#I just have vague ideas set in stone from public consciousness it is such a weird way to interact with media

[repurposedmeatlocker]

I never watched Family Guy and never really plan to, but I can't lie guys. Clips of those cutaway gags kind of get me.

[sethrine-writes]

Of Little Concequence

Pairing: Vergil x Reader

Words: 1331

Warnings: Kidnapping, slight injury, lacklustre writing

A/N: Honestly, been struggling to write anything, so this is a surprise in and of itself. Took me way too long to get even this out, so take it at face value, mkay?

Again, sorry for not having a read more - posting from mobile.

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Drip

Drip

Drip

Every three seconds, water dripped from somewhere within the dungeon-like room you were being held in. Like clockwork, it kept a steady tempo, the silence broken with every third count by a tiny drop landing upon perpetually wet concrete. Every tenth count, another sharper echo of a drip would sound somewhere else within the room, sometimes catching you off-guard and throwing your rhythm off for several beats after.

For some, the drip would have probably already made them stir-crazy within a few minutes, but it was the only thing keeping you grounded. It was the only sound that broke the silence enough to keep the paranoia at bay, the only sound that kept you from completely losing your cool and being forced into the unending quiet that had become your holding cell.

How long had you been there, arms chained high above your head as you knelt against the grimy, uneven stone ground? Long enough that the pain in your battered face and along your bruised body had become more of a throbbing sting and the taste of copper long spat out from your mouth, but not so long as to have the swelling lessen from around your left eye. Too long, and yet, not long enough to suit your purpose.

Whoever the jerks were that had taken you hostage had done quite the number, unfortunately. They were after the brothers, you knew, or at least wanted to send them on a wild goose chase with you as the rescue prize before attempting to use them in some sort of ritual – that much, at least, you were able to gather from hushed whispers and demanding orders amongst the few you had encountered.

Why was it that Sparda's blood was so damn popular amongst both demons and humans?

Drip

Drip-drip

Drip

You remembered the night you were taken away, how happy you had been after your lovely night out with Vergil.

He'd been so casual the whole evening, almost carefree in a way that the more emotionally disciplined of the two brothers usually wasn't. Not to say that he was heartless in any way; he may have done many things in the past that were horrible, but it was the only thing he had known, at the time, and he was slowly making up for the damage, both what he had caused and what had happened to him.

It had taken no small amount of effort and patience, but Vergil was beginning to open up for what was probably the first time since his childhood, and it was a lovely change.

He smiled more, for starters, small upturns at the corners of his lips that lasted the more amused he became. In your company, he began to seek out the touch of your hand in his in more public settings, touching your cheek in such a reverent way when more privacy was allotted.

When he had walked you home the night you were ambushed, Vergil had kissed you goodnight, a soft, tender parting that spanned no more than five second but felt like forever in such a beautiful way.

He left with the promise of meeting you for lunch the following day, should no immediate jobs pop up. You remember smiling serenely as your eyes followed his departure until he disappeared down the block, gaze soft and lips still tingling from the gentle contact of his own just moments before.

You were attacked before you could even close your front door behind you, and though you put a valiant effort in fighting off your assailants, they had the upper hand as well as the means to knock you out cold. When you awoke, it was to the same wet, grimy walls that garnered as your prison, the throbbing ache of your head a testament to the pain you would soon endure on the horizon.

In hindsight, calling them all cowards for having to gang up on one person probably wasn’t the greatest idea. They were quick to shut you up with harsh fists and a promise of more, should you continue to step out of line.

You stayed quiet after that, and in turn, they left you alone, for the most part, taking turns to keep watch somewhere close to your cell and antagonize you with their words, perhaps a slap, if they were feeling antsy.

Cowards.

Drip

Drip

Tnk, tnk, tnk

The sound of footsteps interrupted the rhythm of drips rather suddenly, sharp and consistent taps that became louder and louder. There was a pause in their pace, and then the steps were all but echoing within your holding cell, a chance visitor who wanted their chance to mock your position.

You did your best to seem asleep, keeping your head down and breaths as even as possible, though you could do nothing to hide the tremor that wracked your body. It was a defensive motion, a means to ready yourself for whatever was about to happen.

The touch to the swollen side of your face was unexpected, however, the action causing you to flinch away from the contact. Whoever was there before you was adamant on gaining your attention, it seemed, as a hand came to the opposite cheek, pressing gently into the skin until you were made to look at the man kneeling before you.

You stared for a long moment in confusion, then utter relief as your mind caught up to you.

“Vergil,” you breathed, damn near ready to cry at just seeing him there, ice-blue eyes fierce and seething, and a frown marring his handsome face.

His gaze roamed over your features, lingering on the swelling of your eye and upper cheek where he had previously touched.

“Who did this?” he asked, the question leaving no room for anything but a direct answer you couldn’t rightfully provide.

“I th-think…maybe a cult,” you stuttered over your reply, “but I don't know. They got me right after our night out. I barely got through the front door.”

Vergil's eyes seemed to harden considerably, and you were suddenly spewing apologies for being caught, for not fighting back harder, for missing out on your lunch date the following day. Immediately, his gaze gentled, an assurance that his anger was not directed at you, of course not.

“I should have walked you inside,” he lamented, leaning in until his forehead touched yours. “It was…foolish of me to be so careless.”

“We didn't know,” you assured, attempting to reach out, instead rattling the chains holding you up.

Vergil pulled away to look at your bindings, standing once more and reaching for the Yamato at his hip. As if your chains were merely made of butter, the demonic blade cut through the metal with ease. You were but a ragdoll as gravity took hold of your aching body, the only thing stopping you from fully hitting the ground being Vergil's lightning quick reflexes.

“Can you stand?”

“Not for very long, I don’t think.”

“Very well.”

Vergil's hands were shifting along your body, and then the world was suddenly spinning and tipping on its axis as you were hoisted effortlessly into his arms. You made a small sound of distress as previously forgotten aches made themselves known, but settled against the familiar warmth of Vergil's chest as he carried you out of the cell.

From that point, things became fuzzy as you drifted in and out of consciousness, your exhaustion finally catching up to you now that your mind was at ease. Vaguely, you remembered seeing Dante at some point, then cringing as the sun's light burned through your eyelids and forced you to peer up at the man holding you close.

“Rest,” he urged gently as he caught your bleary stare, “everything’s been taken care of.”

You sighed as you turned into his hold, shielding your eyes from the light of a new day.

The blood streaking across Vergil's pale face was of little worry to your tired, relieved mind, anyhow.

[nny11writes]

13, 16, 18, 43 and 50 for tha ask game please and thank you :P Just, many many numbers lol

13. What is your planning process?

My first reaction was to squint and go “Do I have a process?” which is probably an answer on its own lol!

It depends is the actual answer.

Like most writers I start a fic because of one scene or dialogue or description that I really, really, really wanted to write and then I have to figure out where it belongs.

I almost always start by just...writing. I used to be 100% stream of consciousness writer. I’d sit down at least once a day with a blank document and without ANY forethought or direction I’d start writing a fic. It was always as much fun for me as my readers to see where a story would go because I literally had no clue.

These days, as I’m putting THE THING down on the page my brain is shrieking ideas at me so I start slapping them down too, but I’ve got a better filter so not everything goes down. There’s a lot of [WHAT IS THIS THING PLS PLS FIGURE IT OUT] and [PAST OR PRESENT TENSE MF MAKE UP YO MIND] at this stage.

This is where I actually start planning. I’ve got a bunch of stuff down, a vague direction, and a lot of ideas so this is usually where I sit down to do some planning. Am I aiming to write a short fic or long fic, one shot or multi-chapter, where are we, how many characters, etc. I leave things pretty wide open, while sometimes it’s fun to challenge myself to meet very specific goals it’s usually frustrating to me so nothing is set in stone. Literally. Even when I’ve posted if someone leaves a comment that’s amazing or enough people liked it I’ll usually try to write more in that fic or another fic with those ideas.

How To Quit You is a great example of how my loosey goosey planning works. I don’t know if people realize but that fic was originally supposed to be ONLY that first chapter. I wrote it in an hour tops for 2019 glitra week and all I knew at that point was I wanted to do a western with some romance tropes to it (hence the exes who still love each other thing).

Once I realized how many people seemed to love it and wanted to see more I sat down and planned it out. I first decided how I wanted to write the story (hence going back in time ~15 years) and then I created chapter titles and had vague descriptions for them.  Once it was all down I went through it again and made adjustments, then created a timeline (Micah died in 1868, they meet in 1870, Catra works BMR rails 1870-1880 min, etc etc). And that’s it.  I made an outline and used it as my idea bouncing ground and map and huge parts of it have changed as we’ve gone along. Catra was going to become a drunkard out in [REDACTED] after the timeline met up with chapter one. I scrapped that because it didn’t fit with other details and changes I’d made. I re-wrote the chapter and now I gotta scrap that and re-write it again do to reasons that would spoilers.

Let’s Try This Again is another hilarious example, because chapters 1-6 were meticulously planned and I charted out a whole story around them that I was going to stick to damn it all! And then Palpatine hip checked me and changed the course of the story. I still included a lot from my original VERY detailed outline, but some chapters were nixed completely and others added in too sooooo...

I’m not a true pantser because I do some planning, but I’m not a planner because I leave huge chucks practically up to the whims of fate. I’m a plantser.

16. Do you use sentence starters, writing prompts and/or fandom headcanons for your fanfics?

Sometimes! 

I think some of my best works are from prompts (WHICH ARE ALWAYS OPEN, HINT HINT, NUDGE NUDGE, KNOW WHAT I MEAN KNOW WHAT I MEAN) specifically.

I rarely use sentence starters but I think I’ve done okay when I did.

But fandom headcanons? Oh hell yeah baby now we’re talking!

Can Anakin cook but Padme can’t? Hell yeah!

Togruta have some cat like features so Ahsoka is obligate carnivore and color blind? WOOOOOOOO BOYYYYYYYYYYYY!

"This is not because I like you.” is 100% something that everyone in the Horde says when trying to cover their asses, Catra’s just a useless lesbian and has to use it A Lot More Than Most. Awwwwww yeah, that’s the good stuff!

Glimmer and Catra talk to one another but only have serious conversations sitting back to back post canon. I DON’T MAKE THE RULES!

Like, god, fandom headcanon is practically what my fics live on lol! I’m not great at writing things in canon or sticking to canon, and people are amazing and smart so of course I’m going to steal their cool ideas and then mess with them until they’re my own.

18. What is your favorite writing prompt?

...I gotta be honest I have no clue lol. I’ve liked basically every prompt I’ve ever gotten (there’s literally only been 2 that I got and went “...oh.” and of those two I was able to bend the prompt into things I liked a lot! One of them is actually posted and people like it, and then other is currently sitting in the naughty prompt corner for crimes of FIGHTING ME TO A STANDSTILL every time I write a few sentences for it, but I do actually like it now lol).

I think my favorite style of prompt are ones that are open for some interpretation. You know that joke about you know a writer based on how they respond to a one word prompt like “fall” or “cold” or even “love”? I love that kind of stuff! Heck, even things with a more narrow focus are fun to play with. For one of my prompt fics I was able to flip the script and have the character everyone expects the unrequited pining from to instead be the unattainable beloved instead.

*Marge potato meme* I just think they’re neat!

43. Guilty pleasure tropes and scenarios?

None, because I am very loud about what I enjoy and refuse to have things I enjoy ripped away by strangers on the interwebs.

Okay, more seriously, as far as things that others might think are guilty pleasure tropes and scenarios?

I love a good “morons to repressed idiots to lovers” slow burn. Yes, yesssss, let them be absolute fools and make MASSIVE mistakes that they have no reason to make. There was a miscommunication? Delightful! Oh look, they’re both flirting with one another but think the other one is just joking around with them. I WILL TAKE ANOTHER 200K OF THEM SUFFERING THANK YOU!

