#Little mountain fashion A two-piece toilet

[verpuerto]

Bathroom (Chicago)

[rosy-cheekx]

I Want To Be A Real Fake

@kaiserkorresponds said: Black and White + "I want to be a real fake" + formal clothing <3

Prompted fic that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since I received it! Hope you like it, Kaiser!

-

Jon would not consider himself fashionable. He has a distinct sense of style, yes, but that style lately has been Tired-Academic-Works-in-a-Cold-Office,-Steals-Sweaters-When-Necessary-core. Not exactly suitable for the business casual dress code The Magnus Institute “requires” (no one seemed to pay attention to the Archive staff’s choices of attire), but certainly not suitable for the small rectangle of cardstock Elias Bouchard hands him, on a quiet spring morning in the Archive.

“What’s…what’s this?” Jon asked, staring at the neat, printed text as if it was Greek. (If it were Greek, at least, he could decipher parts of it. He was an English Lit student, after all, and he had really enjoyed etymology.) The card was a stiff black and white, with the black owl logo, the symbol of the Magnus Institute, printed in the top middle. Glancing down at it, he saw a date, and the words: “black-tie.” Shit.

“My apologies, I forgot how tired your position tends to leave you.” Elias’s voice was prim and polite, but Jon still winced inwardly. “As a head of a department, you are now strongly encouraged to attend the fundraiser I host in April each year. Our donors are fascinated by our departments, and especially the Archives. Gertrude’s disappearance has raised questions as to her successor, and I trust you can assuage the concerns of our donors at your accomplishments in the position.” Jon chose to believe that Elias’s keen eye didn’t sweep the mountains of paperwork that surrounded his desk as he surveyed the small, poorly lit office. “I’m certain you’ll be able to find appropriate attire for the occasion.”

He turned on a heel, halfway to the door before seemingly considering something. “Ah, and Jon, one more thing. Gertrude always requested she bring an assistant. Would you like to do the same? I am happy to accommodate one more for the catering count.”

Jon snapped his mouth shut, utterly dumbfounded by the responsibility just thrust upon him, and nodded mutely, before clearing his throat. “Ah-um, yes, I would appreciate that. Does it matter which one?”

“Someone who can make a pleasant impression, please.” Elias raised an eyebrow, nodded almost imperceptibly, like he had made a decision, and rapped his knuckles on the doorframe on the way out. “I trust your judgement.”

Jon counted to thirty, to be certain Elias wasn’t coming back, and slouched into his office chair, scanning the save-the-date again, without the immense pressure of Elias’s eyes on him.

“The Magnus Institute Fundraiser Gala,” it read below the embossed owl, within a thin black border. “23 April, 7-10 pm. Black tie. Catered.” Jon traced the owl with the pad of his finger, flipping the card over to see, in Elias’s thin cursive: Make a good impression, Jon.

God, this is going to suck.

-

“Sasha, come on.” Jon wasn’t one to beg, but desperate times and all that. He had cornered her in the breakroom, while Martin was on a research trip and Tim was getting takeaway from the chippie down the street. “It’s only three weeks away, and you’re the one I trust the most. Please.”

“Jon,” Sasha sighed, smoothing her skirt patiently. “I would if I could, I swear to you. But my sister’s wedding has been planned for months, I’ve already requested time off, and I can’t undo all that for a work party.”

“Fundraiser,” Jon corrected instinctively, even as he signed in resignation. “Fine. I just really didn’t want to go alone.”

Sasha scoffed, shaking her head to herself as she opened the fridge and pulled out her bagged lunch. “You have two other assistants you know. What about Tim? Or Martin?”

Jon wrinkled his nose at the thought of bringing nervous, rambling, doe-eyed Martin to the gala. “God no. Martin would be too much; I need someone who can handle themselves and hold a decent conversation. I need someone who can attend a black-tie gala and look more at-home than me.” A withering look from Sasha.

“So why not Tim, then? He can do all those things.”

“Do all what things?” Jon jumped and spun around to see Tim, carrying a grease-spotted bag in one hand and a paper soda cup in the other. He surveyed Tim in a moment: the button-up shirt, red and printed with tiny black balloons, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, dark black hair artfully mussed. High cheekbones dotted with freckles, and what Jon swore could be the faintest bit of eyeliner.

“Tim, would you like to go to a fashionable, catered work party with me?”

“Boss,” Tim lowered himself to a knee and held out his soda solemnly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Tim, that’s backwards. The kneeler isn’t the one who accepts,” Sasha chuckles helpfully.

“You’re just jealous of our love, Sash!”

Good Lord.

-

Jon was really hoping the food would be good. He was in Tim’s flat, in the toilet, checking himself in the mirror one final time. His hair was carefully braided, courtesy of Tim’s deft hands and coiled into a thick bun at the base of his skull, gold and emerald hairpin snugly in place. His suit was nice: a respectable white shirt, dotted with tiny lime-colored flowers he had to strain his eyes to see, under a dark green suit jacket and matching trousers. The suit itself was cut in a rather androgynous style, pulling tight at Jon’s waist in a way he rather liked, and contrasted beautifully, he thought, with the smooth brown of his skin. He flicked an invisible piece of lint from his thigh and, satisfied, stepped into the hall to tell Tim he was ready to go.

“Tim, I’m all-woah,” the exhale was accidental. Tim’s suit was certainly not subtle. He was wearing a deep blue turtleneck, hair perfectly coiffed. Over the turtleneck, the suit jacket was white, a spray of water-color flowers in all shades of blue and purple shifting with every movement. The navy blue heeled suede boots on his feet accentuated his already-tall frame “Tim, you look good,” Jon breathed.

“Ouch. No need to sound all surprised. I know I clean up well; I dirty pretty damn good too.” Tim chuckled and adjusted his sleeves. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Mr. ‘I don’t want anything too crazy.’”

Jon grinned shyly, rocking on his heels of his own, less intimidating dress shoes. “I like it, I think. It feels nice.” The excitement over how good he felt in the clothes had, all too briefly, suppressed the impending doom he was feeling about the evening’s events. “Are you ready for tonight?” he asked for what must have been the fiftieth time, spinning the solid black ring he wore around his finger.

“Yes, Jon. Talk about the reorganization process as a structural renovation, converting files to audio formatting for future accessibility, don’t talk about artefact storage even a little, don’t get caught up with anyone too pretty, I get it.” His voice was flat, bored by the repetition. “This is going to be fine.”

“What-what if it isn’t, though, Tim? What if they ask about Gertrude or how their money is being used, o-or how the restructuring is going? I can’t bloody well tell them I’m using a tape recorder that’s probably older than I am.”

“Jon,” Tim’s well-manicured hand was on his shoulder, nails the same blue of his turtleneck. “Take a deep breath. For Gertrude: be honest. It was a tragedy, and you hope she’s found, but until then you’re doing your best to act on her wishes as her replacement. And for the rest, be vague. Restructuring is going ‘as well as can be expected’ or ‘is running quite smoothly with the help of your three wonderful assistants.’” He winked. “And tell them you’re using a multimedia system, that’ll confuse those old boomers enough to move topics. And it is technically true. Laptops and a tape recorder are multiple medias. Anything else we can riff, you know? I can talk with the best of them.” He eyed Jon meaningfully. “This will be fine. It’s one night. And we’ll get chips after. Promise.”

Jon nodded and closed his eyes, breathing steadying. He was grateful Tim had been available. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

-

“So, how did you know what black tie meant?” Jon asked, eyeing Tim across the seat of the cab. They’re on their way now and Jon’s hands are steepled tightly, pressing his fingertips against each other until it hurts to do so. “I had to Google it last week when I went shopping, in case we had to wear literal black ties.” He needed to talk about anything, anything but this stupid fundraiser they drove steadily towards.

Tim grew silent for a moment, considering his words. “My brother was an extra in a movie once and started dating a stylist for one of the leads. He fibbed his way into getting us tickets for premieres, so I’ve made my way through a few high-fashion events.” He shrugged, fiddling with a thin silver bracelet along his wrist, were Jon knew the letter D was carved in delicate cursive. “I like it, too, you know? Dressing up for events. It makes me feel debonaire, like a spy.”

Jon shook his head in disagreement. “Makes me feel fake,” he mumbled, eyeing the lorry floor beneath them. “Like everyone knows I don’t belong. I hate having their eyes on me and knowing they’re better than me.”

Tim prodded Jon with his elbow gently, raising his eyebrows in a comforting manner. “That’s it though, isn’t it? We aren’t fake. We worked our way here. Hell, you’re the boss of an entire department, Jon. We’ve gotten to where we are in the Institute because we deserve to be here. And anyways, everyone at that party next week is gonna be fake. They’re pretending to care about our jobs, and we pretend to care about their money, and they pretend they’re even the ones who write the checks and not some snooty financial advisor in Wales.”

Jon shrugged, trying to keep himself from biting back that he wasn’t enough, didn’t earn this spot, that Sasha deserved it more than he did and was doing nothing to prove to Elias he was up to the monumental task of being the Head Archivist. He didn’t, though, and instead took a steadying breath, nodding to Tim’s comforting words.

“And anyways,” Tim continued, shrugging. “Even if we have to be fake for a night, it’ll be fun. We get to be a part of ‘the queen’s high society,’” he added in a high-pitched, overly fake RP accent, eliciting a chuckle from Jon. “And Rosie said the catering Elias orders is divine. Apparently we should keep an eye out for tiny samosas?”

As if on cue, the cab shuddered to a stop. Jon thanked the driver, paid, and followed Tim out.

-

The Institute looked different under the pretense of wealth and success. It was still the same building of course, but the floor was clear of the rain mats and the smooth marble floor paved the way to the library, the main sitting room of which had been cleared as a rather respectable grand hall to host a party. Tables lined the cordoned off books, hot plates and silver trays steaming slightly. Bottles of wine lined a bar, behind which a vested individual with slicked-back hair was pouring small glasses and taking orders. A quiet orchestra completed the scene, cello and piano in a delicate duet. Before tonight, Jon couldn’t have imagined this many people in the Institute alone, least of all the library. Not that it’s packed. There’s maybe thirty or so well-dressed individuals milling about, the din of conversation white noise in comparison to the floating of the music.

Tim’s hand is on his back, pressing kindly into his spine. Oh yes, he remembers dimly, and nods, allowing Tim to guide him into the library and hand him a glass of wine. They stand out a little, two beacons of color around what is a pretty drab spectrum of black and grey, save for a few spectacular dresses in the crowd. Jon finds he doesn’t mind it, except that it may lead to unwanted conversation. It’s not his looks he fears being judged on, but that he be found wanting when it came to his capabilities. He was always selectively self-conscious like that, some things utterly meaningless, others inexplicably important.

Jon isn’t a huge fan of wine, but he finds himself clinging to the glass as a lifeline as he and Tim meander through the crowds, largely ignored. The music is intoxicatingly simple; he finds himself caught up in the deep reverberations of the cello as they walk, feeling it deep in his chest. There were, in fact, samosas, as well as small cannoli, and he and Tim piled plates as high as they could without garnering stares.

