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foomoosworld · 11 months ago

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Stars Too Far

CHAPTER 6 - Cape Isn’t So Stupid Now, Is it?

Pairing: Din Djarin x Fem Reader

Summary: You and Din need to take on a particularly dangerous Imperial Bounty. Din has to enlist the help of Mig Mayfeld, who has had a run in with you on your previous planet and you two hate each other. Mayfeld appears to know things about your past you are keeping from Din which complicates the situation.

MINORS DNI - Actually, this chapter probably only has some fluff and lead up to smut in the next chapter. I wanted to put it all into one chapter but it would have been way too long. Sometimes you gotta push that plot forward so you can write more smut that doesn't confuse the crap out of people.

Return to Masterlist

The sun was violently beating down that morning on Tatooine which didn’t help your nervous and slightly angry disposition about having to come face to face with Mayfeld again; the man who tried to burn your house down, stole your ship parts, tried to kill you then left you behind on your deadly home planet you had been trying to escape since birth. Sweat was dripping down your temples and you would occasionally grunt and wipe it with your sleeve in frustration.

“This planet is so hot.” You complain to Din as the two of you stroll the short distance to the Canteena where you are to meet Mayfeld and Karga Greef , “It’s like my skin won’t stop leaking. How are you handling this so well? It must be like an oven under that armor.” Din simply shrugged. He had become accustomed to the discomfort that his armor can create and has done battle in far worse environments than Tatooine.

“Try not to think about it.” His advice rings half-heartedly.

“When you tell someone to ‘try not to think about it,’ they just think about it more.” You snap at him with a glare.

“Don’t be a brat.” Din warns.

As you approach the cantina you see a man with a shaved head, red stubble dressed all in black tactical gear.

“Huh. He’s a ginger. I forgot that.” You grump as the two of you approach. “At least he hates the sun more than I do.” You sneered. Din turned his helmet and looked sternly down at you and reiterated,

“Don’t. Be. A. Brat. I mean it.”

You roll your eyes and sigh.

Mayfeld is leaning against the wall of the cantina as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He shades his eyes with his hands to get a better look at the two of you as you approach, each foot fall of yours kicking up small clouds of dusty beige sand.

“Mando!” He greets Din with a smile and offers a firm handshake and a pat on his back. He then turns to you glare at you, “I see your still keeping sketchy company. You still stripping ships, you swamp rat?” Mayfeld taunts as he sneers at you.

“You still burning down houses?” You snark.

“Stop it.” Din says calmly but sternly to both of you. “We need to work together if this is going to succeed. So whatever rocky past you two have is put behind you as of right now.”

“No problem over here…” Mayfeld shakes his head and raises his hands defensively.

“Fine.” You grumble, giving in to Din’s order.

The three of you enter the dark cantina and the cool air relieves your skin.

“Thank, maker…” Mayfeld says wiping the sweat off his brow. “Us gingers tend to burn up in the sun.”

You snort a muffled laugh and try to hide a vindictive smile and stare straight forward, happy at the misery you predicted Mayfeld was in. Din looks at you and nudges you angrily in the ribs with an elbow. “Don’t.” He warns again quietly and you struggle to stifle your smile.

The band is playing music that is oddly frantic and lively for the morning that every patron is nonchalantly ignoring as they practice grimacing. Din sees Karga sitting at a table across the room with a droid standing next to him. He waves you over happily and the three of you slide into chairs at his table, Mayfeld spinning one of the chairs backwards and straddling it.

“Yeah. That makes you look edgier.” You sarcastically snap under your breath and roll your eyes at Mayfeld

“Mando! It’s been a long time!” Karga exclaimed excitedly, “And you bring….” Karga examines your and Mayfeld’s faces, senses the tension between the two of you and is unsure, “Friends?”

“I hear you have a bounty for me. I thought you were out of the business since becoming High Magistrate.” Din cuts to the chase.

“I do.” Karga looks uncomfortably at you and asks, “Why are you dressed so fancy?” looking at your blue summer dress. You look at him completely emotionless and respond,

“I’m not properly socialized to your standard culture.” You robotically dispel.

“Okay…” Karga nods uncomfortably and decides to keep his conversation to the Mandalorian, “You keep interesting company, Mando.”

“Have I ever not gotten the job done?” Din challenges Kargas questioning of his team member choice.

Karga flicks his eyes from you to him then slowly slides the puck across the table.

“Its a Spice Runner that has been captured by Imperial Guard and is being held in one of their facilities on Hoth.” Karga explains.

“Hoth?” Din questions in surprise, “Why would anyone put a facility on such a frigid, barren planet? And since when are you interested in Spice Runners if you’re out of the business?” The pieces weren’t falling together and before Din accepted the bounty puck he wanted to ensure this wasn’t some kind of Imperial trap.

“The Spice runner had set up a factory on Navarro partnering with local pirates for security. We’ve been trying to get them off our planet for some time but have proven to be a much trickier pest to exterminate than originally calculated. Without a military or help from the Alliance we had no other choice than to strike up a deal with them when their boss was captured by Imperial Guard. He’s been selling information to the Alliance on the side; specifically Imperial Facilitiy blue prints, giving the Alliance an upper hand.” Karga explains.

“Why wouldn’t the Imps just kill him?” Din querries.

“Because he was also selling information about the Alliance to the Imps. So they’re trying to get information out of him before they kill him.”

“Playing both sides.” Din realizes and nods slowly.

“The Imperial facility is on Hoth to dissuade anyone from going there. They tend to keep only high profile prisionera there and is one of the last places anyone would expect them to set up camp. The Spice Runner’s wife has taken over operations on Nevarro and has offered a large bounty and to move their operations off of Nevarro if you get her husband, Talak Rand, back to her alive.” Karga concludes. Din nods thoughtfully then turns to Mayfeld and you to see what your reaction to the job is. You shift your eyes back and forth between Din and Mayfeld. You aren’t versed well enough in the politics of the universe as of yet to have a fully formed opinion on how dangerous this could be, but also know you needed the credits.

“Well - “ Mayfeld shrugged, “At least if we go to Hoth we can get out of the sun for awhile.” He reaches over and grabs the puck. With that the three of you stand up.

“We’ll find your Spice Runner.” Din confirms, turns and all three of you walk out of the cantina.

Karga looks up at the droid next to him, “Where does he find these people, G5?”

The droid shifts anxiously.

“It’s probably best not to question such things.” It responds. Karga nods in agreement with a shake of his head and an arch of his brow as he takes a long swig of his blue milk.

………..

The three of you return to The Razor Crest and settle into the cockpit. Din takes his seat in the pilots chair and Mayfeld flops down in the Copilot seat. You stand over him with your arms crossed and clear your throat in annoyance.

Mayfeld glares up at you, “Oh… you learned how to fly a ship in the last year I saw you?” He quips. “I believe this is a copilot’s chair.” You snarl your discontent then angrily huff down in the jump seat behind the two of them. Din begins setting coordinates, pushing buttons and navigates the Razor Crest into space without getting involved between the uncomfortable banter between you and Mayfeld. The Razor Crest jumps to hyperspace and once it’s flying smoothly Din stands from his seat.

“Take the controls, Mayfeld. I need to go below deck to run diagnostics on the ships heating and life support systems before we get to Hoth” Din instructs. Mayfeld slowly turns his head and glares at you while responding to Din,

“No problem.”

He switches to the Captians seat and you shift and settle into the copilots seat.

“Play nice.” Din leans to your ear and quietly growls at you before he disappears into the back of the ship.

You cross your arms and flick your eyes to Mayfeld. He swivels his head around to make sure Din is out of ear-shot.

“No tricky stuff or I let Mando know your little secret.” he warns as he reads the navigation charts on a small screen to his left.

“You don’t know anything about me.” You challenge him with a snarl.

“Oh, I did some digging after I left your little hell planet. I know why your family was exiled from Mandalor and I know exactly what you are. I doubt Mando will be as forgiving of this situation than I am. So, best behavior unless you want to find yourself stranded on some shit hole rock on the Outer Rim again.” He threatens. Your heart jumps into your chest, suddenly realizing that Mayfeld is currently holding all the cards.

You angrily jolt up from your seat and storm off to find Din.

A cool green glow is reflecting off of his helmet from the console text on the screen in front of him in the dark hallway of the Razor Crest as he checks the screen in the wall against a hand held infopad in his hand. He appears to not notice you approach from behind him but also doesn’t flinch when you rope your arms around his waste from behind and lean your head against his back. He continues to check his numbers but embraces your hands that are woven around his waist with one of his.

His helmet tilts slightly back towards you. “I know, Meshla. It’s not easy.” He soothes you.

“Is it too early to go to bed together?” Your whines are muffled as you smush your face into his back in frustration.

“Not now, Charika. There’s too much I need to prepare before we get to Hoth.”

You whine again and angrily slump away from Din. He sighs, turns around and leans back against the console he was just fixing.

“If you can behave, I’ll have a surprise for you once we catch this bounty.” He says.

“And if I don’t?” You challenge mischievously stepping into him and angling a smile up at his visor.

“You don’t want to know what I will do to you if you misbehave.”

You let out a small squeal and shake your fists excitedly in front of you. You turn to go back to your makeshift bed in the cargo hull but let out a yelp as Din gives your ass an unexpected slap as you scurry away. You turn and giggle at him then disappear to your bed.

Din sighs, turns and goes back to his diagnostics, smiling to himself under his helmet and shaking his head.

A few hours pass and Din finishes his diagnostic review of the ships life support and heating system. When he is satisfied with the numbers he returns to the cockpit and takes the Captians Chair from Mayfeld.

“So, you met her on Sypar…” Mayfeld breaks the silence. Din hesitates, unsure if he wants to unfold this conversation with him, then opts for transparency.

“Yes.” He states simply.

“What do you really know about that girl?” Mayfeld baits Din. Din slightly turns his helmet towards him as he busies himself pushing buttons on the console in front of him.

“All I need to know.” He grumbles, trying to shut the conversation down.

“Ever asked yourself why she didn’t grow up on Mandalor with her parents?” Mayfeld lures him.

“It’s not my business.” Din shuts him down.

Mayfeld shrugs and tries to explain, “I’m just sayin’... a weird feral girl abandoned on a deadly, uninhabited planet seems like a strange bed partner to take without looking into her history.”

Din stays silent to try to avoid the conversation, however, Mayfeld has a point. “What is your point?” He questions, his patience running thin. Mayfeld leans across the copilots chair towards him and cautiously looks back to make sure you aren’t close by to hear his words.

“Do you know if she’s actually human?”

Din growls under his helmet.

“I have extensive experience. She’s human.” He shoots back at him.

“But do you?” Mayfeld lays his bread crumbs. “There’s creatures out there that can look human, but aren’t.”

Din turns his head, at first in annoyance, but when he glimpses Mayfelds concerned expression he questions his stance. He tries to push the thought to the back of his mind and looks back out the windscreen at the stars.

“You grow up on Mandalore?” Mayfeld nods at him, questioningly.

“No. I grew up on Concordia. A moon of Mandalore. By the Children Of The Watch.”

“Ah,” Mayfeld leans back, “That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Why you don’t know all the history of Mandalore. I mean, you didn’t even know there were Mandalorians that could remove their helmets until recently. Ever think there may be something else that was a blind spot in your up-bringing?”

“Say what you mean or be quiet.” Din roughly orders.

“Maybe take your new arm candy to Bo Katan and ask what she thinks of her.”

Din turns his helmet to Mayfeld. He knows the expressionless mask will look like a threat of violence if Mayfeld doesn’t shut up, but underneath, his eyes were wide and face was worried. Why did Mayfeld appear to know more about you than he did? It took Din everything he could muster to not physically shake off Mayfeld’s words and give his emotional manipulation the upper hand. Luckily, he was saved by the bell as a beeping commenced signaling they were approaching Hoth.

The cockpit door slides open and you step in, fully clad in leather armor and winter clothes. Your short waist high cape flowed behind you as you stared at Hoth getting larger by the second as The Razor Crest approached.

“Here we go.” You nervously exhaled.

“Nice cape.” Mayfeld quipped sarcastically.

“Fuck you, Mayfeld.” you said without tearing your eyes off of the approaching planet.

……………

The Razor Crest swooped down to the glacial ground of Hoth and planted its landing gear with a thud that stirred up clouds of dry snow that spread like mist. Din was the first to exit the hull ramp and survey the frozen tundra. Mayfeld followed shortly behind him. Lastly, you stepped out into the frozen winter air and said,

“NOPE.” and immediately turned around to go back into the ship. However, Din caught the crook of your elbow without even looking and pulled you next to him. Din pushed some buttons on his helmet and scanned the horizon until he found the small Imperial building.

“It’s smaller than I thought it would be.” He said.

“Yeah,” Mayfield said, “Don’t let that fool you. The building is small but I can guarantee you there are numerous troopers stationed. If anything, be scared that they feel they only had to build a small structure to have their prisoners secured. It means they’re ready for us.”

“We can’t use speeder bikes.” You state, “They’ll hear them and see them against the snow immediately. That means we’re walking.”

“Oh… good….’ Mayfield starts with his words already dripping with sarcasm, “More time to spend with you.” He glares at you then starts to walk down the ramp. You and Din share a knowing look and take Mayfeld’s lead and follow behind him into the wild frozen wasteland.

The three of you lower your heads and force your way through the open glacial land. The wind lashes your bodies like a burning whip with every icy blow. Even Din was shivering in his armor when you traversed the last giant snow drift and looked down across an open glacier field that was spotted with only the imperial building.

“This has got to be a trap.” Din states, noting how quiet it is.

“Only one way to find out.” Mayfeld says climbing over the snow dune and clumsily sliding his way down to the glacier. The three of you walk without incident to the middle of the glacier field, heads on a swivel, awaiting blaster fire.

Then it happened. A storm trooper on a Taun Taun crested one of the snow drifts, took aim and shot at you.

Din immediately pulled his blaster, shot back and sent him flailing off the Taun Taun that scurried off. With that action, suddenly hundreds of Storm Troopers appeared on the horizon in every direction. You had been boxed in.

Blasters fired from every angle. Mayfeld dove behind a glacial crevasse that had upheaved itself from the ground but you and Din were left vulnerable with no where to hide. Din took numerous blaster hits to his Beskar, grunting and shouting as he was inundated from taking fire. He fell back to the ground. You crouched down then leapt into an animalistic sprint towards the line of Storm Troopers. Fire seared immediately into your body and flung you back, skidding next to Din in the snow. You trembled as you heaved your wounded body up. Din grasped you around your waist and dragged you back behind the upheaved glacial crevasse that Mayfeld had taken shelter behind. The Storm Troopers were closing in, blaster fire becoming every molecule of the air.

You weakly reached up and flung Din’s cape over his head then grabbed Mayfeld in a headlock and flung him face down into the snow, your cape over his head while crouching with him in the fetal position in the ground.

A deafening pause ensued, A white light flashed throughout the field, emerging from your body, shaking the atmosphere and sending a ripple through the snow that flung the line of Storm Troopers off their feet.

There was complete silence among the glacial field. Din slowly raised to his knees, emerging from under his cape. Mayfeld also slowly rose up. They both look around, confused to see the few concious Storm Troopers that are now regaining their footing appear to be blindly grasping at nothing.

“What was that?” Din questioned, astonished. He looks at Mayfeld who is crouched over you, unconscious in the snow.

Mayfeld looks up at Din with a terrified expression,

“She blinded them.”

Mayfeld reaches down gently and raises your face to look at him. You weakly say,

“Cape isn’t so stupid now, is it?”

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#din djarin smutt #din djarin smut #star wars #mandalorian smut #mandalorian fluff #mando #mandalorian x reader #razor crest #mandalorian fanfic #din djarin #mando x reader #mandalorian #migs mayfeld #mandalor

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obscurecharactershowdown · 1 year ago

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Group B Round 3

[image ID: the first image is of Hikaru, a boy with white hair, wearing a short sleeve button up shirt, tucked into dark pants, and carrying a backpack. he's holding up 2 fingers in a peace sign. the second image is of Red Savarin, an anthropomorphic red fox. he's chewing on a bone, carrying a large red sword, and wearing a blue and red outfit with shorts, knee and chest armor, and a small, red cape or shawl with white fur lining. there are also green gems attached to his shoulders, chest, and hips. end ID]

Hikaru

technically he isnt the real hikaru, hes a strange melty fractal creature that cant be fully perceived that took over the original hikaru's body after he died in the mountains [additional propaganda 1]

Red Savarin

AUGAGHGHAGAGGAGA MY AWESOME LITTLE DS FURRY GAME THAT FLOPPED SO BAD IT ONLY SOLD 100k COPIES WORLDWIDE, hes so sooooo silly solatorobo is honestly an awesome game with a great soundtrack painted backgrounds in towns cool setting and awesome character designs it pushed the ds graphics to its limits tbh and red savarin is my funny little guy, i think he has a little bit of transgender swag. i dont wanna spoil anything but honestly his backstory on paper is kind of funny because its like something i would write at 13 but it works and is great. hes a funny little shiba with a stupid gun sword i hate drawing thats only like useful in game like 4 times at most lol and an awesome robot mech. unfortunately hes french tho rip

#obscurecharactershowdown #obscure poll #group b round 3 #hikaru ga shinda natsu #red savarin #solatorobo

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un-local · 2 years ago

Note

Predictibly, Rogier: 3,6

3) Design/Aesthetic Thoughts

First, a photo for reference, taken from his fextralife page.

I have a lot of thoughts on his design, but precious few of them are anything substantial. Regardless, I am including them all. Lol.

[1] Love the Landsknecht vibe. (Wikipedia link)

[2] I hate drawing that hat though, I really do. It's the bane of my wretched existence. I hope that swingy glintstone piece whacks him in the face ♡

[3] The jester boots. Lol. What is he thinking.

[4] So many layers. How does he not overheat and die immediately.

[5] What the hell is that stupid little cape necklace. I love him

(gif from this post!)

[6] The fact that that blue and yellow are his main colors has some fitting connotations under Hankshaw's Video on Color Theory in Elden Ring. Here's my thoughts, copypasted from an older post:

He's a mix, an entity in the Lands between unlike any other. Calm, logical, rebellious. Creative. Lonely. An agent of change, as much a scholar of the Order's history as he is a heretic. As a sorcerer who to seeks to repair the Order by altering it, Rogier is a striking clash of ideologies.

[7] His concept art (?) on fextralife is interesting. He seems to be older, and he's possibly using the staff as a cane.

I wonder how his story and injury changed and adapted throughout development. Was he originally meant to play a bigger (or smaller) part in the game's world? He seems to be at the heart of something big, but he also seems so inconsequential in the grand scope of things. Was a more involved story cut, or was it always intended to be this way?

Also, why’d they get rid of the laugh lines? :( I guess ill just have to bring them back in my art.

[8] I love how his outfit incorporates glintstone:

It's even in his boots, and the sleeves of his doublet... overshirt... thing.

I love how the blue/yellow/white of his design contrasts the red/yellow/black of Alberich's. Note how Alberich's is decorated with red glintstones, made from blood sacrifices:

Also of note, their respective hats describe them as “heretical.”

(I went deeper into looking at Alberich as Rogier's foil, but honestly, that post went... a lot off the rails.)

6) Psychological Headcanons

(tastes, fears, talents, regrets, how they deal with anger, just anything that comes to mind on the topic)

[1] He wields customer service voice and scripts like no other. He’ll spill soup on you and give such a good apology that it'll make you want to make it up to him.

(Whether or not this is intentional... It probably depends on the situation.)

[2] Talents: according to this, his dex is actually higher than his int.

Given that, it seems he’s more practiced with sword than spell. Or at least, he picked up sword-fighting before sorcery. Which brings me to this YouTube short by a fencer, where he says that fencing and dancing are "intricately linked," and "one really informs the other."

So here's my silly little headcanon: Back in the day, in his life before, Rogier killed it on the ballroom floor. (Or whatever they had back then.)

...I wonder how many situations he talked himself out of (and into) while dancing with a partner. It seems like the perfect time to turn his "easy air" up to 11, as D calls it.

Idk, I think his life among nobility shaped the way he wields his manners. I'd love to think he learned how to turn his skills from that life into a weapon, one just as effective as his sword. That before his time in The Lands Between, it was really the only weapon he could use against the agendas of others.

[3] His fear: his untimely demise. I think the onset of this only really began after his injury. That's when he began to really understand the risks associated with his research.

Look at it this way: there’s knowing something is dangerous and acting accordingly, and then there’s understanding what the consequences are. (Ex: wearing PPE because you know you should, vs actually seeing what exposure to a chemical does to you.)

Before Stormveil, desperation and denial probably helped keep that understanding at bay. He’s chasing this thing, and he knows it’s dangerous—he’s done all the reading and research he possibly can. But I wonder how much he actually let himself stop and think about the danger before he jumped into his search for the next artifact.

But now that he does truly grasp what’s in store for him, there’s no way to change course. I think that his fate (and it's inevitability) scares him to no end. I think it kills him that he won't be able to finish what he started. That he doesn't have time anymore—in the land where no one's supposed to die, no less.

The only thing he can do is work on his research a little more before he succumbs to the deathless dream. That’s where you, as the player, come in.

(Side note: as for how long he’s in denial about the fatality of his condition—I can’t say. He could realize it's over as soon as he wakes up in the Hold, or he could be clinging onto some far-fetched hope all the way until he warns the player he’s falling asleep. Readers preference, I suppose.)

[4] Regrets: the better question is what doesn’t he regret, lol.

Jokes aside, I think most of his regrets center around how things came to pass, rather than what came to pass. I don't think he regrets that he and D parted ways, but I think he regrets how it came to happen. That kind of thing.

[5] One last random headcanon: He's not a morning person. That first hour or so after waking—oof. That’s when his demeanor isn’t at full power yet. I have a small little bit for this in Still Waters planned, far off in the future. Because I want to hear him honestly complain for once, without all that dignity. I think it'd be fun to watch.

Thanks for the ask!!

[ Ask Game Link! ] Send me a character and a number!