I love AUs man, every time I see someone who really hates coffee shop AUs or highschool AUs or modern AUs I end up getting grumpy and I go find some of those AUs to read because I love them. The AUs I love the most change fandom to fandom. Not a huge fan of modern AU for star wars, but an absolute slut for them in She Ra. Palpatine chokes on a bagel and I live, but if that happened to Horde Prime I’d be pissed. *shrug* I just know that some people really don’t like or even outright hate AUs, and I do not understand them at all. Like, good for them and I hope they find the fics they do enjoy! But also, why???????

I think my “cringiest” one is that I actually really like A/B/O as long as they flip the script somehow or delve into how something like that would actually effect the world it exists in. Is sex in public a common and acceptable thing b/c they can’t control themselves? Do jobs and schools give people time off for heats and ruts? Is it considered antiquated and anyone who struggles with their biology is considered lazy or stupid? Do celebrities sometimes get in trouble with fans or even lose their jobs/prestige after showing off their new mating mark? GIVE ME THE WORLD BUILDING I WANT TO KNOW! But if it’s a really boring traditional A/B/O...like, what’s the point there? 

Please don’t misunderstand me here. These three examples are all things that are WILDLY stupid in their own rights, and I love them dearly both because of and regardless of that!

50. Can we get a teaser for an upcoming chapter?

It’s All Fun and Games Until...Stop! Stop! We’re Already Gay!

AKA the one where they all go to Mystacor to relax in the steam grotto and have to deal with seeing one another in tight fitting and wet underwear. The thirst is high.

“So…” Bow started conversationally as Sea Hawk put the finishing touches on Bow’s freshly painted nails. “How doomed are they? Are we making bets?”

Mermista and Sea Hawk made significant eye contact before looking at him pitifully. 

“What?” Bow asked, starting to sweat nervously. “What!?”

“Nothing, just-” Sea Hawk didn’t even get to finish.

“You need to get your girlfriend to get her girlfriends under control, and like, I knooooow that’s a tall order or whatever. But uuuuuuuuugggggghhh, we are going to die.”

“Girlfriend!?” Bow’s voice cracked painfully. “Ha! A-ha! Ha! W-who? I don’t, I don’t have a girlfriend, what are you even talking about?”

“Uuuuuggggggghh!”

“There, there my dear. We have survived worse.”

[aliceslantern]

Retribution, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 5

Newly a person again, Ienzo is weighed down by guilt and his humanity. He's prepared to do whatever it takes to atone... only to find unexpected solace in a familiar face. With more insight into the bonds between people than ever before, Ienzo reaches for a dangerous element from the past to help Kairi and Riku in their search for Sora. What is his life if it means saving another, brighter light?

Chapter summary:  Ienzo tries to make humanity his new project, with limited success.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

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Ienzo tried to do as Even said. He took the pills--one in the morning, one at night. He set a timer and forced himself to eat every four hours, though he had little appetite. The weight he’d lost from his heavy magic use began to come back on. He no longer felt so dizzy or achy.

But the anti-anxiety medication made him feel a bit foggy, a bit dissociative. He passed the time reading about it. For the first time in months, Ienzo visited the library for the sake of fiction, and spent a pleasurable few days rereading an old childhood favorite.

He tried to write and reflect as to what this whole experience had taught him, but found himself staring at blank pages, blank screens. Was he not ready, to delve into this mess? Or did he have nothing of insight to say?

This abandoned, Ienzo went outside.

It was summer now, and very warm, the bright light a shock to his tender eyes. He suspected he was beginning to need glasses, no doubt an accumulation of years in front of pages and screens. He saw children playing in the streets, groups of friends, a young couple or two with their hands linked. Compared to the empty, massive castle, Radiant Garden felt full of life.

Nobody seemed to recognize him, and for this he was grateful. He kept walking, letting his mind wander, eavesdropping idly and taking in the colors and smells, all of it too much in a good way. He walked, he drifted. Without consciously realizing it, he’d brought himself to the cemetery.

It was well-kept, despite the obvious bits of destruction--broken memorial stones, the brick wall still a work in progress, grass growing over gouge marks from Heartless. For a second Ienzo struggled to remember where it was before sense memory kicked in.

There they were, side-by-side. The mortuary tablets were rather dirty. If he’d known, he would’ve brought supplies to clean. Disrespectful. He read his parents’ names, his own old surname before the adoption gave him Ansem’s. He whispered the name aloud, just to hear it. It was much softer sounding than Zexion. Light. Rhythmic.

The idea had originally been for his parents to be apprentices, not him. They were both scholars in their own right, his mother a botanist, his father a physicist. They’d hoped to be older before they had their first child, but these things happened, and they did so love Ienzo, as Ansem had told him. Noticing Ienzo’s brilliance… and hoping to grant his parents’ wishes… Ansem took him in and gave him an education. And the rest was history.

He knelt and bowed his head. He barely remembered either of these people, just flashes of joy and warmth and comfort; a pat on the head, hands tucking him in. He’d only been five when they passed, a freak accident, a fire. It hadn’t been the flames that killed them, but the smoke; only a well-placed wet cloth over his own nose and mouth had kept him alive until the fire brigade arrived.

Ienzo wished he didn’t remember this, but he did. The house had been built into a stone wall, and the internal structure collapsed, blocking the only real door. Father had tried his hardest to carve a way out, but he was a physically weak academic and the smoke got him, falling first to his knees. Mother had turned Ienzo’s face away, sang him a lullaby, curled him a bit more tightly in her arms--

What good was thinking about this?

What would they think of him now? If they knew what he’d do? Would Mother perhaps have held that cloth a little tighter, a little closer, until--

“Ienzo? What are you doing here?”

His head snapped up. He saw Dilan, in casual clothing, his eyes mottled and red. “I suppose… the same as you,” he said. He knew distantly that Dilan had lost a lover at some point; not through any conscious admittance by the man himself, but through drunken conversations Ienzo had eavesdropped on.

Dilan came closer and looked down at the memorials. “I… remember that day all too well,” he said, with a sigh. “Your parents weren’t the only ones who were lost in that fire. That part of town… the houses were too much on top of one another. You might consider yourself lucky.”

Ienzo laughed. “In a cosmic way, I suppose I am.”

Another pause. Then more cautiously, “she was a lovely woman, your mother. Very warm. I’ve hardly ever met a scientist who was so good-humored. I think in some lights you look like her.”

Ienzo cocked his head. “Really?”

“Well, the premature gray is unmistakable. And here…” He gestured to his jaw.

Ienzo looked at his palms. “Is it bad that I scarcely remember what they looked like?” All of their possessions had been lost in the fire, including photos.

“Oh, there may be a picture or two hanging around--there would’ve been official portraits when they took on the apprenticeship,” Dilan explained, at his baffled expression. “Would you like that, if I were to find them?”

“I would--very much so.” It took him a moment to realize why Dilan was being so saccharine to him. It was compensation. Ienzo stood slowly, flinching at the ache in his knees.

“You were so very young,” Dilan said. “So small. I remember thinking that.”

“I suppose you dissented then, when Ansem took me in?”

“Of course I did. What a place to raise a child, after all. But we didn’t do much parenting of you, did we?”

“...Quite.” Ienzo did not want to get into another screaming match. He turned to leave.

“Are you feeling better? I heard you were rather ill.”

The meditative mood that had come over him upon entering this place was quickly shattered. “Yes, I am,” he said.

“I’m aware we’ve… scarcely spoken in some years.”

Ienzo thought about it. Even in those “halcyon” days, he’d never been close to Dilan. And further pulled away to different teams in the Organization. “No, I don’t suppose we have.” Then again, what was there to say?

“Do you enjoy being human?” Dilan asked, the same way an adult might awkwardly ask a child something.

Ienzo shook his head; not in response, but the inanity of the question. “I’m afraid the jury’s still out. Not that I have a choice, here.”

“You have choices,” Dilan said. “So many.”

“Is your life written in stone, then?” he asked, sourly.

“The others wish to atone and I wish to keep them safe while they do so,” Dilan said. “So yes, I suppose.”

Ienzo cocked his head. “Safe from what? Heartless?”

“Those that may seek revenge,” Dilan said slowly.

Ienzo scoffed and turned away again.

“I am not being facetious.”

He shot him a look.

“We’ve wrought havoc on this town,” Dilan said. “The lives lost in our lab… people remember those loved ones, and miss them. Now it’s public knowledge we’re back… surely there may be more than some cruel words thrown at one on the street. People are armed to the teeth with all the Heartless.”

“Assassination would be too quick of a way to go,” Ienzo said simply. “More like they best let us fester in this guilt, if they wish for punishment.”

“Is that what you want? To be punished?”

Ienzo scowled. Twice was a coincidence; three times was a connection. Demyx, Even, now Dilan lecturing him about suffering. “Do I walk around with a boorish look on my face?”

Dilan raised an eyebrow. “I’ve noticed that as soon as your emotion reaches your face, you snap it back to neutral… put on a mask. Almost impressive, how quickly you can do it. Putting yourself aside… for whatever inane nonsense they subject you to. I’d hoped you would at least enjoy some pleasures of life, however small. Yet to not allow yourself to feel --”

“I feel ,” he spat. “entirely too much.” He was on the verge of adding, and you never allowed yourself to feel without a bottle in your hand , but didn’t.

“I suppose you must. The weight of emotion must be somewhat unbearable.”

“That,” he said, “is putting it mildly.”

Dilan considered. “Do you feel very bitter?”

This was very quickly becoming a confrontation, something Ienzo had no energy for. “Why is it you want to know?”

“Because if I were you, I would,” he said, with a shake of his head. “If I were you, after all you’d been put through, I’d leave that castle seething… and never come back. Why is it you stay?”

The last thing Ienzo expected him to say--he felt his eyebrows raise. “Well I’ve… work to do.”

“And the men you must work with?”

“Ansem has never wronged me. And Even and I are mending things. We’ve known one another for so long. I…” He trailed off uselessly, unable to identify the emotion now curdling within him. He squinted, trying to name it. It felt vaguely as though it were clamped to his thyroid. "I've no one else," he realized slowly, and it was a very, very cold revelation.

"...No," Dilan agreed. "Neither have I."

Ienzo swallowed. He was, again, teary. He'd never needed friends before, or people in general, content to squirrel himself away. But did he need people now? Really, truly?

If not for Demyx, for Even, it was very likely that his physical condition would have continued to deteriorate until he… what, died?

Quite possibly, yes.

Ienzo realized, so slowly, that he no longer desired death. Then what did he want?

What did he want?

A chance to set things right. But clearly so far what he'd been doing was… more or less an elegant form of slow-moving suicide. But what of his powers? Wasn't it worth it, to regain them? He felt more mixed up and confused than ever before. "Perhaps, then, we should try harder," he said slowly, and then left, lost in thought.

Ienzo didn't get far.

"Zo! You're up and about!"

He would be startled, but he wasn't. He seemed to perpetually run into Demyx lately. "Hello."

The other boy was flushed, grinning. There was a small harness over his shoulders, but devoid of packages. "How do you feel?"

"Quite a lot better," he admitted. "I must apologize to you. And thank you, for that matter."

He rubbed the back of his neck, but his expression was taut, tense. "I wouldn't just leave you there. I'm… good at delivering bodies. Right?"

Ienzo smiled a little. "That you are."

"So what happened?"

"In a word--overwork." He sighed. "Exhaustion, stress. It became too much for me. I've been… waylaid, until I recover, and find myself with far too much time on my hands."

He grinned. "Well. At least you're doing better. I'm done for a bit, so do you wanna get lunch?"

"...I could eat."

"Awesome. Let's go. You're going to love this place." His posture was different, and almost unconsciously now and again he would touch his back.

"Are you alright?" Ienzo asked, realizing the irony.

Demyx shrugged. "Real heavy stuff irritates my back. Old wound. You know?"

"...I guess business is going well?"

Demyx groaned. "Too well. I've barely had time to even… well, eat."

Ienzo wondered why Demyx didn't just shirk off. But he'd mentioned he'd like talking to people, and Kairi had said he was lonely. Perhaps delivering these packages gave him some much needed positive interaction--which he hardly ever received at the castle.