There weren’t many people Jon recognized; he didn’t even see Elias as he scanned the crowd for faces. Wine in one hand, a plate in the other, he thought maybe the night wouldn’t be too bad.

Jon shivered, the sensation of being stared at prickling the back of his neck. He spun around, trying to appear casual, and spotted Elias at last. He was standing with a large man, broad and wearing a deep blue suit, scruffy beard a mix of tawny and white. Elias crooked his finger, smiling primly. As Jon made his way over to the pair-who he could’ve sworn he hadn’t seen previously, he was intercepted by a short bald man in a plum velour suit, leaning heavily on a cane.

“Ah, Archivist,” he smiled warmly, extending a hand to shake before seeing Jon’s hands were full, and nodding his head instead. “Congratulations on your promotion. Elias has told me he expects great things from you.”

Jon smiled politely, glancing over to see Elias and the other man gone again. Regretfully, he turned his attention back to the man. “It’s a shame about Gertrude, yes, but I’m hoping I can do her proud,” he said in a practiced tone. He glanced over his shoulder. Where was Tim? He was just with him.

“Of course, of course. I was hoping I could have a word?”

“W-with me?”

“Yes, you see, I was rather concerned when I heard Gertrude’s position had been left open. When Elias said you yourself where at the junction to take over, I wanted to meet you for myself. I worry about the Archivists in your institute, so many of you do such monumental work for so little recognition. Do you worry your work to be meaningless?  Your name insignificant when it is all said and done?”

(It is this conversation he remembers, months later, when he demands to record Prentiss’ attack. He refuses to be another mystery, a name on a placard to be wondered about.)

“I-ah, yes? No?” What was the right answer here? Jon stammered out a half-assed reply about doing his best, midway through when he felt a hand firmly on his shoulder, where his neck and collarbone met. Glancing to his peripheral, he saw a golden ring, an eye, and was frustratingly grateful to hear the cool tones of Elias Bouchard over his shoulder.

“Now Simon,” he said, voice even, “you aren’t trying to scare my dear Archivist, are you?” He gave the shoulder a squeeze but remained put. “Jon, I believe you’ve heard of Simon Fairchild, a significant donor to our establishment.”

Jon nodded wordlessly, not really listening to the two bureaucrats delve off into some topic or other, craning his neck to look for Tim. The music had picked up, he registered dimly, a orchestral melody led by a violin, sharp and whimsical.

“Jon?” Another squeeze to his neck, and Jon tried not to wince. “Wouldn’t you agree,” Elias asked, voice patient at surface level. “That the best way to move forward is to restructure the Archive?”

Jon nodded, trying to recall the answer he had rehearsed. “Yes, ah—my team and I have worked quite hard at recording the statements a-and organizing them in a way that will last long-term.”

“Ah, what a delight,” Simon—Mr. Fairchild—said warmly. Jon was reminded of the voices adults would use when they spoke to him as a child, when his inane facts about space or etymology had moved from endearing to obnoxious.

The conversation lasted for what felt like days, Jon feeling rather like Mr. Fairchild’s cane: a statement piece, contributing nothing to the conversation but unable to find a smooth exit. Leading questions from Elias led to thankfully rehearsed answers before Simon found his own exit and walked away smoothly, eyes wide and taking the room in.

“I-I really should find Tim,” Jon muttered, glancing around the room anxiously.

“Nonsense. He’ll be back,” Elias said, releasing Jon’s shoulder and taking his elbow in turn, “I would like to introduce you to a few dear friends of mine. I believe Tim is keeping one occupied at present.” Jon sighed inwardly (and maybe outwardly as well) and allowed himself to be led around the room. His wine glass was empty, as was his plate and he found it snatched away by a member of catering. He had nothing to cling to, to keep his hands busy, and was struggling not to pull out his delicately-placed hair pin just so he could fiddle with something.

Jon was taken on a tour of old rich people of England. Names flew past him, conversation buzzed around him, and still Jon felt like nothing more than a well-dressed trophy to be ogled at. Did Gertrude do this every year, he wondered dimly. No wonder she disappeared. He fiddled with the ring on his finger, nodding and smiling at the appropriate times, speaking when needed, and feeling the swirl of the orchestra build up in pressure behind his eyes. The music was beautiful but hard to listen to. Something about it was ugly, hiding a dark secret behind the innocent melodies.

Eventually, the evening was so much of a blur that he couldn’t even begin to fathom how much time had passed. It may have been weeks, may have been merely twenty minutes. Jon glanced down for his watch before realizing he had taken it off at Tim’s flat and never strapped it back on. Pity. It only added to the dreamscape reality he seemed to be participating in.

At last, Elias led him towards the large burly man that was suddenly in view (hadn’t he always been? Jon wasn’t quite sure. The wine must have affected him more than he thought with the nerves) and Jon saw Tim, similarly trapped in conversation as he had been. He smiled apologetically as Jon and Elias approached and the larger man smiled warmly at the newcomers.

“Ah, Archivist. I hope you don’t mind I stole your companion away briefly. I was curious about the nitty-gritty of your Archive. Timothy here was very informative.” Tim winced at the use of his full name and a part of Jon smirked, relating to the sentiment of being called Jonathan or worse, John.

“I’m glad he can answer your questions.” Elias spoke before Jon could open his mouth. “I’m quite proud of the Archive staff. Jon chose well and I am sure the four of them are going to do great things together. Jon, you remember the Lukas family?”

Jon nodded, confused for a second before the man in front of him extended his hand. “Peter Lukas, at your service.” The hand was cold, and a feeling of dismay washed over Jon as he shook it. He couldn’t help the feeling that the shake of that hand was a seal of his fate.

The orchestral music had picked up, a swirl of strings and piano, ascending in pitch until it grated at Jon’s ears. No one else seemed to react to it, however, as the manic notes pulling at something inside Jon’s brain, something he couldn’t explain. It was almost like a migraine, but sharper and deep in his spine and in his ears. Elias let go of Jon’s arm at some point during the conversation with Peter Lukas, a discussion about boats, maybe? Travel? This was the conversation Elias was so keen on Jon being a part of?

As Jon felt that grip relax, the glint of the ring on Elias’ finger seeming to wink at him, Jon took a staggered step backwards. “Mr. Lukas, ah-Peter, it’s been a pleasure. Elias, ex-excuse me.”

Jon turned and dashed out of the library, feet carrying him on instinct through the winding halls and down the stairs of the institute, deep into the Archives. He stopped when he felt his feet echo against the cold, solid lino of the archival storage and bent over, hand on the wall, gasping in shallow, rapid bursts. It was too much, it was too much, he thought he could do this but it was too much and he wasn’t enough for them-

“Woah-boss.” Tim was there. When did Tim get here? Was he speaking out loud? Shit. “Jon, yeah-hey, Jon. I’m here. You’re okay. Take some deep breaths, okay? You’re going to black out if you’re not careful.”

Jon felt his suit jacket being shrugged off of him and the newly allowed freedom of his shoulder helped. He took a deep, sputtering breath, the sweet oxygen flooding his system and sharpening his thoughts.

“The-the music and the talking,” he said under his breath, Tim craning to listen without infringing on his personal space. “Too-too much.”

“The music? Jon, hey, hey, just focus on calming down, okay? That was a dick move of Elias to separate us immediately. I was talking to that Lukas guy for way too long. Not even sure what we talked about. I think he’s just one of those guys.” Jon smirked to himself as he focused on the floor beneath his feet, breathing slowly until his heart rate had resumed a normal rhythm.

“Says you,” he mumbled, eyes closing as he pressed his warm cheek to the cold wall.

“You bastard!” Jon felt a light swat on his shoulder. “I listen to people! I have meaningful conversation; just ask Martin and Sasha and Alexa from Library and Calvin from Artefact Storage. I am practically a professional listener.”

Jon smirked, satisfied with his jab and turned around, now pressing his back to the wall. “God, Tim, I do not want to go back in there.” It was hard to admit out loud, even if the evidence was written all over his face.

“Okay. So, we won’t.”

“What?” the answer was so mind-bogglingly simple, Jon reeled.

“We don’t want to be here. We’ve talked, we’ve eaten. Let’s just leave. I can tell Elias I had an emergency and you had to escort me home, like a true gentleman.”

“Lie to Elias? I feel like that cant end well.” The offer was tempting, Jon hadf to admit.

“I mean, Sasha has keys to my flat. I could ask her to start a fire, if you think that’s sufficient?”

Jon barked out a laugh at that. “Ah, no, lets save a fire for something big. Yes. Let’s-let’s go, Tim. And-er, I suppose I should thank you. For coming tonight. I know its not an ideal way to spend an evening.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim did a twirl, Jon’s own jacket slung over his shoulder. “I look hot. You think I’d pass up an opportunity to dress up like this? You’re dreaming.” He smirked and took Jon’s arm, leading him back up the stairwell. It felt different than Elias’s touch. That had been a cold tug, directional and leashed. This felt…snug, more like a link in a chain than anything else. Comforting, reassuring.

(Luckily, they weren’t laughed out of the Nando’s they popped into late at night. Lemon and herb and spices covered their hands, but they were careful to keep their jackets clean. Jon, when looking back on the evening; remembers this moment, talking and laughing and letting the fresh night air was over them. Elias, Lukas, and Fairchild be damned. He’d deal with that tomorrow.)

[p-artsypants]

Longest Night (50) Celebrating

Here we go! The last chapter! And it’s a doozy! 

I don’t know about the rest of you guys, but I grew up calling all of my parents friend’s ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’. Some of them I still do. Which was really fun when I dated a family friend and kept calling his mom ‘Aunt Julie’. We are not related. Fun times!

Also, there’s some nicknames in this chapter. “Peepums” is Tom. “Nonnie Cheng” is Sabine. And “Nonna Gina” is Tom’s mom. You know how grandparents all have their weird nicknames. 

Ao3 | FF.net

20 years later

—

When Marinette awoke that morning, she was alone in bed. It wasn’t that odd. Adrien had always been an early riser, but this was a different reason than just that. 

But she didn’t worry. It was best just to leave things the way they were. 

Dressing in a robe, she went downstairs to start making breakfast. The kids were old enough to get ready on their own now, and as long as they were down before 7, she didn’t bug them. 

The first into the kitchen was the youngest, Emma. A complete girly-girl and lover of all things pink and fashionable. Even at 12, she had her own sophisticated sense of style (party cultivated by her grandfather). She danced in her pink dress and adorable white flats. “What do you think, mama? Perfect for career day? Do I look like a professional?” 

“Of course you do, sweetheart.” 

She beamed. “Where’s papa?” 

“Oh, uh, I’m not sure. He couldn’t sleep last night, so he went for patrol. He hasn’t been back yet.” 

Emma frowned hard. “He’ll be there for career day though, right?” 

