

  A word rang in his mind over and over again like the sirens coming close.

  Coward.

  He shook his head and rubbed his chin. He hated nothing more than the feeling of uselessness. He always wanted to contribute something, he shifted his gaze to look at you. He was stunned by the display of courage and compassion. You outdid him in your generosity. He couldn’t even do anything to save you, for crying out loud. The look in his eyes wavered, full of convoluted emotion. One thing’s for sure, he was clearly disappointed in himself.

  You performed way better than he had expected in the data interpretation too. He had indeed found a diamond in the rough.  

  Kid, if you could realise your potential on your own…

   He tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  He thought back on the words spoken by the man who saved you. Your kind act has unknowingly inspired others. Your compassion and spurred on further acts of compassion. He was right. This strengthened his hope and belief in the people of Gotham. This city was worth fighting for. Fighting the conflict that reigned over his emotions, he had to arrive at a resolve.

  Sighing, he muttered a curse under his breath. Then, he hoisted you up and staggered over to the paramedics.

###

Flinging the mask to the side, he emptied his gloved hand and saw it lightly bounce against a cushioned bus seat. Then he turned around to wind the doors shut. He looked down to observe the duffel bags, roughly gauging if this heist alone was enough for him. He was hoping that he wouldn’t need to carry out another heist for a long time. He stared at the shotgun he held in his other glove. A very useful trinket he snatched from today’s heist. What a steal, he thought to himself. He was about to jump over the duffel bags to head to the driver’s seat but something caught his eye as he peered out the frosted glass pane.

  A girl? What is she doing?

  She bent down facing the wasted bank teller and tried pulling at the cylinder in his mouth. He observed with light boredom, unimpressed by her antics. He jammed the smoke bomb far too deep into the vice grip of his jaw. There was no use, really.

  Foolish little girl.

  She re-angled herself, to get a better grip on the smoke bomb. He could discern her appearance from this view. She wore a white coat and had her hair tied up in some type of bun? What did she think she was, some type of doctor? This ticked him off. He narrowed his eyes. While he was making a pretty baseless assumption about a random girl in a bank, it couldn’t change the fact that his first impression of her was that she was a healthcare worker.

  He stretched his lips, jutting his jaw forward. For some reason, this made him irrationally annoyed. He never did like healthcare workers. Doctors and nurses are perhaps among some of the most prestigious jobs in society today, and have been for pretty much the entirety of history and human civilisation. As the front lines combating disease, they are often lauded and praised as heroes for their sacrifices, saving lives while putting their own lives on the line. They give up many things for their medical careers.

  This was laughable. He gave a snort, how funny is it that everyone reveres and idolises the motivations of such people. As if they were actual messengers from the divine being, God himself. What they don’t realise is that people lie. They always do. They always say that they’re mainly doing it for altruistic purposes, because they feel fulfilled saving other people. As if prestige and money aren’t a thing. No one truly wants to be a pawn in war.

  He licked his lips and peered down at the naive girl. There will come a time when she realises that helping others is asinine. The reasons for which she has to learn on her own. She will only be weak the more she believes her morals to be better than everyone else’s.

  And weakness only disgusts him.

  He rolled his eyes watching her fail yet again. This was a waste of his time, people really love doing pointless things. We live in an amusing world. He paid her no more heed.

  “Doctors and nurses are not heroes.”

  With that, he braced his hands on the seats lining both sides of the aisles, hoisting himself over the haphazardly strewn hoard of duffel bags to the other side. His cable extended further from his back pocket, the sound lightly scraping the shell of his ears. He clambered into the driver’s seat and landed unceremoniously as his limbs were thrown forward at the impact. He shifted forward, widened his palms and then scrunched his fingers as he searched around for the engine start. After pulling the knob, he smacked both of his hands carelessly on the steering wheel. He shook his head a few times and sighed.

  “At the end of the day, they’ll always be martyred against their will.”

[cakeandpi]

‘Resident Justice’

(zombie-au fun times that no one wanted but everyone’s getting.)

---

"What is that?" Kaldur whispered in fascinated horror.

"I don't know." The scientist beside him responded, voice just as soft. They stared at the ... the thing ... in the cage. It hissed at them, seeming to sense them staring despite a distinct lack of eyes. "Do you think it eats?"

"Doesn't everything alive eat?"

"It was dead an hour ago."

They fell silent again as it began pressing against the reinforced glass of the cage walls, hunting. For just what, Kaldur couldn’t say. An escape? Just exploring its surroundings? Whatever it was doing, Kaldur was rather glad it was trapped. It was quite rare to find a creature that genuinely bothered him, but this was... unnatural. For one, rats did not - should not - get back up and start moving after dying. For another, their insides should not be on the outside while they defied death. It was beyond disturbing, and Kaldur had to swallow to keep his lunch down as the not-rat's exploring left behind a smear of green-grey ooze against the glass of its enclosure.

"And all you gave it was ..." Kaldur trailed off, really not wanting to finish the thought.

"Yep." The scientist inhaled sharply and shook himself. "We should report this."

Kaldur nodded slowly, then frowned. "Wait." He could feel the look leveled at him. Kaldur held up a placating hand. "We should do more tests first. Make sure of -"

"Manta said to report the second we had anything." The scientist retorted sharply. "And this -" he gestured at the cage "- is definitely not nothing."

That was true enough. Kaldur spared another glance for the former specimen and shuddered. "We should see if it can be killed again. Give a complete report." He knew he'd made the right suggestion when his companion paused in opening a comm line.

"Does that matter?" Okay, maybe that hadn't been the right suggestion. "This will give us the advantage against Atlantis. And - hey!"

Kaldur hadn't realized he'd been moving until he'd dragged the the scientist out of the chair. "No." Kaldur shook his head. "No, we -"

Pain bloomed in his chest and he staggered backwards. Scientist or not, everyone in Black Manta's crew was a trained fighter, and Kaldur paid the price for forgetting that for a second. Not for the first time, he wished he had backup for this mission, to catch his mistakes. Like that one. "Listen, kid. I get it, you know?" The man straightened, hands in a guard position as if expecting Kaldur to retaliate. "It's not easy, defecting. I did it too."

Apparently Kaldur’s poker face was not as good as he thought, given how the man smiles wryly at him. "What, you thought you were the only one to come over from Atlantis, disillusioned and angry? No, you're not the first, though I admit I was surprised to find out that the boss had a kid.

"But don't think that just cause you're Manta's little boy doesn't mean you get to defy orders." The man stepped forward into Kaldur personal zone, as if to intimidate him with the few extra inches of height he had on Kaldur. "Manta said to report when we had anything that looked like it could be useful against Atlantis. And I know it's hard, turning against the things you grew up with - but you think you'd be over it by now, what with those missions Manta's sent you on.”

“I am.” He says emphatically, not thinking about what he’s done on those missions to prove his ‘defection’. “It is the ethics of using this as a weapon that I question. And it’s origins. Remember that this drug was given to us for use on ourselves. Someone’s trying to eliminate us.”

