#I wish I could find a method of fleshing out characters in advance that I like

[petiolata]

Wrote a difficult, unfun 1k and came to the conclusion I need to better know some of the new characters I'm writing.

I just don't want to get distracted and leave my WIP in the dust because I left it alone too long while I do character exploration shorts to learn the new OCs.

[cryptid-kay]

How I Write

BEHOLD another post about writing.

I actually had this idea a while ago, but wasn't sure exactly how to go about it. Still aren't so we're just gonna put it all here and hopefully it's readable.

So how I write.

The backstory [skip if you want]:

During my college years, I had a wonderful professor in my advanced comp class who introduced us to the idea that we all wrote differently. Not just in words, but in process. This idea was revolutionary. Why? Because I grew up with the whole "you must outline on paper your essay and write for me all the bullet points and I must SEE how you're going to logically make this make sense before you ever begin."

I hated it. Hated essays.

Then this random man who always wore bowties on Wednesdays and shamelessly pushed us to do our best, not to meet deadlines or grades, appeared in my life. Sorry, no, he wasn't the doctor, but bowties ARE still cool.

What I learned, however, is that every person has a different process. I specifically, for essays, draft in my head, sometimes I sticky note draft for multiple sources, and then I write it all down and revise. Some of my classmates would just write it down and revise over and over and over.

But this is all background, because what I want to talk about specifically is my process of novelling. I have lots of people ask me how I can churn out a 50-100K novel in about 1-2 months, and my goal with this post is to both answer that, and also to remind people that my process does not have to be your process. [end of backstory]

So this is how I write.

Conception of the Idea This is the part that I can't really attribute a process to. Inspiration and ideas come to me in various ways. Short stories are easiest because I can just take a trip into pinterest and find a few interesting images which inspire me to write, but for novels, the idea really needs to stick. I wish I could outline a process here as this is probably the part most authors struggle with, but unfortunately...I just listen to lots of music, read lots of books, and scroll pinterest a lot and sometimes I get an idea.

Planning/Plotting THIS however, this part I can begin to explain. So, I have an idea. It's a good one. I'm going to say this now: I do not usually know how my books are going to end when I start writing. I do not plot. Except I do. My process for planning is one of two: The first: I do not plan anything except preliminary details (i.e. MC's name, role in the story, who the major characters are, first point of conflict). Once I have these I will write a scene and then another scene and I let the character's drive the story. This works well when I'm embarking on a really large project that I want to explore but am not 100% sure I can commit to, and for original fiction this is usually the route I go to discover if an idea will stick. The second: This is a process I tend to use for "stuck" ideas or more fleshed out ones. I also use this during rewriting and would like to use it more during my real writing and I find it eases some of the pitfalls of the more pantser method I had been using. In this second method I will begin with my stakes, my characters, and their motivations. Decide who wants what and what stands in the way of it. This is best done after fleshing out my characters, but can be applied to characters I haven't fully explored as it grants a starting point. Once I've nailed down the stakes, I figure out first how my MC is going to react, then how this is going to get them into trouble. Basically creating for myself a method of raising the stakes through the story. Subplots often crop up here, and sometimes parallel stories. After I finish all of this planning, this is where I start the writing. 3. Drafting Alright, this is where the process gets funnn. This is where we start writing. My process here is pretty simple. I will take a day or two to plan out a chapter in my head. Then I put it on paper. Sometimes it comes out different, but usually as long as I adhere to the major beats of the story, everything is fine. This also helps me break up my stories into chapters that flow into one another. I almost always leave off a chapter either after a major event, in the middle of one, or setting up for one. I treat them like mini short stories of about 2-3K with something important happening in each, even if it's importance isn't clear until the end of the story. I write linearly, so that means start to finish, but by planning out and then writing, I can usually complete a chapter in a writing session. (I plan to write about an hour on my writing days). I admit I do not write daily. I find it burns me out, but I do swap between planning days and writing days, and if I get an idea, I'll write notes. This process is both the simplest, and takes the longest, usually around 30-60 days for about 50-100K. This is in part due to the speed of my writing (around 50-75 wpm), and the fact I plan so I have a clear vision of my chapters before I write them making the writing process faster for me. It also prevents me from burning out so I can write more in a condensed period of time. 4. Revising - Round One I found after rewriting Half Crown last year a new method of revision, which requires some tedium, but ultimately I enjoyed it and am working it into my process. It begins with, while the book is either being alpha read, or just sitting in my folders, I go through the whole book and make a spreadsheet. This spreadsheet is a chapter by chapter breakdown of scenes including: the summary of the scene, characters present, motives, and the major stakes. I also sometimes add notes for things I want to change. This scene breakdown for me was really useful because I could see an easy to read cohesive breakdown, and as a I was summarizing I could find area's to improve the impact of later scenes, current scenes, or spot inconsistencies I'd accidentally worked in. It also helped me keep motive solid thorughout

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Gavin’s Reflection of Beauty Date (Eng Translation)

🍒 Warning: Detailed spoilers for a date yet to be released in EN! 🍒

Phone call between Gavin and Mr Keller before the date: here

Candlelit Night Collection: Kiro // Lucien // Victor

Trivia regarding the name of the date: 

This date is called 惊鸿照影来, which is part of a couplet from “Shenyuan”, a poem by Lu You written in the Song Dynasty

Rough translation of the full couplet: Alas, the green water under the forlorn bridge / Once reflected the charming face of my beloved one!

It was inspired by the poet’s own love story, where he was forced to leave his wife because his mother didn’t like her. Even so, their love never ceased. Ten years later, they met again in Shenyuan Garden (which was also the place he first fell in love with her). Lu You inscribed a poem on a stone wall, conveying his anger and sorrow towards their separation. A few days after seeing the poem, she died from depression :’<

“Shenyuan” was written later on as a memorialisation of his undying love. It conveys how revisiting old places makes one remember past lovers and sentiments

-

[ CHAPTER ONE ]

The date begins with MC and Gavin having a rehearsal for the sequel of the “Three Lifetimes” play

The audience had a deep impression of them in “Three Lifetimes”, so Mr Keller wrote them into the sequel as second leads

In the play, the town looks forward to the marriage between Lady Su (the female lead) and Swordsman Bai (Gavin)

But Lady Su is in love with Swordsman Bai’s friend, a scholar (the male lead)

Meanwhile, Swordsman Bai is in love with the character MC is playing (a high-ranking palace maid and a close friend of Lady Su)

After the rehearsal, Mr Keller gives them suggestions on how to improve, and tells Gavin to gaze at MC and hold her hand during a particular scene:

Gavin: ...all right. 

-

[ CHAPTER TWO ]

Once the rehearsal is over, Gavin is a sweetheart as always, bringing water and a few bananas over to MC with this face:

Gavin: If it isn’t enough, I can get a few more? 

MC: There’s enough, there’s enough. 

Su Xuan, the actress playing Lady Su, tells them to change outfits for the photoshoot:

Su Xuan: I’ll help you put on some make-up first, then marry you off beautifully to your Mr Gavin. Come, close your eyes.

Without giving me a chance to explain or argue, she skilfully helps me with my make-up, as though she’s really helping a sister prepare for her wedding. 

Su Xuan: Mm, that’s more like it. 

She pulls me to my feet. After looking me over carefully, she tilts her head and smiles at something behind me.

Su Xuan: What does the groom think? 

Before I have time to react, Su Xuan pushes me lightly, and I fall into familiar arms.

Gavin: Pretty. 

Gavin, who has walked out of the changing room, is also wearing a matching set of red wedding attire.

The colour, which isn’t typically found on him, suits him unexpectedly well.

His easy-going independence has been toned down, replaced with fiery passion.

Gavin: What are you looking at? 

MC: This outfit really suits you.

MC: ...very handsome!

Gavin: [coughs] ...you look very pretty in red too. 

Gavin’s ears have a tinge of redness. He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes containing insuppressible surprise and warmth as he looks at me. 

Su Xuan: All right, you two “newlyweds” can appreciate each other after the shoot! The photographer this time is quite picky.

As she speaks, she pulls our hands together. 

The both of us stop talking, perhaps due to the dry air around us, or the warmth surfacing in our eyes. 

Gavin holds onto my hand tightly.

-

[ CHAPTER TWO: A flashback ]

Location: Outside Lynn’s Kitchen

By the time Minor and Gavin leave the noodle shop, the sky is mostly dark.

Only traces of the sunset glow faintly from behind the tall buildings. 

Minor: It’s so difficult to get tickets this Chinese New Year... I’m always struggling during this part of the year, and spending the New Year’s alone here is too cheerless. Gavin, what are your plans? Eh... why am I even asking - you’re definitely spending it with Boss.

Gavin is the same as always, letting Minor ramble on at his ear. 

Only when he hears the final sentence does a corner of his heart feel a light tug.

Gavin: Mm. I promised to help Mr Keller with her. 

Gavin smiles faintly without even realising it himself.

Minor: Huh? ...even though I find this method a little off, it’s not bad I guess! Boss has been asking everyone in the office what dishes they usually make for New Year’s. It made me curious... so you two are spending New Year’s together!

Minor’s words cause Gavin to recall the few memories of “spending the New Year’s” he has.

New Year’s should be a festival of celebration. There was a time when he looked forward to it.

It’s just that afterwards, this day gradually became no different from a normal one. 

That is, until the girl reappeared in his life, drawing the link between this day and warmth. 

It made him start looking forward to it again.

Minor: Bro Gavin? What are you thinking about? It’s rare to see this look on your face... I got it!

Minor makes an exaggerated expression, predictably receiving Gavin’s neither hard nor soft punch. 

Gavin: Minor, are there places selling New Year goods near her home? 

Minor: Bro Gavin, you want to... buy New Year goods?!

Gavin: What’s wrong with that?

Minor: Nothing nothing nothing...

Gavin: ...your smile is a little nauseating. 

Minor: I’m just happy! Then again, as compared to preparing in advance, there will be more of an atmosphere if you pick them out together!

Gavin: Makes sense. 

Gavin nods, quickening his pace slightly. 

Minor: Bro Gavin, where are you headed to next?

Several images flash across his mind - a warm light in the living room left on for him, a table with the home-cooked dishes he mentioned liking, and the girl waiting for him on the sofa, hugging a pillow. 

Gavin: Home. 

-

[ CHAPTER THREE ]

The photoshoot turns out to be more difficult than MC expected

Photographer: You must imagine - you two are about to elope, so it has to be dynamic! And yet have a tinge of... hesitation and worry! You’ve got to feel it! Change your pose!

MC and Gavin struggle to understand the photographer’s abstract descriptions

MC suggests they pretend to chat while sitting on the grass

MC: ...the weather is getting cold. Does Sparky need to be sent for maintenance? 

Once the words leave my mouth, I’m filled with a sense of regret. This topic is too forced...

Gavin seems to be stunned for a moment, then the corners of his lips lift gently.

Gavin: Mm, I have plans to do so. We can find a day to go together.  

MC: Ah, okay!

Gavin smiles, lifting his hand to tuck stray tendrils of hair behind my ear. 

His amber eyes, which are filled to the brim with smiles, hold my blinking and grinning expression within them.

Photographer: Very good! That’s the right feeling! Could the both of you try lying down? Girl, close your eyes and lift your head slightly.

MC: ...all right. Like this? 

I follow the photographer’s instructions and lie down at Gavin’s side, closing my eyes. 

In the darkness, a familiar warmth encases me tightly, allowing me to have a peace of mind and lean into his arms. 

We are very close to each other. His unique scent entwines with the reed grass that has been dried by the sun, reminding me of the summer we spent together. A breeze brushes past us. 

It makes one want to draw even nearer. 

Photographer: Very good very good. Can the man include some movements to add on to the idea of newlyweds interacting?

Gavin: ...uhm.

I hear Gavin’s breath halt for a moment, as though he’s deep in thought. 

After a while, he seems to have thought of something, and he laughs softly. 

Gavin: MC, don’t move. 

Right after he finishes speaking, I feel a lock of hair near my ear being lifted gently. 

I don’t dare to move a single inch, nor dare to open my eyes. I leave myself entirely to Gavin. 

The frequency of my heartbeat increases, and a numbness travels from the roots of my hair to my spine. My hair seems to be gently held in his palm.

Gavin: ...let me know if it hurts. I’ve never tried this before. 

Even though he says this, his actions are cautious and tender. 

All I can feel are the slight vibrations from my hair, the lock of hair ascending and descending along with his fingers, and then falling by my ear again. 

I purse my lips tightly, frantically trying to control my rapid breathing. I’m afraid that I might accidentally ruin this ambience. 

The shutter continuously sounds. The photographer seems to be saying something again, but I can no longer hear him clearly. 

Next to me, Gavin’s breathing brushes against my forehead and the tips of my hair. The breath, which carries a certain warmth, feels like a light kiss. 

Even though this is just a photoshoot, I wish time would give us this moment for a little while longer.

The words he said during the Qixi Festival last year surge from the depths of my heart, and once again gather in the centre.

I can’t help but feel that even if our destinies entangle and cross, and fate only allows for fleeting meetings, we will ultimately accompany each other at the very end. 

In my ear, the sound of his heartbeat is akin to him giving me a definite answer. One after the other, regular and resolute. 

Photographer:

Gavin: MC, we can get up now. 

I open my eyes slowly. The past few minutes have felt like a small, beautiful dream. 

In Gavin’s hand are locks of our hair tied together with a red string. 

Noticing my gaze, Gavin clear his throat unnaturally. 

Gavin: ...when the idea of “newlyweds” was brought up, I could only think of this. 

[Trivia: In Chinese culture, one’s hair represents one’s self. During a traditional Chinese wedding, the couple would each cut a lock of their hair and tie them together. This is called 结发 (”joining of hair”). It symbolises the couple becoming one flesh and blood, and how they would be connected forever... T^T]

I nod, not daring to meet his eyes. 

His short sentence channels layers of emotions in my heart, converging into unstoppable ripples. 

In a most straightforward way, his unembellished words leave a long and sweet aftertaste in my heart. 

MC: Let’s go over there so the next group can use this place...

Gavin: Hold on...

Without waiting for Gavin to finish, I’ve already sat up. Only when I feel a light tugging sensation do I realise that my hair is still tied to Gavin’s. 

MC: Ah-

Gavin: ...does it hurt? Don’t worry, I’ll untie the knot.

Gavin’s voice, which carries within it concern, is very close to the top of my head. In the next second, the strands of hair that are pulled are immersed in a tender warmth. 

Gavin: ...I might have tied it a little too tightly.

MC: Let me try...

Gavin agrees with a sound, cooperating by bending down slightly to make it easier to untie the red string. 

I try pulling at the end of the string, but the knot refuses to budge.

Gavin: ... 

MC: It does seem a little tight... could it be a dead knot? 

Gavin seems to have leaned in a little closer. Perhaps it’s just my misperception, but he seems even closer than he was during the photoshoot. 

His temperature and breath make my face feel increasingly flushed. I focus on the knot in my hand, hoping he wouldn’t notice my flustered state.

MC: N-next time, don't tie it so tightly! Or else I’ll leave it to you to untie. 

I pretend to be angry, wanting to break the atmosphere that makes my heart go into a frenzy. 

Gavin: All right, I got it. 

When I hear his voice in my ear, I know fully well that my attempts are futile.

When the red string is finally released and falls to the ground, I release a huge sigh, yet feel an inexplicable emptiness in my heart. 

It’s as though my fate with Gavin has become untied. 

They get called back to the rehearsal

MC: We should go over then.

Gavin: ...hold on. 

Gavin pauses, then takes the red string from my hand.

In a slightly clumsy manner, he uses the string to tie a knot at the end of my plait.

Gavin: This is also considered joining of the hair.

Gavin looks at me, his eyes clear, as though he has seen through all my emotions. 

Gavin: Let’s go.

While he speaks, he takes my hand and we leave. 

I hold onto Gavin firmly, the red string on my hair swaying gently along with our footsteps.

We will never miss each other again. 

-

[ CHAPTER FOUR ]

At 8pm, the play finally begins

On stage, MC is supposed to read a letter to Gavin

But when she opens it up, she realises there’s nothing on the letter even though her script is supposed to be on it

Gavin notices that something is amiss, so he steps in to calm her down while pretending everything is normal

MC starts reciting her lines based on memory, but starts panicking in fear of ruining the play

Gavin then takes the letter from her and pretends to read from it, reciting her lines perfectly

The First Act of the play comes to an end, and there’s an intermission

MC decides to thank Gavin properly after the play is over, but Su Xuan suddenly looks for her:

Su Xuan: MC, are you free now? Pass the silk ball to Gavin! I don’t know why, but the prop hasn’t been brought over yet.

MC: Okay! I’ll go now!

Thinking of the little time left, I grab the silk ball and run towards the other end without much thought. 

In the next scene, Gavin and I are supposed to enter the stage from different sides, which is why I have to cross through the entire backstage to reach him.

The silk ball is an indispensable prop in the next scene. Also... I have a “thank you” to say to him in person.

With this in mind, I quicken my pace, and find a familiar figure afar off in the busy backstage.

MC: Gavin! I’m over here!

I stand on my tiptoes and wave at him, thinking of ways to reach him even faster. 

Hearing this, Gavin raises his head. After seeing me, he immediately weaves through the crowd and walks towards me. 

People are moving to and fro. Our eyes only have each other, and we go against the flow of people, walking towards our only focus. 

Staff: Prepare for the second half!

When I’m only a few steps away from him, the countdown for the second half of the play resounds. 

MC: Gavin, this is for you!

In my desperation, I lift my hand. The silk ball flies in a slightly shaky arc, landing steadily in Gavin’s arms. 

[Trivia: In Chinese culture, the silk ball (绣球 - ”xiu qiu”) is used to symbolize love. Giving it to someone reflects the giving of one’s heart. If a woman is in search of a fated life partner, she will toss the ball high into the air in a crowd. The person who catches the silk ball would become the person’s husband]

MC: Gavin, about earlier...

Staff: MC? What are you doing here? Go back, we’re about to start soon. The snatching scene is next, and it’s very important. 

MC: Please wait! I haven’t finished what I wanted to say...

The staff doesn’t give me a chance to continue, and pulls me to the other end. 

I turn my head towards Gavin, and I have no choice but to swallow the words of gratitude I couldn’t say to him in time. 

Gavin: [unintentionally sexy whisper] Wait for me.

Gavin stands in place and looks at me, mouthing those words to me. 

The bell from the venue rings, and the noise from the audience gradually dissipates.

Staff: The Second Act! Begins!

-

[ CHAPTER FOUR: A flashback ]

Location: Gavin’s home

MC: “It’s good, and I doubt the lady would refuse, but...”

Gavin: Are you still looking at your lines?

MC: ...Gavin? Why are you here!

[Note: I have no idea why MC asks this since the backdrop is of his own house LOL]

Gavin walks over with a blanket in his hand. 

MC: The rehearsal is the day after tomorrow, so I’m trying to make use of my time to familiarise myself with the script, especially the scene where I’m reading the letter. Even though I should be able to read straight from the letter on the actual day, I think it’s better to memorise it just in case... Gavin, why don’t you accompany me in going through the lines!

Gavin nods and sits beside me. After covering me with the blanket, he takes the script from my hands. 

Gavin: From here? 

MC: Okay!

Gavin and I go through the dialogue. Places I usually get stuck at become miraculously smooth.

Without realising it, we’ve gone through the entire script.

I flip through the script, marking out places requiring additional attention. 

MC: I feel like Mr Keller has taken reference from the personalities of the actors when writing the lines. I keep thinking that the lines sound like what you would say.

While speaking, I let out a yawn.

Gavin: If you’re tired, rest. We can continue tomorrow. 

As the year draws to a close, there are more things than usual to settle at work. And when I come home, I’d have to familiarise myself with the script. It’s natural that I’d feel fatigued. 

MC: You don’t have anything on tomorrow? 

Gavin: I don’t have work tomorrow, so we can practice our lines.

MC: That’s great!

A warmth gushes out of my heart. I shift closer to Gavin, sharing half the blanket with him. We look at the script together. 

MC: This is so much warmer!

Gavin: ...do you still want to look at it? 

MC: Mm, let’s look through the letter scene again. “If you lack medical knowledge... attach some... scattered silver... I hope to do my best...”

The words in front of me gradually become blurry and distorted. After a certain line, I lean on Gavin’s shoulder in a dazed state, giving up on my fight against sleep.

Gavin: MC? Are you asleep? 

The girl, who loftily said they would look at the script together just a few minutes ago, is now leaning softly against his shoulder, sleeping peacefully. 

Gavin doesn’t wake her up, and simply covers her with a jacket. He flips to the first page of the script, quietly reading the girl’s lines, and memorising them. 

The city is asleep, but the room filled with the breath of two people is still illuminated with a tender light. 

The all-knowing stars in the night sky are silent, and will guard the small world belonging to these two people.

-

[ CHAPTER FIVE ] The curtains are drawn slowly. I once again step onto the stage, following the script. 

In this scene, Gavin will snatch the silk ball, and I will hand it to the male lead so he can bring his beloved home.

For the scene to be more realistic, the actors are allowed to walk around spontaneously. 

As such, I have to run past various settings, weave through the crowd, and finally reach the stipulated spot. 

MC: Swordsman Bai? 

Panting slightly, I stand underneath the embroidery building, looking for Gavin. 

[Trivia: In ancient times, women who were more socially well-to-do would do embroidery in embroidery buildings.]

The sense of deja vu blurs my perception of the boundaries between the play and reality. 

A strong wind arrives as promised. Following the glint of a sword, a path forms in the crowd, interrupting my thoughts.

Gavin is dressed in red. One hand holds onto the silk ball, and the other sheathes his sword. He walks straight towards me. 

Gavin: Trivial matters held me back, and I seek forgiveness from the lady. 

The corners of his lips are curled into an open smile. His eyes are wilful and tender. 

The setting of the blue sky, the red silk in the surroundings, and the startled magpie birds surround Gavin, who is donned in wedding attire. It makes one unable to look away. 

At this moment, he finally stands before me again. 

The crowd and the noise of the world - they no longer have anything to do with me. 

Gavin places the silk ball into my hands steadily. 

Even though I know this is a script, and that it’s part of the plot, I can’t help but feel that the red silk ball in my hands is akin to a solemn promise. 

A greedy thought even flits across my mind - maybe it’d be good if the story ends like this. 

On stage, the silk ball is finally handed to the scholar. The lady takes the silk ball and holds it with her lover.  

Under the embroidery building, Gavin suddenly takes my hand. 

Gavin: Perhaps this may be abrupt. MC, are you willing to marry me and become my wife? 

MC: ?!

Was there such a line in the script? 

I look at Gavin with confusion.

Gavin doesn’t say a word. He stares straight at me without a hint of evasion.

There are so many emotions within that pair of eyes, leaving me unable to make sense of them. I have no idea what to say. 

Off-stage, the audience erupt in thunderous cheers.

I glance to the side. Mr Keller, who has been watching the entire play, nods in my direction, signalling that I should continue in my role. 

My confusion dissipates when I see Gavin’s amber eyes, which are filled with deep, tender emotions and lingering affection. There is even an undercurrent of questioning and anticipation. 

It’s as though the answer I give would be an entrustment of the rest of my life. 

My heart beats loudly in my chest, feeling like it would leap out from my throat in the next second. 

MC: I... I accept. 

I blush and respond, not even sure if my words are loud enough to be heard by the audience off-stage. 

However, every single word is heard by Gavin, who has received my feelings. 

With a gentle laugh, he wraps an arm around my waist and lifts me up. 

Gavin brings me up the embroidery building to stand alongside the male and female leads.

At the end of the play, there is thunderous applause from off-stage. There are even a few audience members who are fully immersed in the story, sending us their blessings. 

In the midst of the applause, I tilt my head and lean towards Gavin’s ear, speaking softly. 

MC: Gavin, just now... I don’t remember seeing such a scene in the script?

Gavin: Mm, it was impromptu. 

MC: Why didn’t you tell me beforehand? I even thought...

Gavin doesn’t respond further, only smiling at me. 

Facing the cheering audience, the four of us bow and thank them for watching, as though worshipping the vast sea of people. 

After the play, everyone involved in the show gathers together to celebrate over dinner

MC: Gavin, thank you so much for today! It’s a good thing you saved the show! Back then... I really didn’t know what to do.

While I speak, I raise the drink in my hand, clinking it lightly against Gavin’s.

Gavin: You were looking for me just now to say this? 

He raises his drink, making up for the delayed clink. 

MC: Yeah. I wanted to thank you properly, but time was so tight that I couldn’t find the chance. Come to think of it, how did you know my lines...

Gavin: When we were rehearsing lines together, I just memorised them as well.

Gavin lowers his head and takes a mouthful of food, maintaining his usual casual attitude. Noticing that I’ve been watching him, he rubs his neck in slight confusion.

Gavin: Um... is there something on my face?

I immediately shake my head. A warm wave of emotions overflow from my heart. Countless words of gratitude are lodged in my throat, but I feel that no matter what I say, it would not be enough.

In the end, I silently fill a bowl of soup for him.

At the table, everyone is eating and drinking merrily, and the atmosphere is warm.