#aaaa sorry it took so long i just kept typing and typing askdjfhlaskfdas #elden ring #rogier #sorcerer rogier #hare posts #hare answers #here's hoping all that formatting doesnt get fucked up

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crawlingbetweenearthandheaven · 1 year ago

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guising; halloween, 2006

Kendall is starting to come back down to normality, and it's Halloween, and they are American tourists in Yorkshire. on the ao3 here or below

“Well,” Kendall says, fiddling with the sleeves of his jacket, “this feels pointed.” He breathes in and out deeply, like the doctor has told him to do. The house is dark and darkening as the clock creeps onwards. “I fucking hate when the clocks change.” He lights a cigarette and catches his finger on the flame.

Stewy looks at him from where he is doing makeup in the mirror. “Dude, it’s the most appropriate costume in the world. Even if the Brits don’t really do Halloween, and you’re chemically lobotomised –“

“It’s just the lithium,” Shiv tells Stewy, like he hasn’t read all the leaflets since the doctor left them all on the kitchen table and sat in the computer room until his head hurt reading miserable blogposts from poor people about their BIPOLAR HELL and reading about Byron and van Gogh and sobering-if-boring articles on suicide statistics and lithium toxicity and addiction issues and endless fucking misery. His eyes flicker to her, dressed in a red shirt and blue pinafore dress. She shows them what she has in her hands. “I could only find a cricket bat here, so – “

Roman snatches the cricket bat, gives her the axe he’s holding. “Let’s swap,” he says. “You’re way more likely to damage your kid or go insane and start seeing shit and –“

“I’m the one most likely to do that,” Kendall says, and it should be but he can’t bring himself to actually laugh. His siblings just look at each other as if he’s still manic, even if the lithium has brought him back to earth with a horrible lurching feeling and he’s so tired he feels rooted to the floor half the time. “Fuck, I must be crazy if Stewy’s talked me into this,” he tells his feet, shuffling them slightly.

“Vampires are the most appropriate costume for Stewy because he is the Vampire of Wall Street,” Roman says. He boggles his eyes. “Now I look the part,” he announces.

“I’m in private equity,” Stewy says.

Shiv snorts. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

Kendall looks in the mirror. He looks pale and bloated, like a corpse that has been in the water for three days. His eyes are bloodshot and his hands are shaking, but he’s wearing a black cape fashioned from a curtain.

“Where’s Connor?” he says, looking around. “He’s got my next dose, which I still think is fucking stupid and I can be trusted with all my meds and there’s no point in dressing up anyway because the Brits don’t do it and we’re not in college anymore and I don’t want to waste my time – “

“Kendall,” Stewy says, handing him a pair of plastic vampire teeth. “You’ve spent the past few weeks terrifying the life out of us. It’s our turn, don’t you think?”

Kendall shoves the teeth into his mouth too hard and his lip starts bleeding; he starts to worry at it with his tongue and his teeth until the blood runs down his chin. He watches it in the mirror, until Roman notices.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Roman says, and goes in search of a towel. They hear him muttering to himself about lunatics and idiot brothers and several homophobic slurs whispered too low to quite catch. Shiv starts to paint exaggerated eyelashes under her eyes. Stewy looks at Kendall in the mirror until he makes eye contact.

“You know I hate dressing up,” Connor says as he rounds the corner, tread heavy on the stairs. “You are all children –“ and he walks in and he is wearing his normal clothes. “I’m being Conor Roy,” he tells them, but he is trying not to smirk. "I am mentioned on Dad's Wikipedia page, you know. So I am notable - " Shiv rolls her eyes as if she has been practicing.

Roman walks back in with a teatowel, and scrubs too hard at Kendall’s chin. He licks his finger and rubs at the blood. “Is that weird?” he asks, pausing. “I saw it in a movie once,” and Kendall shrugs and shakes his head and tries to smile but feels hollow. He keeps thinking of all the empty shells that wash up at the seashore after a storm.

“What would Dad dress up as? He’d probably call it guising or something Scottish. Mum would say it’s a vulgar American import, right? Like watching television in bed or laughing at mealtimes,” Roman says, waving the cricket bat around his head.

“Dad would be the vampire,” Shiv says, and then laughs. “No, Dad would be fucking – that horrible painting with Saturn eating his son? Roman got obsessed with it last year when we got dragged round every gallery in Madrid.” She mimes a few times.

“As the art expert – “ Connor begins, but Kendall tries to laugh and makes a weird gasping sound instead until Connor shrugs and says something about Kendall’s “newfound admiration for the visual arts”.

As if Connor has not spoken, Shiv keeps talking. "He painted it on the wall of his house, remember? That's some Kendall shit right there. The crazy stuff. Spanish Inquisition - "

"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!" Connor interrupts, looking delighted.

"Fucking dork," Roman mutters under his breath. "I can see Dad being that painting, but only accidentally. Like oh, he just happened to accidentally acquire everything that mattered to a business venture, steamroll in with his name and his money, wreck it all - "

"He did do that accidentally," Connor says. "He told me, he had no choice but to buy in, because of the markets -"

Stewy closes his eyes for a second. “Going back to paintings, specifically Kendall's new one. Did we decide what to do about that? Does your dad know?” He takes several long sips from the whisky in his hand, opening his eyes and turning his head to look at Kendall.

For the first time in a little while, Kendall feels slightly turned on. He sniffs, wishes he had some water or vodka or wine. “He said it was fine and his guys will sort it and he’s glad I’ve got my head, uh, straightened out.”

“Does he know about you and Stewy? I – I still think it’s great, you guys,” Connor adds hastily, watching Kendall watching Stewy’s throat move as he swallows.

“He knows everything in a sort of five-eyes Bill-Gates fucking… KGB type way,” Roman says. “But he’s not mentioned it. I guess he might be waiting until he needs to use it,” he muses. He has put down the cricket bat and is drinking neat vodka.

“If he knew, I think he’d get one of his guys to talk me into killing myself,” Kendall says quietly. The truth of the words soaks into him and he feels hot and cold all at once. Stewy reaches out and takes his hand.

#kendall x stewy #kenstewy #kenstew #stewy hosseini #kendall roy #bipolar kendall roy #bipolar #succession #succession fic

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writingpaperghost · 1 year ago

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Without You (Chapter 14)

Chapter 14: Rules Revised! The Power of Two!

Enter, Kamen Rider Revi and… Vice?

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43371954/chapters/123198331

“Oh Hana! I have a gift for you!” Sakura’s voice awakens Hana from her sleep. She still felt somewhat tired from the night before, but given Sakura wanted her attention, she supposed she’d have to give it to her. She pulls herself up, looking over at where Sakura stood, standing in front of the closest.

In Sakura hands is a lot of red fabric, some black in there, with some white fuzzy looking parts. “Sakura…? What’s that?”

Sakura still smiles, setting the clothing down on the end of the bed, “I figured, if you were going to be my queen proper, well, Aguilera should look it. I designed outfits for my brothers and I, so it’s only fair I did one for you too.”

“…Really?” Hana hadn’t expected something like that. She was no stranger to Sakura’s designs, but something like this.

“Yes, with some makeup I’m sure your own brothers will barely recognize you, if at all.” As Sakura speaks, Hana rubs the sleep from her eyes. To think, it was morning already.

“But Makoto and Tamaki already know I’m Aguilera.”

Nodding, Sakura agreed, “True, but according to Dai… well, good boy Tamaki kept that detail out of his report. As far as Fenix is concerned, I held you hostage and then Aguilera came to help me fight your brothers, and we took off with you.”

Why wouldn’t Tamaki tell Fenix she was Aguilera? Was he seriously trying to protect her from Fenix? Why didn’t Makoto say anything, surely he thought it was stupid? Well, maybe it was for the best. She didn’t want to hurt her parents or Hikaru more than necessary.

“Huh, well… I guess you want me to try it on.” She pulls the covers off, stretching. Sakura watched, still smiling. She was very happy today, it seemed.

“Well, there’s that, yes, but also… I was hoping to introduce the Deadmans to you properly, as my queen.” She explained.

“Introduce properly?” Hana echoed, “How so?”

Sakura helped her out of bed, then set about helping her change, even though Hana needed little help. Perhaps she’d need it for what Sakura had made, she’d know better than Hana. “A livestream, of course, for our followers to see. Or those who don’t follow us. I’m sure Fenix does their best to monitor our livestreams.”

The idea of being seen by all those people was a little frightening, but most of all, Hana found it exciting. Would they see her with even half the adoration that they saw Sakura and her brothers with? Would they view Aguilera as an outsider, or welcome her? Would being Jeanne’s queen be enough, or would she have to prove herself worthy of that title, in the eye of the followers?

---

“Makoto, look at this.” Tamaki shoved his phone towards Makoto that morning. Their parents were elsewhere, Genta trying to film some video or other, Yukimi cooking breakfast. On Tamaki’s phone stream appeared to be a Deadman livestream.

Makoto tilted his head, “So?”

“Just… I thought I saw back there-“

He’s interrupted by Jeanne’s voice coming out of the phone speaker. She sounded as confident as ever. “It’s good to see you all again, and my do I have a surprise for all of you. Someone very special I’d like to introduce.”

Then out comes Hana – it takes Makoto a minute to recognize her, she’s all dressed up. A red dress with short off the shoulder sleeves, something that closely resembled her fuzz connected to a transparent cape that looked like bee wings, flower hair clips in her hair, make up done up more than she would have normally done.

“This,” Jeanne continued, “is my lovely queen, Aguilera.” She pulled Hana closer, an arm around her waist. “I expect all of you to treat her with the same respect you do my brothers and I, or else there will be… consequences.” Hana casted a curious if a bit concerned glance at Jeanne, who seemed not to pay it any mind.

Frowning, Makoto said, “I guess she wants to show her off, now.”

“I hate it,” Tamaki said, scowling, clearly irritated. “She doesn’t have the right to do that, to parade Hana around like that.”

Shushing him, Makoto responded, “Quieter. But there’s not much we can do about it right now. Besides, it doesn’t look like she seems to mind much.”

Tamaki’s scowl didn’t fade, not in the slightest. The Deadmans’ livestream continued to play from his phone, until he closed it, a growl in his throat. He obviously wasn’t taking this all well, not that Makoto blamed him, or anyone else.

Hana was important to them, so having her taken by the Deadmans – having her fight against them – it hurt. And their parents had already lost three children, the possibility of losing another was not welcomed. Hikaru had no other friends and… Tamaki was, well, Tamaki. He’d always wanted to keep Hana safe.

They’d figure out how to bring Hana back. It would just take time. That’s what Makoto would keep telling himself. Even if it wasn’t true, lies would make him feel better.

He did worry about Tamaki, though. That anger… he didn’t want Tamaki doing something he’d regret because of it. Especially in a matter as delicate as what was going on with Hana – one wrong move and Fenix might figure out, or far worse, their parents learn. Nothing would hurt their parents more, save for Hana dying, probably. But beyond that… Tamaki obviously wasn’t thinking straight, and it could really cause trouble. Cause him to act more recklessly, possibly get him hurt.

All Makoto could do is try his damn hardest to keep his family in one peace.

---

There was… something about Aguilera that struck Hikaru as sickeningly familiar. He didn’t normally watch the livestreams, there was no reason to, but as he hid away in his room, it seemed like all he could do. The only way to search for some hint that Hana was okay, or maybe some clue as to where she’d been taken (unrealistic, but at this point, he couldn’t care).

Anything to soothe the aching in his chest, the horrible, empty cold that was left behind when Hana was taken. There were so many things he wished he’d done or said or anything to make it hurt less. He wished he could have protected her, he wished he could have just come clean about his feelings and told her the truth, even if she’d have rejected him. But he hadn’t, and now he was forced to sit here in a cruel facsimile of a home and watch a dumb Deadman livestream for some grain of hope.

And Aguilera, he found, felt strangely, horribly, familiar. Like cooking the same recipe as someone else, but you added something to make it taste different. It’s so similar to the recipe, to what the other person made, but still different, enough that it can be noticed but is still unmistakably the recipe you used. Aguilera was like that, like someone took something so familiar but changed it ever so slightly. Pulled back the hair some, covered the face it bold make up, dressed her in the clothes of a queen like Jeanne claimed her to be.

Aguilera was like some painful duplicate of Hana, but made to what Jeanne wanted in a queen. Made to be so much more pretty, made to be elegant and to be happy to hang off of Jeanne’s arm. She smiled and laughed and kept close to Jeanne, acting both coy and friendly and yet wasn’t really either.

Except, Hikaru knew that Aguilera had appeared, with one of Karizaki’s Driver and the Bee Vistamp, before this. Before Jeanne took Hana. So why did she look hauntingly like Hana?

Was it his own mind playing a trick on him? Wanting so desperately for Hana, for something to make him feel better, that it imagined the similarities between Aguilera and Hana? Or was it a coincidence? If it was a coincidence, why did Aguilera even act and sound so much like Hana, if admittedly a bit different?

Maybe it was all just a cruel joke. That’s what Hikaru’s life felt like, at this point, so who was to say that Aguilera wasn’t apart of that. Just another way to make him feel worse, to make him more miserable.

Despite that pain and confusion, Hikaru watches the livestream to its completion. The whole time, he couldn’t help but stare at Aguilera, like she might give some clue, something to ease his confused and aching heart. There was nothing, of course, and when it ended, he had more questions than he’d had at the start and no more answers than before.

Hikaru pulled himself from his tangle of blankets on his bed. He didn’t feel any better than he’d had when he’d first woke up, or even the day before, but as tempted as he was to stay in bed all day, he figured he should at least eat something when he at least thought he had the energy for it.

Catching his reflection in his mirror, he can’t help but think he looks terrible. Even though he’d slept plenty, he still looked tired, and his disheveled appearance combined with the fact he hadn’t changed clothes the night before made him look just… pathetic. Then again, he pretty much was, he didn’t even have something he could do to help Weekend, with Hana gone. Not that he really cared about Weekend.

Still, he forced himself to change and attempt to make his hair a bit less of a mess. Then he trudged out of his room, finding the house unsurprisingly empty. Most likely, his parents weren’t really gone, just in the basement – Weekend’s base. Hikaru never really understood why it was there, of all places. Why make the main entrance in just… some random house? Sure, it was probably good for security but… it still seemed strange.

Not that Hikaru’s opinion mattered, nor would he likely ever get any real answer.

He pulled some lunch meat from the fridge and got some bread, making himself a sandwich. It was thoroughly unappealing, but he forced himself to eat it. If Hana found out he wasn’t eating and especially if the reason was in anyway connected to her, she’d be pissed. So he’d eat, even if he really, really didn’t care to.

With food begrudgingly eaten, though, Hikaru was left unsure of what to do next. He could go back to his room and be miserable, that was entirely an option. Or… he could go out. Try to walk or something and see if the fresh air might help him get his mind off things.

Before he can give it much more thought, he’s pulling his shoes on and out the door. He allows his feet to take him wherever they decided best, quickly finding a familiar path. Soon enough, he arrives in front at a flower shop Hana always liked to go to, mostly to see the flowers and to get an idea of what she wanted to add to her flowerbox at home – speaking of, he hoped someone would water her flowers for her, she’d be upset to come home to find them dead.

He looks at the flowers. They remind him of her. She always had the urge to stick her face in them, and Hikaru always had to stop her. He’d always wondered if whoever named her was prophetic, or if it was just a coincidence that she would love flowers so much. Some of it had certainly come from the fact that she was, at times, so bee-like.

Standing in front of iris flowers, Hikaru recalled clearly that Hana had, more than once, declared these flowers her favorite. He always thought that, if he were to ever confess to her and take her out on a date, he’d get her some. It was far too late for that, now. Still, they reminded him of her the most, and since he was here…

His room could use some life.

Alongside the irises, he gets some daffodils, zinnias, and carnations, he thinks that they’ll go nice together, though he has nothing more to base that on than his own intuition. At the very least, they’ll be something nice for his bedroom.

Hana had given him flowers before, but these were different. He was getting these because they were the only flowers he could have, until Hana came home. They’d have to hold him over until then.

---

It was Revi again – Makoto hadn’t even really recovered from the fight with Hana the day before, he doubted that Tamaki had recovered from fighting Jeanne, so having Revi show up was… not ideal. But they had no choice but to try and fight him. Hopefully, since they’d have Mr. Kadota’s help this time, they would at least stand a chance. At least Revi wasn’t likely to hit any sore spots regarding Hana, which meant he wasn’t likely to set Tamaki off. Or at least, not more than he was already likely to be set off given his obvious simmering displeasure at recent events.

Revi was waiting for them, looking uneasy. There was a worried frown on his face, and he shifted, visibly wary and uncomfortable. Makoto wondered if this would go like last time, if Aguilera or someone else would swoop in to stop the fight.

They had better odds, this time, at least. Three on one, Makoto figured they might actually be able to defeat Revi, or at least come close.

Mr. Kadota takes the lead, Makoto and Tamaki standing behind and to the side of him. He called to Revi, “We’re here, I assume you were waiting on us.”

His words snap Revi out of his thoughts, who gives an awkward nod, “You know, I always wonder why they never send you more help. It wouldn’t do much but… it’s weird, you know? I guess it doesn’t matter.” He produced what appeared to be a Driver from his jacket pocket – Makoto recognized it as the one that Karizaki always had locked away. With a solemn expression, he said, “Today, I’m you’re opponent, and not as a monster.”

Placing the Driver on his waist, Revi activated the T-Rex Vistamp, his expression unchanging. He pressed the Vistamp against the Driver, then turned it to the side. Something resembling a phone appeared behind him, presenting a conversation in the form of text messages.

Let’s see how this goes…

It’ll be great! We’ll be so much stronger!

I guess you would be excited about that. It is what it is.

Cheer up! No need to be so glum.

You and I both know I don’t want to do this.

…

From his feet, that demon, Vice, emerged like a shadow, hovering into the sky and holding a stamp. He brings it down around Revi, and armor appears. It, like the Driver he had, was light pink and blue, the helmet having sharp teeth. Beside him, the demon lands, gaining armor too, in the in the form of primarily a chest piece and a hood around his head.

That was a surprise – and judging by Revi and Vice’s reactions, they hadn’t been expecting that either. Revi peered curiously over to Vice, for a moment, before sighing. “Let’s get on with this.”

Vice cheered, “Two on three, that’s a lot better odds for us, right?” He cheekily elbows Revi, “Not that we need better odds. We’re the strongest buddies!”

Revi stepped towards the three, “Speak for yourself.” Then he ran at them.

Mr. Kadota is quick to transform, Makoto and Tamaki following suit. Though Mr. Kadota managed to block Revi’s attack, it was obvious that Revi was stronger now, by how it seemed to push back on him.

“Don’t forget about me!” Vice ran towards them, Makoto blocking his attack with his weapon.

“With how noisy it is, it would be hard to.” Now was not the time for that thought, Makoto shoves it to the side without a second thought. He had to focus on the fight.

A punch to Revi sends him back, enough to give Mr. Kadota the opportunity to call out, “You two deal with the demon, I’ll handle Revi.”

Tamaki took that as his cue to launch himself at Vice, punching him. Makoto disagreed with Mr. Kadota’s decision – whatever assessment he made, if it made him think he could take on Revi on his own, especially now that Revi had the power of being a Rider on his side, then it was sorely wrong. Unless, of course, he was trying to protect the two of them by keeping them from fighting Revi, who certainly seemed to be more of a threat than Vice.

As a matter of fact, Makoto thinks that Tamaki can handle Vice perfectly well on his own. And it was already evident that Mr. Kadota was outmatched against Revi. “Stupid self-sacrificing dumbass…” In that moment, Makoto made a decision that Mr. Kadota would probably not be the most pleased with, though he frankly didn’t care. Pivoting, Makoto lunged towards Revi, swinging his weapon with such force he’d fully thrown himself off balance.

Despite crashing to the ground, he did hit Revi and it was enough to stun him, for a moment, which was enough for Makoto to get to his feet again. The action had been split second and not thought out nearly as well as Makoto would have liked, but in a fight he found he didn’t usually have that kind of time.

“Makoto! What are you doing?” Mr. Kadota took a place beside him, but it was obvious in his tone he didn’t like that Makoto had gone and joined the fight against Revi.

Huffing, already out of breath, Makoto replied through gritted teeth, “I’m helping.” He was holding back his real thoughts on Mr. Kadota’s initial plans, on the grounds of it being a bit more rude than he was willing to be to someone who was so nice to Tamaki. At the moment, at least.

“I told you and Tamaki to fight Vice together.”

A glance over at Tamaki and Vice shows that Tamaki is faring perfectly well against Vice. “He doesn’t need the help.” Makoto responded blankly, “But you probably do. So I’m helping.” The ‘suck it up and deal with it’ was left fully unsaid, as again, that was more rude than Makoto was willing to be at this exact moment. Although he was approaching that threshold.

He expected Mr. Kadota to argue more, but instead he sighs, “Fine, just be careful.”

“Of course,” There was no need to tell him twice.

Two on one, they stood better odds to be able to at least fight Revi off, even with Makoto still recovering from fighting Hana the day before. Certainly, though, Makoto would believe Revi to be the oldest of the Deadmans’ leaders. He certainly fought like he had more experience, though Makoto’s own experience in such matters was severely lacking.

Still, between him and Mr. Kadota, they might have a chance, and at this point, all they could really hope to do in most fights was chase Revi, or whoever they were fighting, off. They still didn’t stand much chance at actually defeating Revi, Evil, Jeanne, or Aguilera, but chasing them off and keeping them from causing anymore trouble was good enough. Though…

Usually, they never targeted anyone other than Fenix or a Rider. Only when a demon was present – a demon other than Vice, it seemed – did they have to worry about civilians. For one reason or another… they didn’t want anyone else getting hurt, and Makoto was still trying very hard to wrap his head around that.

For the leaders of a group that wanted to wake up a slumbering demon, it was very strange that they tried so hard to keep people from getting hurt. Chances were, when Giff woke up, it wouldn’t matter much, so why bother trying at all?

---

It was pure luck that Hikaru was anywhere near where Revi appeared. And it wasn’t even in an empty area. The moment anyone realized who he was, everyone hurried to run away, to get somewhere safe. Hikaru knew, thanks to Weekend, that it was unlikely Revi would attack anyone, and there didn’t appear to be a demon present to worry about actually attacking people.

Still, it was understandable people would run, and it would certainly be better not to have anyone around when Fenix’s Riders inevitably arrived and fought Revi. Especially if that demon that was sometimes with him showed up. So people ran, and Hikaru watched, unsure just what he wanted to do.