“All the more reason to report this.” The man eyed him suspiciously, and Kaldur made himself meet his eyes calmly, without any sign of his fear of discovery. And yet he found a finger pointed at his face. “Of course, a mole would stall, wouldn’t they?”

"That is ridiculous." Kaldur spat out automatically, but he could already see arguing would do no good. The man doubted him, and he was recoiling from Kaldur in a way he hadn't recoiled from the impossibly undead rat. It was more than enough that he was doubted, even if his cover hadn’t been truly blown. Yet. The 'how' wasn't important, not right now. What was important was keeping him from spreading such accusations. Kaldur knew he wouldn't be able to ride out such a rumor - it had taken over half a year to work his way into Black Manta's good graces enough to lead missions. He still wasn't trusted enough to be introduced to the group that called itself The Light that Manta was a member of.

The scientist's foot scuffed against the metal floor as he backed away. Kaldur didn't think, only reacted, and it was a matter of seconds before the man was out cold on the floor. Kaldur's hands stung a little from the short struggle.

A hissing snarl from across the room made him look up. The unnatural creature sat in the center of its cage, as if watching him. Kaldur felt his stomach turn again.

This mission had just gotten a lot more complicated.

- - -

The bike’s lights illuminated the road before him as he made his way to the docks. He’d been just settling down to bed when Kaldur had messaged him. Normally they’d have set up a meeting for a few days later. But Kaldur had insisted this had to be right now.

Dick frowned as his comm beeped with an incoming message. “I’m on my way.” He growled, the tiredness in his bones leaving him grouchy.

“How soon? I don’t know how long I will be able to wait.” Dick bit down hard on his impatience. It was unlike Kaldur to call for updates, especially when it had barely been half an hour since his last contact.

“What’s wrong?” Dick prompted, and the choked laugh he got in response sent chills down his spine.

“A lot.”

He had never, even on their worst missions before the team had split apart for good, heard Kaldur rattled, let alone scared. Not even in his nightmares.

“Walk me through it.” Dick tried to keep his own voice calm against the fear in Kaldur’s.

“I don’t think I can. Just - get here soon, okay?”

“Five minutes.” Dick was already going faster than was wise. And if he was speeding up even more, trying to shave off minutes from his trip, well. Something had Kaldur on edge. That never happened. More than enough reason to risk turning himself into road paste.

He made it in under three minutes, shaking from that last corner that he had taken far, far too fast. His family would probably chew him out for days, and rightfully so, if - when - they found out about it. But Kaldur -

Kaldur was already walking up to him, glancing backwards as if nervous. “You being followed?” Dick examined the shadows with a practiced eye - nothing.

“.... No. I do not believe so.” Kaldur sounded slightly more calm than he had over the comm, but there was an almost fragile edge to it. As if he was only calm because he was forcing himself to be. “This way. This is better explained if I show you.” Kaldur beckoned, and Dick found himself double-checking that his eskrima were in place as he followed.

Rounding the corner of a now-defunct warehouse, Dick sucked in his breath at the sight that greeted them. There was a massive hole in the thick wall; from the lack of debris, it was one that had existed for a while now. Rebar stuck out from the edges of the hole; one of them drew his eye. Something that looked like it had once been a body had been planted on one of them. A twisted metal pole jutted out through the chest piece that Black Manta’s soldiers’ wore. By all rights, whatever - whoever - that was should be dead.

But as Dick watched, the body twitched. Hands jerked, uncoordinated but moving. The legs too. And the face -

That wasn’t a human face. Was it? Dick flicked his flashlight on and stepped closer for a better look. A hand darted towards him and he jumped backward, stumbling; a strong grip on his arm steadied him.

“Careful.” Kaldur cautioned, letting him go after a moment.

“What happened?”

“The last supply run, we got a rather unusual delivery. Something that our supplier claimed would give us an ‘undisputed advantage’. Some sort of drug. Manta tasked a few of us to look into what it did, in case it was just some rebranded Venom.” Kaldur said as Dick circled the body from a distance. “We experimented on a few rats. It did… things to them.” Kaldur gestured at the body. “He wanted to report that immediately. I attempted to stall, but that turned into accusations of being a mole. We fought, and after I subdued him I got in contact with you to set up a meeting. I had meant to tie him up, let you and Batman take him into custody.” Dick nodded, frowning as the head of the body seemed to track him as he walked around it.

“How’d that turn into this?”

“He fought back.” Kaldur shrugged when Dick glanced at him. “I can be surprised, Dick. But he got some of that drug on him during the struggle, and, well.”

“So you staked him?” That seemed excessive, especially for Kaldur.

“As a last resort. Dick, even Venom-users don’t keep moving after being stabbed through the heart.”

“Venom users also still look human. If abnormally bulked out.” Looking around, Dick found a length of two-by-four. Picking it up, he prodded the body. It reacted violently, grabbing the wood and breaking off the end. Kaldur pulled Dick backwards away from the body which was now armed with a foot of splintered wood.

“I still have a sample of the drug. I can spin a tale to throw off Manta, but this came from somewhere. I can give you details on the supplier, but I doubt they are also the manufacturer.”

“And you want us to track down who that is?”

“Yes.”

- - -

"So you think this person’s, what, immune?" Dick leans over Zatanna's chair, eyes intent on the papers scattered across the table in front of her. They feature mostly security footage stills of one person, blond hair braided and coiled around their head, always wearing a stylized orange mask. The actual report on what’s known about them is two pages. Two short pages.

"Possibly. I'm trying not to jump to conclusions without anything concrete." Zatanna tugs on a bit of her hair, trying to ignore the warm hand Dick rests on her shoulder. It's easier than usual because of Wally's presence. He's not exactly sulking, per se, but he's definitely unhappy to be here and not even trying to hide it. That's fine with her, as long as he doesn't try to start shit. Again. He hasn't said a word to her yet, had merely nodded at her curtly as he followed Dick inside and then did his best to become one with a corner of the room. Compared to some past exchanges with him, this was almost pleasant.

"At the bare minimum, they have skills we could use. But look -" she flips open a folder, and hands a handful of pictures to Dick. "That's from before the latest sightings. No changes since."

Dick grunts. "They wear a mask, though. And the newest strain exhibits only facial deformities when not further agitated."

"True." Zatanna watches as Dick takes the pictures over to Wally, who glances at them and grunts. Her shoulder feels cool now that Dick’s not there to warm it; she busies herself with straightening up the table to keep herself from rubbing her shoulder. "But it’s not like they’re living a sedentary life, Dick. Records show that they’ve been a mercenary, and a highly successful one at that, for almost three years now, and those” - she gestures at the pictures in his hands - “are from a month ago. You don’t get fame like they’ve got by just sitting on your ass. They’ve been out there, fighting. If they were infected, they should have shown signs by now. And besides, most of our own wear masks anyway.”

"Domino masks."

"I don't." Wally mutters from his corner. Zatanna purses her lips and reminds herself that she is twenty-two years old, has been on her own since she was fourteen, and that she needs to be the more mature one here. That doesn't make it easy to not roll her eyes.