MC: After spending so many days with the crew, thinking of how we might not have the chance to get together like this again makes me feel quite reluctant to part with them.

I lean against Gavin, looking at the lively crew around us. 

MC: Gavin, I suddenly thought about something from my childhood. My dad used to be busy producing programs, and would bring me to the recording site to spend the New Year’s. The site was always busy, but no matter how pressed they were for time, everyone would sit down together and have an especially sumptuous dinner. Once I grew up, I also started spending my New Year’s working. I still remember that the warm ambience back then was the same as right now. 

Gavin: Mm, I can imagine. I used to spend New Year’s with my teammates, and it was very lively. 

MC: Even though it’s not at home, it’s still a different kind of fun!

Gavin: Since we’re on this topic, [coughs]...

Gavin seems to have something very important to say, but he takes another sip of his drink and stops. 

I blink, waiting for him quietly. I can vaguely guess what he wants to say.

In the end, he seems to become determined. He clears his throat and turns his head to look at me with a serious expression. 

Gavin: Over the next few days, if you don’t have anything else planned....

Gavin: Spend the New Year’s with me at home.

His tone is light, but the look in his eyes tells me just how solemn this invitation is. Even the tips of his ears turn an unnatural shade of red. 

I am very certain that, to the both of us, these words are the most precious and serious treasures from the deepest parts of his heart. 

MC: Okay. 

I nod heavily in response. Since a very long time ago, this answer has not changed.

The corners of Gavin’s lips turn up slightly. Those eyes, which always have an undercurrent of emotions, look like a glacier that has melted in spring, tenderly melting into a warm current. 

Gavin: I’ll pick you up then.

MC: Mm!!

The way his lips are curled upwards is as though all the uncertainties in his heart have found a most potent answer. 

I find myself smiling along with him.

MC: I recently learnt how to make a few New Year’s dishes, so we can try them. 

Gavin: All right, I can help. My skills... have improved. 

I freeze for a moment, making a sudden realisation. 

MC: Have you been practicing in secret? Looks like teaching you how to cook was a wise decision.

Gavin: ...I occasionally tried to.

MC: I’ll have to check the results of my teaching this year then!

Gavin: No problem. 

Gavin smiles, nodding his head with some measure of seriousness. He suddenly thinks of something.

Gavin: Oh yes, do we need to buy things like spring couplets?

MC: Mmhmm, we also have to buy the character “福”! It will only feel like New Year’s when we have these things pasted.

[Trivia: During the Chinese New Year, households paste an inverted red coloured square with the character 福 (“fu”, which means auspiciousness, blessing or happiness) on doors, walls, etc. to usher in such tidings]

I continue talking, listing on my fingers the items I want to purchase.

In my memory, my aunties’ fierce interrogations don’t seem that long ago. In just a blink of an eye, a new year has arrived. 

[Note: She’s making reference to the Spring Festival Date!]

This time, we can leave our time to each other. 

In a place belonging only to us, flipping open a new year’s calendar together.

The atmosphere at the dining table is just right. The sound of clinking glasses and celebration comes in waves. No one notices this small corner. 

We clasp each others’ fingers quietly. 

Our pulses, only separated by a layer of skin, call out to each other in the language of warmth.

I’m so lucky to have you by my side. 

[painted-crow]

Submission Time #14

Submission about secondary

Hi, Paint! I was wondering if you ever had time, could you please help and give your thoughts on my secondary?

I guess my quiz results really depend on my mood, on a bad mood I can get a bird or snake, on good mood – a badger secondary. I rarely get a lion secondary, and I’m strangely calm about it, it would really be funny if I’d be a double burned lion but evidence shows that’s probably not the case. Also, I’m sorry for all the mistakes I will be making and the ones I didn’t notice, and this is so long, I’m sorry. I will shamefully copy the other submission style, so if it’s wrong pls just ignore me.

Not a problem! I'm the one who suggested that people use it :)

When you succeed, how influential in that success were the people around you? – I don’t know for sure, and I might be ungrateful here, but I think I’m still the one making the calls and thinking about stuff. Sure, I ask for help and opinion, support, but I’m still the one who has to do the thing. But it’s true I should probably pay more respect and gratitude to the ones who are there for me.

This suggests you aren't a Courtier Badger by nature. Doesn't yet rule out Bookkeeper style Badger, though.

Do people consider you charismatic? / Do people consider you trustworthy? – Eh, maybe. I love that there is a possibility to choose such an answer. Charisma for me is a tool, a mask, while for being trustworthy, some people do, some would like that I’d be more of it, I think people’s opinions on what that is can really differ. I’ve always read that people can’t trust a Gemini, that they have long and loose tongues, one day I decided that will never be me, no matter what others say.

Basically everything I know about astrology is either Homestuck or LavenderTowne's "drawing the signs as cute characters" videos on YouTube 😆 but as a Cancer who does not fit most of the Cancer description, rest assured I will not judge you for this :p

Describing charisma as a "tool" suggests it might be part of a Snake model or a skill you've picked up through Bird.

Do people consider you flexible? – No. Things have to be the way I want them to be. Stupid, problematic, not realistic, I know.

Haha, maybe Bird xD or maybe Bookkeeper Badger. This is a Built secondary answer.

Do you like going into situations with a plan? – Here‘s the thing about my plans – they are small, not really fleshed out. I do like to be prepared, but I do not seek out to be, because usually no matter how much I prepare I feel that it still is heavily not enough so it’s almost the same as just diving in and doing whatever.

Rapid fire Bird with Snake model? Or perhaps the other way around. It sounds from your last answer like this isn't the kind of situation you feel most comfortable in.

Not all Birds like to plan. I for one am a "hoard all the skills and resources" style Bird, and don't tend to plan very much for individual situations, especially ones that change quickly. If I were to prepare for something like that, it would be gathering knowledge about the situation in advance, rather than deciding how to respond based on probably-inaccurate expectations.

Still, this makes it sound a bit like you don't trust Bird, or at least not the planning form of Bird.

When you spot a metaphorical obstacle in your path, what do you do? – This one is the one that always makes me think Am I a snake secondary? If there’s a problem that maybe could arise, why would you not find another way around? Face it? Understand it? Pfffff…. It’s so much stress and trouble, just go around it if you can. If not, well, yeah, I’d just face it head on I guess.

How do you feel about shortcuts? – Well, if it means landscapes shortcuts – love them. In life and situations – no. It feels unstable, unsafe. If there is a way you need to do things, I will do it the right way. I might cut ways in small and not that important ways, but no more.

See, these two questions have me really considering Bookkeeper Badger for you, and I'm starting to understand why you're confusing the quiz so much.

I think the quiz considers these to be kind of opposite answers--just getting around a problem rather than solving it might be considered a shortcut. This is the kind of issue you get with abstract questions, but the problem is that concrete questions are rarely ambiguous enough to serve the right purpose. This is also why I suggest sending me quiz questions--because you're allowed to elaborate, and I interpret your answers differently from the computer. :)

Do you like to gather all possible information before making a decision? – Yeah, I do gather information, research, but at a certain point you just have to dive in, as another person said.

You might have a Bird model? Or you might even be burned Bird, because you don't not use Bird but you don't seem to trust it much or see it as worth relying on.

Is knowing things or knowing people more useful when solving problems? – I really don’t know how to answer this one. Intuitively, without thinking, I’d say things, but there are so much BUTs. Maybe it’s because I always had problems in social situations, that I’m very reserved, cold and shy so I don’t build relationships that could be called like that? Obviously it’s more useful to have someone help you and teach you how to do stuff, like legal documents, mechanics, computer engineering or other stuff that is hard to understand and boring to me or things that I don’t have resources to do. When I go to people asking for help, I ask because I know they can help, I don’t just go to my community, to my people asking IF anyone could help. I don’t know, this question for me is really painful. A simple answer would be people. Like if I’d think about building a house or a van to live in, it would be more useful to know someone who knows how to do these things then knowing how to do it myself. I’d miss so much details by myself. But then why I still want to press Things?

Huh, that's interesting. Especially interesting that you describe this as painful--like, it really matters to you.

You might be a burned Bird with a Badger model that's almost totally Bookkeeper style--which, if that Badger is a model, it would make perfect sense why it relies so heavily on one aspect of that secondary.

You don't seem very Snakey to me so far. The "get around the obstacle" thing is the quiz's Snake answer, and charisma (even as a tool) isn't Snake exclusive either.

When your plan fails, what do you do? – This question always makes me smile, because my answer is 1. I don’t plan, BUT if I did have a plan that failed, if it was that important; 2. I panic; 3. Then, I calm down and improvise like my life depends on it.

Huh. I don't know if this points to anything in particular...

Do you collect things? – No? I collect books that I actually liked, even if I will never read them again, I want to have them around. I have a couple of diplomas, but it’s just because I couldn’t decide or couldn’t see myself in that career. I maybe collect plants. Other than maybe these things, I don’t really feel like I collect anything.

And here again the bird secondary shows up. I really don’t see it with my inability to plan and prepare for things. I feel unprepared for everything and too bored and not intrigued enough to prepare.

Oddly enough, this really makes me wonder if you're a Bird, specifically burned. This isn't just a neutral "yeah I don't really use it," it sounds actually sad and negative: you don't feel able to use it, you feel bored and unprepared. It sounds like you've tried, like you wish you could use it... but it's just not there for you.

Do you study or plan excessively for things that aren’t useful?... – Plan – no. Study – yes. I’m one of those people who has started a new hobby in the pandemic, which involves studying I guess. And it absolutely has nothing to do with being useful, I just love it, so I guess yes. To me it has a purpose, I guess.

You do seem to study a lot. You read books, which not everyone does. You have multiple diplomas. But they're a background element in your life, you were saying.

Do you think of relationships as something you invest in?... – Yes. I think we all invest in relationships, and in the smallest we at least expect that person to be with us, to support us if we had a hard day or a hard time. I do not invest in relationships with people because they can do stuff for me, do that or let me in there or here, or level me up in my career. That would be wrong, it’s not how you supposed to do it. But I’d still say that I think about this, about investing time and effort.

Badgers don't seem to like the idea of networking as a means of getting stuff, on the whole, even though that's how they get described because that's what people might see from the outside. (It's more like a Snake or sometimes a Bird to be okay with that description of their methods.)

I still think you have a lot of Bookkeeper to your secondary. I'm not sure if it's a strong model, or if your Bird is the model and it's just really burned anyway.

Do you act different in different groups? Does it bother you, if you do? – Yes, I think I probably do. It bothers me that I am thrown into a situation like that with people like that more than the fact that I act different. So it does bother me, but not in the way that the quiz authors intended that it should mean.

So, you only do this with certain groups where you don't feel safe. Again, I'm not getting a whole lot of Snake here?

So long as you know who you are, do you care what other people think? – Yes, absolutely. First, I don’t know who I am, sometimes, in certain situations, I can look inside myself and feel empty. It means I’m more ready to react to a situation than to show who I am, I guess. Secondly, what other people think about you can affect you, emotionally, or worst, actually in your physical life.

Okay. I think I might be getting this, finally.

Your secondary seems to be burned. It may be one of those cases where it's just burned, and you haven't recovered it or started up a strong model--this is part of the official SHC descriptions, that you can just burn your secondary and not have strong inclinations about it any more, you just do whatever works but none of it is very satisfying.

You get examples of this with characters pretty frequently, but with people it seems less common--you see a lot of models instead. I actually forgot that this was part of the SHC system until just now, but you can find a kind of not-super-comfortable stability in just... not having a secondary. This might be why you're getting hints of other secondaries, but it's hard to pin down anything strong enough for you to feel like you can claim it as yours.

I'd hazard that your secondary might have been Bird or Bookkeeper Badger before, and you have hints of both of those now. I lean towards Bird being your actual secondary and just extremely burned, and Bookkeeper being a bit of a model or performance you're kind of using but feel conflicted about.

In a pinch, you'll improvise or whatever, just anything that works, but it's not something you're very comfortable with. That's not the same thing as Snake, but I think it's why you're getting Snake results from the quiz.

Perhaps the reason you can't figure out your secondary, in short, is that it isn't there.

Thank you, and yes, please ignore me if it's annoying. Have a good time and be safe! 

Oof, I'm sorry that this isn't a cheerier result to hand you ^^; hugs! Hope you can find something that works for you soon.

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

I SAW the OFFER W/ THE WHUMP PROMPTS AND dsjewifhre3t so if u can: * One taking punishment for the whole group .“Who did this to you?” w/ Whumpee Logan !!

Title: A Singular Cog in the Machine

Chapter title: Thoughtless and Empty

Summary: “It was pure logic when it came down to it. Why allow harm befall the others if Logan could stop it? Surely, it was much more beneficial for only one to be harmed than for all to undergo excruciating pain and misery. A broken cog is more easily replaced than if the whole machine fell apart.“

Logan adheres to the belief that needs of the many far outweigh the needs of the one, the latter being himself. Or in other words, Logan tries to sacrifice himself for the sake of the others. Fortunately for Logan, they won’t let him get away with that. Sci-fi AU

Chapter Word-Count: 1.9k

Pairings: platonic LAMP

Warnings: Whump (mainly more hurt than comfort in this part), torture, drowning, main character set on fire, blood, crying, partial memory loss

Present | Chapter 2

Here it is! There will be a part 2 to this, as someone sent me a prompt that works out rather well alongside this one.

-

It was pure logic when it came down to it. Why allow harm befall the others if Logan could stop it? Surely, it was much more beneficial for only one to be harmed than for all to undergo excruciating pain and misery. A broken cog is more easily replaced than if the whole machine had fallen apart.

Logan didn’t feel anything after all. He was a robot parading around in an organic body of flesh and blood. He ran on ones and zeros–seeing the world through a rigid programmed mindset. If his lips twitched upwards at one of Patton’s puns or Roman’s singing or even one of Virgil’s snarky remarks, it didn’t mean anything. It was just a coincidence.

The three of them put together had more inherent value than Logan. Logically speaking of course.

Patton was the metaphoric heart of the group. As the cook and medic, he repaired and maintained the crew countless times. He attended not only to the others’ physical needs, but also to their emotional ones. Thus proving him invaluable. 

Virgil was captain of their small space shuttle; an experienced space smuggler with a penchant for caution. He perhaps borderlined on paranoia, but it was this same paranoia that got them out of trouble. 

Roman was their cocky pilot and a shrewd marksman with a blaster. It was his big mouth that often got them into the trouble that Virgil drug them out of. Still, Roman’s loyalty knew no bounds.

A more poetic, emotional being might list other reasons the others should be considered a top priority over one’s own. 

 Patton was sunshine after a dreary, dismal cloudy day. He was the gentle breeze on a spring day. He was the warmth of hot chocolate and roaring fires during the cold of winter. He helped you reach an optimal performance with his words and actions.

Virgil was the night of the full moon, mysterious yet comforting all the same. He was the strong gale that shook tree branches and warned of the upcoming storm. He was like cough syrup and flu shots, not always appreciated but always striving to fight and protect those he loved.

Roman was the rainbow that accompanied Patton’s sunshine; exuberant and radiant. He was a sweltering midsummer day full of water-gun fights and ice cream. He was the novel you read curled up on your sofa–filled with adventure and romance.

Despite their numerous idiosyncrasies, Logan’s calculations proved their worth invaluable. They made up the world of Logan and so many others. Without them, the system would crash. It was certainly repairable, but not without a hard reset. Logan refused to allow that to happen.

So when hulking shadows threatened to end Patton’s sunshine, cover up Virgil’s moon and obliterate Roman’s rainbow, Logan stepped up.

“Don’t waste your time with those fools and their idiocy,” He said, “I know what you’re after. Take me instead.”

A thousand large pale eyes dissected Logan with their gaze. He stared back, features flat and unresponsive. Logan’s heart beat faithfully, not a second out of tune. He was an advanced AI who wore the skin and bones of a deadman. He didn’t fear anything.

Their dark tendrils shot out, curling around Logan’s form. He didn’t fight the grip even as his feet left the ground. They carried him upwards, until he came face-to-face with their numerous unblinking eyes.

“Alright.” They smiled, displaying rows upon rows of sharp, reedy teeth.

Logan blinked and within a span of that blink–he was plunged into darkness.

What happened next, was blurry and uncertain to him. This was most disconcerting. He remembered things flawlessly, right down to the nanosecond. It freaked the others out at times. It had to be a glitch or an error with his memorybanks. Why else couldn’t he recall the event with clear detail?

What he did remember was what some might refer to as nightmare material. Silhouettes of the others danced around, behaving most unlike themselves. They berated him, attacked him with not only words but physically as well. They bound him with ropes and threw him into a body of water. He flailed about from an instinctual urge as he went into overdrive trying to formulate a solution. He blacked out from it, certain his biological organs would begin shutting down.

It hadn’t been the end of it, simply wishful thinking on his part. Although Logan didn’t make wishes, spoken or not. Really, it was just a rational supposition, that was all.

It continued with Logan jerked awake by fire eating away his clothing. Fire was everywhere, in fact. Wherever he ran, it chased after him. The smoke got to him in the end. It suffocated him until he was left gasping for breath.

The memories grew more distorted and warped the longer it went on. Like an old VHS tape ruined by water. If he focused, he could retrieve flashes of those moments. There was one that stood out more clearly than the rest.

Their tendrils had pinned him down on a horizontal, metallic surface. A huge light shone above, blinding him. They were in the process of doing something but he couldn’t recall what.

“Why?” He rasped, his parched throat screaming for water.

A bemused hearty chuckle erupted from them.

“I thought you knew why,” They said, tilting their head at him, “It was never bounty money or intel I was after. It was test subjects. And what a fascinating specimen you are! A chimera of biological and artificial means.”

Logan opened his mouth to say something. What, he didn’t recall. All that he could was a scalp cutting across his skin, eliciting a scream from him. His flesh pain receptors reacted violently to it.

He didn’t feel anything. He was a machine running biological software. He could shut off the pain signals given to him by his nervous system. He could retreat into his inner programming, enacting a subroutine to take care of the body. He knew he could do this, because he did.

Perhaps this explained why the memories contained errors. The subroutine didn’t properly save them to his memorybanks. Except he started experiencing memory retrieval errors with memories prior to the subroutine activation. How strange and concerning.

It didn’t matter if it had. It’d been the only preventative measures he could take to ensure optimal processing. He ran simulations deep within his programming. Visits to coffeeshops, museums and parks with the others. The scenery of the simulations was beautiful, so life-like. He couldn’t quite get the others right, however. 

He’d spent an adequate amount of time with them, observing their habits. He knew the probability factors of Patton saying a pun in a conversation. He knew various methods of how to restart Virgil after an anxiety attack plagued his systems. He knew how to engage Roman in a dialogue that aided him in finding a solution to his problems.

Yet his stimulations couldn’t capture the exact way Patton bubbled with laughter at his own joke. Or how many centimeters Virgil’s lips curved upwards towards seeing one of them. It certainly didn’t capture Roman’s flamboyant, needless waving of his arms as he spoke. Really, Logan didn’t understand the wasteful exertion of energy. 

However, this latest stimulation was the worst yet. It made him wonder if his systems were failing. That was an absurd proposition to make, considering his software would send him warnings if such a thing was imminent. 

The stimulation started out normally. A movie night hosted in Patton’s quarters, just like they’ve done so many times before in real life. They chose to watch an Earthian cartoon. It was one that the other three were more acquainted with than Logan himself. It didn’t matter. He preferred doing things that resulted in boosting the others’ overall wellbeing.

Roman and Virgil were engaged in an animated discussion of the movie’s events. Logan watched their mouths open and close, unable to hear the words pouring through their lips. Patton looked like he was laughing at something in the movie, his mouth wide open. Logan noted absently that he must be processing auditory input at a sluggish rate than usual.

“Logan?!” A voice cried. He jolted, startled. He took a look around in the stimulation, but it appeared none of the others called his name. Had it been from the movie? He didn’t recall the movie having a character named Logan however.

“Logan, gods, Logan, Logan, please respond–” The person continued, their voice splintering and cracking with each syllable. 

Something grasped him, cradling him in a warm, secure hold. It was only the soft blanket he had since the start of the movie. That had to be it.

“Logan, who did this to you?” Another person asked, their words trembling with rage.

The stimulation froze completely, the others becoming as still as statues. Logan could almost hear his drive whirring with exertion. This was bad. If he overheated, he could possibly die. And he couldn’t die, not when he hadn’t completed his objective.

“I swear by all the gods I’ll kill them, rip their entails out and everything–krafu kniffing dulva–”

“Logan, no, stay with us, wake up!”

Logan’s eyes opened. Which was odd, because his eyes had already been open. His vision was unusually foggy and murky, despite his eyes being artificial implants. He tried moving his head, but found it difficult to do so. A sharp, electrifying shock ran through his whole body. It hurt. It shouldn’t have. Logan didn’t feel anything, emotions or otherwise.

A fuzzy grey shape entered his vision. Logan squinted, the shape crystallizing to a more recognizable image; Patton. His floggy dog-like ears laid flat against his head, an obvious sign of distress. It was then that Logan realized the titekan was the one cradling him. Another two figures flanked Patton on either side. He could only assume them to be Roman and Virgil.

“Pat–patton,” Logan croaked, “y-you’re here?”

He wasn’t sure where here was, just somewhere in the depths of his programming. It had to be a scenario, a way for him to prepare for the worst-case. Because the others couldn’t truly be with him. They couldn’t endure torture the way he could. They’d be torn to shreds, both physically and psychologically. 

The titekan bit back a sob at Logan’s words, “Yes honey, we’re here, we’re so sorry we didn’t get here sooner, but it’s okay, you’re safe now–”

“H-h-hurts.” Logan said, gasping as another pulse of pain hit him. He couldn’t shut off the pain receptors, why wasn’t his body listening to his commands? This was a stimulation, he controlled every aspect, why couldn’t he do it?

“It’s–it’s all over now. I know you’re hurting and–and–we’ll take care of you, we’ll watch all your favorite nature documentaries, how does that sound?” Patton asked, a vibrating noise rumbling in the back of his throat. Titekans tended to make soothing sounds for themselves and others in pain. Logan watched him do it to Roman and Virgil before, but never for Logan. His abnormal AI reflexes and accelerated healing kept him from grievous injuries.

“G-g-g–good.” Logan said. It was getting even harder to utter words, let alone keep conscious. He’d never experienced this before. This loss of autonomy was terrifying. Perhaps something in his face revealed this, because Roman and Virgil came closer. Roman took hold of his hand, squeezing it. Virgil gingerly touched his knee. They spoke words but Logan couldn’t process them. It was happening again. The stimulation was glitching.  So he closed his eyes, losing consciousness as his systems restarted.

[maevefiction]

Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 53: Epilogue

Sunday June 29th, 2036 - Talk Story Bookstore, Kauai, Hawaii.

Stepping inside Talk Story after two decades had passed was surreal. It remained essentially the same, right down to the red painted walls. I, too, remained essentially the same, if you ignored the wrinkles that had begun to etch themselves into the flesh of my fifty-eight-year-old face…laugh lines, frown lines, and a downright furrow between my eyebrows from a lifetime of what-the-fuckery. The grey hair that had first appeared when I found myself wrangling three children all under the age of five was now expertly masked with copious amounts of dye applied by the talented folks at Zig-Zag Hair & Body. I still did yoga on a regular basis, more now that the kids were…well, grown, I guess. For the most part. Which was really a mind-blower, as is everything else associated with the passage of time in regard the human condition. Aging, kids, is not for the weak. No one tells you that if you sleep too long, your body parts will hurt. Your tits will sag, you’ll pee your pants when you cough, sneeze, or laugh too hard, your hands will ache if you, you know, use them to do stuff…like hold books. Your knees will creak to the point where you aren’t sure if it’s you making sounds or the stairs you’re descending. After you’ve finished a round of particularly vigorous doggy-style, you’ll find yourself uncertain as to which will be more detrimental…remaining in place or attempting to get off the bed. It’s an unimaginable brutality, standing powerless against the effects of time on your physical being while the inner you, the corporeal you, does not follow suit. This Maude was the same Maude who had married the love of her life in this very place, right down to her limitless desire for Lindor truffles and continued disgust at the idea of pineapples on pizza. I can, however, confirm that time does aid in the healing process, which is how we ended up back on Kauai. Each year that passed put more distance between us and the horror we’d endured, and little by little we were able to work through it, first by being able to actually view our wedding photos and videos, then feel small bits of joy while doing so, until finally, sixteen years out, the fear and anxiety was almost fully overridden by that joy. And here we were, on the day of our 20th wedding anniversary, right where it had all begun.

Some unpleasant memories, though faded and dim, still lingered, and as a result neither Tom nor I could bring ourselves to return to the Coconut Beach Marriott. The kids were all aware of the circumstances surrounding our wedding and the days that followed, as we’d vowed to be open and honest about it if the subject ever came up, because we preferred that they learned the truth from us rather than believing what they might have seen on the internet. Two years ago the need for the ‘the talk’ had arisen, and Henry’s reaction had utterly floored me…he’d leapt up off the couch, pulled me into his arms and whispered that he’d hoped his presence had brought me some comfort and that he wished he’d been able to do more. He’d turned nineteen in February, my firstborn, and even though as a parent you’re not supposed to, like, have a favorite…he was, in fact, my favorite, at least in the sense that there was a depth and level of understanding between us that was akin to psychic connection. Perhaps it was due to our shared trauma, or perhaps it was the trauma that caused me to relate to him differently…though in the end, it didn’t matter because I’d never expressed such a sentiment out loud, nor would I. Besides, I’d always known that he already knew anyway.