There were so many people who became fearful in these moments, who wanted nothing more than to be safe. To not be caught up in a fight, to not be injured, or worse, killed. Weekend, of course, did little in the moment to prevent such things. They left it to Fenix, who often just… didn’t do enough, and they knew it.

No, Weekend only ever swooped in after the tragedy had struck, to try to pick up the pieces, even if the pieces weren’t theirs to pick up.

Mommy and daddy were bleeding. Hikaru didn’t think that they were supposed to be bleeding that much, that must be bad. The concrete was supposed to be light grey; he’d seen the same concrete many times before. But underneath mommy and daddy, the concrete was dark, there was too much red. There was a monster, the monster hurt them.

He'd hid, like mommy and daddy had said to, and now with the monster gone, he wanted to find them. And they were bleeding and that was bad. He hurried over, shaking.

“Mommy? Daddy?” He doesn’t think when he goes to shake them, doesn’t understand why they don’t quite feel right, why they won’t wake up. “M-mommy? D-daddy? I- I want to go h-home…”

His parents became blurry, his eyes welling up with tears. They wouldn’t wake up. His parents wouldn’t wake up and that was bad. He was powerless to make them wake up.

They weren’t breathing.

Hikaru’s parents were dead.

And then there were these other people. The rest was a blur, but they were… strange. He didn’t understand what the weekend had to do with anything, or where they were taking him, but they promised he’d be safe, and they’d take care of him. His parents were dead. He didn’t know what else to do but follow along.

Now he had new parents, but he might as well have had none still.

The thing Hikaru hated most about Weekend, was that they acted like coming in late was them being saviors. Like they’d saved Hikaru. But in his eyes, all they’d done was doomed him to being just a cog in their machine, one that he didn’t even know the grander machinations of.

Maybe some of it was his fault, for going along with it all. At the end of the day, though, it didn’t change that they never saved anyone. They always came in after the damage was done.

There was a child, he spies, and they’re alone, crying.

Hikaru decided, then, that he wouldn’t just be apart of Weekend’s grand plan – at the very least, he wasn’t going to stand around when people might be in danger. He’d make sure people were safe, even if it meant putting himself in danger. And maybe, just maybe, he could make himself into a better person for when Hana returned.

Mind made up, Hikaru dashed to the child, determined to find their parents and make sure they stay safe.

---

As soon as Revi and Vice left, Makoto was overcome with relief. Thank goodness, a moment of respite, before he’d have to go back to Happy Spa and everything there. Of course, the fight being over also meant he was left to deal with Mr. Kadota, who he suspected wasn’t entirely pleased about him joining in fighting Revi.

“Makoto,” Sure enough, Mr. Kadota began by saying his name with just a hint of irritation. “I told you to fight Vice with Tamaki.”

Makoto let out quite the sigh, before turning towards Mr. Kadota. “Sorry, I’m not one of your soldiers,” he said, “and I’ve never been very good at group projects.”

“This hadn’t been a problem before.”

“Well before, you…” Makoto searched for the politest way to phrase his thoughts. He figured ‘hadn’t done something incredibly dumb and reckless’ wasn’t the best way of saying it. “hadn’t decided you could totally fight someone you definitely couldn’t fight on your own.” That would have to be good enough.

Tamaki, judging by his expression, clearly did not want to weigh in on this debate, but Makoto suspected that he felt similarly. He certainly didn’t protest Makoto’s actions and had very much been able to handle Vice on his own, even still somewhat beat up from fighting Jeanne the day before.

Mr. Kadota still had something of a displeased expression, regardless of Makoto’s reasoning. Thus, it was Makoto’s turn to sigh, “Mr. Kadota, I do think you need to have more faith in Tamaki and I’s capabilities. Or Tamaki’s, at least.” Especially since Hiromi had a hand in Tamaki’s training himself. “I can understand why you may be hesitant about mine.”

With a sigh, Mr. Kadota conceded, “I will keep that in mind in the future.”

“Wonderful. I’m going home, now, I am frankly exhausted. Tamaki, I will likely be asleep when you get home, and I will strangle you if you wake me up.”

Tamaki seemed a bit put off by that comment, but shrugged it off, “Right, right. I won’t wake you up.”

#my writing #kamen rider #kamen rider revice #without you

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twentyyearstoolate · 9 months ago

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You sense movement behind a pillar in the Vigilant Citadel. Bold, to go straight to the heart of the operation, even with The Guardian occupied. You play along. "Show yourself, whoever you are!" Smokescreen steps out from his hiding spot. "Well, well, well, Shield Maiden! What's a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this? And..." He looks around in mock surprise. "...All alone, Girl Blunder? Shield-Daddy stepped out for a bit? Nobody to rescue you from certain death this time?" He grins, pulling a capsule from his belt. "Ah yes, that's right! He must be occupied with my Wispbots in... Greenfield? Neotropolis? Port Freeside? Or perhaps all three? You'll have to forgive me, my memory is a bit... FOGGY!"

He cackles maniacally as throws down the capsule, and the room is engulfed in toxic fog. For the rest of the Crusaders, this might be a problem. But for you? Still, it's a little early to give up the game. You pretend to struggle to hold your breath. Hell, you make a show of your choking and coughing as you pull out your rebreather. These villain types eat that shit up.

"You'll never get away with this, Smokescreen!"

"Oh, but I think you'll find I already have, Shield-Sister!" The conceited fool. He's always been too vain, or too stupid, to realize that talking gives away his position in the fog. "That caped cad won't be back for hours, and when he does return, he'll find his poor ward reduced to gibbering insanity, if he's lucky! I w- HHGK!" His eyes bug out as you grip his neck.

"God, I am so fucking sick of the way you talk."

You throw him against the far wall. You can't see the impact, but you hear a gruesome crack, and he screams out in anguish.

"What's wrong, Smoke? No quippy comeback? No more aces up your sleeve?"

You see a lump as the fog begins to clear, scrambling away as best he can on one leg, desperately fishing for something in his jacket pocket. Several shots ring out and strike your forehead. He's a good shot. But it's as ineffective as the gas.

You chuckle. "Really? A gun? Didn't think you were the sort for something so... mundane."

"STAY BACK!" He's panicked. He's never been hurt like this before. Vic didn't have it in him. But you do, and then some. He cowers in the corner. "What are you?"

"I'm not entirely certain myself, to tell you the truth. Maybe I got zapped by strange rays at the hospital, or some bug bit me in the crib. Maybe it's just a weird one-in-a-million genetic quirk. My parents didn't know what to make of it either, but they loved me all the same. But a kid like me? People began to notice. We'd have to flee every so often when they started whispering. After the first couple of times, I did my best to hide it. But all it took was one slip-up."

You grip his collar and pull him in close. He flinches. "I hated it. It was awful. Uprooting every few years, having to make new friends, under a new name. And my folks, well, it was harder and harder on them to keep up the charade every time. I got cornered by a group of OSA goons one night. They didn't anticipate just how powerful I was at that point. I ran away from the carnage, let everyone think I had died too. I hated to leave mom and dad, but with the government watching, I knew it'd be safer that way."

He tries to stab you with a pocket knife. It pierces through the shield emblem on your suit, but blunts on your skin. You don't even feel it. "I grew my hair out, started wearing different clothes. Resorted to stealing. Got caught by The Guardian, of all people. He had watched me scale a fire escape effortlessly, and slip through the shadows, out of sight of the cameras. I told him my parents were dead, had been for a while. He saw what he wanted to - a natural athlete with intuition and no family, the makings of a good sidekick. It's a fulfilling gig, all things considered. I'm fed, clothed and sheltered, the state doesn't pry into the lives of The Crusaders, and nobody bats an eye at the odd cracked rib or dislocated shoulder in this line of work when I forget the kid gloves. I don't think even he knows - If he does, he hasn't logged it anywhere like he does with the rest of us."

Smokescreen tries fruitlessly to wriggle out of your grasp. You grab his skull with your free hand and force him to look at you. "He's a good man. They all are. They maybe take the whole superhero persona schtick a bit too seriously, but the people latch on to symbols like that."

You frown. "...But they're too forgiving for their own good. Not me. And don't get me wrong, I'm all for second chances, but this will be your, what, twenty-seventh? No, twenty-eighth, now. No matter how many times we do this dance, you still keep hurting people. Not anymore."

He's pale as a ghost now. "P-please, don't kill me! I'm begging you! I'll change, I'll stop-"

You've heard it all before. You crush his windpipe. His eyes glaze over as he goes limp. You drag him outside and huck his body far into the Horizon. You're sure days, maybe weeks from now, someone on an oil rig or trawler will find him floating - An apparent casualty of one of the rival villain gangs, or maybe of the family of one of his many victims. Or they won't, and he'll sink into the ocean as the world slowly forgets about him and his latest attack. Who's to say?

You return inside, scrub the camera footage, and pull a trusty mop and bucket out of a closet. By the time the blood's cleaned up, the fans have nearly cleared the smoke out. Good. You'd hate for a guy like Vic to get caught in this stuff in his own hideout.

As you're putting away the mop, you see another shadow out of the corner of your eye. Here we go again. "Show yourself, whoever you are!"

The Blue Baron steps into the light dramatically with a net gun. Always these people with the theatrics. "There's no escape, Shield Maiden!" You sigh and crack your knuckles. Two in the same day will be suspicious, and The Guardian is probably already on his way back. You might have to throw this one.

When the villain only found you, the hero’s sidekick, in the hero’s hideout they thought that this was going to be easy. You are excited as well, because finally there is no-one there to hold you back.

#writers #writers on tumblr #writing prompts #writeblr #writing inspiration

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bitsandbobsofwriting · 4 years ago

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Magic is legal, Arthur knows The Truth and Merlin is... shit at explaining things:

Arthur demands a trip to visit the Druids, who are far more qualified than Merlin, so they can explain this whole... destiny thing.

I’ve written a lot of angst and Hurt!Merlin recently, so I just wanted to write something short and sweet and fluffy :)

SO.

Magic has been legalised, Merlin is Court Sorcerer, all the knights are alive and happy, Morgana is good, and the only thing Arthur has to worry about right now is what the hell to do about the rapidly growing crush he has on his BestFriend™.

After the dust had settled, Merlin had tried to sit Arthur down and tell him the whole story; all about Emrys, and the prophecies, and destiny. The King already knew about Merlin’s magic, and roughly how powerful he is, but that’s it.

But Merlin went so long barely mentioning it at all, not even to Gaius or Morgana or Lancelot, that he’s still not entirely sure what to say. Years of hiding and lying and trying desperately not to think about it, mean his brain now blanks when he tries to explain it.

After far too long of Arthur looking on confusedly whilst Merlin rambled on about dragons and coins and mental links and names, The Court Sorcerer gave up, and decided to just not bother.

Arthur, of course, decided that giving up was stupid, and made the executive decision that they would just go to the Druids, and someone who actual knew what they were talking about could explain it thoroughly. Maybe even allow Arthur to read the original prophecies.

Plus, it turned out that Initiating a Golden Age took quite a lot of work, so neither of them had had a chance to leave the city for weeks. They could do with the fresh air. And if Arthur saw it as a good chance to be properly alone with Merlin for more than half a candle mark? No one else needed to know, least of all Merlin.

It was a pleasant journey through the woods. The silences comfortable, and the conversations easy and filled with smiles.

Magic had only been legalised for about a fortnight, and after over twenty years of fear, magic users were still understandably cautious, meaning the closest Druid camp was still a two days ride away.

But that wasn’t a problem. With Merlin now able to use his magic openly, and therefor more able to defend his King, he found he was far less anxious about the trip outside the city than he would’ve been before. And if his good mood bled into the environment around them? Well... it was spring... surely no one would notice the extra flowers and abundance of butterflies?

(Arthur definitely noticed. But Merlin was still... wary, of performing sorcery openly, in fear of scaring the people who had been sucked in by two decades of propaganda and fear-mongering. Meaning Arthur sure as shit wasn’t going to point it out, in case Merlin stopped.)

It was around noon, and the sun was shining down on them when Merlin pulled his horse to a stop. He dismounts effortlessly, and hands a confused Arthur his reins. At Arthur’s raised eyebrow, Merlin sighs and speaks quietly:

“The camp is about two minutes further on but... the change in the law was only recent, and...-”

He bites his lip and looks away, worrying Arthur slightly, before continuing:

“-well, chainmail and red capes still make them a little nervous. I’ve already warned their leader that we’re coming-”

He taps his temple briefly:

“-but I should go ahead and explain properly.”

Arthur nods in understanding, and gives Merlin a comforting smile:

“I completely understand, Merlin. How long do you want me to wait, or will you come back to get me?”

Merlin returns his smile, before saying:

“Just wait ten minutes then follow me, straight down the path. Bring the horses, there’ll be somewhere to tie them there. You shouldn’t run into any trouble this close to a camp, but you do have a track-record so-”

Merlin laughs at Arthur’s indignant expression, but continues before he can interrupt him:

“-if you do, just yell. We won’t be too far away, we’ll hear you.”

Arthur rolls his eyes fondly and shoos Merlin away. The Warlock laughs as he turns and continues down the path on foot. Just before he disappears behind a large bush, he turns around again, a slightly concerned expression on his face:

“I might look a bit... different? But don’t mention it, they’re quite fond of me... uh... dressing the part.”

Arthur huffs out a laugh before saying:

“I’m sure I won’t forget what you look like in ten minutes, Merlin. Go.”

Merlin hums thoughtfully, and turns back around, disappearing into the trees and leaving Arthur to his thoughts.

After a few moments, he removes his cloak, tucking it into a saddlebag. He also, after only a little hesitation, removes his sword, strapping it to his saddle. It was still visible and easily within reach, but not so threateningly on display at his hip.

He was entering these people’s home, after personally wielding the sharp edge of their persecution for almost a decade; the least he could do was make them as comfortable as possible.

He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, not even Merlin, but he had a feeling that this meet was going to end up being about more than the prophecies. Peace had been harboured, magic had been legalised, but like Merlin had pointed out, things were still a little tense. This meeting was a way to show the Druids that Arthur meant it, that his whole heart was behind this change. The he was not his father.

Arthur was a little nervous (not that he’d ever admit that), this was important. Not just to him and the kingdom, but to Merlin personally. He had to get this right. One of the only things that Arthur had managed to get out of Merlin, to do with the whole destiny thing, was that it was finished. It was done.

If Arthur messes this up, not only will it ruin the peace they had been working so hard for... then Merlin might leave. He has no reason to stay after-all, he’s done his job. So Arthur has to get this right, has to impress everyone, now more than ever, because if he fails and the Druids all leave Camelot, then Merlin would leave with them.

And that thought was... unbearable.

He counts down the minutes, getting more and more tense. He tried to distract himself by thinking about what Merlin had said, “dressing the part” what does that even mean?

But it doesn’t work. Soon enough his brain is throwing thought after paranoid thought at him, about all the possible ways Merlin could tell Arthur he hated him, and leave forever and ever.

Arthur rubbed his eyes harshly, muttering to himself about how he really should’ve accepted the “relaxing tea” Gaius had offered him before they left. Other than Merlin, the old physician is the only one who ever seems to know what he needs in the moment, Arthur should definitely learn to listen to him more.

He finally reaches zero in his mental countdown, and sighs before standing from where he’d sat on a fallen log. He’d allowed the horses to wander a bit but they were trained to stay close by, so he has no problem gathering their reins again and leading them slowly down the path Merlin had followed.

All Druid camps were different. Some moved around constantly, some stayed fairly still. Some were huge, acres large with hundreds of people, others were small, only ten people or so. Some were occupied by mostly the sick and elderly, others were full of the young and adventurous, and others were family orientated.

And of course it was rare, according to Gaius, that someone would stay in the same camp their whole life. The Druids were a nomadic people, always shifting, drifting, wandering. Following a constantly tugging thread in their hearts, going where nature beckoned them.

According to Merlin, this specific camp was pretty small (around twenty adults) but it was also a fairly familial group, meaning lots of children. And if that didn’t make Arthur nervous (it definitely did) then nothing would.

Arthur didn’t have much experience with children, and definitely had no concept of how to act around them, especially Druid children.

After about a minute of walking, Arthur could hear loud laughter and quiet conversations floating through the trees. He slowed his pace; trying to appear unthreatening and friendly, or to delay the inevitable, he’s not quite sure.

He finally breaks through the treeline to see that... no one is even looking in his direction.

It was the middle of the day, so the camp was busy, people milling about everywhere, most of the tents open, various jobs getting done throughout the clearing.

But what immediately drew Arthur’s eye, was the source of the laughter.

The King looked across the clearing to see Merlin, in a whole new wardrobe, and a whole new light.

The man had changed from his simple travellers clothes (basically the clothes he’d worn as a manservant, just a bit newer and cleaner.) into a loose, white, lace up shirt (sleeves rolled up, which Arthur absolutely did NOT find himself staring at, thank you very much.) paired with slim black trousers.

But what was most striking, was the deep blue cloak billowing behind him, and the silver crown on his head. It was delicate, as if forged with vines and leaves and feathers, but it was oh so Merlin.

Arthur stayed at the edge of the clearing, glad that no one had noticed him; allowing him to stare in reverence at his best friend.

He was surrounded by young children, all laughing joyously as his eyes glowed golden and he waved his hands around. He needn’t mutter spells as he smiled widely, willing butterflies and bees to manifest in the air around him.

One of the younger children held his arms in the air and made grabbing motions with his hands. Merlin bent over and pulled him up into the air without a moment of hesitation, spinning him around on the spot (much to the kid’s enjoyment, who giggled outrageously), before settling him on his hip.

He used one hand to support the kid’s weight (when did Merlin get so strong??), and used the other to summon flowers around the feet of the rest of the children.

A fond smile spread across Arthur’s face as he saw them run around exuberantly, gathering the flowers in chubby hands to present to parents and siblings and friends.

Arthur laughed softly as he saw Merlin reply enthusiastically to something that the boy on his hip had said, and a second later, the child had a butterfly perched on the end of his nose.

Arthur is broken from his concentration, jumping a foot in the air when a soft hand lands on his shoulder from behind.

He whips his head around, just about managing to stop himself from yelping and reaching for where his sword usually is at his hip.

He calms his breathing as his eyes find the friendly face of a Druid, an amused smile on his face. Arthur returns his smile, a tad shakily, suddenly feeling the nerves again, and nods his head respectfully.

The man keeps his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, but looks towards Merlin in the clearing, before softly saying:

“He’s quite something, your Emrys, isn’t he?”

Arthur gulps, also looking back at Merlin as he replies with a chuckle that was only slightly forced:

“He’s more yours than mine, especially like this, but yes, he is something special.”

The Druid laughs disbelievingly, and Arthur turns to look, a confused expression on his face as he listens to his reply:

“Definitely not. He’s always belonged to you more than he’s belonged to us-”

He stops laughing to look at Arthur, eyes sparkling with friendly mirth as he continues:

“-prophecy or no, he had a... well... a pre-carved place among the Druids, but he still chose to carve his own space by your side. I think that speaks volumes about where he truly belongs, or at least where he wants to belong, don’t you?”

Arthur doesn’t really have a response to that as he stares at the man with barely concealed bafflement, but luckily, before the silence stretches too long, the Druid gestures to the clearing:

“Come. Everyone is excited to meet you, though I warn you, the children in this camp can be rather energetic, as you’ve already seen.”

Arthur gulps and nods, following him into the centre of the camp.

Everyone’s attention is quickly caught by The King’s presence, and someone comes over to wordlessly take the horse’s reins from him.

The adults bow their heads slightly in respect, giving him soft smiles, and the children fidget on the spot, wide grins on their faces as they whisper conspiratorially to each other.

The boy in Merlin’s arms wiggles, and he gets put down. He rushes over to Arthur, grabbing his hand with a toothy grin and dragging him over to Merlin and the other children.

Merlin hides a laugh behind his hand as Arthur’s eyes widen, and his face goes pale. He thought this was going to be meetings and serious discussions and apologies, not playing with children!! What do children even like?! Swords?? Can he talk to them about swords??! Druids are pacifists right? So probably not??

He gets pulled down to crouch, and the children crowd him, all babbling at once, wildly showing him flowers and butterflies.

Merlin laughs at his bewildered fear for a few moments, before he crouches next to Arthur and holds his hands up, saying loudly:

“Alright, alright, you lot. Remember what I said?”

The children still, and a chorus of “Yes Lord Emrys” resounds from the group. With that, they stay silent, but still grin widely and bounce on the spot in excitement.

Arthur gives Merlin a stressed, but grateful smile, before looking back to the children. He takes a deep breath, before smiling at them, and saying:

“My name’s Arthur. Thank you for having me, I appreciate your hospitality.”

Merlin snorts at his overly formal tone, and has to stop himself laughing at the shock and fear on Arthur’s face when one of the younger ones loudly asks:

“What’s hosp-ee-tal-it-ee?”

Arthur furrows his brows, but luckily one of the teenagers steps in, quietly saying:

“It’s when someone comes into your home, and you’re nice to them.”

Arthur smiles and nods, and Merlin chuckles in amusement.

Thankfully (for Arthur) Merlin then stands and announces to the children that it’s lunch time, and to get washed up. They all rush off, and Arthur lets out a breath as he stands.

Merlin holds in yet another laugh, but tilts his head in confusion as Arthur’s gaze is once again drawn to the crown that rests on Merlin’s unruly hair.

Merlin flushes slightly when he realises what Arthur is looking at, looking to the floor and mumbling:

“You have no idea how long I’ve been trying to get them to just call me Merlin, but then they presented me with this a few months ago and I could hardly say no, could I?”

Arthur nods as Merlin looks up again, meeting his gaze. There’s a soft smile on his face, one that Merlin isn’t quite sure what to make of as he quietly replies:

“Hmm. Looks good on you.”

Merlin makes a surprised noise and his eyes go wide, the flush on his cheeks deepening as Arthur laughs gently at him.

Arthur puts his hand on Merlin’s shoulder, his thumb brushing against the skin of his neck in a way that was slightly more than friendly, but Merlin doesn’t pull away, so Arthur leaves his hand there as he looks around the bustling camp.

His smile falls into something more sad, and Merlin frowns at him curiously:

“Arthur? What is it?”