“He wouldn’t miss it for the world! But Peepums and Grandfather Gabriel are going to be there too.” 

“Is Peepums bringing treats?” 

“I would assume so. He never passes up a chance to bring snacks. Now, I’m making crepes, you want one or two?” 

“Just one, mama.” 

“Alright.” 

The next down the stairs was the oldest (by two minutes) Hugo. “Morning mama,” he smiled brightly. 

“There’s my birthday boy! Feel any older?” 

“No, but I feel wiser!” He joked, as he jumped on the stool by the counter. 

“Where’s Louis?” 

“Stuck in the toilet.” 

“And you mean that figuratively, right?”

He shrugged. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Crepes, blueberry, your favorite.” 

“Yes! I want five!” 

“You can have three, I don’t want you to get a tummy ache before school.” 

“Lame! Bring on the crepes!” He pounded his fists on the counter. 

“Three, and then if you aren’t stuffed, I’ll consider more.” 

Then came the unmistakable sound of a body slowly falling down the stairs, before a dark haired teen crawled across the floor and collapsed next to his mother’s legs. 

“Ah, Birthday boy part 2. Welcome to the land of the living!” 

“It should be a crime to have to wake up early on your birthday.” Said the boy, face flat against the ground.

“You truly are my child,” said Marinette with a smile. 

“Where’s pops?” Asked Hugo, digging into his second crepe. 

“Out on patrol.” 

This caused Louis to stir and look up. “Did something happen?”

“No, he just couldn’t sleep.” 

Hugo frowned. “Nightmares again? He’s been having those a lot lately.” 

“Yeah. I’m not sure why he’s having them. But you kids don’t need to worry about it.” 

“Are we still okay for our party tomorrow?” 

“Of course!” Marinette beamed. “Even if papa wasn’t feeling great, we’d still have it! Aunt Chloe reserved the rooftop pool for you, after all.”

“…I’m so excited,” said the child on the floor, with no enthusiasm. “You just can’t tell right now.”

“Well, you’re not going to get any rest on the floor. Sit in your seat and eat your crepe. I’ll make a little coffee.” 

“…yay…” 

—

Emma bounced nervously in her seat. She was flanked by Tom and Gabriel, who had both already presented for career day. 

The day was almost over, and her father hadn’t shown. 

“It’s okay, my little cupcake.” Tom assured, petting her blonde hair. “He’ll be here.” 

“And if he doesn’t make it,” added Gabriel, “It wasn’t because he didn’t want to. He’s probably out there stopping a criminal, saving lives. I know you’re the most important thing in the world to him.” 

Emma nodded, believing both of her grandfathers, but also not wanting to be one without a dad on career day. 

Through the years, Emma had gotten used to her father’s unpredictable behavior. He loved her to the end of the world and back, and would move mountains for her if he could. And most days, it really really showed. 

But some days, he just wasn’t…there. Emotionally, spiritually, or like today, physically. Her mother had similar episodes, but mostly in mood swings. She got angry sometimes, seemingly over nothing. Never directed at Emma or her brothers, thankfully, but Emma knew that there was something different about her parents. 

She knew the story. She had been told pieces of it growing up, but never allowed to watch the footage. Mama and Papa had been kidnapped and tortured, because they were superheroes, and they were never the same after. The details were vague, and she was told it would be too scary for her to handle every time she asked. But she saw the scars, heard her father’s screams at night. 

Most days, she didn’t want to know.

“Alright! I think that’s everyone!” Miss Bustier called. “Thank you all for participating in our career day! It’s awesome that we have such a wide range of jobs just in this very room!” 

Emma deflated. Her father really wasn’t coming. 

Tom laid a giant hand on her head and rubbed. 

But then, there was a knock at the window. 

“Chat Noir?” Miss Bustier asked. 

The man in black waved as she opened the window. 

“So so sorry I’m late!” He apologized, hopping into the room. “I caught a robber, and I walked him down to the police station and we had to do all this paperwork—“ 

“Papa!” Emma shouted, leaping over her desk. She ran to him, and threw her arms around him in a crushing hug. “You made it!”

“Just in time it seems,” he laughed, hugging her back. “I’m sorry I’m late. Can you forgive me?”

“Of course! Come on, it’s your turn to present!” She took his hand and led him up to the front of the room. “Everyone, this is my dad, Chat Noir! He’s a superhero!” 

—

The next day was Saturday, and Marinette was full of stress up to her neck. She paced poolside, as her family helped set up for the party. 

“Alright, Nino’s on music, Alya’s on Emma duty, Chloe covered catering, mom and dad have the cake, Gabriel and Emilie have decorations…what am I missing?”

“My Lady, you’ve gone over this list a hundred times. We’re fine.” 

“Drinks! I forgot the drinks!” 

Adrien pointed over at the bar. “Luka and Kagami are on drinks, remember? Luka’s making his mimosas for the adults.”

“Oh, right.” Then she pointed at him. “No alcohol, alright? Not with your medication.” 

“Oh come on, these are Luka’s mimosas! I’m gonna get krunk!” 

“Dad’s gonna get krunk?” Asked Hugo, from the pool. 

“No one is getting krunk!” Marinette poked Adrien in the chest. “Look what you started!” 

“I’m only teasing.” Adrien laughed, taking his wife’s hand. “Relax My Lady, it’s a party, a sweet 16 party! Everyone’s here to have fun. And they will as long as we relax.” 

Marinette got close, whispering conspiratorially, “that’s just the thing! Do you remember our sweet sixteen parties?” 

“Well...I didn’t have a party,” Adrien shrugged. “You, Alya, and Nino helped me escape the house and we went to the movies.” 

“Yeah, and they spent the whole time making out, so you and I just sat there awkwardly.” 

“I think I put my arm around you,” he grinned. “My very good friend.” 

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“And your sixteenth...was that the year that Lila told everyone it was on a different day?” 

“And you were the only one who called to confirm it was on the original day, and so you were the only one that showed? Yep, that’s the one. I cried on you for 15 minutes when I realized no one else was coming.” 

“I mean, yeah, that sucked, but we still had fun with your family.” 

“My point is, this is Hugo and Louis’ sixteenth birthday. I want them to have a good one, to have what we couldn’t have.” 

“You have their gifts in your purse, right?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Then I wouldn’t worry about it. Their friends and family are coming, everything looks good, so just relax.” 

Marinette took a deep sigh. “You’re right, my love. Whatever happens, happens, and we’ve done all we can.” 

“The party will be fine, Mom.” Said Louis from a lounge chair. 

“Ah! Louis? Why aren’t you in the pool?” 

“I’m perfectly content just relaxing here. I’ll get hot soon enough and go in the pool.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Adrien wrapped an arm around his wife. “Marinette, let him alone. He’s fine. You know he’s our introvert.” 

“Mama! Papa!” Emma called, running towards them from the hotel elevator. “Look at the swimsuit grandfather Gabriel got me!” She twirled, letting the shimmery, glittery greens, teals, and purples swirl in a kaleidoscope of color. “I look like a mermaid!” 

“You sure do, Princess!” Adrien beamed. 

Emma squealed in delight before running back to Alya. 

“See? All of our kids are enjoying themselves. The guests are slowly trickling in...” he gestured to the elevator where more classmates with gifts arrived. “And no catastrophes yet.” 

“Fine fine, Kitty, I get it. I’ll have a mimosa and lighten up.” 

“Have one for me too!” He called after, as she headed to the bar. 

Soon, the guests arrived. Hugo and Louis had invited their entire class of 18 kids. Some parents stayed to help with chaperoning, and some even brought younger siblings that were friends with Emma. 

It was turning out to be a real shin-dig. 

So far, Marinette felt at ease. The four parents that had stayed were mostly just hanging out at the bar, but the kids were in the pool, and no one was drowning. 

Louis still reclined on the lounger, sunning himself. 

“You're still doing okay over here, kiddo?” 

“Mom, I’m doing so okay. So okay, it’s ridiculous. Nonna Gina brought me over a virgin mimosa, cause everyone’s talking about them. I feel like I’m on vacation.” 

“As long as you’re content, I’m happy. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t feeling left out.” 

“Nah,” he waved her off. “I will go swimming, but I’m going to wait until after eating.” 

“Okay, kiddo.” 

Seeing Hugo happily enthralled in a cannonball contest, and Louis sunning himself like a cat, she decided to check in with her youngest. Though she saw Alya at the bar talking to Kagami, and Emma nowhere in sight. 

This used to make her panic immediately. None of her kids were especially hyper or rambunctious. They didn’t run off on their own, especially without letting her know. 

But there was still a fear, still a niggling doubt in the back of her head that said ‘what if’? 

As calm as possible, she approached the adults at the bar, and asked Alya. “Have you seen Emma?”

“She ran down to the lobby to use the bathroom,” Alya answered casually. 

“Alone?”

“Yeah, Marinette, she’s 12. She can handle going to the bathroom alone.” It was a reassurance, no judgement. Because sometimes, Adrien and Marinette needed a reminder that their children were well adjusted and had plenty of common sense.

Marinette knew that. And it wasn’t the bathroom part she was concerned about. It was the trip down to the lobby by herself. 

She heard a father speak softly, “for superheroes, they are certainly overprotective of their kids. Kind of feel sorry for them.” 

Marinette nodded at Alya, and retreated sheepishly. Was her paranoia ruining her children’s lives? 

“What’s with that look, My Lady?” Adrien asked, softly, sipping on his drink. 

“Sorry, sorry, I just…overheard something I shouldn’t dwell on.” She looked at the drink in his hands, narrowing her eyes. 

“It’s virgin!” He handed it to her. “I promised I was going to quit. Getting plastered at our kid’s birthday would be the worst time for them to find out I have a problem.” 

“It’s not a problem yet, but that’s why I want you to stop. So it doesn’t become one.”

“Hey! Let go Isaac!” Louis’ voice carried over the water. Instantly, Marinette and Adrien were alert and looked to see a larger boy pulling Louis toward the pool by the arm. 

“Hey!” Marinette called out. “Let him go! If he doesn’t want to go swimming, don’t force him!” 

“Oh come on, Lady!” The father from the bar shouted over to her. “What’s the point in having a pool party for your boys if they aren’t even going to go swimming!?”

SPLASH

Louis surfaced with a gasp, and then a defeated “aw man!” 

“Are you okay kiddo?” Marinette asked. “You didn’t have your phone on you, right?”

“No, I’m fine.” He took off his soaked shirt and dropped it on the edge of the pool with a loud plop. “Just…didn’t want to get wet yet.” 

“Dude, come on Isaac, don’t be such a turd!” Hugo chastised. 

“He looked lonely!” Isaac argued. 

“Whatever,” Louis said, defeated. “Just…don’t dunk me, okay?” 

“No promises!”

Adrien frowned at the exchange as Louis swam over closer to his brother. “Isaac, Isaac, why is that name familiar? Is that the kid that’s been picking on Louis? Why is he here?” 