Demyx brought him over to a stand which seemed to be selling some kind of soup. The vendor greeted him by name. The smells were thick, delicious--scallions, spice, the salt of broth--and for the first time in months Ienzo felt hungry. "Who's your friend?" The woman asked.

Demyx clapped a hand on his shoulder. " This is my roomie Ienzo."

The touch was, again, disconcerting; he could almost feel the imprint of Demyx's hand, warm through the fabric. "Hello," he said.

The woman studied him. "That name is… familiar." She put out two servings of the meal, with chopsticks. "Wait. Aren't you--"

"...I was Ansem's ward," he admitted softly. "Ansem the Wise."

"...Yes," she said slowly. Then, to Demyx. "I thought you lived near the castle--not in it."

Demyx shrugged. "Same diff."

The woman studied Ienzo. There was something… careful, in her gaze. "It's a relief to know he's still alive. And you."

"Thank you. I appreciate it. It is good to be back in town."

She accepted Demyx's money without comment and they took their bowls to a nearby table.

"Guess you're a celebrity," Demyx said, clicking his chopsticks.

"Well, I was the king’s son. But it was a blood monarchy--I am no prince.” He sighed. “I suppose they… have no knowledge of my involvement." He stared down into his bowl of noodles. He had no idea if it was relieving or not to escape blame. He began eating, found it was all very good, the flavors subtle and well-mingled. "I suppose you must eat around town, then?"

"Yeah. There's so much to try, and it's all pretty cheap."

"I can repay you when we get back--"

Demyx clacked the chopsticks. "No, Ienzo. It's fine. I'm not exactly struggling. Scrooge is a cheapskate, but he pays his employees well."

Ienzo wondered what he did do with his money.

"I mean, I give Ansem some money for the room, and I feed myself, but…" A sigh. "You're going to think this is dumb."

"I doubt that."

"I want a house. A home. Eventually."

He blinked. "That's not stupid."

Demyx shrugged. "A place I can be me… where I can't be bothered."

"Like the greenhouse."

He locked eyes with him. "Yes. Exactly."

Ienzo considered. He sipped his broth, which was slightly too warm in the summer heat but soothing in another way. "I wonder if I want the same," he said softly.

"It's part of growing up. Living on your own. Though you got a sweet deal. Can't say I blame you for sticking around."

"It's hardly sweet."

"Well, Ansem provides for your every whim. That's kind of sweet."

He had a point. "Maybe someday we'll be neighbors, and not merely roommates," he said.

Demyx smiled a little. "Could you imagine?"

Ienzo thought. "Actually, I can." He can imagine Demyx's future so clearly. Personable, talented. He'd do well for himself, Ienzo was sure. But his own future? Without research, who was he? "Query."

He raised an eyebrow. "Shoot."

"Where do you see yourself going?"

"What, in general?"

"Yes. What do you want?"

Demyx wrinkled his nose. "I don't think I'd mind hacking it at performing. And--" He leaned back a little, wincing as his body hit the chair. "I don't know. I'm kind of glad to see what life has for me, you know what I mean? Doing good things where I can. And…" A wry laugh. "I don't know. I wouldn't mind looking for a boyfriend or girlfriend, if the right person came along. Someone to spend time with."

Ienzo felt the blood warm his face. He'd never considered… relationships, emotionally or physically. He wasn't sure he was capable. "I didn't realize you were a romantic."

"I think anyone can be," he said vaguely. "Yeah. It would be nice to mean something to someone… and get to love them in turn."

“Do you think we’re capable of love?”

Demyx flinched, his gaze becoming guarded. “Kind of rude of you to say that.”

Ienzo put a hand to his brow; it had been an honest question, not one meant to gut. “Forgive me--that was not what I meant. I meant it quite literally.”

Demyx considered. So strange, to see him actually think, and not just spit out the first thing his facade told him to. “I think so,” he said slowly. “I mean… people, right? One of the universal needs is to love and be loved--in any form. People need people. It’s pretty natural.”

“I’ve lived my life so isolated, hardly ever desiring company,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Perhaps that might be worth changing… seeing everything that we’ve seen.”

The guard relaxed just the slightest in his eyes. “Are you lonely?”

Ienzo blinked. There was hardly anything left of his soup, so no way to easily deflect. Had that been the deep emotion he’d felt earlier? “Quite possibly--though I’ve never consciously identified that feeling.” He didn’t know where to begin with people. How to engage, to talk to them, in a purely positive manner.

Demyx sighed. Then, “Well, why don’t we be friends, then?”

He raised an eyebrow. “So simply?”

He shrugged. “I mean it’s been fine the last few times we’ve talked, right? When you’re not… falling apart on me, I mean.”

Ienzo flushed. “I am a mess.”

“Well I am too.” He bit his lip. “So what do you say?”

Ienzo smiled; it felt odd. “Alright. Friends.”

Later that night he considered what Demyx had been talking about. Ienzo couldn’t help but be impressed with his ability to see beyond the current circumstances. Ienzo had once been a master tactician, but he’d always planned for the Organization’s longevity, not his own. Merely surviving had been good enough for Zexion. But his own life? Perhaps to plan for its longevity, treat it like a mission to be endured, a game to be won? But without concrete goals… he was floundering.

His new cause to care about needed to be his humanity. He did need friends, social outlets. He turned that conversation over and over in his mind. Was Ienzo capable of love? There were things he loved, certainly, books he’d read, food he’d eaten, the feel of sunlight. There were things he was passionate about--learning and research. But people ? Loving meant being vulnerable… and he was hardly even able to do that around himself , let alone someone else.

Not entirely true.

It was one thing to out and out cry around Even--the man had seen him far worse, especially as a child. But he’d broken down as well in front of Demyx, who he barely knew on a personal level despite their years of working together. To allow emotions into the forefront of his being… was daunting. Where to begin?

Maybe the library would have answers?

One of Ienzo’s specialties as a young apprentice had been psychology. Not necessarily a hard science, not like what the others subscribed to, but one could get an awful lot of insight to the heart through the mind. How could a heart’s desires be realized without thought? How else could a heart make a body feel ? He’d used this working of the inner mind to manipulate people, break them. He’d never used it to heal .

He pulled books on abnormal psychology, therapies. Very quickly he discovered that the ideal way to heal oneself using therapy would be to, well, go to a therapist. Doubtful there was one around here, and even if there were, how could Ienzo just go , given what he’d done to this town? He’d have to take matters into his own hands. Be his own sounding board. He wasn’t sure it was possible.

“Oh, Ienzo, I would’ve hoped you’d be out enjoying this lovely day.”

He started a little, almost dropping his volumes. “Master.”

Ansem cocked his head slightly. He’d shed the red stole and jacket--likely it was very warm in the computer room. Seeing him, too, without the frame of his coat was jarring. “Enough of this “Master” nonsense,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “I’m a king no longer, and I am your father. I insist you call me by my name.”

Ienzo blinked. “Are you quite sure?”

He gave him a look. “Why should you submit to me when we’re working together as equals? Besides… that choice was questionable enough when you were younger--though I’m sure hearing everyone else say it didn’t help.”

“Monkey see monkey do,” Ienzo muttered. “Alright. Ansem. ” The name felt weird in his mouth, halved.

Ansem chuckled. “Indeed. What is it you were reading about?”

Ienzo considered lying. But doubtless Even had told him everything, at least the physical side of it, used it as an excuse to yell at the man. “Abnormal psychology,” he admitted.

“Is that… relevant to current events?” Ansem asked, not without caution.

“Quite,” Ienzo said. He cleared his throat. “I am… very anxious, and struggling to learn to feel. Well, no. I do feel. It’s merely--”

“Unfamiliar and therefore difficult to internalize.”

“Yes.”

“I was told to… make my new devotion my humanity.” He sneered.

Ansem looked confused. “As though that’s a bad or shameful thing?”’

“Isn’t it? I can barely work anymore without completely falling apart.”

“Your body has changed radically--and the presence of a heart is doubtless a new variable to the experiment called “Ienzo.””

This made him laugh. “It does indeed feel like an experiment.”

“You’re being too harsh on yourself,” Ansem said. “You worked so hard to provide Roxas and Naminé with new bodies. You need time . Thankfully, we do not have the threat of Xehanort’s apocalypse looming over us. Radiant Garden is whole and you are well.”

“But Sora could be slipping away day by day--”

“He could be, but likely isn’t. You forget I in my own way spent time with that child.” He sighed. He’d told Ienzo the story about DiZ shortly after they’d been reunited. “He is nothing if not tenacious. Just as we are reaching for him--he is reaching for us.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Ansem squeezed his shoulder. “Have you a few moments? Perhaps we could get some ice cream?”

“Didn’t you come here for a reason?”

Ansem shrugged. “These things can wait,” he said. “Come along, then.”

[felltheheavens]

Waiting Room

‘Are you family?’

‘No.’

That was it, that was all they needed to know to relegate me to the waiting room and its cold plastic comforts for the next few hours. Never mind her family was too busy, too addicted, too abusive to turn up. Never mind that I loved her.

I wrung my hands, again. I clicked my knuckles and stretched my fingers and checked my phone – not that there’s much to do on it at gone 3 o’clock in the morning. What a time to drag me to hospital, huh.

The coffee shop was shut, unsurprisingly, so I got myself a glass of water instead. I savoured it, trying to help the time pass, stopping and swallowing between every sip. I picked the polish off my nails. I paced until the tiredness kicked in. I asked if I could see her every chance I could, but she was in no state to be seen. My heart ached every time I pictured her hooked up to an IV, semi-conscious and alone, so I tried not to think about it.

I wrung my hands again, and I got some more water.

I used the sterile, impersonal hospital bathroom. I checked my phone, more out of habit than anything else. Even the other people that might have cared had gone to sleep.

4.07 a.m.

It takes a certain dedication to know how much over-the-counter cold medication will stop your heart. Trust me, I’ve done the research, and it’s not easy. But for a 49kg girl with 4 pharmacies in walking distance, it was doable. Too doable.

I closed my eyes and could hear my blood moving. It sounded like the ocean, like waves crashing into cliffs with lethal force. It sounded like one step wrong and your life is over. It sounded like a reminder that mine wasn’t; not yet, and I didn’t want to know whose life it would remind me of next, so I opened my eyes. The harsh fluorescent lights cast stiff, sharp shadows on the linoleum, and I wondered if I would see pictures in them if I was less tired.

‘Shit time to be waiting in a hospital, huh.’

I hadn’t noticed the man in the corner. From a glance he looked like the type you don’t want to start a conversation with, tall and dark with fingerless gloves and mildly slurred words, slumped into a chair. His hands were jittery, his jacket worn and stained, his slight beard an unkempt mess. But it was gone 4 a.m., so who gives a fuck?

‘Yeah, it is.’

He chuckled, and I looked at him properly. His eyes were so dark I couldn’t see his irises – or maybe he was so high his pupils had engulfed them.

‘You should go home.’

I shook my head. ‘Can’t, need to know whether my friend is okay.’

‘And you don’t think that answer will be there after a few hours’ sleep?’

He made such a good point I didn’t know how to respond.

‘Why are you here?’

‘Don’t have anywhere else to be.’ He shrugged. I didn’t want to pry, so I didn’t. ‘You know how many people die per day?’

I was a little taken aback, but I decided to answer anyway. ‘Um…a lot?’

He smirked slightly and fiddled with the fingers of his gloves, and I got the feeling he was far better acquainted with death than I would ever be.

‘One hundred and fifty thousand a day, on average.’ He took his time tasting each word, enunciating so clearly I suddenly got the impression that he was stone cold sober. ‘One’s probably gone since I started this sentence.’

I didn’t know what to say to that.

I believe in a God, I think, I believe in Life and Death and their eternal balancing act. I know that things are meaningless if they do not end, and life shouldn’t be meaningless. I know that life comes and goes, babies are born and old people die, and this is immutable. I know that no one and nothing is immortal. I know all this, and I know it doesn’t mean a damn thing when someone you love dies, because it still always feels like you are drowning and there is no lifeline.

‘Their poor family.’

‘Maybe their family is happy. Maybe they were a cunt. Or maybe it ended a good person’s suffering, maybe it was a relief, who knows?’