Arthur shakes his head slightly, not looking back at Merlin as he replies, almost whispering:

“Nothing. It’s just, last time I was this far into a Druid camp... I did terrible things. Look at this place, how could I ever have believed that magic was evil? It’s beautiful here.”

Merlin’s frown deepens, but before he can reply, a small hand tugs at Arthur’s sleeve, and the two of them look down suddenly to see one of the boys from before. He wore a confused expression, and whispered, as if he knew this was meant to be a secret conversation:

“What terrible things did you do, Mr King Sir?”

Merlin takes in a quiet gasp and widens his eyes, but before he can tell him off or lie, Arthur squeezes his shoulder, and crouches down in front of the child.

Arthur gives the boy a smile, and takes his hands, quietly saying:

“Well. When I was young, I was taught some things that are wrong, I didn’t question them, and because of that I did some really bad things. I thought I was being a good person, but actually I was being a bad person because I didn’t do my own research, and I didn’t know any better. But then I started learning how to be better, and now I do everything in my power to be an actual good person.-”

Arthur looks up at Merlin with a small smile on his face, before looking back down to the boy, who is hanging on to his every word:

“-Your Emrys is helping me with that. You see, he’s the best person I’ve ever met, and he’s helping me be more like him.”

Arthur resists the urge to look back at Merlin as he feels a firm, but shaky hand on his back, and instead looks at the child as he thinks over Arthur’s words. His face breaks into a grin, and Arthur returns the smile as the boy says:

“He’s the best isn’t he? I wanna be like him when I grow up!”

Arthur ruffles his hair, and replies quietly:

“Yeah kid, me too.”

The boy gives him a toothy grin, before running off once again, and Arthur lets out yet another breath he had been holding before standing up.

Merlin’s hand remains on his shoulder, and Arthur regrets meeting his gaze the moment he turns his head. But he also can’t rip his eyes away from the teary expression of awe and bewildered happiness on his face.

Merlin lets out a gentle laugh at Arthur’s apprehensive face before shaking his head, and looking back at him once again, this time amusement on his face:

“The best person you’ve ever met, huh?”

Arthur rolls his eyes and blushes deeply, pushing Merlin’s hand off his shoulder as he mumbles a flustered:

“Shut up, Merlin. I could hardly tell him the truth, could I?”

Merlin hums thoughtfully and replies with laughter in his voice:

“Hmm. That makes more sense, of course.”

Without waiting for Arthur’s reply, he grabs the King’s wrist and drags him towards a large tent in the corner of the clearing. Inside were two tables, one large, and one smaller and lower, both surrounded by benches.

Merlin directed them to bowls in the corner so they could wash their hands, before they sit at the larger of the two tables. Everyone over the ages of about fourteen joins them, the younger ones going to the smaller table.

Food appears, covering the surface, summoned from the cooking pots outside and the various food stores around the camp. Arthur tries to keep the wonderment off his face, but knows he failed miserably when he hears Merlin chuckle beside him. He punches Merlin’s leg under the table playfully, but that only makes him laugh harder.

He quietens when the man sat opposite Arthur stands:

“Today we have two honoured guests, our Lord Emrys, and the Once and Future King Arthur. We share our home, our food, and our welcome, for as long as they wish to stay. We raise our goblets to you, My Lords.”

At that, he raises his cup in the air, everyone else in the tent following him. Merlin smiles and nods at him, raising his own cup, and Arthur nervously copies his movements, comforted by Merlin’s reassuring hand on his knee.

With that, the Druid sits down, and conversation breaks out around the tent as everyone begins to eat.

Merlin handles most of the discussions, talking to everyone as if they were life long friends. Arthur is grateful for that, he answers any questions sent his way, asking a few polite ones in return, but Druid culture is so different to life in the city and Arthur doesn’t really know what he should be talking about.

Thankfully, the meal passes quickly, and after another announcement from the man Arthur now presumed was the leader here, the crowd dispersed, everything being cleared away with magic.

Not every Druid practiced sorcery, but they were clearly in a magic-heavy camp; Arthur could see it plain as day, everywhere he looked.

Merlin once again took Arthur’s wrist, leading him out into the sun. Usually, Arthur hated being led places, especially by the hand, but he found he didn’t quite mind it today. Whether it was because they were in Merlin’s domain, and Merlin was King here, or because of how nervous he was, or because of some other reason entirely, Arthur wasn’t sure, and frankly, he didn’t want to think too deeply about it.

This time, Merlin led them to another, smaller tent.

It had several comfortable looking chairs around a smallish circular table, which was covered in scrolls and parchments and old-looking books.

A few seconds later, they were joined by the Druid leader; he smiled softly at them and gestured for them to sit at the table. Merlin and Arthur sat next to each other, and the Druid kindly pretended not to notice them shuffling the chairs closer together.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur, Arthur having lost his nerves fairly early in the conversation. Maybe that had something to do with the fact that official meetings were his specialty, or maybe it was because Merlin’s hand once again found his knee, but stayed there this time. Who knows.

The Druid had introduced himself, and once more welcomed Arthur to the camp, before launching into explanations of the prophecies and destinies, and everyone’s roles in them.

Merlin knew most if it, and looked especially proud of himself when the Druid described in wonder how Merlin had changed the very fates of the Lady Morgana, Sir Mordred, and Arthur himself.

Arthur was definitely taken aback at that. Whilst Merlin had prattled on, making no sense, about his and Arthur’s destinies, he had never mentioned anyone else, and Arthur becomes increasingly glad he came here to sort it all out.

There were some bits that not even Merlin knew though. He wasn’t aware that the other knights, Guinevere, and Gaius featured in a few of the newer prophecies, and the Druid had an amused smile on his face when he admitted that he’d thought Merlin would have figured that out.

Arthur did laugh at him at that, and Merlin flushed before telling him:

“Shut up, or I’ll tell the others you said I was the best person you’ve ever met, and they’ll never let you live it down.”

Arthur narrows his eyes, and the Druid continues look at them in amusement as they bicker.

The meeting comes to an end just before dark, and Arthur thanks the Druid profusely, for welcoming him, and taking the time to go through everything thoroughly.

Another meal is had in the large tent, but when they leave this time, the clearing has been completely emptied. A large bonfire roars in the middle, and logs surround it, providing seating for everyone.

The evening is full of stories and music and magic, and Arthur once again finds himself wondering just how he thought any of this could be evil.

Even Merlin stands to lead a song. He moves around the clearing with yet another child sat sat on his hip, giggling as Merlin spins her around.

Arthur is surprised to learn that Merlin has a good voice, and stares in wonderment as he leads the melody as if it was what he was born to do. The rest of the Druids clap along, joining in loudly and harmonising and playing instruments in time with the tune.

When the song comes to a close, the crowd burst into cheers as Merlin looks back to Arthur, breathing deeply and cheeks flushed. The Warlock smiles widely as he settles the child back in her mother’s lap before walking back over to his seat, next to Arthur.

Arthur returns his wide grin with a soft smile of his own, and as the music continues around them, Merlin tilts his face in happy confusion:

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Arthur just shakes his head slightly, smiling slightly wider as he responds without missing a beat:

“You’re beautiful like this. And you have an exceptional voice.”

Merlin flushes in surprise and looks to his lap, quietly muttering:

“I wouldn’t know about that...”

Arthur doesn’t look away, huffing out a laugh before replying:

“I mean it, Merlin. You just look... happy. Like you belong here.-”

He does look away here, staring into the fire with a thoughtful, but slightly mournful look on his face as Merlin peers up at him, curious. Arthur continues, even quieter, before Merlin can question him:

“-You know, I wouldn’t be angry if you wanted to stay. Here, I mean. I know magic is legal in Camelot now, but you belong somewhere like this. I would never begrudge you a home like this Merlin.”

Merlin laughs quietly, and takes Arthur’s hand, holding it in his lap like it’s something precious (it is, at least it is to Merlin). Arthur looks back at him in surprise, but doesn’t pull away as Merlin replies, still smiling:

“Home isn’t a place, Arthur, and the Druids know that better than anyone. Home is... home is wherever the people you love are. You are my people, Arthur, you and the knights and Gwen and Morgana and Gaius. My home is wherever you are. No matter my magic or title or destiny; my home will always be where you are.”

Arthur doesn’t let the tears in his eyes fall, but he does squeeze Merlin’s hand, giving him a tender smile that's returned without hesitation.

With the exchanging of smiles that any onlooker would describe as loving, the conversation comes to an easy close, and they spend the rest of the evening hand in hand, smiling fondly at the antics around them.

It’s late when the festivities come to an end, and Arthur and Merlin are exhausted, struggling to hold back yawns as they’re shown to a tent that had been set up for them.

Their bags had been removed from the horses and left in there, and the floor was covered in various blankets and pillows. There was a small trunk, for them to store anything they wished to unpack, and a few candles were lit, filling the room with a soft golden light and pleasant smells.

Merlin charms the tent to be soundproof so they don’t have to worry about noise (he may be openly able to use magic, but the idiot was still rather clumsy, and prone to accidental bangs and crashes), before removing his crown carefully. His cloak and boots follow shortly, and they all go neatly into the trunk, before he starts organising a spot to sleep.

After a few minutes, he realises that Arthur hasn’t moved from his space by the entrance, and Merlin turns around to look at him questioningly. Arthur’s eyebrows are furrowed, and he looks deep in thought as he stares at the floor, fiddling with the hem of his tunic.

Merlin walks over, concerned, and takes one of Arthur’s hands into his own. Arthur looks up at him suddenly, broken free of his thoughts, and Merlin raises an eyebrow at him as he strokes his thumb across The King’s knuckles:

“What’s wrong, Arthur?”

Arthur looks into Merlin’s eyes searchingly, but seems to find what he’s looking for after only a moment, and smiles. Merlin tilts his head to prompt him, and Arthur takes his other hand, before softly speaking:

“You know, I used to find the idea of falling in love frightening.-”

Merlin takes in a subtle deep breath, but Arthur doesn’t notice as he shakes his head, huffing out a gentle laugh before continuing, looking somewhere over Merlin’s shoulder:

“-The possibility that someone could have that much control over me; that I would willingly give another person dominion over my heart, my soul, my... everything, was terrifying to me. But I find I’m not scared anymore.-”

He looks back at Merlin’s shocked face. Arthur looks an odd mix of disbelieving, and happy beyond words as he continues, confident that what he’s saying is right, for the first time in a long time:

“-Because it’s you, Merlin. It’s always been you. And how could I possibly find falling in love with you anything other than beautiful?”

Merlin gulps, seemingly searching Arthur’s face for any hint of a lie. When he finds nothing but sincerity, he launches himself forward, almost knocking Arthur to the floor.

He wraps his arms around the blonde’s shoulders tightly, burying a hand in his hair, and his face in the crook of his neck. Arthur huffs out a laugh as he wraps his arms around Merlin’s waist, running a soft hand up and down his back.

At Merlin’s muttered:

“I love you, Arthur, more than anything is this world. My magic, my everything, belongs to you.”

Arthur pulls back, smiling. He leans forward pressing his forehead against Merlin’s, and cups his cheek softly with his hand. They stare into the blue of each other’s eyes for a moment, not in any hurry to move the moment along, Arthur running his thumb over Merlin’s cheekbone, and Merlin carding his fingers through Arthur’s hair.

Arthur takes a deep breath, before whispering, so quietly it’s a miracle Merlin hears him:

“Can I kiss you?”

Merlin nods infinitesimally, and the two of them lean forward, meeting in the middle in a soft kiss that could only be described as tender, and full of love.

If the stars shine brighter, and the wind blows warmer, and the animals of the dark seem happier that night... well... it was spring... surely no one would notice (Arthur definitely noticed, but he sure as shit wasn’t going to point it out, in case Merlin stopped).

THE END!!

This is the first one I’ve written in aaaaages that didn’t involve a dizzy/exhausted/sick Merlin so... yay me?

I just really wanted to write something fluffy, where there were no high stakes. No huge battles, or angsty confessions or anything like that, just a soft love story.

I genuinely got no clue what I’ll write next. I do have a few drafts and ideas floating around, but let me know if you’re after anything specific, I live to please :)

Like always, you wanna write this up properly with paragraphs and fleshed out stuff, go for it, credit and tag me :)

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tepkunset · 3 years ago

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Rating all the Hellfire Gala 2022 Outfits in my Correct Opinion

(Long post alert!)

Wanda, oh my god. I am dying over how gorgeous this design is. I’m honestly speechless. 10/10

Havok looks very boring compared to his last year’s appearance, which I liked quite a lot except for the weird white strip things. He just put on a leather jacket, scrunched up the sleeves and called it. 3/10

Spider-Man looks like he stole a work-in-progress look from Miles rather than coming up with something himself lol. It’s not ugly. It’s just not the best look for him, personally. 5/10

Gambit is committing to the tits-out look for these galas and I respect him for it. I also like this one a lot better than last year’s; it is way more suiting to his personality and looks more intentional than just rolling out of bed and putting an unbuttoned shirt on. 7/10

Black Widow is someone I trust to actually walk in those god awful break-your-fucking-neck heels without breaking her fucking neck, so I can buy it. But that doesn’t make those shoes any less ugly. The mask is the only thing I particularly like about this look. 5/10

Magik looks 100% better in this design than she did last year. I like that it’s reminiscent of her Inferno look. She looks very intimidating and sexy at the same time. 8/10

Doom, HOLY SHIT. Showing these mutants how it’s fucking DONE. I love the detail on this outfit, and that giant cape just looks so regal and luxurious. I want to curl up and sleep in it. 10/10

Wolverine looks ten times more in character wearing this than she did in that stupid dress last year. You know, despite having, on panel, said that she doesn’t feel right in dresses before. It’s still not quite up to speed with what I imagine being a peak look for her (a very stylish suit, imo,) but it’s up there. 7/10

Synch killed it last year but I guess decided to tone it down this time for some reason. It’s still a good look; I still like the rainbow design reflective of his powers. 5/10

Iceman is back in actual character too this year, baby! Now this is a suit I can see Bobby in. It’s nice but simple. 7/10

She-Hulk looks like she’s ready for a beach party more than she is ready for a gala, but I don’t hate the design. 5/10

Emma looks a thousand times better in this outfit than in any of the three different ones she wore last year. I love the gold accent and the cut-out parts looking like she’s wearing a snowflake. 10/10

Steve, what are you doing? He looks like an old timey gangster asdflkjsjf 3/10

Sam is simply but sharply dressed, and I can respect that, but this is a gala! Be a bit more adventurous than just adding some colour, bud! Even just a pattern would’ve made me happier. 5/10

Captain Marvel has a really nice jacket design; I like the idea of the inside being sparkly with stars. I also think the high waist suit pants are a good look for her. 6/10

Cyclops looks good, but I can’t help but feel like I’ve seen this look before... Oh, because I have. I can’t find the image on Google right now but it’s from a real like fashion show. So, not the most creative design to just copy that. Still, it’s a good look, and way better than his last year’s design. 6/10

Jean is absolutely killing it again this year! She looks like a winx doll or something. 10/10

Forge didn’t get a cool look last year so I’m glad he’s participating this year! I think the mixture between the organic Krakoan stuff is a cool idea, but I’m not sure I like the application entirely. 5/10

Iron Man’s look at first I thought was the most boring shit I’ve ever seen, but then I realized the jacket is holographic? So points for that at least. But seriously Tony, you’re wearing jeans to a gala? 2/10

Rogue, WTF are you doing, Rogue? She had one of the best designs last year, now this? I hate this, she looks like one of those dandelion puff balls. 2/10

Namor also aspired to go for the tits out look and again, I must respect him for it. And see what a good pattern can do to spice up a simple look? 6/10

#hellfire gala #x men #marvel comics #meta

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thefanbasewhore · 4 years ago

Text

Accidentally Bare - Preference #2

Summary: A preference/snippet of pedro characters accidently seeing the reader in their underwear. Honestly, ignore the title I suck at them lmao. I also have no idea why I kept mentioning showers.

Warnings/Content: A little suggestive, dirty thoughts. 18+ please.

Paring: Din Djarin, Javier Peña, Agent Whiskey, and Frankie Morales/Female reader

I am also taking requests for head cannons and more preferences at this moment if anyone has any ideas!

Din Djarin

Nothing could stop the deep chill that created goosebumps that made your body shiver despite the thick wool of Din’s cape that was pulled tight around your chest. The walk back to the crest was freezing, clothes heavy and weighing you down with every squish your boots made underneath you, the temperature of the stupid desert planet plummeting at night into single degree temps, falling into the lake was definitely not on your to do list.

Water still dripping from your sleeves, fingers shaking where the fabric bundles in the middle of your chest to support the heaviness of the cape as the crushing on dense sand from heavy boots behind you let you know the Mandalorian is still there. He’s silent as ever, mad at himself for letting you even step on the ice but as soon as he saw you fall into the deep pit of water he dived right in after, forgetting the bounty, making the choice to let him escape.

The first step on the Crest is a relief, familiarity and warmness welcome you but it’s not enough to calm the numbing that took over all your senses, voiding any sensation in your trembling fingers. The breeze that falls over the crest as the ramp closes with a gush of wind but you don’t seem to care as the cape wrapped around you falls to the floor. The Mandalorian walks past you silently, which you guess retiring for the night because at the last second before the he climbs the ladder of the cockpit by the way his fingers start to peel of the beskar not caring as it trails and clanks against the floor of the ship, fingers rim the edge of his helmet lifting it just enough to see the ends of his hair curl and stick against the nape of his neck as it drips to his tunic before the cockpit swallows him.

If it wasn’t for how freezing you were there is no doubt you would be taken back by his openness, even wet you weren’t expecting it to so wavy, a little messy but it touches the collar of the tunic and you honestly couldn’t move as the realization dawned on you. Eyes running over the length of the ladder that rattles due to deep hum of the engine, the imagine burning behind into them.

The cool shiver reminds you of the current predicament, fingers burning and toes numb at the verge of turning purple. A frustrated huff falls from your lips as you pull at the laces of your boots, fingers too stiff to move but eventually get them off, not caring where they fall. Only functional thought is to feel the warm water of the fresher to regain feeling in your appendages.

Hands grasp the hem of your shirt, lifting it despite the cool air that nipped the skin of your stomach. With only one goal in mind and a stubborn button that just won’t latch from your pants, you don’t notice as the ladder shakes with the weight of the Mandalorian as he gains entrance back into the belly of the ship. He’s out of his armor, but the helmet had seem to find it’s way back onto his head but his upper body in a white, thin shirt, his pants hand dangerously low on his hips, they offer his body more warmth with no doubt lined with some kind of fleece, gray in color and a pair of socks. The wet pants stick to you, with your back turned toward Din who freezes the moment he notices you shimmy them down your legs, revealing the black pair of underwear the hugs your ass in the most delicious way.

He’s red, blushing, no doubt you can see the way his chest spots pink through the white shirt, hands forming fist next to his side as you turn to make a b-line for the fresher but the mass of the man catches your eyes, pausing.

Eyes never leave you, he just freezes up, unable to move as the situation seems to do the same to you. He tries, really tries not to look but can’t help it as he notices how thin the bra is, a pretty pastel pink, cute but the way your nipples harden against it is anything but, he’s speechless, mouth drying as eyes take in the smoothness of curves, drops down to the thinness of underwear, they leave little to the imagination, sticking against skin letting him see every inch and suddenly he wants nothing more than to rub his own -

His eyes lift back up to your own, the embarrassment that paints your cheeks makes him realize just how wrong it is. “I-I’m sorry.” He stutters, eyes casting down to the cotton that covers his toes, ashamed with red cheeks, horrified that it has even happened. “Just came down to use the shower -.”

Desire sirs deep inside his stomach, makes him awkwardly shift his hips as he turns to leave but the smooth hands that catch his fingers makes him pause, turning to face you once again. “We can both use it.”

Javier Peña

Nothing can still your pounding heart, it’s racing, taking up all the space in your chest that it barely allows room for your lungs to expand, to take one good breath to sustain your frantic body needs, instead it’s broken up into patchy, erratic breaths that make you dizzy, vision blurring as a result.

It’s a blur but there’s no mistaking the metallic taste of blood, it’s not yours but it seems like it should be by the way it covers every part of you. It dots your face, coats your hands with such thickness, soaks through the shirt to stain your chest pink. There’s so much of it, it takes over and fills all your senses. All you see is red, all you feel is hands rub your face to talk yourself out of this moment of weakness but the way it smears even worse across your skin, fills the pores of your skin, makes bile raise but swallow it down.

It’s been an hour but fear still makes you shake, not bothering to even talk to anyone the moment you pull the trigger just driving home without a single word, not even to your partner Javi. The door of your apartment is even left open in your own wake, trying to yank the soaked clothes, not caring as your bloody shirt falls from shoulders staining the white carpet of your apartment.

Finger fumble with pants as well, too shaky but none the less slowly shimmer them down flushed thighs. You suddenly can’t move, no matter how bad the shower calls you from the other room, shaky fingers press to the floor under you for support as you lower yourself to the ground until the rough carpet scratches the back of thighs but your thankful to feel something other then pure terror, relish in the scratch the spreads to the back of your knees as you bring them to your chest, lean against the couch for support with a shaky chest.

“I’m sorry.” You don’t realize how much time passes as the low baritone breaks through the sound waves, Javi averts his eyes, realizing the vulnerability on the situation. “The door was open, I just let myself in.”

“I-It’s okay.” Chest moves with the stutter, unable to realize your in nothing but a thin bra, that leaves little to the imagination and a matching black thong, that shows just how much the carpet irritates the skin of inner thighs, leaves a big rash just on the underside of your cheeks.

It’s not the way he intended seeing you like this the first time, beautiful doe eyes filled with tears that slip past beautiful, full eyelashes. It makes his heart stop, the low light of the lamp in the corner contour the dark shadows of your face, show the sharpness of cheek bones, outlines the shape of your jaw. He hates the way he can’t look away from your heaving chest, flushed breast barely fill the cups of the lacy bra, down the smoothness of skin, still stained a dark red from all the blood, down to the edges of inner thighs.

You watch as his gaze falls between your legs but when they meet up at your face again, his lips fall, a deep sigh as a thick layer of tension fills the room. There’s nothing you want more then to forget this feeling, distract yourself with Javi.