“Oh,” Marinette smacked her head. “That’s what they were asking about!” 

“What? Who?” 

“A few weeks ago, the boys were asking me questions about what to do about a classmate people don’t get along with. They asked if they should include them in the party if they were inviting the rest of the class. I told them that would be the right thing to do, but I didn’t realize they were talking about Louis’ bully!” She groaned. “And it looks like the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” She glared at Isaac’s dad at the bar. 

Adrien smiled over at the pool. Both Hugo and Louis were laughing and seemed to be having a good time. It seemed Louis was already over his impromptu dunking. “Our kids are resilient. It’ll take more than that to bring them down.” 

“They are strong.” Marinette breathed. “Stronger than me.” 

It was then that Emma returned. “Hi mama, I’m back. Aunt Alya said I should check in with you because you were worried? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going.” 

Marinette smiled at her. “It’s fine Emma. You told Aunt Alya, so someone knew. You just know I’m a basket case.” 

Emma frowned at her mom. “You’re not a basket case. You’re just...worried?” 

“Does that bother you? Do I make you feel trapped or smothered?” 

Adrien stared at his wife in horror. Likewise, so did Emma. “No! Not at all!” She hugged her around the waist and added, “Nonnie Cheng worries about where I am too. She says it’s because you went missing, and it’s scared her ever since. I don’t want to scare you, mom.” 

Marinette hugged Emma tightly and said, “I have the best kids in the world.” 

“In that case,” Emma grinned. “Can I have some soda?” 

“Sure, just tell Aunt Kagami what you want.”

“Thanks mom!” She beamed and scurried off. 

“And no running!” Marinette called after. “Girl’s got my clumsy streak. She’ll break her neck.” 

“Crisis averted it seems.” Said Adrien. 

“For now,” Marinette narrowed her eyes. “But Ladybug never rests!” 

Adrien pecked his wife on the lips. “Someone has to be responsible.” 

“Hey pops!” Hugo called from the pool. 

“What’s up?” 

“We’re going to do a diving contest! You should join!” 

“Yeah!” 

“Come on Mr. Dupain-Cheng!” 

“Show us some Chat Noir style!” 

Marinette nudged him. “Go ahead. Show those kids how it’s done.” 

He smirked. “Okay okay.” He took off his shirt and laid it on the lounger by their bags. Then he entered the pool from the shallow end, coming up behind the kids. “How does this diving contest work?” 

“It’s easy!” Said Hugo, “we’re going to take turns coming up with unique ways to jump in the pool. Winner is the best technique, or most creative.”

“I got one!” Said a chubby kid. He climbed out of the pool and up on the diving board. 

“Make room!” Someone called. “Cannon ball champion on the loose!” 

“This is called ‘The Patrick Star’!” He bounced twice, getting real air before leaping out, parallel with the water, arms and legs spread out like a starfish. 

And he collided with the water with a resounding clap, making everyone go, ‘ooo!’ 

The kid surfaced, his entire frontside pink. “Ow.” 

The rest of the class laughed at him. 

One by one, classmates would come up with a dive, though most were a lot more elegant than the first. 

“I call this, ‘The Ladybug’.” A girl said. She ran and jumped, twisting in the air while throwing her arm, mimicking Ladybug’s yo-yo. She managed to say “bug out!” Before she hit the water. Marinette whistled. “She’s got my vote!” 

“Come on, Pops,” said Hugo. “It’s your turn!” 

“I don’t have a—“ 

“Just make something up! Go go!” 

Adrien pulled himself out of the pool and headed toward the diving board, aware of the people watching, curious. 

This was his twin boys’ special day. He had to be impressive. He had to be the cool dad. 

He took a running start, falling into a front flip as he hit the diving board. His adult weight bowed the board with force, sending him up into the air. He curled tightly into a ball, using the momentum to rotate three times, before coming out of the ball and diving seamlessly into the water. 

When he surfaced, the crowd of kids were going wild. They screamed and chanted “Dad! Dad! Dad!” 

Obviously started by his boys. 

Adrien beamed as he treaded water. Being Chat Noir was great, even with all the pain it had brought him. But being his kid’s hero was the absolute best. 

But everything came to a screeching halt as Isaac, the butthole kid, let out a loud, “EWWW!!” Grabbing everyone’s attention. “What’s wrong with your dad’s back!? It’s all gross!”

Adrien slammed his eyes shut, all at once feeling self-conscious. But this was just a dumb teenager. Maybe he didn’t know any better. But before he could gather himself to calmly explain his scars, his boys spoke up for him. 

“It’s scarring, you jerk,” said Louis. 

“He got it from being a superhero, when he was just two years older than we are!” Added Hugo. 

Isaac scoffed, “Chat Noir and Ladybug aren’t real superheroes! Not like the ones in America! All they do is rescue cats from trees and show up for charity events. They don’t even do anything anymore!”

Adrien sloppily backtracked, reaching out for the edge of the pool. 

“Just yesterday, he caught a robber! That’s not nothing!” Hugo defended. 

“Oh yeah?” Said Isaac, “My dad said that they used to fight supervillains, but they couldn’t stop the guy responsible for them! He said they’re losers and failures!” 

“Hey Jean,” said one of the parents. “Tell your kid to shut up.” 

Isaac’s father took a chug from his beer and shrugged. “Someone had to say it.” 

“Monsieur,” said Ladybug with god-like patience. “I suggest you and your son leave. I don’t feel the need to play host to someone who could be so hateful and misinformed.” 

“Misinformed?” The man, Jean, scoffed. “I was there. I saw the stream back then. I remember what it was like. The weekly akumas, classes and events always cancelled. The only reason they stopped is because Hawkmoth gave up. I don’t think you guys should be getting recognition anymore. Sorry, not sorry.” 

“Mom?” Louis called from the pool.

Jean frowned, continuing. “The rest of us have to make a living working hard, every day. You and your husband just put on some skin tight leather and prance around. Now you’re set for life. It’s disgusting.” 

“Hey man, if you don’t like it, you can leave,” said Alya. “No one invited you. I heard your son was only invited out of obligation.” 

“Mom!” Louis called again. 

“Marinette and Adrien suffered enough for a lifetime. Every day is a struggle! How dare you say otherwise!” 

“MOM!” Louis screamed. 

Marinette whipped her head over to the pool, seeing Adrien struggling to keep his head above water. Louis and Hugo were holding him up. She hurried over. “What happened? What’s wrong?” 

“He’s having an attack!” 

Tom rushed over, reaching his hands under Adrien’s arms, and pulled him out of the pool. He tried to set him on his feet, but he kept leaning forward, trying to lay down. His eyes were wide, but unfocused, as his breaths came rapidly. 

Marinette tugged on his arm. “Come on, Kitty. Not here.” She called over to Chloe. “Is there a room we can borrow for a second?”

“Follow me!” 

Louis broke off from the group, but Hugo and Marinette were quick to escort Adrien away from the party. 

“Mom?” Emma asked, right as they were about to get on the elevator. 

“It’s okay, Honey. Dad just needs a minute. Stay behind with Aunt Alya, okay?”

Emma nodded, though didn’t look convinced. 

Chloe showed them to her room, where she quickly got a towel for Adrien to wrap up in. 

Hugo and Marinette eased him down to sit on the couch. There, he slumped, his head resting on the back of the couch. 

Louis found their room, cup in hand. “I brought a coke. I know that usually helps.” 

Marinette sighed in relief. “Thank you baby,” she took the cup from him and put it in Adrien’s hand, then helped him take a sip. 

They sat for a while, watching Adrien breathe slowly and take occasional sips from his drink.

“I’m so sorry boys,” Marinette looked to them sadly. “We didn’t mean to ruin your birthday.”

Hugo frowned at her. “What? You guys didn’t ruin anything. Isaac’s the one that pooped on our party.”

“Yeah,” added Louis, “and we were having a great time up until now. Don’t worry about it mom.” 

Adrien very shakily brought the cup towards his face, and Marinette was quick to help, so he didn’t spill. “Dad’s going to be fine,” she explained. “Why don’t you boys get back to the party?” 

“If it’s okay, I’d like to wait until dad feels a little better. I’d feel guilty if I left,” said Louis.

“Me too,” said Hugo. “And I need a few minutes to calm down to keep from punching Isaac in the face. What he said was dumb. He has no idea what you guys do.” 

“…it shouldn’t have bothered me…” Adrien said, softly. 

“Dad?” 

“I’m okay,” he took a deep exhale. “Just…lost myself for a moment.” 

Hugo hugged him tightly around the shoulders. “Love you, dad. Don’t worry about it.” 

“I’m sorry for scaring you boys…and your friends. But I’ll be alright now.” 

“You recovered pretty quickly,” Marinette noted. 

“It’s because I have my big strong boys with me.” He wrapped his arms around his sons. “There was nothing to worry about.” 

Except, there was. 

Alya burst into the room, Chloe behind her, with a look of panic. 

“Marinette, come quickly!” 

“What? What’s wrong?” 

“It’s Emma! She’s been akumatized!!” 

—

As Emma watched her father be rushed out of the party, a stone fell into her gut. No matter how often this happened, no matter how good they got at catching the attacks, it still scared her when it happened. 

She was torn between wanting to be with him, and not wanting to see that vacant expression on his face. Her mother said it was a coping mechanism he developed a long time ago, when they had been kidnapped. He just switched his brain off when he got overwhelmed, as to not experience pain. It only happened a few times a year, only in super stressful situations where he thought about his torture. 

Emma wiped at her face as she looked over the party. Alya was chastising the adult man that had talked bad about her father, and Hugo and Louis’ friends were ripping into the kid that started the whole mess. 

Everyone was angry and yelling. 

“Emma?” Gabriel asked, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright, dear?” 

“Oh, Grandfather…” She sniffed. “I’m just…scared.” 

“Your father will be alright. It’s nothing physical, it’s just a mental state.” 

“I know…” She screwed up her lips. “But I’m scared people are going to keep saying that stuff to him. Mom acts like I’m too young to understand what’s happening…but people are forgetting that they are real superheroes, and they act like they’re mascots. I’m scared this is going to happen again.” She rubbed at her damp eyes. “He doesn’t deserve it. Neither of them do.” 

“You really love your parents, don’t you?” 

“Of course! They’re the best!”

“Then, I have a plan. Would you be willing to help?”

“Of course, what is it?”

“Come with me, we’ll speak in private.” 

Curious, Emma followed Gabriel into the hotel, down to a conference room. He locked the door behind them. 

“You remember our little secret?” 

“That I know you were Hawkmoth?” 

“Yes. My plan requires me to come out of retirement, just this once…and to akumatize you.” 

She looked startled. “You want to turn me into a supervillain?”

“Only if you agree to it, dear.” He pet her hair. “My goal is to make you a supervillain, so you can terrorize Paris and remind them of what Ladybug and Chat Noir used to do. I’ll be able to see through your eyes, so I can stop and undo any damage if something goes wrong.” 