I didn’t respond, but I thought about how there are people that this world would be better off without, and I thought about how my grandmother was treated like an animal at the end, fed through tubes and wearing a nappy, and I thought he might have a point.

‘Sorry I’m not more talkative, but it is gone 4 a.m. and I’ve got my own shit going on. Nothing personal.’ I didn’t know if I was sorry, really, but it seemed the polite thing to say. The silence stretched for a few moments, long enough that I thought I he might have passed out, and I almost found myself disappointed by that idea. Then his head jerked up and his eyes met mine.

‘Do you think she’ll survive?’

I thought about it. I thought about her tiny, frail body and the number of pills she swallowed and how the first time she tried to kill herself she was 9. I think about her crazy fast metabolism and how quickly they got an ambulance and her resilience and how I cannot lose her, not tonight, not like this. I think about everything I know about her and overdosing and life and death, and I say what I have been scared to realise all evening.

‘Yeah, I think so.’ It seemed too good to be true, so I tried to justify it. ‘They would have told me if she’d gone, right? And she’s been here for hours and no one’s come to tell me anything, so she must be heading towards stable, right? Yeah, I think she’ll survive.’ I said ‘think’ but I meant ‘hope and pray’.

‘She will.’

I stared at him, because he didn’t know that. If he had been a sleep-deprived nurse, or a well-intentioned mother, I would have scoffed. But I wanted to believe him, and maybe want was all I needed that night, because I did. I mumbled something vaguely affirmative, but he seemed to hear me. I wanted to believe I wouldn’t lose her because I didn’t know if I believed I would survive if I did. I didn’t know if I could surface after another set of breaking waves, not after my grandparents, and my brother’s best friend, and my godmum’s parents, my grandad’s best friend, my second cousin in America, and that girl from my school with the brain tumour and-

‘She will,’ he repeated.

I had no reason to believe him. He was some stranger who struck up conversation in public; that alone is enough to have made me wary of him and anything he told me. His eyes were flicking around so quickly, his movements so unnatural and jerky, his entire demeanour so unsettling, I really thought he was probably high. But I was tired. I was sleep-deprived, sure, but I didn’t mean that kind of tired; I was tired of my friends hurting and I was tired of this shitty world and I think I might just have been tired enough to trust a stranger for no reason at all.

‘I hope so.’

‘It’s not her time. You both have a lot of life left to live.’

It was a strange reassurance coming from a stranger, but I accepted it. I was glad he thought I looked young. I was, I was barely in my twenties, but I felt world-weary and I had found another grey hair that morning.

I didn’t mean to let myself hope, but before I knew it I was imagining me and her in 10 years or so, I was imagining coming back here to visit her in the maternity ward instead of Accident and Emergency, and I wondered what this man would say to me if he met me then. I liked the idea that we had life left to live. I wanted us to go on to something amazing, something good at least, to keep going and get better and just fucking live. But she always seemed like she was just biding her time before she tried to kill herself again, and I hated the idea that she was waiting for death, and I knew that I couldn’t keep waiting with her.

Suddenly, as if he’d heard his name called, the stranger stood up, his head slightly cocked. I realised then that he must have been over 6 foot. He seemed skinny; his face was gaunt and his knuckles prominent, but he was in baggy trousers and oversized coat so it was hard to tell.

‘You take care now.’ He tipped his head towards me, as if acknowledging some connection between us, and he sauntered off into the bowels of the hospital, walking just wonky enough to seem high again.

I felt relieved; and I wasn’t sure if it was because I had met him, or because he had left. I brushed it off, and I drank some more water, and I checked my phone. I curled my legs beneath me on the hard plastic. At some point, in the bright white room, on that uncomfortable chair, my eyelids drooped. I remembered the stranger’s words, telling me to go home, to get some sleep, and then I don’t remember anything.

~

When I woke up, I was at home, and the sky was a few shades paler than dawn. I guess I must have gotten a taxi, or a bus, must have opened my door in a half-awake daze, and fallen into bed. I’d managed to strip off and tie up my hair, so that was good. I checked my phone.

She was okay.

She was okay, she was incredibly bored and quite tired, and I had 4 other people asking me about her, but she was okay, and that was enough to make me smile. It was strange, I didn’t feel that relieved. Is it relief if you know it’s coming?

I rolled over, pulled the blankets around me and committed myself to a few more hours in bed. I wasn’t quite awake, I was in that middle ground, that state between dreaming and consciousness where nothing is real and everything is possible. I slept, then, fitfully and in bursts. I dreamt of a hooded dark figure stalking the corridors of a hospital, scythe in hand, I dreamt of waking up next to a heart monitor when you weren’t sure you would wake up at all, I dreamt of Life and Death chasing each other through my old school playground, running in circles. I dreamt of the stranger, standing over me in sixty years, speaking oh so clearly as he took my hand and lead my soul from my body, and the overwhelming calm I felt as I left it behind.

I dreamt, and then I fell into oblivion, and I slept so peacefully I could have been mistaken for a corpse. I would wake, a few hours later, to a bright day full of sunshine and opportunity. To a world where no one I loved was in danger, where meetings with strangers were just anecdotes, where 4.07 a.m. a time I was never meant to see. I would wake to a world where things were slightly better than they had been the night before.

But for now, I slept, and I dreamt, and I was at peace.

[komorebirei]

The Water Was Never Afraid - Chapter 9: Promise

(AO3)

“Please, Kagami? You promised.”

Kagami lunged at Adrien; he parried and riposted.

She lifted her mask. “Street festivals are for commoners.”

Adrien lifted his. “That’s the whole point!”

Kagami pursed her lips.

They both closed their masks in tandem and returned to en guarde position, ready for the next bout in their friendly face-off.

“Besides,” Adrien continued, his voice slightly distorted by the mask, “It’s the twenty-first century. There’s no distinction between ‘commoners’ and ‘nobility’ anymore. Why shouldn’t we do something fun?”

“You know that isn’t really true.” Kagami tapped Adrien’s sabre, provoking him to attack.

They clashed again, letting their conversation rest.

Yes, Adrien had to admit that a social hierarchy existed, and he was high on the ladder, but the distinction didn’t have to be so rigid. He didn’t want to consciously hold himself on a higher tier than his friends. Couldn’t he choose to do away with the gap between him and others? He’d managed to befriend fans in the past, like Wayem, and he counted that as a victory.

“You promised we’d go out and do something fun, like normal people,” Adrien pleaded. “Le Goût du Japon only lasts a week and then it’s over until next year. Today is the last day. I’ve always wanted to go!”

Kagami lunged, spearing the tip of her sabre squarely in Adrien’s chest. Her point.

“Your skills have far exceeded mine, Kagami,” Adrien said, accepting defeat. He lifted his mask.

“No, we’re still equal, you’re just unfocused today.”

“I’m at your mercy,” Adrien said with a dramatic flourish and bow.

Kagami lifted her mask and examined his face as she considered. “… Fine.”

“Fine?”

“We can go.”

“Yes! You’re the best!” Adrien cheered and, to her delighted bewilderment, tackled her in a hug.

—

“The yukata looks lovely on you,” Adrien complimented Kagami, leading her down the street that was lined with wooden food and game booths, illuminated with colored paper lanterns.

“Thank you—you don’t look bad, yourself,” she returned.

“Didn’t think I’d ever get a chance to wear this.”

Kagami was wearing a red yukata with an off-white obi, decorated with a colorful floral pattern in fresh greens, pinks, and whites that was simple at the torso and grew increasingly clustered toward the hems. The sleeves flowed gracefully to the level of her knees, and her clipped-up hair was adorned with dangling floral ornaments that echoed the flowers on her garment. Adrien’s yukata was a textured but patternless dark grey-blue with a red obi, a shade darker than the red of Kagami’s.

Her hand was hooked into the crook of Adrien’s elbow, but she hung back, as if embarrassed and loath to be caught participating in the festival.

They hadn’t taken ten paces down the street when Adrien felt a tug at his sleeve. He turned around to see two young girls beaming up at him, clutching twin magazines. They were both opened to the same page which, on closer inspection, was his interview from the previous month’s La Mode magazine. “Adrien Agreste! May we have your autograph?”

He was surprised that these young girls recognized him in such an unlikely setting. Part of him had been thinking optimistically that, ever since he had moved onto managerial pursuits and left the modeling scene, teenage girls had stopped fawning over him. Either these girls were really into fashion, or he was wrong.

Adrien frowned. “I don’t normally give autographs, but…” He looked between the girls, whose faces had begun to fall in disappointment, and his resolve crumbled. “All right.”

Kagami jabbed him subtly in the side.

The girls squealed, and one of them handed him a pen.

Adrien signed his name, finding it vaguely depressing that these girls were so excited to receive his inked name. What was the meaning in it? 

He handed the magazines back and smiled at the girls, who ran off shyly, waving over their shoulders.

“Adrien, your lack of a backbone is starting to scare me,” Kagami remarked, only half joking.

“I mean, it’s not like I had any real reason to refuse,” Adrien countered. “It would only be cruel and unnecessary.”

“That is the problem,” Kagami stressed, holding up a finger, “You’re too empathetic. People get to your head, and you agree with whatever they’re asking of you.”

“I thought empathy was a good thing.”

“It is, but when taken to the extreme, it can become Stockholm Syndrome.”

Adrien rolled his eyes. “Let me make people happy! It makes me happy.”

“Fine, fine.” Kagami let it slide. “So, what does one do at a street festival?”

Adrien shrugged, scanning the surroundings for what seemed the most interesting. He spotted a ring toss booth down the street and pulled Kagami toward it. “C’mon, let’s play a game!”

When she saw it, she shook her head. “This is so childish. Why don’t we just buy some taiyaki and go home?”

“Go home? But we just got here!” Adrien pulled out his wallet and paid the young man running the booth, who handed him three rings. “I’m not opposed to taiyaki, though.” He handed her a ring, which she took with the tips of her fingers, as if it were a dead animal.

Adrien tossed his ring first. It knocked over the toy he had been aiming for, but failed to capture it. When Kagami didn’t step up, he threw the second ring, which completely missed the target and rolled away.

“Really, Adrien? You’re embarrassing me,” Kagami teased.

“As if you could do any better, Miss Too-Good-To-Try,” Adrien teased back.

“Okay, you asked for it.” Kagami took her position and tossed the ring, effortlessly snagging a prize.

“You’re inhuman!” Adrien gasped as Kagami accepted her prize with a smug smile.

“Excuse me!”

Adrien spun around at the sound of the unfamiliar voice directed his way, and a camera flashed in his face.

Kagami held up her arms. “No pictures, please,” she pleaded, ducking behind Adrien.

“You heard her,” Adrien asserted, holding a hand in front of his face. “We’re on a date—please, no pictures. We’re on our private time.”

“All right, Monsieur Agreste. Sorry.” The paparazzo hung his head and retreated, but five minutes later Adrien noticed another flash from the bushes. That sneaky little—!

“Let’s go,” Kagami urged. “I can’t get caught out here. Mother will be furious.”

“Hmm… I have a better idea.” Adrien grabbed her hand and dragged her to a booth with a wall of cartoon character masks footed by a gaggle of children jumping and pointing. “Which one do you like?”

“No,” Kagami said, shaking her head emphatically. “Those are for kids, Adrien.”

“C’mon, Tiger, you’re no fun!” Adrien unhooked a Hello Kitty mask and tried it on. It was a little small for his face, being made for toddlers, but it concealed his features well enough. “Perfect,” he declared. “What about you?”

Grimacing, Kagami reluctantly picked a Pikachu mask. “See how much I love you?” she muttered, slipping the elastic band over her head.

“Very cute,” Adrien approved, lifting Kagami’s chin to inspect her masked face. He could barely see her amber irises through the punched-out eye holes. “Suitable character, too. You would be too stubborn to stay in your Pokéball.”

Kagami hit Adrien’s chest playfully with a backhand. “You, on the other hand… Hello Kitty? Seriously?”

