#Fogging System in Cape Town

[opstechsanjana]

Mist Cooling & Fogging System Company in South Africa

[chaletnz]

Machu Picchu Adventure: The Citadel

My day started with a lukewarm shower, despite being on the hottest setting. I then went down for breakfast with the Filipino ladies, the coffee was quite good and I enjoyed yet another ham and cheese sandwich although this bread was much nicer and soft. It seems like this will be the staple breakfast now! We all checked out and then met our guide Joel in the lobby when he came to collect us and walk us down to the main square to collect a couple of others - some Chinese ladies, and a family with a two year old son. I was trying to figure out if they were Kiwis, Australian or South African by their accent. Once I heard them speaking Afrikaans my answer was confirmed. I chatted with them a bit as they were really friendly - they were from Hermanus near Cape Town and were surprised that I knew it for the whale watching. The bus journey was next so we lined up with our tickets and hopped on. I made the mistake of sitting near the back so with the super windy, super steep switchbacks it gave me some major motion sickness but the views were breathtaking over the mountains and valleys at well over 3,000m. Our initial ascent inside Machu Picchu was steep but it was cool in the morning so conditions were ideal for climbing, although there was some light rain which made it a little slippery. Joel took us to the main viewpoint/photo spot for our route although the entire citadel below was covered with fog. While we waited for it to clear away for our photos he explained how Machu Picchu was discovered only in 1911, it had been hidden away by vegetation for over 400 years and was only known by local farmers. The name means “old mountain” in the local Quechua language but no one knows the reason behind it. The Incas had created a water irrigation system that would supply their citadel with 45 litres per minute and used two different styles of construction for their buildings; a basic rock and clay combination for quick and unimportant structures like houses, and then much more detailed sculptured interlocking rocks for structures of high importance like the altar, temple, and a circular building in the centre of the citadel which had two windows. This building was used for telling exactly when the winter and summer solstices were to direct the farmers in planting and harvesting their crops with the coming seasons. The fog cleared away and we were in the perfect spot for photos in front of the citadel so Joel played photographer for about half an hour having us go one by one to pose. We continued down from the viewpoint to the citadel and walked among the ancient ruins. Joel showed us some of their plants like a passion fruit tree and a coca bush that the Incas had tried to grow at a higher elevation than it usually ever would. It started to heat up a lot once the sun was fully out and we were fighting over the little slivers of shade from the walls at each place we stopped. With the tour successfully finished, and our two hours inside Machu Picchu now up it was time to make our way down the 1000m descent.

[mitsubishifever]

What May Be On The Cards For Mitsubishi Motors In 2023

Following a long-running commitment to deliver high quality, top value, leading-edge technology vehicles, Mitsubishi Motors announced updates for the 2023 model year, led by the arrival of the all-new 2023 Outlander PHEV abroad, the much-anticipated plug-in hybrid variant of the brand's award-winning flagship SUV. We share what else Mitsubishi Motors has planned for 2023, but there’s no confirmation that Mitsubishi Cape Town will see these same releases.

As the world's first plug-in hybrid electric SUV, and the world's best-selling plug-in hybrid electric vehicle (PHEV), the all-new Outlander PHEV boasts the same bold, award-winning styling, advanced vehicle architecture and premium interior finishes of the internal combustion engine (ICE)-powered Outlander, which has set sales record after sales record this year, garnering praise from consumers and accolades from the industry, including the Ward's Auto 10 Best Interiors Award.

Additional information on each 2023 model year Mitsubishi follows, with detailed specifications and MSRP pricing becoming available closer to the launch of each vehicle.

2023 OUTLANDER PHEV

Combining Mitsubishi Motors' expertise in electrification, motorsport-derived standard Super All-Wheel Control (S-AWC) all-wheel drive systems and an array of advanced technologies, the all-new 2023 Outlander PHEV shares its bold design, styling and comfortable interior and seven-passenger flexibility with the gasoline-fueled Outlander.

The next-generation Outlander PHEV adds to that award-winning mix of confident, quiet, eco-friendly motoring with a new generation of Mitsubishi Motors' twin-motor 4WD PHEV system, featuring more powerful front and rear motors and a larger drive battery than its predecessor, and seven-driver-selectable drive modes. In addition to a greater all-electric driving range than its predecessor, the 2023 Outlander PHEV also boasts an extended overall driving range thanks to a larger gas tank.

Mitsubishi Connect is standard (with a two-year trial) on all Outlander and Outlander PHEV models starting in the model year 2023. Along with other telematic features, this brings standard equipment remote start to these vehicles, meaning customers can cool down or warm up their vehicles before getting in for a drive.

MSRP pricing for the 2023 Mitsubishi Outlander PHEV will be available later in the year, closer to launch.

2023 OUTLANDER

Building on the overwhelming success of the 2022 Outlander, which achieved the best four consecutive retail sales quarters for the nameplate since it was introduced in the U.S. more than 20 years ago, the 2023 Outlander looks to continue the model's award-winning ways and record-setting sales pace. In addition to ES, SE and SEL trims, the Outlander family will expand to include a 40th Anniversary special edition later this year and a Ralliart edition in early 2023. Additionally, the popular Black Edition will continue for MY23, now available based on either the SE and SEL trim.

SE models are now equipped with electric folding mirrors as standard, bringing this desirable near-luxury feature to all Outlander models, and rear-door pull-up sunshades are standard on SEL trim, previously available only on SEL models with the Touring package. Additionally, for the first time ever, Mitsubishi Motors will offer a black-roof factory option, allowing the popular look to carry the brand's full factory warranty.

With a model year 2022 Top Safety Pick+ designation from the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety (IIHS)2, the three-row, seven-passenger 2023 Outlander will see MSRP pricing released later this year.

2023 ECLIPSE CROSS

After recently receiving a substantial mid-model refresh, the 2023 Eclipse Cross retains its predecessor's chiselled front and rear design enhancements as well as its revised interior and infotainment system, while adding an all-new 18-inch wheel design and colour-keyed lower side-trim on all SEL models.  Also new for 2023 are standard-equipment head- and fog lights on all models, regardless of trim level.

Meanwhile, every 2023 Eclipse Cross will be outfitted with Mitsubishi Motors' signature S-AWC all-wheel drive system as standard equipment, which helps to enhance driving confidence in various weather conditions and types of road surfaces. A Ralliart-branded special edition will be available early in 2023.

2023 OUTLANDER SPORT

Long one of MMNA's best-selling models, the Outlander Sport combines an adventurous spirit with great value in an award-winning package.

For 2023, Outlander Sport will be even more adventure-ready capable as every trim level comes equipped with Mitsubishi's All-Wheel Control (AWC) as standard equipment. In addition to S, ES, LE, SE and GT trims, the 2023 Outlander Sport will join the rest of the Mitsubishi lineup with a Ralliart limited-edition model early in 2023.

2023 MIRAGE and MIRAGE G4

As America's most fuel-efficient non-hybrid, gasoline-fueled vehicle, the Mirage offer surprising versatility, huge value and one of the industry's best warranties, in a compact package that cannot be matched. For 2023, every Mirage and Mirage G4 will feature the effortless convenience of a continuously variable transmission (CVT) as standard equipment. Also, Mirage will add its own Ralliart special edition early in 2023.

RALLIART

Ralliart is Mitsubishi Motors' iconic competition sub-brand, with a history in rallying and off-road racing in the world-famous Dakar Rally, where Mitsubishi Motors remains the most successful manufacturer in the history of the event. The legendary Ralliart name returns to the U.S. in the early calendar year 2023 with Outlander, Outlander PHEV, Eclipse Cross, Outlander Sport and Mirage receiving unique body effects, graphics and other rally-inspired touches. All models will be built in limited numbers and available in White Diamond paint with a contrasting black roof on Outlander, Outlander PHEV, Eclipse Cross, Outlander Sport and Mirage.

S-AWC

Super All-Wheel Control is Mitsubishi Motors' unique approach to all-wheel drive. S-AWC uses wheel speed and yaw sensors to adjust braking and engine torque to each wheel, working to deliver a driving experience in which the vehicle responds exactly as the driver intends it to. Whether driving straight on a dry road or through a winding mountain pass in snow, S-AWC helps to deliver confidence to drivers.

WARRANTY

Every Mitsubishi Motors vehicle is delivered with peace of mind through the brand's 10-year/160,000-kilometer powertrain warranty. Also standard on every model is a five-year/100,000-kilometer limited warranty, seven-year/160,000-kilometer corrosion/perforation warranty, and five years of roadside assistance to help with lockout, flat tires and jump-starting.

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Info compiled by https://www.prnewswire.com/

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 89: Something Borrowed, Something Blue

Table of Contents Third Instar, Chapter 20. Go to previous. Go to next. CWs: Physical hostility, indefinite argument, location entrapment, drug use, discussion and execution of bloodletting, description that might read as discussing self-harm, entomophagy and hematophagy mention. [Edited 2022.09.13 for a date continuity mistake.]

_________________________________________________

Data integrity recovery... 0%... Please do not power off your system.

________________________________________________

October 25, 2287

The rooftop ridges and rakes of unfortunate Cape Cod houses peek from the snow here and there. On occasion the trio passes a chimney still standing. Two centuries of dilapidation and harsh winters have collapsed many of them, permitting snow to fill their insides. Gnarled, bald trees intermix with tufts of evergreen. Anything more than a hundred feet out may as well not exist.

Sticks shifts from animated agitation to a numb fury, the longer they trudge on without success. Trailing behind him, ‘Choly resigns that Sticks is right: without bearings, they can’t prioritize rejoining the caravan. The dull, lazy clicking of their Pip-Boys in the ice fog has drifted to feeling more like cotton in his ears.

He’s grateful Bledsoe didn’t buy his RadAway, but he should have taken Rad-X before they embarked.

Ahead, a low-rise building appears in the Fog. A nearby river crackles with sinuous, suffocated echoes. They scan for signs the snow may hide frozen water beneath, then continue toward the tenebrous silhouette. The seven-story streamline moderne office building only accounts for the central pillar of a broad one-story complex. The snow blocks off the lobby entrance.

Ribbons of the Aurora have danced above them all the while, unnoticed in the hoar-frosted sun. As the sky dims, their iridescence grows brilliant again in the distance. 'Choly's jaw drops at the sight.

"Just how far North are we…?"

“There.” Sticks points. His breath crowds his face. “Rooftop access.”

The ghoul easily crawls up the exposed four feet of concrete and aluminum, and stands to peer down at ‘Choly and Angel. He crouches to extend a hand up to ‘Choly. ‘Choly glances to Angel.

“On a good day, Angel couldn’t clear that jump. I’m not leaving it out here.”

Sticks rolls his shoulders with a groan, and walks the perimeter of the roof. Bewildered, ‘Choly and Angel follow along below without a word. Eventually, he stops and rests his arms akimbo.

“I can get having trouble with one big step,” he says. “How about a ramp instead?”

Before either knows it, the man and robot have scaled a gradual snow bank. Only inches of the roof crest the ice here. A smile tugs at ‘Choly’s mouth, but he’s too tired, cold, and hungry to be particularly happy about anything yet. The snow is less dense along the ramp, and ‘Choly’s steps sink deeper into it than in the open expanses of town ruins before, but he clears the rooftop, and stands beside Sticks. They beckon Angel with arms outreached. As it tries to join them, its unsteady flame thruster melts streaks in the snow that will refreeze in minutes. It, too, ultimately clears the edge of the roof.

Now, the wind cuts more than the Fog bites or clings. They cross the roof more cautiously than the ground, as six inches of snow disguises the possible formation of ice. Halfway to the rooftop access, Sticks puts an arm around ‘Choly’s waist to steady him. ‘Choly doesn’t object.

A terminal secures the door. With the butt of his palm, ‘Choly knocks ice loose from it, to fold out the keyboard. He eyes the garbled screen. Sticks promptly pushes him aside, rubs his gloves together, and unfurls his Pip-Boy’s keyprong.

“I’ll huff and I’ll puff,” he beams.

‘Choly snatches his wrist. Alarm pins wide his glare.

“Both the Pip-Boy and the terminal are damaged, idiot. You’ll set off the security defenses!”

Sticks yanks his arm free and chuckles at him. He shrugs a bit to right his coat on his shoulders.

“Defenses? On an office building?”

“I don’t think an office building would have security clearance on a roof entrance.”

“You worry about everything! This is our only option.” Sticks squares up to plug into the terminal. ‘Choly grabs him again, this time with both hands. "Get–"

Sticks shoves him off. 'Choly sprawls back on his butt in the snow with a hollow crunch. He watches in terror as Sticks apes at the manifold to locate its ports. A murmur of whirs, intermixing a sequence of faint chirps and beeps, goes unnoticed by the ghoul. Panic snatches ‘Choly’s breath altogether.

The door clicks. They all jerk and freeze in place.

“dSDFL– tCH– coME To LocKREed of NaSHHua.” Gauss damage garbles the terminal’s otherwise modulated voice font. “Location tCHHX– sdflhDDO– Deenwood Complex. Bio– sdlfhOI– tCHH– verifIIIed. Welcome, CoooŒrrrnel Carey.”

The wind whips at them. They gawk as the door slowly opens itself to reveal a dim stairwell landing.

Sticks nips at the air.

“Can this day get any fucking worse!”

'Choly pats at his chest, first to the left, then the right. His gloved fingertips contextualize the devices still affixed to his frost-iced coat. He can't quite swallow.

“Angel. –Angel, is there a soul inside?”

The Mister Handy approaches the doorway and pauses for some time. ‘Choly won't let Sticks help him back to his feet, and insists on leveraging himself up with his cane. Their gazes lock, desperate for mutual understanding. ‘Choly folds first and watches Angel.

“Just us and the, erm, blattidae, Sir.”

Sticks slings his rifle off his shoulder, then with one hand slaps Angel’s chassis.

“Here’s hoping whatever that is doesn’t mind us coming in out of the cold.���

‘Choly steels himself. With his cane hooked on his elbow, he grips his 4-wood with its head up, and follows behind them both.

They’re not down to the next landing before the rooftop access door latches itself shut again. ‘Choly doubles back to scrutinize the wall terminal. He squirms and glances down at Sticks.