Emma crossed her arms. “You’d make mom and dad fight me?”

“Not fight you, rescue you.”

She frowned again, thinking about it. Then she nodded. “Let’s do it!” 

Gabriel smiled at her, and opened his sports jacket, where Nooroo was hiding. “Nooroo, Dark Wings rise!” 

In a flash of purple light, Hawkmoth had returned. Inside his cane, a little white butterfly fluttered. 

Emma danced on her toes. “What kind of powers are you going to give me? I want to be pretty!” 

He chuckled at her eagerness. “Of course, my sweet Emma.” He evilized the butterfly, and then coaxed it into the paw print bracelet she was wearing. 

A purple mask appeared on her face.

“Mermaidia, I’m giving you the power of the seas. You may travel through any body of water, and turn those that oppose you into sea creatures. In exchange, you must give Chat Noir and Ladybug a taste of nostalgia. Do you accept these terms?” 

“Absolutely, Hawkmoth.” 

The dark purple fog encompassed Emma, turning the sweet blonde girl into a real mermaid, with purple hair, shimmering scales, and an abundance of glittering gold and jewels. In her hand, she held a trident. 

Hawkmoth took a bottle of water from the table, and poured it on the floor. 

Mermaidia stepped into the puddle, and disappeared. 

—

“Regardless if you feel like you’re right, it’s still your opinion. And an opinion doesn’t give you the right to be an asshole, especially to people who are hosting this party!” Shouted Alya. 

The rest of the parents were quietly watching the exchange, not really wanting to get involved. But they were also paying attention to a similar argument in the pool. 

“You are a grown adult and a parent. It’s your job to teach your kid respect and kindness, two qualities I haven’t seen from him today.” 

“Look lady, I know you’re friends with the Dupain-Cheng’s and all, but come on. It doesn’t bother you that they don’t work at all? What’s the point of them calling themselves superheroes anyway? They should just hang up the suits and get real jobs.” 

“They. Can’t.” Alya emphasized. “Did you not just see what happened to Adrien? What if he was working and he had an attack? What then, smart guy?”

“He won’t have attacks if he was doing something with his life!” 

“They are full time parents, and full time heroes! They do more than just ‘rescue cats and make celebrity appearances at charity events’! How can you be so ignorant?!”

“What did you call me!?” 

Screams came from the pool, and the argument halted. 

Mermaidia had made her appearance. 

“I am Mermaidia! You all have grown too soft and comfortable! I’m here to remind you what it was like back when there were akuma!” She laughed, pointed her trident, and turned a child into a fish. 

The party descended into madness, as Mermaidia shot rapidly. None of the teens in the pool escaped, and all turned into various fish and sea creatures. 

Isaac turned into a starfish, and Emma stuck him to her arm. “You’re coming with me. I want you to see how wrong you were.” 

Several adults had tried to escape as well, but Mermaidia stopped them in their run. 

Only those who knew the identity of Hawkmoth, or were previous Miraculous users didn’t panic. Rather, they stood staring, confused. Alya backed away carefully, and escaped into the hotel. Whether Emma purposely let her go or not, she would never know.

“Emma?” Asked Sabine. 

“I’m not Emma anymore, I’m Mermaidia!” She turned Isaac’s father into another starfish, and stuck him on her other arm. “You mocked my parents, but now, they’re the only ones that can save you! Ahahaha!” 

“Emma, stop.” Tom demanded. “You’re a good girl. We can’t let what people say get to us. People will always have their opinions that we disagree with, but we can’t take it personally.” 

“But I can take this personally!” She shouted back. “My father is the greatest man alive, and no one will doubt that when I’m through! Just you see!” 

She turned the rest of the assembled party goers into creatures, before leaping into the pool and disappearing.

—

Ladybug, Chat Noir, Alya, Chloe, Louis, and Hugo all returned to the party, only to find a bunch of fish. 

“What the…?” 

“She’s called Mermaidia,” Alya clarified. “She’s turned everyone into sea creatures. She appeared from the water, so I think she can transport through liquid.”

“She totally can, dude,” said a sea turtle from the pool. 

“Nino?” Asked Chat Noir. 

“Cha dude, what do you think? Pretty fitting for me, huh?” 

“Are you okay?”

“Totally. All the little dudes are too.” He gestured to the fish in the pool. 

“Emma turned the kid and his dad who started the argument into starfish.” Said a sea-snake. “They’re on her arms. So be careful when you attack.”

“Luka?”

“Yep.”  

“Where’s my mom and dad?” 

“Over here!” Called a walrus. There was a crab next to him, waving a claw. “We’re fine, honey. Just save Emma!” 

“Next question,” Said Ladybug, wielding her yo-yo angrily. “Where’s Gabriel?”

Chat Noir rested a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s focus on saving Emma, and then we’ll find him.” 

She sighed. “You’re right, as always, kitty. However, I think we might need some help with this akuma.” She opened her yo-yo and reached inside, pulling out two octagonal boxes. Then she turned to Hugo and Louis. “I hoped to give you your presents later, and hoped you wouldn’t ever have to use them. But desperate times come desperate measures.” 

Hugo and Louis smiled at each other, with excitement. 

“Louis, my wise, observant, and cunning child, this is the Miraculous of the Snake. With it, you can turn back time an infinite amount of times in a five minute duration. You will use it for the greater good.”

“Sweet.” 

“And Hugo, my brave, bold, and exuberant child, this is the Miraculous of the Turtle. With it, you can create an impenetrable shield. You will use it for the greater good.”

“Yes!” 

“Louis, to transform, simply say ’Sass, Scales Slither.’ And Hugo, your phrase is ‘Wayzz, Shell On’.”

“Sass, Scales Slither!”

“Wayzz, Shell On!” 

A flash of green and teal, and the boys were turned into superheroes. They high fived each other. 

“The Reptile Boyz are back in town!” Hugo cheered. 

“Really? ‘Boyz’ with a ‘Z’?” Chat Noir asked flatly.

“It’s cool, old man!” Said Louis. 

“Alright team, let’s focus,” Ladybug said, a bit too fondly for the situation at hand. She took out her yo-yo, and looked for intel. There was a special report live from Nadja Chamack. 

“—Mermaidia is the first Akuma in 20 years! It was thought that Hawkmoth had retired, but it seems he has one ace left up his sleeve. The akuma was last spotted at the Luxembourg park! Hopefully, Ladybug and Chat Noir are on their way! Again, this is a real akuma, so it is advised to stay indoors and away from water!” 

“She’s at the park! Let’s go!” 

—

This wasn’t nearly as scary as Emma thought it would be. In fact, she was having a lot of fun. Hawkmoth did advise her that she would be influenced by her anger, but that really didn’t seem to bother her. It was really fun to turn people into sea creatures. 

Though, she did feel really guilty when she hit people that were crying in fear. 

But that’s what her parents were here for! To undo all this! It was fine! 

“I am Mermaidia! And Ladybug and Chat Noir are your only chance for salvation!” 

“Now now Emma,” Chat Noir spoke from behind. “Go easy on us. We’re a little wet behind the ears.” 

Emma had to stomp down the urge to run and hug her father, and instead declared. “There you are, Ladybug and Chat Noir! Ready to do battle?” 

Ladybug simply crossed her arms. “If you don’t give up your akuma, you’re grounded.” 

Mermaidia stomped her foot. “You can’t ground me if you can’t catch me!” And she leapt into the fountain. 

“She’s escaping!” Cried Hugo. 

“Quick, fan out! Look for sources of water, and call as soon as you get sight of her!” 

—

This was not Hugo or Louis’ first time using a Miraculous. Every once in a while, Marinette and Adrien would allow the children to pick one out to try, and then they’d have a family game of tag out on the Paris rooftops. The rules were to stay safe, and to not allow the media to take pictures. And at the first sign of danger, they were supposed to go home and let Mom and Dad handle it. 

So the boys were familiar with their powers, but boy, they were not ready for the anxiety of an Akuma attack. 

They may have been older, but Emma was still the reigning champion of tag. 

“Find anything?” Louis asked, crossing his brother. 

“Not a scale,” said Hugo. “Have you activated your Second Chance yet?” 

“No, but I will the second we find her. Then if she escapes, we can just reverse time.” 

“Smart.” Then, Hugo’s eyes caught on something in the river. “Huh?”

“What?”

“How often do you think whales go down the Seine?” 

“Uh…never?” 

“There she is! She’s on top of it!” Hugo activated his distress beacon on his shield, making sure to keep up with Emma, but also stay out of sight. 

“We have to play this carefully. She can literally jump into the water and disappear at any second.” 

“Not if there’s no water to disappear into,” said Chat Noir, appearing from nowhere. 

Hugo resisted a scream. “D-Chat! You’re too sneaky!”

“I’ve been doing this a while, kiddo. Ladybug’s not here yet?” 

“No, what’s the plan?”

“I have half a plan…”

“Then it’s a good thing I have half of one too!” Said Ladybug, finally joining them. “After you sent your signal, I called the French Waterway Commission and had them close the lock she’s on.” 

“What did what the what?” Hugo asked. 

“The river is made up of locks,” explained Louis, “chambers that fill and empty with water so boats can travel. The ground isn’t level, and the water level changes.” 

“So Ladybug basically had them dam up the section Emma’s on right now,” said Chat.

“But she can still travel through water, so once she reaches the dam, she’ll just abandon ship, er, whale.” Hugo observed. “So then what?”

“Then we put my plan into action,” Chat cracked his knuckles, and stealthily made his way to the river bank. 

Louis and Hugo watched in fascination as Chat called his Cataclysm and touched the water. In a boiling wave, it rolled quickly past Emma, evaporating as it went. It didn’t even have time to settle, just went up in a cloud of steam. 

The whale that Emma was on run ashore, and she came to a halt. “What?”

“Nowhere to run now, little girl!” Ladybug called. 

Mermaidia jumped from the back of the whale and landed in the sand. It wasn’t even damp. Chat had literally evaporated all the water in that section of the river. 

“Second Chance!” Louis activated his bracelet. And just in time too, as Mermaidia shot a beam at Ladybug, and turned her into a dolphin. “Second Chance!”   

Time restarted, and Louis shouted. “Ladybug, dive!” 

Ladybug dove out of the way, missing the three shots Mermaidia took. 

“I’m not going to take it easy on you just because you’re my mother!” Emma shouted. “So let’s show Paris what a real superhero looks like, hmm?” 

“Oh you are so grounded when this is over, little lady!” She dodged another blast, and called for her Lucky Charm. 

Hugo called for Shelter while she glanced around, looking for the purpose of the tennis racket her Miraculous had bestowed upon her.

Then it dawned on her. 

A grounding wasn’t enough for her naughty child. Oh no. This called for the big guns.

The second Hugo’s Shelter faded, she shot out her yo-yo, catching Emma around the arms, and yanked her to lay across her leg. Hugo and Louis peeled the captive starfish off, while Chat took the trident. All the while Mermaidia wriggled around, fighting against the yo-yo string. 