Adrien lifted his mask just to grin and wink at her. “You still have a lot to learn about me, Tiger.” He slipped the mask back on and held out his hand. “Now, you mentioned taiyaki? Shall we look for some sweet fish to eat?”

—

The masks afforded Adrien and Kagami a few minutes of anonymity, but the news that Adrien Agreste had been spotted with his girlfriend at the street festival had spread like wildfire, and the masks started to act as more of identifying features than invisibility cloaks. Before long, they ditched the masks.

While Adrien was used to the attention, Kagami was starting to get paranoid.

“Even if they don’t get my face, Mother will recognize the yukata. And you’re too recognizable from any angle,” she murmured, moving to Adrien’s other side when a group of teenagers leveled smartphones at them, squealing. When Adrien snorted in amusement at her skittishness, she protested, “You don’t understand, Adrien, if she saw me at a festival like this—it would be like your father catching you at a club.”

“All right.” Adrien sighed. He did understand, all too well. He wished he could transform into Chat Noir and just whisk Kagami away somewhere they could hang out and have fun in peace. “We can go somewhere else, if you want.”

“Please.”

Suddenly, a realization hit Adrien.

Growing up, he had always felt isolated and trapped in his room, and by extension, his house—being alone or indoors for too long made him feel antsy. Like a caged lion, he always wanted to go out.

But as soon as he was out among people, so often, he found himself wanting to run away to somewhere private.

So, the problem was not being alone, or being in public. He —Adrien Agreste—was the prison.

“Adrien? What’s wrong?”

Adrien realized he had stopped dead in his tracks. Returning to the present, he swallowed and refocused his eyes on Kagami. “Nothing. You wanted to go home? Let’s go.”

“Really?” Kagami leaned closer, her brows scrunched in concern. She could clearly sense that his mood had changed. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Adrien shrugged slightly, his heart heavy, as if it had been filled with stones and was slowly sinking to his feet. “We’ve pretty much seen everything. Let’s just go.”

Kagami put a hand on his cheek, looking heartbroken that he was upset. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring down your mood. We can stay—I’ll just tell Mother it was a one-time thing.”

Adrien shook his head and started walking back up the road, toward where he had parked his car. Kagami, still holding his arm, followed a pace behind him, dragging slightly.

“Oh look! Dango! Have you ever had it?” Kagami exclaimed with affected chipperness, pulling on his arm and pointing at a booth.

“You don’t have to try so hard,” Adrien said in a monotone. “You didn’t even want to come with me.”

“Don’t be sullen, Adrien!” Kagami chided. “It’s not that I didn’t want to come! It’s just—In Japan, our family is well-known, and it would have brought down our image to indulge in festivals like these, so I was never allowed to go.”

“Doesn’t that make you enjoy this even more? We’re in France, not Japan.” Some feeling had returned to Adrien’s countenance, though he still felt depressed.

Kagami guided him to the dango booth. “It’s my Mother. You know she’s been getting stomach-aches lately, and if she saw me doing something she disapproved of…” she frowned.

They heard the sounds of cameras clicking again, and Adrien’s heart sank further when he saw how Kagami tensed involuntarily. This wasn’t fun anymore. This was why he liked visiting other countries, where he wasn’t recognized as easily.

“Dango, then we’re going home,” he sighed, resigned. It wasn’t Kagami’s fault. It was stupid to think they could spend a carefree night out. “Wanna watch Coffee Prince?”

“Sure.” Kagami smiled sadly. “I’m sorry this didn’t go as planned, Adrien.”

Adrien shrugged. This was his life.

He should listen to Kagami’s advice and just accept it.

[thatgirlonstage]

First line prompt Ladynoir "So I think Hawkmoth is my friend's dad."

Sorry sorry sorry for being so late. Also there’s not a TON of really shippy stuff in this, but I’m kinda proud of this scene so I hope you like it!

“So I think Hawkmoth is my friend’s dad.”

Chat squawked, nearly falling to his death. He grabbed the nearest metal beam, icy to the touch in the night’s chill, and stared at Ladybug. She looked out over the city, wide blue eyes reflecting the light. Her face was set in shadows, looking like it was carved from stone. She watched the Seine, snaking its way through the center of Paris, shimmering and rippling with a light breeze. Chat shivered and clung tighter to the beam, the breeze amplified to a bitingly cold wind this high up.

“Don’t drop something like that when I’m perched precariously on top of the Eiffel Tower, Ladybug,” he gasped. “You don’t want me to fall and turn into one of those cats with the squashed faces, do you?” As an attempt at humor, it was weak, and he knew it. It was little more than a reflex, a way to react when he had no idea what else to say or do. The set of shadows across Ladybug’s face did not change, so he gathered his wits and gave a real response. “My Lady, if you know who it is, then let’s go. What are we waiting for?”

“I don’t know if it can be that simple,” she said. Chat frowned at her, concerned.

Their patrol tonight had gone by unusually quiet. He was always the more talkative of the two, but tonight his lady had been silent as the grave. He was prepared to go home as soon as they confirmed there were no akumas that night, wondering if he had done something wrong, but just as he was about to leave she had laid a hand on his arm and asked him to talk. They always came to the Eiffel Tower to talk. Perched high as they were, with the stairs and elevators closed to tourists for the night, they could watch the city and talk, certain they were out of earshot from any curious civilians. It had taken Ladybug almost half an hour of quiet in the cold night air to finally speak up.

“What’s complicated about it?” he asked, trying to make his voice gentle. Ladybug’s fingers curled around the beam underneath her.

“Well, first of all– he’s not an akuma, Chat, he’s… He has a miraculous. He’s like us. That means that he’s choosing to transform, choosing to do these things. He’s a real criminal, not just someone who’s been brainwashed. So we… After we take his miraculous away, do we turn him into the police?” Chat ran a finger over his ring, considering.

“I’d say we make it public to the media. We don’t have the authority to arrest anyone, but if we unmask him, or get him to confess who he is, then the actual legal authorities can make whatever decisions they need to from there.” She jerked her head, nodding slightly.

“But…”

“But?”

“His… His son,” she said. Her words were choked, constrained. Chat resisted the urge to put his hand over hers in comfort. She’d probably think he was just flirting and this would devolve into an argument. “My friend. I don’t know if I can do this to him.” She took a deep, shuddering breath, and turned to look at him for the first time that night. “It isn’t fair, Chat. This will hurt him so badly, I know it will. How can I…” She trailed off, shaking her head. She turned to look back at the Seine. As the city lights flashed across her face, Chat realized with a horrified start that there were tears on her face. He reached out, somewhat against his better judgement, and very lightly placed a hand on her shoulder.

“My… Ladybug,” he said. “Even if it hurts him, your friend deserves to know the truth.” He hesitated. “Although I may have been wrong about announcing it to the media. I know a little bit about what happens to kids when their parents are the focus of media attention. Maybe we should just take it to the authorities instead.”

“It’ll be a media scandal no matter what,” Ladybug said. Her voice was brittle, her eyes fixed on a bateau mouche sliding down the river. There was an undercurrent of anger in her voice that made Chat still, his hand unmoving where it rested on her shoulder. “I’m furious with him, you know. Hawk Moth. For everything he’s done to Paris, that’s all bad enough, but especially for everything he’s done to A– to my friend.” She shook her head, another tear sliding over her mask. “I know we don’t have a choice. I know that we have to stop him. But my friend doesn’t deserve anything that’s about to happen to him, and I don’t know how to help him or how to stop it.” Chat hesitated, and then carefully scooted closer, until their thighs pressed together, suits rubbing against one another, and moved his hand off Ladybug’s shoulder to rub circles across her back. He moved carefully, slowly, telegraphing his intention so she could pull away if she wanted to, dredging up vague memories of the kind of physical affection his mother used to give him.

He’d hugged her, once, after she’d quite literally leaped into the jaws of death in the form of a giant t-rex and somehow survived. It had been instinctual, practically: he hadn’t thought about doing it at all. The only thing he’d known, consciously, was the sight of her safe and sound sent through him relief so entire and overwhelming that he thought he was going to come apart at the seams. He’d hugged her out of a desperate desire to communicate whatever small piece of that he could to her. He’d hugged her because he needed to feel her safe and whole and alive more than he needed to breathe.

Chloe tried to hug and kiss him regularly, but he kept his distance as much as possible because whatever she thought was happening between them he didn’t want to encourage.

His mother used to hug him, and cradle him and kiss him, and rock him to sleep at night.

Since his mother had left, he could count on one hand the number of times his father had hugged him, all of them uncomfortable and the last one eclipsed in his mind by terrifying conversation about his ring.

Other than that, there were fist bumps and high fives and handshakes, Nino’s arm slung briefly across his shoulder, the airbrush touch of cheeks when greeting someone with a kiss. Adrien didn’t know what to do with physical affection, didn’t know how to ensure his touch would not be misinterpreted. The only thing he did know was that he needed to reassure his Lady, to tell her, somehow, that her chaton was here and he was going to support her, and he wasn’t certain that words were going to be enough.

He was so startled when she turned her face into his shoulder and sobbed that he almost flinched away. He caught himself in time, however, and reached his arm across her back to wrap around her opposite shoulder, pulling her close to him.

“Okay, shhh, shhh, it’s alright, my Lady, it’s going to be alright. Shhh.” She shuddered against him, an arm reaching up to clutch at him. Wails tore their way out of her despite her attempts to steady her breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t — I should be able to pull it together, I’m sorry, Chat, I—”

“You have nothing at all to apologize for,” he murmured. He turned his head and very lightly kissed her hair, afraid he was crossing a line, but she just pressed her cheek against his collarbone, one hand trying to swipe away her tears.

“Who do I even tell first?” she asked. “Do I tell my friend, do I warn him? Or is that dangerous? What if he tries to do something on his own? Should I just go to the authorities? And would I tell my friend as Ladybug, or as… me?” Chat pursed his lips, considering.

“Do you trust me, Ladybug?” he asked. She finally sat up, eyes puffy and red.

“More than anyone,” she said.

“Then tell me who you think it is,” he said gently. “And we’ll figure out whatever comes next together, okay?” She nodded, sniffling.

“Right. Right. Of course,” she said, a chuckle bubbling through the tears. “I’m sorry, chaton.” Chat shook his head.

“Like I said, you have nothing to apologize for.” Somehow, their hands found each other. Chat wasn’t sure who grabbed hold first, but they pressed together tightly. Ladybug took a deep breath.

“I think,” she said, “I think that Hawk Moth is Gabriel Agreste.”

The world disappeared from under him and he fell through darkness.

[Please do not send me prompts at the moment, I am working through old ones]

[abakersquest]

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR – LANDSLIDE

The business end of the Thunderhead released a strange blue smoke that Argus was quick to blow off. It glittered in the air before vanishing entirely, yet the air still smelled vaguely of a sudden thunderstorm to Hector. He watched carefully as Argus changed out the ampoules in the weapons barrel, noting the bright otherworldly colors of the fluids inside.

Wistea sighed as she looked over the unconscious Insicai. “So much for stealth…”

“Yes, that is a surprise,” Argus replied. “I was certain no one saw us moving about the city.” He walked to the freshly made hole in his wall and saw a large device connected to a single thick pipe that lead to the nearest underground entry. “Well that settles that. They can’t have just seen us moving about. Setting up a thermal breacher like this takes far too much time and effort. But how could they possibly know we’d be here that far in advance?”

“Let’s find out,” Hyla made her way to the nearest guard, removing their helmet and replacing it with her hand. A ring of darkness spun into existence around the fallen guard’s head.  “They knew we were coming through the tunnel, someone… Someone in charge could sense our approach. It’s… I don’t know WHAT that is, but it’s big, and it certainly doesn’t look like an Insicai.”

“Remarkable! Mind reading!” Argus turned to Wistea. “Why aren’t you taking notes?! What kind of assistant are you?!”

If Wistea could truly stare daggers into someone, Argus would have looked like the world’s strangest pin cushion.

“… Oh… Right, sorry. Caught in the moment.”

“Is that how you knew they were attacking? You can read minds at a distance?” Hector inquired.