"Anyway," and if her voice is louder than strictly necessary, who cares? "The point is that whenever we haven’t been sure in the past, we've always gone by behavior and observation."

"Hm." Dick flips through the pictures. "There's been no changes in their actions?"

"No more than there's been in Wally's."

She can hear Wally shift uncomfortably in the corner, and for all that she wishes he weren't here, she does feel a little bad for bringing that up. More than a little, actually. But what happened to him, then or after, hadn’t been her fault. Not alone, at least, and she’s tried to make up for it since.

Dick merely grunts in response, ignoring Wally, a sign that he's thinking hard. "Well, either they're infected and its affecting them incredibly slowly, or they're actually immune. Either way, we could study that."

"Study?" Wally asks harshly.

Dick’s head snaps up from the photos. “Not like that.” Wally’s glaring at him, eyes bright and nostrils flared. “Never like that.”

Zatanna nods in silent, firm agreement. Yes, it had been her and Dick that had left him there - but Wally had been the one to suggest it in the first place. Wally had needed a safe place to rest and recover - and to be isolated, just in case his brush with one of the infected became… worse. Where better than Star Labs? How were they to know it had been anything but that, when the times they’d visited Wally hadn’t said a thing about it, not even in coded messages to Dick?

But given all that he’d been through, it stood to reason that Wally would be just the littlest bit prickly about anything that even hinted at more of ‘human science project’.

After a long moment, Wally nods, visibly relaxing from angry back to ‘I’m only here because I have to be’ moody. Only then does Dick relax too.

"We wouldn't do that, you know that, Wall-man."

"I know." The redhead shifts, shoving himself slightly more upright against the wall. "Just -" His mouth twists and he shrugs. "Some would."

"Yeah. Some would." Dick agrees. "Which is why you’re here. What do you think about finding this person before those who would do that?" He holds out a photo to Wally. “Think you can do it?”

The redhead takes the offering gingerly, holding it by the corner between thumb and forefinger. “Do you think the sky’s blue? Of course I can find this person. But then what? They’re a mercenary, right? They'll want something in return for cooperating with us.”

“Money’s usually a fair bet.” Dick shrugs casually. “Don’t be surprised if they ask for a few grand just for cooperating for a day or two.”

Wally’s eyebrows crawl up his forehead. “A few thousand? For a day? How good is this person anyway?”

“Good enough that the Markovian Freedom Army tried recruiting them.” Zatanna pulls a report out of the folder and brings it over to Wally. “The MFA’s rates vary a bit, but the average is, at minimum, a grand a day when there’s fighting. Not counting bonuses.”

Wally whistles low. None of them state the obvious - there hasn’t been peace in Markovia in years. Or that the so-called ‘freedom army’ had a distressing tendency to chew through its mercenaries like gum. “You said tried?”

“Yeah. They’re working with them, through a secondary group currently calling itself the Hawks, but otherwise they’re a solo act. The Hawks are an independent group, and work for the current highest bidder that’ll take them. Anyway. Our mystery person has so far been working in parallel to the Hawks and the MFA. The pay is higher as a solo, technically, if you don’t take into account all the extra expenses.” Zatanna taps on the desk idly. “That said, I’m still not convinced that money is this person’s true motivator. Otherwise they’d still be back in Bialya - the pay there for mercs is far, far higher.”

Dick shrugs. “I don’t disagree, but it’s not like they’re about to just up and offer to help us solely out of the goodness of their hearts. Just be prepared for them to ask for a lot of money - liquid cash or otherwise - for helping out. And for them to be on guard and suspicious about your intent.”

Wally grins. “Good thing I’m good at talking to people then. Did your research turn up a name for this ‘might be the key to saving the world’ person, or am I going to have to pay them for that as well?”

“It did, though it’s just a codename. Tigress.”

Once they’ve settled the rest of the details, Dick leaves. Zatanna raises an eyebrow as Wally lingers, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if uncomfortable. “Something for you?”

Wally’s mouth twists as if he’s bitten into something sour. “I’m sorry, about, well. How I acted. Been acting. For blaming you for what happened with Artemis.”

Zatanna sucks in a surprised breath. “Wally -” She starts, about to tell him to not worry about it. Except, well. It’s been almost ten years, since Artemis disappeared and Wally put the entire blame on her. And he’s only now apologizing. What is she supposed to do with that?

“Anyway.” He rubs the back of his head, and it strikes her that this is just as awkward for him as it is for her. “I’ll, uh, be going then?”

“Wally.” He freezes with his hand on the doors. “Thank you. And - I’m sorry too. For, you know.”  She makes a vague gesture with her hands, even though he’s turned away and can’t see it.

He exhales heavily. “That’s - it’s fine, you know? Don’t blame you or Dick for that.” He doesn’t have to say most of the time; Zatanna hears it anyway. “You guys didn’t know.”

“We should’ve paid more attention.”

Wally snorts and turns to give her a lopsided smile. “Well. Maybe one day we can laugh about it and everything?”

“That would be nice.” She smiles at him in return, watching as he leaves. Only once the door has latched behind him does she let the smile drop.

- - -

There’s always some non combatant tag-alongs hanging around wherever they set up base. Most of them are someone trying to make a buck somehow or another, be it goods and services… or more physical, intimate versions of the same. Less often it’s people who think hanging around mercenaries will be safer than elsewhere. Or here to sign their souls up for the ‘glory’ of battle.

Tigress strides past all these people as she makes her way to this week’s base of operations. She ignores all of their calls; the glory hunters will find their way into battle soon enough, and the ones seeking protection won’t be any safer for her acknowledging them. As for the vendors -

She sidesteps a woman who thrusts a basketful of food in her direction. Tigress gives her a discouraging scowl as she passed by. The fighting had caused prices to skyrocket, especially for food as fresh as the woman had proclaimed it to be. But the prices were too low for that to be true… that or the food was laced with energy boosters. Not uncommon, for all that it made everything taste like garbage.

She knew most of those around her swore by the boosters. And sure, they’d keep a person awake for thirty hours, but then there’s the crash and the shaking and the hunger for more. And worse, if the supplier wasn’t reputable - and often they weren’t. She’s seen it often enough that she doesn’t want to touch the chemical mix, be it through a needle and vial or laced in her food.

Besides, she already has a stash of fresh apples in her gear here at this temporary base. Or she should - if those apples are gone she’s going to take it out on someone’s face. She stamps her way into the base and upstairs, to where she had left a meager amount of belongings she could bear being parted with, if she had never made it back. She snorts - the likelihood of being unable to return and being alive were astronomically small. And yet she can’t imagine dying.

A voice calls out from behind her, and she turns to see one of her associates. “Tigress! We’re celebrating downstairs, wanna join in?” Tigress shakes her head at Sienna.

“Gonna get some rest while we’ve got a break.” Grabbing her pack, she reaches in and fishes out an apple. “Besides, the rest would riot over these beauties.”