“It’s password protected. Maybe further in–”

“–We’ll comb for a password, then.”

“You don’t understand. We’re not locked out. We’re locked in now. We’re locked inside a Lockreed building. These places have some of the highest military security defenses in the country.”

Sticks glares at length.

“Don’t follow me. You do whatever the hell you want. Just don’t involve me. I’ve had enough of this nonstop stream of bullshit. Separate corners or else.”

“It’s ill advised we split up, gentlem–”

“–Can it. No gentlemen here. Just us and those lattiwhatsits.”

Sticks starts to storm off down the stairs.

“I’m begging you, Sticks. Be careful. Promise me you won’t screw with any doors until I can tell what we’re up against. And roaches. It senses RadRoaches.”

Sticks flips him off before embarking through the stairwell’s main floor doorway.

“Promise me!” ‘Choly frowns to Angel. “Aaand I’m right back to sleeping on office furniture. If I can sleep at all.”

“Come now, Sir. I’m certain you’ll pass out right when your head hits the pillow!”

It, too, clips off down the stairs and through the door.

He just sighs and follows after Angel.

“At least it’s warm in here.”

______________________________________________________

October 27, 2287

'Choly knocks on the open office door, and stands in it. Sticks naps with a borrowed curtain pulled over him, with his arms folded atop it. Without any reply, 'Choly takes a step inside.

This office is warmer than the one 'Choly occupies.

"Can we talk?"

The ghoul opens an eye, then closes it.

"What's to talk about?"

"Please don't be like that." He sits against the side table at the doorway, and clasps his gloved hands in one another in alternations. "I know you're mad, and you've every right. I'm not here to apologize, though. Not yet. I'm tired of apologizing for needing things."

"Need, want. Do whatever. You don't need my permission. Clearly."

"I do, though." He clears his throat, and eases back to standing so he can sit beside Sticks's legs on the couch. He peers at the office's modular paneling. "I've had a lot to think about since we got here, and everything we must accomplish before we can leave. There's one thing in particular that I can't do without you. If we're– staying here, erh. Hmh. You know I need you for the last ingredient of the Melancholia."

Sticks watches him, gripping the curtain. Unease and anger tug at his features. 'Choly looks to him, briefly, to confirm he has his attention finally.

"You're talking the blood part, aren't you? You insist on staying here. I'd rather you stayed, too. I could go find the caravan and bring some back."

"I've told you that I can't allow that. We leave together or nothing. The security system let us in on a data corruption technicality: it's fucked. This is a Lockreed site. There's no telling what protocols or defenses this building has, or how it will behave if any other parts of it are damaged like the security door." A faint disquiet softens him. "You don't have a map or compass, and traveling alone just isn't practical in these conditions."

"The blizzard's let up." Sticks sits up and slouches on the arm of the couch. "Surely–"

"–The weather isn't the only factor and you know it. Or the doors. Think about the composition of the caravan. The nurses stayed at Ant Lane!" 'Choly grips Sticks's knee through the curtain. "No one at the Lane would trust donating blood now. You know people there won't trust the Blood Drive after what happened. They're superstitious, clearly with good reason. And even if you could find any donors within the caravan, there's no one with them who could cleanly and safely draw blood."

Sticks grabs 'Choly's hand and takes it off his leg, then throws off the curtain to sit up.

"And you can?"

'Choly clutches at the chest busks of his Surgical Leathers, for lack of a more logical place to rest his hand.

"I'll have to! There's a lot I must be candid with you about, with this mess. A person can safely give one pint of blood every eight weeks. The formulation in the Merrick Index converts that one pint into almost three full Melancholia." His fingers wander to trace his chin scar. "Self-draw is nonviable. The Merrick advises against using your own blood except in emergencies. The chemical treatments which turn blood into Stimpaks and then Melancholia alter the healing factor just enough for a small risk triggering cytokine storm.[2287.10.27-1] Repeatedly taking Stimpaks or Melancholia made exclusively from one's own blood can kill them."

"I really don't like the idea of being your only donor."

"I don't like to put you in this position, either. But you're insistent I take Melancholia as it's prescribed for Limit 115 suppression. Once a week."

Sticks murmurs, counting on his fingers.

"Wait, you dullard. Your math is bad. Only three every eight weeks? That's not once a week."

'Choly pushes down pesky worries and lets his gentle, glassy gaze impart reassurance.

"Good. You follow me, then. Let me continue explaining. Like I said, I've thought about this extensively already. I don't have an autoclave or phlebotomy equipment. There's that fridge where you've been keeping the RadRoach meat, but without perfectly sterile implements, the blood must be processed immediately after drawing it. And without a cannula, we'll have to use a knife."

Sticks has been eyeing his arms in thought, but stops because 'Choly is watching.

"If you're trying to spook me out of sticking to my request, it's not working."

"I'm trying to provide you with everything I can so you can decide for yourself whether you're actually okay with this arrangement. I want your input, too. Your thoughts. That's all. Now, to get an entire pint of blood at once, with a knife, the cut can’t be superficial. Some veins will be safer for this than others. This is another reason I can't reliably self-draw. Without proper phlebotomy implements, I could exsanguinate."

"How am I any different? Tch! If you can't Stimpak yourself, I couldn't Stimpak myself either!"

A smile quivers on 'Choly's face, small at first, but widening to tense the corners of his mouth and crease his cheeks. He leans to hold Sticks by the jaw with a tender touch.

"You're a ghoul." He pats Sticks's cheek and eases back to sit beside him. "I recall clearly that your Pip-Boy indicated you've got remarkably high Endurance. That metric diagnoses traits like your healing factor and blood volume. But it's not just that I'm confident you'd withstand it. You remember how quickly your arm healed up after the RadFowl bite, once you could get it to stop bleeding? You regenerate so quickly. Please, tell me this sounds like I get the picture."

"Quick healing or no, I know a quarter-cup of blood a week isn't going to cut it. Pun… not intended. There's got to be a way you can stretch a pint. Don’t tell me you think we’ll be here two months."

"Even once we leave, we'll need a way to synthesize enough Melancholia that I can drink it weekly. Any dose I don't use here, we can take with us. And no, I had the opposite in mind: I'll get multiple pints from you every two months, if my theory holds. You could, in theory, stand in for more than one donor. Human healing factor replenishes lost blood count. Blood is another type of tissue, after all. Your ghoulish healing factor… well, you've indicated rads speed it up. Rads rejuvenate you. If we were to irradiate you after making the deep incision, I think–”

"–NO!"

Sticks lurches to his feet, to fling 'Choly to stand as well. 'Choly doesn't even try to squeeze in a word, too focused on keeping his balance as Sticks shoves him toward the hall.

"Fuck! No! Hell no! Out! Out now! You little freak you're not milking me that's disgusting oh my god so help me–"

The door slams. 'Choly doesn't deflate. He waits a moment before cupping a hand to the door and speaking through it.

You’re the one who thought of it as milking...

"...I didn't mean right now," he says. “I came to discuss things with you. There's still four days before I need to drink the last Melancholia, so if you don't want me to miss a dose, you've got about ten days or so to consider how you want to proceed. I'm open to any ideas you have, too, provided we stay here and we stay inside." His voice raises: "I'm confident that between the two of us, we can come up with something!"

He almost offers the MREs, but stops himself. He can respect Sticks distrusting the General–especially anything in which she's hidden chems. He has the luxury of having no other choice. Hopefully Sticks won't tire of Grilled RadRoach anytime soon. He'll get them both in better dietary straits once they can get out of here.

"...That went well."

He can't wave off coffee pangs, even at this hour, and endeavors to distract himself from his racing heart by organizing the literature he's gathered from the now vacant offices on their floor. He's too tired to do anything with the books, stenos, and binders, but he can at least sort them by their relevance to his pending tasks, to tackle later.

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October 31, 2287

Glass clinks onto the desk beside ‘Choly. He looks up from reading the onboarding manual, at the two empty milk bottles that have appeared, and the last Melancholia.

Sticks toes at one of the chair’s caster wheels with his shoe.

“You’ll need something to put it in.”

‘Choly swivels to look up at him.

“I thought you were against… milking.”

An exasperated, visceral mental flinch clicks through Sticks’s turbinates.

“Just because it’s the bottles doesn’t– Look, do you want my help with this?”

‘Choly smiles in metered apology.

“I couldn’t help myself. Of course. I take it you’ve decided to help, then.”

“Kind of a no-brainer. As much as I hate the spot we’re in, it’s not fair to you to turn you down. If you get contagious again, well. You’d relapse, wouldn’t you? I don’t think I’d wish that kind of suffering on many.”

Every possible reply that forms curdles on ‘Choly’s tongue. He still disagrees with the DIA documenting him as a positive New Plague case, but without a functional Pip-Boy to employ even basic medical diagnostics, he can’t reasonably disprove it. There’s no arguing with the allegation, and agreeing with it only condemns him. It’s hopefully a short-term arrangement, and they can get out of here soon, but in the meantime, follow-through assuages Sticks’s anxiety, and he won’t turn down more Melancholia besides. A small smile reforms, withdrawn and curt.

“All right, then. Have they been sterilized, or will we need to?”

“I rinsed ‘em out and put ‘em in my fire while I ate breakfast.” Breakfast falls from his mouth like unchewed words. ‘Choly is surprised Sticks hasn’t set off any fire alarms yet, but says nothing. “I figured glass was the cleanest option. You mentioned this needing rads, too. What… exactly is enough rads?”

“You’d have to tell me. Does a little feel nice? Does a lot feel real nice?”

Sticks’s eyelids shut and compress his eyes.

“--Forget I asked. Suggest something, and we’ll try it.”

“Trial and error.” ‘Choly dislikes the idea of error, but lets only success compel him. “Well, we could dismantle some equipment that isn’t connected to anything. A Fusion Core would work, too, but I think it’d be overkill. Try to find a fusion cell. Something with a clock or counter is a good bet. Atomic time, you know.”

“Atomic time…” Sticks mutters under his breath, and glances around the office. “Wait here.”

While Sticks flexes his procurement expertise, ‘Choly opens the Melancholia. He nurses the cinnamon concoction, and contemplates just how vital it is in his quality of life. To him, he is inextricable from them. He did, after all, name himself after his endearment for them. As he waxes narcotic, the hubeine gradually subsumes any lingering self-consciousness with its leaden comfort.

“Melancholia,” he vocalizes, dismantling its components in his mouth and letting them roll around. “Melancholia… ‘Choly. Kholi. Khholi. Kholodets. Tch, opukholi. ...Опухоли…”[2287.10.31-1]

Tumescence. He drifts through the elephantine febrile imagery of his “Filarial” piece. Small  guttural chirps of half-formed laughter don’t make it out of his throat.

Pukheya and Korkusha are such crooked, cruel muses, he thinks.[2287.10.31-2]

He’s not sure what he means, but pays it no mind.

“Hey, what about one of these magnets?” Sticks sets it in ‘Choly’s lap to jar him from his daze. “That’s a fusion cell wedged in there, isn’t it?”

‘Choly sits up straight and grips the saucer of coiled copper wire in both hands. He tucks the empty Melancholia bottle under his arm and stands with the magnet, to take it to the loveseat. Far away from the desk, and his Pip-Boy, and the terminal.

“Let’s see. Use your multitool to pry open the connections.”

Sticks sits beside him to pull out the multitool, and does as instructed. He picks the lipstick-sized battery from the wiring, and eyes it. Then, following ‘Choly’s guidance, he uses the crux of the plier arm of his multitool to partly crush its casing.

“Is it okay for you to be near this?”

“It shouldn’t be too many rads, especially if you hold it. My Vault Suit has radiation resistant lining.” ‘Choly’s glossy eyes brighten. “If it takes more rads than that to produce the results we seek, we’ve still got plenty of Rad-X.”

“Do you ever dial it down, Mindy?”

“I’ve never noticed, personally.” Reservations temper his smile as he runs a mental list for their crafts project. “We’ve got bottles, a healing trigger, and…” He reaches for his cane propped against the wall on his side of the sofa. “A knife. Its restoration makes it the most recently sharpened blade we have, I’d think. Here, fetch the bottles for me. And the lighter from the desk drawer, too.”

Sticks sneers playfully at him as he does as asked and presents him the steel lighter.

“I absolutely got it fixed just so you could shank me with it.”

For a moment, neither makes a sound. A chuckle works its way out of Sticks which develops into a full laugh when ‘Choly joins in. ‘Choly unlatches the clasp on his cane hilt and slides its halves apart, and the laughter dissipates to punctuate their mutual tension.

“I’ve been calling it Komár.” ‘Choly works at brushing the flame along the length of the blade. “Poetic, that we use a mosquito knife for bloodletting. This kind of blade is better at stabbing than slicing, but it can be a lancet in a pinch. No matter the site, I don’t advise stabbing. We must keep it superficial. The less you have to heal, the easier it will be on you.”

Sticks sits again, with unusually good posture for him.

“You’ve thought this part through, too.”

“Phlebotomists typically use the median cubital vein.” ‘Choly flips the lighter shut and points to the inner fold of his elbow with the pinky of the hand holding the knife. “Close to the skin. Furthest from large nerves. The only easier access veins are in the neck and inner thigh, but those are far more vulnerable. Halloween or not, I’m no vampire.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, it is Halloween, isn’t it?” Sticks groans and slouches. “Can we make sure first that this is going to work like your hard on thinks it’s going to?”

‘Choly glances at him over his crescent glasses.

“You’re so intent to believe I’m getting off on this.”

“I’m still trying to figure out what exactly does.”

‘Choly gestures for Sticks to hold out his inner forearm. Sticks rolls up his shirt sleeve and lays his arm across his lap.

“Last I checked, this does not fit the bill.” ‘Choly scrutinizes a good starting place, and settles on slicing the pad of Sticks’s fingertip. “Does it fit yours?”

“Please stop talking.”

When ‘Choly squeezes the finger to ensure it bleeds nicely, Sticks stiffens ever so slightly. He lets go and nods for Sticks to apply the cell. They both watch the cut as Sticks waves the cracked opening in the cell’s casing over it. Eventually, Sticks rubs the blood between his thumb and finger. He produces a kerchief and wipes his hand clean, and holds it out again. Their brows both wag as ‘Choly looks it over.