“No akuma in the trident, my lady.” Chat Noir shrugged. 

“Oh, I’ll get it out of her.” Ladybug raised the tennis racket. “Where’s the akuma at, Emma?” 

“This is cheating!” 

“Okay, you asked for it.” And Ladybug brought the tennis racket down on her bottom, once, twice, three times before Emma cried out. “Okay okay! It’s in my bracelet! Stop! Stop!”

Chat broke the bracelet, freeing the butterfly, as Ladybug set her crying daughter down in the sand. 

She caught and purified the butterfly, and removed everyone from the bank of the river before casting her cure. 

Emma Dupain-Cheng returned, pouting, and still rubbing her behind. “I was just trying to help…” 

“Where’s your Grandfather?” 

“He’s in a conference room at the hotel. But don’t be mad at him, please…” 

Before Ladybug could yell more, Isaac and his father approached her. “Uh, Ladybug?” 

“Yes?”

“Look, I wanted to—we wanted to apologize. Thank you for rescuing us, and I’m sorry. I guess I had forgotten what it was like having akumas around. You still stopped Hawkmoth, right? Well…until today…” 

“Hawkmoth is a friend of ours now,” Ladybug clarified. “He’s paid for his crimes, but today has shown that he hasn’t quite learned the right way to deal with problems. I believe he was well intentioned, but we will be having words.” 

Isaac’s father nudged his son. “You want to say anything?” 

Isaac shyly looked at the family and admitted, “thank you for inviting to the party. No one invites me to things.” 

“Yeah, well, work on your boundary issues, and maybe it’ll happen more often,” said Louis. 

“If you guys want to head back to the hotel, I think there’s still time for cake!” Said Chat, with optimism. 

—

After the Miraculous cure restored the party, everyone gathered again and lunch was served. 

But, the Dupain-Chengs were in the conference room. Marinette and Adrien frowned at their youngest and Gabriel. 

“Now, son--” Gabriel began. 

“What were you thinking?” Adrien interrupted. 

“I was thinking that Paris needed a little reminder of all the hard work you guys did.” 

“Yeah, cool,” sniped Marinette. “Except now they think you’re out of retirement, and that’s a huge reminder that we didn’t stop you!” 

Gabriel took the brooch off. “Then here. Make it official. Tell them that this akuma was my swan-song and I made it to surrender.” 

Marinette took the brooch regardless, and put it in her bag. “I don’t know what I’ll say to the media. They’ll want to know who you are, and if you’re going to prison…and akumatizing your own granddaughter?” 

“I told him I was okay with it!” Said Emma. “I knew what I was getting into. It’s not that big of a deal!” 

“Not that big of a deal!?” 

There was a knock on the door, as Hugo and Louis peeked their heads in. “There you are, Grandfather!” 

“Hi boys,” he smiled at them, softly. 

The twins pushed passed their parents to stand in front of him, arms crossed, just like Marinette and Adrien. 

“What you did was terrible,” Said Louis. 

“So awful,” echoed Hugo. 

“You could have permanently hurt or traumatized people.” 

“Done thousands of dollars of property damage.” 

Gabriel sighed. “I know…I just—“ But he was cut off as the boys wrapped him up in a tight hug. “What?”

“Thanks for the coolest present ever!” 

“Yeah! Mom gave us our Miraculous, but the chance to use them on a real akuma!?” 

“Hey!” Shouted Emma. “I was the akuma! No thanks for me!?”

They gave her a noogie. “Thanks twerp.” 

“You’re a twerp!” 

Marinette and Gabriel met eyes. He gave a sheepish shrug. “I know I’m bad. But I deeply love my family.” 

She then gave up trying to be angry. “Alright fine. I admit it. It was fun to fight an akuma again. But it’s over now!” 

Adrien shook his head fondly. “Thanks for meddling dad.” 

“Your welcome, son.” 

“I want cake!” Hugo shouted. 

“Cake time!” 

“Yay cake!” 

“No cake for Emma. Only broccoli.” Marinette clarified. “You were naughty.” 

“Aw man!!” 

--

AND THAT’S THE END! 

Oh my word this story got AWAY from me! It was only supposed to be maybe 20 chapters when I first started on it? But here we are, a year and a half later, and over 200,000 words! I kinda can’t believe I’m done! 

Anyways, thank you all for sticking around through all the heartache. I appreciated every single review and like. And one parting question: What was your favorite part?

[thespianbooks]

A Court of Nightmares and Starlight //Chapter One//

(Chapter one) (Chapter two) (Chapter three) (Chapter four) (Chapter five) (Chapter six) (Chapter seven) (Chapter eight) (Chapter nine) (Chapter ten)

I knew it was bound to happen eventually. Surrounded by the new walls in this estate, after growing so familiar with Rhys’s old room—my old room, at the House of Wind; a part of me knew the new surroundings might trigger the nightmares to return. Even if over a decade had passed, a part of me was, and would probably always be haunted by the events that had taken place Under the Mountain. At first, I dreamt of stabbing myself in the heart, as I had the young male and female fae. Over the years the nightmares evolved, sometimes as gory and painful as it had been to actually live through it, and other times an array of images would pass through my mind in a panic—as if I were living through it all at once in a matter of seconds. Images of blood, Amarantha, the knife in my blood-soaked hands—of Rhys. Of Rhys’s pained face as he desperately tried to get to me during Amarantha’s attack, wielding a knife of his own. Tonight, in particular, those flashing images conjured up old and ancient feelings of panic in me that I had not experienced since I was newly Made; since my time in the Spring Court. Since before I learned Rhys was my mate; before I overcame that overwhelming despair that had threatened to drown me. The nightmares hadn’t stirred those emotions in over a decade, but tonight was different. 

I jolted awake in a cold sweat, my skin clammy and stomach roiling at the particularly violent images of my blood-soaked hands and Rhys’s panicked and desperate face still lingering as I tried to discern reality from dream. I silently thanked the Cauldron that Rhys wasn’t with me as I made a mad dash for the bathing room attached to our suite. I barely made it to the toilet as I vomited up the dinner, and probably the entirety of my stomach contents from the day before, I had with Mor. My eyes burned as the wave intensified, reminding me of those days in the Spring Court, a couple of sobs escaping between my heaves. 

Breathe

You’re free. We’re free. And safe

Just breathe

As the wave of nausea finally began to pass, and the heaving stopped, I took a few deep breaths as Rhys guided me through our bond. Nerves settled, I flushed the toilet and stood slowly. Once I was confident I wouldn’t sway on my feet, I padded over to the sink, rinsing my mouth out thoroughly. Sighing deeply once again, I smiled softly as I felt those familiar dark-shadowed talons caress my mental shields before lowering them and allowing Rhys in. 

Hello Feyre darling

My smile widened. I’m alright, just another bad dream

Must have been a bad one. Your nightmares haven’t caused you to puke your guts up in years. 

It’s because I’m alone in this big house without you. 

I felt his dark laugh reverberate through the bond. I knew I couldn’t blame him for performing his duties as the High Lord of the Night Court, particularly in matters of the Illyrian sort. He, Cassian, and Azriel were duty-bound to attend and oversee the Blood Rite of their novice-warriors. As High Lord, commander of armies, and spymaster, the trio of Illyrians had taken it upon themselves to attend the ceremonies before would-be warriors were sent off to fend for themselves and survive in the mountains. Previously, they had only attended the ceremonies at the beginning and end of the blood rite on the first and last day, but this year they decided to stay the week to welcome, congratulate, and perform all ceremonial rights for the survivors and new Illyrian warriors. 

Though it had only been three days since they left, it was the longest Rhys and I had been apart since before the war with Hybern. The first couple of years after the war had been a hard period of adjustment, and while there were still days where I only saw Rhys first thing in the morning and not again until right before bed, over the last decade we had managed to make more time for each other. Especially after our first Winter Solstice together, after coming to the decision that we would try and conceive the firstborn the bone-carver had once shown me, we always found time to spend together—just the two of us. Perhaps that was the real reason why my despairing nightmares had returned. Perhaps it was simply because I missed him, his warmth as we lay entangled in our sheets—our new sheets in this estate I built for us, our family. 

The estate Rhys had given me—us, really, had taken a little longer to remodel than I had originally hoped. He had told me to build a painting studio for myself, a room for each member of our inner circle, including my sisters...including the would-be son we had yet to conceive. I worked on the nursery first; once I had officially shifted all my focus on the estate-building project, it was all I could think about. The art studio I opened in the Rainbow, with Ressina, was beginning to flourish and after countless days of watching fae children heal from their trauma the war caused, I wanted nothing more than to prepare the nursery for my future child—as a form of my own healing process.

But as time passed, and my cycles returned at their regular intervals, I shifted my focus from the nursery to the rest of our estate. As an attempt to distract myself from it, I made sure to create the perfect space for every member of our inner circle. Everyone had their own living quarters, allowing them to freely stay or leave at their leisure. Cassian and Azriel were delighted to have their own space; though the former was more vocal about it, I knew Az was glad to have a place of solace—especially since space was so limited at our townhouse. The two Illyrians were especially pleased with the training grounds in the back of the estate, past the gardens. Rhys had the most influence over that aspect of the estate, since the trio used the space so frequently.

Mor was especially ecstatic to have a new room—an upgrade she called it, with an abundance of closet space which allowed her to show off her multiple pieces of fashion from the various courts of Prythian to her heart's content. Even Amren was pleased with not only her luxurious suite; more luxurious than mine and Rhys’s that allowed her to display the fine jewelry and baubles she collected over the years, but also with the two-story library lined with stacks of books that even I couldn’t resist browsing. 

Elain had been my biggest help in planning our estate, and when I asked what she wanted, she simply—and shyly, requested a garden. A now wide and expansive garden, with a vast greenhouse, which she tended to with the groundskeeper every day. Her living quarters were combined with Nesta’s, who never admittedly claimed to live in our estate, but over the years settled and even sold the small apartment she once resided in on the other side of the Sidra. I couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with Cassian’s growing influence, but I knew it was mostly due to Elain and Amren. I was only happy to see her on a nearly day-to-day basis. 

I had indeed built the house of my dreams—our dreams, filled with family, staff and sentries with their own living quarters, and more than an adequate amount of space for us all. After three years of careful planning and attending to every last detail, along with balancing my shared duties as High Lady; our estate was now a masterpiece with an empty nursery. I pushed away from the thought, reminding myself that fae children—fae babies, were rare. That night on the Winter Solstice when we decided we were ready for them, Rhys had warned me it could take years. At the time, I hadn’t cared, but as the years passed I often wondered if I would ever see the beautiful face of the son the bone-carver had shown me. 

I tried not to lose faith, in the Mother, the cauldron, all of it. Every time the disappointment showed in my face when my excruciating cycle would return, Rhys knew and reassured me that it would happen for us. I tried not to think about it with my mental shields down, or shout it down the bond, which I was more efficient at building every year. Not that I actively liked to block Rhys out, I rather enjoyed communicating through our bond, depended on it—especially on a night like this.