“More like grumble that it’s not meat.” Sienna glances furtively to the side, as if checking the short hallway for eavesdroppers. Tigress pauses just as she’s about to bite into her apple, watching them. “Hey,” Sienna says low, conspiratorially when there’s no one there. “Trade you some cheese for one of those?”

Tigress blinks, mouth salivating. She hasn’t had cheese in a long while. “Done.” The trade’s done quickly, and Sienna tucks the two apples she bartered away and hidden.

“My group managed to snatch up a couple of SABA’s resupply trucks. Would cut you in on a bigger share of the goods - your work’s better than most solo acts we pick up - but my team would riot, you being separate and all.” It’s not the first time Sienna has tried to recruit her, and it’s not the first time Tigress has declined.

“It’s good.” Tigress waives aside Sienna’s vague offer to join their little group. “Like the front-line action I get.”

“Suit yourself.” Sienna shrugs and leaves to join the party downstairs, already going strong, from the sound of it.

Tigress flips her mask up and sits, leaning back against the wall as she takes a large bite of cheese. Savoring the taste - it’d been too long - she pulls out her knife and cuts off a generous bit of apple. Popping that into her mouth and chewing, she lets herself relax a little bit as laughing shouts filter their way upstairs.

For the moment, the fighting had lulled, though there’s still the occasional crack of a gun now and then. Even the MFA, which had had months to entrench themselves here, had been forced to pull back to lick their wounds and regroup. Which gave the Hawks, the group she’d been working alongside this past month, a chance to rest. Or party, as the case may be.

It had been a decent month. But that had been before the SABA had decided to ‘intervene’ in the fighting, and before the MFA had decided to change their tactics. Tigress didn’t much care if the Markovia Freedom Army ‘restored’ Markovia’s royalty or not - personally she doubted that was their true intent. But money made traveling easier, and at the time the MFA had not been using bioweapons. So it had seemed simple enough - she was mercenary for hire, and the MFA and the Hawks needed solo acts to go where they couldn’t.

Of course, now that the quasi-military ‘Surface-Atlantis Bioterror Alliance’ group - stars what a mouthful - had shown up, the MFA had decided since they were being accused of using bioweapons, to go ahead and use them. Which was so dumb it made Tigress’s head hurt in a way she hadn’t dealt with in years, back in a different lifetime where she had argued about the existence of magic with one of the most insufferable boys she’d ever met.

Which meant it was about time to pack up and leave. She has just about enough saved up to get back to the states, weapons and all. So a few days more, and she would be out of here. In the meantime, she has to stay alive long enough to actually leave. And the battles would be back underway before nightfall. So she intends to spend what time she could actually resting. Her apple and cheese finished, she’s thinking about stretching out for a nap when she picks up on the sound of running, harried footsteps.

There’s no shouting from downstairs either.

Slamming her mask back down, she’s back on her feet in one fluid movement. She keeps her hand low, flicking her knife up and out of sight between her wrist and torso. Seconds later, the source of the footsteps appears in the doorway facing her.

“Did you take any?” Tigress stares at the figure, overprotected against the chill in a beige fur-lined jacket and dark pants. With the jacket’s hood flipped up, she can’t pick out much of a face, but she sees a flash of red fabric under it. There’s no insignia she can pick out, no identifying marks, which means that this person is either a spy or unaffiliated. Either way, they mean trouble.

“Did you take any?” The person - man? The voice is low but so’s Sienna’s - repeats, voice raspy.

“Take what?” Tigress growls. She adjusts her grip on her knife, so that when they inevitably drew closer she’d be ready. “You looking for goods, hit up the vendors outside. They’ll be happy to take your money. I don’t do trade.” Not with unknowns, she doesn’t add.

The stranger lets out a frustrated sigh. “Any food. You -” They pause. Tigress frowns as their head moves from her general direction to something to her side. Shifting, keeping the stranger in sight, she turns to find a member of Sienna’s crew standing in room’s other entrance. From the scar on their neck, Tigress thinks she remembers this one goes by Carver.

There’s something off about Carver’s stance, though. Tigress jerks a nod at him as she tries to work out just what is wrong.

The answer comes in the form of a snarl and attack. Tigress dodges sideways as Carver lunges, eyes wild. Pivoting, Tigress kicks out and sends him slamming back into a wall. “What’s your damage?” Tigress growls. In her peripheral vision, she can see the stranger’s standing in the same place, rooted in spot and eyes wide. Shit, were they one of those pacifist types, here to tell anyone who wasn’t outright hostile to them about how some off-key singing around a campfire would solve all the world’s problems?

There’s no time to wonder about that, as Carver straightens up and his face … changes. The skin of Carver’s forehead shifts and splits and bleeds. Something eyeball-like rises out of the mess, rotating and rolling as if disoriented.

Oh, fuck.

“Oh man, that is so gross.” The stranger murmurs. Carver’s - what used to be Carver’s - eyes, all five of them, old and new, focus on the stranger.

Tigress sheathes her knife - no sense in losing it to an infected’s rotting flesh - and moves as Carver lunges anew. She jams her open palm up against Carver’s face, and she feels what ought to have been cartilage squish under the heel of her hand like so much soft, rotting fruit. At the same time, she sweeps out with one leg, sending him crashing to the floor. Reaching up, Tigress unsheathes the sword at her back and plunges it downward into Carver’s chest.

Carver twitches twice before suddenly stiffening and the tell-tale sudden tightening and cracking off of skin. Unlike seconds earlier, there’s barely any blood from this wound; what little there is barely runs, almost instantly coagulating. Tigress waits for a long moment for any sign of movement. When there’s none besides Carver’s skin cracking like old concrete, Tigress rests a boot on his chest and reclaims her sword. His chest only gives a little bit under her.

A glance shows that the stranger is still in the doorway. “You should leave.” She tells them. The stranger has no obvious weaponry, and if their instinct is to stay put when even just one of the infected is attacking, well, they won’t stay human themselves for long.

“You’re Tigress, right? Nice name.” Tigress pauses in the middle of wiping off her blade.

“And?” She raises an eyebrow, hoping they get to the point soon. Where there’s one infected, there’s usually more, and she does not like that she can’t hear any sounds - be it party or fighting or sex or anything - from downstairs.

“You could be the key to saving the world.” The stranger gives her a brilliant smile and pulls down the hood of their jacket. The red fabric she glimpsed earlier covers their head, and her heart jumps at the sight of that mask. “The Flash, at your service.” He bows elaborately.

The Flash. The Flash, in the flesh, right before her. Excitement leaps along her veins - a living Leaguer - before she gets ahold of herself. The League’s no more, dissolved years ago, most of its members either infected or presumed dead. And anyone could put on a mask and call themselves whatever they wanted. That’s what a good half of the mercenaries she’s worked with over the years do. And the actual Flash shouldn’t have just stood there like so much fresh meat as one of the infected attacked.

Tigress frowns. But before she can challenge ‘Flash’ on their claim, more infected appear in the doorway Carver had come in from. “Better save ourselves first, though.” The Flash says, sounding almost cheerful, and she inhales as a red-beige-and-black blur crosses the room and weaves in and among the infected. Okay, maybe that actually is the real Flash. Only a speedster can move like that.