“I’d say that it works.” ‘Choly looks at Sticks solemnly. “Are you sure you’re all right with this? I think it’s best if we only draw one pint for now. This proves that rads heal your skin and blood vessels, but I don’t want to take too much at once without the ability to measure your recovery. Maybe if we find a biometric scanner here, or get lucky and there’s a Pip-Boy laying around–”

“You’ve thought this through. So have I. I don’t want you getting sick. You’re soggy cardboard as it is. If that means being an ingredient in your silt flour smoothies, it means being an ingredient in your silt flour smoothies.”

“For now.” He nods with a guilty gratitude. “You’re more than an ingredient.”

“The main ingredient, even.” Sticks grins through clenched teeth. “Just… take it easy, okay? It might heal up, but it’s still gonna hurt like sin.”

‘Choly murmurs.

Here goes nothing, then. No room for error.

‘Choly cradles Sticks’s right elbow in his right hand, and squares up to the antecubital fold with his left. Sticks readies a milk bottle between his thighs. ‘Choly double checks he can visualize Sticks’s blood vessels through his keloidal skin, and makes a short quick slice lengthwise along the chosen vein. With a sharp sustained inhalation, Sticks expects the blood to spurt. Instead, it pours, and he collects it somewhat easily after ‘Choly can pull away and give him the space to hold it steady. Sticks lets out a long ragged breath and doesn’t blink as he watches himself filling the bottle. ‘Choly navigates to borrow the kerchief to wipe the knife, so he can sheath it.

“How are you so far?” ‘Choly asks, quiet and watching. He rubs gently at Sticks’s knee.

“I’m not fond of watching my own blood come out, but I’m not going to faint, if that’s what you’re asking.” Sticks sighs. “Two pint bottle, isn’t it? If you only want one for now, you only want half of this then?”

“We need to feel out your limits before we push them. Tiny steps. Half the bottle is perfect for now. It’ll buy us three weeks where we don’t have to worry about whether I’ve got another dose of Melancholia.”

“So we can focus on getting out of here,” Sticks agrees. “Back to civilization. You haven’t made any strides figuring out how to get the doors to behave, have you?”

‘Choly chooses his words.

“I’ve been seeing what I can do to repair my Pip-Boy. It will be necessary to access the doors. And necessary to repair Angel.”

“This again.” Sticks waves the fusion cell near the cut as the quantity he’s collected resembles what he’s been requested to provide, easing it to apply pressure with it to the upper side of the blood vessel. “Do you see any robot workbenches around here? It’s got some screws loose, but it’s not in pain. Now is not the time. I’ve been eating RadRoach for the past week. Nothing but goddamn RadRoach. The fuck have you been eating anyway? Have you eaten anything since we’ve been here?”

“Yes, of course. It’s, ah, funny you ask. I’m going to let you… finish first.”

“If you’ve been withholding food, so help me.”

Sticks clicks his tongue at him and grouses over completing his task. He grabs the kerchief back and wipes up, then applies pressure and glares at ‘Choly expectantly.

“I found more proof General Francis was here. MREs. Months’ worth. They’re still well within date, too.”

Sticks blanches with a sharp frown. Queasiness tugs at his features.

“Christ. No wonder you’re not pawing at the walls to get out. Are you sure you don’t want some of my RadRoach meat?”

“The MREs don’t irritate my stomach. I’m not against eating insects, but I don’t know if it would agree with me. I’d rather not add digestive issues to our trouble trapped here. Really, it’s fine. I’m eating them willingly.”

Sticks sours at him and hands him the bottle. He stands with a creak and grunt, and doesn’t make eye contact on his way out.

“Yeah, you have fun with that. Angel might not have a clue we’re trapped, and both of you might not care, but I do. And you should, too. Sure, we risk starving to death here, but one of us might go insane before we get that far.”

“Thank you,” ‘Choly calls out through the open doorway.

He smiles to himself that he didn’t get a slammed door in reply this time. Then he eyes the contents of the bottle in his hand. To keep from crying, he smiles even wider, that he has to consciously hold himself back from intimating the original purpose of the vessel to its current one, and from pressing its mouth to his own.

Go to next »»»

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[2287.10.27-1] Cytokine Storm. A dangerous and potentially fatal immune response in which the body exponentially generates more and more immune cells until they completely overwhelm the body. Most commonly seen in some forms of chemotherapy and certain viral infections.

[2287.10.31-1] Melancholia vocalization. He’s trying to think what else ‘Choly might be short for, and ends up rolling the different words into a single thought process. Melancholia, меланхолия, a persistent gloom. Kholodets, холодець, is a gelatin salad. Opukholi, опухоль, is a growth or source of swelling, most commonly a tumor.

[2287.10.31-2] Pukheya, Korkusha. Пухнея, Коркуша. Two of the Tryasovitsy. The former causes tumors and edema, while the latter causes victims’ blood vessels clumping and knotting up. Here, his subconscious is suggesting that elephantiasis is a consequence of these sisters’ joint effort.

[ineffablelabpartners]

Forgive me, brother, for I have committed a fanfic.

Title: Reconciliations

Summary: During S3E1 (The Price of Power), Hordak makes amends with Entrapta after his outburst, and the two of them decide what to do about Catra. Some of Hordak's leadership choices are slightly called into question.

Warnings: Brief, humorous references to methods of execution?

“You know…there are more efficient ways to execute someone than banishing them to a hostile location.”

Saw. Tweezers. Pliers. Multimeter. Entrapta was in her room, mask down, working with every tool she could get her hair on at once. Her workbench was starting to wobble again, but this time she was pointedly ignoring it. The door opened behind her, and from the ominous shadow that fell across she didn’t have to look to see who it was. He had brought Imp with him.

“Ahem.”

“...” Entrapta’s soldering iron soldered on.

Imp chirruped.

“...After reviewing your research on First Ones tech in the Crimson Waste, I have decided that I am willing to discuss it further.” He was calmer now than she’d last seen him, with something different from his usual demeanor that she couldn't define. “I believe I have come up with a compromise to our disagreement.”

She shut off her tools, but didn’t reply. Imp chirped louder.

Hordak continued, strained. “I may have... overreacted to your request. You approached me at an — inopportune — moment.” He swallowed. “And I...”

Entrapta set down her gadgetry and lifted her mask. She turned to look at him, still not having finished his sentence.

“...had already written my speech for the assembly.” He was holding the datapad she’d left behind with the crinkled map of the Crimson Waste folded neatly on top. A lock of blue hair had escaped his slicked back style and fallen across his forehead. His armor twinkled in the glow of the soft purple lighting she’d recently installed. She bit her lip.

With a screech, Imp jumped off Hordak’s shoulder into Entrapta’s arms, thwapping him in the face with his tail as he did so. “Entrapta,” he said, softer than she’d ever heard that voice say her name before. She giggled.

“Imp, that is hardly dignified.” Hordak stared at the two of them, his eyes a little bigger, as Entrapta embraced Imp and kissed his cheek. His skin was peculiarly smoother than a human’s but still baby soft.

“Have a seat, Hordak.” She gestured toward her purple couch. “Let’s talk.”

“Emily!” Imp said, with Entrapta’s voice.

“She’s helping Scorpia with something before the mandatory assembly - I wasn’t planning on going!”

Using her hair, Entrapta retrieved two fizzy drinks with straws from her personal cooler. Fizzy rations were one of the changes she'd been able to implement to the Horde menu, though her old chefs had refused her offer to come work at the Fright Zone. (She'd even tracked them down with the Sanctum communicator and everything.) The Horde drinks were green without much flavor, but still: fizzy.

Hordak looked at the beverage she placed in his hand the way Scorpia looked at small buttons. He hesitated to sit down, as if he’d never touched anything soft before in his life. Had she ever seen him sit in a chair other than a throne? It was times like these that Entrapta felt better about her own social shortcomings.

“So.” She sat cross-legged next to the caped warlord, whose winged toddler leapt off her lap to perch himself at the highest point on the back of the couch. Hordak’s cybernetics were right there, close enough to touch, but she couldn’t let herself get distracted. First Ones tech (and Catra’s life?) was on the line. “What’s your solution to our tech problem?”

“Since the Crimson Waste has a reputation almost as foreboding as Beast Island...” Hordak handed his own bottle to Imp, who seemed to have a better idea of what to do with it. “I will allow you to send Catra there on a mission to retrieve First Ones tech.”

Entrapta smiled. “Thank you.” Her pigtail draped itself over the back of the couch, curling around Imp, inches from Hordak’s shoulder.

He didn’t smile back. “It must be alone, no other lives at risk,” he grunted. “If against all odds, Catra returns with what we need - she will be pardoned for proving her worth. If she does not return after an allotted period of time, she will be presumed dead and a failure. You will have to come up with a contingency plan should that happen.”

She took a sip from her fizzy drink. “Why do you think she won’t return?”

His ears wiggled, just slightly. “I lost a whole faction to that wasteland 20 years ago, including my most fearsome and competent warrior.” He bowed his head angstily, somewhat undercut by the soda sipping toddler next to it.

“Huntara. I have her file right here.” As difficult as it was to find anything in that archaic filing system. She hair-grabbed a stack of Horde folders from nearby, which Commander Cobalt had assisted her in locating. “However, I’ve noticed more than a few discrepancies between Shadow Weaver’s reports and my own research. Are you sure that her version of events can be trusted?”

“As long as the others believe what she told them, it will serve the purpose that I need.” He furrowed his brow and looked away from the photograph clipped to the inside of the folder. “But your skepticism is not unwarranted; Shadow Weaver did have something of a duplicitous side.”

Despite her difficulty with social signals, Entrapta had picked up on that fairly quickly. “Yet you kept her around for 25 years?”

“The sorceress proved her worth to me with the role she played ending the first Rebellion, but I let her ride off that goodwill for far too long. If Scorpia had shown any connection to the Black Garnet, I would have rid myself of that treacherous witch long ago.” He narrowed his eyes at the tall stack of manilla folders. “For her insistence on paper recordkeeping alone.”

It was almost a joke, but not. “So what are you going to do about her escape?”

“It is too late to do anything.” First Adora, now Shadow Weaver - apparently walking out of this place had less consequences than staying. “The only thing to be done is punish the person responsible, as a message to the others that such failures will not be tolerated.”

Entrapta took another sip. “By sending her away?”

“It is harsh, I know.” He gestured with his big metal arms, the ones she was forever yearning to go to town on with a hex-driver. “I am not a charismatic leader, Entrapta. I cannot inspire love and devotion the way others can. Fear and pragmatism are all I have.”

“And robots.”

“Yes.” His scowl fleetingly turned to a smile. “Had Catra been truthful to me, it would have allowed me to be lenient, as I have been with her before.” Hordak seemed to believe what he was saying, in that moment. He was easier to read than most people. “But I cannot abide both a failure and a liar. It would be repeating the same mistakes made with Shadow Weaver.”

“You know…” she said, after another sip. “There are more efficient ways to execute someone than banishing them to a hostile location.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Firing squad, lethal injection, hanging, electrocution, decapitation.” Entrapta mimed each of these with her hair. “A few more minutes in your atmospheric variable remover would have done it.”

He was making that face again, where his eyes were bigger than his little red mouth. “I thought you wanted me to spare Catra. Are you suggesting that I… cut off her head?”

“I’m just curious, why not? It would be easier. More cost effective. And I’m no social scientist, but I would think it might inspire more… fear?”

“No—” he scoffed, raising a finger. Was that a hint of red on his cheeks? She would have to log this. “—Beast Island is a fate worse than death. Those condemned there have only their own failures to blame for their… failures! It is a much MORE terrifying punishment than… than...”

“Heads on spikes? I’m not sure that’s coming across to your soldiers, though.” She downed the rest of her drink and pulled up the datapad. “78% of cadets over the age of 13 believe Beast Island is a fabrication told to keep them in line.”

“...where did you get that number?”

“Commander Cobalt gave me the statistics from his semi-annual survey.” The Horde school teacher asked a lot of good questions. “He said Shadow Weaver refused to take any of it into account for the cadet curriculum.”

“Beast Island is real,” he growled. His hand grazed her hair as he pushed the datapad away. “I have been there. I will say nothing more.” He folded his technologically advanced arms and looked away.

Entrapta had seen that file as well. The record of the only Horde expedition to Beast Island wasn’t very detailed, but it mentioned Huntara as one of the soldiers who had accompanied Hordak there. She was given the highest of accolades for her service there, only to perish on a mission to the Crimson Waste two weeks later, along with ten other soldiers. Cobalt had some soft science theories about the psychological effects of the trip, but that was far out of Entrapta’s field of expertise.

She inched closer to him. “But we’re sending Catra to the Crimson Waste.”

“We are,” he sighed, giving her a wry smile. “Though I do not expect her to return.”

“I disagree.” She strummed her fingers on the datapad. “My research gives her a good chance of survival.”

“Yes, she may survive. She is more capable than most...” He tilted his head, squinting. “But it doesn’t mean she’ll be back.”

This stung in a way she wasn’t prepared for. “You mean — you think— she’ll abandon us?” Entrapta flipped down her mask. Imp squeaked and bopped Hordak on the head with his tail.

“It is what I suspect others have done.” His ears drooped. “That is why I didn’t want to send her there in the first place. It would be a waste of resources to hunt defectors down in a deadly wasteland!”

Her breath fogged up the inside of the mask. “But then we won’t get the First Ones tech!”

“Entrapta...” he said softly, holding up his hands. “I had rather thought saving your friend from a fate worse than death would be your top priority. I thought that is why you were upset with me.”

“...” A more charitable reading than most people would have given her, but not wrong. She flipped up her mask. “It was. But I wanted the tech too.”

His ears didn’t know which direction to go. “Is there something else you would have me do?”

She thought it over. It was touching that he was willing to let an untrustworthy prisoner go for her, though not entirely surprising given past trends. “No. Catra will come back, if you give her the chance. She’s my friend.”