Suddenly, he’s all that’s on your mind. The way his tongue runs over those perfect lips, wanting to feel the sensation of his moustache against your upper lip, the burns between your thighs. It’s what you think you’re getting as he lowers to his knees, finally give into the temptation of each other but the blanket that falls to your shoulders surprises you. His fist wraps around each end to ball it against your chest as his other hand reaches for a small piece of hair that frames your face, pushing it behind your ear as his lips ghost over it. “Let’s get you in the bath, cariño, yeah?”

Unsure eyes meet his, not trusting your own legs but his gentle fingers that fill the gaps between your own reinsuring. It’s a soft whine of surprise that makes you look up at him, a thankful sad smile that makes Javier return one that shows every scar of his soul, the feeling all too known to him. “I got you, honey.”

Agent Whiskey

It’s a mix up, an annoying one but none the less it’s not like you can kick Whiskey out of the hotel room and besides you’re both functioning adults, staying together in the room should be no problem but it’s a little difficult to feel comfortable with a stranger especially with one as pushy and touchy as the cowboy.

He’s nice, very polite but smug. There’s always a tight smirk across his face, sexy eyes that test your every move as you bring the rim of the glass to your lips with a soft sigh. The bar of the hotel is loud, a thick cloud of smoke from the passerby's tickles your nose. You try to ignore it, but turn abruptly even catching Whiskey off guard as he adverts his gaze but he’s not as sneaky as he thinks.

It’s hard to remember exactly why you turned when he offered a sweet smile, elbow against the bar while his hand wrapped around his own glass, other hand spraying over the thickness of his thighs, sitting to face you with that dumb smirk. You really can’t help it as your eyes fall between his legs, “What’s up, sugar?”

It’s either he chooses not question why or is just so used to women checking him out but your throat dries at his peering gaze, the way he wraps his lips around the glass after his tongue pokes out to wet them. It makes your face hot, averting his intimating eyes. “Nothing, thought I saw something is all.”

“Mmmm.” It’s a small hum, hesitant like he wants to ask more but settles with the answer. It’s quiet, not awkward but the tension is heavy, clouding the space between you both. Scooting to the end of the seat, eyes nervously looking at him as you shift onto your feet, standing and muttering. “I’m going to head back to the room.”

“Alright sweetheart. I’m gonna have a few more drinks, head up without me. If you need me.” Two fingers press against the shell of his ear, his way of saying I’ll hear ya. You try not to let it affect you but the heat that crawls up your skin makes you huff, closing the door of the hotel room tightly.

A shower, to sooth the burning desire for your new partner, it was embarrassing, feeling like a teenage girl for a man that you barely know, all hot and bothered by him simply spreading his legs but it felt like an open invitation just for you. Hands reach for your shirt, pulling it up with little hesitation except for when it catches the onto the ear piece, stepping forward with a yelp as your foot comes in contact with the large bed frame. Pulling the ear piece off with not much thought, throwing it and the shirt onto the bed, fingers pop the metal from the buttonhole also discarding your pants.

It all happens so fast, the door crashes open, hitting the wall. Pure instinct takes over, despite only being in a very, very revealing bralette and a matching lacy thong fumbling for the gun on the night stand next to you, pointing it towards the mass of a man but let out a sigh of relief. “What is wrong with you? barging in like that, I could have shot you.”

It goes to deaf ears, smooth lines of your collarbones catching him off guard, dropping to the soft curves of your breast. He steps closer, shutting you up immediately as his fingers spread out across the hem of your underwear, warmness erupting to the lazy trail of his fingers.

The cocky smirk that overpowers your own confused one as a tick falls from his lips, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes peering under that stupid cowboy hat, “Now If you wanted me to see you naked you didn’t have to pretend you’re in trouble, darlin’.”

Frankie Morales

There was never a day Frankie thought he’d be in the deep end of the forest again. The memories are still fresh, the sun doesn’t quite sting his skin like the one in Brazil but it’s a close second, the aching memories still squeeze his heart but it’s a silent burn, one he’ll take to his grave and a life he thought he left behind forever.

Frankie is a man haunted by his past, the memories never let him forget that life he used to lead. He is anything but soft, he’s kind, caring, smart, passionate but a sucker for a pretty face. It’s shown in the way he shameless answers too quickly for his liking at your proposition. To rescue your father, a man that owed a bunch of narcos too much money but you had nothing to offer except to help a single father who seemed to be struggling.

Maybe it was the way your sad eyes looked at him with an exaggerated expression, tiredness sag your face, large purple bags that crinkle with every sigh. There was no hope, and even if your father was alive, he kissed that life away a long time also, but then again here he is.

Deep in the jungle of Argentina, sun beating down and burning his skin, sweat beading on his forehead, between the valley of his chest as he swings the bottle of water back, the coolness soothing his raw throat. Your stance matches his own, shoulders dropped, heavy breaths but slower, the heaviness of the gun wrapped around your shoulders.

You were slowing him down, it was no lie. He told you multiple times he would do it but specifically didn’t want you to come with him, he would handle it all but sending a man alone to do something like this, despite how experienced he may be it didn’t seem right.

“Go.” You huff, fingers pushing against his shoulder. It had been the third time he stopped for you in ten minutes, clearly frustrated with a crinkle of his forehead, annoyed eyes looking for any sign of danger, even with the thick trunks of trees that camouflage into the color of face paint that decorates both yours and Frankie’s faces. “I’ll be right behind you.”

He looks unsure but nods lowly, turning as his feet to walk up the ledge of the tree as you take a deep breath, fingers trembling as you try to catch your breath, ass hitting the dirt harder then you intend to but it’s a relief to aching feet. It’s a blur of blackness, hand reaching up to pull yourself up but instead pull at something squishy?

Before you could react, big, black bugs by the hundreds run up your legs, crawl under your vest and shirt. The yell that echoes the forest is what catches Frankie’s attention, turning from his short distance ahead to find you. Face hot, fearing the worst as his heart pounds against his chest. Arms flaring frantic through the thick ropes and vines as he slips skillfully past above ground roots of trees.

You are no where in sight but the peaks of dark green clothes along the brush catch his eye, picking the fabric up, clutching your shirt between fingers. With one more look around he notices another piece of clothing, but the sound of splashing catches his attention. It’s not too far, just over a large tree that separates his view from you. It’s not what he expects, practically naked except for the nude bra and matching underwear that makes his eyes widen. If it wasn’t for the panic on your face he would have taken a second to appreciate the beauty in front of him, let desire burn deep on his skin but the way you frantically try to rub the bugs off makes him take action, hands catch your own, comforting eyes meeting your own. “Relax, relax, I’ll get them off.”

“It’s burns.” It’s a soft whine, as his fingers fall to your own, pressing them against his warm skin as he flattens his other hand down the skin of your arm, down your stomach with a delicious sting from the heat of his.

“I got you, honey.” The words are low, sugary as the realty of the situation makes your own cheeks flush. The bugs are gone, scattering at feet but his gaze never leaves your own. Only inches away from your face, lips so, so close but what really makes you dizzy is the way his hand cups your waist, squeezing so gently as his hot breath fans your face, fingertips trail to the wire of your bra, something in him snaps, giving into the desire as his lips press against yours with urgency.

tags: @victias @altarsw @coonflix @mudhornchronicles @buckysalefty @capsheadquarters @godohammers @ilikemymendarkandfictional @rogertaylorsfalsettogivemehives @maileecabudol @itsfangirlmendes @mermaidbrina @nikkixostan @moonlightnumbsthepainifeel @dinsbeskar @est19xxshit @owloveyounever @engie115 @impala1967666 @akatasukilove @nerdalert-andi @mailee420 @you-and-i-deserve-the-world @thatonedindjarinfan @winter_rxn @Sporadicshoebailifffish

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sneedlier · 3 years ago

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You know what,screw it. *intensely writes another Sami x Melvinborg cause I don't give a crap*

Future!Samuel/Sami x Melvinborg + Samuel x Melvin

(Obviously the Melvinborg x Sami is a more hate relationship and the Samuel x Melvin is platonic,just wanted to quickly clear that up.Also,this takes place in 2020 cause MB was principal them and Melvin and Samuel are 10)

Melvin and Samuel sat in a field of wild flowers in the sunset,them both sitting under a oak tree.Melvin read a book as Samuel fiddled with a couple flowers.

Samuel stopped and smiled at the final product and looked at Melvin.He leaded over and put something on his head.Melvin stopped reading and touched his head,feeling the touch of petals.

"Sammy,what did you put on my head?" Melvin asked him as he looked at Samuel,hoping it wasn't one of his stupid pranks.

Samuel smiled in response.

"I made you a flower crown,Like this one!" He held up another one,the flowers being in colours of green and purple.

"There're matching,now people know we're best friends!"They said happily as he hugged Melvin.

Melvin smiled in response and hugged Sammy back,them both relaxing under the oak tree.

Sadly,

that's only a memory

Melvinborg opened his eyes and rubbed them,it was only another daydream.He sighed as he sat in his office.Looked at the window and saw Melvin and Samuel outside during recess.He looked at Samuel and frowned.

"Samuel Suski..truly a monster.. ".He said as his eyes looked at an old sketchbook from across the room.

It's corners were burned and it's cover was covered in ash and dust.He stands up and walks over to it,picking it up.He opens it at a random page.

Theres a picture of two boys around 14-15 years old,one wearing a yellow long sleeves blouse and the other in a white short sleeved one.One wore long shorts while the other had a skirt.The picture was dated to 2025.Melvinborg's eyes widened.

It was Sami's sketchbook.

He dropped the book onto the floor,his face covered in confusion and anxiety.How'd it get there?There's no way he brought it,unless...

He stopped.

"No..no..there's no way he's here..right?"He said to himself,his voice full of anxiety and panic.

Meanwhile inside the school basement,a portal opened up.A man who wore a small,thin green jacket,a black dress and a green cape came out of the portal.He looked around and smiled evilly to himself.

"Tsk tsk tsk..Oh Melvin,you always hid in the most obvious places." he said evilly.

"Now that I've found you,

I'll make sure to get rid of you"

He said,as he laughed to himself.

(Only 40 minutes?I'm for real doing good with writing. Anyways,I probably will still do the requests but I still wanna write for my OCs but I hope you like it cause I do :) )

#captain underpants #melvinborg #future!samuel #cu oc #melvin sneedly #shitpost #not a ship #fanfics #fanfic

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csmeaner · 2 years ago

Note

I want to get something off of my chest, so I don’t care if this is posted or deleted.

A follow up to the Edeia voiding post; It’s not my style to go against CS rules for the most part but I can’t afford to spend that kind of money just to walk about of the species with the designs I love. And even if I could afford it, I am… hesitant to give the owner another cent after the sheer amount of money I already gave them. I know some of my friends read this blog so I might be about to lose friendships for what I’m about to say, but it can’t be helped. No matter how much I like a CS, I won’t support a practice that I feel is unjustified.

So, I’m erasing all connections to the species from my characters’ TH profiles, and treating them as one-offs without getting them “officially” voided. I just want out of this shitty place and having to pay to void my shit feels like I’m being held hostage at this point. I’ve talked to enough people, family and friends and others IRL, about the situation and no one sees the point of paying extra just to freely use the characters I already bought. Christ, even people I talk to who are presently still IN the species didn’t know there was a voiding fee, and even they think it’s stupid after finding out.

I tallied up the cost of the Edeia I wanted to void, and the combined price of them was $1,175. I shouldn’t have to pay another $390-$455 on top of that. That’s just robbery at that point, considering the void fee wasn’t in existence when I got my designs. I don’t know when it got added, but I really don’t remember it being there before I walked out last year.

In the end, what came of my initial conversation with Auspice was me handing back $230 worth of designs to get my sona and his husband voided, and to obtain ownership of a fusion I co-owned with Auspice. It wasn’t a good deal by any means; voiding my sona and his mate would have cost $70, which leaves $160 for the ownership transfer and the… “Redesign” of the fusion. Which was a fucking fuss, I was handed a design I hated, and when I did my own variation, Aus fucking whined because they didn’t like me keeping the cape-like sleeves or stars on the inside of the clothes because that was “their sona’s traits.” The redesign, the time spent negotiating, and the transfer of the ownership rights definitely should NOT have cost $160 for what I got in the end. And the reason I wanted the fusion at all is because it would have otherwise just been deleted and I didn’t want my original $175 going to waste.

After some… “negotiating” on the areas of tension with the design, we “settled” on a redesign that was just a glorified version of my own sona, which wasn’t what I wanted. But I was fed up and dealing with Auspice gives me severe anxiety, so I approved it anyway just so that I could stop interacting. After ownership rights were handed over to me I tweaked the design on my own to restore the vibe and look I wanted. I compared the redesign and Auspice’s sona with a bunch of peeps and we all determined it’s very different from their sona in appearance.

oh ill definitely answer this one. auspice can suck it, edeia and its entire foundations can suck it, and that 35usd per character voiding fee can suck it the hardest

i wouldn't feel bad a single ounce it's unreasonable to expect people to pay to leave a cs and is in similar maliciousness for scummy services to create cancellation fees to force people to stay in the service or exhaust them so much they can be squeezed for a few more pennies. that shit's awful in real life what makes you think it's not a slimy practice in cs too

fuck are they going to do edeia can fucking suuuuuck itttt and burn in hell

#edeia

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luluwquidprocrow · 3 years ago

Text

(the three-part folding mirror)

the denouements & the snickets, olaf, r, olivia

teen

15,985 words

The year the schism gets worse is the year one of the quarterly information costume parties is held in the grand ballroom on the third floor of the Hotel Denouement.

@lyeekha won my commission in the @asoue-network fandom against hate raffle and asked for the denouements, so i put together some shenanigans with the denouements and the snickets, with slight ernest/lemony kit/dewey frank/jacques, and a few other associates hanging around ~

some minor warnings – language; smoking; brief mention of murder; referenced parental death; identity anxiety about being seen physically and personally

title from i am alone by they might be giants

10:59 PM—The Ballroom—East Drink Table

Kit skirted the perimeter of the crowded ballroom, stopping at the side wall by the drinks, one eye on the table and the other on the dance floor. She couldn’t put her back to it. Not now. There was a tall, potted boxwood nearby, unreasonably lush, almost slouching against the decorative golden pillar beside it. She picked up one of the wineglasses, the only signal she could think of to properly get his attention. She’d have to find Lemony as well; where was he?

The plant coughed.

“J,” Kit whispered, “listen to me.”

A few of the branches parted, and Jacques’s blue eyes appeared out of the green. “What happened?”

Kit breathed slowly. Her free hand curled into a fist, crinkling up the fabric of her dress. She swallowed. It did not help. She gripped the glass. Beneath her feet, the floor gave a slight shudder as the clock out in the lobby readied itself to chime the hour.

“Someone in this very room has—”

WRONG!

7:25 PM—Above The Lobby

It was Saturday night, and Saturday night always meant one thing—Guess The Guest.

Ernest stood in the small alcove situated around the gears of the hotel clock, far above the lobby, and looked down. Like any other night, the sleek gold and red lobby was filled with people, loitering around the front desks and the fountain and each other before they made their way up to the grand ballroom on the third floor. Well, the ballroom was different. This was a work event, as Frank had so brilliantly labeled it on their schedule, so no one was a regular guest tonight. Frank, who had never appreciated the joy in making up grandiose lies or exaggerated half-truths about the strangers who came in and out of the hotel, certainly wouldn’t appreciate the thrill in watching all of his associates in costume and trying to guess who was who, either. Dewey thought the game was slightly mean, because Dewey was just too kind for this sort of thing.

It was good that Ernest was not Frank or Dewey. Not right now, anyway. Ernest knew how to get joy out of the little things.

He watched a flash of green scales move erratically through the lobby, a cheerful voice calling enthusiastic greetings that echoed all the way up to the ceiling—Montgomery. There was a reason he did undercover work so sparingly. Two women in nearly identical butterfly costumes by the door, one purple and one white, hand in hand, standing close together—Ramona and Olivia. It was nice to see them together. A woman with a deep blue dress that swept around her like a wave—Josephine, here alone. Ernest had it on good authority that the Anwhistle brothers weren’t coming. Another loud voice, but deeper, following the confident swath a tall figure in black cut through the crowd—Olaf. Ernest turned away, in time to catch a glimpse of a long red cape shifting from behind one pillar to another around the edge of the room, carefully avoiding Olaf—aha. Kit. Which meant another one was nearby. Not that the Snickets had arrived together, because none of them ever did, but where there was one there was always at least one other, ready to make a decent amount of trouble. (Ernest liked trouble. The little things, of course.) And there, near Ramona and Olivia, Lemony Snicket, a figure shaped in grey shadows.

The alcove door opened. Ernest knew exactly who it was, so he didn’t give him the courtesy of turning around, keeping his eyes on Lemony. Grey was a fitting color on him, on the long line of his shoulders, his legs. Ernest’s stomach flipped over, once.

“It looks like a full house tonight,” Frank said, standing beside Ernest. He adjusted the sleeves of his jacket and folded his hands behind his back. “I wasn’t sure.”

Ernest leaned a hand on the alcove railing. “Takes more than a murder to stop a party, I suppose,” he said.

Frank didn’t reply, but Ernest knew that for once he agreed. The double murder in Winnipeg two months ago had, like any other sudden, suspicious death they’d dealt with over the years—Ernest shuddered and flexed his fingers—barely made a ripple in VFD, except that after the funeral, everyone had closed ranks significantly tighter.

This worried Frank; this did not worry Ernest. Very little truly worried Ernest, at the end of the day. That, of course, only made Frank worry more, but Ernest couldn’t help that. Frank would find something to worry about if Ernest was still on “his side”. Ernest had much more pressing commitments than the heavy, idle worry that everyone else shuffled between themselves without any results, and it wasn’t that he’d be found out. It was change. The real kind of change, not the noble one, not the fragmentary one. Change Ernest could see.

He shifted his hand on the railing once more. If he kept thinking about it, he was going to argue with Frank, and they’d rehashed the argument so many times the past few months without any resolution that it was better, Dewey had eventually insisted, if they just didn’t talk about it at all. So they wouldn’t. Ernest stood next to his brother, and the silence dragged out between them, punctuated by the soft ticking of the clock gears, and they wouldn’t talk about it. Not at all.

“Ernest.”

Almost.

“Frank,” Ernest said back, in the same critical tone, tilting his head to the side and giving his brother a look.

Frank shot him a flat and unimpressed stare in return. At least he still did that. “Promise me you won’t do anything—” he paused, his face pinching in an aggrieved sort of way before he settled on a word. “—rash tonight,” he finished.

Ernest laughed. “I don’t intend to do anything rash, Frank.” Of course not. You couldn’t carry out a pre-established plan rashly.

“I should hope not. I—”

The door opened, again. Dewey burst into the alcove, all smiles as always, and stopped on Frank’s other side and leaned over the railing, gazing into the lobby. Like Ernest and Frank, he wore the muted red manager uniform, because somebody had said it was the “host prerogative” to not dress up for a costume party. Somebody had felt bad about it when Dewey was disappointed, but somebody had still not relented, and there they were, a matched trio, everything outwardly perfect.

“Everyone’s costumes are so beautiful,” Dewey said. “Who’s that, in the big blue dress?”

“Josephine,” Ernest and Frank said at the same time.

Ernest raised his eyebrows. Frank, stooping so low as to actually guess the guest? Even Dewey blinked at him in surprise. The tips of Frank’s ears went slightly pink, but he didn’t say a word.

“Oh, Frank, you left your name tag downstairs again,” Dewey said. He pulled the name tag from his pocket, the slim gold rectangle glinting briefly in the soft light of the alcove, and pressed it into Frank’s hand.

“Thank you,” Frank murmured. But when Dewey turned away, Ernest saw the tag disappear from Frank’s fingers, most likely slipped up into his sleeve. None of them wore their name tags with regularity—the black ‘manager’ embroidery on their jackets was really enough—but Frank’s kept showing up places, and Ernest and Dewey kept giving it back to him, every time. Ernest didn’t quite know what to make of it. He wondered about asking Frank about it, but he didn’t want Frank to take it as another argument. Ernest didn’t actually enjoy arguing with Frank. About small things, sure, like Dewey’s stupid poetry and Frank’s inane hotel schedules, the sorts of things brothers argued about. But Ernest was sure Frank would make it into another one about VFD.

Dewey was studying the lobby, one hand on his chin. Ernest watched him go from one friend to another, then stop when he got to Kit’s red cape sweeping towards the stairs. It was an unusual color for her, but Dewey, whether he thought it was nice or not, knew how to identify someone from the pieces they let slip through too. Kit was straightforward about everything, and the way she walked, determined and with an endpoint in sight, was no different.

Ernest and Frank exchanged a quick glance.

“So,” Frank drawled, “when’s the wedding?”

“I look best in black,” Ernest put in. “Take that into account, Dewey.”

“I look best in blue,” Frank said. “Take that into account.”

Dewey’s face went its typical six shades of red, flushing through to his ears as well as he jumped back from the railing and sputtered, “What—we’re not—we haven’t even—I don’t—Kit’s not—you two are impossible.” He stormed out of the alcove, shutting the door with a slight snap behind him, because Dewey had never slammed a door in his life.

Ernest enjoyed a brief chuckle with Frank before his brother fell silent again. The lobby crowd was thinning as everyone made their way to the elevators or the stairs, or to the bathroom, or, perhaps, to some clandestine hallway somewhere else. Ernest could see the ring of neatly-trimmed boxwoods lining the lobby now. He wasn’t sure, but he thought there was one more than usual, sitting right inside the door.

He leaned forward, squinting. “Did we always have a boxwood there?” he asked.

Frank moved his head down a fraction of an inch and considered the lobby. “Of course,” he said. Then he straightened his sleeves one more time, and left the alcove.

7:35 PM—The Lobby

Among the Snicket siblings, there was an ongoing discussion about the best hiding place. Kit preferred the quiet, professional approach. She stood behind newspaper stands, put her face into books and brochure racks, stayed in the shadows of a store awning. Lemony was difficult about it. He thought the best place to hide was the least likely place someone would look for you; the place you wouldn’t look for yourself. He took dangerous perches in train station windows, seats in restaurants he vocally hated, or sophisticated and cramped corner cafes that had never heard of a root beer float.