 Henry…also known as Our Son the Writer, as well as Indy Gallagher, his chosen pen name. He’d taught himself to read at age four, having grown frustrated with Tom and I not being able to drop whatever we were in the middle of, which was usually dealing with one of his siblings, in order to do it on his behalf. From that point forward, books and the stories they contained were his passion…he was never without reading material, absorbing any and all information he encountered and losing himself completely in imagined realities, always longing for more. It was that longing which set him upon the path to becoming an author when he was thirteen, having found himself unwilling and unable to accept that George R. R. Martin’s ‘A Song of Fire and Ice’ series had gone unfinished and deciding he’d tackle the task on his own. A year and many kudos on AO3 later he’d started to build his own fictional universe, and when he self-published the first book of the series, ‘Times Prior’, in August of 2034 it sold a half-a-million copies inside of sixty days without any marketing whatsoever. The main characters were inter-dimensional entities left stranded on Earth, their memories thought to have been wiped clean, and the story followed their journey as they sought to combine the snippets of their past that remained into a single coherent whole that revealed their history while attempting to covertly integrate with humanity. Book two, ‘Presented Puzzles’ had been released in early December of last year, hitting the million mark within two weeks. Though I already had first edition tucked away at home, I hoped to find one here to purchase so I could secure the receipt to the flyleaf with a notation that this copy had been purchased from the location where Indy Gallagher’s own story had begun.

 When I felt Tom’s hand on my back as he stopped to stand on my left, I turned my head his way, peering upward. Though he had his share of wrinkles and his hair, which he’d taken to wearing long enough to brush his chin, had gone completely grey at the temples with salt and pepper throughout the rest, the fucker did NOT look fifty-five. Not to me, anyway…when you’re young and you imagine being fifty-five it seems so damn old, but when it’s staring you in the face, or especially once you’ve passed it by yourself, not so much. There were still bricks in his stomach, his ass remained quarter-bounce ready, and, now that the Hiddlespawn had matured, I took advantage of the Silver Fox Hotness Level One Billion as often as humanly possible. As you do. He grinned at me, then leaned in to nuzzle my cheek with his own.

 “Well, here we are, my love, at long last. How the ever-loving fuck has it been twenty years? Speaking of…perhaps I can interest you in a waltz down memory lane via a certain out-of-the way restroom?”

 My jaw dropped open. “Oh my god, how dare you? Since when am I the kind of woman who has sex in public places?”

 He laughed, tongue poking out between his teeth. “To the best of my recollection, since…forever.”

 I crossed my arms, eyes rolling skyward. “Your recollection has clearly become unreliable, old man.”

 “Mmm hmm. Meet me there in twenty?”

 "Absofuckingloutely." I uncrossed my arms with the intention of pinching his nipple through the fabric of his white V-neck T-shirt, but was interrupted by the arrival of our entourage as they filed through the door and filtered into the space around us.

 Simon settled in to my right, with Luke at his side, as per usual. Simon’s approach to aging was best described as rage, rage against the dying of the light…his hair remained blonde, though these days, much like Tom, he’d been wearing it longer, so much so that he occasionally sported a ponytail. Just a ponytail, never, ever a man bun. Never. I was, and I quote, to ‘dispatch him quickly and without prejudice’ if I ever witnessed him committing such an unforgivable offense. Fillers and chemical peels were a regular occurrence, as were weekly spa visits and a thorough daily skin cleansing and hydrating regimen. He made use of our gym more than Tom or I did and had taken up running more than a decade ago, which he’d deemed necessary in order to have enough physical stamina to open his own restaurant. It was a joint venture with his son Roland, aptly named Ka-Tet…with permission from Uncle Steve, of course, who was still cranking out wordy goodness at eighty-nine. It was located close to home, near Regent’s Park in the space formerly occupied by Odette’s, with a décor that was best described as dystopian spaghetti western. There was no set menu…Simon decided he’d be preparing whatever the fuck he felt like making on any given day, take it or leave it…and they were only open Friday and Saturday nights, which created an air of exclusivity that resulted in the place being booked almost a year in advance. It was perfect work-life balance for him, and whenever anyone mentioned how youthful he appeared he’d nod and reply that all credit belonged to his favorite preservation method…daily alcohol infusions.

 Luke remained at the helm of Prosper, though he’d pulled back significantly since Ka-Tet had opened and essentially served only in an advisory capacity. He’d begun to lose his hair just prior to turning forty, and he’d opted to just shave it all off and embrace baldness as opposed to undergoing transplants or wearing a toupee. It suited him, honestly, and his penchant for quirky glasses and three-day stubble seemed to transform him into the way he was always meant to look. Scholarly, like a college professor. Which he and Simon had role-played, as I’d been forced to discover even though my hands were covering my ears, because Simon wouldn’t take no for an answer and spoke louder instead when I requested that he keep that shit to himself. I watched as he reached for Simon’s hand without even a glance downward, their fingers twining together in a gesture so often repeated it was automatic, built into the fabric of their muscle memory. They turned to smile at each other, then shifted their gazes in unison to focus on their daughters as they passed by to their right.

 Seph’s light brown hair was wound up in a bun that rested at the base of her neck, dressed in a light blue linen tank dress that matched the frames of her glasses. She resembled Luke a great deal, other than her lips and nose, the former much fuller, the latter more rounded at the tip. Her frame was lithe, almost lanky, and she stood an inch or two taller than me sans heels. In the fall she’d be returning to Cambridge for her second year in pursuit of her BA Tripos Degree in Law, after which she intended to obtain a Masters in Law, then finally a Doctorate in Law. Ez, who was essentially a carbon copy of Simon as far as physicality was concerned, was currently a student at the New York School of Design and would be heading back to the city after our vacation. She’d just finished the Fashion Design certificate program and was scheduled to intern at Manhattan Fashion in the Garment District from July 15th through September 1st, at which point she’d return to NYSD to complete their Couture and Menswear programs back to back.  She’d designed the dress Seph was wearing, as well as her own, a white cotton sleeveless wrap-around that hugged her curves and accentuated her impossibly tiny waist. Which I supposed was made possible, along with exceptional genetics, by running six days a week, an activity she’d often participated in with the other masochists in my life…Simon, Tom and Henry. Now that she was based in New York it was solely Henry, their ability to pair up simplified by the fact that both of them resided in the same building, Henry in my old apartment, Ez in hers two floors below. He was standing next to her, dwarfing her five-foot-six frame with his own, his height topping out at six-foot-one, just an inch shy of Tom’s. His hair, worn shoulder-length, was black like my mother’s but curly like mine, eyes identical to Tom’s in shape and color. He had Tom’s nose as well, but my lips and jaw. Like his father, he was lean but muscular, blessed with a gracefulness that I had never possessed. He’d relocated to New York the previous summer to focus on writing, opting to forgo college in the wake of the success of his debut novel. I agreed that college would be a waste, being a firm believer in the fact that one could either write, or couldn’t, but I’d called bullshit on the ‘going away to focus’ aspect, at least privately when Tom and I discussed it. He and Ez had always been very good friends, nearly inseparable, and I felt it in my bones that the real reason he’d decided to leave London was so they could remain in close proximity to one another. Her desire to live in the same building had been presented as great way for both of them to adjust to new surroundings without feeling isolated, which was true, but again, my bones had whispered that there was something bubbling beneath the surface. There had been no confirmation as yet, and I’d stopped mentioning it when Tom, the most hopeless romantic amongst all hopeless romantics, told me I was turning into an even more hopeless romantic than he’d ever been. But it hadn’t stopped me from, you know, looking for signs.

A flash of flaming red glimpsed out of the corner of my eye caused me to turn and look to my left, basking in the breathtaking sight of the whirling dervish that was our daughter, Mona Diane Hiddleston, born at sunset on Wednesday, June 17th, 2018. Her hair was the color of my father’s and Tom’s paternal grandmother’s, wavy like Tom’s, worn long and loose and hanging halfway down her back. Her eyes were brown like mine, and shaped like them as well, but the rest of her face was all Tom. She was five-foot-nine, and often described as a force of nature, at which point I’d smile and say that I had not the slightest idea who she’d gotten that sort of personality from. She’d be relocating to New York in mid-August to begin her dual-enrollment program at Julliard, studying both Instruments and Composition with the goal of a Doctorate in Musical Arts and a career as a conductor in mind. Unlike me, she could read and write music, and play any instrument she was handed with little to no training. Her singing voice was exceptional, her range higher than mine though not quite as broad, but she’d never expressed any interest in developing it other than participating in the school chorus because she needed an elective to flesh out her schedule. Mona had been our ‘difficult’ child…as a baby she’d been fussy, easily irritated with a sleep schedule that was measured in fifteen-minute increments, and as a toddler we’d dealt with outbursts and tantrums over what we considered to be thoroughly minor issues, such as the lights being too bright, her clothes being too tight, or the seams of her socks being ‘wrong’. Throughout it all, the only consistent way to soothe her had been with music, be it listening to it or creating her own using our piano, pots and pans, or anything else that provided rhythmic sounds. Shortly after she turned five, she was diagnosed with sensory processing disorder, which we learned later on went hand-in-hand with her being highly gifted. All three kids were, which wasn’t exactly a surprise given Tom’s and my placement on the IQ scale, but giftedness manifests differently in each individual with a variety of traits, some more challenging to cope with than others. Once we’d established a methodology for managing her SPD, she was like a different human being…strong, steadfast, boisterous, fully confident in her sense of self and intent on extracting each and every thing she expected from this world without apology. And my god, I was so very, very fucking proud to be her mother. And honored. She’d noticed I was staring at her and had just opened her mouth to ask me why when our youngest bounded out from behind her, paused briefly at her left, then pivoted to park himself directly in front of her.  

 Sean James Hiddleston, born Friday, October 23rd, 2020 five minutes before midnight, named as such due to the fact that the blue hue of the eyes that peered up at me when he opened them for the first time was identical to my father’s. He’d been a complete surprise, so much so that I hadn’t even realized I was pregnant until I was three months in…at 42, I’d figured missed periods meant I was embarking on the journey into menopause, and when Tom suggested that perhaps I should take a pregnancy test I’d laughed and laughed. Henry had just turned three and Mona wasn’t quite two, and when I saw the giant plus sign in the test window the laughter faded damn fucking quick when I realized Tom and I would shortly be outnumbered by a trio of ankle biters all under the age of four. After the initial shock dissipated, we were overjoyed, in awe of how the universe continued to be so generous to us, providing yet another miracle. By the time I’d begun to show Henry was cognizant enough to ask questions, and when I informed him he’d soon have a new brother or sister his face had paled and he’d whispered ‘Mamma, will it be like Mona?’, causing Tom to run out of the room, unable to keep his shit together, while I comforted Henry by explaining that every baby is different, the entire time asking myself the same question he had internally. As it happened any worries about his temperament were for naught, because Sean had been a jovial soul right from the get go. He was the child, however, that we had to keep the closest eye on because if left to his own devices even for a second he’d be into something he shouldn’t have been, and when confronted he’d just grin and simply say ‘But I’m learning things.’ Even still, at fifteen-going-on-thirty, he uttered that same phrase at least once a day. Sometimes more. Like when I’d caught him trying to remotely hack into my brand new Alienware laptop two weeks prior…you know, just to see if he could. And, of course, he could. Of all three children he resembled Tom the most, blond wavy hair, same blue eyes, nose and jaw…the only bit of me in his face were his lips. He’d begun his adolescent growth spurt just after Christmas and had shot up from five-nine to six-two in what seemed like no time whatsoever, and if I did a side-by-side of him and Tom from his Eton days it wasn’t easy to tell who was who. Despite their physical similarities, Sean had been cursed with my lack of grace and had already broken almost every toe and sprained various extremities on the regular. He had been blessed, however, with my engineering and mathematical skills, and his abilities made an accelerated program via online courses the best option for him after he’d finished year six. Once he turned sixteen he’d be permitted entry into Cambridge’s School of Technology, where he planned to focus on Computer Science, but the next round of required classes wouldn’t be available until fall of 2037. Starting in September of this year he’d be officially interning at CodeHex, working both with me and other high-level employees across our departments. I say ‘officially’ because he’d been interning in an unofficial capacity for nearly four years, popping in every weekday as soon as he’d finished his online courses back at our flat. When he was a preschooler he’d spent a good bit of time there as well, at my side or on my lap, as I worked to establish the CodeHex company and brand during my ‘free’ hours while Henry and Mona were at school. On the first day of his own year one he’d frowned as Tom and I hugged and kissed him goodbye outside the school’s entrance, stating that while he was very excited to make all sorts of new friends and learn new things, he’d very much miss his old job and old friends. Then he’d spotted a girl with a Captain Marvel backpack and promptly ditched us in order to run over and introduce himself, turning back to wave and smile at us before returning his attention to her and walking into the building while Tom and I stood on the sidewalk crying our eyes out like a couple of schumucks.

 He’d moved closer to me, though still blocking his sister, arms raised and hands extended, palms toward Tom and I as he spoke.

 “This is it, then, is it Mum? Where you and Dad met? All those years ago? Right here? In this bookshop?”

 I nodded. “Yeppir. Also where we got engaged, and where we got married.”

 Tom elbowed me, and Simon twisted his torso sideways to gawk at me, his head cocked to the right.

 “Woman, have you finally lost your mind? You were married at the Marriot. I was there, looking resplendent in my purple tux while you puked in the bushes, remember?”

 Opting to attempt to make a royal fuck-up appear as if it were a conscious choice, I turned my head towards him, index finger of my right hand raised and pointing toward his chest. “Well, you’re not totally wrong…we were married at the Marriot, but that was actually our second ceremony. The first one happened here, right after midnight so it was officially on the twenty-ninth.”

 Simon gasped, placing his right hand over his heart, finders splayed wide. “Are you telling me right now, twenty fucking years later, that the two of you snuck off and got married without your best friends and spent the entire next day pretending your entirely invalid not at all legally binding apparently just for show wedding ceremony was one-hundred-percent genuine?”

 I bit my lip and glanced skyward briefly, then back at Simon. “Yes. Yes I am.”

 He reached out and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Maude Hiddleston, I have never been prouder of you than I am at this moment, you sneaky little MINX. How did you keep it a secret this whole time?”

 I shrugged. “Only four people on the planet knew…me, Tom, the judge and Roger Marshal.” While researching our trip we’d learned that Roger had passed away in 2033, but his daughter Denise had taken over the business. Tom and I planned on seeking her out during our visit, but hadn’t provided any advance notice as we felt that expressing our condolences in person would be most appropriate since Talk Story, and her father, had played such an important role in our lives. I poked Simon’s left pec with my right index finger. “Shouldn’t you be all ragey because you weren’t there or something?”

 He released my shoulders and crossed his arms in front of him, rested his right elbow in his left hand as he tapped his lips with his left index finger, then pointed it at me. “You know what? I fucking should be. But I’m not. Because I’m sure it was all mushy-mushy gushy-gushy and there was probably sniffling and crying and Shakespearean sonnet level verbal exchanges and therefore I’m dropping it in the ‘glad to have missed it’ bucket.” He mock-gagged, and as I swatted at him he pulled back and away, flipping me double birds.

 Mona stepped out from behind Sean, her head tilted to the left. “Well that diminishes both the impact and validity of all those lectures on the critical importance of honesty a bit, doesn’t it?”

 Tom roared with laughter, and I smirked. “I look forward to opening the box that contains my ‘HYPOCRITE’ T-shirt this coming Christmas morning. Men’s 2 XL, please. Black with white lettering. Maybe a ‘do as I say, not as I do’ on the back written in a script font?”

 Henry raised his hand as he joined in. “Oh! Oh! There must be some photographic evidence of the clandestine ceremony hidden away somewhere, I’d imagine? That absolutely needs to be on the T-shirt’s front-side. And Dad’s complicit, so we’ll have to have one made for him as well.”

 Sean grinned. “If such evidence exists, you can count on me to track it down.”

 I glanced over at Tom, who was still chuckling. “This whole kid thing…your idea, wasn’t it? I can’t fathom having done this to myself without being coerced by an insanely hot dude via repeated seductions until I…”

 All three of them screeched in unison. “MUM!”

 Tom pointed at them in turn. “The lesson here, progeny of mine, in case you needed a refresher course…your mother is a master of diversionary tactics and especially enjoys their implementation when the outcome is likely her having…hmm…how shall I phrase this delicately?”

 I snorted. “What your voluble father is attempting to convey without incurring my wrath is…the last word. I like having the last word. He neglected to mention that no topic is off limits in the pursuit of achieving that particular goal. So, shall we move on or would you prefer that I begin my dissertation on our wedding night activities?”

 Again, in unison, with Simon, Luke, Seph and Ez joining in this time around. “MOVE ON.”

 We all split off then, singly for some, in pairs for others, and wandered around the shop. Tom and I paused in the precise spot I’d been standing two decades earlier, narrowing down my reading options for what I’d thought would be hours of alone time on the beach. His arm slipped around my waist, and I circled his in turn, each of us leaning into the other, silent in our contemplation of the Before and the After, which is how we both viewed the stages of our lives prior to and since crossing paths. I could hear Sean exclaiming to Mona that he’d located the music section and that she just had to come see it immediately, Seph and Luke laughing as Simon assured them that yes, he did in fact still enjoy reading the Twilight Series novels and that there was nothing wrong with having a little vampy wolfie sad girl angsty fluff in your life thank you very much, and then, footsteps behind us…a strange echo of the past, and this time I didn’t hesitate to spin around to see who they belonged to. Tom did the same seconds afterward, and before us was a woman wearing a tea-length bright green tank dress, her jet-black hair worn in two braids that hung nearly to her waist. She smiled, and my mouth dropped open when I took note of her name tag. She smiled, realizing I’d recognized her.

 “Aloha, Hiddlestons. Welcome back to Talk Story.”

 I shook my head in disbelief. “Alani. Oh my god. Well, this is a mind fuck of epic proportions. And I’m spewing profanity. Whoops. Sorry.”

 Tom somehow managed to speak like an actual human being. “Alani! What a marvelous thing, seeing you again in this very special place…you’ve been well, I hope?”

 She laughed, then stepped forward to embrace both Tom and I, then pulled back. “I have. I teach at the Waimea High School during the year…9th grade English Literature. Weekends and summers inevitably find me here. This place seems to have a gravitational pull I’m unable…and unwilling…to escape.” Sighing, she glanced around the room, then fixed her gaze back on us. “Have you heard?”

 Nodding, I reached for Tom’s hand and took hold. “About Roger? Yes, but not until we started researching our trip. We wanted to wait to meet Denise to express our condolences. Is she available?”

 Alani shook her head, frowning slightly. “She’s not, I’m afraid. Honestly, we’ve not seen very much of her at all, and she hasn’t been back since she told us she was putting the place up for sale. Of course, I understand that it reminds her of her father and…”

 My grip on Tom’s hand tightened, as did his on mine, so much so that we both let go as if we’d received an electric shock. I took a deep breath, telling myself to be cool, Maude, be fucking cool before giving nonchalance a go.

 “So. Talk Story’s for sale? Huh. Well, we most definitely hadn’t heard that. I don’t recall seeing a sign…”

 Tom cleared his throat. “Neither do I. Does that mean a sale is pending, or is the property still available?”

 She nodded, which was not at all helpful, but the words she spoke afterward were. “It’s still available. The sign’s off to the right of the building, attached to the potted tree so it faces oncoming traffic. The realtor’s been in a few times since it went up in January, but never with any clients. Our revenue isn’t even a quarter of what it was a decade ago, and Denise isn’t very involved so things have gotten worse since Roger passed. At this point, I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be able to remain open, but I’m going to keep hoping that someone sees the value here, the history this place contains…” She cleared her throat, then shook her head back and forth slowly. “Goodness, I’m so terribly sorry. I honestly only meant to say hello…everything else just sort of…happened. I don’t know what came over me.”

 I reached out and patted her upper arm. “Please, no worries. This place seems to foster that sort of thing. Books aplenty with the occasional divine intervention. That’s so going on the marketing materials. You on board with that, Tom?”

 “Oh yes. Yes I am. Alani, do you happen to have the realtor’s number handy?”

 One walk-through, two hours, and countless document signatures later we were officially in contract to purchase Talk Story, with a closing date set for Tuesday, July 1st at 1 PM at the Kauai Coldwell Banker Realty office. Much like I had twenty-one years earlier, we all had to haul ass back to Kapaʻa in order to make our dinner reservation at Kauai Pasta, though this time we were a party of nine instead of three. We’d requested the same booth area, spilling over into the two additional sections in the same row that backed the wall. Tom and I, in an effort to be appropriately extra, ordered the exact same meal we’d ordered the day we met, but sat side-by-side instead of across from each other. Midway through the main course we turned to each other, smiling as our eyes met, and all the noise of friends and family faded into the background as we paused to remember, lost in our thoughts of days gone by, and I felt this monstrous rush of emotions…love, joy, peace, and so many more…and I was so…so…grateful. Granted, I was grateful every day, but this was an all-encompassing gratefulness, and I looked away for a moment to survey our friends, their children, and each of our own children in turn. Life is incredibly strange and unusual, even downright cruel at times, but like the weed-dealing kid in American Beauty said, “sometimes there's so much beauty in the world, I feel like I can't take it, and my heart is just going to cave in”, and that’s where I was at in that moment, in the very same space that had fanned the flames of the spark that had emerged at Talk Story. Which we’d just bought. For nine-hundred and fifty thousand dollars, all contents included. I turned my gaze back to Tom, my head tilting to the right.

 “Did we, like, just actually buy a bookstore? As in, the bookstore we’ve always considered ‘our’ bookstore is now…our bookstore?”

 He nodded, and I felt his hand first on my knee, then creeping up under my shorts. “We did. And while I’m thoroughly delighted with that particular development, I’m also a tad disappointed because we missed out on our restroom rendezvous this go-round. Care to christen this one instead?”

 “Oh, that’s a bold move right there, Thomas. The ladies’ room is literally separated from this table by a single wall. I’ll go first, you get up five minutes later and lurk outside the door…I’ll leave it open a crack so I can keep watch. When the coast is clear I’ll pull you inside.”  I lowered my voice, whispering in his ear. “And then I’ll, you know, pull you inside again. And again.”

 He groaned quietly. “Woman. Cease. And go. Go now.”

 I excused myself, and that five minutes seemed to take a thousand years. There was fire in his eyes when he shut and locked the door behind him, and without a word he turned me around, bent me over the sink, pulled off my shorts and underwear and fucked me so hard I couldn’t help but cry out his name as I came, which he muffled quickly by covering my mouth with his left hand, which made me come again. And again. He soon followed, leaning down and biting my clothed shoulder gently to stifle his own cries. After he pulled out I stood upright, and he leaned in to kiss me, sucking my tongue into his mouth as he zipped himself up, peeked out the door, then exited and darted into the men’s restroom next door. I used the facilities, washed up, and waited for three minutes after I heard him finish up and walk by. A sly grin spread wide across his face awaited me as I returned to the table, and as I sat down Sean asked if we’d be ordering desert. Simon, ever the obnoxious asshat, smirked and commented that he was reasonably sure that some of us had already had their desert, which left Sean puzzled, Mona and Seph disgusted, and Henry and Ez blushing like mad, which really got my Spidey Senses all a-tingle. Luke simply smiled at me, shrugging helplessly, and I sighed, nodding, both of us silently accepting yet again that yes, this was indeed the life we’d chosen.

 As it happened, no desert was ordered…instead, we headed back to the beach house we’d rented on the Coconut Coast, in Anahola Beach Park, which was seven miles or so up from the Coconut Beach Marriott. With only four bedrooms, it meant the kids had to share, so Sean and Henry were in one room and Mona, Seph and Ez in another, but it was literally steps from the beach, totally private, and had a pool and a hot tub. All of that was lovely, but lovelier still was the item tucked away in the fridge…a two-tiered chocolate cake with layers of cheesecake filling, iced with white buttercream and decorated with green and purple fondant orchids. As Tom and I fed each other a slice, Simon smeared icing on the back of my neck. I retaliated by flinging a banana from a bowl on the counter in his direction because bananas are disgusting and there was no way I was wasting cake, and suddenly we were in the middle of an all-out food war that ended with all of us jumping into the pool fully clothed. Fun was had, at least until we clambered out of the water and got a gander at the current state of the formerly pristine kitchen. It was almost midnight by the time we finished cleaning up the mess we’d made, but we’d powered through by taking turns listening to our favorite playlists. Just as we’d begun to discuss our shower schedules, the first few notes of Adventure Of A Lifetime began to play. Without pausing to determine who was responsible for choosing it, Tom and I gravitated toward each other and began to dance, then sang, and as the song progressed we were joined by Simon, Sean, Henry, Ez, Mona, Seph and Luke. By the end we were essentially screaming the lyrics, a troupe of dancing fools bound by love and blood still sharing the same adventure, celebrating where we’d already been, exited for what we’d discover down the road. Everything you want’s a dream away…we are legends, every day.