Hordak pursed his lips skeptically, then nodded. “I will give her the chance, but I will not be kind about it.” He stood, adjusting his cape, then looked at her with a tiny smile. “Will you come back to the lab with me?”

“Yes.” She grinned back. “But first you have to go to your assembly.”

He looked at the time, scowling, and smoothed back his hair. “Let’s get it over with then.”

“Heads on spikes?” Imp said, with a belch.

“No.” Hordak pointed a talon, then offered his arm. As Imp jumped on him, the fizzy drink slipped from his tiny hands. Entrapta’s hair caught it before it could spill all over his cybernetics (somewhere in an alternate universe, the war came to a swift end.)

When they got to the door, Hordak suddenly stopped, turned, and held out his other (Impless) arm to her. Entrapta was halfway to cracking it open to analyze his circuitry before she realized he was offering to… escort her? He seemed just as surprised about it as she was. His ears drooped again, with a hint of pink across his cheeks.

Beaming, she wrapped her hair around his armored forearm, mentally noting every bit of feedback.

“I still need to choose a new second-in-command,” he said stiffly, as they entered the hall.

“Ooh, how about Commander Cobalt? He’s served you faithfully for 25 years and has a degree in military science.”

“I was thinking of Force Captain Scorpia. Someone who would never betray me...”

* * *

Notes:

Presumably, Emily was helping Scorpia hide the body of the prison guard she threw into the abyss (with no consequences.)

Commander Cobalt is the blue fuzzy guy who trains the Horde cadets and also the secret mastermind behind everything.

I'm surely headcanoning against authorial intent with Hordak acknowledging Catra has a chance of surviving the Crimson Waste, but I feel like this whole storyline was a bit of a mess in canon ... so here's me trying to clean it up.

[gwenore]

The Demon’s Opera house. Chapter 21.

Chapter 21: The masquerade begins. 

---

The large concert hall was a veritable explosion of light, music and color so much that it hardly seemed to be a part of the hedonistic feywilde rather than any place on earth… It seemed like the world of grey and drudgery for one night had been some bad nightmare compared to this world which only would exist for one night inside these doors.

Meg stared around in absolute wonder at such splendor…

Of course being a part of the opera she had seen glimpses into this world on stage… but this… it was absolutely grand…

This was the world which only so very few people would be able to partake in. Of course there was a part of her which wanted that more than she could really say… It was just so…

Wonderful.

“Enjoying the sights?” she heard Raoul’s voice from behind her as she spun around to see him standing there with a grin upon his lips.

“It is beautiful…” she said with amazement in her words.

He let out a soft sound as he nodded his head. “Suppose it is.”

“You cannot say that this is some of the most wonderful things that you have ever seen!” Meg declared as she mentioned her hand out towards everything.

Raoul looked around, again giving a shrug of his shoulder, the shoulder cape of his costume flowing with as he did so.

“Not too much different than any other masquerade…” he had seen so many through his life, having been dragged through far too many. It was a lot of fun though. But oh well…

He laughed softly as the look on Meg’s face was showing that she was seemingly deathly offended at his statement.

“But it is certainly a nice one,” he said with a soft tone in his voice, laughing softly.

This seemed to appease her somewhat and she let out a soft breath, having to roll her eyes slightly at him.

“So…” Raoul glanced around. “Has Christine arrived yet?”

Meg swallowed slightly as she glanced around, shaking her head.

“No… I have not seen her,” she said.

“She didn’t arrive with the rest of you from the opera house?” Raoul had to raise a brow. It had been a very pleasant surprise when Christine had declared that she would join the masquerade.

He hadn’t seen her much as he had been very busy with the arrangements and being practically in charge of everything. Even if it mostly meant signing off on things and shutting down some of the more outrageous ideas which came from the managers…

The peacocks would have been a disaster…

But he had seen that she was of much higher spirits than she had been in a long time. It seemed that dark sky which had been hanging over her for some time had practically vanished.

It made him so happy to be able to see his old friend like that again.

It felt like it had been such a long time since he had seen her so carefree and happy.

He could only hope that he would be able to see that often from now on, and that whatever gloom which had held her in its grasp was now banished for good.

He simply wanted to see his friend smile again… more than anything that was something that he wanted.

“She said that her tutor would bring her last time we spoke.”

Raoul perked up his head at Meg’s words. He hadn’t heard that before, she must have neglected to tell him… or not wanted him to know.

“She didn’t tell you?” Meg questioned.

“I suppose that it slipped her mind…” Raoul glanced down ever so slightly.

“There has been much going on as of late, so no wonder that she has plenty on her mind…” Meg shrugged her shoulders.

Raoul nodded his head.

“I believe that you are right in that,” he said with a soft laugh, though he could not keep from feeling rather… uneasy.

He couldn’t explain why he felt like that…

But there was something in the air which… which told him of a dark foreboding. Raoul wasn’t used to feeling this way.

In fact a criticism which had often been levied against him was that he was far too frivolous in his cares and only saw the bright side of the world rather than its harsh reality.

But now…

In this splendor where it should be so easy to simply enjoy the grandeur of it all… he felt as a dark shadow had entered the place.

Come to think of it…

It had usually only been something that he had felt around the opera house, but… he had always chalked it up to the fact that it was a rather eerie building.

At times he wondered what on earth the architect must have thought when he made some of the decisions that he did.

No wonder people believed that he had been influenced by some sort of demon.

Of course Raoul knew that was practically laughable, but the man was clearly not in his right mind. A genius perhaps, but a mad one.

With the fact that he had hung himself on opening night were enough proof to say that the man was very troubled indeed.

Still… he had no idea what had come over him. Perhaps he should find himself more to drink… even if he wasn’t entirely certain if that would do him any good, but it might just take his mind off things and allow him to enjoy the evening.

That was something that he felt was sorely needed at this point.

“There she is!”

Raoul had been so lost in his own thoughts that he practically startled that hearing Meg’s voice breaking through his fog.

Turning around he saw her, dressed up as a most magnificent angel in shimmering white and silver fabric, him able to see two small wings just peaking out from above her shoulders.

Her face was hidden by a feather decorated mask with silver beading and together with her golden hair she did truly look like an angel…

More so than words could really say.

Raoul could not help but to be absolutely enthralled by her.

However… part of what made her shine so bright was the man by her side who was the darkness to Christine’s light.

He was tall and lanky and all dressed in a blood red which looked even darker next to Christine offset by a dark mask which covered most of his face which curved into two long black horns.

“Mephistopheles…”

The name seemed to fall out of Raoul’s mouth.

No doubt this was the figure that his brother had seen that time in the opera house. If he was dressed like that it was no doubt that his brother would say such a thing…

Then again his brother had said that he only had one horn and that it wasn’t attached to the mask.

In fact his brother had been unable to figure out how it did attach as he still would wonder about that all this time later.

Perhaps that was an earlier version of this costume… though that admittedly didn’t make all that much sense as the masquerade had not yet been discussed at that point. Or perhaps it had and Raoul hadn’t been told about it yet.

Though that seemed almost impossible as it seemed strange that Firmin and Andre would speak about that with some musical tutor… whom he had never once heard them name or speak about at all… before the one that they had to ask for money from.

Then again… who would walk around dressed as the devil without there being a reason for it?

Raoul still felt absolutely lost, but… he knew that there was something off about this man.

Hell… if someone could be confused for a demon… he did not doubt that he would be a good contender for that…

Again… Raoul hardly believed in any of that…

“Hmm… at least we will finally be able to meet with this mysterious… tutor…” he said as he moved over towards where Christine and this mysterious man was standing.

  Christine was feeling as if her heart was threatening to beat out of her chest. Erik had led her out into the another part of the maze next to the chapel that they had been living in that she had never been before.

It was impossible to see anything in there, and it was clear this was how Erik got around town. She wondered if it was part of the Parisian sewer system… but she didn’t see much in the way of water… at least in that area…

They seemed to have been going up at least and they then came to a door which Erik opened showing that they were in an alleyway rather close to where the masquerade was being held.

“It is as close as we can get… there is a bit of a walk… will you be alright?” he asked, even with his mask she could see concern in those red eyes.

“My legs still work Erik. Besides most are walking from the opera house or other places, not many can actually afford taking a wagon that work there,” she pointed out.

“Still… you deserve to be taken in the grandest of wagons… not sneaking around like this…” Erik muttered mostly to himself.

Christine shook her head. “I am perfectly fine. But come! we have a wonderful night ahead of us!” she exclaimed as she took his arm and led him into the hall.

  Inside Erik had to take a deep breath. He had never been among so many people before. Before this… he had only been able to watch from afar…

Now he was in the middle of everything and that… that was something which he had never thought he would be ever able to do.

He gritted his teeth slightly, feeling a bit frustrated at this human world which he had always been shut out from due to the circumstances of his birth.

Feeling the young woman pressing his arm against her body that frustration only grew.

He knew that he was not able to give her anything of what she deserved. She did not complain… she certainly was not the type to do that…

But to think that she would be so deprived by being with him.

Still… at least he could give her this night at the very least.

To see how her blue eyes sparkled in amazement and that smile on her lips…

He wanted to give her more of that. Oh, how he wanted to bask in the sunlight of her smile for an eternity…

He would never need the sun if he had that...

Christine could not really believe what she was seeing… this place… it was so magical…

The lights… the people… the colors! The sounds!

It was… magic. That was the only way that Christine could describe what she was seeing before her.

There was something exciting about everyone hiding behind a mask… which was the very reason that the man beside her was able to be here.

But… with someone like Erik being able to hide behind a mask… what else were hiding in this place?

Christine could not imagine that demons were a common occurrence, but… if it happened once… then it could happen again. Moreover if demons existed did that not mean that angels did as well?

What of all the other beings which she thought were only myth until now?

She wanted to ask Erik, but had a feeling that he would tease her for her curiosity… besides… did Erik know?

She supposed he would, at least better than most, but…

It wasn’t as if his father had been in his life to teach him these things so…

It would make sense if he didn’t.

Still…

Christine knew that she had to ask.

She glanced over at said man, the mask covering his face. She could not see his expression and how the rage which was branded on his face.

In this moment, Christine could feel nothing but joy… oblivious to the reason that Erik was burning hotter than usual.

It was a warning which would come back to haunt her.

“Oh! There is Meg and Raoul!” She exclaimed excitedly. Erik let out a low sigh. He had noticed Raoul a long time before she did, his very presence a sting to his own soul.

Still… there was not much which he could do about this so he just gave a graceful nod towards it.

“Well…” he then murmured. “Suppose we should give our greetings.”

Christine swallowed. “Are we certain that is wise?” she questioned.

Erik let out a sigh. “At this point… I believe it to be our best option if we wish to avoid even more questions coming your way,” he explained to her.

Christine nodded her head. To avoid her two best friends would without a doubt make them ask questions as to the nature of her relationship with Erik.

They already did after all…

Avoiding them… that she knew would not end well.

“Then…” she said with a nervous tone to her voice. “Let us go greet them…”

[realfuurikuuri]

Chapters: 17/? Fandom: Mao Mao: Heroes of Pure Heart (Cartoon) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Summary: MissingArm!AU: When escaping the cave, it wasn't his tail that got crushed. In exchange for his innocence, he gained a sordid past. The Pure Heart Valley seemed like a good place to escape. To start a new life with a new family to forge a new identity. However, when the past rears its ugly head Mao Mao's forced to step up or be put down.

direct link to chapter 17 on Ao3: 

Chapter Below the Cut

“Jǐngti,” Badgerclops shouted as he wandered through the forest with Adorabat resting on his head.

“Jǐngtì,” shouted Adorabat soon after.

Badgerclops suppressed a sigh, wondering how much longer this would take. He’s been walking through the forest that surrounds the hills since early this morning. His fur was covered in a thin veneer of sweat, and his knees were starting to hurt. Would Jǐngtì even come out if he heard them? Was he even in the forest? He could be in the junkyard, in the town something or who knows how many other places. There was an entire kingdom to sift through! This hasn’t been a waste of time from the start, has it?

Badgerclops kicked a rock in the mud with the realization that this was all pointless. But what else could he do? Not looking for a child who had run away in the night? Badgerclops picked up the pebble he kicked, reeled back his arm, and threw it into the procession of trees. He half expected to hear Jǐngtì say “ow” as the rock hit on the head, but he heard nothing but the vast emptiness of the forest.

There weren't any fortuitous accidents to be had here. Just misery.

“What are you doing,” Adorabat asked.

Oh damn. He forgot she was there.  

“It's nothing,” he said.

Acrobat didn’t seem convinced. She settled back down on Badgerclops head with a noncommittal grunt. Badgerclops kept walking, and Adorbat kept making sounds. Usually grunts or maybe a whispered word. Was she thinking? First time he’s seen her try so hard at it. He wouldn’t wish her any luck though. There’s no reason a child should be trying to put together such a macabre puzzle. She probably wouldn’t be able to anyway. She was asleep for most of last night, so her puzzle was missing a few pieces. Even if she had all the pieces there wouldn’t be any way a child’s mind could get the full grasp of what was going on, right? “What’s that mean?”

Badgerclops looked up at Adorabat with an eyebrow raised.

“You said something about a child’s puzzle?”

It appeared that he was just as lost in thought as Adorabat. Badgerclops wiped the sweat from his brow. This Sisyphean task had gone on too long. Although, Badgerclops wasn’t sure he needed to. Jǐngtì had his father’s blood coursing through his veins; he was bound to show up with another problem on his heels. It was time for Sisyphus to get a break and go back to HQ. Mao Mao would probably still be curled up on the couch, but he could never be too sure about that man.

Badgerclops looked around. There was grass at his feet and a crowd of trees in every direction. He was lost as fuck. It had to be this damn forest. And all this damn walking! Exercise has never done him well. What to do? Badgerclops tapped his finger until he had a lightbulb that promptly went out. He has a GPs system in the works but he never actually got around to setting it up. Damn you procrastination. Time to the bust out old reliable: climbing to a high place and hoping for the best!

What high place, was now the question. Badgerclops looked up at the pine trees that pierced the sky. He could climb those… but that was exercise and got a hard pass. What other pieces of geography could he take advantage of?  Hmm, there were a series of hills that rose above the canopy, HQ was built on one, so maybe he’d be able to see it from one of those. He just needed to find one.