Jacques, meanwhile, with a lifetime of hiding experience, always liked to hide in plain sight. People barely ever remembered what was right in front of them as long as it appeared relatively normal. And there were a number of options—a large potted plant could be overlooked among a dozen other potted plants, people received packages every day and wouldn’t notice if there was one more oversized box, every city park lost track of how many statues were supposed to be there, even a regular man in a fine suit crossing the street or driving a taxi was expected and forgettable. Another boxwood was just another boxwood sitting in a free space in the empty Hotel Denouement lobby, slowly making its way to the ballroom for optimal eavesdropping. Another volunteer in costume was just another volunteer in a lion costume borrowed from Bertrand, for the moments tonight when Jacques had to communicate information to an associate.

That was the point of the party, after all. Jacques couldn’t deny that everyone liked dressing up—he liked dressing up, a little—but the main objective for most of them tonight was the passing of relevant information that had happened in the three months since the last official gathering (not counting the funeral). It should have been at Winnipeg, as they usually were, the organization taking over the Duke and Duchess’s sprawling, sparkling mansion, the couple’s easy laughter flowing from room to room. Jacques didn’t blame Ramona for not wanting to do it after what happened there. He doubted she’d actually been in the mansion since, although it was entirely hers. But the Hotel Denouement was a suitable replacement. It was too public to ever lose its neutral position among both sides. No one was going to get killed here, Jacques was certain. But he was mildly worried something else would happen. He didn’t know what. But something.

Especially considering Lemony was here. Not that his brother was a troublemaker—Jacques would never say it out loud, at least—but because Lemony wasn’t supposed to be at the hotel tonight. He had told Jacques that he was going to be with Beatrice and Bertrand, who were working on plans for an upcoming assignment. This meant two things—one, that Lemony had lied to Jacques. But Jacques had counted on that. He had assumed, however, that Lemony meant the three of them were finally going on a date and hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Two, that if Lemony never did anything idly, without a specific purpose, then he was here for an unknown reason. Something else was going to happen, Jacques was certain. Something Lemony wanted to be here for.

First, though, he had to get the boxwood he was hiding in from the lobby to the ballroom upstairs. The pot was significantly heavier than Jacques had counted on.

8:05 PM—The Ballroom—Main Doors

Every time they all got together, Frank was so amazed at how many of them there were. Despite some noticeable gaps—Beatrice’s overbearing presence, for one, which Frank was happy to do without for an evening—the grand ballroom had barely any free space. Every available and noble associate was here, and it filled Frank with a sense that everything was going to be alright. All these people, including himself, doing what was necessary to keep the world quiet. Tonight would be fine. Ernest wouldn’t do anything regrettable; Dewey would forgive him about the costumes and the gentle ribbing; the meeting would pass without incident. Tomorrow would come. Sometimes Frank almost thought that it wouldn’t. Typically when Ernest was being difficult, but tonight even he seemed to agree that the organization—their organization—was impressive.

He spotted a potted plant by one of the drink tables, a boxwood that matched the ones lined around the room and back in the lobby. One branch was bent out of place. Frank would have to have a word with the person responsible later. But he should fix the branch now.

Everyone he passed on his way across the room gave him a quick nod, a brief smile. Frank returned it as that familiar buzzing started under his skin, like it tended to in groups. He shrugged it aside. He gave the controlled smile of a manager with everything in place, and no one said a word.

All of a sudden, his view of the boxwood was blocked. Through the mass of associates came Olaf, head to toe in a suit and mask of black, spiky fur, smiling with all his teeth, unceremoniously pushing a woman in a silver dress painted like a large, rocky moon aside on his way towards Frank. Frank steeled himself. You never knew what you were going to get with Olaf, if he would try and charm you with a reckless humor or annoy you with a joking cruelty. It was one of the many reasons Frank had never particularly cared for him.

“Ernest!” Olaf exclaimed when he got close. He hooked an arm through Frank’s. “Lovely to see you, wonderful party.”

The cold, dark hand twisted its way along Frank’s insides. It gripped down through his chest, put a film over his eyes that made the room seem distant and wrong. The party continued around him, Olaf was still talking into his ear, and Frank couldn’t hear any of it. The name tag pressing into his wrist up his left sleeve didn’t help. Just because it was his didn’t mean it was him. His name meant nothing if no one was going to care about who it was, about what made Frank instead of Ernest or Dewey. No one should need evidence to tell the difference. No one should make a mistake between the three of them. How many times would it happen?

Time was still passing. Frank blinked once, twice, until Olaf’s voice filtered back in and the noise of the ballroom swelled up once more.

“—incredibly delicious, I have to say, but, to be frank with you—ha! This champagne has seen better days, which one of you is responsible for this travesty?”

Frank smiled, a little turn of the corner of his mouth, the professional smile of all three of them. If Olaf wanted Ernest, alright. Frank would be Ernest. “Frank,” he said. The word sounded like it couldn’t possibly have come out right, but Olaf didn’t break his stride, so it must have.

“That does not surprise me in the least,” Olaf said. “Meanwhile, allow me to take up one single minute of your time,” he continued, and pulled Frank into the shadows by the door. Frank’s stomach gave a terrible lurch as the stark terror he woke up with every morning came back, riding over the dissonant gap he still felt between his body and his brain. What did Olaf want with Ernest? Had Olaf found out about him? Frank had covered up for Ernest before, but would he be able to keep doing it if more people knew?

“Have you thought about it any more?” Olaf asked, leaning close.

The sheer relief that Olaf didn’t know battled with the swooping fear that Ernest was doing something new Frank didn’t know about, and with Olaf. He remembered, with startling clarity, the last time he talked to Kit, when she told him that Olaf had been spouting dangerous ideas about the organization and trying to rope in as many people as possible. It was one of the reasons, according to the rumors Frank had heard elsewhere, why he and Kit had ended their relationship. What was he trying to get Ernest into? Ernest needed absolutely no encouragement, and neither did Olaf. He had to say something.

“I have,” Frank said. It was the safe answer when you were pretending to be someone else.

Olaf grinned again, big and excited, which was a terrible sign. “And?”

“No,” he said, because it was also the safe answer, and the faster Frank could untangle Ernest from whatever trouble he was into this time, the better. “Sorry to disappoint,” he added, with the cool tone Ernest used.

Olaf frowned. “Really? I must admit, I am a little surprised. I mean, I know you weren’t entirely on board, but you’d given it a shot before, and I was hoping you’d come around again.”

Before? They’d talked before? Frank thought a series of incredibly inappropriate words Beatrice was always using that he would never say out loud.

“But!” Olaf pivoted quickly, in his speech and his actions, spinning on his heel away from Frank and shrugging broadly. “Who am I to bend your arm about it! I’ll keep you in mind, though, in case.” He showed all his teeth, his eyes glittering. “And keep me in mind, next time you have anything else worth sharing, will you?” He flounced off again, tearing through the crowd.

It took a few minutes for Frank’s heart to go back to where it was supposed to be from where it was thundering in his throat. He put his hands in his pockets and gripped the fabric, something real and his to hold onto.

Anything else worth sharing. Since their apprenticeships, Frank and Dewey and Ernest had been tasked with organizing a great deal of information, mostly about the history of the organization, but sometimes, and especially as they got older, the very information that was passed along between volunteers. It was part of the reason Dewey had started building his personal archives in the basement. He liked the business of collecting facts. Of course all three of them were still being given that information. Of course Ernest still had access to every single piece of that information. Ernest, collaborating with Olaf, Ernest, sneaking around behind Frank’s back, Ernest, who had promised, at the beginning of all this, that he wasn’t going to jeopardize their positions by doing something stupid.

Ernest, what are you doing?

8:40 PM—The Archives, In Progress

Dewey was not hiding. He liked parties a great deal, and he loved people, but like his brothers and everyone else, he too had his own appointment to keep tonight.

His just happened to be in the basement.

He still sort of felt like he was hiding, especially the further he went into the archives. But things always needed organizing, and while he waited, he had to do something to keep his hands busy. He searched for a set of organization accounting records for five minutes before realizing he’d already shelved it, last week.

So Dewey was nervous. Plenty of people were nervous. Olivia went around all the time being nervous and no one gave her any grief for it. But Olivia didn’t have a sister to give her any grief for it. And Dewey didn’t mind, not really. He loved it when his brothers teased, because it meant they were getting along. But this time it was slightly personal. Because he was meeting Kit, and he was nervous.

Kit was—well, normal. Like Dewey was normal. He loved his brothers, but Frank was high-strung and made it everyone else’s problem, Ernest was often disagreeable for the sake of it, and with the Snickets, Jacques was always hiding in furniture and Dewey didn’t think he’d ever seen more of him than one hand and possibly an eye at a time, and Lemony was wonderful but sometimes too cryptic and morbid for Dewey’s taste. He liked things a little more sensible, comfortable, pleasant. And Kit was organized, reasonable, quiet when other people were reading, cool under pressure. She let herself get lost in books and people she cared about, underneath all the professionalism. Her smile was a careful, slow thing, something private she only showed you if she genuinely liked you. And it meant a lot to be on the receiving end of that smile.

His brothers didn’t get it. He wasn’t involved with Kit, and he wasn’t going to ask her out, because you didn’t do that with Kit. If Kit wanted to spend time with you, that was her own choice. She never did anything she didn’t want or she hadn’t thought through first. That she wanted to spend time with Dewey, specifically, to see him, and no one else, was nice. It made the whole of him feel all tingly and weightless. He wanted their meeting in the archives to be as nice as that feeling.

Dewey grabbed a set of Agatha Christie translations he kept on hand for when things got boring (rarely, but Beatrice got bored easily, and if you gave her a translation she sat down for a while to prove she could read it) and walked to the next aisle to shelve them. His foot snagged on something in the middle of the floor and he stumbled, hugging the books close to his chest so they didn’t fall. He turned around to see what it was, and found Kit blinking up at him with wide eyes from where she sat on the floor, a thick book open in her lap, her long red dress pooled around her on the floor. Her dress had an off-the-shoulder neckline, but most of her shoulders were covered by the matching red cape pulled around her. In the wide diamond of skin left between the cape and the top of the dress, he could see the sharp edge of something black around her collarbone, a point of the nearly-finished tattoo she’d been getting done. The red sleeves disappeared into short white gloves, with her hands folded together at the bottom of the book pages. Oh. Dewey’s heart pounded for a horrible, exhilarating moment, his mouth going dry. He swallowed once, twice, a third time.

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling wryly, closing the book and sliding it gently back in the middle shelf. “I got distracted.”

“Oh, no, that’s completely understandable,” Dewey said. He folded himself down beside her, crossing his legs, still clutching the books to him. “Happens to me all the time. What were you reading?”

Kit smiled again, and it was that slow, beautiful smile, her eyes lighting up. “Have you heard,” she said, “about the cookiecutter shark?”

Dewey had absolutely heard about the cookiecutter shark. “Isistius brasiliensis,” he said. “It can travel in schools, and it bites little circular sections out of fish, like a cookie cutter. Have you heard about the brownsnout spookfish?”

“Barreleye fish, has mirrors in its eyes. Toothless upper jaw,” Kit replied easily. “Anostraca.”

“Fairy shrimp, they swim upside down,” Dewey said. He leaned forward, grinning. “Sometimes even found in deserts. Frilled shark?”

This was his favorite game, with his favorite person, in his favorite place. Both of them were librarians, or librarian-adjacent, so he and Kit dealt in information, not only about nobility but about the rest of the world around them. And the whole world was so fascinating, and there was so much to know and share, so how could you not try and see who could stump the other first?

“An eel-like living fossil, with six pairs of gill slits. Chaunacidae.”

Dewey scrunched up his face, thinking. “I think you got me there,” he admitted.

“Sea toad,” Kit said, looking pleased, “and coffinfish. Deep-sea anglerfishes. The sea toad has fins that can be used as leg flippers.”

“Really? Wow.” Dewey made a mental note to check that out later. He hoped, on the scale of unsettling sea creature to pleasantly spooky sea creature, that it was somewhere in the middle. “So besides oceanic intrigue,” he said, “what else is going on with you?”

“I’m supposed to get something from Frank tonight,” Kit said. “But, I also came to give you this. From Bertrand,” she clarified, and then picked through the seams of her dress, which revealed themselves as hiding at least ten different pockets.

When he had the time, Dewey wanted to study clothing design. Kit and Beatrice always found the place for so many pockets that you could never see from the outside, and Dewey wished he had the same capacity in his slim manager’s jacket and trousers for all the things he wanted to carry around. Poetry; chocolate-covered pretzels; the pencils Kit always left behind; spare buttons; sturdy rope, in case he needed it; maybe a mini chess set. He’d have to work on it. Maybe he could hide them in shoulder pads, or his shoes.

Kit pulled out a book from a side pocket. Dewey finally put the Agatha Christie down, piling it in a neat stack between them, and took the book. It was the one Bertrand had spoken to him about last week—Undercover Underwater: Diving For The Truth, a truly terrible murder mystery novel he said Dewey had to read to believe. He was greatly looking forward to it.

“That was awfully sweet of him,” Dewey said, running his thumb over the cover. He looked for a place to put it, and then just put it on top of his book stack. It felt a little sacrilegious, if it was as bad as Bertrand said, to put it on top of Christie, but he didn’t want to misplace it. “Thank you very much.”

Kit shifted on the floor and put her back to the bookshelf. “Did you hear the Anwhistle brothers finished building that marine research and rhetorical advice center?”

“Yes,” Dewey said. “I guess that’s why they aren’t here tonight? Josephine was all alone when I saw her earlier.”

“They should’ve celebrated with the rest of us,” Kit said. “What a massive architectural achievement—and I wanted to hear about the leeches, too.”

“Yes!” Dewey exclaimed. “Have you seen them yet? I haven’t.”

“No,” Kit said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not in person. Ike gave Lemony one of the earlier ones as a paperweight some time ago but I haven’t been able to see their recent work yet. I hear the teeth are impressive.”

“Cookiecutter shark impressive?”

Kit grinned. “Potentially.”

Dewey laughed. He wished he and Kit could go see them, together. For the scientific curiosity. For spending time with someone who really, really wanted to see him. No, for the oceanic intrigue, of course. “You know—” Oh no. He hadn’t intended to actually start the sentence, but it was out, and Kit was looking at him expectantly, and Dewey was rapidly losing all handles on the conversation. His face was heating up. Everyone else made talking to people whose company they enjoyed look so easy, but the words jumbled together in his mouth. “We should—go? I mean—not right now, but, soon, we could—to the research center—for the leeches, for, for science.”

Pink colored Kit’s face under the freckles along her nose. “For science,” she said. Then—“Not a date,” she added firmly.

“Definitely for science,” Dewey insisted. “Oceanic intrigue, and everything.”

“Yes,” she said, blinking quite a few times. “That would be fine.”

They stared at each other for the longest minute of Dewey’s life.

“We should probably get back up to the party,” he said. The archives were feeling much, much too close, all the books and shelves pressed up against him, the point of Kit’s tattoo still peeking out from under the edge of her cape.

Kit nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

8:55 PM—The Ballroom—Near The Piano

Next—Jacques had to find Olivia.

He abandoned the boxwood by the east wall, for the time being, out of sight near the piano, where a man with a white half-mask played a pleasant Beethoven sonata while a woman in a sharp, pointed gold suit argued with a man dressed as an octopus with a hat. They did not notice Jacques, even in his own costume, but he noticed them. He noticed everyone in the room so singularly. He’d almost forgotten so many people could be in one place at the same time. You spent a lot of time alone, hiding in small spaces, you got used to yourself.

Olivia was easily identifiable. Nothing she did could ever disguise the tightly-wound nervous energy coiled inside her, not the shimmery white butterfly wings curled over her shoulders or the mask of purple flowers on her face. Something always gave her away. Tonight, it was her hands, twisting together as she talked to someone in a large, leafy tree costume, so consuming Jacques couldn’t make out the face. He scanned the crowd, trying to locate Ramona in her reversed purple wings and white mask. He saw her making her way towards one of the drink tables. Ramona wouldn’t leave Olivia alone for long.

The tree left soon after, and Jacques made his way over to her, getting a decent amount of elbows into the side along the way. “Olivia,” he said, when he stopped in front of her.

Her eyes passed over him and onto the rest of the room, like she was staring straight through him. Jacques frowned. He’d certainly said something. He’d certainly moved, Olivia was right in front of him. People moved around them without sparing him a second glance; someone said a cheerful hello to Olivia and she returned it. His voice dried up in his throat, like if he tried to speak he’d never make a sound. When was the last time before this he’d spoken out loud? No one expected him to talk, in his line of work. When had he done it? No, perhaps she simply hadn’t heard him.

He cleared his throat a few times. That was a sound. That was undeniably a sound. Jacques existed here.

He touched his hand to her wrist. “Olivia?”

Olivia jumped nearly a foot. She turned her head from side to side frantically, and Jacques gave her a short wave.

“Oh!” Olivia pressed her hands against her chest and laughed, breathless. “Oh, Jacques, you startled me. How are you?” she asked, as unfailingly kind as always, as if he hadn’t just frightened her. She looked like she wanted nothing more than for Jacques to tell her the long, substantial answer, instead of the polite one. He almost did. But Jacques was here for business.

“Fine,” he said. “And you?”

“Alright,” she said, still smiling. “Ramona’s gone to get some champagne, would you like to join us?”

“Not tonight,” he said. “I have a message for you.”

Her bright smile faltered, her hands seizing together again. “I see,” she said quietly. “What is it?”

“We’d like you to take up the outpost at Caligari Carnival.”

Olivia blanched. “The—the hinterlands?” she repeated. Her voice trembled. “That’s, ah, terribly far away, isn’t it?”

“It is a distance from the city,” Jacques conceded, “but not far.” It was far from Winnipeg, though. It was very far. Eventually, Ramona would be back there, at least in some capacity. Things would be different, especially if Olivia was wanted in the hinterlands permanently.

“Jacques, I really—I don’t—I’ll think about it,” she said finally. “I promise, I’ll think about it.”

An assignment from headquarters was not exactly optional. Her eyes darted somewhere behind him, and Jacques knew who she was looking at. She and Ramona had just gotten together only recently, before the Duke and Duchess’ deaths. Any kind of love was difficult within the confines of their organization, but the solace here, Jacques thought, was that she and Ramona were both there. They would never be that far away. They might see each other a good deal less, but they would see each other.

“You can take your time to leave, if you wanted,” he said.

“I’ll think about it.” Her voice was firm. “But, thank you for letting me know, Jacques.” She gave him her soft, breezy smile again, and slipped off through the dance floor.

Jacques watched her go. They would see each other. That was an invaluable thing, in their line of work. Being seen. Sometimes even the best person you loved with your whole being couldn’t see the part of you that mattered. To be seen when you disappeared from the rest of the world—that was worth holding on to. It would be difficult. But he had no doubt Olivia and Ramona would do it.

The floor rumbled, like it always did before the lobby clock chimed.

9:00 PM—Room 687

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Does the clock always sound like that? Like it’s saying wrong?”

“Incessantly,” Esmé sighed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I think Frank’s responsible. Heaven forbid he goes an hour without reminding everyone else how little he thinks of their decisions, you know.”

9:00 PM—The Ballroom—North Drink Table

The hotel was not Winnipeg. But right now, that was exactly what Ramona wanted. The modern angles, the warm, well-lit ballroom, the dark corners and firm rigidity of it all currently felt homier than the soft, open pinks and whites of the Winnipeg mansion. She was glad to have another excuse to avoid it and the constant questions. Tonight, she was going to see her friends, and dance with Olivia, and drink champagne, because Olivia said every occasion was cause for celebration and champagne, and Ramona was going to have a good time. She picked up two champagne flutes from the table and took a sip of one in the careful way her mother taught her, so she didn’t leave lipstick on the glass. Her heart stuttered as she saw the press of plum purple streaks on the glass when she pulled it away. The hotel clock was chiming, sounding like a heavy, distorted vibration of a word. It was right. The lipstick was wrong.

Who had done it? Everyone wanted to know. The firestarters? Likely, but they had been quiet for some time, and Ramona wasn’t going to point fingers without evidence. Some older enemy? Ramona didn’t know enough about whoever that was to consider them. Someone new?

She didn’t want to think about it. Her parents were dead, and she’d found them, and she didn’t want to think about who could have done it or why they did. It wasn’t going to change that it had happened. Ramona wasn’t looking for answers. She was looking for—

An arm slung around her shoulders, jostling her and the champagne, which sloshed around in the flutes as she lurched forward. Scratchy fur and outrageous cologne bore down on her, and she knew exactly who it was.

“My dear duchess,” Olaf said, squeezing her tight. “How have you been?”

Ramona found it in her to roll her eyes. Some people didn’t like Olaf, which she completely understood. There was something about him though, as brash and outlandish and obnoxiously tactile as he was, that had to make you laugh sometimes. She felt comfortable, close to a friend. “Just peachy,” she said. She offered him the other champagne glass; she could get another for Olivia. “Champagne?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Olaf said. He hooked his free hand around both glasses and set them back on the drink table. “Look, I wanted to give you my sincerest condolences—” And he did look sincere, sliding around in front of her, his hand still on her shoulder, the joy immediately gone from his face and replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. She was struck by it, by how glassy and shiny his eyes were under the dark of his mask. “I’m sorry about your parents, Ramona.”

Her mouth wobbled at the edges. She knew Olaf could understand. They’d had similar positions in the organization their whole lives—their parents their chaperones, their time split between assignments and society, the safety that existed in his manor as well, its own controlled pocket of the world, like Winnipeg had been, like the Hotel Denouement was, too. She thought of the Count and Countess, still alive. She hoped they’d stay alive.

It wouldn’t do to cry at a party. Ramona picked up her flute again and took another small sip. “Thank you,” she said.

And just like that, he straightened up and pulled away from her. Some of the mirth found its way back into the shape of his mouth and his arm found its way back around her, this time a tight grip at her waist as he steered her back into the crowd. Ramona felt slightly less consoled than ten seconds ago. Easy come, easy go, with Olaf. “I hate thinking about you all alone in that big house,” he said with a sigh. “All that room, all those things—remember when I knocked into that vase in the hallway?”

“Very vividly,” Ramona said.

“A glorious time!” he crowed. “Well! At least you’ve got all of us, haven’t you. What are your friends if not your family, et cetera, et cetera.”