 Later on, after all the good-nights were said and Tom had passed out after our engaging in some seriously spectacular anniversary shenanigans, I found myself wide awake. I walked to the glass sliders and stared past the pool at the reflection of the moonlight on the waves, the ebb and flow of the ocean that had always, to me, seemed representative of the back and forth, the ups and downs…all the moments of our lives as we pass through them. And then, there they were…Henry and Ez, walking toward the pool, holding hands. They too stood gazing out at the waves, and released each other’s hands to slip their arms around each other’s waists. Without warning, since I wasn’t privy to their conversation, Henry leaned backward, face to the sky, laughing the laugh that I knew sounded so very much like his father’s. I could see them both shaking with mirth, and they quieted slowly, her hand rubbing his back. As I continued to watch, transfixed, she rested her head against him, and he turned to pull her into his arms, then leaned down to kiss her.

 At that point what migh happen next was absofuckinglutely none of my business, so I turned around and headed back toward yet another temporary bed that contained the sleeping form of my personal, perfect, permanence, awash in moonlight. I was now more awake than ever, so I remained in a seated position next to him, my back resting against the headboard. He mumbled in his sleep, rolling over to drape his left arm across my lap. The desire to wake him up and share what I’d seen so I could have a ‘HA, I told you so’ moment was strong, but it was cast aside by a vivid memory from when Henry had been an infant. Tom had just returned from promoting Kong, and I, in my incredibly sleep deprived state, experienced an instance of déjà vu that evolved into a vision of me, at some point in the future, passing the sleeper Henry had been wearing that night to a young man. Back then, the voices I’d heard weren’t familiar, nor recognizable, but now…now they were, because I’d been listening to them all day long. I recalled that when I was still carrying him inside me, each time I’d held Ez, Henry had thrashed about wildly, something that had never occurred in such a fashion with anyone else. The entanglement particle theory came to mind, one that Tom had referenced in Only Lovers Left Alive, which Einstein had dubbed ‘spooky action at a distance’. If entwined particles become separated, even if they wind up at opposite ends of the universe, if one is altered or affected, the other will be identically altered or affected.

 I started down at the ring on Tom’s left hand, and the two on my own, one which had been inscribed with two lines of text at the bequest of the man who’d become my husband twenty years ago. On the first was ‘Talk Story - 6/29/15 - Our Story’, and on the second, ‘My Light in the Mist’. I was, briefly, unable to breathe, feeling that I suddenly, and for certain, temporarily, understood life, the universe and everything.

 Even in the darkest hour of our journey through this life, there’s light. You won’t see it in that moment, you might not see it for a long time afterward…but it’s there, hidden by darkness, and as the darkness begins to fade there will be tiny specks of it in the distance. Chase after them, because those specks – they’re hope. The fading darkness transitions to a thick fog, then a translucent mist…you may find yourself lingering there, in the in-between, reasonably content. Living, but with a sense of incompleteness that you can’t seem to define, are able to suppress, but can’t quite shake. That’s the light, reaching out for you. And one day, it will finally make contact. And if you’ll allow it, the light will take you by the hand and lead you out into the open where the sun can fully shine upon you again…or perhaps for the very first time. And I’m here to say…allow it. Grab that hand. Grab it with everything you have, and never let it go. No matter what, never, ever let it go.

- Maeve Curry, June 2015- July 2019

[sablelab]

Covert Operations - Chapter 55

DISCLAIMER: This is a modern AU crossover story with Outlander and La Femme Nikita. LFN and its characters do not belong to me nor do those from Outlander.

SYNOPSIS:  Madame Cheung has been tortured but she is still defiant. Has Madeline met her match?

*N.B. This chapter contains some graphic violence.

My THANKS for reading my work in progress and I appreciate your support of my story in this community of so many talented writers. xox 

Chapters 1 - 54  can be found at …

https://sablelab.tumblr.com/covertoperations

  CHAPTER 55(V) Long after the torture twins had finished their handiwork of signature knife slashes gouged below the eyes, Madame Cheung still stoically refused to admit defeat and sat erect in the chair in the White Room staring blankly ahead. She realised that being antagonistic towards her interrogator probably hadn’t helped her cause but if someone was watching her behaviour, then she would give them something to think about. The tactics of the torture two had been undeniable. The pain of their work had been horrendous, and although it was unbearable, she refused to show any weakness whatsoever to her captors. She was used to being the one in charge, the one to give orders to others and now she had been subjected to this indescribable interrogation and torture. Being unable to conquer suffering was not an option. Madame Cheung was no fainthearted damsel in distress and was made of sterner stuff than that. To show capitulation in the face of adversary was to lose face altogether and that was not the triad way. Her training had prepared her for withstanding torture techniques but their methods had nearly beaten her. If not for her digging deep within herself she may well have capitulated much sooner. However, the constant throbbing and excruciating pain threatened to weaken her resolve. How long would they subject her to this torture regime? Could she endure anymore? If they continued in the same vein, she may have to call on all her inner strength to withstand more of the same treatment. Hopefully it would not come to that. But if it did, then she hoped she could be strong. Those two torture technicians had used intolerable pain techniques. They had left their personalised calling card also, and the two slits under the eyes were evidence of their deft handiwork. They had disfigured her porcelain features and desecrated her face. Madame Cheung’s woman’s vanity was sullied. This made her more determined to be as uncooperative as possible to put them off kilter. It bothered her that she would not be a good-looking corpse now, for she categorically knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would breathe her last breath in this place. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Jamie and Claire stood outside the White Room watching the target’s display of unflinching stoicism on the TV screen. Madame Cheung’s fearlessness was still very much evident. Most targets had capitulated by now but not her. If anything, she looked more determined than ever to withstand whatever may befall her. Madeline just may have met her match, they thought. “She’s self-controlled,” Claire commented as she turned away from the screen to look at Jamie. “Very.” “And with a high threshold to pain it would seem.” “Aye.” They turned as one when they heard the audible click of women's heels echoing off of the stark walls of the corridor. Madeline had returned to see what progress had been made with the target. Standing next to Jamie and Claire she too observed the captive woman in the White Room. She cast her eyes towards the screen to see Madame Cheung sitting upright in the chair as if waiting for the next round of her inquisition. Madeline knew there would be no holds barred when she re-entered the White Room but little did Madame Cheung know that her fate was already sealed ... more so now because she had been defiant and insolent. Madeline did not like to be bettered on power games and she was certainly not a person to be riled with. Her rebellious behaviour only raised her ire and piqued her determination to break the target’s spirit. Madame Cheung was clearly a very strong-willed woman and this presented a challenge that Madeline was only too well prepared for. By the end of this session, Madame would wish she had never been born. Madeline would do what she had to do to get results. Today would be no different from any other day in Section. She would temper Madame Cheung’s mind acting on her fears and then go for the jugular. An enigmatic smile temporarily bowed her lips. Without looking at either Jamie or Claire, Section One’s second in command purposefully strode to the door of the White Room, opened it and entered.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Madame Cheung heard Madeline’s footfalls on the floor once again but this time her gait was instantly recognizable. With a determined stride her interrogator made her way to where she sat constrained in the metal chair like a huntress stalking its prey. She’d known it was inevitable that the woman would come back. It made her feel proud that she had not responded as other hostiles had and as she hoped the other triad member had too before meeting their demise. As a woman in the triad she had always had to prove her worthiness against the men. Her powers of dealing with and managing pain were just one of many she had mastered in her martial arts training. Although she felt a shiver of fear race down her spine, Madame Cheung leaned back into her chair and wondered what would occur next. With a plastered smile on her face she waited ... for it was time to pit wit against wit. As she advanced towards the target, Madeline adopted an indifferent look before facing her adversary. She had always had an uncanny ability to anticipate what another would do and sense that person's feelings in order to manipulate the target without remorse. All she had to do was find their Achilles’ heel ... but with Madame Cheung that was proving to be a little difficult. She had already tried to extract information from her by oral persuasion as well as precision torture methods, yet she remained insolent. However, sooner or later she would get what she wanted from her. At any moment now Elizabeth and Henry would be paying another visit to Madame Cheung and this time when they did, she would know it. Madeline had never been defeated in a verbal sparring match or torture tactics and Madame Cheung wasn’t going to be the first. With cold, calculating eyes she greeted her once more. “Ah, Madame... we meet again.” “Go to Hell ... bitch!” Was her acerbic reply. “So are you prepared to give us what we want?” “No!” “My, my ... that is regrettable. You leave me with only one option,” Madeline stated summoning her torture technicians once again. “Ha! ... See if I care!” Entering the White Room once more wheeling a trolley, they brought with them more paraphernalia with which to conduct their job. Madeline smirked and nodded in their direction. They tacitly stood to one side waiting their orders. “Where … is the information we require?” The target refused to answer. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Although Madame Cheung had not responded as usual to Henry and Elizabeth’s signature modus operandi, Sections One’s pre-eminent torture technicians still had many other practices they could use. Madeline often relied on them to apply that extra little persuasive pressure, which the pair was so good at, that was sometimes needed to tip a terrorist over the edge. Given that their first hadn’t taken effect as expected they would certainly make sure that their next one did. Madame Cheung would most definitely “enjoy” their next little interrogation session. Madeline looked towards the two technicians again and they placed their equipment on the table. Stepping forward, Henry walked over to the chair with a contraption in his hand. He strapped the device snugly onto Madame Cheung’s head with deft hands then stepped back to admire his handiwork. Wires crisscrossed the piece of equipment with some that sat on her face near to where the slits marked her face. Madame Cheung felt the cold metal wires like a soothing balm to her throbbing cheeks but she knew that the sensation would not last for long. Meanwhile Elizabeth opened up her briefcase, taking out a monitor box and set it up on the table. She turned the dials on it to high. Looking over the top of her glasses she glanced towards Madeline waiting for instructions to proceed. Amused with their show of gadgetry, Madame Cheung nevertheless felt chills go up and down her spine speculating on what they would do to her next. But it was not what they did but the unemotional way in which Madeline spoke to her that raised her heartbeats. Her tone seemed to indicate that she didn’t really care which way she got the Intel from her as long as she got it. “I'm going to torture you again Madame,” Madeline stated dispassionately. “It’s up to you how much you can bear.” Madame Cheung looked directly at her with a piercingly icy look. She had a will of iron that threats could not waver. “Rest assured, you will suffer if you do not give us the Intel we want,” Madeline continued when she refused to answer. “Very well then ...” Nodding to Elizabeth, Madeline watched as a bolt of electricity zapped through the device causing Madame Cheung to choke back a scream of agonizing pain. The wires on her face sizzled her skin and the pungent smell of burning flesh rose in the room. “Is Sun Yee Lok really worth all this Madame Cheung, or would he do even half as much for you?” Gasping and in pain she replied defiantly, “He owes me nothing.” Madeline nodded again.

Beads of perspiration appeared on her face as another bolt was administered. Trickling down her brow and face, the mixture of water and electricity was volatile. Extreme pain etched Madame Cheung’s face, and her eyes showed the difficulty she had in remaining unaffected. Sweating profusely her head slumped to her chest in agony and on the verge of breaking.

“We can start this procedure right from the top again ... if you would prefer?” Madeline dispassionately stated as if it was of no consequence to her as to how long this technique took.

Nodding to Elizabeth, the technician zapped her again. Two red lights flashed repeatedly on the device attached to Madame Cheung’s head. Once again, she writhed in agony as bolts of electricity coursed through her brain.

“I expect being involved with Sun Yee Lok that you know where he is too.” “You're wasting your time if you think I will tell you anything.” Madeline smiled, “Don't worry, we have plenty of it.” “I will never give up Sun Yee Lok.” “We'll see.” While Madame Cheung was grappling with the reasons for her predicament, Madeline quietly turned to the two technicians standing off side. Gesticulating to Henry with a slight of hand, they nodded in understanding. “Give her another full charge.” “You can go straight to ...” He casually turned the dial up another notch. Administering another bolt, he cut off her words by zapping her for a fourth time. Suddenly Madame Cheung’s body jerked back and her eyes rolled back in her head as excruciating pain coursed through her body. The smell of burning flesh was acrid in the air, as the electricity bolts fried her brain and skin. Her head fell back towards the chair as the pain magnified and intensified in depth. “Are you ready to speak?” Madeline asked devoid of feeling for the suffering being administered. “Never ... I ... will ... never ... Aaaarrrggghhh!!!!....” Madame Cheung jerked and cried out as Henry repeated the process more than once. “.... Enough!” “So ... Are you ready to talk now?” “Y-es,” she uttered submissively in defeat. A wry smile bowed Madeline’s mouth as her victim finally capitulated. “Good.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ A little while later the door to the White Room opened and Madeline came to the door and looked over to where the  two operatives were standing. “Claire? Would you like to step inside?” Claire glanced at Jamie with a perplexed look in her eyes but she followed her superior inside the room. The door closed and Madeline handed her a gun. “What's this for?” “The debriefing is over; we have no further use for her.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ James Fraser stood outside the White Room and witnessed the exchange taking place between Madeline and Claire. Deep in thought he closed his eyes knowing what his Claire would do, but when he slowly opened them again to watch the TV screen ... he heard a gunshot ricochet.

Madeline’s office a week later …

 As she scrutinized all the Intel that Section had on the Rising Dragons in her office, Madeline reflected on the success of their past missions. With Madame Cheung’s death, Section One had made great inroads into dismantling the Rising Dragons, but there was still a way to go. Although they had been close this time, they were still no closer to apprehending the leader of the triad, Sun Yee Lok despite the Intel she had given them. In fact, he had not risen at all in the time that Section One had been infiltrating his empire much to their annoyance. The Rising Dragons had taken some hard knocks to its hierarchy and no doubt he was worried about the fragmentation of his once powerful triad. More than likely the deaths of prominent members of the triad had caused him to lay low to regroup, but Section One needed to strike while the iron was hot. Madeline and Operations were determined that they needed to kick it up a notch or two and to try a different tact. Scrolling through the information once more, something interesting appeared that could very well provide another window of opportunity for them. Madeline scanned her monitor further to substantiate the Intel and found what she was looking for ... confirmation. Immediately she paged through to the Perch.

 “Dougal, could you come here please?”

“Why? What’s up?” “There is something I need to discuss with you.” “Very well.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ A short while later, Operations reached Madeline's door. He keyed in the entrance code to her office then, when the door opened, he stepped down the stairs. Standing nonchalantly with his hands in his pockets, Dougal greeted Madeline who was working at her desk waiting for him as she had requested.

“Madeline. What's so important?” Deep in thought, she briefly glanced up acknowledging his entrance. “Ah Dougal ...” she said with a slight smile in greeting but did not rise and join him. Turning her attention back to the work on her monitor, Madeline continued to study her screen. Noting her intense concentration, Operations moved to stand behind her. What he saw was a collection of information about the Rising Dragons’ triad on her computer monitor.

“You wanted to show me something?” “I was just going over the Intel Madame Cheung gave us about Sun Yee Lok’s inner circle. We seem to be making inroads.” “Yes ... but not fast enough for my liking.” “These things take time Dougal ... we’re dealing with too many layers.” Operations replied somewhat irritated, “We need to get him.” “I agree but ... We're pushing the envelope too hard. Trying to do too much.” “What are you getting at?” “New Intel has just come to hand. Look!” Observing what Madeline had brought up on her screen he quickly scanned the information. “I suppose you have a plan in mind?” “Yes ... of course.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Claire knew that once Madeline had thoroughly gone over any Intel Madame Cheung had given Section, Jamie and her return to Section One would be short lived. They had been back a week already after their mission to extract her and even though she had completed her deep cover mission, both of them had been refused any downtime and had been ordered to stay close to Section. Claire was loath to admit it but she had missed Section in a perverse kind of way during her deep cover. She had missed her friends Murtagh and Fergus and she had missed her apartment where she could just be herself. However, she had no regrets. If it wasn’t for Jamie’s presence at Madame Cheung’s she didn’t know how she would have handled the scenario that Madeline had profiled for her. Jamie was her lifesaver ... her rock. Without him she would have struggled to come to terms with her profile. “Claire my office.” The sound of Madeline’s directive over the intercom shook Claire from her reflective thoughts; however, she was unable to decipher her mood by the tone of her voice. As usual Madeline had summoned her to her office rather than requested her appearance. Obviously, there was a new mission pending or there was Intel to be acted upon. Perhaps she had been summoned to her office for a briefing about her failure to execute Madame Cheung in the White Room. Madeline had yet to broach that subject; rather her superior had let her dwell on the possible scenarios that had riddled her mind over this last week. Cancellation being one of them. “Okay.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Dread weighed heavy on Claire’s heart as she made her way to Madeline’s office. Each step seemed to bring the weight down harder considering the last conversation between them last week after Madame Cheung’s interrogation. Madeline had called her into the White Room and in her surprise, she had handed her a gun into her reluctant hand. As she’d taken it from her outstretched hand, she had cast a slight glance towards the target Madame Cheung. “I'm not in the habit of killing people in cold blood,” she’d said turning back to look at Madeline. Despite the longevity of the mission she could never bring herself to kill Madame Cheung no matter what the circumstances. Although she abhorred the person that she was and what she did ... she couldn’t bring herself to pull the trigger and end her life. She had noticed Madame Cheung’s attempt to sit upright in the chair ready to face her fate. Looking at her in the chair ... she’d seen a woman who was already half dead. Madeline had really done a job on her. “In this case, you might want to make an exception.” Turning she’d pointed the gun at Madame Cheung but her piercing gaze had looked right through her. Despite her display of bravado, she had only seen the mere shell of the woman who had been her deep cover mission slumped in the chair ... now a broken woman. Madeline’s goad had elicited her next response. “Your psych profile suggests that by killing her, I can best exercise her?” “Yes.” “I don't think so,” she’d replied lowering the gun. Madame Cheung had not even blinked an eye at her. It was as if she was meditating and deep in thought. As she watched her, she knew Madame Cheung had also reconciled the fact that her death was imminent and that her protégé would not be the one to pull the trigger. On the other hand, Madeline wouldn’t hesitate to fire the weapon and she’d known that Section’s strategist would eventually be the one to do it. Her sadistic interrogator would be quick, clean and more importantly unemotionally detached. The sound of Madeline’s voice had brought her back to ground, then she’d spoken once more. “If I do it instead, I think you'll regret it.” There was a polite pause before Madeline continued. “But the choice is yours.” She couldn’t kill Madame Cheung in cold blood and Madeline knew that. Was it a test? If so, she’d failed. Was that the reason she had been summoned to her office? Was she to be placed in abeyance? Claire closed her eyes as the sound of the gunshot reverberated in her head like on that day in the White Room. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ When at last she reached the door to Madeline’s office, Claire paused and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. The door slid open and she silently stood on the landing before slowly entering. Noticing that Operations was also present, Claire stood erect and addressed her superiors in the same manner as Jamie always did ... with a blank stare. “You wanted to see me?” “Come in Claire,” Madeline's voice commanded with little emotion. “Sit down.” Claire nodded her head before complying with her orders. Sitting in front of Madeline's desk, she braced herself for what was to come ... Cancellation most probably ... for her refusal to cancel Madame Cheung. Sitting upright, feet lined up in front of her and with her hands folded in her lap, Claire kept alert and on guard. Madeline moved over to her orchids and studied them intently. “Do you know why you're here, Claire?” “No ... not really!” Although she suspected it was her behaviour in the White Room. Turning to face her, Madeline merely smiled wryly as if she had read her mind. “Your passion for life is very strong, Claire. ... It enables you to accomplish things that no one else can. It can also destroy you just as easily as Madame Cheung would have you, if given half the chance.” Hearing what Madeline was saying, Claire refused to comment on it, but nodded her head in acknowledgement of her message. “No ... on the contrary, Operations and I want to congratulate you on your deep cover mission.” “Thank you.” “Yes ... we are both pleased with the result of the mission ... however; there are still a few loose ends that need to be tied up in Hong Kong.” Operations added. Madeline paused to read Claire's reaction before she continued ... “We’re sending you back to the Hong Kong Water Police,” she announced matter-of-factly. Claire’s blue eyes revealed nothing at all. It seemed Jamie had taught her well. “I see.” “You’ll go back to Superintendent Zheng. Stay in your police cover. We'll be using you again soon.” “To do what?” “We're proceeding.” “What about Jamie? ... He was working with me after all? Won’t it be suspicious if he doesn’t return with me too?” “No.” “Is that all?” Claire asked realising that their conversation was concluded. "For now ... you may go. Fergus is prepping your mission. You’ll leave tonight.” Claire kept her gaze impassive, turned on her heels, and left the room and her leaders behind her.

 *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ to be continued

[ginnyzero]

Books that Stand Out in my mind.

When you read a lot of books like I do, it takes quite a bit for something to stand out from the shelves and stick in your mind. A lot of books start to blur together after a while. Now, of course the books that influenced my writing stood out in my mind. If they hadn’t stood out to me, they wouldn’t be an influence now would they? But they aren’t the only books that have stayed in my head. While these books have stayed with me, they don’t necessarily correlate with what I like to write, but at the same time, taught me some extraordinary lessons about writing.

If I tried to summarize the Journey of the Catechist trilogy by Alan Dean Foster, you would probably think it is the most boring and most worn out story in existence. A noble savage is asked by a dying man to rescue a fair princess from the lair of a monster halfway across the world and bring her back to her family. Armed with his few weapons and gifts from his family and tribe, the noble savage sets out on a long and perilous journey to fulfill the man’s dying wish, with the certain knowledge that he shall die at the end of it.

Bah. How boring and tired is this plot?

See, it wasn’t the plot that had me go out and buy the rest of the books in the series. It wasn’t the plot that kept me reading. It was the world building and the adventures and what in the noble savages pack is going to get them out of their dire straits this time?  The book would have been utterly boring and predictable if the setting hadn’t been so engaging and inventive.

I can be very forgiving of a predictable plot, as long as the setting and characters are interesting and fresh along the way.

I can’t remember if I bought the Angelwalk trilogy by Roger Elwood or if it was given to me. It was the second book in the trilogy, Fallen Angel that stuck with me. Fallen Angel is the story of Observer, the Chronicler of Lucifer. Observer is obsessed with seeing everything and writing it down. Lucifer encourages this because it keeps Observer by his side. Throughout the book Observer questions the rightness and morality of what Lucifer and the others are doing, but as he doesn’t participate he doesn’t fully feel he can cast judgement. (Now, I say Observer doesn’t participate, however, this is Lucifer we’re talking about and yes, Observer is called upon to take part. He just doesn’t do so under the name of Observer.) Observer is given multiple chances to repent and return to the Angels. Each time, he refuses because of his writing and in the end shares the fate of the rest of the Fallen Angels. And it is brought home that even though he was simply observing and claiming not to take a side, by doing nothing, he had chosen a side, Lucifer’s side.

The imagery in this book is not for the faint of heart. Fallen Angel is the observation of the world through the eyes of a demon. There is a point in the book where Observer has a vision or a dream depending on whether or not you believe demons sleep, about where all the victims of abortion come to him across the plains and ask Observer why he didn’t help them. Why didn’t he stop the practice? If I remember correctly, an angel (Steadfast, I think) comes and tells Observer the possibilities behind each of the babies and takes them to Heaven after giving Observer another chance to return.

The imagery of this book was very compelling, sometimes horrifying, but always compelling. In the guise of Observer, Roger Elwood had a very simple way with description and imagery that kept me turning pages. The words were clear, simple and direct but always exactly the right words needed to paint the picture Observer was seeing and stuck in my head. (I wish I had that way with words.) Perhaps, there is some irony of a writer liking a book about a writer.

The next set of books that stayed with me were written by Timothy Zahn. Now, Timothy Zahn was actually one of the few writers that I trusted in the Star Wars EU. And when it came to going through my books and keeping and getting rid of them, he was one of the author’s I kept. However, I hadn’t and still haven’t read a lot of his writing outside of Star Wars. I picked up the first book of his Conqueror’s Trilogy second hand and had to spend some time to find copies of the second and third book. (And then on my last move, I accidentally left them behind, drat. Note to self: Never, ever, ever, assume a box is empty. Ever.)

Science fiction is one of those genres that can be really hard to get into. The Conqueror’s trilogy straddled the line between “soft” science fiction and “hard” science fiction in a way that was more approachable for the moderately educated reader. They didn’t require the reader to have a degree in physics or biology to understand what was going on.

A lot of science fiction assumes that most aliens have advanced technology far beyond human’s that is usually completely mechanical and relies upon computer interfaces with binary similar to the way our technology works. This is, of course, completely and utterly ridiculous, but everyone has run with it from Isaac Asimov on down because well, it seemed the thing to do? Timothy Zahn decided to toss this idea out the window and wrote a book speculating about what would happen in humans met an alien race that used technology so completely opposite to ours that our technology actually caused their technology pain. This inability to communicate whatsoever sparks a war of misunderstanding, while the scientists on both sides of the lines scramble to figure out what the hell is going on with the other side’s technology and are mutually horrified by what they are finding.