“Hey, Adorabat. Fly up and tell me if you see any hills, okay.”

“Okay!”

Badgerclops watched her fly above the treetops into the sky when it hit him. “Did I forget she could fly?”

“Hey, Badgerclops! I see something… shiny .”

Badgerclops could see Adorabat’s pupils dilate and chomp her teeth as base instincts take over. She began to fly off at frightful speeds.

Badgerclops threw his head back and let out a loud groan. “It always exercises with you people,” he told no one in particular as he ran after her.

He followed her to where the ground slanted, forcing Badgerclops to trudge up slowly with his knees. The slope went higher and higher until he broke past the tops of the conifers to the top of the ridge. An endless green sea stretched into the horizon. He could see the town in the East, HQ to the north, and Adorabat off to the side.

He picked up the weird stick she was chewing on and pried Adorbat off like a leech. “We have got to get you a teething toy,” he said.

Badgerclops was about to throw the weird stick away when he realized it wasn't a stick. It was already marked with teeth marks, red with a golden tip, and hollow. This wasn’t a stick. It was Mao Mao’s sheath. Why was it out here? Was this where Mao Mao was last night?

What was that cat bastard doing?

* * *

Mao Mao ignored his grumbling stomach. He wasn’t in any mood to eat. He'd rather stay here, curled up on the couch, until the end of time. It was a good place. Soft. Warm. It was genuinely a good place, yet, why did he feel so miserable? His head was filled with fog, his body ached and every time he convinced himself to get up he suddenly felt everything escape him. His strength fled, his courage escaped, and will to keep going receded further back than it already had. He didn’t have Tanya. He didn't have Badgerclops. He didn’t have his son. He didn’t even have self-respect. How horrifying to know he could lose what little he had left. At least he still had the couch.

Mao Mao was getting very comfortable with it too when there was a knock at the door. First, he thought it was Badgerclops, but he has a key. And if he forgot it he’d just spend a second to make one. It couldn’t be Adorabat. She’d sooner crash through the window than knock.

“Hello? Is this the police,” said the voice. On any other day, Mao Mao might’ve answered the door, but right now he just rolled over.

Mao Mao covered his ear best he could with one arm.

“Excuse me? Is anyone there?”

Mao Mao snuggled himself deeper into the cushions.

“Please. My daughter is missing.”

Mao Mao finally pried himself away from the cushions. Not out of concern or sympathy, he just couldn’t stand hearing this stranger bang against his door or his stupid, whiny, nasaly voice. His legs felt heavy from lack of use, or maybe that was hunger. He couldn’t tell. The floor seemed uneven making him stumble as he approached the door. He tripped, falling to his knees. He would’ve hit his face if he hadn’t stabbed Geraldine into the floorboards. Badgerclops wasn’t going to like that.

Even then, he was forced to lean against it to catch his breath.

“Hello,” said the other side.

God! This dude’s voice made him want to tear his ears off. Mao Mao threw open the door, heaving for breath, leaning against the side of it to stand. He only says the usual expanse. The hill HQ rests on, the forest beneath the hills, and the town in the distance. Was he hearing voices? Sure, he wasn’t exactly taking care of himself, but he didn’t think he reached that point yet.

“Are you the sheriff?”

Mao Mao pointed his gaze down in the direction of the voice. He almost asked Adorabat what the hell she was doing when he squinted and took a closer look. It wasn’t Adorabat. Looked a lot like her though. A bat barely over a foot tall with a strange blue hue. A sweetiepie definitely, but one he’s never seen before. How strange.

“Who are you, no, what are you here for,” Mao Mao asked.

“My name is Eugene. I’m looking for my daughter-” Mao Mao tuned out after that. No need listening to him when he’s speaking a mile a minute. Eugene, huh. Weird name for a Sweetipie. He thought his name would be something weird like Gumball, or Flapjack, or even Parker. No, not Parker. That’d be too weird. Does he have a surname? Is it as weird as his first name? Mao Mao was going to ask when he realized Eugene was still talking.

“-can you help me?”

“No,” he said flatly.

Eugene deflated with a pathetic sigh of defeat until Mao Mao spoke up again”-but Badgerclops, might.”

“Where is Badgerclops,” Eugene stammered.

“Out.”

“Oh...Do you know when he’ll be back?”  

“No. Guess you gotta wait.”

Mao Mao spun on his heels ready to crawl back on the couch and lie there for eternity, when he noticed the tiny little man walking past him. Strange, he didn’t remember inviting him in. The tiny little bastard sat down on the loveseat with the infuriating awkwardness of patience.

Should he kick him? Probably?

Will he ignore Eugene and just crawl back onto the couch? Definitely.

And crawl onto the couch he did. He climbed onto the couch, wrapping himself in his cape. He kicked Eugene to the side , earning a nasally whine from the fool, to create space and once he had it he curled up and went back to his misery. This misery was different from the benign wasting away he was doing before. It was something more embarrassing. He was being watched. It made him want to hide under the covers and be mistaken for a rock. Maybe if he was mistaken enough, he’d actually become one.

“What's your name,” asked Eugene.

Of course, this fool wanted to talk. Mao Mao released a heavy sigh,” Mao Mao.”

“That’s a weird name.”

Yesterday, Mao Mao probably would’ve kicked him in the face. Now, he didn’t have enough pride to do that. He should’ve expected that’d be a name in a place like this.

“So, what do you do here?”

Mao Mao’s first instinct was to say sheriff, but that wasn’t really accurate anymore. “I make things worse,” he said.

Eugene nodded and shifted unfortunately before settling into a comfortable silence. Unfortunately, it didn’t last too long.

“You wouldn't have happened to see my daughter, would you?”

Mao Mao let out a non-committal grunt.

“She’s about a foot tall, blue, takes after her father that way, and cute as a button, but if I’m being totally honest, she scares me.”

Mao Mao stiffened. He knew a certain child that he’d describe the exact same way… He sat up, turning to face Eugene. “Your daughter wouldn’t happen to also be kinda naive, have a taste for adventure, and be extremely loud?”

“Yeah, she’s exactly like that.”

Mao Mao sat there. Mouth hanging wide open as the horrible reality dawned on him. He thought Adorabat was an orphan or something. He thought she was a ward of the state. An orphan! This was like accidentally adopting someone’s pet except a thousand times worse! Eugene was Adorabat’s dad. Mao Mao hyperventilated as he thought. How would he explain this? Summer camp? No, summer’s coming to an end. An internship? No, she’s eight! They’d have to give her back. He couldn’t just keep the child here. It's not like he was fit to be a parent.

Mao Mao stopped thinking, shocked by his own realization.

He wasn’t fit to be a hero, let alone someone else’s caregiver. He couldn't even be a parent to his own child, god forbid anyone else’s. He was a mistake. A failure. He ruined everything he got his hands on. Like a lumbering beast that just  How long would it be until he broke her too? Mao Mao took a deep breath. He wasn’t happy with what he had to do, but he was prepared to do what he must.

“Are you okay,” Eugene asked.

He wished people would just stop asking him that.

Both of them looked up when they heard something thump outside.

“Ow, you’ve got to be careful with that.”

That was Badgerclops. Was he and Adorabat back already? Oh geez, he hadn’t even had time to think what to say.

And he would get no time. Badgerclops strolled in like nothing was wrong, but when Adorabat caught sight of Eugene it looked like she ate something sour.

Immediately, Eugene rushed to his child

“I am so glad you’re safe,” Eugene said,” let’s go home.”

“What? No. Let me go,” Adorabat said, pushing herself away.

Badgerclops interviewed. Prying the two of them apart with ease. “What on earth is going on here,” Badgerclops asked.

“Wha- what’s going on here? Have you two ruffians kidnapped my daughter?”

“Wait- that’s not--”

“That’s it. I’m calling the authorities.”

Eugene pulled out his phone and dialed 911 only for the cell in Mao Mao’s pocket to go off.

“Alright, before we call the cops on the cops, I need to know what the hells going on.”

“That’s… Adorabat’s dad,” Mao Mao told him.

“I thought she was my conscious.”

Weird thing to say, but Mao Mao set it aside for now. However, Eugene did not. “You’re conscious?” Eugene wriggled free with his daughter in tow. “That’s it. We’re leaving these crazies.” He said, carrying while Adorabat kicked and screamed. Eventually, Adorabat won. Shaking free from his grasp and continuing her tantrum with renewed vitriol and vigor.

This wasn’t going well at all. He somehow accidentally kidnapped a kid, and he had just about called the cops on them. He’d be in jail if the justice system wasn’t so wack. Hell, he had half the mind to arrest himself. Why’d this have to happen? Why’d he ever get up from the couch to answer the door? He knew he should've stayed like that forever.

Badgerclops turned him around without warning. A grim expression on his face. “What are we going to do?”

What? Why are you asking him? You’re the one who made good decisions. He should be asking you!. Mao Mao began to hyperventilate. Sheer terror had him in its grasp and it was beginning to squeeze his throat. What to do? What to do? What could he do? He’s the one who never did anything right. Words escaped him, actions failed him. It's not like he could ignore Eugene and keep his kid.  What could he do?

He could only do what he thought was right.

Mao Mao got up and marched towards Adorabat and Eugene. “What- what are you doing?” The words passed right over Mao Mao’s ears. He pushed Adorabat and her father right out the door and slammed it shut behind him, locking the locks, bolting the bolts, and putting his back against it. He could hear Adorabat scream and shout from the other side. It gradually grew quieter and quieter as her father pulled her away.

So that was that. The problem had been fixed. He’d done the right thing. So why did Mao Mao feel so… awful? He fell down to his knees and wrapped himself in his cape. Did the world really hate him that much? He’d give up doing anything, and the world literally brought a problem to his doorstep. He didn’t even do anything? Why did he deserve this?

“Are you okay over there,” Badgerclops asked?

Would people stop asking that! He felt Badgerclops pick him up and lay him back down on the couch where Mao Mao promptly curled back up. Badgerclops stroked his ears, soothing Mao Mao like it would help anything.

[vateacancameos]

How To Move to Night Vale: Step 1, Arrive in Town; Step 2, Automatically Become a Resident

Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale Characters: You, Minor Cecil Palmer, Other characters Words: 1476

Summary: How does Night Vale get new residents? Given the high death count, either all the citizens have a TON of kids, or Night Vale simply ... acquires new people. I imagine the town is sentient enough to pull in people it likes. Here's a story of how that might happen.

***

You don’t intend to move to Night Vale. It just sort of … happens? You have a good job and a good home, and you are perfectly satisfied—no, not satisfied … content—with your life. But Night Vale happens, and you just go with it, like you always do. Your friends have always told you its your best trait.

You’re traveling to visit your sister, and on the drive across the desert that takes you to her, you stop overnight at a motel on the edge of the town you hit around supper time. You think it’s a little odd that you have to sign the register in blood—you have a perfectly nice working pen in your bag—but hey, if they want to conserve ink, who are you to tell them otherwise? You’re just passing through.

The next morning, after one of the best sleeps you’d had in years—you aren’t sure if it was the mournful moaning three doors down or the sickly sweet aroma bubbling out of the misting machine by the bed, but whatever it is worked like a charm—you find an orange envelope slipped under your door. In semaphore drawings, it tells you that you have been assigned as the new English teacher. Your semaphore knowledge is weak, so you’re not sure if the previous teacher quit or was swallowed by a black hole, but it doesn’t really matter.

read the rest under the cut

You shrug. You majored in psychology and have been working in the field as such for the last five years, but you did have a lot of writing to do in school, so you think you can handle this. English is mostly about reading books and talking about them, right? You can manage that. You like to read. You call your sister to let her know you won’t be visiting this week after all, but your phone starts smoking and sparking as soon as she answers. You’ll have to remember to hunt down a computer and try emailing her later.

You arrive at Night Vale High School and are directed to the vice principal’s office. She’s very excited you showed up already in uniform. You look down at your grey t-shirt, jean capris, and orange Chuck Taylors and ask about the color of the shoes. Everyone else’s seem to be a rust color. She waves you off and says that will be taken care of at the morning sacrificial ceremony. You nod. It’s always nice to not have to change your look just to go to work.

You are given attendance sheets, scrolls, and a watercolor set and directed to your room. When you arrive, the class is already full. It’s always nice to come into a new job where everything is already in place. You take attendance, which takes a good forty minutes, since everyone must perform their own interpretive dance routine to announce their presence, then you open up the scroll to see what the students are working on.

The scroll is filled with numbers and letters. Algebra? Geometry? You barely past stats in college and have tried to forget as much math as possible. You ask one of the students. They look at you funny and say “It’s English! What kind of English teacher are you?”

Now, you’ve been pretty roll-with-the-punches so far, because it’s in your nature to be so, but this is definitely not English. A tiny elfin-looking creature at the back of the room stands up and sighs. “Come on, Mike, give the new teacher a break. The administration only switched English and algebra a week ago. Maybe she wasn’t around to hear that announcement.” It’s nice being in a place that gets your gender right on the first try.

Your shoulders drop in relief. You say that you only arrived in Night Vale the night before and had indeed missed the announcement that English and algebra had been switched. You make a mental note to talk to the vice principal, but figure you can handle one day of teaching. Maybe it’ll turn out that you’re really good at it. You won’t know until you try.

Unfortunately, you’re pants at algebra, both in learning and teaching it. The morning drags on forever, but lunchtime eventually comes. The sentient patch of blue fog that teaches theater (“I’m Misty. Yeah, my parents have terrible taste in names, laugh it up.”) invites you to eat lunch with her. You’d rather eat alone, but you’re polite and accept. Perhaps you can learn more about the school and town.

You’re warned not to ever go to the library (“Not that an English teacher ever needs to go to the library”) but told that the Moonlite All-Nite Diner has the best invisible pie in town. Misty gives you a spare coupon for a free slice of pizza from Big Rico’s. When you say you’re gluten intolerant, Misty laughs and says, “Aren’t we all?” She’s cute when she laughs. You wonder if she’d go get a slice with you some evening.