I’d rather not worry about you getting sick every night this week. I’ll come home tomorrow

You don’t need to do that, I’m really fine. Maybe it was that big dinner I had.

Funny, I almost believed you for a second Feyre, darling

I sighed audibly, sure that he knew I did. It was just an intense nightmare. They still come and go, you know they do

I do—but still-

Don’t be such a mother hen. I snapped. It was a bad dream and a bad reaction. I’ll be fine in the morning.

Silence followed for longer than I liked, and I felt some remorse for snapping at him. Knowing my feelings, my experience, with overprotective behavior had him reigning it in as much as possible. It was still there from time to time, but I knew my mate. Knew when he was overprotective, it meant he couldn’t help himself but would in no way force me to his will. Still, my feelings of guilt remained. It was true that it had been years since a nightmare caused this reaction, and had the roles been reversed, I would want to be at his side. 

I was about to apologize before he sent another warm message down the bond; As you wish, High Lady

I rolled my eyes. That wasn’t exactly an order, you know.

Oh I know, but I also know just how much you love ordering me around

I smiled as I settled in our bed, imagining his cocky grin adorning his handsome face, violet eyes glimmering with mischief. I sighed again, if that were the case, I would actually order you back home.

I still can

No, no I’m alright. I feel better already. Plus you need to be there. Go enjoy your Illyrian rituals and ceremonies and whatnot.

As you wish, High Lady

I snorted before sending him a vulgar gesture down the bond and raising my mental shield of adamant as I closed my eyes, sleep once again starting to claim my body; the timbre of his dark laughter resounding softly in the shadows around me, causing my stomach to flutter delicately as the sound lingered and lulled me into a new sleep.

[nxrthmizu]

-Lordbug, Robin and Kitty Noir- Chapter Eleven: In Which Bruce Tries To Meet His Daughter-In-Law (But Fails)

---

/Part One//Part Ten/

Description: In which the fashion show finally takes place :D

Warnings: None

---

And I’m back with an update! :D Currently I’m in a small town in the middle of a mountains… Basically, the middle of nowhere in which you need to drive through three (If there isn’t traffic) hours of mountains to get to. But! I have Wi-Fi, so here I am, typing an update for you from the middle of nowhere :D

As always, this wasn’t proof-read, I didn’t have enough time, sorry :( so please contact me if any mistakes were found! :D Enjoy

—

Kitty dropped into her balcony seconds before her transformation dropped. She leaped off her bunk-bed-thingy into the middle of her bedroom, where the unfinished dress stood calmly. 

“Help yourself to the macarons.” Marinette told Plagg distractedly. “I need to finish the dress.” 

“Hey.” 

Marinette hummed, looking up to see Robin casually leaning against one of the pillars. She screeched, backtracking in surprise until her brain fully registered who it was. “Um, hey?” 

Robin blushed. “I know I shouldn’t be in your room unannounced but… I saw that you needed help.” He gestured to her dress. “And I thought if you needed a pair of extra hands, I could…?” 

Marinette bit her lip. “I suppose.” She smiled. “Alright, come here and I’ll run you through quickly.” She glanced at the clock, and quickly checked to make sure that Plagg was safely hidden in a little crevasse behind numerous fabrics and organisation shelves on her desk. “We have… Ten minutes until my friends get here. I need to have my dress done by then.” 

She quickly ran him through the process of sewing each pearl, and to no surprise, Robin was an attentive learner and was basically, the definition of delicate. His first pearl had been a little shaky, but the one after his first was near- If not- Perfect. He had even distributed the sparkles around the pearls proportionally- And that was something that took loads of practice. It had taken her weeks to perfect that skill, and he got the whole thing perfect after watching her just once. 

“There we go.” Marinette smiled, snapping off the thread as the last pearl went in securely. With the two of them working, fuelled by fiery determination- They’d finished the dress in no time. 

“I’ll be there.” He said, breaking the satisfying silence between the two of them. She looked up in surprise, the sheer happiness in her bluebell eyes making him blush excessively. “I’ll go there in my civilian identity, so you won’t see me- But I’ll be there.” He told her, smiling shyly. “Good luck.” 

Marinette coughed, her cheeks blossoming in scarlet, secretly really pleased that he had bothered to find out and to tell her. “Could I.. Get a good luck kiss?” 

He pulled her close, dipping her by the waist as he pressed a soft kiss to her lips, the little squeal escaping her throat almost making him growl possessively.

“Good luck, angel.” Robin whispered, shooting his grappling hook out before leaping from the balcony. 

Marinette watched, dazed as he left, her fingers rising to touch where he’d kissed her. 

“Marinette! I’m ready to rock that runway!” Chloe announced her arrival, slipping out of the trapdoor, snapping Marinette out of her daze. 

“R-Right.” The bluenette stuttered. “Right. The runway.” 

—

That was by far, Damian’s second kiss, and he couldn’t have been anymore flustered. It did bother him- He wanted her to love his civilian identity, too, so maybe one day he’d tell her- But as of then… He touched his lips, still slightly tainted with Marinette’s chapstick, and blushed. 

“Alright.” He dropped into a back alley, where he had stashed his extra clothes- He had, actually, stashed a lot of of his clothes everywhere in case he ever needed a quick change from being Robin. “I have a fashion show to attend.” 

—

“Perfect.” Marinette breathed as Chloe twirled once with her white-blue-and-yellow dress. The upper half of the dress was tailored to be skin-tight for Chloe while the lower half opened in a upside down tulip-shaped gown. White lined each fold of the gown, followed by a blue backdrop. The cute, rounded collar of the dress shone a pastel yellow, with the ends of the dress lined in yellow as well. 

“Now put this on.” Marinette ushered, handing Chloe another hanger, but this one had a white blazer on it. Yellow and black stripes alike to a bumblebee’s twirled along the white of the blazer, giving the whole piece a very striking feel. 

“Utterly gorgeous.” Chloe breathed, twirling around before flipping her hair. “Aren’t I gorgeous?” 

Marinette giggled. “Yes, yes you are.” The bluenette’s eyes twinkled. “Do you know what you’re missing?” 

The bluenette reached into Chloe’s purse, where Pollen was resting quietly. The bee brooch shone in the evening sun, and Marinette slipped in properly over Chloe’s silvery, blonde hair. “There.” She smiled. “You deserve it, Chloe.” 

The blonde’s lip trembled. She turned away, embarrassed. “I-I’m not crying, Dupain-Cheng.” 

Marinette pulled the blonde in for a hug, her arms looping around the dress to squeeze Chloe in for a hug that conveyed a thousand messages. 

Thank you. 

“Um… Hey.” Damian cleared his throat, an amused smile on his lips as the two girls turned to glare at him in unison. 

“We were having a moment!” Chloe snapped. “Be quiet. Get out!” 

Marinette sighed, letting go of Chloe. “Well, Damian, let’s get you changed, too.” She retrieved two articles of clothing from off the hanger, handing him a black button-up shirt, a pair of dark green jeans, and finally, a black-green vest to go on top of all of it. 

Damian took the hangers from Marinette, turning to go change. The bluenette stared as he left, the small pinch of green sparkles between his fingertips only adding more to her growing suspicion. 

—

“It’s the right size?” Marinette asked as she told Damian to move around and check if the blazer was just right for him. 

“Yes.” He nodded, a little worried. When he took to hanger from her, he’d used the hand with the sparkles on them- He didn’t have time to wash them off, and he only noticed when he went to change in the toilet. 

Shuffling over to her table, Marinette came back with a brush and and a bottle of hair spray. “Don’t move.” She instructed as she stood on her tip-toes, reaching up to tame his messy black bangs. 

Damian chuckled, kneeling down so she didn’t have to strain herself to reach up. The bluenette huffed, brushing his hair with more strength, making him wince in the process. 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” Damian scowled. “Easy, an- Marinette.” He corrected. 

Chloe rolled her eyes at the two. “Hurry up! The show must go on, and it can’t go on without the main characters, okay?” 

—

Bruce sat in the front row of the fashion show, his finger lingering over Damian’s number. Before he could decide on whether to call is son, however,  the lights flicked on. 

Meanwhile, in the backstage, the designer was pepping up her models as she handed the both of them black masks that would help conceal their identities (Paris is blind, just a mask will make you unrecognisable). “You’ve got this!” Marinette grinned. “Fighting!” 

Chloe nodded confidently, tying the mask around her head, avoiding her hair, while Damian only smiled warmly to reassure the bluenette. “We’ll be fine.” He told her, putting on his own mask, knowing she was only trying to calm her own nerves. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her palm. 

Marinette made a purring noise in her throat softly before she caught herself. She cleared her throat, her own mask in hand. “Um, good luck?” 

“Let’s give it up for the MDC line!” The MC announced, and the two took that as their cue. 

“Presenting to you- Bumblebee in the Sky.” 

Chloe stepped out first, the white, blue and yellow dress catching the eyes of many in the crowd due to it’s striking palette. The white blazer flapped fiercely in the wind that was supplied by the large fans towards the side, and the blonde strutted on the walkway, flipping her hair, striking a pose on the end of the walkway. Cameras flashed at the unique design of the bumblebee stripes on the white blazer, and the audience clapped. Chloe turned back towards the entrance, and Damian was ushered out. 

“Nightingales in the Dark.” 

He was a little uncomfortable with the lights and cameras- But he was a Wayne. He was used to it. 

The audience murmured about the unique, shiny fabric that was the dark green base for the suit. The black button shirt, under the sight of the spotlights, revealed spiralling, silver designs that detailed of nightingales and ivies. It was only when the light shone down on it, it would reflect and glow against the dark fabric. 

Damian glowered fiercely at the cameras as he stood on the end of the walkway, catching sight of Marinette stuffing Chloe into the next design out of the corner of his eye. He had to take his time- So that Chloe had enough time to change. Changing his pose, Damian saw an ‘ok’ sign from Marinette, and headed back inside as Chloe emerged with her next ensemble. 

“May I present to you- Majesty.” 

The next dress was the pastel yellow masterpiece that was clearly inspired by Queen Bee. Chloe’s blonde hair danced in the wind gracefully, the brooch on her hair sparkling bright and golden.

The crowd awed at the pastel dress- Golden detailing lined the dress the same way they lined Damian’s shirt- They would only show under the light. Golden threads told of numerous, graceful bees that were waltzing in the wind, and colourful threads painted flowers and grasses along the edge of the dress, bringing out colours of red, dark blue, emerald and ivory white. 

Chloe posed more than multiple times for the camera, each camera fighting for cover-page photos of the gorgeous dress. 

Meanwhile, Damian was busy putting on his next set- The grey t-shirt with his Robin jacket. When he emerged from the changing room, Marinette had a knowing smile on her lips. 

“Ready?” She asked softly. He nodded, smiling in reply. 

“Ready.” 