“Aggressive thoughts are loud. Even when I tune out most things, they’re hard to ignore. It’s how I survived as a child.”

“Tune out?” Wistea chimed in. “You mean you constantly hear what’s on the minds of others?”

“Thoughts are fleeting things. You sense intent and emotion more than clear images, ideas, or memories… Never anything precise.  It’s… Well why I was so surprised by you all.” A slim but happy smile graced her face. “I could feel how much you trusted me.”

“Constant combat makes for fast friends,” Hector repeated from a bygone lesson. “Speaking of fast, we’d better get a move on. We spent longer in that tunnel than I thought, it’ll be nightfall soon, and I get the feeling we’ll actually be easier to spot then.”

Argus stuck a fist into his waiting palm. “Blast it all, you’re right! The city curfew would make us stand out like jam stains on white linen! If only we knew where the entrance to the supply facility was, I’d be able to get us there by the tunnels. Unfortunately there’s so many ways into Mount Anago we’d never find the right one without being caught”

“Well,” Hyla smiled. “There might be something I can do about that.” ---

Primus Jinjac could just barely make out the muffled voice that sifted through the throbbing ache in his entire body. His consciousness slowly drizzled to full as he took in his surroundings. One of his subordinates was gently shaking him awake. Who was it? Even if his head wasn’t a fuzzy mess, all the new recruits looked the same to him. He could never be bothered with learning their names or the particulars of their faces. Curt commands like ‘you’ and ‘him’ or ‘her’ worked just as well for troop movements and field commands after all.

The tall thin one looked nervous; she was probably from some little town in the empire’s outskirts who thought the Imperial Guard was some glorious career filled with parades and praise. The short one, barely regulation height, seemed to offer her some comfort. His head was pounding he couldn’t make out what they were saying to each other.

“Sir, can you hear, hear, hear me at all?”

It was the one shaking him, sturdy looking, prime guard material if he ever saw it before.

“Wh-” air wheezed out of him in the ugliest way possible, dredging up some painful coughs on the way. “Where are the offenders?” he managed to choke out.

The other thin one replied. “Gone I’m afraid, ran off in the direction of the airship, sir! No doubt to sabotage it!”

Jinjac groaned as he tried to put himself on his feet, both in pain and frustration. That capital accent, another aristocrat’s child sent to the guard for discipline. He hated them the most, especially when they refused to use the proper cadence. Worthless whining layabouts that they always were, he’d remember to put this one through paces for his impropriety.

“Sir, it’s been almost an hour since they fled, fled, fled.” The proper guard announced. “They’re no doubt scanning the area for where best to approach the airship’s platform.”

“R-” another painful cough punished him for his want of speech. “Right! Head… to Thermop Square and contact Primus Olai, she’s to double, double,” he coughed the next ‘double’ for a minute before continuing. “The number of guards there for the supply elevator before tomorrow morning’s launch.”

“Thermop Square? Really? I never would’ve thought you’d be so obvious.” The rude guard replied. There was suddenly something wrong with his face. “Right behind the Grand Geyser Walkway I’ll bet.” The armor, it was fading away, he was certain. “Well Primus you’ve been VERY helpful, but we certainly don’t need you to come with us.”

It was Argus.

Smug, condescending, wanted for public execution and just having kicked him in the chest, Argus.

He was about to shout something very nasty as a right cross from Hector set his brain knocking about the inside of his head. Primus Jinjac fell like a failed balloon, keeping his fellow soldiers company on the floor.

“So he truly saw us as members of the Guard?” Wistea asked.

Hyla nodded. “It’s as simple as removing what they should see, the mind fills it in with what they expect to see. So instead of us, he saw other guards.”

“Don’t suppose you could keep that up as we walk through town, do you?” Hector asked.

“No need for that,” Argus interrupted. “Now that I know where we’re headed, we can take the tunnels. It’s not wise to wander down there without a clear exit in mind, too easy to get lost. But now that I know we’re looking for an entrance by the steam fountain, we’ll have no trouble.”

“You really know your way down there?” Hyla questioned.

“Of course! That’s how I got everyone out of the city. Not to mention continue both my botanical and historical research.”

---

Leaving the Imperial Guards to stew in unconsciousness; everyone followed Argus back down into Insicai’s sprawling system of tunnels. The hot damp air made breathing unpleasant, and the heated pipes made every step a cautious one. Progress was slow but steady until Hyla slipped on a pipe and struck another to catch herself, producing a long hollow clang. Argus went rigid and turned to face those behind him.

“… That pipe should NOT be empty…”

The tunnel began to shake, removing everyone’s balance. The sound of metal and stone being torn like paper overrode every other sound as the entire space around them inexplicably rose up to street level like a cork being removed from a bottle.

Hector was the first back to his feet, quickly assessing their surroundings amidst flickering lights and stark white walls. Just ahead of them was something tall, broad, and seemingly cloaked in a heavy cowl.

No, he could see now, that was a part of its body.

As it moved forward, Hector could make out more with each flicker of light. The back of it was covered in what resembled the bristles of pinecone, a hard yet flexible shell that could shift as it moved. Its hands ended in long sharp claws and it wore black armor with red trim, built to interlace with his spiny hide. It seemed to Hector to have far more reliance on chain mail as well. It stooped down slowly and drew a circle in the street with its claw, causing the forcibly elevated section of tunnel to spin quickly in place and shake off all its occupants violently, before finally sinking back into the ground where it belonged.

“Did any of you know that everyone you’ve ever met has a unique heartbeat?” The voice from the creature was male, with a rasp like sand sifting through a keyhole. “Yes. It’s so very subtle, and changes with age. Younger hearts are so very noisy, like papers flitting through a breeze. Old hearts are slow, methodical clockwork, with a loose gear or worn out spring. You four? Brave, fearless, battle tested? Oh, I could hear you coming for miles.”

‘Earth Magic!’ Hector thought. ‘That’s it! It couldn’t be anything else!’ He sprang to his feet and drew his sword.

“EARTHSHOCK!”

With a thrust of its long razor sharp claw, a line of disrupted terrain raced toward Hector and exploded beneath his feet as he barely managed to leap away. As he landed into a roll another ground wave was issued from his heavily armored foe. Wasting no time, Hector took off running as soon as his feet gained ground, racing toward his opponent with the shockwave in tow behind him.

With a very unimpressed grunt, the unnamed soldier raised a wall between himself and Hector. The stalwart knight, with reflexes befitting the magic in him, bounded off the instant wall and leapt behind the leading edge of the prior attack that crashed against the barrier.

As the dust slowly began to settle, Hector stood ready to strike. Calming his thoughts and taking stock of his surroundings and opponent. “You there, are you or are you not a pangolin?!”

His opponent was as still as the stones he worked. “I am Dota Temblain; knight of Halcyon, all else is irrelevant.”

“I disagree! If you are a pangolin, alive and well in the modern world… That means some part of Marsu survived the war!” White lightning cascaded over Hector’s blade. “And if that’s true, then we shall reclaim it from Kota! We shall see Marsu restored and its people freed!”

Dota drove his claw into the street and yanked it toward himself. The ground heaved with all the properties of a rug, Hector barely keeping his balance as he was pulled closer to his opponent. With aggressive yells, the two met, claw to flashing blade beneath the failing streetlights.

With every strike of Hector’s sword, the lightning sparking off it grew brighter and brighter. An upward slash managed to break Dota’s guard, he then brought his blade back for a thrust, and with incredible mystic energy behind his voice Hector cried out, “THUNDER CRUSH!”

The pangolin ducked at the last second, balling himself into his armored shell. The great force of Hector’s ethereal thunderclap sent him rolling down the avenue out of control.

With some room to breathe at last, Hector looked to see where the others had been scattered to.

“HECTOR, LOOK OUT!”

Wistea’s voice was trailed by a frightening and fast approaching rumble. Dota was rolling back toward him at a deadly speed. Wistea fired a vine off from an unseen angle, hooking Hector by the waist and tugging him out of danger just as the spiny foe eviscerated the ground where he stood.

Drawn up to the rooftops, Hector could see that Argus, and Hyla were alongside Wistea.  When he came closer, he also noticed a very slight shimmer of air around them. Passing through it, the noise of the rest of the world was erased.

With great care, Wistea set him down. “You can talk here; he should not be able to hear us.”

Hector nodded. “Good, I’d been told a pangolin’s hearing was better than average, but sensing us from miles out? That’s almost absurd.”

“Is that what that glorified pinecone is?” Argus quickly looked to Wistea. “Oh, no offense, Scholar Faboi.”

“Aren’t those the Animani who built your city’s outer wall?” She ignored Argus entirely.

“Yes, they all disappeared along with Marsu. Could it be that Kota truly did take the entire city? We all thought it simply destroyed.”

“He also said he was a knight of Halcyon,” Argus added as he looked to all of them. “That mean anything to anyone?”

“I’d… heard it mentioned,” Hyla said hesitantly. “But it sounded so outrageous that I thought it was just empty rumor. Some misguided hope about Kota building a better world, a shining city beyond anything ever imagined.”

“My word,” Argus said, a mix of horror and amazement in his voice. “Treating an entire city like a culture dish…”

Pensive silence arose in Hector as he turned away from the others and scanned the city streets below for sign of Dota. Still standing where they’d left him, the pangolin cocked its head from side to side to seek them out. Clearly unable to hear them, he turned his head skyward and from his pursed lips a fount of black sand plumed high into the air.

Hector’s brow furrowed. “What’s he…”

The sand drifted on the prevailing winds, aimless with no sign of control or will. It grazed Hyla’s shell of silence lightly then froze in place.

“SAND LOCK!”

At the magical shout from its creator, the floating sand suddenly gathered on the surface of the sphere where it formed into a tightly packed vice. The sand structure squeezed down hard and cracked the barrier open.

Now, clearly filled with directive, the mystic sand launched toward the gathered heroes. Hector shouted, “LIGHTNING FLASH!” And with shimmering blade at the ready, he vanished from normal sight, replaced by a cascade of lightning burst deflecting the assaulting granules.

Hector forced his breathing and heart to calm as behind him both spells seemingly evaporated one another. Successive spell casting had only gotten slightly easier with all the fighting he’d done recently. If he didn’t manage his stamina he couldn’t help the others, and he certainly couldn’t let them head to the battleship alone.

Dota laughed below them. It was sickly hiss of a noise that forced every spine to shiver at its presence. He raised a claw above his head and a strange amber shimmer glinted across its surface. “MOTHER LOADE!”

The black sand, only dispersed by Hector’s attack, slowly rose into the air and flew back to its master, forming a bizarre jagged sphere above his claw tip.

“Wh-what? Something is-" Wistea screamed as some unseen force suddenly tugged her forward toward the edge of the rooftop.

Hector reached for her only to feel the same unseen force yank him off balance.

“Blast!” shouted Argus fighting against the pull. “Magnetic sand! Dastardly clever! He must’ve used that attack to seed it onto us! Hector, I have a plan but it’s risky! You have to let yourself be pulled off first, I’ll handle the rest!”

“Right!” Hector let the mystic tug have him, pushing off the ground to gain extra speed just as the rooftop ran out. He stared into the glassy brown eyes of Dota, his sword ready to strike at the first opening Argus promised to provide, wary of the free claw waiting to strike him down below.

With dexterity befitting his species extra appendages, Argus quickly changed ampoules, clasped the rim of the rooftop with his toes, aimed as carefully as the time allowed, and fired a burst of glittering azure light. The shock of magic cascaded over the raised claw of Kota’s servant and produced an instant freeze.

Hector capitalized, swinging his sword and shattering the now brittle talon, his breastplate catching a glancing blow from a pain-addled strike. The magnetic pull faded as quickly as it surged, the jagged sphere evaporating. Hector’s momentum sent him rolling onto the street before hitting a wall with his back.

Dota growled and tucked his damaged hand under his other arm to dull the painful chill now creeping toward his wrist. He drove the other into the ground and a sharp pulse rocked every surface around him. The moonlight above was made to misbehave, and telltale dark silhouettes began to arise from every shadow.