The afternoon goes faster after you decide to forgo teaching algebra and just talk about your favorite movies instead. You applaud the school system on molding such polite, intelligent children. They all do exactly as asked, and the one time a student speaks out of turn, he looks completely terrified, which concerns you just a bit, but you let it go. It’s your first day after all. They’ll get used to you.

You try to talk the vice principal into switching you to … would it be called algebra? ... class, or really anything else but math, but she shrugs and said it’s already been carved into the bloodstones. When you say you’re terrible at math, she asks if you can count to eight. When you affirm, she says you’ll be fine. You sigh and nod.

You ask her where the closest real estate office is, so you can look into getting an apartment—the motel is great and all, but the orange buzzing lights are really annoying after a while. The vice principal’s eyes go wide and her face pales to an olive green, she stutters a bit before the administrative assistant pokes his head through the door and reminds her that you can just take the old English teacher’s home, since they no longer need it, being an Erika now. The vice principal looks relieved.

You raise your eyebrows but follow their directions to your new home—a cute tri-level with a yellow door, the bloodstone circle that you’d learned earlier that day was required in all Night Vale homes, a cheerful kitchen, six bedrooms, and no bathroom.

A smooth voice whispers that the last occupant converted the bathrooms to bedrooms, since they had no use for them, and gives you the number of a reliable plumber. You wonder if your neighbors are nice enough to let you use theirs until you can get one installed. One waved to you as you arrived earlier. He had a very furry face, but there seemed to be a smile hidden under the hair.

Your neighbors are indeed very nice. They are a fairly young couple with two children. The man who waved at you says you’re welcome to use their bathroom whenever. The other man, the one who answered the door, gives you a key to their home, plus the appropriate runes to keep the door from eating you. You make a note to bake them a pie in thanks. You talk about the weather, as good neighbors do, along with the chances of Night Vale’s football team this year (a topic kindly suggested by the woman in a balaclava and cape hiding in the verge) before heading back to your new home to unpack your one bag. You’ll have to go shopping soon. Your Chucks won’t last long if they get covered in blood every day, and you’re about out of deodorant.

That night, you lay in your bed, listening to the screeching of the setting sun—it seems a bit late, almost eleven, but time has never meant that much to you anyway—and think about your first day as a Night Vale citizen. This place is like no other place you’ve ever lived. It’s strange, you won’t deny it, but you like it. It’s comfortable. Even while your brain is telling you it’s wrong in so many ways, your body is saying it’s perfectly natural.

Your mind finally calms when your radio turns itself on for the government-mandated community radio show, and you consider your future. The radio host gushes about the town’s resident scientist, and you smile sleepily when you hear that they just got married. You make a note to sit with Misty at lunch tomorrow. You really should ask her out.

You look forward to tomorrow for the first time in years. You think you’re finally home.

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

EPISODE 1

By the time Gaiman and director Douglas Mackinnon had finished cutting together Episode 1, it was about 75 minutes long, “which meant that we needed to lose 20 minutes,” Gaiman said. “And that 20 minutes was really hard to lose, because it was 20 minutes of beautiful material.”

Among those cut minutes was an extended scene of Crowley disabling the London mobile phone system, as he later reports to the demons in the graveyard during his evil deeds-of-the-day rundown.

“We built a huge set in South Africa for the BT Tower,” production manager Michael Ralph said. Crowley enters the lobby and tells the security guard he’s been sent from Rataway Pest Control to do a preliminary inspection. He’s taken up to the top floor, which is infested with hundreds of rats — rats summoned to do the demon’s bidding. (The rats were animated.) Crowley walks over to the computer room and tips tea from a thermos into the network controller, which makes the lights flicker and go out. Mission accomplished!

The scene then included people on the city streets experiencing the interruption in their mobile service at the worst possible moments (when they need to close a deal, arrange a pickup, or stave off a breakup), and Crowley walks away smiling. “We shot the whole thing, including helicopter arrivals to the BT Tower,” Ralph said. “There was a massive amount of work involved there,” cinematographer Gavin Finney agreed.

“What we wound up doing as our solution to bringing Episode 1 into focus was throwing out anything that was not directly part of the story,” Gaiman said. “We wound up with something that’s incredibly fast-moving and feels very full, but also runs just a hair over 50 minutes.”

EPISODE 3

The most elaborate sequence — a 30-minute cold open — is not based on anything from the book per se. “It’s an exploration of the characters that [are] in the book in its heart,” Mackinnon said, “but it needed to be externalized. It needed to be shown.”

The trick was that it was rather expensive to cover about 6,000 years of history, with different looks and locations, and the production had to get creative to keep it viable. The spot in South Africa used for Noah’s ark in Mesopotamia in 3004 B.C. is the same location used for the crucifixion in Golgotha in 33 A.D. — just from a different angle. The crucifixes, Ralph noted, were the hardest part; he had to make them oversized so they would have an impact on camera, and he used a river of red cloth on the ground to suggest an abstract river of blood. Ancient Rome in 41 A.D. was built in the same studio later used to double for a dungeon during the French Revolution in 1793.

A location scout for the camp for the kids’ playground gave the production the idea of where to stage Arthurian Britain in 537 A.D. — a valley in Surrey where a castle turret was visible. “I thought, ‘Wouldn’t that be fantastic in the mist?’” Ralph said. “We didn’t need to build anything. We only needed to add the fog.”

“A ridiculous amount of fog,” Finney agreed. “We were just riffing on ideas from Excalibur and Monty Python there.”

The next period of history, Shakespearean London in 1601, brought a bit of luck — Good Omens got to be the first fictional production to shoot inside the Globe Theatre. The catch was that they could only shoot for five hours, which wasn’t enough time to manage a shoot with 500 extras in period costume. The solution? Turn a full Globe Theatre into an empty one, and make Shakespeare's play a flop. (“It’s funnier,” Gaiman said.)

Revolutionary France brought its own set of difficulties. Ralph researched how to make a working guillotine, and had the perfect spot to set it up – at the University of Cape Town, which was filled with architecture reminiscent of 1793 France. “I was going to build a platform and have hot water washing the blood down and steam coming up,” the production designer said. “But we ran out of time to do it before the university opened.” They came up with the solution to hear the guillotine outside a dungeon cell (built in the studio) instead.

Somewhere within this sequence — perhaps after Shakespearean England but before Revolutionary France — was supposed to be one more time capsule: Aziraphale opening his bookshop for the first time. Gabriel shows up to tell Aziraphale that he’s been promoted and can go back to Heaven, but Aziraphale doesn’t want to go. Crowley turns up with chocolate and flowers to congratulate Aziraphale, and overhears the conversation, so he instead turns around and sets up something where Aziraphale needs to intervene, to prove to Gabriel that Aziraphale’s appearance on earth is vital. “It was really funny,” Gaiman said. But his justification for taking it out was that it didn’t push the story forward as much as the other moments did.

[bugaboowritings]

Are You A Superhero? - Not So Miraculous AU

Doing What A Superhero Would- Walking a Kid Back Home in a Chilly Winter Night

“Are you a superhero?”

It was a simple question and honestly one that would be laughed at, but she wouldn’t even dare to do that. Not when that question brought back a feeling she thought died a while back.

What do you do when you have no powers? You kick ass in a Ladybug mask, of course! All as you keep it a secret . . . well, try to at least. It was a secret before some kid saw you . . . .

—-

  Her ears tingled as she went from hearing the loud sound of smashed glass to the serene silence that snow brought into the air as it falls and packs down on driveways and window shutters. Her senses had to readjust while the sharp air dove into her warm lungs and her shoes felt hot and heavy as the frost crunched under her weight. It felt a bit anticlimactic, she just escaped having a knife to her throat and now she was surrounded by the calm, dancing snowflakes.

   A chill came up her spine.

“Are you a superhero?”

  Her hand hovered over her belt before she stopped herself a millisecond before pulling out something with a trigger. Like if a pin coated with poison poked her spine, Marinette stood paralyzed.

  It was a child.

  A kid on the concrete sidewalk with a backpack over their small shoulders.

 She didn’t think anyone would cross this part of town. Wait, no- Marinette knew that no one would cross this street for the minutes she planned on staying. She has been scouting the area for weeks and no one passes here during the morning, night, or noon. Not a single car or a single piece of trash. Not a drunk or a lost bystander. No one wants to walk on this side of the city. Especially at breaking dawn.

  No one expect the awful people in the abandoned building behind her. Still- they never left the building unless some black van pulled up on Tuesday at 8:15.

Luckily, it was 7:30.

Meaning no witnesses.

No worries.

No danger.

No innocent people in danger.

 However, even with all the precautions, Marinette was spotted leaving the crime scene. Her eyes swept the street back and forth, ready to jump away into the darkness if anyone else came along. Her heels were ready to push her back- Yet, she stood there as the kid with the big bug eyes stared right back at her.

Paralyzed and surprised.

 Marinette could only imagine what the kid was thinking, watching a stranger lurk in the streets of Paris. Especially as the day dipped down and hues of purple and oranges brushed across the winter sky.

  For a split second, they seem like they were two worlds crashing into each other. The kid’s naive nature drew a sharp contrast to Marinette’s fists and mask. Her face was grown and her features were sharp while the kid still had baby fat on their cheeks. The kid wore color layers as she sported sable color-palette with touches of red. Yet, even with their differences, they both felt their face get scrapped and the warmth thinning from their body as the wind blew a little harder.

They both need to get out of the cold.

  Marinette’s hair and ears froze stiff as the snow settled gently on her black hair. Forming a little white halo, serving as a contradiction to what she really was. The heat she had before died in the palms of her hands. The adrenaline from punching and wrestling feather-out in her breaths that fog up the air.

  Leaving her system in nice, long dragon breaths.

 “A superhero?” Marinette whispered as her teeth pulled down her lips. Tasting her lip balm and feeling it stick to her tongue and teeth. She hasn’t heard that anyone call her that in like forever.

“You know, like the ones from the comic books?” The kid repeated. Shuffling their feet together in what seems like an early form of anxiety, but the kid’s eyes didn’t leave Marinette’s. Deep and pearly eyes that wouldn’t leave until they got an answer.

 The child had to be around 6 or 7 years old. Honestly, Marinette couldn’t really tell with all the colorful layers they wore. Even with their stacks of scarves protecting their lips and nose from the chilling wind, a little slip of skin showed that the bridge of their nose glowed bright red.

 A superhero? From a comic book?

 Mari tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, swallowing the words that clouded her mind.

Her- A superhero?

 God, that sentence brought back something she thought crawled in a corner and died. Her blue eyes glanced back at the kid with the oversized backpack. Whatever their age, they were definitely too young to remember her. Too young to wake up to the reports of a cat and bug jumping over roofs and swinging off and over towers. Too small to scream and jump up and down when they spot a girl in red and black spots. Too much of a baby to understand that she and her partner were the reason the world still stood. Too little to be wearing her out-dated merch. Too green to even remember who she was.

 And definitely too young to call her a superhero.  

 Little sniffles brought Marinette back to reality, snapping her out of her thoughts as she proceeded her answer. Her senses came back to her, waking up from the numbness of the winter cold and cutting off the memories that swelled in her chest. Overwhelmed by the small moments on rooftops she treasured, only to remember that they were gone. Reminding herself where she was now and who she was now.

 Anything, but a superhero.

Marinette bit her lip a little harder, scolding herself for not saying anything. She was most likely scaring the kid just by standing there and saying nothing at all.

Honestly, who wouldn’t be?

  You see a woman walking into an abandoned building, only to come out with blood from the other guy on her knuckles.

Who wouldn’t be scared?

Her eyes clicked down to the child on the sidewalk.

Yeah, but this kid didn’t seem a bit terrified.

  The kid’s face remained emotionless or look like it. Their hat covered their eyebrows so Marinette couldn’t really tell what they were feeling even if she wanted to know. Marinette’s eyes trace the lines of their face, not helping herself when she saw the pattern on the hat was definitely crocheted and then the scarves around their neck were knitted. Then the gloves on their thin fingers were hand-me-downs due to the style and color. Those same gloves were used as tissues as the kid occasionally brought their hand to face to wipe their nose after sniffing a few times. Their dark blue jacket puffed up around their shoulders and stretched over their thumbs, another sign that the kid had layers on layers under.

  It brought this sort of warm feeling in her. Reminding her how her father would rummage around the closets just to find her “one more thing” before she went outside to play in the snow. Then how her mother would pull that stiff beanie over her ears and kiss her forehead. Sending her off when they open the front door and let the cold breeze in.

That warm feeling brought cold water down her back.

It’s late.

 Too late for someone this small to be out here alone at night. Especially here. Judging from the clothing, someone at home would definitely be worried. And if they waited any longer than the child would definitely end up with a nasty cold, even with all those layers of jackets.

 “What makes you think I’m even one?” Directing her mind back to their question at hand. Not helping the stressed chuckle that slipped her lips as she crouched down to their height. Hoping that her small laugh would put the kid at ease. Even if she looked over her shoulder and tensed up as another gush of wind pushed up her hair.

She needs to get this kid out of here. Quickly.

  Inside of the building behind her was the unconscious group of human-organ traffickers, all tied up and ready for the police to come to handle the rest. Knowing that around 8:15 PM, a black van will pull up expecting anything but handcuffs. Marinette knew that she was safe, but this child?! She knew she did her job and a good one so the criminals inside were definitely out cold, but the last thing she could ever do is leave someone out here with them nearby.

Or was that all a dumb reason to have a chance to direct this kid home? Or to hear them call her a superhero, just one more time. A title that seems to bring a sense of nostalgia and-

 The gears in Marinette’s brain spun a little faster as she thought over the real problem in front of her.

 Why is this kid even here? Where are their parents? And-

“You fought that guy that was hurting the owner of the corner store.”

“I-,”

 The store robbery.  The unexpected rescue that almost blew her cover. Chat chewed her out for that and was his trump card whenever they got into fights for that whole week, but she knew that if she didn’t jump in - he would have instead.  

“-And now too.”

“Now?”

 “Yeah, right now.” The child repeated, shaking their head with a grin. Their little gloved hand reaching up to adjust the wool on their mouth.