In the blink of an eye, the infected are no longer a threat, their misshapen bodies hardening in a final death. “There’s more down that hallway,” the Flash says as he zips back into the room. “And probably the way I came in too. Gonna be a real mess to fight through.”

Tigress shakes her head, already pulling open a hatch on the wall she’d been resting against moments ago. “Afraid of the dark?” She asks flippantly as she lifts herself into the chute the hatch had covered. She doesn’t look to see if the Flash follows her down - she hopes he does; it’d be a chance to get some answers about, well, everything - but her own skin comes first. Keep moving, keep breathing, keep living.

The mantra is an old friend, one that’s kept her alive over these past few years. She’s not about to abandon it at the first sign of hope that not all of the League - and maybe even not all of the team she’d once known - has been destroyed. That there might be someone with some leads on where her family’s gone. But that will have to come later, when there’s less of a chance of running into infected.

Which means getting out of the watery, dimly lit tunnel the chute deposits her in. The landing jars her a little, but she’s moving as soon as she’s not falling - she can hear the whispering rush of cloth above her. Soon enough, the Flash lands where she was. “Steady,” Tigress growls, putting a hand out before the Flash can pitch face-first into the water. The second he’s regained his balance, she pulls away and moves towards the stairs she’s spotted.

“So, you do this often?”

Tigress hisses for the Flash to be quiet, ignoring the part of her screeching that she was shushing a Leaguer. It wasn’t as if the League existed anymore.

“It was just a question.”

“Look.” Artemis draws upright as they reach the foot of the metal (which meant echoes, which meant noise, which meant target) stairs. “Right now? Really not the time for idle chitchat.” She waits as he inhales sharply, thinks better of it, and closes his mouth with a click. “Good. Now, this way. Quietly.”

She half considers asking the Flash to use his superspeed to get them out of here. But they’d need a safe place for him to catch his breath - at least, if his powers work anything like Wally’s. Her heart pinches tight - it’s been years since she thought about him. Vague memories of Bialya and that dry desert heat press against her, but she shakes her head, as if she can shoo them away like flies.

“Something up?” The Flash is, thankfully, quieter than he’d been before.

She can’t tell him she was wondering if his sidekick still lives. So she ignores the question and ghosts up the last few steps, barely daring to take a breath. Signalling for silence, she listens for a long, long moment. She can hear distant shouting, the echoing report of gunfire, and grumble of diesel engines. Sounds that she’s become accustomed to having as constant companions in recent years. But it’s all distant and far away. Which could only mean that the rest of the Hawks had noticed the outbreak in their den … or had been overwhelmed by it.

She really hopes it’s not the second. She had liked Sienna.

Gesturing for the Flash to follow, she darts out of the doorway of the stair landing to a fresh shadow. And another and another. Then she’s trying to make herself as one with the shadows as possible as a group passes. It’s a mixed group of Hawks and MFA mercs, from the arm patches she spots, but their faces - well. She probably would have recognized some of them once.

It takes the better part of an hour to work their way past groups of infected. The sheer amount of them leaves her uneasy - there was no way this was from the MFA simply mishandling the bioweapons it’s turned to using. And it couldn’t be the Hawks - they eschewed that sort of tactic as thoroughly as the SABA. But something must have happened, for it to spread so widely with no outcry. And with the buildings here being more rabbit-warren than defensible outposts, Tigress would prefer to go undetected rather than risk her skin in a bloodbath.

Speaking of, the building currently sheltering them would be their best bet to talk for a good bit, seeing as it only had two exits - or three, if one counted the windows overlooking the cliffside.

“Three hundred grand. That’s to start with, and covers all of my services. Another three hundred when this’s all done and over with. As for weaponized infected - those start at two grand each. More for the bigger nasties.”

Her neck prickles at the feeling of Flash staring at her. She doesn’t look, instead peering out through the small, cramped window at the far side of the canyon, trying to see if the SABA camp on the other side has noticed anything odd on this side. There’s some vague activity, but nothing that looks like preparations for immediate battle. Not from this distance, at least.

“I’m not… hiring you?”

Tigress does glance back at that. “Then what? Just doing some sightseeing? This is kind of a war zone, you know. Didn’t think the Flash was the morbid type like that.”

He shifts uncomfortably, looking down at his feet. “Actually. I’m, uh, here for your blood.”

She blinks. Then straightens and turns to stare at him. “My what.” She says flatly.

He grimaces and looks up at her. “Some… associates… of mine have been interested in you. And your tendency to walk out of infected areas,” he gestures towards the direction they’d come from, “alive and still human. We would like to, well, study your blood. See if you’ve got some sort of special immunity or something going on. With your permission, of course”

That was not at all what she’d been expecting. She focuses on the first thing she can think of, trying to stall for time to think. “Associates? Kind of vague, don’t you think?” Gods, was this even the same Flash that Wally had worked with? Wally had mentioned once about getting his powers in some sort of science experiment - what if this person had done the same thing and was just claiming the Flash’s title?

He must have picked up on her uneasiness because the Flash holds up his hands placatingly. “Even you must have noticed that those were different from your average infected, right? Usually they’re slow, uncoordinated, and while the body is usually distorted from the infection it’s not so… dramatic.” Tigress nods reluctantly. “We have a new, fresh virus outbreak on our hands. You heard about what happened to Gotham, or Star City, years ago?”

She hadn't been to Star City, ever, but she had seen the remains of Gotham, up close and personal. Her mother’s apartment… Tigress presses her lips into a thin line. “Massive outbreaks. Both of them quarantined and razed - didn’t get rid of all the infected, though.” At least Gotham hadn't been bombed, just… burned. And had been given time, albeit paltry, to evacuate beforehand.

“Analysis from those incidents point to a particular virus strain. No actual cure, not yet, but we can at least immunize against that one, for the most part. And there’s a particular way infection from that virus takes place. But this, here? This is different. The people I’m working with - Nightwing? No? Uh, maybe you’ve heard of Red Arrow?”

“Jackass.” Tigress says on automatic before she can quite stop herself.

That startles a laugh out of the Flash. “He certainly is, sometimes, isn’t he? Anyway. We’d heard whispers of a new virus strain, but nothing for certain that it wasn’t from some failed vaccine experiments not working out. Until now, that is. I was trying to find you and secure your help, in case of a new outbreak, but seems like I was a little slow on that point.”

Tigress folds her arms and stands back, taking a long look at this person calling himself the Flash. She’d never had a chance to meet the actual Flash, only heard Wally talk admiringly about him and seen clips of him on the news. This person doesn’t quite match up with memory, but the broad smile is familiar, if a bit more self-deprecating than she thought she remembered.

Well. It’s not as if she’s the same person she used to be either. At one time she would have laughed, outrageously, at the idea of a zombie apocalypse. And now she's doing her best to survive it.

“Okay.”

“Really? That's great!”