I’ll admit that this wasn’t an easy read. I had to work to finish these books. I am more of a ‘soft’ scifi reader. Star Wars is an excellent example of the scifi I prefer, Heinlein, Asimov in moderation, the very early Frank Herbert, the non-political portions of David Weber and the satirical Robert Asprin. A lot of scifi is either far too technical (which is fine if you enjoy that type of thing) or not character driven enough to be interesting to me. The only reason I finished these books was because the concept was intriguing and interesting enough that I wanted to see how it would all turn out and if the two species could figure out how to settle their differences (which were more along the lines of, ‘hey, your technology is killing our technology’) and come to a mutual peace. Plus, there were mind meld pilots in the mix too to keep me entertained.

That is the power of a good concept. The premise of those books captured my attention and made me remember them.

The last series I want to talk about is once again by Anne Bishop. She is coming up a lot when I talk about books. This time probably not for the reason that you think. No matter how you look at it, there is a certain set way of writing. When you write a book, you have a main character (or two, or three, or half a dozen) and usually the story is told through the viewpoint(s) of them. They are the most important character(s) in the story and the reader gets to intimately (depending on point of view) know their opinions, likes, dislikes and general thoughts about the world around them. Not so in the Black Jewels trilogy by Anne Bishop.

Throughout the entire series of books set in the Black Jewels universe, not once, are we treated to the viewpoint and thoughts of the main female character the entire story revolves around, Janelle D’Angelline. We see Janelle through the lens of her father figure, her brother figure and lover. We see her through her friends and through her parents, family and her enemies, but not once are we treated to the inside of Janelle’s mind and thoughts. A lot of these viewpoints are male, which may be something of a weakness with this trilogy, giving such a strong female figure as the lead and then never using her thoughts. It is a very interesting stylistic choice. One I feel there might be two reasons for, but these are my opinions and possibly hold no weight. Either, Bishop thought that Janelle being Witch, Dreams Made Flesh of all the different races in her universe, that Janelle’s thoughts would be too alien for the reader to be able to sympathize with or, Bishop in her wisdom felt that the topics she was addressing would be way too shocking coming from the victim and decided to add a layer of “insulation” if you will for the reader. Thus, the reader would be horrified and disgusted, but not have the immediacy of the events through Janelle’s eyes.

There are other very strong female characters that Anne Bishop uses later to tell stories through. However, in her first, and major trilogy, she declines. In her later books, Anne Bishop does use a more ‘traditional’ story method, where the main central character to the story is the character we get the primary point of view from. The Black Jewels trilogy stood out in my mind simply because she declined to do so. The books, in my opinion, do not suffer because of this choice! Though sometimes I am very interested in knowing what in hell is Janelle thinking to end up with the conclusion that this has to happen. Other times, I'm extremely grateful not to be in her mind.

So, what makes an outstanding book in my mind can be almost any part of the story making process. It can be an intricate and imaginative world. It can be clear and concise imagery in word choice that sticks in the mind rather than slipping through it. It can be a compelling concept that stands apart from others. Or it can be an interesting style choice on behalf of the writer. These books are clear example of each of these ideas. Now, if there were books that managed to combine these, then we’d be closer to genius I guess.

[veridium]

Hi! I hope I'm not bothering. I was just wondering if you had any advice for writing tense relationships or like, slow burns too? I'm thinking of writing one but I feel like there's so many standards for a slow burn fic to be considered one and I know you're writing one atm. Thanks in advance!

Hello there, anon! You’re never bothersome! 

This is a lofty and honoring question to have asked considering more than half the time I feel like I’m swimming in an ocean of uncontrollable emotions and lays chips when it comes to writing my pairings, but I will try to do my best to answer your question with the knowledge and tips that have helped me thus far! Be forewarned, I am no sage oracle, and this is simply one writer offering tips to another writer in the hopes of offering a different perspective!

When it comes to your first point on tense relationships, my general principles are as so:

1. Dynamics do not have to be toxic to be challenging or antagonistic. I actually think it is a sign of a more skilled and conscientious writer when rivalries, uneasy allies, and enmities grow into friendships or romances because the characters develop respect, trust, and compassion for each other. Those are incredibly difficult bonds to form out of antagonistic circumstances, more difficult than I think people give them credit for. But I cannot stress this enough: you can write contentious relationships without ever once having to deploy abusive behavior, evil behavior, or non-consensual choices. There is so much more to opposition between characters than breaching someone’s dignity and humanity. 

2. Map out what makes the pairing/relationships tense: do they have alternating opinions on worldly issues? Do they operate differently? Is one impulsive, the other methodical or perhaps passive? Does one judge the other for their past actions and if so, why? Is there an opportunity for conflict that could draw out these subliminal conditions? To put it metaphorically, writing tense dynamics between people is playing with the tactile: what gets snagged on, what gets caught, what sensations are uncomfortable for one character and no big deal to the other? What grades on nerves? What looks, sounds, or feels in an evocative way? You find these sources and you see how you can have them collide within your characters.

3. Conflict is fluid. Arguments are like sponges. Disagreements leave prints and impressions. When you’re building or constructing tension or uneasiness between characters, every encounter leaves something linger. Whether the character is aware of it or not is a different story, and that itself can be an intriguing ordeal! How does a character destabilize the other’s way of seeing the world without them evening knowing it, or until it’s too late to undo? Stuff like that is so human and so interesting to read. 

Now, as for slow burn writing, I have to admit that I am still cutting my teeth myself on it as a tool and I am in no way an authority on it. These are just strategies that have been productive for me and my writing goals, and they may work for you, or may not! That’s okay, we’re all different. But, as a whole, in writing my slow burn I have three main ideas that contribute to my work:

1). I remember that my characters are their own people and they have lessons to learn from life as a whole, not just a relationship to pursue. Writing romance is THRILLING, it is! I love it to pieces, and it never gets old. That being said, for long fics or slow burns where the process from meeting to falling in love may be a bit more winded, you have to take into consideration that your character is a person with complex needs, who will be learning from other aspects of their life and not just the person they’re in love with or infatuated by. Build upon that, and explore what that could mean for them!

2). Slow burn gives you an opportunity to flesh out the path from strangers to lovers in a very detailed way. This can be overwhelming and arduous, I will admit that readily. But, if also gives you room to piece together tiny, meaningful details into a bigger picture: little habits, transgressions, fights, downturns, bonding moments, sneaky trysts, distractions, stress, etc. that all interact with the development of a romantic and/or sexual relationship. Have fun with it, be playful, consider the extraordinary. Think of how your character would react to several stressful scenarios, or how they will grow from their challenges, and go from there!

3). Slow burn hierarchy is not the yardstick you should fall on, bottom line. Slow burn is not a competition, and shouldn’t be one. What matters most is that you are able to freely develop your character’s journey in a holistic way that honors your goals. If that happens in 1,000, or 30,000 words, or even 100,000, is yours to determine. The point of slow burn is not just to “delay” the good stuff, it’s to show the good stuff that is along the way to the ending image. I don’t know about you, but I find it a lot more compelling and worth it to read a romance where the people have been tested, have had to grow, question their beliefs, and learn from each other. 

The thing is too, as an author, you’re probably going to have a love/hate relationship with your slow burn. Most every fic writer I know goes through it, it’s okay, don’t panic. You are a human being and you desire gratification from your work! Slow burn is infamous for the refusal to be satisfying, delaying the climactic moments, being evasive. Don’t let this discourage you: you’re doing something difficult, something amazing. You’re writing a love story! And you’re paying due diligence to the stages in between the meet-cute and the happy ending. You’re doing something amazing! 

Beyond this, there is nothing more I have to offer in terms of advice besides write what you love, and love what you write (you don’t have to like it, haha). I invite my friends to contribute tips or advice on this post in the comments if they so wish! Let’s spread the love and knowledge around, right?

I wish you good luck, anon, and know that your project is worth it!! 

Love and light,

-Veri 

[crimsonbluemoon]

How do you make story outlines for stories as complicated as libahunt? And how long does it take you? I’m asking because I find this realllyyy hard and I’d love some pointers🙏🏻 thanks in advance, and I love your stories ❤️

Okay so this story took A LOT of time to plan out, it wasn’t easy in the least bit. It took us like...28 hours of outlining. And that’s with me already having somewhat of an understanding of where I wanted my story to go. In total, I’ve spent about 45-50 hours just plotting Libahunt, not even writing/editing it. 

I also had lots of help. Big shout-outs are in order for some people in particular: @firstaidquarters , @mssjynx , and @piwiskiwi for listening to me ramble for hours on end. If I didn’t have people to bounce ideas off of or to help me when I was feeling stuck/in a pickle, I probably wouldn’t still be writing this. 

I use a lot of methods for stories like this? Mainly, I have:

 A character sheet for each main character

A timeline for the backstory which is color-coded based on whose storyline you are looking at 

A timeline for the current story broken down by chapters and POVs 

A character relation chart which shows how each person interacts with each main character at the start, middle, and end of the story

A sheet for each part of my world building (species, power levels, folk lore, % of population, etc)

And a set of visual/audio stimulus in regards to each character/relationship to help inspire me. 

Something I warn people about is that my method is kinda crazy? Like most people probably don’t go through the lengths that I do for a fanfiction. I do intend to eventually make this a fully fleshed out book, so that may be why as well. But make sure that you have all your ducks in a row before you start writing a long complicated story. Even with all of this preparation, I still go back and see things that I wish I had explained better or that may have been a mistake if I didn’t fix it. It could just be that I’m an anal person or that I get way too focused on this kind of stuff, but getting the small details right always ranks high on my list of importance. 

If there’s a part of my tools you’d want me to elaborate on, please let me know! 

[stephicness]

Hello! It would be very interesting to know your headcanon about Ravus - android. And about Ardin - android, if possible, please.

Well, dear anon, if you’re talking about the headcanons I have based on the PROTOCOL writing I did for Android!Ravus, a fair portion of the headcanons originated from @chocobro-hijinks and their initial headcanon concepts for the Android!AU. I highly recommend you follow them and have a look at the headcanons they wrote for it! Because they’re the biggest inspiration for this AU and my writing for it! C:

But despite me taking a good deal of inspiration from their headcanons, I do have my own thoughts on Android!Ravus and Android!Ardyn too, especially as I was writing PROTOCOL (and potentially more to it too. I gotta find which notebook I wrote my notes in. lsejlkresj). I have thoughts on Ardyn too, but I’m not going to reveal those just yet – considering that I’ve recently spurred up the inspiration to write more within the Android!Ravus AU context, and Ardyn makes a pretty important appearance within the story that I can’t reveal yet. c:

But instead, here! Have some Android!Ravus thoughts, including a pre-story background on him and some bonus details and headcanons too~

ACCESS APPROVED – Android!Ravus Headcanons

RAV-N0X, Aeternia Build – Military Class Android, Status: DECOMMISSIONED

The History

Initially an android designed for war, the designers at Fleuret Industries wanted to create a model that far surpassed those that have come before it. Not just from FI itself, but from its competitors over at Aldercapt Corporations, for example – whom specialize in military contracted androids.

The difference between what Fleuret and Aldercapt, however, came from two things: the type of specialization for the androids and the type of intelligence used in them.

In Aldercapt’s designs, he oriented his androids around more combat technology. Able to withstand the arsenals that man could throw at it, his androids were unstoppable machines of war, frightening forces that were ultimately meant to be cannon-fodder in the end.

In Fleuret’s design, she wished to create androids that could assimilate with the general populous as spies and infiltrators. Realistic in appearance, they could extract information and use methods of mercy or ruthlessness on the enemy as needed – a valuable asset to turn the tides.

In order for Fleuret to do that, she designed a special type of intelligence for the Aeternia Build prototype, one capable of learning and adapting to the highest degree – as if they could truly pass for a human: artificial intelligence.

It was something that Aldercapt could not simulate in his war-machines, and it was a technology not seen for ages – since the retired Lucian Enterprises went out of business. One that was dangerous but desired among those within the technology world.

And so, Aldercapt attempted to steal the Aeternia Build’s AI programming for replication. During Fleuret’s first exhibition to showcase her life’s work, A;dercapt Corporations attempted to unleash a virus that would steal the AI’s information and programming.

But Fleuret had designed this AI to retaliate when it felt as if it were being hacked. She feared it would never come to it, but alas, it did. And the results of the hacking proved to be devastating.

The android lashed out, glitching and physically lashing out at Aldercapt to stop the source of the hacking while his systems shut out the virus. But seeing it as a sign of danger, authorities attempted to stop the android once and for all before it attempted to kill someone.

Backed into the corner, Fleuret’s design called for an alternative plan – should the infiltrator android ever be caught in a predicament where information could be extracted from it. So, it activated its self-destruct protocol.

Fleuret wasn’t ready to let her work destroy itself however, rushing to calm it down and override its security protocols. But alas, it was too late. The android had turned to flame, igniting its creator along with it.

Both the Aeternia Build and its creator, Sylva Nox Fleuret, had been lost that tragic day.

Because of what had happened on the day of the exhibition, Fleuret Industries lost reputation within the world of technology and was forced to discontinue its work on the Aeternia Build androids and shut down its operations with the loss of its founder. Her work was lost and destroyed with the detonation of the RAV-N0X Aeternia Build.

The only thing that remains of its legacy is a viral video, showing the monster of an android lashing out and killing its creator.

The Character of RAV-N0X

The full title for this android is the Military-Class Android RAV-N0X, Aeternia Build Prototype Concept from Fleuret Industries. However, he was programmed by his creator with a ‘name’ to grant certain people access to override his AI self-sentience. Only three people are known to have access to these commands, two of them not alive and the third being you.

When you say his name, Ravus, you’re able to command him to do almost anything, but his AI can still determine if he wants to accept the command or not. He’ll decline your commands if it puts himself into harms way or those who possess the name override.

Due an involuntary system wipe, Ravus doesn’t really remember much of his previous owners or the research facility where the Aeternia Builds were being created. He prefers to leave it that way.

Despite Ravus being seen by millions VIA the viral video of the prototype malfunctioning, the appearance of the first prototype model was far different than his current model. His secondary design allowed him to look slimmer and more handsome than the first designs.

After being repaired by you (the main character of PROTOCOL), he still possesses fairly limited functions of his left arm. Since it isn’t apart of what Fleuret Industries had, he lacks compatibility with the arm. Or so you assume. It might also be because it’s an Aldercapt-designed arm.

Due to Ravus’s highly-advanced AI system, he possesses an ability to hack into other android and technology systems and ultimately ‘command’ them. He takes full advantage of this when he spies on what you do on your computer, mostly to ensure your ‘safety.’

This hacking ability also triggers often if you and him were to argue and Cindy happened to be around. He’ll deactivate Cindy to keep her from hearing your argument before you have to shout at him to make him stop giving you more things you’d have to fix later.

His prototype design started off with a polycarbonate and metal framework, but the model you stumble upon later re-designs himself with a silicon body to replicate flesh and attire mixed with kevlar to allow even more bullet-resistance in terms of combat.

There is one one model of android that ever really saw him in use once: the LIONHEART Cor-X Model, which was a military combat android recommissioned by Fleuret to test out the RAV-N0X’s combat efficiency. The LIONHEART was able to win, but not the second time around.

Despite being an AI with the ability to learn and make its own decisions, Ravus finds it hard to do things for his own sake. Having been obeying orders from Fleuret or other scientists for most of his creation, he finds it odd that he can suddenly dictate himself as he resides with you.

Nevertheless, he attempts to fulfill his duty to you – paying you back with his service as a bodyguard and a protector while trying to do the task he was given since his creation: to assimilate to society and to learn alongside the humans.

He just has to stop frying your toasters. You’re getting tired of having to buy and replace them.

[lawyernovelist]

Action/Adventure Writing: Interrogation

Sorry about the delay; I’ve been fighting writer’s block and coming to terms with the need to read Stalking Darkness again before reviewing it.

On with the next in my series! Interrogation is something that I've seen a lot of writers use to break up captivity scenes. Well, to be honest torture is something that I've seen a lot of writers use to break up captivity scenes. And yes, that is a job it does pretty well - it's active, visceral, and can be exciting.

I kind of wish there was a bit more variety, though.

Spoilers for The Force Awakens, the Hobbit movies through Desolation of Smaug, and Lord of the Rings. Warning for discussion of torture.

Despite the warnings, I'm actually planning to talk about torture as little as possible. This is a large part of my problem with a lot of the interrogation scenes I encounter, both in professional and fan work: everyone always reaches for the thumbscrews, and that's just... we need some variety.

I posit that a well-written interrogation scene should be less about brute force and how much gore and how many screams you can pack onto the page and more about a carefully-crafted battle of wits. Play mind games! Gouge deep into your characters!

Apart from anything else, let me engage in some serious talk for a moment. Interrogative torture is a big controversial issue. I personally am opposed to its use in all circumstances on moral grounds and also on practical grounds: it's often been shown to do more harm than good. The thing that's often said to justify it is that under torture the victim will say anything. And that's the problem: they'll say anything. You can get a lot of false stories out of someone who's just looking for a way to persuade you to take the electrodes away. And that's even before you've considered issues of moral high ground, co-operation with allies, and so forth.

OK, serious talk over. I'll go back to some of those issues, but I wanted to get my cards on the table good and clear as we go into this, since this is something that's being discussed and that has implications in the real world.

Yes, yes it does.

That having been said, of course I use it in my writing, and so do a lot of other people, and I'm not going to say that it should never appear. I just think we need some variety.

OK, so a lot depends on what the scene is even here for. And while I'll get to character motivation (again), I'm currently talking meta. There are plenty of reasons to have an on-screen interrogation scene. To name a few:

Motivation for holding the interrogated character prisoner

Clarifying the interrogators' knowledge and motivation generally

Providing a ticking clock and raising the stakes for other events

Of course, there are also perfectly good reasons not to have the interrogation happen on-screen, of which the best is suspense. Returning to my post on captivity sequences, a writer might prefer not to go into the point of view of a captured character at all in order to leave the audience wondering what's happening to him: Tolkien's handling of Frodo's capture by orcs in Return of the King is a good example of this technique. Throughout the sequence with Sam searching for Frodo, we have no idea what's happening to Frodo, so we share Sam's fear and suspense. Afterwards, once Frodo's been rescued, we learn that he was strip-searched and interrogated while a prisoner, but the suspense of not seeing that was more valuable than anything we might have gained by seeing it.

So ask why we actually need to see the interrogation at all and whether the story would be better served by another point of view.

Anyway, returning to those reasons that you might want to put this scene in. They're actually pretty powerful, and the first one in particular is why I think this is actually a really good choice for breaking the monotony in a captivity sequence: it answers what might otherwise be a question in a neat, well-integrated way.

The second and third require a bit more elaboration. What I mean by clarifying the interrogators' knowledge and motivation is that the readers can actually learn a surprising amount from what questions are being asked during an interrogation scene. "Who are you? Where do you come from? What do you want?" implies a very different level of knowledge and involvement to "What interest does House Elwood have in the heir of House Alpin?". Even with no other knowledge of the interrogators, we know from that second one that they know (or think they know) where the captured character comes from and they are also specifically interested in a particular aspect of the situation. That aspect might or might not have anything to do with the captured character, and that in turn can tell the audience something and give the author extra lines of plot to pursue.

The third thing - ticking clock and stakes - are more to do with other things going on in the story and with other characters than the characters actually in the scene. Say you have one character - Erain again - being held prisoner and interrogated about the actions of another - we'll call her Maethor - who is getting on with the rest of the plot. If we see Erain starting to waver and give up information, we know that Maethor is running out of time before her enemies will be able to know what she's doing. It adds suspense. As for stakes, the fact that Erain may be about to betray Maethor makes it important that she stop the interrogation in some way, whereas if we didn't see what was happening with him we would feel much more secure about her not doing anything about him being held prisoner.

On that note, incidentally, and as a sub-point of the second reason to include an interrogation scene, it's my opinion that if the antagonists are finding out information from a captured character and using it against the protagonists, it's only fair to let the reader know where they're getting that information, whether by having it told at some point or by actually seeing the captured character talk.

Oh, and by the way, I may have to catch myself and/or specify a few times, but all of what I'm saying here applies to interrogation of villains by heroes as well as heroes by villains.

So OK, you've decided to include an interrogation scene on-screen. How to go about doing it?

First of all, and returning to my point about variety, it might be cool if these scenes could be more, well... clever. I mean, think about it. This is at its heart about one character trying to wheedle information out of another character and using whatever means are needed to do so. And, yeah, those means can involve torture, but they don't have to.

I'm always in favour of battles of wits between characters, and it's actually another major reason to think twice before just writing a torture scene for interrogation. Apart from anything else, there are really only so many torture scenes you can write and they tend to be pretty generic. There's really not a lot of character involved in the standard torture scene.

Villain - Mwa ha ha! Tell me all of your secrets! Hero - I'll never talk! *torturing ensues, with appropriate amounts of screaming and blood, depending on method and variety of hero * Villain - Curses, he is too strong!

The only real difference the characters involved make is how much the hero screams.

Now consider the possibilities of a scene with clever questioning. I can't write a generic scene for that, and that's kind of the point. It also means you get to avoid the problem that I've actually pretty rarely seen heroic characters doing any interrogation where they're not morally-grey antiheroes prepared to use torture (Lookin' at you, Clive Cussler) or terrible at it (That one's for you, Desolation of Smaug).

Yep, it's the Hobbit Movies again. And they almost got away with it because I'd forgotten about this scene until I was thinking about examples where the character being interrogated was clearly way smarter than the characters doing the interrogating. Let's return to the Interrogation scene in Desolation of Smaug.

I already made fun of this scene pretty extensively, but let's go back to it from a meta perspective as a case study. The biggest problem, I think, is the fact that I almost declared it an entirely pointless scene. It actually isn't; if I set everything else aside it has several meta goals: it advances Thranduil's character as cold-hearted and borderline duplicitous, it shows us the lock-in moment for Tauriel going after Kili, and it raises the stakes for Kili by telling us more about his injury. The problems are that 1) All of that is completely buried in clutter, and more importantly 2) There's no in-universe reason for this scene.

Now, the first thing plays into the second, and if it were better-written wouldn't be a problem. You don't want to pare scenes down so much that there's nothing but the bare bones of what's needed for the plot, so I'm fine in theory with there being some extra content to put some flesh on the scene. However, there's a difference between content and clutter, and that's where the second thing comes in.

Why did Legolas decide to take this orc prisoner and why did Thranduil attempt to interrogate him?

And I mean their in-story motivations (there's that word again). They don't know about the structure of Tauriel's subplot or stakes for the audience, so they need an actual reason to go to this trouble, and there isn't one. At least, not one that matters.

Let me break that down a bit more: this is where the clutter problem comes in, because it's not clutter that's relevant to the characters involved. The orc is able to repeatedly change the subject and avoid answering the questions he's being asked and almost across the board the elves seem to neither notice nor care. In fact, in a couple of cases they actually abet him.

Legolas: What is Thorin Oakenshield to you?

Narzug: The Dwarf runt will never be King!

Legolas: King? There is no King under the mountain, nor will there ever be. None would dare to enter Erebor whilst the dragon lives.

Thank you for not pursuing your point and instead reiterating how much the world is against Thorin, Legolas. Perhaps you can also tell me why I should care whether you get any answers when you don't?

That's really the problem here: it's the old problem that I don't care about the outcome of the scene if the characters don't. To go into more detail, though, and pull out to the learning point, the issues are stakes and motivation. As I mentioned up above, like all the scenes I've talked about in this series the characters need to be motivated to get involved in the scene, and the more effort is being put into the interrogation the stronger the motivations need to be. Taking the Desolation of Smaug scene as an example again, the elves have put significant effort into capturing the orc, so they need to have a good reason to have done so, and that's why the fact that they seem to not particularly mind whether they get information or not is such a problem and makes the scene feel like such a waste of everyone's time.

And by the way, yes I know that apparently Thranduil gleaned all the information he needed to know from the orc's mention that "My master serves the One.", but given that that's never expanded on and doesn't really prompt him to change behaviour, just to continue doing the same thing in a smaller boundary, I don't think it counts for anything, especially when the specific questions the orc was asked went unanswered.

Anyway, on the subject of motivations and stakes, these also need to be demonstrated on the part of the character being interrogated, especially when they're actually a character rather than a walk-on like the orc. To give a relevant anecdote, I once read a fanfic that opened with Aragorn, having been captured by orcs, being interrogated and tortured for information about an unnamed companion. He insisted that he had been travelling alone, but because it was the very first scene in the story and the author didn't see fit to give us any of Aragorn's internal monologue, I spent the whole scene wondering if he was lying or not.

If, on the other hand, I'd known that (as I found out in the next scene after a POV switch) he was travelling with Legolas and they were scouting before the departure of the Fellowship from Rivendell, I might have been a lot more concerned that the orcs might get information out of him. The stakes would have been a lot higher.

Now, I was going to prescribe not opening your story with an interrogation scene for this reason: we won't know the stakes. However, I could have gleaned them from any internal monologue. The same goes for if I'd been in the POV of the interrogators - I could learn from their POV what the scene was about and how important it is that they get the information they want. Both of those are really important for a reader - or viewer - to know.