“NOT THIS TIME!” Wistea shouted as she leapt down to the street, catching herself with an instantly summoned bush. She slapped her hands against the ground and began her incantation. “EIGHT GODS INTO ONE MOMENT, FROM MY SOUL INTO THE WORLD! YUCCA DAGGER!”

Blade-like leaves spontaneously jutted out of every flat surface, violently piercing the still manifesting Shades, destroying them before they could finish manifesting.

Argus leapt down as well, hurrying over to Hector’s side, weapon trained on their wounded foe. “I suppose you thought we’d be easy pickings without the Flarebearer, Hmm?”

Anger and pain manifested in a low rolling growl that turned into a yell as he scooped a mass of street and hurled it toward Argus and Hector, only to have it caught mid-flight by a massive plume of flames from the Thunderhead. The sudden heat and force blasted the hurled hunk of street to pieces before it ever reached them.

“You thought wrong.”

Furious beyond recourse, but more or less defeated, Dota curled into a bristled ball once more and quickly rolled away.

Ahead of him a Dark Vault opened and shut, leaving Hyla in his path. He sped up, attempting to use brute force to crush at least one of his targets.

Hyla’s expression was the epitome of calm. She held a hand forward and from her down turned palm dropped an azure crystal at the end of a ring and chain, a pendulum. She took the thin silver chain in hand and spun the crystal by her side, perpendicular to the ground.

As the rolling threat grew closer and closer, the very tip of Hyla’s crystal pendulum began to glow, creating a bright blue ring. Just as it appeared that Dota would roll her flat, she cried out “COSMOS DEFLECTOR!”

Dota was lifted off the ground, unable to uncurl, and like the inexorable orbit of the moons above, was forced to go along the course charted by Hyla’s twirling pendulum, sending him sailing over her in a sharp curve that bashed him hard into the ground.

He uncurled with a wheeze for air, the wind forcibly shunted from his lungs. Hyla walked over and allowed the pendulum to dangle over him until it pointed straight down. “Titanic Cosmos.”

Unseen forces compelled great weight onto Dota’s durable frame, pinning his back to the cracking street. With caution, Hyla reached her free hand over to the fallen pangolin’s forehead.

“YOU’LL GET NOTHING FROM ME, SORCERESS!” His tail slammed against the ground, caving it in. He quickly curled into a ball and roared down the tunnels at top speed.

Hector shook off Argus offered hand politely, forcing himself to stand despite the rest of his body demanding otherwise. “Well, there went our last bid at surprise.”

“Yes and no, Sir Hector.” Argus grinned. “They know we’re here and where we’re headed. But they don’t know when or how. And while I’m speaking of how… TELL ME! PEOPLE OF THE EMPIRE! DID YOU ENJOY THE SHOW?”

In the quiet of the night, Hector could hear myriad bodies moving behind the walls and windows around them. In the heat of combat he’d all but forgotten they were fighting amidst homes.

“YOU ALL KNOW ME, OR RATHER, KNEW! “Argus continued to shout. “I’M SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD AFTER ALL, SO LISTEN CLOSE TO THIS VOICE FROM BEYOND EXECUTION! THE EMPRESS HAS LIED TO YOU ALL! THE COUNCILS HAVE BEEN DISMANTLED! WE ARE IN LEAGUE WITH A HATED ENEMY TO THE WORLD AND THE VOICES THAT WOULD RISE AGAINST THIS HAVE BEEN FORCED INTO SECLUSION!”

Wistea could hear windows opening.

“ATOP OUR MOUNTAIN, A WEAPON OF CONQUEST READIES TO MOVE ON THE INNOCENTS OF OTHER NATIONS! IT SHALL CARRY OUR BRAVEST INTO THE START OF A NEW WORLD WAR! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?!”

Hyla looked to see if she could see the ones that quietly said, “No.”

“WILL YOU LET OUR BRILLIANCE BE A BLUNT INSTRUMENT FOR A WICKED SORCERESS?!”

The protest and anger grew louder, more and more of them called out, “No!”

“WILL YOU STAND BY, AS OUR BRIGHTEST AND MOST HONORABLE ARE KILLED, EXILED, OR MADE INTO MURDERERS?!”

In one clear chorus, the people of Insicai said, ‘NO!”

“THEN WE MARCH ON ANAGO! WE TAKE BACK OUR PRIDE! AND PROVE WE ARE INSICAI!”

The cheer was an almost deafening roar of righteous anger.

Hector moved closer to Argus and spoke to him through the din. “Rehearsed that, I bet.”

“My wife wrote it, brilliant wasn’t it?”

Hector nodded. “I’m surprised they all listened.”

“Why? I was the first chair of the Imperial Science Council, after all. It’s an elected position, people love me! Well… The ones not sent to kill me, anyway.”

<[Chapter 23]–[Index]–[Chapter 25]>

[jennaschererwrites]

10 Most WTF Revelations From Oliver Stone's Putin Interviews - Rolling Stone

What's the Russian equivalent of Kool-Aid? Whatever it is, it's definitely red – and Oliver Stone has eagerly drunk it down. The trailers for The Putin Interviews, Showtime's four-part series documenting a series of conversations between Russian President Vladimir Putin and Stone, would have you believe that you're going to hear some pretty hard-hitting stuff as the autocrat and the filmmaker face off, Frost-Nixon style. What we got instead was a series of softballs lobbed lovingly in the direction of one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the world. Except for a few moments, Stone seems serenely unconcerned with anything beyond flattering his subject – and engaging in some supremely one-sided exchanges about history and policy along the way.

The Putin Interviews are drawn from 30-plus hours of Q&A sessions that Stone conducted with Putin between July 2015, when Obama was still firmly ensconced in the White House, and February 2017, when America was seriously grappling with the question of how much Russia had interfered in the U.S. election. The conversations take place in locales ranging from the Kremlin to Sochi to, bizarrely, a Moscow hockey stadium. In the course of the show's four-hour span, the two men discuss the past (the fall of the Soviet Union and Putin's rise to power), the present (the conflict in Syria, Putin's relationship with Obama) and the future (Putin's paranoia about a hypothetical NATO takeover).

Through it all, the leader is as calm, collected and confident as a dragon seated atop his pile of gold – knowing that he holds all the power in this exchange, and supremely unconcerned. The former KGB agent-turned-head of state comes off as intelligent, rational and well-spoken, which is precisely what makes The Putin Interviews so dangerous. Since Stone more often than not takes him at his word, the politician's proclamations sound like unassailable facts – regardless of whether they actually are. It's telling that the series is set to air on Russia's state-run Channel One in its entirety later this month.

Whether or not Stone set out to make a puff piece on the Russian president, one who has held power for 16 years and counting, a puff piece he has indeed made. In an appearance on The Late Show on Monday night, Stone sang the praises of Putin, to the point where a taken-aback Stephen Colbert asked, "Anything negative that you found? Anything? Or does he have your dog in a cage someplace?"

Here are 10 of the most baffling, strange and frankly unsettling revelations that came out of Stone's too-long, too-soft docuseries – because unless you have a thing for subtle autocratic propaganda, you definitely shouldn't subject yourself to watching it.

1. Flattery Will Get You … No Information Stone – who has also interviewed the likes of Fidel Castro and Hugo Chávez – has been granted unprecedented access to Putin, but to what end? As they stroll through the hallways of the Kremlin or drive down winding country roads (with an omnipresent translator mediating the exchange), the director projects the obsequious air of a fan who gets to hang out with one of his favorite celebrities. "You are an excellent CEO, and Russia is your company," Stone gushes. He enthuses about "the marching, the precision, the pride" at a Victory Day Parade and tells Putin that he's "a true son of Russia." The president, for his part, eats it up – and it's deeply unpleasant to watch. At the very end of Part 4, Stone says any flack he'll get for these interviews is "worth it if it brings more peace and consciousness to the world." It's a pretty big stretch to say that giving this borderline despot the chance to preen and pontificate for the cameras accomplishes anything like raising consciousness. But hey, whatever Stone needs to tell himself to sleep at night.

2. Putin's Really, Really Into Fitness The two things that Putin invariably brings up out of nowhere: how much he hates NATO; and how much he loves Judo. He says he's been practicing the discipline since he was 13, and he has a statue of the founder in a place of privilege in his extensive private sports facility, which he proudly shows off to Stone. He claims that Judo informs his actions in politics, saying that he favors flexibility and sometimes giving in to others "if that is the way leading to victory." But perhaps the oddest set piece of the series is when Stone comes to watch him play hockey. "You look colorful. Mighty Mouse. No, that's cool," says the fanboy when Putin appears in full scrimmage gear. "When I get off the ice, I feel very big," Putin bizarrely replies. Should we bring you boys some Gatorades, or …?

3. Women to the Sidelines It's impossible not to notice that in four hours' worth of footage, there are almost no women who ever make an appearance – even in the background – in Putin's insular, patriarchal world. (The exception is Stone's wife, Sun-jun Jung, who's an occasional and silent presence; and cutaway clips of Hillary Clinton, whom Stone repeatedly and inexplicably calls a neoconservative.) But the ladies do get a mention in one of the few jokes that the po-faced Putin ever makes: When Stone asks him if he ever has "bad days," the president replies, "I'm not a woman, so I don't have bad days." "There you go," Stone responds with a chuckle. "Now you're gonna insult 50 percent of the American public. The way they're gonna take it." "I'm not trying to insult anyone. That's just the nature of things," Putin replies. Did we stumble into an episode of The Handmaid's Tale?

4. The Hypothetical NATO Map of Doom Putin talks about the North Atlantic Treaty Organization the way Ahab talks about Moby-Dick: He's obsessively certain that it's out to get him. Again and again, the president returns to the idea that NATO is a "mere instrument" of U.S. policies, and that its other members are "vassals" who exist to allow military installations to be placed in their country. While discussing George W. Bush's withdrawal from the Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty in 2002, Putin speculates wildly about NATO member states (many of them former Soviet satellites) building up their defenses and encircling his country. A dire map graphic follows him down the rabbit hole, showing an area from Eastern Europe to Alaska bristling with missiles and warships all pointed at Russia. Whether or not his paranoia is justified, it's clear that the Cold War never really ended for this guy.

5. Stanley Kubrick Movie Date Night Stone can't stop talking about movies (often, cringingly, his own Snowden), a strategy that never connects with Putin, who couldn't give a fig about pop culture. In one of the series' most surreal sequences, he asks the president if he's ever watched Dr. Strangelove, which of course he hasn't. "Oh, you must see it, really. It's well worth it. It's a classic," Stone opines. Cut to the pair of them watching the film in question in some vast, echoing room in the Kremlin, the filmmaker glancing at Putin the way you do when you're showing your friend a YouTube video you think is hilarious yet, for some reason, they just aren't laughing. "There are certain things in this film that indeed make us think, despite the fact that everything you see onscreen is make-believe," Putin says stiffly, moments after Major Kong rides the bomb down to annihilation. Even Kubrick couldn't have written a moment like this.

6. It's Totally Cool to Be Gay in Russia, Right? It isn't until the second episode that Stone raises the specter of one of Russia's most persistent human rights problems: Its treatment of its LGBTQ citizens. According to Putin, Russia doesn't engage in "any restrictions, any persecutions" of homosexuals, which is demonstrably untrue: A sweeping anti-gay law that Putin signed in 2013 places restrictions on distributing LGBTQ "propaganda" to minors, an act vaguely defined enough to allow for sweeping discrimination. Though he does eventually acknowledge the existence of this law, Putin's defense is that hey, at least it's not as bad as the death penalty. Um, pretty low bar? He insists that it's a matter of holding up "traditional values" and birth rates, because "God has decided." When Stone asks if Putin would be comfortable sharing a shower with a gay man in a military submarine, the president laughs and says: "Well, I prefer not take a shower with him. Why provoke him? But you know, I'm a Judo master and a SAMBO master as well." Nope, no homophobia to see here. Move along.