“Eighty million.” She suppresses the urge to grin as the Flash’s face contorts into abject dismay. “Cash. Not negotiable. That will get you one pint of my blood - no more, no less.”

“What’re you going to do with that much money?” The Flash says weakly.

Tigress raises an eyebrow, not that he can see that under her mask. “None of your business. You might have been part of the League once, but the League’s gone, and staying alive has gotten expensive. You want my blood that badly, you'll pay up.” That, or he'd try to take it without her cooperation. In which case he truly wasn't the Flash and she'd have zero compunctions about stopping that particular charade for good.

“All right. I’ll need to run it by Nightwing first, but assuming he’s okay with that - we’ve got a deal.”

“And you can’t do that now because…?”

He digs out a cell from his jacket pocket and holds it up. “No signal.”

Tigress barks a laugh despite herself. “Damn. Zombie apocalypse and we’re still stuck with finding out who can hear us now.”

The Flash grins. “If we can get over to the SABA base, I can get a boost off their communication lines. And also get us a ride out of here.”

“Sounds good.”

Deal struck, Tigress gives her gear a once-over and makes sure everything’s strapped into place. Then she signals for the Flash to follow her once more.

[supportgaara]

I once read a fic placed between the end of the Chuunin Exams arc and before the Sasukie Retrieval arc in which Gaara was still in the process of changing his ways/denying Shukaku. It was told from Temari’s perspective, and it was essentially a sort of “sibling bonding” fic. Here it is, if you haven’t read it. I was thinking about it when I wrote this.

Kinda set around the same time.

“I want to change,” he tells her, gaze as unwavering and unsettling as it ever has been. “I want to get better.”

Not a bone in her body instinctively believes him. Too much has passed between them, she has spent far too many years counting her very breaths around him. She has learned how to tiptoe in such a way he’d hardly even notice her, far better than the most common alternative. It had taken her so long to perfect, trial and error where the trial was a seething glance in her direction and the error was the tight constriction of sand around her ribcage—alleviated only when her breaths had come short and it became clear that the one person he best tolerated would no longer be. She never called this favoritism, it hardly felt like acknowledgment most times. But here, she is the only person he can bring himself to confide in.

And this, this has to be the most vulnerable she has seen him be in all of five years.

It is not nighttime, sunlight pours through the windows like golden urns spilled over. It makes the room look far too bright, paints him strange and ethereal and wholly unnatural. His skin a milky white, the shadows under his eyes smoothed away until his face becomes all one shade. If he would tilt his head just so, it would cast lines across enough to mark distinction. But he won’t. He traces her face as if to pick her thoughts from right off it, and she fears what he will find.

A visceral thing, a sharp spike in her middle that sucks the air right from her lungs. He has always been a small thing, diminutive in comparison to absolutely everything outside of him. All of it has always come down to the look, there, in his eyes. If there is a hell, it must reside within the calm, the stillness of his gaze. What awaits is a tempest, a twisting and terrible thing, ready to be unleashed at any given moment—and she, anticipating. Afraid of its coming. How such a little thing like him can contain even a fraction of it is unfathomable. That is, she thinks, the reason why it must be as terrifying as it is. He must be fit to burst, he must be only barely containing it at all; an ocean of wrath toiling beneath the surface. Shackled only by the delicate sinews of his tiny body, the porcelain skin still untouched.

She swallows the lump in her throat and wonders at what the proper response must be. Kankuro is nowhere to be found, he is not much better at these sorts of things but he would at least serve as anchor. A reminder that she is not alone. “Is that so?” she asks, voice tight.

Gaara doesn’t move, but the barest crease forms at his brow. It is more than enough to draw a thin sliver of ice up her spine.

“I – I mean,” she hurries to placate, hands lifting in that way they so often do in these situations. The way one would toward a feral animal. “It’s…a little sudden. What brought this on?”

He can’t have missed the crack in her tone. “I’ve…had a realization. Of sorts.”

Temari knows, this topic has been long exhausted between she and her other brother. Late into the night, stowed away in her bedroom throwing furtive glances at the door. Lest he hear their speculation. It has been a few months since their return from Konoha, the disappointment has yet to fade. The grief is still fresh. The entire journey home had been all but silent, the nights they took to rest were spent staring into the fire and wondering where to turn from here. First and foremost, there was no body to bury. There was nothing, physical, to mourn. No living proof of what no longer was. This weight settled within them—at the very least, herself and her other brother; who knew what the youngest of them was feeling, how the loss has nestled itself within him, what lies the voice inside his head are still feeding him—and it has refused to leave ever since. Secondly, perhaps more importantly, Gaara has become undeniably reserved. Different. Subdued.

Nothing about him has softened, there is no clear evidence of change, in the way he must be referencing now. But he is no longer the same.

His presence does not ooze with malice, in that way it used to.

The name rolls about on the tip of her tongue but she does not bring herself to say it aloud, now, in front of him. She has repeated it time and time again in the absence of his presence—Uzumaki, Uzumaki, Uzumaki, catalyst that he is Uzumaki—has pressed the face accompanying it into memory as if it somehow belongs there. They do not call it obsession, exactly. This kinda fixation Gaara seems to have. They tell themselves they get it, or that they would. If they were in the same position. How can someone who has spent so long alone possibly feel learning he never had been? How can someone so unfortunately unique possibly feel knowing he was not the only one?

How does it feel to know there had always been another way, had he only been given the right tools?

“I… I know I am beyond help,” he says suddenly, and Temari—cold, hard, weapon chipped from stone Temari—feels her chest squeeze, her breath catch on the way in. His eyes are no longer on her, but the strain in her middle does not disappear. His hands have turned themselves into fists and his shoulders pull in toward him. He is not wearing his gourd but Temari searches for it anyway, eyes the area just beyond him for the hulk of its shadow. His mouth twists into a frown and he can’t seem to find the right words, or maybe he can’t bring himself to say them. Maybe he knows exactly what he’s supposed to be saying. Maybe he’s just forgotten what forgiveness tastes like on the way out, having spent so long without it parroted back to him. “I know I have done terrible things. I know I cannot make up for them.”

Temari cannot pinpoint the worst he’s done, and that in itself might speak volumes. A mangled child’s body, the homes that have turned skeleton, the blood soaked so deep into his sand he reeked for days afterward. How he reveled in this, and the wrinkle of their noses when he was close enough to smell.

Gaara showers more and more often, his hair is a different shade now as a result. His sand is the same and he still breaks more bones than he absolutely needs to but now, now he seems to reel back when he does. Not contrite. Not disturbed.

Just deeply confounded at his own reaction.

“I know you don’t believe me,” he mutters, the shadow of a scowl crossing his features. “But I want to change. I want to believe I can.”

Temari thinks it must be scary, to him. He had taught himself his own solipsism, he had carved his perception in such a way there had been no room for modification. He had convinced himself so thoroughly, and had gone so long without challenge, that he had forced an entire village to accept—to submit, to bend, to wilt in the light of his terror. This was their way of life. This was their reality. To live in fear of this small boy, for the sea at storm inside of him.