But he still understood. That was what made it so important to be here tonight. What were all the people in the room, the friends she’d grown up with, people she knew and loved, if not her family as well, just as much as her parents had been? They were more than associates or volunteers, stepping in around her not to fill a void, but to offer back some little part of what had been taken from her. Her throat tightened up as she thought about it. Everything they did was hard, but it was also so special. Ramona wanted to hold it close to her and never let it go.

“And what wouldn’t one do for one’s family, am I right?” Olaf continued. “So, if you ever need me for anything—a shoulder to cry on, although certainly not in this jacket, or, say, a partner in crime, or a willing participant in any daring assignment you might come across otherwise—do not hesitate to let me know, okay?”

“Of course.”

“I mean it.”

Ramona stumbled to a halt as Olaf stopped abruptly. He looked down at her with a gash of a grin. “People like you and me, we’ve got to stick together, duchess.” He gave her a squeeze one more time and then finally let go, dashing away.

Goodness, but he was rough about things. Ramona gave herself a shake, trying to collect herself back into order. She stood up on her toes to try and see where he’d gone. She didn’t get much more height, already being in heels, but she did manage to see him already making grandiose hand gestures across the room to those white-faced triplets Ramona had seen once or twice. They were younger than she was, still in their training. The three of them stared at Olaf with three immaculately raised eyebrows. Ramona chuckled a little, dropped back down, and went back for Olivia’s champagne glass.

9:40 PM—The Ballroom—Center

Over an hour had passed, and Frank hadn’t seen any sign of Ernest. He had better things to be doing than keeping track of Ernest, and yet here he was. He couldn’t have gone far—the hotel was enormous, but it was a hotel. The whole world contained on nine floors. You couldn’t disappear from it.

Frank edged his way through the dance floor, searching for him through three separate groups of associates doing three slightly different versions of a circle dance. A snake and a tree frog whirled past, a phantom with them, a tangled shape of dark greens and blacks and bright blues and exuberant laughter. When they’d gone, Frank found himself in the center of the floor and face to face with Dewey, coming towards him from the other direction, his cheeks pink.

“Are you alright?” Frank asked immediately.

Dewey blinked. “Of course,” he said. “Just dancing. Is everything okay?”

He should have known, but Ernest had him on an edge he hadn’t expected to be tonight. He tried to look apologetic but wasn’t sure how well he succeeded. “Have you seen Ernest?”

“Not since earlier,” Dewey said. “Oh, and Kit was—”

“When you see him, could you tell him I’m looking for him?”

Dewey’s shoulders drooped down. “If I see him,” he said. “Then I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you,” Frank said, and he meant it. He smiled at Dewey until he smiled back, and then Frank moved past him, pushing back into the crowd.

He hadn’t meant to be short about it, but Frank’s worry never came out like he wanted it to. It became biting irritation instead, or a slow-simmering temper he never let boil, or professional, distant orders about hotel business, or a refusal to talk at all in case he said the wrong thing. More often than not, he still wound up arguing with Ernest. He didn’t argue with Dewey, but their conversations were so much more stilted than they should have been lately.

But it was because he feared Ernest was going to slip away from him one day and never come back. Realistically, it was unlikely. After all, Ernest was still here. Indecision entering their home hadn’t taken him away from it. But what if that changed, one day, and it was Frank’s fault, because he reacted too quickly or too slowly? And Dewey—Dewey was so sweet and so kind Frank thought the world might crush him. He had to keep them close, and he had to keep them safe. It would’ve been so much easier, though, if Ernest wasn’t so difficult about it, if Dewey understood that Frank didn’t want anything to happen to him, if they would listen.

Frank glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He’d look for Ernest on the way, but for one small hour, Ernest was going to have to wait.

9:59 PM—The Floor Behind The South Drink Table

Through typical party events, The Herpetology Squad (Plus Hector) found themselves on the floor behind one of the drink tables.

“So how do you tell them apart?” Gustav asked, stirring his drink with a spoon. “Because, and I do feel terrible about this, but I can’t do it. We’ve known them for ages, and I can’t do it.”

“Frank is taller,” Monty said immediately, and very confidently.

“What, no, he can’t be taller, they’re triplets,” Hector said. “Do genetics work like that?”

“Hey Haruki,” Monty called around Gustav and Hector, “do genetics work like that?”

Haruki leaned into Hector’s shoulder and considered it. “I’m really not sure,” they said. “But, I always figured, Ernest was kind of quiet, and Frank was kind of stern, and Dewey was kind of, well, kind.”

“But that seems so reductive,” Gustav pointed out. “You can’t just identify a person down to one base trait and leave it at that. And I say this as a screenwriter and director. You need to be creative.”

“All your characters sound exactly the same, though,” Hector said, frowning. “Or, like, so different, I don’t think you’re keeping track of them between scenes.”

“Oh, that’s awfully rude,” Haruki said.

“No, he’s right,” Gustav said. He hung his head into his hands, his glass tipping sideways through his fingers. Haruki reached over and grabbed it, twisting their arm around and up to slide it back onto the drink table where it’d be safer. “I always thought they did, and now I know for sure. I’ll have to renounce film making and go back to herpetology. Or, submarines. I can’t disparage your honor too, Monty.”

“Oh, Hector, you hurt his feelings,” Monty said. He patted Gustav on the back consolingly. “Gustav, you write wonderful scripts. I loved the, the Werewolves In The Rain.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I can’t handle a drunk Gustav,” Hector said, closing his eyes. “Gustav, I’m sorry. To be fair, I only watched—what was it—” He waved his hands around. “—the one with the—you know—”

“Vampires In The Retirement Community,” Haruki said.

“And it was once. And—hey, weren’t we talking about something else?”

10:10 PM—The Short Hallway Between Rooms 40-45 and 46-49

Unassigned numbers within the Dewey Decimal System were not the trouble they appeared to be to a hotel based on it. They still existed in the hotel, no matter how much Ernest had protested that it made no sense to have rooms that had no theme or purpose in a hotel whose very purpose was theme—Frank and Dewey’s rebuttal was that it made no sense to nonchalantly remove numbers out of their sequential existence because they didn’t fit in neatly otherwise. They existed. They didn’t have themes, even this stretch of ten, which had been previously designated but was now just a blank space between encyclopedias and magazine publications, which left the rooms relatively blank and boring, typically unnoticed and unused, but they still existed.

In the brief, dark hallway between the two sets of unassigned rooms, Frank could sit on the bench against the wall, and he didn’t have to think about family or the hotel. Frank sat featureless in the shadows and thought about himself. Usually, it meant he felt better about everything. But tonight, with the worry set aside once more for now, all he felt was that chill through his insides again, when Olaf mistook him for Ernest.

He took the name tag out of his sleeve and turned it over in his hands. Frank was a man in a manager’s jacket, with a face that looked like two other faces, someone who could be anyone. The name tag did nothing but identify him without caring who he was. What was it that made Frank himself, the imperceptible, innate existence of him that mattered? His love for Ernest and Dewey? Visible. His organization? Trivial. The fear he was going to lose everything? Meaningless and a weakness, in the face of everything else. It was hard to say for sure. He had gone his whole life getting mixed up with Ernest and Dewey and it was exhausting to keep trying to prove he was real when it felt like the world was rubbing him out. He leaned his back against the wall.

He heard Jacques before he saw him, like always. Exact, economical footsteps, nothing extraneous, the tap of his expensive shoes on the rugs, the swish of his jacket. Everything measured, as it had to be.

Jacques appeared around the corner, that bent piece of the boxwood plant stuck in his hair. He seemed to brighten when he saw Frank, like Frank’s presence set something off inside him. Frank watched him. What did Jacques see, when he looked at Frank? What was it that made Jacques notice, over and over again, over other people? How was Jacques so certain that when he looked at Frank right now, at that moment, that Jacques was looking at him?

Jacques sat down next to him on the bench. Frank had seen him in a mask earlier, something terrible and orange, but it was gone now, and he faced Frank fully. He was inches away from Frank, and Frank could see every part of him, even in the dark—the calm, if tired, resolution in the set of his jaw, the way he waited, still and patient, as if he could do nothing else. He had the darkest eyes of his siblings, a steady and unchanging deep blue.

“That which is essential is invisible to the eye,” Jacques whispered.

Frank let out the breath he’d been holding. How long ago had he said that to Jacques? “I initially said that to insult you,” he said.

“It was deserved,” Jacques said. “And I never forgot. Do you know how I always know it’s you now?”

“Enlighten me.”

He put his hand against Frank’s jacket, resting his fingers against the fabric to the left of the buttons. Jacques kept it there, and he didn’t take his eyes off of Frank for anything, not even when the heartbeat under his hand sped up. Frank felt almost split open to the core. He always did, every time. Jacques saw whatever it was. The man who was always hiding knew exactly who he was, because he looked.

“How very sentimental of you,” Frank managed. His breath hung between them. He traced the side of his thumb over the collar of Jacques’s shirt, just below the skin. If he moved his hand just a centimeter he’d be able to feel his heartbeat as well.

“It’s the truth,” Jacques murmured. “Sentiment is—dangerous. Truth is immutable.”

“Do you know how I know it’s you?” Frank said against his mouth.

“How?” Jacques asked.

Frank finally pulled the branch out of Jacques’s hair. “You do terribly stupid things.”

Jacques laughed, and the sound vibrated all the way down through Frank’s throat.

10:19 PM—Room 366

Frank had to be somewhere. Kit was not overly concerned with finding him, but she would rather do it sooner than later. She worked from the ground floor up, combing through the hallways but finding no sight of the Denouement, until she was on the third floor again. The faster she found Frank, the faster she could, maybe, go back to talking to Dewey. About completely professional things, of course. The fact that she felt different when she was with Dewey was simply because he was pleasant, welcome company. He wanted to look at leeches with her, for the delight of science. They expected nothing from each other but a nice time.

She immediately pictured Beatrice waggling her eyebrows at her, if Kit had said that out loud. Not that kind of nice time, she thought, but the mental Beatrice kept laughing joyously at her.

“He’s a nice person,” she grumbled to the empty hallway. He was calm. Regular. Okay. The exact opposite of everyone else, Beatrice. Could she go five minutes without them all picking apart her romantic life? This was why she wasn’t interested. This was why it was strictly nice. There were other, more important things that needed her attention.

The door to Room 366 was ajar, and Kit, who had naturally been trained to investigate the suspicious, investigated the suspicious. She slid herself carefully through the gap in the door and into the dark room. She’d been in there a few times to know it was an absurdly comfortable meeting room, with plush chairs and a bookcase that spanned the length of the far wall. A figure sat against the side wall, reaching up and tapping ash from a cigarette out the open window. For a moment, they looked like a blank, featureless shadow, until a light outside the window shifted and Frank—no, Ernest’s face resolved itself in front of her. The tip of the cigarette burned bright orange against his fingers.

“I heard about you and Olaf,” he said. “Would you like an apology, since I’m sure you’ve been getting enough I told you so’s?”

Kit sighed. “I really don’t want to talk about it.” But she shut the door and walked over, sitting down on the floor beside him. She took her own pack of cigarettes out of one of her dress pockets and accepted Ernest’s lighter to light one. She never carried her own.

“He did,” she muttered, giving the lighter back. She brought her legs up and wrapped an arm around them. “Tell me, I told you so. Not in so many words, of course, but I knew he was thinking it.”

“Ah,” Ernest said. “The disappointed look of, I’m not going to say it, but I’m going to think it, in your general direction. Which is worse.”

“Exactly,” Kit said. “At least argue with me so I can tell him he’s wrong.”

Ernest breathed out a long line of smoke. “Yes.” She thought he was going to say something else, but when he didn’t, Kit pressed on.

“He acts like it was my fault,” she said. “Should I have known better? I—” It was a harsh thing to admit, but she and Ernest didn’t do this to lie to each other. “Yes. Fine. But he acts like I can’t be left alone now to make my own decisions. He keeps following me, hanging around.” She slouched against the wall. “My own brother thinks so little of me.”

Ernest hmmed. “Well—”

“Do not. Do not say I’m short. I’m not short. Jacques has one inch on me, Ernest. Esmé is short. I’m not short.”

“Sorry,” Ernest said, laughing.

“Say it,” she said, and pushed her elbow into his side.

“Ow—Kit, you are anything but short.”

“Thank you.” She took her elbow back. The two of them sat in silence, blowing out small circles of smoke as the cigarettes smoldered down. “What’s Frank disappointed about?”

Ernest waved his hand with the cigarette dismissively. “Frank’s disappointed he can’t find a tie that matches the custom paint in the lobby,” he said. “It doesn’t take much for him. I was five minutes late, I didn’t give him the mail on time, I missed a meeting, and he just—” He did an obviously perfect impression of Frank’s unimpressed stare.

Kit snorted. She had to admit, Frank did look like that a lot, even if you caught him in a good mood.

“If he wasn’t so difficult,” Ernest muttered, “he’d be almost bearable.”

“Wouldn’t they all,” Kit sighed. “Brothers.”

“Brothers,” Ernest agreed.

10:25 PM—The Ballroom—West Hors d’oeuvres Table

Dewey stood at the hors d’oeuvres table, away from the crowd of his friends, surveying the food. At least, with everything going on, there was always good food to look forward to. It was awful to glare at it like he was. He’d felt so good after talking to Kit, and now he was glowering at little rows of canapes like they were the source of his problems.

He wasn’t usually upset with his brothers. No matter what they did, he knew they had their reasons, and Dewey loved them regardless. But sometimes they really were impossible. Frank’s quiet temper and Ernest’s secrecy and indifference had driven such a wedge between the two of them that when Dewey suggested they didn’t talk about it, it had seemed like the best idea at the time to get them to go forward. Otherwise, he’d been worried that Frank was going to say something he’d regret, because he wasn’t going to change Ernest’s mind, and Ernest might’ve done something terrible. Dewey didn’t think he was capable of something truly terrible, because Ernest was his brother, and he knew Ernest. They both believed in a right way to live, just in different ways, so Dewey respected him. You couldn’t let anything change that. But he was still as worried about Ernest as Frank was, and he had just wanted the arguments to stop.

But it had led to Frank and Ernest almost refusing to talk to each other, ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent was pleasantries or conversations that skirted the edge of an argument, which was worse. Dewey particularly hated it lately, when he was asked to pass messages between them, typically from Frank. He wasn’t a messenger system, he was their brother, and he was, in fact, if either of them cared to remember, the oldest. But they treated him like someone to protect because he wasn’t as forceful as them. He frowned down at a section of tiny shot glasses of—he picked one up. Gazpacho. It looked so charming and Dewey couldn’t even appreciate it.

What it came down to was, the schism couldn’t come between him and his brothers if they didn’t let it. Just like his current irritation couldn’t come between him and his brothers if he didn’t let it. He considered it, because he was angry, but he didn’t let it change anything.

He found a narrow, palm-sized spoon from one of the other hors d’oeuvres and poked at the gazpacho with it. He thought, for a moment, about the Anwhistle brothers, sitting in their brand new marine research and rhetorical help center, probably having a lot of fun together talking about fungi and grammar. Gregor and Ike were two of the most different but most companionable people Dewey knew. Nothing got between them. They probably didn’t forget who was the oldest. Who was the oldest out of them, anyway? They probably didn’t let it matter.

Oh, Dewey was letting it get to him. He piled some of the gazpacho onto the spoon and took a bite. He wished Bertrand had been able to come. Bertrand would’ve loved the appeal of the gazpacho as well. Bertrand didn’t have a single sibling to complain about and he would’ve enjoyed the gazpacho wholesale. He could’ve stood around with Dewey at the table, and maybe they’d have brought in Lemony, too, and talked about flavor profiles. Lemony, who was legitimately the youngest of his siblings, commiserating over cold soup about how they never stopped trying to protect him either. Who could possibly think Lemony of all people needed protecting, too? There was always that quiet, competent energy around him.

Dewey finished the gazpacho and put the jar on a passing hotel attendant’s silver tray. Where was Lemony, actually? He was sure he’d seen him earlier. Dewey remembered, because it was the first time he’d seen Lemony in a long while. Wherever he was, Dewey was sure it was probably more enjoyable than here.

10:32 PM—The Ballroom—Dance Floor

“Josephine,” Olaf said, sidling up behind her, “Jo, angel of my eye—”

“The correct word for that expression is apple,” Josephine interrupted. She did not take her eyes off of her plate of puff pastry. “We’ve been over this.”

He continued, persistent as ever, his smile stretched like candy. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, angel of my apple?”

“No.”

10:45 PM—The Elevator

The night was passing by, and Kit still hadn’t found Frank. She’d made it all the way up to the ninth floor with no sign of him. Was he the type to be on the rooftop sunbathing salon? Unlikely. But she should check, just in case.

She had her hand against the rooftop door when the elevator dinged behind her. Kit turned to look. The elevator doors parted, revealing the gold-walled interior with rather harsh lighting, and there was Frank, standing with his hands folded behind his back. He caught Kit’s eye and gave her a slight nod. “Kit.”

“Frank.” She stepped into the elevator beside him and pushed the button for the third floor. As the doors closed, she smelled smoke for a moment, and her heart leapt before she realized the cigarette smoke must’ve clung to her gloves. She tugged them off and stuffed them into one of her pockets.

“I heard the Anwhistles finished the research center,” Frank said, as the elevator started to move down.

“Yes.”

“And the mycelium—are they still working on it?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

Frank sighed. “Do you have any concerns?”

“Some,” Kit admitted. There was no denying it was dangerous. Necessary, but catastrophic if it ever got out of hand. “If anything happens, it can be dealt with.”

“Good,” Frank said, decisively. Silence dropped through the elevator, the hand counting down the floors moving slowly from eight, to seven, to six. Frank raised an eyebrow; Kit realized she’d been staring at him. “Is something wrong?”

“I was under the impression that there was—” More, or something else entirely. It was Kit’s understanding that Frank was to give her a list. There was usually only one kind of list that mattered in their organization, and unless she had radically misjudged the ages of the Anwhistle brothers after personally knowing them for years, they wouldn’t be on that list. “—something more specific,” she wound up finishing.

Frank looked at her with his impassive, unimpressed mask. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

The hand moved again, six to five to four. Kit had the strangest sensation that she was missing something. She should’ve been given that list, not subjected to a brief interrogation, especially about something she was already aware of. The smell of smoke flitted in front of her again.

Disbelief shot through Kit like an arrow, pushing the air from her lungs. She felt like the floor was dropping out from under her. She didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t. She stared at the man in the elevator, and he stared back, cool and collected. It couldn’t be. Because that would mean—but the longer she looked, the more certain she was.

“Frank quit smoking,” she said quietly, “but you didn’t.”

The corner of his mouth turned down. “I—”

Kit slammed her hand against the stop button on the button panel, and kept her hand there, boxing him in against the wall even after the elevator had halted, the counting hand stuck between four and three.

“Don’t lie to me, Ernest.”

One Month Ago—City Headquarters

It wasn’t like there was, say, an initiation ceremony or anything. They’d been through that already, there was no need to do one again. You knew what you were getting into this time, you were just, “changing sides”. And it was so subtle that it barely mattered. Nothing about Ernest’s life really changed otherwise. He ran a hotel with his brothers. He ranked tea brands with Dewey during lunch. He played loud music in Room 784. He carried a lighter in his pocket that he used for other things. He went to headquarters, sometimes as himself, sometimes as Frank, never as Dewey. He acquired messages, and took his sweet time delivering them or delaying them, spaces of time where nothing changed, either. He almost wondered what the point had been, until he overheard Frank spout off some noble patter again. At least he wasn’t like that. At least Ernest knew better.

And since nothing had changed, no one knew. Not even the “firestarters” knew there was another one, namely because Ernest hated the name and disliked a great deal of them, but also because Frank made him be so careful about it. He thought a few people in VFD suspected, or at least suspected someone of switching, because everyone could feel something was happening and they were trying to pinpoint a source, and it was only a matter of time before someone suspected a Denouement. Triplets were naturally suspicious. But it wasn’t like they could do anything, even if they ever had proof—how often did anyone know which Denouement they were talking to, anyway? It was likely Ernest could exist like this for the rest of his life.

The thought almost stopped him on his way into the city headquarters. Day after day of calculated, performative nonsense without an end in sight. Age sagged through him. His bones were too heavy and to move them another step was impossible. He kept walking.

What had made Ernest change? That, exactly that. Change. He’d lived in VFD for practically his entire life, and nothing was different there, either. There had been no great strides made towards the nobility they all talked about, only tiny little steps that were easily set back. Ernest watched his friends and his family get sucked in by this big, dramatic fight that never ended, a fight none of them had ever initially had a part in. He’d learned that you couldn’t achieve “nobility”, whatever that even was, by a bunch of absurd spy behavior and kidnapping, or by coded messages and age-old discussions that went nowhere, or by acting like information weighed more than your life, by pretending any of that was normal. None of it did anything. Ernest was going to find some way to make something happen, to make what they’d lost worth it, and if it meant Frank thought he was a traitor, fine. He’d do it even if Frank didn’t appreciate that Ernest was doing it for him.

The note for Frank that he’d intercepted said that there was a file under the fifth floorboard of the back staircase in the city headquarters. Frank was supposed to give it to Kit.

He made his way to the back staircase. It went up to the observatory, which no one had used since Esmé burned that spot into the rug with her telescope out of protest. The corridor and the staircase were, predictably, deserted. Ernest slowly lifted the fifth board, but it came away without resistance, so he pulled it up all the way and saw the slim folder waiting inside. He took it out, replaced the floorboard, and sat down at the bottom of the stairs. He opened it.

He wanted to crumple the folder in his hands but he made himself breathe and look at it. It was the upcoming recruitment list. There were some he recognized faintly, distant associates, long-lived families in VFD, but a majority of the names he’d never seen before. New families to carve apart. He flipped through the pages—addresses, dates, times. A few photographs. Ernest closed his eyes and held them shut tight. When he opened them, he was still looking at the folder.

Of course none of it mattered, he thought bitterly, shoving the folder into his jacket. He could intercept or stop a thousand messages and there would still always be more. There would always be more children, more fires, more lies, and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stop it.