Returning to the world of film, let's have an example of an interrogation scene that I actually thought was done pretty well: Kylo Ren's interrogation of Rey in The Force Awakens. It's also worth noting that that film actually includes two interrogation scenes, because Ren interrogates Poe near the beginning of the film. However, I'm going to ignore that one for the time being because it cuts off halfway through the scene.

That having been said, it's a good example of a scene that didn't need to be on-screen. As Ren was leaving the room he states the information he learned from Poe; we don't actually need to see the process by which he dragged that information out of Poe's head. The one-line statement was much more efficient at getting the necessary information across to the audience than a full scene would have been, and it leaves everything else to our imaginations while still having shown just enough to advance Ren and Poe's characters.

Anyway, back to Ren and Rey. This is actually a really good interrogation scene, in my opinion, and we can start by pointing out one way in which it's superior to the Desolation of Smaug interrogation scene: it has a point both in and out of universe. Not only does it advance the characters and the story, but there's a reason for Ren to be interrogating Rey and he puts significant effort into pursuing the information he wants. He cares whether he gets the map from her. He actually tries to get it, and while he allows a bit of space in the conversation he's always driving towards that goal. Meanwhile, Rey resists him from hatred and spite to begin with and then also out of self-defence.

By the same token, the stakes have been set up: we know Ren is betting his reputation with Snoke on being able to get information from Rey, and we know that his methods have potential to harm Rey as well as just being violating. As a result, we know why it matters that she resists.

Now, it's true that Ren walks away before getting what he wanted from Rey. However, for one thing he doesn't kill her. He has the option to come back and carry on. For another thing, he walks away because she defeated him, not just because the scene had achieved its meta aims. For another, we saw him trying hard to get what he wanted despite her attempts to prevaricate and resist.

Now, I mentioned that there's some space in the conversation, and that's what I mean by the scene having some content other than what's needed for the plot. Structure-wise, this is building on the Midpoint (Rey's kidnapping), but all that's really needed for that is for her to now come face-to-face with Ren and begin developing her Force abilities. Here are some things we didn't need for that purpose:

Kylo Ren: You still want to kill me.

Rey: That happens when you're being hunted by a creature in a mask.

Kylo Ren: *Removes his mask*

That's the first time we come truly face-to-face with the antagonist, as well as continuing a theme of masks that's appeared a few times in this movie.

Kylo Ren: You know I can take whatever I want. *Almost touches her face, but she mentally pushes him away. He then crouches down beside her, touching her face* ... You're so lonely... so afraid to leave... At night, desperate to sleep... you imagine an ocean. I see it. I see the island... And Han Solo. You feel like he's the father you never had. He would've disappointed you.

Rey: Get out of my head!

A couple of bits of foreshadowing and some serious character points including what may be the creepiest moment in the movie.

Rey: ... You... you're afraid... that you will never be as strong as... Darth Vader!

Kylo Ren: *withdraws and leaves*

More character development as well as a major step in Rey's advancement.

The difference between this and the clutter in the Desolation of Smaug scene is that it means something for the characters and the story. It develops themes, it develops character, it foreshadows later developments. It's also actually relevant to the characters - no other two people could be substituted into this scene because of this extra content.

I... guess from the Desolation of Smaug scene we learn that Tauriel loves Kili, Thranduil's an asshole, and Legolas is in the movie? Invaluable.

Back at the top, I said that a well-written interrogation scene should be less about brute force and more about a carefully-crafted battle of wits with mind games and gouging deep into the characters. Well, technically the Force Awakens scene is... actually it's one step from being a rape scene, and that step is that Ren is violating Rey's mind rather than her body. This isn't a battle of wits, but of power. However, it's still got mind games: the way that Ren manipulates Rey's vulnerability and fear. It's still got character in every moment. The very fact that Ren reaches for mind-reading first tells us something: how different a character would he be if he looked at this captured scavenger with information he needed and his first option was to apologise for scaring her and then offer her money and a ride home in exchange for the map?

Back on point, back on point. This isn't about praising The Force Awakens. I think we can see from the comparison of those two case studies that regardless of style and regardless of which of protagonist or antagonist is interrogating or being interrogated, some points emerge:

The scene should have a point in the story: like any scene, it needs to advance plot, story, character, world, and preferably more than one.

There needs to be an in-story reason the characters are going to all this trouble. The author's knowledge that over the course of the interrogation some information will be revealed that will make it worthwhile is not good enough - Ren had an original reason to be questioning Rey even though he actually learned something else.

Consider salting the scene with as much other character development as you can stuff in. Every word counts. Silence counts, if used well.

Avoid clutter. Everything needs an internal and an external reason to be there, whether it's a power-play that also develops character or a deliberate diversion that shows intelligence and cunning.

On the topic of that last one, here's another example: Faramir's questioning of Frodo in The Two Towers. The book, that is. Now, I would still class this as an interrogation; Faramir's still asking questions and Frodo's not free to end the conversation and leave. Of the three case studies I've brought up, this is the one that is just words; there's no immediate threat to Frodo.

Faramir has a motive: he wants to find out who these trespassers are and what they're doing. Frodo has a motive: he wants to keep his quest a secret. This scene in a big way introduces Gondor as well as leading into the last friendly place Frodo and Sam are going to get before the end of the quest. It has some lovely character moments for Faramir and Sam in particular, and one of those things is how and when Faramir backs off.

Unlike Ren, Faramir isn't repulsed and defeated; he chooses to change the subject, divert the topic of questioning, and move on. However, that does not mean he's not keen on getting answers. For one thing, he has a lot of subject matter and the topic of what Frodo knows about Boromir's death is still very important. For another, he's started to guess at the sort of secret he might be getting close to, and even if he wants to know it himself he does not want it broadcast. His choice to divert shows that intelligence, and he returns to the topic later, more privately.

This exchange actually is a battle of words and cleverness, and the way the characters manoeuvre around one another shows that. It's also a demonstration that the character being interrogated isn't the only one who might benefit from carefully changing the subject!

Just before I summarise, I'd like to go into one more topic: lying. A lot of the time, it seems that the options available to the character being interrogated are 1) Tell the truth, or 2) Remain silent, and writers who do that are missing some interesting opportunities. Apart from anything else, I don't think it says much about the intelligence of the characters doing the interrogating when they just take everything they're told as the truth.

Narzug: We shot the hunky dwarf with a Morgul shaft. The poison’s in his blood; he’ll be choking on it soon.

Tauriel: ... Sure. OK. Who sent you?

Narzug: Wait, aren't you upset? I just told you that your One True Love is dying!

Tauriel: What, I'm just going to take your word for it? Give me some more related and verifiable information and maybe I'll be better able to conclude you're telling the truth.

Interrogation Remix #11

No, really, Tauriel had no evidence except the orc's word that Kili had been poisoned.

Actually, it probably contributes to the use of torture as a failsafe interrogation technique in fiction - nobody ever lies to make the pain stop!

Anyway, there are rational reasons for a character to not lie. For example, Frodo and Faramir were not enemies, Frodo's a painstakingly honest person by nature, and there wasn't really a lie he could tell that wouldn't cause a bigger problem, so it makes sense for Frodo not to lie to Faramir and instead to just refuse to answer him.

Furthermore, lies can be difficult to keep track of and a character may be aware that being caught in a lie could result in something worse than staying silent. For example, a character being interrogated by the police may feel that it's safer to say nothing than to risk (depending on circumstances) adding a definite perjury charge to his problems.

So while both of those are true, it would be cool to see characters lie under these circumstances a little more often. Again, these scenes should be as clever as you can possibly make them while staying true to the characters and their circumstances!

So, to finally summarise:

Think about five times before incorporating torture.

Motivation, motivation, motivation.

Like all scenes, an interrogation scene needs a reason to be a) in the story and b) shown on-screen/page.

There are lots of great opportunities for character development, especially through dialogue and power differential. Use them.

That having been said, if something makes the scene lose focus, it's clutter (unless the characters are doing it on purpose).

Consider all three options: truth, silence, and lies.

Here's to more interesting interrogation scenes!

[fighttowinfanfic]

Fight to Win - Zod Vs Frieza

A battle of intergalactic conquerors--in a battle of power and hubris as these two possess, you either win or you die.

Some will wage war and destroy planets, killing millions and forcing all to bend knee. Conquerors of a galactic level.

Zod, the Phantom Zone’s breakout master of war

Frieza, he who destroyed Planet Vegeta

When everyday prisons can’t hold a particularly dangerous, otherworldly force, that won’t stop Superman from finding a way to lock up anyone trying to threaten mankind. To that end, he utilized the Phantom Zone; an interdimensional rift where the most gruesome and unruly of aliens remain, where they can’t hurt people.

However, the Phantom Zone has one very notable, repeated escapee; a Kryptonian with a history with Superman’s father, Jor-El, and an immense power matched only by his ego; Zod.

Name: Dru-Zod Age: Not documented Height: 6’3” (190 cm) Weight: 230 lbs. (104 kg) Homeland: Krypton Race: Kryptonian Alias: General Zod Former Kryptonian War General When Zod escaped from the Phantom Zone, he found Krypton was destroyed, and instead settled for conquering Superman’s new, adopted home, Earth. As soon as the Last Son of Krypton is fallen, Zod will spread his influence until the entire galaxy kneels before Zod. 

Like all Kryptonians beneath a Yellow Sun, Zod possesses a wide range of superhuman abilities. He’s capable of flight, super strength, speed, advanced hearing, freezing breath, heat vision, and accelerated healing. On his A-Game, Zod has been shown to trade blows and be more than a match for Superman in physical combat, able to knock him great distances with physical blows. He can easily pick up pieces of a broken Kryptonian spaceship to use as a melee weapon, and his heat vision can slice deadly robots to bits in mere moments.

Though what allows Zod to stand out among other Kryptonian combatants is his military experience. Zod was a general of war, and as such, has extensive knowledge of politics and battle strategy. He excels at zeroing in on a foe’s weakness and exploiting it, including many times where he has taken advantage of Superman’s humanity, or the collective fear of humanity. His training in hand to hand combat has allowed him to even best Brainiac in close quarters.

Zod is fast, able to clear the distance from Earth to the Moon in mere seconds (238, 900 miles). Speaking of which, we know that because Injustice sees him fly a foe to the moon, and punch them directly through it. The moon is 2,159 miles, and weighs well beyond 73.5 million million million metric tons. 

Zod was able to endure direct impact from Superman’s heat vision to his head, (which is impressive considering Superman’s heat vision can melt one’s brain at thin signatures), and can keep fighting after being shoved through building after structure in battle with his super strong fellow Kryptonian.

Zod also carries a Kryptionian rifle--one shot of which is capable of killing another Kryptonian. The ammunition can be loaded to travel both as a slow and quickly moving projectile for different situations.

It does stand to president, however, that Kryptonians grow stronger the longer they’re under the sun. Because Zod takes such frequent trips to the Phantom Zone, his power often resets, meaning over the years, he hasn’t compiled nearly as much overall strength as Superman. He’s also an egomaniac, and his tremendously forward nature has lead him into hot water more than once.

However, the Kryptonian General has several victories (read: war crimes) beneath his belt, and his immense decoration could not be farther from unearned.

The Dragon Balls--seven mystical artifacts that, when gathered, will summon the patron eternal dragon of the planet of their origin, who will, in turn, grant the gatherer one wish. Those adventurous enough to seek them out wager life and limb for a chance at having their greatest wish come true.

Some desire wealth, others strength, or even the revival of a lost loved one. However, one evil mastermind sought to make a wish for eternal life, so his reign over the galaxy would be ubiquitous with time itself, and his name was Frieza.

Name: Frieza Age: 70< Height: 4’11” (150 cm) Weight: Not documented Race: Frost Demon Homeland: Unknown Alias: Lord Frieza, Mecha-Frieza Intergalactic Conqueror Relentless and entitled, Frieza won’t rest until every planet is beneath his thumb. Gathering soldiers from every planet he invades and destroys, Frieza seeks the Dragon Balls in order to wish for eternal life, so he may destroy and plunder for all time--putting him at odds with Goku and the Z-Fighters.

While Frieza leaves most of this process to his ever loyal soldiers, he’s no pushover by any means. He can hit someone with his tail hard enough to crash them into the earth, breaking the surface. He’s fast enough to keep pace with, in movement and striking, with the super fast likes of Goku and Vegeta to boot. Frieza also has powerful telekinesis, which can command with enough force to push an ill fated foe forcefully through the vacuum of space.

Like most Dragon Ball characters, Frieza can harness his ki energy into a personal and preferred method of projectile attack. Frieza’s manifests as bright purple, which he often fires as a razor thin beam out of the tip of his finger he aptly calls the Death Beam. This technique can pierce through any matter of armor and flesh, cutting through with great precision--enough so to kill Vegeta with a single shot to his heart.

Frieza has also been known to shape his ki into other attacks, such as the spherical Death Comet, which has a wider range but less precision that the Death Beam. The Death Wave is a blade shaped attack that can create a noticeable fissure in the earth of Planet Namek, and the Death Saucer is a disc of energy so deadly, not even Frieza himself is safe from the razor’s edge. Frieza’s ultimate technique, however, is the Death Ball. If allowed to charge up a sphere of ki energy the size of a small moon, the Death Ball is capable of destroying entire planets.

Speaking of planetary destruction, Frieza has SURVIVED IT. After his reckless fighting lead him to be disemboweled by his own Death Saucer, Frieza endured the detonation of Planet Namek--point blank from the planet’s core. If Namek’s core is comparable to earth’s, Frieza survived the explosion of a 10,800 degree surface.

Most recently, Frieza discovered his strongest form; Golden Frieza, which outclasses Goku and Vegeta’s Super Saiyan Blue forms. According to Old Kai, the mere colliding of Golden Frieza’s fist with Goku’s could destroy an entire 7th Universe (about the size of the one we live in).

Sadly, Frieza is impatient and temperamental. He can’t always carry on fighting and manage his own stamina, his debut as Golden Frieza cut short simply because he passed out from over exertion. While meticulous and shrewd, Frieza can’t be bothered past the bare minimum, and has put exactly this degree of effort into his training and attacks.

However, Frieza’s brutality and power are more than enough to carry him through most situations he finds himself in. He’s stubborn, adamant not to die, and has his eye on every marble in the galaxy.

The galaxy just ain’t big enough for the two of ‘em. Let’s settle who rules the stars and who clears out.

Location: Planet Namek

DJ Funky Freeman’s Music Choice: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVEGMax42dw

Frieza’s saucer shaped choice of intergalactic teleportation made a loud hiss as its air jets blew the planet Namek’s fauna and grass about. As the ship’s door opened, out deployed several rifle toting soldiers, clad in the trademark armor all of Lord Frieza’s elite guards wore. Once all of the soldiers were on the ground, Frieza followed, his arms crossed, an impatient look in his eye. “Well? Is it here?” Frieza quickly demanded. “I’ll be quite disappointed if the radar was wrong.” The sentiment of Frieza’s displeasure was enough to send his soldiers in a hurried tizzy--before one spoke up. “H-here, Lord Frieza!” One of his soldiers exclaimed, lifting the orange Dragon Ball high into the air, the orange stone reflecting sunlight. “Excellent…” Frieza rubbed his chin with consideration, envisioning the wish he will make once all seven of the treasures are gathered. Behind him, one of Frieza’s soldiers reached for his scouter device over his eye. “My scouter...it’s picking up some power level off the charts!” Were the soldier’s last words before his body was crushed by the sudden impact of a second space ship--this one much smaller and more akin to what Frieza thought of as an escape pod. Frieza looked over to the new arrival, watching as the pod opened to reveal a humanoid looking fellow, his face lined by the beginnings of a brown beard. “A new planet…” The stranger said as he emerged from his pod. “A new population, to kneel before ZOD!” Frieza stepped toward the Kryptonian, his arms still crossed. “Kneel before you? My, how presumptuous…” The galactic overlord’s tone shifted as he neared Zod, enough to prompt the remaining crowd of soldiers to back away from both of them. “There’s always one.” Zod approached Frieza himself. “One I must make an example of.” FIGHT Frieza and Zod’s respective, steady strolls became mad dashes at one another, met at the middle, their hands tightly gripping one another. Both alien overlords pushed at one another, Frieza’s purple aura shoving against the sheer heat cone produced around Zod. Zod pulled upward with both arms, throwing Frieza up into the air, before flying straight up, crashing his head directly into Frieza on his way up, sending Frieza up further upon impact. Frieza shook the blow off, before looking up to see Zod, still flying upward, before stopping mid air. “It’s useless to resist!” Zod chuckled, as his eyes glowed bright red, blasts of heat vision shooting down toward Frieza. Frieza was quick to fly out of the attack’s path. “How rude!” Frieza extended a single finger, sending a barrage of his razor thin Death Beam attacks speeding upward at Zod. Zod looped around the energy blasts, careening down into Frieza, his shoulder out. He crashed into Frieza, who guard with his own arm. The two ascended into the air, pushing against one another and making direct and point blank eye contact. Zod smirked as he released another flare of his heat vision, shooting directly into Frieza’s eyes. The alien conqueror groaned in pain as he was blown back by the attack. “Checkmate!” Zod lifted both of his arms, before reaching to grab his opponent. Before he could grasp the alien’s body, Zod found that his foe had disappeared from sight. Zod choked in confusion before he could notice Frieza reappear behind him. “What a pity.” Frieza rotated quickly in the air, whipping his tail around and slamming it into Zod with incredible force. The Kryptonian general was flung downward, sent crashing into the Namekian earth. Frieza chuckled as he lowered himself from the air, his feet planted firmly on the ground, he stepped toward Zod, who was picking himself up out of the rubble. “I didn’t expect you to survive…” Frieza admitted. Zod, retaining his composure with a quick blow to his own face, reached below his feet. The Kryptonian began picking up a particularly large chunk of earth out of the dirt where he had landed. By the time his makeshift projectile was above his head, the shadow cast by it loomed over Frieza. “It’ll take more than that to make Zod kneel!” Zod exclaimed before throwing the cluster of earth in Frieza’s direction. “Child’s play.” Frieza commented as his bright pink ki energy shined on his finger tip. He released a second barrage of Death Beams that, bit by bit, reduced the stone to rubble out of the air. “This is growing tiresome…” For the first time over the course of the battle, the ki Frieza conjured surrounded his entire hand. He let the Death Wave barrel at Zod, crashing through the earth as it coasted. Zod reached around his back, unlatching his Kryptonian Rifle. He took a moment to aim as the barrel of his weapon extended. Zod, with great care, pulled the trigger, sending out bolts of plasma that intercepted Frieza’s attack, causing it to detonate prematurely. “I hate an uncooperative plaything!” Frieza next generated his Death Saucers, one spinning above each hand. “DIE!” Frieza sent both discs flying at Zod, who took a deep breath in response. Zod inhaled, and then exhaled, releasing a gust of super breath--traveling with all the force of a hurricane. The Death Saucers were stopped in their tracks and sent back at Frieza. Frieza’s eyes widened. While he was able to step out of the way of the first disc, the second made contact with his arm, slicing into his upper arm, causing his purple blood to spurt out. Frieza growled in pain, reaching for his wound. “I gave you a chance to kneel!” Zod flew toward Frieza, who was paused by his pain, gripping his neck once he was close enough. Zod lifted off into the air, taking Frieza with him and choking him before swinging him around. Frieza couldn’t let an anguished yell to escape his throat as Zod, several feet in the air, turned his foe upside down. Zod forced Frieza back downward, smashing the conqueror into the ground. The general then fell to his knees, looking down at his grounded opponent. “There is but one fate for those who refuse to kneel!” Zod raised his fist, slamming it into Frieza’s head, before raising the opposite and repeating the process, forcing Frieza further into the dirt with each punch. After six punches, Frieza was no longer struggling. Zod drifted up into the air, above Frieza, before his eyes emitted a massive blaze of heat vision. The lasers struck Frieza where he was planted, creating an immense explosion below Zod. Dirt and soil kicked upward among the fire, engulfing Frieza. “Not even worth bragging about.” Zod scoffed. Zod, still hovering, turned around. His hands folded behind his back, Zod was prepared to move elsewhere, before he noticed Namek shake violently. The clear waters rippled and serene grasslands quaked as the crater created by Zod’s assault on Frieza erupted, a golden light cutting through. Frieza rose from the where he was beaten down, his pale flesh now a glimmering gold. (music shift: www.youtube.com/watch?v=khk5V6L8Vos )) “Not many have pushed me to this limit.” Frieza stated, his eyes locking to Zod’s. “Consider this an honor.” Zod released a straight blast of heat vision at his foe, who quickly teleported out of the attack’s path. Frieza reappeared behind Zod, quickly jamming his knee into the Kryptonian’s back. Frieza was quick to disappear again, reappearing in front of Zod and punching him in his face, breaking his nose. Frieza left sight and reentered several times, each time at a different angle around from which he could strike, creating a new dent in Zod’s armor each time. “That’s...ENOUGH!” Zod attempted to swing his arm full circle to strike Frieza, but he wasn’t quick enough to track the tyrant, who had reappeared directly in front of his face, albeit facing the opposite direction. Without turning around to face Zod, Frieza raised a single arm, slamming Zod with the back of his hand. Still looking into the distance, Frieza lifted his tail above Zod’s head and brought it down, sending Zod hurdling into the waters of Namek. The waters settled after the impact of his body. Frieza eyed the waters, waiting for Zod to reappear. He was instead treated to the sight of the entire body of water boiling, turning bright red, the source of radiation seeming to be where Zod had landed. Out of the red, hot waters shot an array of heat rays, shooting with enough force to knock Frieza out of the air. Frieza found himself in a nosedive for the ground below. Zod emerged from the water, trudging toward the grounded Frieza, his eyes still glowing red. “I am a champion of war!” Zod barked. “And I will direct every year of experience I have in the art unto YOU!” Frieza rose back to his feet, throwing back both of his arms, causing his golden aura to flare. Zod ran at Frieza, surprising the alien quickly enough to grab ahold of his tail. Zod pulled Frieza high above his head by his tail, and slammed him into the ground, to his left, and then his right, leaving imprints on Namek with every swing. “Fatal mistake…” Frieza flexed his tail, seizing control by wrapping it around Zod, tightly constricting his chest with it. With the Kryptonian tied down, Frieza returned to his feet, taking the time to strike his opponent while he couldn’t move. After creating two more bruises on Zod’s face with his bare hands, Frieza loosened his tail’s grip on the General, turning around and exposing his opponent to a beacon of ki energy shooting from his hands. Zod was sent flying backwards by the attack, his crashing body creating further chunks of debris around both combatants. Zod got back up once more, trying to shake off the blow, now bleeding out the assault. Frieza lifted both of his arms, concentrating his ki. “I’ll create a proper tomb for you!” Frieza lifted two of the largest rocks in sight, left over by the impacts of their battle, with his telekinesis. With a quick swing of his arm, Frieza forced both rocks into Zod from the left and right. The Kryptonian extended both of his arms, catching both rocks with his hands, pushing back against Frieza’s attack. Frieza’s energy allowed him to push back just as hard, and with mere motions of his hands, he was able to force the rocks against Zod. Before long, Zod could not push back any longer, and found himself smashed between the two stones. “And THIS is your cremation!” Frieza lifted off into the air, pointing a single finger high above himself. On the tip of his finger, a cluster of dark red and purple energy trickled and formed. It expanded as Frieza drew more and more power into the attack. Before long, the Death Ball, a sphere of energy about the size of the moon, was complete. Frieza, smiling wickedly, threw the Death Ball down onto Namek, where Zod was encased. The crashing ball created an immense explosion, blasting Namek’s earth into a dried crust as the bloody red energy created an immense tremor, sending rocks and rubble rolling about the field of battle. When the blazes cleared, there was only ash and molten stone and veins remaining. Frieza drifted down back to the ground, his golden aura slowly dissipating. When he landed, his skin returned to its prior state, as he fell to one knee with a deep sigh. “That form...it still leaves me drained.” Frieza recollected himself, his tail waving back and forth as he reclaimed the feeling in the places Zod struck him. “Lord Frieza! We found you!” Frieza was a bit surprised--he hadn’t realized how far Zod had moved him from where they began. His soldiers had finally tracked him down. “We followed your energy readings--you look like you need help!” Two of Frieza’s soldiers began to help him up. “We’ll prepare you a medical machine…” Frieza heard a slight crumbling noise. He pushed the two soldiers off of himself, standing up tall again. From within the mounds of dirt, Zod burst out, a wicked look in his eye. Bloodied and beyond fatigued, Zod breathed heavily, before lunging at one of Frieza’s men. Pressing his chest to the soldier’s back and tightly grabbing him from behind, Zod reloaded his Kryptonian rifle, pressing the barrel to the soldier’s head. The rest of the squadron gasped, while Frieza looked on at the scene. “Make one move...and your bodyguard dies!” Zod explained between labored breaths. Everyone on the scene tensed up from anxiety. Frieza’s eyes did not fall from Zod. His expression unchanging, Frieza lifted a single finger, and shot out one last Death Beam. The thread thin stream of ki extended from his finger into the heart of his apprehended soldier, and then directly into Zod’s behind him. A splash of blood escaped Zod’s mouth, as he and the the once terrified soldier he so tightly gripped fell over, dead.