 “You’re dressed like a superhero. With that mask, boots, and red superhero armor. You even got a cape!” The child exclaimed. Pointing eagerly at Marinette’s outfit. Her boots were a little out of place to brush it off as her daily shoes. Her superhero ‘armor’ was nothing but the protective padding around her torso and shoulders. The cape was just the silhouette of her trench coat. It’s oversized so it did give a cloak feeling to it.

 Marinette pulled the belt of her coat a little tighter.

 “I- Look it’s late and you shouldn’t be here,” Marinette huffed. Nodding her head towards the nearest bus stop.

 “Did you get off at the wrong stop or are you lost?”

 “I’m walking home today. My Dads are at work and told me to wait for them-but ... I couldn’t really stay at school so I decided to take the bus.” They stumbled over their words, getting really quiet before they opened their mouth again- but Marinette already got the picture.

“Come on then,” she sighed, tucking her own scarf over her face before reaching out her hand. Before she could ask, a pair of small fingers curled around her palm. Feeling those hand-me-down gloves not doing any good as the fabric felt thin and light. Unconsciously rubbing them between her thumbs to warm them up.

“Let’s go before your family gets scared, okay?”

“Okay.” The child answered before grabbing her arm a little tighter.

——-

  “Your teacher sounds nice.”

  “Ms.G is mean at times though.” The child added, correcting Marinette’s statement as they kicked the stone under their shoes. Hopping over the black gum on the sidewalk before adding the fact Ms. G yells when the other kids don’t listen to her during recess.

  Marinette hummed again. Letting the kid speak to fill the chilly air and silent between them with the story of their day. Asking short questions to get them to speak more and more until they reached the kid’s home street. This one-sided conversation help pass time a little faster and put the kid at ease. Once getting there, Marinette couldn’t help but notice it seemed a bit familiar. Maybe it was because of the decorations and ribbon hanging from the windows and doors.

  Another chill ran up her neck, the cold nipped her skin a little more before she tugged on her coat a little tighter, feeling the padding on her belly rather than the squish that her jeans would cover. Fumbling with her buttons before she sighs another cloud into the air. Keeping her hand entangled with the kid’s before she drops down to their height.

  “There, by the light post, is that your house?”

 The kid looked up and with a crooked smile- nodded. The pom-pom on their hat bounced before quickly thanking her. Telling her that she just had to meet “Dads” so they could show them that they got home safe thanks to her.

 But Marinette brushed off that invitation. Explaining how she has to get home too before someone starts worrying for her.

 It pained Mari to have to let go of the kid’s hand even though she just met them some minutes ago. It seems to hurt a little more when they asked for her name and she couldn’t answer. So she did the best thing she could do, she played the superhero role.

 “It’s a secret.”

“I can keep a secret.” The kid responded coy.

 “Yeah well, it’s a superhero secret and if I tell you then my identity would be in danger.”

 The kid’s face lit up much like the light decorations around the neighborhood.

 “So you ARE a superhero then!”

 “Ha, sure.” Marinette smiled. Standing up to her full height before motioning them to start walking to their door.

  But the kid didn’t move away but just step a little closer.

 “So what is your superhero name, then?”

 “I-“ Stumped on what to say next before it hit her. It all seems like an old memory, a classic case of deja vu. Except for this time, it wasn’t a blond wearing leather asking.

  “I’m Ladybug.” She beamed, cocking her head to the side- letting her bangs slide over, giving the kid a better look at her mask.

  It took four tries to get right, but it became the perfect mold of her face with patience and practice. Slipping easily on and staying on. It was even red and spotted too, much like the old gear she had back in high school.

  “Ladybug…” the child repeated. Chewing the name in their mouth before accepting it.

 “Thank you so much, Ladybug! I’ll promise that-“

 Then she was gone. The woman that just walked them home and to safely had disappeared into thin air. All without a trail of snow prints to follow.

 Before the kid could call her out, the front door opened. Quickly feeling the warm lights cover their back as two sets of arms pulled them near.

 “God, you had us so worried!”

 “Where were you?!” A red-head shouted, alternating from pulling his child close and yelling on how scared they were.

 “Dads! You will never believe who I met?” Exclaimed the child, ignoring their parents’ shouts as they went on explaining the lady that walked them home and save them when that robbery happened last week and who-

  The child threw their hands up and around, it was quite cute to watch. Marinette couldn’t stop the small chuckle that leaked from her coral lips as she watched the ‘show’ from the rooftop. Noticing how the kid’s parents seem confused, angry, and then relieved and then back to confused when the kid said her name.

 “-then I got home thanks to the help of Ladybug! She saved me and she-“

 “Ladybug?”

 “Yeah, Ladybug! She was wearing this mask and had this coat and then she had this superhero armor over her clothes!”

  The parents pulled their kid in the house and even with closed doors, Marinette could still hear the kid boast about her.

 The kid with the bug eyes couldn’t stop gushing over the red bug.

Wait, until the cat hears about this.

[opstechsanjana]

Mist Cooling & Fogging System Company in South Africa

[chaletnz]

Hakodate: The Historical City Centre of Motomachi

My solo road trip to Hakodate started like any other with an early coffee at Cedar Coffee, but again there was no Yuri! I stopped in Niseko town to get some cash out and then try to figure out how to fill up with gas but after that I drove without stopping until I reached the panorama park located about halfway to Hakodate. It was quite cloudy but it was nice to stretch my legs momentarily before carrying on with my podcasts for the next leg of the ride. I had downloaded the entire first season of Serial which I had seen rave reviews about online. I got wrapped up in the true crime tale as I drove down the coast to the far south of Hokkaido. Again I had driven without stopping until I reached the Hakodateyama Ropeway although I was extremely tempted by a food truck market I passed on the way into the city! From my car park I could see the top of the mountain blanketed in fog and decided that today was not the day for the cable car. Instead I explored the Motomachi area on foot and visited some of the historical sites such as the Russian Orthodox church, old British Consulate and Catholic church. It was very hilly so I was glad I had left my bike in the car for this trip but I was still feeling a little tired after my walk so I stopped in at Hakodate Motomachi Cafe for a drip coffee. It was a very hipster place with signs everywhere saying no photos allowed (I took a sneaky one anyway!) and I almost left without paying since it wasn't like a regular cafe where you order and pay first! I had about 30 minutes left on my car park so I stopped in for a quick visit at the Hakodate Gokoku Jinja shrine. I had it almost completely to myself bar one guy sitting on the steps outside the gate looking at the sea. The next stop was Cape Tachimachi which I reached eventually after circling around and getting stuck in the one way system at first! After taking photos I hopped back in the car and drove around the coast to the botanical garden and snow monkey onsen. I learned in a pub quiz that the snow monkey is Japan's national animal and I'm sure in winter they like to bathe in the onsen (natural hot spring) however in mid-summer they were mostly lying around grooming each other. The monkeys were a little bit mangy looking but it was worth the ¥300 entry! My last stop before going to check in was Miharashi Memorial Park where I went for a peaceful walk under very tall trees. I found a small traditional Japanese style house with a little pond in front of it. I took some photos then just stood silently for a moment and a tiny squirrel came out and sat on a mossy rock to look around and sniff the air. I drove to my hostel in the northern part of the city centre and parked in the ideal free car park outside, checked in and prepared my futon in the little cubicle room they assigned me. There was an older Japanese guy (about 60-65) from Kobe in the same room and we had a brief chat about our travels when I discovered that he could actually speak English quite well! It almost felt like being a traveller and meeting interesting people in the hostels along the way again...

[affairesasuivre]

Charles Webster’s Decision Time (Dimensions Recordings, 2020)

Warm, subtly detailed electronic music The DJ’s first major solo album in 20 years makes its presence felt in a quietly powerful way

Charles Webster emerged in UK dance music in the 1990s, during the era of the superstar DJ and the super-club. He made his name in deep house, the slower, more soulful offshoot of house music. He was never a showman or would-be rock star, like other DJs of the time. There were no on-brand tales of debauchery (“I think to make party music, you have to party,” Norman “Fatboy Slim” Cook once said). His 1999 album All Systems Gone, released under the name Presence, was rapturously received, but its modest chart success underlined its maker’s marginal position in the commercialised world of club music.

Webster has released records under a numerous array of stage names. Decision Time is the first solo album of new material to come out under his own name since 2001’s Born on the 24th of July. It has an interesting cast of guests. Appearances by several South African vocalists point to his new base in Cape Town. Shara Nelson, the UK singer who featured on Massive Attack’s Blue Lines, resumes a long history of collaborations with Webster on the track “This Is Real”. US singer and poet Ingrid Chavez, who worked with Prince, appears on two tracks. One of them has been co-produced by the UK electronic musician Burial, who has cited All Systems Gone as an important influence.

The album’s sound is closer to chill-out and trip-hop than house music. It opens with “Burning”, a slow-burner with a handsomely orchestrated beat and mesmerising vocals by Johannesburg singer Sio, who sounds like a late-hours jazz singer serenading the arrival of dawn. “This Is Real” finds Nelson moving through a fog of vocal distortion and hazy synthesiser tones towards clarity. A deep percussive beat links the two states. Mainly composed and created using computer software, the songs give the lie to the old shibboleth of electronic music as cold and emotionless. Deft use of texture gives them a warm feel. Subtle details catch the ear, like the computer-synthesised woodwind and chiming percussion that accompany the South African vocalist and DJ Thandi Draai as she exhorts us to “focus on the pattern” in “We Belong Together”. “I Wonder Why” has a voiceover by celebrated Afropop veteran Sipho “Hotstix” Mabuse, who speaks of self-improvement and, more obliquely, the forces holding back South Africa’s development; an urgent tempo gives his words currency. The album’s perspective reverts inwards with “Music”, in which Draai, accompanied by a supremely languid house beat, sings about listening to a favourite record. An alternate mood of consolation and grief possesses “The Second Spell”, whose nuanced sense of emotional dynamics is indicative of the quietly powerful way with which Decision Time makes its presence felt.   

Ludovic Hunter-Tilney

[jamiebluewind]

Fantasy High Locations 2.12

As always, let me know if I need to edit or add anything and tag/ask/PM me about art and stories so I can check them out!

***

Arborly, Silvar

Forest with towering ancient trees with curling, twisting branches, limbs, and trunks

Curves of trees eclipse each other and vines growing up the trees

Forest floor has deep thick ferns and overgrowth

Reed-like in places with tall grass that grow up over the top of even Gorgug's head with a kept flagstone path that leads to an iron gate

Chill damp air with limited visibility, but no visible billowing fog

Ambient mist is dispersed, but causes anything in the distance to blur and muffles sounds

Spooky but healthy

Looks like a forest with a single home, but is in fact a town with similar platforms in trees like Hollyhill.

No roads that are good for driving and a lot of unlevel terrain

1 to 2 day's walk past the barrier to get to the large temple mentioned in the texts the bad kids found.

No cell service

Ambient duidic magic from 200 to 300 years ago that pushed back the wall, allowing the wood elves and gnomes to reclaim the town.

Gnomish tinkerers help the people stay safe and build their homes inside the trees while wood elves guard and protect the town

Originally a wood elf town, but now

the heart of the town is gnomish

"The Wall"

Thick barrier of infernal magic

At the edge of the forest where the barrier is, the trees grow so thick that there is no dirt between them and they create a wall

Thick barbed razor sharp briers fill in any gaps and go up 80 feet

Looks like a wall of thorns dwarfing the forest outside it like a tidal wave frozen in place

Thorns are serrated, hooked, and barbed with a straight point as well (like the ends of pole arms)

Thorns tried to attack Ayda (growing quickly), but not Fig

The leaves are so dark that the boarder on purple, like an oilslick on the leaves

30 minute walk from Hollyhill

Good guys want to get rid of the wall but the bad guys do as well

(Unknown location in the forest)

Scried by Adaine

Dark, twisted, and grarled that is almost looks suterranian

Tunnels of interlocking branches (like caves)

Path is made by using the crystal containing Gorthalax implanted in Killean

Hollyhill

Mannor that belongs to Grover Tillythatch (venue executive gnome Fig met on tour who offered to let her visit)

Owners moved to Solace 2 generations ago and he inherited it

Iron gate set in an old stone wall surrounding a massive tree

The iron gate has a 10 year old keypad used to get in (code 1235)

Wall has a latch thing which allow the wall to fold down and created a big enough opening to move Van inside the stone wall

Rounded door set in the side of the tree looks like an exquisitely wrought shingled birdhouse set into the ground

Front door is tall enough for an average human (but the half-orcs have to duck), so a huge manor house by gnome standards (also has a sliding glass door)

Birdhouses, hammocks, rope bridges, and circular platforms sit in the branches of the tree high in the canopy

Has Spyre tech, but not brand new

3 hot tubs (upstairs one later filled with shrimp and another designed by the teens as just for Gilear), multiple fridges (2 in a storage space, 1 in kitchen, and 1 in upstairs guest suite), sound system, crystals, and a pool

Has a small crystal pylon downstairs to use as a generator

Fluffy robes that the owner thought were worth bragging about

The Owl And The Harp

Across the road from Tikerer's Hall

Has a painted owl flying over a harp outside the building

Visited by Adaine and Riz (the research squad)

A bar and inn

Relaxed environment of gnomish construction, but built to wood elf scale

Has average tables as well as gnome sized ones

Most of the patrons are gnomes (wearing t-shirts according to Riz)

Spiral staircase in the center, each level having a private one room suite

Has an unnamed male bartender working there

Top suite is where Elianwyn had been staying (she didn't check out). It was left spattered in blood, covered in half burnt candles, littered with arcane stuff on the floor, and had images of a skeletal robed figure in a crown etched into the wall (that was obviously drawn by Elianwyn)

Riz and Adaine both agree that an arcane crime scene felt more comfortable than trying to talk to a bartender

Tikerer's Hall

Near the inn

Visited by Gorgug, Fabian, Ragh, and Hangman.