Ernest leaned the side of his head against the banister. He thought about Olaf, suddenly. He’d been trying to corner everyone lately, Ernest among them, talking his ear off about big ideas that Ernest agreed with, but Olaf had a habit of taking an age to follow through with them. Ernest did not have the time to wait an age. He’d shared some information with Olaf a few times, on the off chance that it would spur him into action, but Olaf had hidden it away, for “later”, and it obviously had not helped.

Maybe the only way you could fight a long game was to play the long game back. Maybe that was what Olaf was doing. He was on to something, at least, with his words. Maybe Ernest could try again. Maybe he could learn to wait. Maybe the payoff would be worth it. Maybe.

Ernest stood up. He didn’t at all feel like going home, but he wasn’t going to stay at headquarters any longer.

The staircase creaked. When he looked up, he saw Lemony Snicket at the top by the observatory door, standing like he’d always been there.

“What are you doing up there?” Ernest asked.

Lemony watched him carefully. Ernest got the distinct feeling that he was being appraised. He shivered. When they were younger, you could look at Lemony and see the gears working in his head, like watching—yes, like watching change take shape and form and meaning before your eyes. Lemony Snicket was going to do anything, lead them all anywhere. Ernest hadn’t been foolish enough to believe a twelve-year-old in a brown hat was going to demolish VFD from the ground up. Then Lemony had disappeared, and in the years after resurfacing at sixteen, he looked less and less like that powerful, mythical figure everyone had worshiped and more like he’d seen too much. Ernest sympathized.

But here, Ernest finally saw it, that hunger they’d all talked about. In his eyes, bright blue in the shadows. Physical change, a juggernaut of determination. Ernest’s breath caught in his throat.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Lemony said softly. “Do you think we could talk?”

10:50 PM—The Elevator

Damn.

The disbelief on Kit’s face was gone, replaced by a blazing, dangerous fury, the threatening and exacting professionalism she hid inside her on full display. She wasn’t all that short, Ernest thought, inanely. He wasn’t going to be able to bluff out of this one. She knew. It was significantly more terrifying than Ernest had imagined it would be. How stupid could he have been, to forget about the way that cigarette smoke would cling, to think Kit Snicket wouldn’t notice. “Kit—”

“How long?” Kit demanded.

“Does it matter?”

He could see that it very, very much did. Kit was already disgusted over dating Olaf; that she’d spent so much time with Ernest when he wasn’t on her side was going to eat her alive, Ernest knew. He winced.

“It wasn’t personal,” he tried.

She glared at him. “What were the names Frank was supposed to give me?”

That, he was going to hold on to. They’d already burned the papers, anyway, up in the observatory. No one was going to get that list now. “I guess you’ll never know,” Ernest said.

Her hand clenched on the button panel. She stepped closer. For a wild and uncontrollable second that seemed to spin out into eternity, Ernest imagined she was going to kill him.

“The elevator is going to start again,” she said lowly. “We’re going to walk out into the lobby. You’re not going to make a sound. We’re going to go to headquarters.”

Ernest didn’t like what he was going to do next. But he was always going to have the upper hand for one distinct reason.

He swallowed and straightened the edge of his sleeve. “Who’s going to believe you, Kit?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Regrettably for you, I am at a distinct advantage,” Ernest said. “You and I are the only two people in this elevator. You did think I was Frank. Who will be able to figure out who was who when you try and tell on me? Who can really know for sure?” He hesitated, but it was true. “Why, I could be Dewey, even.”

Kit slapped him across the face, her cheeks flushed a fierce red. The force of it stung hard, knocking Ernest’s head to the side. She removed her hand from the wall and stepped back.

“Does it help if I’m sorry?” he asked, gingerly rubbing the side of his face.

“You aren’t,” Kit said.

Ultimately, it was true. He wasn’t. He was sorry he’d been caught more than that he’d done it. Ernest regretted nothing about what he’d decided to do. Not in his line of work; and Kit was the same, too. But he was sorry he was going to lose a friend.

Kit didn’t have friends, though. You were with or against Kit Snicket, and she always made that abundantly clear. Ernest touched his cheek again, and then lowered his hand.

“I’m not,” he said. He took the elevator key out of his pocket and put it into the lock on the button panel, watching Kit the whole time. She watched him back. The elevator slid into motion, settling down on the third floor.

The doors opened.

11:00 PM—The Ballroom—East Drink Table

“Who?” Jacques asked.

Kit turned slowly back to the dance floor. Was one of them still here? Had she been followed out of the elevator? She locked eyes with a Denouement across the room. Which one? Was it Frank? Was it Ernest, again? Was it Dewey? The clock was still rumbling under her feet. The glass trembled in her hand and she felt almost sick, anger and shame and fear churning through her. She was in a nightmare and she couldn’t shake it off. The triplet held her eyes for a long moment and then walked away.

“Kit.” Jacques had a hand on her arm; he must’ve gotten out of the boxwood. “Who?”

But she couldn’t get the words out, not here. Ernest was right. She was at a disadvantage when she couldn’t prove it. If she pointed the finger now, what would be done? What could be done? How could he do that to Dewey and Frank? To put them in the position where they’d unknowingly cover for him merely by existing? Did they know at all?

What would she do if her own brothers—no. She couldn’t even think it. Kit couldn’t fathom the idea of her brothers doing anything like this.

“We have to find Lemony,” Kit said.

11:02 PM—The Ballroom—Main Doors

Frank still couldn’t find Ernest. He did not have the time for him to be hiding like a child; where was he? Frank had looked everywhere over and over and was back in the same ballroom again, scanning through the associates for what had to be the hundredth time. He caught Kit’s eye—and stopped.

There was cold and intense fear looking back at him. It was unbearable to have it directed at him, and Frank turned away after a few seconds.

Ernest. A thousand possibilities ran through Frank’s head, each of them worse than the last. He had had enough. Frank strode towards the main doors, just as he saw Ernest making his way out of them as fast as possible. Finally. Frank followed him out into the hallway and grabbed onto Ernest’s arm, whirling him around.

“I asked one thing of you tonight,” Frank said.

“Don’t do anything rash,” Ernest repeated. He wrenched his arm out of Frank’s grasp and put his hands in his pockets. “And I didn’t, thank you.”

“Apparently I wasn’t specific enough,” Frank said. “When I said that, I clearly meant, don’t do anything stupid that’s going to compromise the family and our position in it. What information have you been giving Olaf?”

“Who said I was?”

“Olaf.”

“You know, that hurts a little, that you’d believe Olaf over me.”

Frank’s jaw clenched. Fine. Olaf was less important, anyway. “Then what did you do to Kit?”

Ernest raised an eyebrow. “Did I do anything?”

It was agonizing, seeing such a carefully blank mask on your own face staring back at you. Frank didn’t hate him, but he came close. “What have you done, Ernest? Do not lie to me.”

Something fractured through Ernest’s expression. “I just—miscalculated,” he muttered. “She found out.”

“She found out?” Frank echoed, his heart skittering in his chest. It had finally happened, and Frank couldn’t protect Ernest this time. Kit wouldn’t keep this a secret, not by a long shot. By morning—by midnight, because nearly the whole organization was already here—everyone would know. And Ernest didn’t seem the least bit concerned about it. “Ernest—”

“It’s fine,” Ernest said coolly. “Considering she can’t prove it.”

The world detached from Frank’s consciousness. Kit’s fear made a sudden, terrible sense. Ernest had used him as a shield between himself and the organization, on purpose, he’d positioned Frank and Dewey as pawns whose only use was whatever Ernest wanted. Frank could feel his hands shaking. They didn’t feel like his hands.

Ernest sighed. “Don’t look like that,” he said. “You’ve pretended to be me, that’s the only way you would’ve found out about Olaf. Don’t act like you didn’t use our face as an advantage too. That’s what we do. That’s what this family does.”

Anger burned through Frank, hot behind his eyes. That had been different. A sharp fury that had been building somewhere inside him all night snapped apart. “You are not a part of this family.”

He regretted saying it the second the words were out. Of course Ernest was still his brother. That was an immutable fact. But Frank was so tired of trying to hold onto Ernest when Ernest so blatantly didn’t care. He wasn’t looking at family, he was looking at a stranger, who stole his face, who used his name, who threw it around like it meant nothing, who denied everything noble and proper and real. It wasn’t how a brother was supposed to act. But it was how Ernest acted, and now Ernest was staring at him with an open, wounded expression, something Frank hadn’t seen since they were children.

Frank ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t—”

“No.” Ernest’s jaw trembled for a second, his mouth pressing into a thin, flat line. “I don’t think I am.” He took one step back, a hard glare in his eyes, and then walked away from Frank.

11:20 PM—The Rooftop Sunbathing Salon

Ernest hadn’t figured on Frank being angry, because, primarily, he hadn’t figured on Frank finding out at all. He hadn’t figured on Kit realizing what he was doing, either. Well, that was on him, but Frank didn’t need to be so—he didn’t have to say—

Shit, Ernest thought, breathing hard. He came to a stop in the dark, empty hallway some floors up from the ballroom and let himself think it, pressing his palms into his eyes. Shit, shit, shit. He’d have a brother after this, sure, a family member who stood by him and ran a hotel with him and played nice, but he didn’t know if he’d have his brother. He would have an associate, like everyone else, a found family of people who loved on conditions, not a family. Not his family.

He had to find Lemony. Just because he’d been hiding all night didn’t mean he was exempt from this.

Lemony disliked heights, open spaces, and decently-sized bodies of water, which was why Ernest found him on the roof, sitting on one of the pool chairs, his mask discarded beside him. He was studiously avoiding looking at the pool or the ocean or the night sky, dark and enormous above him. The rooftop salon was never used at night, but there were small lights along the edge of the pool and the railing, giving off slivers of stark white light. The brief anger Ernest felt downstairs evaporated the longer he watched Lemony not-watching the world around him. He wanted to say a million and one things to him, but the one that came out was, “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“What do you know about exposure therapy?” Lemony offered as a response.

“Enough to know you probably shouldn’t use it for heights,” Ernest said. “Among other things.”

“Point taken,” Lemony said. “What would you say if I told you I was now too frightened to move?”

“That you brought it on yourself,” Ernest said, but he didn’t mean it. He walked over and sat next to Lemony on the pool chair. Ernest stole a quick glance at him again, brief and fleeting. To look consistently was dangerous; Ernest always had to make a distinct effort not to touch.

“Your sister found out,” he said. “Not about you, but about me. She also hit me.”

Lemony’s head shot up. “What?” He reached out, his fingertips lightly brushing Ernest’s jaw as he turned his face towards him. They trailed warm over his right cheek, where his skin still smarted from Kit’s hand. Here in the dark, Lemony’s eyes were so bright again, full of concern, directed right at him. Ernest held himself so still, barely breathing.

Falling in love, if you could call it that, with Lemony was what Ernest personally considered the most ill-advised thing he’d ever done, even after lying to Kit. Lemony loved other people, and it was clear in everything he did, in the way he looked when they weren’t there. But Lemony understood what Ernest wanted, and Ernest craved that with a destructive ache.

Really, who else were they supposed to fall in love with but each other? They didn’t know anyone else. No one was going to get this life but them. It was probably why half of VFD had a crush on Beatrice, honestly. It was terrible, but none of them seemed to be able to stop doing it. Ernest included.

“You—” Lemony’s hand jerked back, shrinking down between them onto the chair. “What happened?”

“She knew I lied,” Ernest said. “About the information and about being Frank. I got out of it, but—she won’t trust us again, I think. And Frank—probably won’t trust me either.”

“I’m sorry,” Lemony said. “I didn’t mean for—”

Ernest shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. It wasn’t. He and Lemony had both just wanted something, desperately. Ultimately, they’d still succeeded, in the end. They had. Change he could hold in his hands had happened. He still felt hollow about it all, everything drained out of him, but he didn’t regret doing it. Not at all. The hurt would go away and he’d do it again. “What we did—that mattered.”

“It did,” Lemony whispered. “But I never like the cost.”

“Why did you do it?” Ernest asked softly.

Lemony smiled ruefully. “I guess I didn’t want to stop trying.”

The real, noble answer, Ernest thought. Why the “firestarters” and Ernest would never get him. He raised his hand. Slowly, without looking, he put it on top of Lemony’s. Lemony turned his hand over and gripped Ernest’s tightly. He knew that the way Lemony would try from this moment forward would be different than the way Ernest would, and he wanted to have this moment while it lasted.

Ernest stood, tugging Lemony up with him, and let go of his hand. “You should go back downstairs,” he said.

11:30 PM—The Ballroom—South Drink Table

The party would be over soon, but you’d never know it, the ballroom still thronging with people. But most of the dancing had died down, and Dewey was taking mental stock of how clean up would start. He found one of the attendant’s silver trays and picked it up, estimating how many glasses he could fit on it.

Frank came back into the ballroom and made a beeline for him, pale. Dewey’s shoulders tensed up yet again. What had happened now?

“I can’t believe it,” Frank muttered, grabbing a wineglass.

“Whoa, hey, hold on.” Dewey took the wineglass back and set it off to the side. “What happened?”

“He—” Which meant it was Ernest. Again. Dewey’s patience with both his brothers tonight was wearing extraordinarily thin. “He’s been passing information to Olaf this whole time.”

“To Olaf?” That was not what Dewey had been expecting. A flare of worry burned through him and curled his hands around the tray. “But—”

“No,” Frank said. “This time, I’ve had enough. I’m tired of covering up for him, and he’s going to have to deal with this mess himself.”

Olaf was certainly a threat in one way or another, but it seemed a disproportionately vicious answer for Frank. Dewey frowned. “Did something else happen?”

Frank looked so—frantic, was maybe the word, a terrifying energy breaking out of him in quick bursts of anger on his face. He looked at Dewey, and the emotion seemed to cage itself back in.

“He was found out,” Frank said quietly. “About being a firestarter.”

Dewey had counted on it happening. It seemed unlikely that it would be able to remain a secret forever. It still hurt to hear. Things wouldn’t be the same as they had been, if people knew about Ernest. Dewey imagined the division between the three of them only growing larger, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to do anything about it if it got too wide.

Something broke in Frank’s expression again, and Dewey startled—it looked like guilt. “Don’t defend him,” Frank hissed. “Dewey, he’s going to get away with it. He’s going to ruin what we’ve worked for, what you’ve worked for in the archives—do you want all of that information in the hands of the enemy?”

Dewey clutched the tray. “Ernest isn’t the enemy,” he said, darkly. The agitation from earlier at the hors d’oeuvres table shot back into him.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Frank said. “I—”

Dewey slammed the silver plate down on the drink table. A real, genuine slam, like he’d never done before, the glasses around it rattling. Frank stared at him, gaping a little.

“He’s still here,” Dewey said. “That’s enough.”

“Dewey—”

“That is enough.”

12:00 AM—The Lobby

Jacques had never seen Kit so unsettled. Even when she’d been arrested she’d kept her composure. But she stood beside him in the empty lobby, tapping her foot against the floor, her arms crossed over her chest. He still couldn’t get out of her what had happened, but it was obvious from her face in the ballroom that whoever betrayed them had to be one of the Denouements. It was a sobering realization, the worst possible outcome of the schism that had been building for too long. One of three identical triplets being a traitor complicated matters, although it was easy to figure out which one it was that had done it. Things were going to change after tonight.

He took a small, brief moment to appreciate that Kit actually wanted to stand next to him and acknowledge him as her brother. Lately, he’d gotten the impression that she couldn’t stand him. But now she needed him, and it was a relief to Jacques to still be needed by his siblings. He never thought he did that successful a job of managing to keep them all together.

The elevator dinged, and Lemony stepped out, adjusting his jacket. The only evidence he’d been at the costume party was the mask tucked under his arm, because his suit was as plain as ever.

“Finally,” Kit muttered, and she ran over to him, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly, something none of the siblings had done since they were children.

Lemony froze, and then hugged her back. He met Jacques’s eyes across the lobby.

Jacques knew it, immediately. Lemony had played a part in what had happened tonight with Ernest. It shouldn’t have surprised Jacques as much as it did. Lemony had held a perilous position in the organization for years now, and this wasn’t the first time he had wound up disagreeing with Kit about recruitment. But it was the first time it had involved other people. That made it dangerous.

Lemony shook his head a fraction of an inch. Part of Jacques relaxed. The three of them might still be okay. He wondered, with a slight jolt, how the Denouements would fare.

Kit pulled away from Lemony. “Where were you?”

“Did you know the rooftop sunbathing salon has night lights?” Lemony said. Jacques couldn’t help but chuckle as he walked over to his siblings. “Very pleasant. I recommend it.”

Kit rolled her eyes, and she led Jacques and Lemony through the lobby and out of the hotel.

“I’ll drive you both back,” Jacques said. “It’s on my way.”

“You brought the taxi?” Lemony asked.

“Regrettably,” Jacques sighed. “I still seem to have it.” Headquarters refused to take it back for some reason, even after Jacques insisted he didn’t need it. It had been six months since the initial assignment with it and he was still driving it, and probably would be, for the foreseeable future. He took his keys out of his pocket.

“I’ll drive,” Kit said.

“You will not drive,” Jacques said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly,” Kit said, snatching the keys out of his hand and walking briskly out of his reach. “Jacques, did you say something about hives? There aren’t any bees nearby.”

“Trees?” Lemony said. He jogged ahead a little and caught up with Kit’s pace. “They do look particularly lush this time of year, now that you mention it.”

“No one is in a rush, and Kit, give me my keys you are not going to drive—” His siblings raced ahead of him down the front drive, and Jacques ran after them into the night.

1:55 AM—The Ballroom

Olivia and Ramona stayed on to help the Denouements clean up. Ramona had insisted, saying that it was no trouble at all, and she owed them for being so kind to host the party. She was very good at insisting; Olivia had never seen anyone able to resist the charm of Ramona cheerfully demanding she was going to help and they were going to have to deal with it. She hid her smile in the champagne flutes she was stacking on a tray as Ramona talked with one of the triplets on the other side of the ballroom. She picked up the one rimmed with half-rings of Ramona’s deep plum lipstick and giggled.

She’d have to tell Ramona about what Jacques told her, of course. But for once, Olivia wasn’t all that worried about dealing with it. It had been an extraordinarily pleasant night otherwise. Ramona was happy, some of the glow back in her face, so Olivia was happy too.

All the glasses were stacked, the plates piled together, the tablecloths folded up, the lights finally dimmed. There was only one Denouement left in the room, and he stopped Olivia and Ramona on their way out. “Olivia, could I speak with you?”

“Of course,” Olivia said.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Ramona said, squeezing her hand, and she disappeared down the hallway, the hem of her dress sweeping the floor behind her.

Some people expected Olivia to be able to tell the Denouements apart, and some people expected her to be as clueless as most others as to who she was talking to. It wasn’t terribly hard to tell them apart, because Olivia liked to pay attention, but what she could never remember what when she was supposed to know and when she wasn’t. Here, she knew the one in front of her was Frank, most definitely. There was a weight to the way Frank carried himself, not like he assumed he was in control, but like he assumed he had to be.

“What is it, Frank?” Olivia asked.

He hesitated, which was rare for Frank. “When was the last time you saw Miranda?”

Olivia blinked. Had she misheard him? “What?”

“Miranda,” Frank said again. She hadn’t misheard. “When was the last time you saw her?”

Miranda?

“I—I don’t know,” she said quickly. “I—” When was the last time she saw Miranda? Years and years ago, wasn’t it? Shortly after they’d been taken. Olivia hadn’t minded. Miranda was older than her, not by much but by enough, and enough that they weren’t kept together. Miranda had thought it a chore to look after her, and Olivia hadn’t liked being seen as a chore. She wanted a sister, not a babysitter. So she’d been okay when Miranda was gone. They went to different classes, made different friends, passed each other in the hall without saying a word until their apprenticeships, where Olivia was shuffled around from chaperone to chaperone and Miranda—went where? What had become of her?

The questions spun through her head, dizzying, but they kept coming. What did Miranda look like, now that she thought of it? Had she looked like Olivia at all? Would she recognize her own sibling, like she could easily identify the Denouements? Would she know Miranda if she saw her in a meeting, on the street, at one of these parties, if she was an enemy? But what made a person wasn’t appearance—how did Miranda act? What made Miranda, in the way Frank’s quiet made him? How could she not know what made her sister? Miranda was her sister and it hit Olivia, squarely in the chest, that she didn’t know a single thing about her.

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, her gaze darting across the floor. How had she gone all this time without thinking about her? How could she not know? How much had she forgotten?

“I’m sorry I asked,” Frank was saying. “Olivia. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Olivia whispered. She took one step back, then another, almost hitting the edge of her dress with the point of her heel, and another, then made herself turn around and leave, back downstairs, through the lobby, anywhere else but there.

Olivia hurried out into the night with the front doors banging open after her; the humid air was sticky on her skin, sitting heavy in her lungs as she tried to inhale. She saw Ramona past the front archway, leaned back against her car a way down the front drive, her shoes beside her and her feet in the grass, the shape of her soft and fuzzy in the heat. Olivia tore off her mask and scrubbed her hand over her eyes, wiping the tears on the side of her dress.

There was a weight on her shoulders, more than just the heat. She had the horrible sense that she was going to turn around and see Miranda. Olivia wanted to leave. She wanted to leave the city, she wanted to go somewhere she’d be away from this. She wanted to take Ramona—would Ramona go with her? She had her own things to care about besides the violent anxiety shaking Olivia from the inside out. She had a duchy to take care of. She didn’t deserve to have to deal with Olivia.

We’d like you to take up the outpost at Caligari Carnival. The carnival was miles from the city, out in the hinterlands, flat and desolate blankness. Maybe she should go. Maybe that would be better. She would be away from the city and be one place where no one had to bother her and she couldn’t bother anyone else. Maybe.

Olivia squeezed her eyes shut again, and when she opened them the tears were gone and Ramona came into focus, all of her slender and beautiful in the moonlight. Olivia ached to look at her.

She went over to Ramona and slid her hand into hers, tucking her face into the smooth skin of Ramona’s shoulder. “I want to go somewhere else,” she whispered.

“Hey,” Ramona said, her other arm coming up and folding around Olivia, drawing her close. “We can go anywhere you want.”

Behind her, through the open front doors, Olivia heard the hotel clock starting to chime again.

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events #lemony snicket #jacques snicket #kit snicket #frank denouement #dewey denouement #ernest denouement

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