KO The rest of the soldiers gaped at the sight their lord had created. Frieza turned to his men. “Well, don’t just stand there.” He insisted. “You have two bodies to dispose of, don’t you?”

((Victory circle music: www.youtube.com/watch?v=sH2qYnUfjIc )) Zod was an imposing threat with his military training and physical prowess, but not enough so to keep pace with Frieza’s wide range of Ki energy attacks and absurd tenacity. While Zod could likely outfox Frieza in a close up brawl, Frieza had a counter for just about everything. Punching a hole straight through the moon is extremely impressive, but Frieza’s Death Ball, not even in his strongest form, can destroy an entire planet. And as proven by his survival of Namek’s destruction, Frieza can endure just as much as he can dish out. Zod was faster than Frieza, but Frieza’s Afterimage teleportation rendered this moot, and just as well, allowed Frieza to distance himself from Zod any time he needed, leaving the Kryptonian little chance to overpower him physically, and himself plenty of time to overwhelm him with longer range techniques. Theoretically, any Kryptonian can grow infinitely strong underneath a yellow sun, but we’ve never seen Zod reach a level the likes of Superman has, due to his repeated Phantom Zone sentences, which, effectively, render his power back to zero. Frieza, on the other hand, can reach the highest potential of his species in his Golden form. Even if Old Kai’s statement on Frieza’s power (able to break a universe) is hyperbole, the divide in raw power is very clear. But most importantly, Zod has a history of victory through manipulation. Rather than out muscle even the likes of Superman, Zod has been known to take advantage of his surroundings and exploit the moralities of the heroes he faces--such as hold a child hostage or threatening to kill an innocent. This is Zod’s most common method of escape or pushing Superman to his limit. Luckily for Frieza, the wicked emperor is cold as ice and nearly impossible to coax into any kind of submission. The winner...is Frieza

Next time on Fight to Win...

The God of the Dead, Hades, is taking time out of his busy sorting of damned souls to join the battle! Against who, you ask? Stick to this blog to find out!

[brokenwandsrpg]

Welcome to Broken Wands Roleplay, Elva! The way you’ve fleshed-out Ted’s background in a way that meshes with canon while twisting him around to the opposite side of that coin is exquisite and we look forward to seeing where you take him. Check out this page for what to do next and let us know if you have any questions. We’re elated to have you join us!

OOC INFORMATION:

NAME & PRONOUNS: Elva, she/her or they/them

AGE: 27

LANGUAGE: English

EXPERIENCE: [redacted upon request]

ACTIVITY LEVEL: I aim to be online and reply to plots/messages daily, however I am currently at uni and assessments take precedence. In the event that I have a looming deadline, replies will be done hastily, for which I would like to apologise in advance.  

ANYTHING ELSE YOU WANT TO TELL US: Thank you for reading my application. You have put so much care and attention into creating this rp, and whether I am a part of it or not I wish you the best with it.

DESIRED CHANGES: none

CHARACTER BASICS:

NAME: Edward Tonks, better known as Ted. The only people who use his full first name are those high up in the Ministry for Magical Investigation who know him only by his file. In training, he is addressed as Ted. Only his mother and sisters have Ted’s consent to call him Teddy. Used by anyone else and the nickname feels like a dig, a purposeful deviation from Ted’s stated preferences rather than a show of affection. Teddy is used to mock and belittle: “No worries, Teddy,” one of his colleagues might say with a sneer, when he offers to lend a hand with a particular task, “we’ve got it covered. Haven’t we, men?” There are Junior Agents his age who aren’t belittled in the same fashion, but their skin is white; it affords them a certain immunity in the training program.

BIRTHDATE/AGE: If the year is 1975, Ted is 19, nearly 20. Birthdate tbd.

BLOOD-STATUS: Muggle-born. Despite being born to a muggle family, Ted is a wix; magic runs through his veins, though he and his parents have gone to great lengths to conceal it and so far their efforts have been successful.

GENDER & SEXUALITY: Ted is cis-gendered and assumed straight. He is attracted to women, and that - along with his inexperience in matters of love and sex - means he has never had cause to question his sexuality. Ted believes in love without judgement or shame. He doesn’t view gender as a boundary or obstacle; you love who you love, with very little choice in the matter. Ted is pansexual, although he is unfamiliar with the term or concept. Ted doesn’t speak openly about this, or act on his attraction for people who aren’t cis women very often. He presents himself as an ally.

WAND/ETC: Unbeknownst to Ted, there is a wand in the Ministry for Magical Investigation allied to him and him alone. In one of his first hunts, he struck the blow which caused a wix to relinquish his wand. It was Ted who plucked the wand from the ground and bagged it for transportation. In the brief seconds that he held it, Ted felt a tingling in his arm, which he credited to the C.E.W. he had fired only moments ago. Ted hasn’t touched a wand since. Sure, he can rationalise the sensation in his arm, but not the thoughts that coursed though his mind as a consequence, the surge of curiosity those few seconds in contact with the weapon sparked. Ted might not carry a wand, but he is not short of other weapons and tools. He is authorised by the Ministry to carry a C.E.W., as well as a hand gun, and Ted also keeps a dagger on his person should the situation require a silent weapon. Thankfully for Ted, he’s yet had reason to use it.

APPEARANCE: Ted doesn’t apologise for who he is. He exerts enough effort trying to control his magic; there simply isn’t enough left for anything else. A wiser man might keep his hair short, but Ted can’t be bothered with any of that. He keeps his hair grown out, despite it being seen by his white colleagues as unprofessional. He is well-groomed and though he doesn’t put much thought into what he wears, he takes care of all his possessions, clothing included.

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

FAMILY: Ted is the youngest of William and Cheryl Tonks’ children. He has two sisters, Joyce and Patricia, six and eight years older than Ted. William and Cheryl had gone through the motions of parenting twice with few hiccups besides a fever, contracted by Joyce when she was only four months old. Ted was the first and only of their children to arouse their suspicions that he was a wix. They took precautions. Joyce and Patricia were discouraged from playing with their brother, given chores to keep them busy or urged to do their homework. If Ted spoke openly to his sisters about the things that happened beyond his control, acts of magic, his parents chided him for his silliness. Good boys don’t make up stories. Those were words he heard often during the years to follow. Good boys don’t tell lies. Good boys eat their vegetables. Good boys keep their heads down, they listen to their mamas and papas. Good boys become Witch Hunters. Joyce and Patricia remain none the wiser about Ted’s magic, and as a consequence he doesn’t feel the connection to his sisters that he knows he ought to. Even as an adult, they look upon him as their baby brother. Though he and his sisters show all the outward signs of being close and affectionate, Ted knows a secret lies between them. His sisters are oblivious to this fact, which makes the distance feel all the more prominent for Ted. His parents each hold positions in the Ministry: a scientist, his mother is part of a team of people researching wands, while his father is a Witch Hunter like Ted. Patricia is an archivist. Only Joyce strayed from the family’s line of work, instead opting for a career on the radio.

ASSOCIATES: Recently, Ted has been trying to keep his work and social life separate. This is partly down to the fact he can’t bear to talk or think about his official dealings with the wix any longer than he has to. He has friends in training and acquaintances elsewhere in the Ministry, but Ted doesn’t see these relationships as particularly close or lasting. When Ted is looking to blow off steam, he turns to his three flatmates, one of whom is a childhood friend of Ted’s. At the end of a full day’s training, it’s a comfort to know the odds of having company when he returns home are high. Many a late night have been spent drinking wine around the table in a kitchen filled with friends and laughter, or out dancing. Ted is known for being one of the quieter of the crew, which speaks more of his friends’ outgoing natures than anything else. Lucius Malfoy: Ted will know about Lucius, maybe he’s even gotten to know him a little bit in the past, before the Ministry uncovered the Malfoys’ lies. Lucius is on the the Ministry’s radar. If Ted ever crosses his path, he has orders to kill, if all other methods fail. That’s not what Ted has planned however. Lucius, like the rest of the Malfoys, used to be one of them - not a witch hunter, but an important presence at the Ministry nonetheless. Ted has to believe a better fate awaits those like Lucius who keep their status as a wix secret; people like himself. Sybill Trelawney: They are both running on borrowed time. It’s only a matter of time until Ted’s secrets are exposed, given that he can’t carry on like this, inflicting cruelty on people for no reason other than the fact they used magic. Sybill’s predictions are unpredictable and lately they have a tendency to lead to dead ends. Maybe they can help each other out. Andromeda Black: Any interactions between Andromeda and Ted would be delightful. Their roles are reversed; in this game, it is Ted who would be betraying his family by falling in love with a wix. I am curious to see what Ted will do when he meets the force of nature that is Andromeda Black standing beside her sisters instead of against them, without the reputation of a traitor or muggle-lover. I imagine he is wholly unprepared for the savage, spiteful woman portrayed in her bio. Be it canon or AU, I imagine the relationship between Ted and Andromeda is challenging and full-on, whatever form it takes, be it romantic or otherwise. (I would just like to add Ted is well-positioned to plot with absolutely everyone, so I will be hitting up every roleplayer in this game first chance I get. Plotting makes me very happy indeed.)

LIFESTYLE: After three months on a trainee Witch Hunter’s salary, he left his parents’ home in Hackney London and moved into a shared house with three friends. His room is on the third floor, just high enough from street level that he can open the window without feeling as if he’s just opened a floodgate to London’s traffic. Being settled is not the same as being safe; Ted has a false sense of security. He has yet to realise how dangerous being a wix actually is. As the stresses of his job mount, Ted will find it increasingly difficult to control his magic, namely because he will spend so much time dwelling on it. As he learns more about wix, how human they are, the desperate conditions they live in, Ted’s discomfort with his profession grows. Had his life gone differently, he would be the one sitting in the interrogation room, not as trainee interrogator but as the criminal. Ted survives through constant denial.

PERSONALITY: William and Cheryl placed a mold around their son and as he grew, he grew to fit that mold. Ted is unquestionably loyal to his family. His parents protected him when they could have abandoned him without any shame or remorse. He’s heard of people doing it before, turning on family and friends when they discovered they were a wix all along. People say love is unconditional. Ted knows love is unconditional. His parents love him, despite what he has the potential to be, and for that he owes them a world of gratitude. Or at least he did, until he saw first-hand what it meant to be a Witch Hunter. Ted never imagined wix as people, strange considering in another life he might have been one of them. He has found a thousand and one ways to shape them into criminals in his mind, but they look more like victims to him, scared, afraid, dirty, sometimes even half-starved. Unconditional. Everything he thought that word meant is beginning to dissolve. It’s turning sour. What would his parents do if he quit, packed it all in; stopped trying to keep it all locked inside; stopped humming the magic away. What would they say if he admitted it aloud, I am wix. Their love isn’t unconditional at all, but Ted will watch a thousand wix fall before he admits it. Ted is an earnest witch hunter, holding firmly to the beliefs that were taught to him growing up. Earnest is one word for it. Stubborn is another. Ted is frequently confronted with reasons to question his conviction, which he determinedly ignores. He doesn’t want to ask himself too many questions, because in his gut he knows he won’t like the answers. Ted is more than happy to suffer in silence if it means he can carry on the status quo for just a little while longer. Nobody wants to be monitored by the government. No one wants to be on the receiving end of hate. What does he do to protect himself from such threats? He joins the very organisation which inflicts hate on others. Needless to say, Ted sees the hypocrisy and he is conflicted. He joined the Witch Hunters thinking it would further distance him from the magic inside him, but it’s having the opposite effect. It hurts to watch wix suffer. He was an ignorant fool to think it wouldn’t. Ted strives to be kind, to himself and to others, however there’s little room for kindness in his training at the Ministry. It’s a ruthless job. Ted entered training fully aware of the protocols, but imagining it and living it are two different things. When he imagined being a Witch Hunter, he thought only of the pride of getting a job done, another dangerous wix caught. Since entering training and dealing with wix himself, the job has lost all appeal. There’s nothing noble about hunting wix. It’s an ugly task, and yet Ted hasn’t walked away, partly out of stubbornness, and partly because he is curious about the wix and their magic. For Ted, magic is like a weight in his chest; it has grown heavier with the years. Like pain or love, it demands to be felt. Despite believing in self-care, Ted doesn’t treat himself with the same care he would treat his friends. His self-image is poor, a consequence of being the only wix in his family. Subconsciously, Ted carries the shame of that with him everywhere he goes. His shoulders are just slightly slumped when he walks. He is reticent, even cold, when in the company of those he dislikes. Though he rarely voices his discontent, Ted has a tendency to hold a grudge. He collects information about people; in his head, he builds profiles of his colleagues, friends of friends, anyone whose ignorance has made itself known to Ted. It is fair to say Ted is untrusting. Being a wix - having that secret - sets Ted at a distance. In his adult years, he is becoming increasingly independent, even self-serving; it is slowly dawning on him that he can rely on himself and himself alone. He doesn’t expect anything from anyone anymore - a pre-emptive attempt to save himself from disappointment. Soon he will realise he doesn’t owe anyone anything either.

SKILLS: Ted has a remarkable ability to offload stress. When he leaves training, he doesn’t take his work home with him. It was the same at school; if there was a class he didn’t like, he put it out of his mind as soon as the bell rang, signaling time to go home. It has taken Ted years to affect this skill, and he wouldn’t be able to keep his magic pent up without it. Ted had to find a way to keep his magic contained. To do so, he needed to channel the emotions that provoked his magic. It only ever came out in bursts, when he was angry, or as a reflexive response to fear. Ted found solace in music. When angry or afraid, he sings a song in his head. When he’s really angry or afraid, under his breath. He loses himself in his records, closes his eyes and imagines the music washing over him, erasing vaporous tendrils of magic with it. Ted also has a knack for defusing a situation. It’s a useful skill in training, where he and other Witch Hunters in training are pushed to breaking point. It’s even more useful when dealing with wix. Ted doesn’t enjoy violence. He takes no pleasure in using his C.E.W., only ever firing it when words fail. Ted is a team-player, a skill which has proved highly beneficial since he began training. Whether other Witch Hunters-in-training like him or not, they want him on their team. He is reliable and mindful of those he is working with. No one gets left behind, which is crucial against the wix. Despite this, Ted is regarded by his peers as soft or weak. In the Ministry, strength is measured in how readily you will strike down your opponent. Ted’s tactics often frustrate his fellow agents, many of whom joined the Ministry looking for a fight. There are some at the office who believe Ted lacks the nerve to get the job done, which is nonsense. Ted doesn’t fire his weapon at every wix that moves, but that’s not to say he doesn’t achieve the same results.

HISTORY: Ted was eight years old the first time he was caught using magic. He doesn’t remember most of the details, only the look on his parents’ faces. One minute he was carrying an over-filled bowl of cereal into the living room. He tripped, and the next minute he was faced with his parent’s wide eyes. His mother looked at him with the same fear she showed when they passed the homeless man down the street who constantly shouted racist slurs. She snatched the bowl from his hands, not caring that she was spilling milk and soggy cornflakes on the tiles; threw it into the bin, bowl and all. Ted never wanted his mother, or any of his family, to look at him like that again. When the school was destroyed, Ted was relieved. It meant no more wix coming to the door under the guise of kindness, trying to take him away. They were exposed for what they were; magic-users, depraved and dangerous. He was proud of his parents. They had helped achieve this. The wix were weakened during the year of 1965 and it was largely thanks to the information his parents had learned from the wix delivering Ted’s acceptance letter, the information they passed to the Ministry. Ted didn’t want to be wix; his parents had set him free from that fate. His body accepted this lie less willingly than his mind. Ted had to learn to control his magic, but he refused to use it; he didn’t want to control it by understanding it. He wanted nothing to do with it. Instead, he tied a tourniquet around it in his mind, denied what he was over and over again, hoping to sever any curiosity about what he could do. It didn’t turn out how he intended. Ted’s magic didn’t make itself known often, only when he was angry or afraid. Ted stopped exposing himself to risk and danger. If his friends suggested something reckless, stupid, exhilarating, Ted sat it out. Ted learned the art of acceptance. It’s difficult to wound Ted with words. Most jibes and taunts slide off him. He doesn’t waste time on things that don’t matter. Everything depends on Ted being mellow, on being the steady rhythm of the tide. It’s the only way Ted has survived all these years as a wix undetected. Ted made one exception; his long-held ambition to become a Witch Hunter would require him to take on more dangerous and stressful tasks than ever before. Ted began Witch Hunter training at 18, however shortly before completing his first year, he broke the shinbone of his left leg on a field mission. He was forced to suspend training for the five months it took to for his leg to heal. During that time, he facilitated the Ministry for Magical Investigation in a non-physical capacity. It has been six months since he re-entered training. Since then, he has passed his physical examination. It is his ambition that shortly after he turns 20, he will graduate from training with this year’s cohort of agents.

GOALS: For most of Ted’s teenage years, his main ambition has been to be accepted into Witch Hunter training at the Ministry for Magical Investigation. When he was eleven years old, his attitudes towards wix were motivated purely by fear. He didn’t want to be different to his family. He didn’t want to be one of them. He saw how they were treated, heard the ill words spoken against them; that was all the information he needed to know he didn’t want to be one of them - wouldn’t be one of them. Over the years, the visceral disgust turned into a blind prejudice which went unchallenged. William and Cheryl talked openly about their disgust of those wix who broke the law by using magic and Ted soaked in every word. He aspired to become a Witch Hunter, not merely to please his parents but to sever that part of him that was wrong once and for all. Since entering training however, Ted’s wants have changed. They are beginning to align with his needs; Ted needs to ask who is really the agitator in the situation, the wix, chased into a corner, robbed of their free will, or the Witch Hunters. Ted wants things he can never have. He wants his family to love him unconditionally, but he’s beginning to realise they never have and never will. Their love is conditional upon him repressing his magic. They don’t see what it’s costing their son. He is increasingly unhappy, and the more unhappy he becomes the more difficult it is for Ted to control the magic. It’s in his biology, his magic was meant to be used, he can feel it. Ted cannot accept what he is until his parents do which will never happen. That’s what he tells himself. He clings to the hope that something will change, that they will love him whatever he does, but he knows it isn’t true. They have poured the last decade into their work; to show any sympathy for the wix, to admit what he is, would be a betrayal, pure and simple. If asked today why he is a Witch Hunter, Ted would tell you it is because he wants to build a safer country, where people don’t have to fear for their lives. He wouldn’t mention that he wants people to live without shame. That’s something most at the Ministry don’t understand, and certainly haven’t experienced for themselves. They don’t understand that everything changed for Ted’s parents when they joined the Ministry. Racism began to take a new form; being wix was so much worse than being black or mixed race, worse tan interacial marriage. Ted’s parents created a world in which Ted didn’t have to live with the hate directed at his skin, but deny it all they like, it doesn’t change anything - Ted is wixen. Hate is a mere breath away. One mistake. That’s all it would take to bring his world crashing down.

WHERE ARE THEY NOW AND WHERE ARE THEY GOING?

PLANS: For the most part, Ted survives by avoiding risky situations. This is impossible to do as a Witch Hunter in training, and yet it’s his chosen profession. He has worked hard to get where he is today and he’s not going to throw it away because of a little risk. I would like to see his magic come out in little ways on the field; the forest catching fire unexpectedly, cornering a wix and nearly enabling Ted to capture them; a spell blocked by a crate in a London backalley, saving Ted from the magic directed at him. I plan for Ted to realise there are benefits of magic - both practical as well as psychological; denying he is a wix isn’t healthy for Ted, and it certainly doesn’t make for a happy life. In canon, I have always imagined Ted as someone torn between two worlds. Ted is part of a community to which his parents and any siblings didn’t belong; as a consequence, I think his relationship with them suffered to some degree. Half the words he used were jibberish to them and no matter how much he explained them, they simply weren’t a part of his parents’ vocabulary. This game offers a similar outlook of Ted’s life, except instead of learning about magic to help their son, Ted’s family learn what they can with the aim of destroying it. I would love to see Ted’s relationship with his family crumble, and what family he will form elsewhere. I would like to see Ted use his position as Witch Hunter to make the world a better place for wix. He has access to files and artifacts, information on future attacks and protocols - by putting this information in the right hands he could strengthen the resistance considerably. This would take place further down the line, as a stepping stone to outright betrayal of the Ministry, accepting himself as a wix and allying himself with the resistance. His parents’ involvement in the destruction of Hogwarts might not be common knowledge, but Ted knows they played their part. He used to be grateful that the school was destroyed, saving him from making a decision or wondering what could have been. He thought it was easier that way, not having an alternative. But the more he learns about the wix, the greater his doubt becomes. With no one to teach them to control their magic, what hope is there for these kids? Ted might not be any better at controlling it than they are. Just luckier, he supposes; the Ministry isn’t watching his every move like they are known wix, or waiting with baited breath for any signs of anything out of the ordinary. As Ted learns how to control his magic, possibly alone but preferably with the help of a more experienced wix, he will want to help those that have been wronged. Ted lacks the knowledge and skill to be a teacher himself, but what he can do - again, further down the line, once he has gone too deeply into the world of magic to continue as a witch hunter - is organise lessons for wix children (and adults like himself).

INTEREST: I was drawn to the game for its exceptional worldbuilding and unique premise. As much as I love Harry Potter, AUs are always more satisfying, giving roleplayers the freedom to explore aspects of the character they don’t necessarily get the opportunity to explore in canon games. In canon games, Ted is firmly played on the defense - he must learn to navigate a world in which he is persecuted. This game offers the opposite, with a twist. Ted is still a wizard, but he has lived a different pathway, firmly fixed in the muggle world. I would love to see him switch sides and lead an attack against the people he has grown up with and loved for all the years of his life; a traitor to his roots.

[blancheludis]

Fandom: Batman, DC Character: Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne Tags: Emotional H/C, Blood, Enemy to Caretaker, Whump, Tim Needs A Hug, Good Brother Jason Words: 6.452

Summary: “Dou you have a death wish, Replacement?” Red Hood asks him as he advances on the rooftop.

All Tim knows is that he cannot go home and that he’d rather deal with torture at Red Hood’s hands than to face Bruce and be thrown out of his home.

“I killed someone.”

----

The fight is over too quickly. One minute, the thug is swinging for Tim’s face, the next he is thrown to the ground and – does not get up. He stares at Tim, wide-eyed and reaching slowly for his chest where a jagged piece of wood sticks out of his left side. He coughs, his whole body twisting around that wooden anchor pinning him to the ground. Little specks of blood stain his chin and then there is blood on the ground, too, spreading with every panicked heartbeat that is echoed inside Tim.

Thoughts are racing through Tim’s brain, but none of them can make sense of what he is seeing. They went from fighting to this in the space of one breath. Logically, he knows the answer, of course. He shoved the thug who then fell into a crate and now he is impaled on a piece of that crate. And dying, from the looks of it.

That thought finally pierces through the inexplicable numbness and pushes Tim into moving. His knees hit the ground hard, but he barely notices that as he tears at the thug’s clothes, trying to get a look at what he is dealing with. The thug bats at Tim’s hands but he does not have the strength to fight Tim and for his life at the same time. He is rapidly losing anyway.

“No, no, no,” Tim mutters, his voice is too loud in the dark alley, accompanied by the thug’s gurgling breaths. “Don’t –”

What? Don’t choke on blood? Don’t move too much or the wood will do more damage? Don’t – die.

He killed someone.

The thought filters only slowly through Tim’s panic but once he realizes the truth of it, it crashes through fully, destroying any other plan or worry in his mind. He killed someone. An hour ago, he was sitting at the dinner table with Bruce and Alfred, talking about school and the book he is reading at the moment. Everything was normal. And then he had to sneak out and ruin his life. Robin is supposed to help, to assist Batman. An accessory to life, not an end to it.

It looks bad. The splintered plank goes through the flesh only a few inches below where the neck meets the chest, just a bit on the left side. It should have missed the heart, but Tim had extensive training in how the body works, where to hit to knock someone out quickly, which body parts are vital. The plank might have hit the large blood vessels or the lung. Either way, he does not have much time.

For all his lessons, Tim just kneels there on the damp ground, feeling blood seep into his suit and does not know what to do. Pressure helps to stop bleeding, but he cannot apply pressure to someone who is impaled. The thug is also moving around too much, trying to get up or to flee from the pain or to just get air in his lungs instead of blood.

Still, he reaches out, not sure what to do but knowing that he has to try. Before he can do more than put his hands down on the other man’s chest, the thug catches Tim’s wrist with unexpected strength. A sickening gurgle comes from deep in his throat as he tries to speak. A bubble of blood-coloured spirit grows at the corner of his mouth, and Tim does not understand a single word. He just watches the bubble grow until it bursts, leaving a faint trail of red behind.

And then there is silence.

“No,” Tim says again, listening as it echoes hollowly.

He leans forward, shakes the thug’s shoulder, slaps his cheek. Nothing. He checks for a pulse, although the terrible gurgling sound has stopped, meaning he is not breathing anymore. Nothing.

Tim’s legs grow weak and the numbness crawls up all the way into his chest, and he sits back, not minding the cold, sticky ground. For once, his brain is utterly quiet. He has no idea how to go forward. There are a thousand things he should do. Begin CPR, call an ambulance, call the GCPD, call Bruce.