7. How Many Offices Does One Man Need? If you're Vladimir Putin, the answer is apparently three, all right next to each other, somewhere inside the vast gold-flecked maze of the Kremlin. "It used to be bigger during the Soviet era," the president says of Office Number One, which used to belong to Joseph Stalin. He then proceeds to lead the camera crew through two adjacent offices, one stuffed with framed prints leaning against the wall and another with two desks scrunched up side by side. Then it's off to the situation room, where Stone sits back to watch what seem to be some highly staged video calls with his subordinates. "At a set time, we will take further steps to accomplish this mission," a general calling from Syria announces from the screen. The whole tour seems designed as a performative demonstration of Putin's power, and the only one who doesn't seem to get that it's all for show is Stone.

8. The Cuban Missile Crisis, Part 2 In April 2016, the international community was briefly alarmed when a pair of Russian jets buzzed low over an American destroyer, the USS Donald Cook, in the Baltic Sea north of Russia. The show of aggression was a classic Cold War move, but a rare and alarming one in the modern age. The incident blew over after the ship turned around, but according to Putin, the Russian military was "brought to the brink." In a chillingly casual tone, the president says that missiles could have been trained on the Donald Cook, because "our commanders always have the authorization to use any means for the defense of the Russian Federation." When Stone is taken aback by this, Putin replies, "Who is trying to provoke whom?" Never mind that the destroyer was in international waters at the time.

9. What Election Hacking? [Whistles Innocently] In their final interview, held in February of this year, Stone asks Putin why he decided to hack the election. "We did not hack the election at all," he declares. He goes on to says that the "unrecognized hackers" who broke into the DNC's computer network "have brought to light the problems that existed, but they didn't tell any lies." And anyway, "Hackers are not the ones to blame. These are internal problems of the United States." Putin doggedly, brazenly refuses to admit to what the intelligence community has all but agreed to be true, but he gives himself away: As he dodges Stone's questions, his usually calm demeanor gives way to nervous finger-drumming and lowered glances. There was no way he was ever going to admit to anything here, but watching the president's usually controlled body language betray him was perhaps the one true revelatory moment of this series.

10. Putin Thinks Stalin Was, Y'know, Pretty Okay Putin is a consummate politician, offering praise and condemnation in equal measure for Russian and world leaders past. But you'd think the one guy he wouldn't want to throw his hat in for – given how often Putin is accused of being more dictator than president – is Joseph Stalin. Remember that guy, the Soviet despot who ruled with an iron fist and caused the deaths of untold millions? According to Putin, Stalin was just "a product of his era," and his merits outweigh his faults. "You can try to demonize him however much you like. We try to talk about his merits in achieving victory over fascism." He briefly mentions all the abundant human atrocities, before concluding, "I think the overwhelming majority of citizens of the former Soviet Union admired him." Oh, good.

[jpanneck-blog]

It is probably safe to say that many of you reading this little piece can affirm your anxiety about a visit to ye olde dentist, contingent upon the type and intensity of the procedure. Root canals? Bridgework? Wisdom tooth extraction? Yes, these are a far cry from routine cleanings, although if you are overcome by an overly active nervous system wrung in by episodes of panicky, sweaty nervous tics even with the suggestion of a routine visit, let alone a deep cleaning, then like myself, you request to be numbed out from the immanent terror that will pervade your every cell.

Some time ago, I scheduled a series of 4 deep cleanings. These are not your daddy’s cleanings, but rather the deepest you can go—instruments that make noises similar to the one heard at a construction site. However, the cleanings were even deeper than I could ever imagine, going beyond superficial cleaning to a light cleaning of my soul, in some regard, as I will soon explain. Of course, I had neglected the less pervasive routine cleanings for some time, given my anxiety over going to the dentist, thus, my punishment for such a forbearance of dental hygiene maintenance rendered me culpable and thus requiring more attention from these masked men and women in white. One day I hope to take heed to the Universal Dental Law of the inverse relationship between frequency of visits and intensity of service provided.

Little did I know that one could partake of the consciousness-altering nitrous oxide for a mere cleaning. Only when I began to sweat at my checkup at the mention of a “serious, deep cleaning” did my hygienist give me the good news—that my body would be sitting in the chair, but my mind in fact would be migrating elsewhere. Perhaps somewhere near where my occasional ayahuasca sessions have taken me—to that nebulous Bardo that rests outside this reality-bubble, especially the reality involving hygienists in medical garb operating their intimidating dental weaponry. Yes, I could pop open the Tupperware lid like that curious old Chaldean astronomer did on the famous Flammarion woodcut. I could be as William James did once when he took in that not-so-stale air and saw the White Crow that is the inner-potential of the human race.

My only memory of the effects of nitrous oxide is fuzzy at best—a brief and capricious little college detour (a la whippets) that did nothing more than make me sound like Emilio Estevez on peyote in Young Guns as I tentatively uttered, “Did you know we’re in the spirit world?” It was a pure, unadulterated giggle-fest and nothing more. No discernment or journaling from my trip to the “Other Side.” Of course, this was far before I took serious interest in the study of altered states of consciousness (ASC) as a tool for personal and spiritual development.

Nine years ago, I began a doctoral dissertation on the use of ayahuasca in the context of a religious setting as a method of developing more effective coping strategies for daily and life stressors. A year prior to that, I had witnessed my first ayahuasca session with the Santo Daime Church, a syncretic religious organization that calls upon ayahuasca (Daime) as its sacrament. Since then, I have been attending at least once every couple of months. Those sessions opened the door to a realm of spiritual and psychedelic possibility, invoking a far greater appreciation for all substances psychedelic (or entheogenic if you wish). Now even the occasional marijuana constitutional is much like a neuro-enrichment tool that allows me to break down barriers, make connections, and even discover mini-breakthroughs in my array of psychedelic-related projects.

So, I made the appointment and for the first time was for the most part looking forward to my dental treatment—a remarkable first! Interestingly enough, when I got to the appointment I began to have anxiety about the very thing that was supposed to alleviate my anxiety. A testament to the fact that I am a perfect candidate for nitrous oxide for even what may seem as the most mundane and least threatening of procedures.

And then…..it happened. The Nitrous Oxide worked. It was similar to being stoned ala a smoke session with a superior marijuana strain—but in the middle of the day in a dental office, which completely enhances the experience. There is an added intensity to being stoned in an orthodox setting (albeit, in an unorthodox fashion). That is, instead of smoking pot sitting around a fire, or hanging out with friends on a Friday evening, etc., the contrast of unorthodox ritual (unless you’re a pothead) with orthodox setting (usually involving strangers during the day in public) tends to greatly alter the experience. Although with nitrous, there is an additional euphoria, or giggle factor—less of the paranoia that may often be associated with marijuana.

So, there I was—stoned to the bejesus on nitrous and apparently someone was tooling around in my mouth. Rather than this operation becoming the focus of my experience, it was somewhat ancillary, although it did off-set some unique visionary motifs and sensations. For example, in my years of accumulated ayahuasca sessions, I have come to experience recurring spiritual visions, sensations, and what many would call “astral beings.” Whether or not these are actual beings is another topic for another blog. However, what I did see was so strikingly similar to my ayahuasca visions, that I can conclude it was a different key that opened up the same doorway to that mysterious “other side” of visionary and experiential phenomena.

I saw the ever-present “Buddha’s Eyes” with a vague “Tiger-striped” outline, which engendered the same “I’m a-being-from-another-dimension-over-watching-you-for-some-cosmic-reason” sensation. Additionally, as seen in several of my ayahuasca sessions, there was also the faint presence of a trickster entity revealing these rolls of complex symbol-laden wall paper as if he possessed at his disposal far more knowledge and intelligence than I could ever begin to comprehend. Although, it was typical for me to see the trickster only in the beginning, as if he were testing my meddle, revealing his visual tricks as if it were merely fodder for the purposes of some sort of decorative, theatrical gesture—an initial stage in the journey of the Hero. Perhaps it was a similar dimension, yet the beginning of the course for this particular….entheogen? After all, it did induce very similar spiritual-invoking sensations.

When I did come to focus on the procedure being done on my teeth, this also generated a rather unique experience. Rather than feeling accosted by this dental tech, I felt as though she were some angelic being making love to my soul—those gentle, delicate scrapes on my chin with her prophylactic-clad hand felt like love and connection at the time, rather than torture.  I did experience a little bit of pain, which was related to the drill-bit entering a cavity in one of my molars, reverberating throughout my skull and cascading into strange, psychedelic vignettes. But I was safe, for my dental tech had become my shaman—my angelic guide, cleaning out the old crusty detritus, just as the shaman clears out the psychic detritus of his inebriated and distressed client.

Fast forward to just over 4 years. Although I had a cleaning or two in between the aforementioned session and this one, this particular session was notable. I had set up another 4-quadrant deep cleaning series, and the first one—just 3 weeks ago—was not remotely memorable, at least in a positive sense. I had a different hygienist—not my usual dental shaman with the soft, but calculating touch. This DH seemed to lack the same level of confidence, and she could not quite get the nitrous—my medicine—right, and that was everything! Imagine the shaman not being able to deliver the goods, whether it was an ineffective dose, or administered improperly (“okay, try pouring the shot over your eye and see what happens….”). This throws the whole system off. We tried different apparatus styles and arrangements, and finally settling on one. Ineffective = not a pleasant situation. I didn’t want to make this about dental work. It was more than that. Good dental hygiene is a positive benefit of this session, or should be, but getting the inside of my mouth drilled and scraped should not be a focal point—it should be merely a radio playing in the background.

That was 3 weeks ago. On this particular day, I was introduced to new blood. A [youngish] middle-aged man of African descent with a thick accent and foreign name—a name that was suggestive of a “sleeper” shaman, a warm connector, and a gentle steward of transitions—from the daily grind to the twilight sublime. He turned out to be what I thought of as the Charlie Parker of dental shamanism—the Yardbird of the dental theater. He had a virtuosic technique, his own advanced harmonies, and was at once—clean, penetrating, sweet, and somber, and played my teeth at a rapid bebop clip. He took heed of my medicine (NO)—making sure it was in working order this time, and went right to penetrating jabs of gum-numbing. I asked if I could record myself (for the site), and he casually declined due to potential legal recourse and restrictions. I threw in my ear buds, connected to the wi-fi, and found a random House Trance mix on YouTube—my shamanic shuffle.

After about 20 minutes of desperately grasping my stress ball, the glass insert of the blue sky and clouds on the ceiling became my portal to the Bardo, and again, the drilling and scraping (his equivalent of a shamanic saplado), became an event that was simply occurring to a body that I inhabit most of the time. Although this session did not seem as intense as the one that occurred years ago, I must say that it is beyond refreshing to be at this level of “high” in the middle of the afternoon during a weekday. I was flooded with ideas—for writing, for my business (Bamboom), for performances, and talks. I tend to call the level of thinking that inhabits me “psychedelic cognition,” (PC) in which traditional, linear barriers are dissolved and my cognition and visionary states take on a multi-dimensional, holographic quality.

I sat there thinking—aside from “if William James was here, he’d be proud”—“How am I going to remember all of this stuff? I can’t necessarily write it down on my little notepad.” I then utilized the power of PC and conceptualized a vast hyper-dimensional cube (HDC) in which each thought/idea was represented by potent, numinous constructs (images or symbols), or what I sometimes call concrescences, and these images were “nodal points” on the corners of said HDC. I then attempted to correlate each construct with one another to in turn form a gestalt—a sort of holographic archetypal cube (HAC). I realize I’m getting heavy with the acronyms here, but this last one—HAC—I must admit, is a particularly good one since it is in fact a “hack,” and I seem to have immersed myself (like the rest of the culture increasingly) in the world of hacking (think bio-hacking, life-hacking, growth-hacking, etc.). In short, I left with a smile worthy of revealing given the fresh, new sheen on my teeth, but most importantly, I got to hop aboard the train to a hyperdimensional world with the Shamanic Dental Yardbird as the chief engineer of the Bardo Express.

Happy dental cleanings everyone!

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Justin “Dr. J” Panneck

Dental Shamanism: Nitrous Oxide & Altered States It is probably safe to say that many of you reading this little piece can affirm your anxiety about a visit to ye olde dentist, contingent upon the type and intensity of the procedure.