But lately, lately it’s been hard to pick this up like before. Lately it’s been hard to justify this apprehension, still sharp in her side.

“I think,” Temari finally says, mind working quick. His mouth has snapped shut, whatever he might’ve been planning to say cut off before it can come. His gaze is attentive, bright, round like that of a child’s. It makes him look his own age. He is so eager to hear what she has to say. He needs this validation, he craves it in the way he once craved affection. Oh so very long ago. “I think it’s important to understand that this isn’t who you’ve always been. I think it’s important for us to acknowledge that…we did this to you. We brought you to this point.”

He considers this, for a very long moment. This room has one exit, the windows are narrow and purely decorative. Useless, too small for her to wriggle out of. The door is just past him, opened. She tries not to stare at it. She knows how volatile he can be. And for all his speak, she knows this is all theoretical at best. A conversation that may or may not leave this room at all.

But his gaze flickers, harmless.

“I do not know how to distinguish my actions from…from Shukaku,” he says slowly, dropping his gaze. “I do not know where I end and…he begins. He has… He has embedded himself into me. He has made me forget who I might’ve been before.”

Temari gnaws on the inside of her cheek. She has never talked to Gaara for this long. She has never heard him say so many words at once. “I… I remember,” she tells him, nervously. She tugs on her sleeve and stops herself from looking away when he meets her gaze again. That sharp sting of fear starts up at her chest, as it always does, but she does not flinch. She does not shrink away. “I remember who you were.”

There is a question there, clear as can be. His mouth thinning out, his eyes searching her face.

“I’ve always been afraid of you,” she confesses quietly. “They said you were dangerous, they made you seem so dangerous. So I was afraid. I didn’t ask why I should’ve been, I just knew I had to be. They said there was a monster inside of you, and so that made you a monster. But I remember how you were like, I remember you were kind. And sweet. I remember you were afraid, too. I remember you not understanding why you were alone. And I remember when you changed. And that… And that gave me a reason to be afraid.”

She swallows audibly. His expression has not changed. This is not news to him.

“Shukaku did not own you so completely,” she tells him, breathless, “not when you were younger.”

His hand comes to rest over his middle, frowning again.

“It’s easy to forget you’re separate consciousness,” she says. “You and him, you’re not supposed to be interchangeable. When you were little, his actions were his actions. And yours were yours. I think… I think maybe he waited until you were low enough to take advantage of. And that if he…if he hadn’t, you wouldn’t have done what you’ve done.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he says. “He’s never wanted anything else.”

Temari sighs tightly, almost relieved. “I think it’s important we understand that you are not the same people. That he… That he is wholly to blame for the things he has forced you to do.”

Gaara goes quiet. Perhaps this conversation has not gone where he’d anticipated, but it has made her somewhat confident. He has not taken her words the wrong way just yet.

“Have you ever,” she begins, wringing her fingers. He lifts his gaze slowly to hers, waiting. “Have you ever not wanted to do it?”

He knows exactly what she means. He doesn’t even hesitate. “I don’t know. He took that from me, too.”

Temari thinks she loves her younger brother, in some distant part of her. What does not echo back when she looks at him, a muted thing that shrunk and shrunk but never quite went away. It breathes its first sign of life, here, when this look comes over him. This confusion, this doubt, this fear of the unknown—visceral, as she has always known it to be.

He will disappear now, she can feel it. He has been exposed to too much for one day, he will need to evaluate his feelings. He will need to consider them in full, without distraction. And so she figures this won’t hurt.

“I think you can change,” she says, as confidently as she can manage. “I want to believe you can, too.”

Gaara snaps shut, this new look shifting over his face before he backs out of the room. His mouth still curved in a frown, his brow furrowed, and his eyes shuttered with uncertainty.

.x.

I’ve been really, really wanting to write character studies on the Sand Siblings. They’re so fascinating. But, of course, Gaara will come first.

[gurguliare]

stephen black, C!

 prompt: “a moment’s respite”

On one occasion the gentleman took him on a quest. Stephen was never told what the gentleman sought and, because it was early in the term of his enchantment, he made a solitary game of not asking. He had already almost exhausted the power of flattering professions of interest; he had apologized for his stupidity too often to hope it might prompt a clear answer. Apologies inspired the fairy in other ways. More than any thing else in the world, it moved the gentleman to learn he had been wronged.

Stephen did not need to be told that the quest was of that consuming character which besets great men (and great ladies) when they can least afford to be consumed. On the eve of a fashionable party, or the morning of a speech to Parliament, a lost button, a fol-de-lol, becomes the Grail which Arthur lost. The drollness in this furor is rarely evident to Sir Such-and-Such or his servants. It was a new sensation, therefore, to be amused by that familiar posture: the silver head bent low, the hands open and closed, the bright eyes fixed on an invisible trail, which led the stumbling feet toward treasure. At first Stephen hardly noticed he felt any such thing. Then, when he did notice, he was distressed; for six months the strongest sentiment which laughing children, pleasant weather, and friends’ praise had compelled in him was regret that he could not go away and sit where all sunshine would pass him by—regret that if he hid his face, the darkness too would dazzle him. And yet his captor wandered Lost-hope’s rainy wood like an Englishman, and Stephen felt an ordinary tremor of good cheer, mixed with a little scorn, as though the gentleman had yet to do him any injury; or as though the hurts he dealt Stephen could never signify.

Thereafter Stephen did his best to subdue fits of lightheartedness. The reader will judge for him whether the gentleman cut a less or more glorious figure than a mortal would, on an identical errand. The gentleman’s properties were magnificent and extensive—but this may not be counted an advantage, when the article sought is very small. The gentleman looked, not behind bookshelves and under wardrobes, but behind the rain, and under the bones of the earth. Rather than perusing his memory by the traditional methods of tapping his temple, pulling his hair, and complaining to sympathetic onlookers that his study had been disturbed, the gentleman performed a very ancient magic to place himself and Stephen in the world of his own recollection.

He retraced his steps through prior decades, which—it appeared—had not ended, but had been sealed off to the public. Throughout he was very silent; at intervals he shrieked. When he addressed Stephen in English, the words proceeded as if accidentally from his mouth, so that Stephen had the distinct impression that a birch tree or nearby candlestick had joined its king in exhorting him. “Keep a sharp eye about you, Stephen!” (At this the gentleman made a repetitive, scraping gesture, as though to hone a man’s eye on a whetstone shaped for the purpose.) “Do you not find eye-lids a very cumbersome detail?”

I have said that the gentleman turned his attention, not merely to places he had visited, but to times. For Stephen it was all one: he could not distinguish between the Sahara of this century and the desert which so disobliged our Lord. The fairy lands the gentleman toured were if possible more enigmatic. Some were inhabited entirely by men and women dressed after the fashion of ancient Picts—but, then, some always were.

In England it was different. Stephen recognized peculiar boxlike headdress preferred of Tudor women, though the lappets in the engravings were neither so beautiful nor so apt to fly up in strong wind. A dizzy half-step through a stone archway, with the gentleman’s hand propelling him, and on the other side Stephen’s ears were filled with the curious, up-tilted English of Richard of Bordeaux’s London.