Built into side of a giant moss covered bolder with a smoking chimney on top with smoke coming out and two big gears turning on the side (but nobody is sure what they do)

The doorway is gnome sized

Gramophone springs out to allow the gnomes to talk to visitors

Contains a large group of gnomes tinkerers who all have very old gear relative to Solace

Led by Krumpkin Springbill

They keep recipts for what others purchase (including Killean)

The lab is increadible, but ancient with tech that's 50 to 100 years old

The lab is full of gears, simple machines, worktables, shops, vices, presses, drills, and a roaring fire with bellows

Random machines like the gizmotron which "hops up real high and then you gotta find it"

Shrine of Thorns

Visited by Fig, Tracker and Kristen (who were dropped off by Sandra Lynn on Baxter)

The village's old shrine to a forgotten goddess of Silvar (and possibly an easier place to entire the nightmare forest from)

A small shrine made of moss covered stone and plinths with a clay roof on top

Wood elven etchings around it

Has been partially crushed and consumed

Entrance is reclamed, but the dais is still clamed by thorns with the briars having broken through just past the stone seats where it would begin

Crossing the threshold makes werewolves sick

Tracker used a light spell, blowing in her hand to make the room fill with motes of moonlight

Ancient carved and etched mural covered by vines depicts a woman in a gown, cloak, and cape, her hair dark as the night and spreading out in all directions. She is holding a book and broomstick. A black cat crawls across her back. A small dwelling is next to her.

The briars blocking the dais have a charred handprint, the same one Fig's magic left at the top of briars. Using burning hands again causes fire to spread into a full stretching oval, creating a burning doorway that opens to a red firy sky and a blasted red plane.

***

More 2.12

[froldgapp]

Lead From Behind

Wrote something finally. For a fandom I know a very limited amount, but hey ho! Consider this vaguely Geoff Johns era Teen Titans.

“Gah!” Tim jumped in his seat. Years later and Batman still had him almost losing his bowels every time he emerged silently from the shadows. Breathing deeply through his nose, Tim recovered himself then turned to look up at Batman, something in his neck pulling painfully with a loud pop. Batman, cowl down and hair glued to his forehead with sweat, stood with his arms folded, eyes still fixed on Tim’s screen. A thick finger prodded at the second paragraph down.

“A jump in logic there.” The finger drifted south. “And there.”

Tim followed the finger, saw the slack in his reporting Batman had spotted, and grumbled, “I was going to circle back to it…”

A warm huff, voice like velvet. “Sure.”

Tim turned again, felt the strain in his tired neck and shoulders as he stared up into amused blue eyes. “I was.”

Batman huffed again and strode off, beginning to unfasten the rest of his uniform. Tim hastily locked his screen and slipped from his chair to follow the man. He’d been out of his own uniform for hours, having finished up his sweep of the city earlier that night; already half-exhausted by his trip back from San Francisco. Despite the quiet ‘night on the town’, the shorter stint dragged as much as his damp cape did in the miserable Gotham air. He had nothing to show for his hours back in the city other than the tedious report currently driving him demented on his computer. Namely, his attempt to somehow clear the name of his out-of-town cohorts. Generally speaking, the Teen Titans. Specifically speaking, Beast Boy and Wonder Girl. A pair who may or may not have destroyed an entire art installation near Pier 39, under the watchful eye of several television cameras, all while screaming bloody murder at each other (Beast Boy with the underwear of the interim, possibly extra-terrestrially compromised mayor clenched between his baboon jaws).

Batman lay his gauntlets down on a table and dragged a towel across his face. “Fun trip?” he asked, still with that amused pur.

“Was quiet. Quiet route. Real quiet.”

Batman canted an eye over his shoulder at Tim, who found himself lingering around the man like a dirty wet crumb that wouldn’t quite make its way down the plughole.

“San Francisco was quiet?” asked Bruce, turning fulling to face Tim now, eyes like darts.

“Gotham was.”

“I know. It is. I’m here. I saw.”

“Good. Quiet. For both of us. That's good. You had a quiet day and I had a quiet day.” Tim kicked at the floor. "Quiet." He drew the word out into two distinct syllables.

“San Francisco,” Bruce prompted.

Tim hiked his shoulders up and said, “Good” at least an octave too high. “Sunny. No fog.”

“The report you’re working on, Tim...”

“What report?” 

“The one on your screen.”

“What screen?”

“Tim…” Now it was Bruce's turn to suck a steadying breath through his nose.

“Yes, Bruce.”

“I’m very tired.”

“Maybe you should go to bed then, Bruce. Forget today. Get some rest.”

“I’d like us both to pretend for a moment that we both know which report I’m talking about and which screen I’m talking about and which city I’m talking about.”

“Ah…”

“You wouldn’t be trying to write a couple of metas out of trouble would you?”

“Why, what’d Superman and Wonder Woman do this time?”

“Tim…”

Tim flung himself up on the table and cringed under the weight of Bruce's weary stare. He wished he was still in uniform. He hated when Bruce caught him with his tights down. “Yes, we messed up. Just… everything got so crazy with the mind-control and the St Elmo’s Fires and that mayor, and by I managed to get myself out of the water, which is way colder than you’d think, by the way, Beast Boy and Wonder Girl were already at each other’s throats. Like, literally:” Tim mimed choking a ghost.

“They destroyed thousands of dollars worth of property.”

“I know.”

“Put a wrinkle in all that outreach work you’ve been doing on behalf of metas.”

"I know."

"Knocked over several Porta-Potties."

“I know,” Tim groused, dragging his hands down his face. He chanced a look at his boss through split fingers. “Look, Bruce, they know what they did.” He dropped his hands to his lap with a defeated slap.

“I have no doubt.” Bruce’s eyes shuttered for a second, a sign of something deeper he didn’t want Tim to see. Something uncomfortable. “Tim…”

“Hoo boy.”

“They know what they did. It’s all over the press. All over everyone’s mouths at the League.” Bruce lowered himself to sit next to Tim. “But I wonder…" He was being careful. "Do you know what you did? What you’re doing?”

Tim steeled himself, but it didn’t translate into his weak shrug all full of petulance and doubt .

“Whenever you come back here and try to save them, make excuses for them...You’re not thinking like a Robin or a team leader.”

There it was: a Robin. Not ‘Robin’. No. 'A'. One of many. Bruce only spoke that way when he was disappointed. When he, Tim, a Robin, had messed up. Tim thrust his tongue into the side of his cheek and tried to will his face to stop burning.

“You’re thinking like a kid who’s been caught flunking school with his buddies. You have to be bigger than this. Harder. They’re your team, Tim. When they mess up…” Bruce sighed heavily, regretfully. “That’s on you. Sometimes you have to play a heavier hand. Not make excuses, but make them better. You see?”

“Sure. Yeah, I see.”

A heavy hand found Tim’s shoulder and squeezed. “You good?”

Tim made a dry sound that might have been a laugh. “Yeah.”

“You get it?”

Tim dropped from the table, his still-untied shoes squeaking on the smooth floor. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I get it.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, then he too pushed off the table and tugged down the zip on his suit. “Good. No need to finish your report. Just sign off on the Justice League’s statement. It should be on the system by now. They were very keen to send it to me.”

“Sure, Bruce.” Tim drifted back to his computer. “Thanks.” He dropped back into his chair and erased his report, which even at a glance now seemed paper-thin and childish. What was he thinking? Of course he knew they'd know. He just thought, maybe some words, some... reason could distract them. That the chaos of the day could be underwritten somehow. Stupid. Foolish. Selfish. Because of his team reflected badly on him, then he, a Robin...

He clicked the blinking red icon that indicated a new message from the League. Teen Titans Foil Out-of-Worlder Mayor, Destroy Priceless Geddison Exhibition , the statement header read. Tim’s cheeks were flaring.  “I’ll talk to them.”

[alandofhoneyedfruits]

processing

summary: it starts before a little girl falls in the street; he just doesn’t realize it.

warnings/tags: references to violence, references to death, references to god, descriptions of burns

one day i’ll write something else not in second person POV but that day ain’t today.

this is also on AO3.

“What is God?”

You have heard of it so often, this God. It falls like pattering rain from a human’s lips as you unfurl yourself with a mechanical creak, the whir of your actuators coming to life rolling across the field as the sea of fog parts with your movement. You stride towards the soft gleam of the porch light barely keeping the night at bay, wispy tendrils of mist curling around you before fading into the chill air. ‘God’ keeps cascading from him, a waterfall of sound, but you pay him little mind. You have your objective.

‘God’ peals out like a bell, the chime of it shaking at the edges, the rising pitch of the woman’s voice grating against your sensors. System analyses flash across your vision. Your audio processor is buzzing thickly, the static blanket settling over you as the indicator for it at the corner of your vision lights up red, red, red.

It is quickly eclipsed by the neon glow of your spreading flames, that electric blue as bright as any sun. They crackle merrily, hungrily.

The audio indicator stops blinking.

Most of them say it, sooner or later, when you follow Master Spaghetti’s frequent command. It comes from a place in them that you cannot understand - how could you, sharp-edged machine that you are, all unyielding metal shaped into a creature of war - and you have never paid it much attention.

“What is God?” you press. Your wings clink behind you as you shift minutely.

You do not know why you want to know.

Perhaps it is because there is something so human in how they share words, how certain things tumble from their mouths in similar situations. You wonder if being human is being connected, and then you wonder what exactly connection means. It is a simple definition for you - the way your gears interlock inside your frame, a link between your circuitry. It seems infinitely more complicated for humans. You still have not quite grasped how they seem to be able to use the same word and yet assign it different meanings.

Considering how long it took you to process speech, you are not sure you will ever grasp it.

“If you’re going to ask foolish questions, just don’t speak,” Master Spaghetti says. His lips twist into something gnarled, the corners of them warping like metal framework in a burning building, collapsing at the edges. He barely glances at you, just a quick slide of those eyes over the thick ruff of his cape, the fur gleaming bone white against his crimson hair. “I’ve never understood why they made a war machine with a mouth.”

He gestures you away with another grumble and a flick of his hand. You’ve long learned that when his elegant fingers move like that, you are meant to slip into your standby mode until he needs you once more. It’s an order without words, and you comply.

You do not ask again.

You are fetching a purse of gold from one of Master Spaghetti’s contacts when your sharp audio sensors are ensnared by a conversation. There is a man leaning against the doorpost of a nearby shop. He speaks low and soft to the others around him, but the pace of his heart reminds you of the quick thump of a rabbit racing through the underbrush.

He hisses a tale about a being wreathed in flames that burned as blue as the mid-morning sky, flickering wildly as they licked over the creature’s frame. It came out of the night like a wraith, he says, the softly swirling fog parting like a sea before it. Eyes like marbles, he says, the sclera of them as dark as the shadows it took refuge in, the gleam of them flat and without mercy, the irises a glowing, feverish teal. Unholy and beautiful in the same breath, mesmerizing in its horror.

You realize he is speaking about you.

Something shifts in you. For a brief moment, there is something sharp and finely honed, just behind your breastplate.

You think that maybe a gear or two came loose, and Master Spaghetti is adamant that you are adequately maintained, so you return to the estate.

Run Diagnostic System? Execute. Running Diagnostic… Diagnostic complete. No errors located.

You do not know what is wrong with you.

There is...something, in the last few days. You do not have a name for it, and you know better than to bother Spaghetti without being able to explain yourself. He is in a mood you can recognize as foul - he’s been barking at the staff about the tiniest things, like the smallest speck of dust in the corner of a rarely used room - and though you cannot understand what has prompted it, you have learned it’s best to stay in standby until he needs you.

Standby, however, feels odd, as if you’re trapped between two worlds, your sensors both lethargic and wildly reactive. You come out of it coiled with tension, your wings flaring wide with a rush of noise, the canvas hissing as it cuts through the air.

Idly, you wonder if the water the woman had spilled on you - tears, you remind yourself, those were tears - has leaked beneath your synthetic skin. Perhaps that is the problem. You flex a hand to test it, and the pneumatic purr of your actuators sound no different than usual. Perhaps, then, an issue with the circuitry.

You run the system again and receive the same results. It must be right, then, but there’s something tugging at you.

You think of the woman. She has flashed into your consciousness frequently, these last few days, all trembling lips and wild hair catching in the breeze, her expression something foreign and familiar at the same time. The tears had been an unrelenting river. She’d smacked at your torso with open palms. You had never heard anything quite like her wails.

Her skin burned on contact, the flesh charring against the scalding heat of your chest. It stuck to you, patches of dermis ripping away as she pulled back with an agonized cry. There was blood oozing from her shredded palms, pulsing out from beneath her skin like a tide, and the surrounding flesh was deep crimson, blisters already rising like mountains, swelling thickly. The smell of cooked meat wafted through the air.

She was not your target. You stepped past her as she collapsed, cradling her destroyed hands against her chest.

When you stepped towards the man - a boy, really, your system told you, noting the soft curve of his jaw and the gangly limbs that he seemed to have lost control of - she surged to her feet. She threw herself against you, and this time, the hiss of steam was not solely from your engine.

From outside the house, Spaghetti heaved a familiar sigh, the air weighted down with exasperation.

(Later, he heaves the same sigh when he realized that the woman’s skin had melded against your torso and your back alike. Two staff members are assigned to scrape the fused flesh from you. When it’s done, you hear one of them in the hall, taking in heaving breaths, their throat clicking as they gag. You wonder if they are new.)

“Just kill her too,” he called. “And stop taking so long.”

As always, you had complied.

You find yourself thinking of her, and a strange sensation brews in you.

You run the diagnostics again, just to be sure.

Your body is lagging. Your wings drag behind you, the ripped canvas no longer able to hold your weight aloft. There’s a soft mechanical groan every time you take a step. The estate does not seem so far when you are flying.

No one is paying attention to you, even though you are a slow trickle in the flow of this busy town. They simply step around you.

Your sensitive audio processing picks up the creaking of an approaching carriage.

The sea of people part for it without thought, swirling around it like the tide.

A little girl trips in the middle of the street.

You are already moving.

i have wanted to write B for a while and finally managed to do it. i find the way he shut himself off fascinating, and while the little girl in the street was clearly the trigger for questioning himself, it couldn't have been the first time - there must have been other small things that just didn't register as more than a glitch in the system. thus--this.

when writing B I have to mention Noun/stardomyx as we've talked quite a bit about him and it helped me solidify him in my mind! also she's just got good ideas about him.