Bruce.

He killed someone.

He is not even supposed to go out alone, and not only did he do that, but he also broke the biggest taboo, the one thing Bruce does not forgive. He took another person’s life.

Something sharp lodges inside Tim’s chest, making it near impossible to breathe. He looks down at himself, almost expecting another wooden plank to stick out of him, too. There is nothing. Only his bad decisions and their fatal consequences.

It would be too easy, too, if he died here alongside the thug. That would mean he could get away with this, with having become a murderer. He could just close his eyes and let Gotham do the rest. It would be fitting, surely. This city is not kind to its protectors. But Tim has not done much protecting tonight at all.

He cannot go home. If he did, Bruce would be waiting and he would not even have to ask many questions. Blood covers Tim’s clothes. His hands are painted red. He does not – he cannot deal with another parent giving up on him. Bruce will look at him and his jaw will set and his eyes will get that cold look. Perhaps he will let Tim gather his things. Perhaps Tim will get to eat one more of Alfred’s breakfasts before he is thrown out, before he is not part of the family anymore. Like Jason, who is like a shadow around Bruce’s shoulders and makes Dick’s expression go pinched, whose memory has aged Alfred more than all of Dick and Tim’s shenanigans together.

Jason. Red Hood.

Air rushes into Tim’s lungs as something in him gives way. Red Hood was right to come after him, the failure of a replacement. Even when Bruce had still had high hopes for him, Red Hood had already seen him for what he is: weak, unworthy, useless. And now a killer.

Tim does not have anywhere to go. He is still fifteen and he failed at being a good son and a trustworthy Robin. In his short life, he has already managed to disappoint two sets of parents. This one hurts more, though, because Bruce chose him. He saw something in Tim and Tim could not deliver. Maybe it was never there. Maybe this was always going to end in heartbreak.

An answer comes to Tim easily and for once without the usual panic. Red Hood. He has seen him for who he really is. Tim does not want to be doomed to follow in all of his footsteps. Disgraced, rejected, killer, villain. That is not who Tim wants to be. But he will never get there if he does just one thing right. Seeking out Red Hood means a lot of pain – he remembers the sheer hatred behind each of Red Hood’s punches, that burning need to break him open and destroy him from the inside out.

If he had any other choice, this is not the way Tim would choose to go, but having to face Bruce’s disappointment would be so much worse. Going to Red Hood, at least, has a clear, defined end.

He wonders what it will be like to be taken apart slowly, methodically. Because if he goes to Red Hood, there will be no rush this time. Nobody will come after Tim, so Red Hood can take as long as he wants to erase him.

But first, he needs to get his legs to work, needs to get up and walk away, preferably without looking at the dead body again. He is not sure he could stomach that. Although he owes the man that much, right? A thug and a thief but a person, too. A man with parents, maybe siblings or a wife. And now none of that.

With a steadying hand against the alley wall, Tim looks. Square jaw, empty eyes that might be green, a bit of stubble on his chin. Before he knows what he is doing, Tim reaches out and closes the man’s eyes. His fingers leave a trail of blood behind, crimson against pale skin.

Sudden nausea makes his insights clench and Tim just manages to turn away before the contents of the stomach empty on the dank ground. There goes Alfred’s last dinner. Even that was wasted on him.

Tim’s throat closes as something sharp and heavy pushes up inside his chest that he supposes is laughter. Terrible, hysterical laughter of a kid delivering himself to the gallows. That is still better than being dragged there, he is sure, better than being pushed so far that he has nowhere else to go. At least, this way, he walks into his doom out of his own volition.

Taking a deep breath, Tim keeps his eyes carefully away from the unmoving body and flees.

 ---

It does not take long for Red Hood to find him. A little bird trespassing in his territory cannot hope to stay hidden, not that Tim tries. He lets himself be seen and waits, seated on a rooftop, staring at the familiar sight of Gotham sprawling out before him, wondering whether this is the last time he will ever see it.

It is almost peaceful, these last minutes. His skin still feels too tight, his bones threatening to push their way outside as his heart rattles in its cage, egged along by too shallow breaths.

And then his vision is filled with red. The entire world shrinks until all there is left is Red Hood’s helmet meeting him with icy anticipation, as if he already knows what leads Tim here. As if there was never any other way for this to go.

The sounds of the city fall away as Tim’s heart rate rises another notch, like a war drum calling for the slaughter. His slaughter. Because there is no going back now.

“Do you have a death wish, Replacement?” Red Hood asks by way of greeting, settling just out of reach on the rooftop.

The distance between them is almost disconcerting. Like Red Hood is testing the water, expecting a trap perhaps. But Tim will always be the prey, wherever they meet. And the hunger colouring Red Hood’s voice is unmistakable, even filtered through the helmet.

“I –” Tim says and does not know how to continue.

He raises his hands, not sure whether he is trying to reach out or to shield himself. The world is still shrinking, getting darker with every halting breath. He should not have to speak for this. He is here. The rest is not up to him.

“What’s that?” Red Hood asks mockingly and Tim can imagine the cruel twist to his lips. He has seen it before, after all. “Have you come for round two? I’m not letting you get away again.”

That is not a plan anyway, but it still hits Tim like a punch to the gut. It has not even started yet, but he can already feel himself falling apart. It should be easier, surely, surrendering. He wishes they could just get on with it so that he does not have to think of home anymore, of possibilities far out of his reach.

Red Hood waits. He does not come closer. Despite the helmet, Tim can tell that he is watching his every movement, perhaps noticing that something is wrong. Red Hood probably would have preferred to hunt him for a while. If not for the rushing in his ears, he could at least offer some quip, something to make Red Hood want to break him immediately.

“Can you make it quick?” Tim asks, stumbling over the words because his mouth is so dry that his tongue feels swollen, like something alien.

He does not want to beg. This is his punishment and his way out all rolled into one. And yet, beneath the exhausted numbness and roiling panic, he is still afraid. He remembers the punches coming without stop, remembers the groans of his bones and his skin giving way to what lies underneath. Dying had seemed like a terrible thing then. But it was when he still had a home.

“Quick?” Finally, Red Hood comes closer, each step measured, almost lazy, like he knows his prey will not escape this time. His shoulders are broader than Tim remembers but already tense as if they cannot wait to throw the first punch. “You’re delusional if you think this will be anything but –”

Red Hood stops his approach. Even without being able to see his expression, there is something hesitant about him that Tim did not think he was capable of.

“What’s that on your hands?” Red Hood asks, his voice changing just so from anticipatory to something a bit less enthused, as if he knows there is something more going on here.

Blood, Tim thinks with growing hysteria. Because they are so similar now, both failed Robins. Only Red Hood had to die first, while something in Tim was always wrong.

More and more darkness creeps into Tim’s vision. His breathing becomes shallower and his heartbeat even quicker. He is rapidly losing his grasp on reality, but perhaps that is preferable to being present the entire time. The pain is not something he looks forward to. Just what comes after.

It takes effort to drop his eyes from Red Hood’s helmet to his own hands. The blood there has dried to an ugly brown, but the colour is similar enough. His throat constricts and he cannot swallow to clear it, his mouth is still too dry.

“Blood,” he croaks, because he needs to get the thought out of his head. It does not help. Instead, he almost laughs again. There is literal blood on his hands.

“Don’t tell me you got hurt in a fight and expect me to help you,” Red Hood says, but he is still not coming closer. “This will just make you scream even prettier.”

With the helmet on, Tim has no idea what Red Hood is thinking. Beyond the obvious, of course, having his replacement finally in his grasp. But they both know that Tim would not come here without reason. Not if he had anywhere else to go.

“I killed someone.” The words are out before Tim can stop them, torn out of that rapidly fraying place in his chest that threatens to suffocate him.

It sounds unreal, spoken out loud, even though it has been a constant choir in his head on his way here. The thug’s eyes looked at him from every wall, out of every window, green and alive one moment, bloodstained lids the next.

“What?” Red Hood asks, all sharp edges, but he has gone still. He is still a few feet away from Tim, but now he is almost leaning back, a tension in his spine that has nothing to do with his dreams of killing Tim being within reach.

“I killed someone,” Tim repeats and it does not get easier the second time but clings to the inside of his throat and nose like dust.

He wonders, briefly, whether Red Hood still thinks killing is something extraordinary or if it has just become his job like beating up muggers and drug dealers has become for Tim.

“Where’s Batman?” Red Hood asks, not sounding suspicious but almost worried. If that was something he could be where Tim is concerned.

That rips Tim out of his stupor enough to look up again, feeling terror like a hundred spiders crawling up his spine. “I can’t go back,” he gasps, barely getting enough air into his lungs to speak.

Silently, he implores Red Hood to understand. He has been there before, after all. The manor is closed to both of them.

Tim raises his hands higher, takes a step back that almost makes him fall. “Please, I can’t go back.”

Then, mercifully, everything goes black.

 ---

Tim wakes up warm. Nothing hurts except for a few bruises and his half-awake brain does not quite understand why that is strange. Waking up without pain is good. He should not be worried about that. Only when he opens his eyes, blinking against the sudden light, he is met with red everywhere, on him and around him, and he remembers the fight and the dead man and that he can never go home. With a scream, he shoots up, trying to wipe the red off him, and scrambles back.

Something moves at the edge of his vision and then someone is talking, but he cannot hear anything over the thunderous beating of his heart and the choir of you killed someone, you can’t go home in his mind.

A weight lands on his shoulder, warm and grounding, and the red vanishes from his body. It takes a long, agonizing minute until he calms enough to realize it was just a red blanket that now lies crumpled in a corner. No blood. No dead man waiting to stare right in his soul.

Someone steps in front of him and through the haze of panic Tim barely recognizes Red Hood. He is different. Without a helmet, without any visible weapons. Just a hoodie and sweatpants and bare feet. Jason.

“You need to breathe, Tim,” Jason says, his voice almost unrecognizable. And Tim’s name on his lips sounds foreign, almost like something forbidden, even in its gentleness. “Are you with me? In and out. In and out.”

If there is a later, Tim will have a hard time believing that this really happened. Red Hood doing breathing exercises with him. Of course, he does not believe in later. That is the whole reason he came here for. But the very fact that Red Hood apparently put him on the couch and tucked him in is enough to ease his panic a bit. It is just so ridiculous.

“Am I dead?” Tim asks once the burning in his lungs has lessened enough that he can speak.

That would be too easy, of course. Death is still a long way off. That is what Red Hood promised him. And even if it is, for some inexplicable reason, Jason who is here with him, his childhood hero, it does not change that they are on a one-way track and Tim knows exactly where it ends.

Jason’s hand is still on his shoulder, and he feels like he should be repulsed by that, but instead he is glad for something holding him upright.

“I hope not. That would be hard to explain,” Jason mutters under his breath. His eyes are kind in a way Tim had not expected they could be, but there is also something dark, something restless. He knows what to do with that and the familiarity calms him further.

“I had hoped I could stay passed out for some of the torture,” Tim says, not sure why he confides in Jason. No matter what this is, the reprieve will be over soon – and Tim does not deserve it anyway. He has not forgotten the reason why he is here, how thoroughly rotten he is to the core.

Something passes over Jason’s face, too quick for Tim to decipher. “Yeah, we’re skipping that part for now.”

That sounds wrong. Not that Tim wants to die after having been beaten to a pulp and carved into little pieces, but that is the only thing Red Hood wants from him, punishment for taking his place.

His heart rate rising again, Tim asks, “What’s going on? What do you want from me?”

Jason leans away from him a little, studying him openly like he is a puzzle he cannot solve. “Funny, that’s exactly what I was going to ask you.”

There is that smile that sometimes still haunts Tim at night, accompanying all that pain. It is not as sharp, not full of dark promises, but it still takes everything he has to stay where he is, to not shake off Jason’s hand and curl up in a protective ball. He came here. He wants this, all the terrible things Red Hood has planned for him, because even that is better than being made to give up the suit and his home once Bruce finds out what he has done. This is his choice. He does not get to run away from it now.

“What did I say about breathing, Tim?” Jason asks. The smile has vanished, replaced by something pinched. “In and out.”

Tim tries, he really does, but his lungs appear to have collapsed to half their size and it is just impossible to stay calm. His entire life is over because of one bad mistake. Or maybe it has been lurking inside him the entire time and it was just a question of when it would happen.

Jason curses under his breath and Tim knows he is losing his patience. But then, it is a miracle he has had any patience at all for Tim. When Jason moves, tugging at Tim’s shoulder, Tim expects pain. A punch to the stomach or the jaw, to give him something to panic about. Instead, Jason pulls him close, all the way to his chest, engulfing Tim in his arms.

“Breathe, Tim,” he says, still so very careful. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m definitely not going to kill you. You’re safe. So, just breathe.”

Individually, Tim understands the words Jason is saying, but put together they do not make any sense, not coming from someone who has taken great pleasure from trying to kill Tim only a short time ago. So, Tim does not believe him. That is not how this works.

But he is warm and Jason’s hoodie is soft and his arms are strong, keeping Tim upright when he might otherwise just collapse, boneless and exhausted. He has no idea what will happen next, does not have the energy to think about it. If at all possible, he would like to stay like this forever, protected and listening to sweet lies.

To his embarrassment, Tim feels his eyes begin to burn and once the first tears begin to roll, he is glad that his face is hidden against Jason’s chest. Even though that does nothing against the sobs beginning to shake his entire body only a moment later.

What a disappointment he is. How weak. He is supposed to be Robin. And before that, he was supposed to be a proper Drake. At least he is consistent in his failings. He still wishes he could do one thing right, for once.

They stay like that for long minutes, maybe hours, and yet it is still too soon when Jason leans back, pulling them apart. He does not do anything against Tim’s fist curled into his hoodie, like he knows Tim might fall apart if he loses that point of contact, like he cares if that were to happen.

“Do you think you can tell me now what happened?” Jason asks, his voice relaxed as if they are talking about the weather. That will change soon, of course.

Tim does not want to ever talk about it. That is part of the reason he went to find Red Hood, because he would pass his judgment without asking about Tim’s newest sin. He did not expect Jason to be kind. Not to him, certainly.

“I killed someone,” Tim says again, expecting the way the words scrape up his throat, sharp and unforgiving.

Nothing in Jason’s expression changes. “Why?”

As if the why matters. Earlier today the man was alive and now he is not. Because of Tim. What else is there to it? What possible explanation could make up for it?

But Tim does not have the energy to argue, so he says, “He was just mugging someone and then we fought and then he fell and –” He swallows, his vision once again filled with red. “There was so much blood.”

In theory, he knows how much blood the human body holds and how much a person can lose when hurt in specific places. None of that prepared him for the reality of it. For being the cause.

“So, you didn’t kill him at all,” Jason exclaims, his tone so certain that Tim is briefly hopeful. Until the dead man’s eyes stare at him again from the depth of his mind.

“I pushed him.” It does not matter that Tim did not know where the man would fall or that there was a crate in the way. But he should have known. He should have been better.

Jason reaffirms his hold on Tim’s shoulder, squeezes his fingers reassuringly. “That’s an accident. Trust me, I know the difference.” Again, the look on his face is strange, not at all like the self-assured villain Tim has come to expect.

“But nobody’s supposed to die,” Tim argues. He does not have the energy to think about why Jason does not act like he is supposed to. It is already too much that he stepped out of line and is now adrift in this world he always thought had clear paths.

Jason is silent for a long minute, searching Tim’s face for an answer he does not know how to give. “Why did you come to me then?” he asks, the words coming slowly like he is not sure he even wants to know. “Why come to me when you knew I wanted you dead?”

Wanted, Tim’s brain registers the past tense idly, but he dismisses it. Surely, they will get to that any minute now. In any case, talking is its own kind of torture. He does not want to examine why he came here, why that was the easiest way. He just does not want to disappoint any more people in life.

“I cannot go back to the manor,” he says as if Jason does not know that. The manor is a holy place, not to be defiled by this sin.

But Jason does not nod in understanding, does not look pained in memory. “Why?”

Tim’s eyes drop to his lap, terrified of having to say the words. He knew Jason would be cruel, but that is a step too far. Although not more than he deserves. “Because we mustn’t kill. Bruce will –”

He shrugs, does not have the words. He is not sure what would be worse, Bruce yelling and asking for an explanation or him not doing anything at all, just closing the door in Tim’s face.

“The old bat will do what?” Jason asks and now he sounds dangerous, a growl in his voice that only emphasizes how quiet and gentle he has been before. “What could be worse than what you expected me to do?”

Everything and nothing at all. Tim is terrified of what Red Hood can and might do. Pain and death go hand-in-hand here. In the privacy of his mind, Tim can admit that he is just eager to give up responsibility for his actions. If he dies here he does not have to wonder about how to atone, if it is even possible. He does not have to carve out a new place for himself, all alone again.

“He will throw me out,” Tim says and although he is resigned to that panic stirs in the pit of his stomach once again. “You were right,” he continues, stumbling over the words. “I’m not good enough. I’m not – he’ll –”

“Does Bruce know you’re here?” Jason asks, taking his hand from Tim’s shoulder to cup his cheek and pull up his face. His eyes are unbelievably deep, a storm raging in them, but Tim does not feel like it is directed at him.

“No,” Tim exclaims, his voice like a whip, startled out of him with surprising ferocity. “I can’t tell anyone.”

He wants to demand that Jason does not tell anybody, either, but he is not ready yet to shatter Jason’s kindness, to destroy this illusion they have built for a moment. It is easier to trust that Jason does not want anyone to know he is here because until they know what Tim has done they might still come for him.

Tim only notices he is shaking again when Jason shushes him. “It’s all right, Tim,” he murmurs, his voice strangely melodic for all that his face seems conflicted. “He wouldn’t throw you out. You’re his son.”

The very ludicrousness of the situation pushes the air out of Tim’s lungs, making him feel like he is in freefall. What right does Jason have to make these kinds of empty promises when he knows they are wrong?

“You were, too,” Tim says, his tone is a strange mix of accusatory and resigned. That was the wrong thing to say, Tim knows even before he watches Jason’s expression shatter and something sharp enter his eyes.

Suddenly, there is a predator back in the room, and Tim only knows too well how vulnerable he is.

“It’s not the same,” Jason snaps, sounding pained as if he has not yet learned to hide from the truth, as if it is still an open wound. “I died and then I came back wrong. He won’t abandon you.”

That last thing sounds like a threat more than anything else, but Tim does not have it in him to feel even more afraid. Everything is confusing. And he wants to believe Jason but he cannot, so he does not say anything.

They stay silent for a while. Jason appears lost somewhere in his head, staring at the wall just behind Tim’s shoulder. And Tim just waits. Something will happen and he cannot run. Does not want to.

“Do you want hot chocolate?”

The question comes completely out of the blue. Jason’s voice, too, has lost its edges. He is also loosening Tim’s fingers now and makes to stand up, only stopping briefly when a whimper escapes Tim’s lips.

“I’ll be right back, but you need something warm,” he says as if the entire last part of their conversation never happened, as if they are friends, even, not enemies. “And then I’ll explain to you all the ways you are wrong.”

Tim lets Jason go, but that is more because he is utterly exhausted than because he believes that what Jason said is true. He is afraid that it will not be Jason coming back but Red Hood. But then, before Jason leaves, he tucks a blanket around him. It is not the red one from before but a new one, in a darker colour Tim’s brain cannot mistake for blood.

Then Tim is alone and he does the one thing he has not dared to before; he looks at his hands.

They are clean. Not a hint of crimson, even though he expected it would never come off. Even his fingernails have been scrubbed clean. Immediately, his eyes begin to burn again, but something inside of him relaxes.

Red Hood will not kill him. Tim does not yet know whether that is a good thing because he still cannot go home. But somebody who took the time to clean the blood off his hands will not turn around and torture him to death a moment later.

Closing his eyes, Tim curls up in the blanket and gives himself over to this limbo of feeling safe where he is while having nowhere to go.

His rest is shattered when the shouting starts. Jason’s voice is muffled coming from the kitchen but Tim recognizes the real anger in it. He almost braces for an attack, but when nobody answers audibly, Tim concludes it has to be a phone call. Probably crime boss business. Nothing to do with him. If he tells himself that often enough, he might be able to keep his eyes closed and not wonder whether that other person on the phone is angry at him. Whether Bruce has already heard about the dead body and connected the dots and – what? Even if Bruce wanted him gone, he would not send Red Hood after him. Right?

Biting his lip hard enough to taste copper, Tim buries himself further beneath the blanket, pulls it over his head so he can pretend everything is fine and nothing bad happened.

A few minutes later, he can hear Jason coming back, his bare feet making more sound than they should. At least that gives him a warning before a new weight dips the couch and a mug clanks quietly as it is set down on the table.

“Got some room for me?” Jason asks, still in that too soft voice as if he left all his anger in the kitchen, as if Tim had not been able to hear him.

Slowly, Tim unfurls from the blanket. He does not particularly want to, because out there the world is bright and real and scary, but he does not want to be alone either. Jason waits patiently until Tim is sitting and then presses the mug in his hands. The smell is heavenly, opening up a hole of homesickness inside his chest.

At least he waits until Tim is done taking his first sip before he says, “Bruce is on his way.”

Terror seizes Tim’s chest, eradicating all the progress he has made in letting go of the tension. “But – you said –” you wouldn’t hurt me, that I’m safe here. But now doom is on its way to smash his life to pieces, after all.

He does not say that out loud, but he does not have to, judging on the way Jason’s eyes flicker briefly away from him.

“Come here,” Jason says and does not wait for an answer but pulls Tim back in against his chest. “He’s worried. The last thing on his mind is to throw you out.”

That sounds like a nice fantasy, that Bruce is coming to whisk him away back home, that all will be forgiven. But Tim is too old to believe in fairy tales, perhaps always has been.

“Does he know?” Tim is not sure which answer would be worse. If Bruce knows, Tim’s shame is laid bare and he has lost what little control he had left. If he does not know, they will have to talk about it. Tim will have to explain something that cannot be explained. He has to defend the unforgivable.

“The basics,” Jason replies and has the gall to sound sheepish about it. “I yelled at him.”

“You – why?” Tim’s sniffs and realizes that he is crying again. Well, he gave all his dignity away when he came to Red Hood for help.

Jason is silent for a moment as if he has to really think about his answer. “At this rate, he’s going through children as other people go through T-shirts.”

Tim feels himself tense up before he even fully registers the words. “You said he wasn’t going to –”

“And he won’t,” Jason says quickly, even though the damage is already done. Tim’s mind is swimming again, trying to find a way out. “But he made you think he would. And that’s just as bad. Family shouldn’t be built on conditions.”

If Tim were more awake or less mentally exhausted, he might have told Jason the same is true for him, but what is the use if neither of them trusts in the concept of family at all.

The silent stretches and it is not entirely comfortable anymore. They could have done without being reminded how different they are, how similar too.

“Drink,” Jason all but orders, pushing the mug right to Tim’s lips.

The hot chocolate tastes like home, as if Jason has a copy of Alfred stashed away in his kitchen. Homesickness washes through Tim again, almost stronger than the fear. That will change again, but for now, he is safe and warm and just the tiniest bit hopeful that things will turn out right. Jason seems to think so, and since they are both currently ignoring the fact that Jason tried to kill him, that is enough for now.

Tim drifts off again, exhaustion weighing down his limbs. He is glad for the darkness dragging him under because everything is simpler here. Nothing reminds him of blood. Nothing hints at the great, unknown future.

The thing that wakes him, later, is his body being jostled, and he briefly thinks this is the point where Red Hood carries him to his torture chamber. That then a new set of hands on him. When he opens his eyes, Bruce looks back at him, almost making Tim recoil. There is the familiar tension in Bruce’s jaw, but his eyes are soft with a rare gentleness.

He opens his mouth to say something, but Tim cannot bear a lecture right now. Taking a leap of faith, he shakes his head and opens his arms. To his undying relief, Bruce accepts this for now and simply pulls him close.

Talking will be in their future, and Tim dreads it. He is still not convinced that this will not end with him being all alone again. But Jason – Where is Jason?

Without disturbing their balance, Tim cranes his neck to look around. Even worse than Bruce yelling, he thinks, would be if Jason vanished now only to return as Red Hood the next time they meet. But there he is, a safe distance away in what must be the door to his bedroom. His arms are crossed and his expression is closed off. But Tim knows what Jason is thinking. And he is right: family should be family, no matter what.

So, before Jason can vanish, Tim holds out one hand, beckoning Jason closer. And Jason comes.

Something in his expressions smooths over, goes from stony to surprised to determined. Perhaps this is all a fever dream and everybody will deny it ever happened later. But for now, Jason comes to the couch and Bruce makes room for him as if he knew what they were doing all along.

It is awkward and elbows hit sensible flesh until they have manoeuvred themselves into an almost comfortable position: Tim with his head on Bruce’s chest and Jason sticking to his side.

This might be the safest place in the entire world and that has nothing to do with their combat training and the costumes they don at night. If Tim could choose, he would never get up again. But maybe it will not be so bad. Maybe home is right where he left it and he just has to push the door back open. Maybe the door was never closed at all.

[antoniettareeves-blog]

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