It would be misleading, however, to suggest that Stephen got his bearings in that hour through the exercise of Reason. The truth was that he always knew when it was England. The vistas of the past did not overwhelm him with homely English spirit, discernable, perhaps, in the dull colors of the stones. A woad-bedecked Celt is as colorful an occurrence as an Easter Island warrior. Stephen had spent almost all his life on English soil, but what he felt from England’s past was formal acknowledgment, as though the land would turn on its side, just as soon as it freed itself from its preoccupation—would turn and ask directly, Who are you?

But by means of these sojourns to England, Stephen concluded that the gentleman had begun very far back in time—had jumped forward to the recent past—and had continued in that serpentine way toward an unknown center. There might have been some pattern to his peregrinations through space, as well; perhaps he was circumnavigating the globe, although Stephen doubted whether, in doing so, one could cross Faerie and Hell.

He was beginning to wonder whether they might be lost. Or if they were not, what about the gentleman’s prize? Perhaps it had been swallowed by a sort of Time-monster, who had fled back to Eternity with a bloated gut. The gentleman would pursue it for ever, and Stephen would either go with him or be marooned in a time still less congenial to him than his own. At no. 9 Harley-street the country servants would go to war with the London maids and the butter would remain uncovered until it spoiled in the dish. Stephen could not muster the regret and indignation he considered due to either prospect, but he was sorry to think Lady Pole would tell her fairy-stories without anyone to hear the words she meant.

In the midst of these and other sad reflections, he paid less and less heed to the gentleman’s interrogation of a statue of the Buddha. Nor did he remark when the gentleman had conceded defeat and, raising two hands, waved aside the grey sky, firs, and mountainside.

Now it was night. A great, clear night, in which the slurring of the ocean seemed to climb from below one’s feet, so one stood on a carpet of sound, rolling away to the foot of the sky. An army had made camp on the beach. At first Stephen presumed these were ancient Danes, judging from the very fair heads and immense furs, to say nothing of the long-necked suggestion of ships on the water. On approaching the camp’s perimeter, however, they were met by a woman whose brows swept to her hairline, such that her forehead seemed fringed at the temples with dark fur. Further dark streaks tapered to nothing in her fair hair, like the streaks in blond wood. What Stephen had taken for a black bearskin, sewn with beads of jet, was not a cape but a number of ravens, who shook themselves and glared when the lady undertook to shrug.

Then he knew the camp for a fairy host. But he could not fathom it, because they were in England. The stars shivered like dew and the lateness of the hour meant the constellations themselves were, to a Londoner’s eye, strangely disordered; and it was England. Of course, England had shewn herself not inhospitable to fairies. But he had never seen so many gathered all together, outside the brugh. They were as tall and handsome as any of the guests who frequented the gentleman’s balls—which, Stephen had learned, not every fairy was. But he had never met a fairy of stature who could stand to resemble his neighbor. These soldiers wore much the same armor, much the same woollen cloaks, and they shared between themselves a monstrous throng of ravens.

Theyalso regarded the gentlemen with barely-concealed enjoyment. None bowed, though they parted for him. They were not perturbed by his splendid hair or the smart cut of his coat. Indeed the leaf-green coat was changed, in the light of their fires; the silver embroidery flashed and glowed gold, and the green velvet accepted the warm bloom of the fire, as though year’s end crept suddenly over a fair young wood.

Stephen had rarely had cause to give thanks for the numbness brought on by enchantment. Now he was aware that his indifferent calm masked a desperate anxiety, which, however, he regarded with more pity than concern. To slow the wildly beating heart of the thing that coiled inside him, Stephen craned his head to look back at the ocean, that loomed like a black wall behind the escort’s pale faces. Something troubled him about the movement of the ships: they rose and fell energetically, but not in time to the waves—or not only with the waves.

When the gentleman came to the tall, rude tent at the center of the encampment, he advised Stephen to wait for him. His tone brooked no dissent and Stephen found himself sitting on a log. The fairies had built their fires with driftwood, and parts of the flame were lavender or blue-green, as though it had stolen some of the colour from the gentleman’s coat (and other accessories; Stephen was sure he saw heartache among the tangled hues). He drew in his shoulders. Trained to disappear in a well-appointed drawing room, he did the best he could with sand and smoke.

The scout who had greeted him emerged from the tent. She walked straight by him like a child entrusted with a task of some import. Stephen followed her with his eyes, and therefore noted that she moved as through a solid labyrinth, not a crowd. She turned corners sharply. Many times he lost track of her. He was badly frightened when she reappeared in front of him.

Closer to, her hickory-blond hair was less a match for the gentleman’s. Heavy but too abundant to fall straight, it held its tidy curves like a gargoyle’s spew. When she bowed low, it slipped out of her collar and drifted down around her ears. She shook it from her face in mute agitation. Rising again, she said a word in a fairy language, which sounded like the fire.

Heart sinking, Stephen replied, “I beg your pardon. I have not had the pleasure—that is, I find—”

The fairy spoke to a raven on her shoulder. It took flight. Stephen told himself he wished the gentleman were there, to translate or intercede, but he did not; he only wished he could understand. The fairy turned to the pot on the fire, which she removed the lid from. She sniffed the steam, produced a ladle, and ladled some of the cauldron’s contents into a wooden bowl.

Stephen felt exceedingly the unlikeliness of escape. He recalled a formula the gentleman had taught him. “Oh, I am too full to eat, too sick with grief to drink…” She pushed the bowl into his grip and stood above him, smiling. There was no charity in her face; if he had had to name the feeling it betrayed in her, he would have said it held a trace of nervousness. But he could not believe that to be true and so he could not find the word for it. All the ravens had opened one eye.

He considered the bowl, which held cider. Under his scrutiny, the lump of butter shrank, in its lacy setting of foam. Stephen thought it unwise to drink—could one be twice-enchanted?—but he dared to breathe deeply of the steam[1].

“Stephen.”

The gentleman had a hand on his chin. The camp was silent. The gentleman’s fingers were cool. Having finished with history, he seemed to search Stephen’s damp face for the trifle he had lost.

[1] If Stephen had had a magical education, he would have known that the tokens by which a Christian may accept a fairy’s gift are various. As it was, he did not think he had fallen asleep. The fairy departed. He sat very straight on the log, to dispel drowsiness. The camp, around him, made to settle into sleep, fairies stealing into tents or flinging themselves on the soft gray sand; when they were all abed, his mother came to him. He did not know her and she, almost his age, regarded him with mild chagrin before setting a hand on his shoulder. He never remembered it, not even as a king, but I may as well tell you that she said one word to him. Not his name, of course—the country of dreams is contiguous with neither Heaven nor Hell[2]—but a word he was glad to have of her, as he would have been of any word. Also she stooped and kissed the top of his head.

[2] Scholars are all agreed on which nations are not Dream’s neighbors. Otherwise they achieve no consensus, except to say that it borders the sea.