—

When Bruce first saw Damian onstage, it was definitely not what he had been expecting. He had never thought Damian would be modelling- That said quite a lot about the girl, if she was able to convince Damian to model. 

He had taken more than one photo and maybe shed more than one (1) tear. 

After the spectacular piece that was Majesty, Bruce had been throughly awed by the aspiring designer. 

“Now, let’s give a round of applause for a piece that was inspired by one of Gotham’s superheroes- Robin!” 

Damian stepped into the light, feeling more than comfortable in the jacket that was made for him.

The jacket gleamed in Robin’s primary colors- Black, red, green and yellow. The R logo sat above his heart, the silver zip gleaming under the brightness of the spotlights. The hoodie had been pulled up, revealing white fur sewed into the lining of the hoodie, similar to how the actual Robin’s uniform was like. The grey t-shirt he wore under the jacket was fluid and soft, the black jeans perfect for active movement.

The click of cameras went of in what seemed like the distance as Damian sensed Marinette’s eyes on him, seemingly full of pride. 

He wondered if she was thinking about what Robin would think if he were in the crowd? 

—

“That was a success!” Marinette beamed. “Even though there were only four ensembles, it was really good!” 

Chloe and Damian felt their hearts warm at the sight of the bluenette jumping around in excitement. 

“Now, all that’s left is the closing act.” Marinette smiled. “I prepared two more ensembles for you two, we’re probably going to need to go out and take more pictures.” She shrugged.

Chloe groaned. “More?” 

A giggle escaped the bluenette’s lips. “Once we’re done, I’ll treat you both to coffee and some cake, okay?”

—

The cameras went wild as the two models finally walked out in the last piece they had to present. 

Damian wore a Lordbug-inspired piece. A white button-up shirt peaked out from below his black and red sweater, paired with a pair of black-and-white checkerboard loose slacks. A grey jacket was tied around his waist, and to top it off, a black cap with ‘Lordbug’ embroided on the front sat on his dark bangs. 

Chloe wore a Kitty-inspired outfit. A large, black sweater with the words ‘Meow’ stitched in bold white in the middle caught the hearts of many. Chloe had pulled up the hoodie of the sweater, revealing cat ears sewn on the hoodie itself. A dark blue, plaited skirt revealed a pair of long socks with the pattern of cat’s whiskers on Chloe’s legs, finished by a pair of green-black boots. 

The crowd lost it. The headlines the next day would read ‘Paris’s Superheroes Inspired MDC’s First Line’. 

“Now, let’s introduce MDC herself- Wearing her own original!” The audience sat on the edge of their seats, anticipating the great designer who had created all of the wonderful masterpieces that they just saw. 

The two models stood on both sides of the walkway, matching, proud smiles on their faces as the shy bluenette pushed past the curtain that blocked the view of the backstage. 

She was truly, the star of the show- Literally. 

Black netting- Tinged with silver threads- Formed the collar, dipping into a dark, velvety, black fabric. A heart neckline, perfectly shaped, showed just enough of Marinette’s collarbone. The top half of the dress hugged Marinette’s usually concealed curves while the bottom half blossomed into a floor-length ballgown. The folds in the ballgown were evenly distributed, the pearls among the fabric like shining stars in the sky. The sprinkled, emerald sparkles only emphasised on the concept of making the pearls alike to stars. 

Marinette blushed, brushing a strand of her dark blue hair behind her ear. 

“Let’s give a round of applause for MDC!” 

The hall exploded into thunderous applause, marvelling at the young designer standing on the stage. “Tell me, how do you feel?”

Marinette cleared her throat, her black mask only framing her bluebell eyes flawlessly. “Well, actually, I’m a little overwhelmed.” She laughed, immediately capturing the hearts of the Parisians on sight. Bruce’s heart warmed, like I’m going to adopt that kid. 

“It’s my first time publicly letting my works go out, so I was quite nervous.” MDC admitted. “But I’m really, really happy with how it turned out, and I have to thank my wonderful models for that.” 

The MC nodded approvingly. “Well, MDC, do you plan to start your own brand, seeing as how popular it’s going to be?” 

MDC nodded. “I’ve always wanted to start my own brand. Starting tomorrow, the MDC website will be open for commissions.” She smiled. 

The crowd chattered excitedly at the announcement, and Bruce nodded approvingly. The girl was confident, independent, and polite. Truly, this girl that Damian had found one-of-a-kind.  

“Will you be planning on revealing your identity one day?” The MC asked, holding the mic to Marinette’s lips. 

MDC hummed, contemplating on her answer. “Perhaps one day I will,” She said truthfully. “But as of currently, I’d rather keep it under wraps until I’m old enough to reveal it.” 

The crowd gasped in surprise. 

“Yes, I’m underage.” MDC revealed, “I’m still in school, and I’m still studying. Maybe after I graduate, I’ll announce my identity.” She bowed. “Thank you for coming to my fashion show today, everyone.” She smiled softly. “It makes me really happy. Thank you once again.” 

Cameras scrambled for pictures. 

“MDC, can we get a picture of you and your models, please?” They implored. 

Alya scrambled against the flow of the adults, jumping up and down excitedly. “MDC, can I get a picture with you, please?” She grinned. “I’m the Kittyblogger!” 

If it was six months ago, Marinette would’ve gladly gave Alya a photo, but now was different. 

“I’ve brought my own camera person.” She told the crowd politely. 

Aurore pushed her way through the crowd, an honoured smile on her lips. “MDC, can you and your models face my camera, please?” 

Chloe and Damian glanced at Marinette for confirmation, and she nodded. The three stood together, smiling as Aurore took pictures of them, the other cameras scrambling to stand behind Aurore to get photos as well. Once the girl was done, Marinette gestured for the two to go backstage. 

“Thank you so much, everyone.” She bowed politely, leaving to go backstage with the rest. 

Once backstage, they found Aurore waiting. 

“You ready for the interview?” She asked, a smile on her face. “Once again, I must thank you, MDC. It’s an honour.” 

Marinette brushed it off. “I need to thank you. Right, um, I think I’m ready.” 

Aurore begin recording, and gave Marinette the ‘ok’ sign. 

“Hello, everyone. My name is MDC, and I’m a designer.” She smiled. 

“MDC, what are your designs primarily inspired by?” Aurore asked from behind her camera. 

MDC tilted her head, making a thinking face. “Well, they’re mostly inspired by people around me. As you saw, some of the ensembles were inspired by the superheroes that have been protecting our city.” 

Aurore nodded, giving Marinette a thumbs up. “Just now, on stage, you announced that you would be setting up a website and that you would be accepting commissions. How much, on average, will the commissions be?” 

“That depends.” Marinette paused. “As you saw, the fabric I use for the ensembles are not ordinary fabrics- In fact, some of them I made myself. The embroidery on the fabrics take quite some time as well. I only use the best materials for my works, so it’ll depend on what materials I used and how much those were.” She gave an apologetic look. 

Aurore nodded in understanding. “I understand. Your art is a rather detailed art, after all, it takes up a lot of effort. How much time do you use to make one ensemble?” 

“That depends. Before, I used to be really busy as my ex-friends used to commission things out of me without paying, so my schedule was really packed up. However, I am pleased to announce that my schedule has been cleared up, so it should take an average of one week to two weeks for a commission, however, if it takes a lot of hand-work, it might stretch up maximum to two months.” 

Aurore nodded. “Thank you so much for interview, MDC. I wish you luck in your line of work, and I look forward in seeing more of your designs!” 

The camera clicked off, and Aurore squealed. “I cannot thank you enough, Mari!” 

Marinette sighed in relief, taking off her mask. “I’ll have to thank you, you’re helping me advertise.” 

Aurore paused, digesting the thought. “I suppose so, but you’re giving me my chance to be a famous blogger!” Aurore sighed dreamily. “I promise I’ll take this seriously.” 

“I’m sure you will,” Marinette groaned tiredly. “Right, who wants coffee and cake?” 

—

Bruce sat on his seat, not moving, still waiting for the three to come out from behind the curtains. He wanted to meet his future-daughter-in-law, after all.

Most of the crowd had dispersed- In fact, practically everyone had left. It was just Bruce, being a lonely old man by himself in the entire hall. 

At last, he decided to just call his son. 

“Damian.” 

“Yes.”

“Where are you?” 

“...Why?” 

“I need to meet my daughter-in-law.” 

“No.” 

And then he hung up. 

Bruce looked up only to see three teens sneaking out from the side door. He shook his head, sighed, and went back to his hotel.  

---

/Part Twelve/

---

Poor Bruce :( Issok you’ll meet Mari sooner or later <3

Next chapter is probably going to be heavy salt about Lila knowing MDC 

(Tag list! @yin-390@mysteriouslyswimmingfan-blo-blog@constancetruggle@the-navistar-carol@never-neverland @rayray384 @mystery-5-5 @black-streak@bluerosette23@seraphichana @you-will-never-know-how-i-think@mikantsume@graduatedmelon@thebookwormfairy@crazylittlemunchkin@shizukiryuu @screamingtofillthevoid@serenacross200@zestyzealot@redscarlet95 @roseinbloom02 @beautym3@resignedcatservant@sizzling-fairy-oil@tinybrie @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry@lunar-wolf-warrior@northernbluetongue@dannyelric301 @daminett4life @loysydark@sparkle9510@erick-rose99-stuff @nataladriana9 @maya-custodios-dionach @myazael @sassakitty @clumsy-owl-4178 @emootaku-666 @moonlightstar64 @r0sebutch @maggiecc12 @gaeasun

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: You sound like a remarkable woman out of her time. Your posts suggest you are modern and feminine yet your cultured intelligence and cleverness seems from an earlier lost time. Would you prefer to be living in 18th Century Georgian England? One imagines you would fit right in as a heroine in Jane Austen’s Regency world of aristocratic manners and clever barbs over tea in the drawing room.

I had to smile to myself a little because the last thing I ever saw myself was a Jane Austen character. I certainly don’t see myself as heroine of Austen’s world. After all don’t most if not all of Austen’s literary heroines spend their time pathetically pining away for the socially aloof and yet heroically vulnerable gentlemen they profess to love, men who are usually too dense to know that these whining women have childish schoolgirl crushes on them? I know I’m going to angry mails now from pouting Austen fans but I have to speak my mind.

Like most people I do profess to liking a nice, cosy Jane Austen adaptation on television. The fabulous frocks, fans, feathers and finery soothe us with images of a gentler, well-mannered time when gentlemen in cravats and breeches wooed perfumed ladies across ballrooms and well-manicured lawns.

However the reality was not quite so lovely. It’s not that women - like Austen’s literary women - were caught up in the social constraints of their time but also I would get restless just sitting down all day to tea and gossip. I would sooner catch the first ship bound for India and have adventures in the Orient along the way. Tea with Mr Darcy in well stuffed breeches might not be enough for me but then again a well stocked library as most landed gentry homes had would make me reconsider.

I’m fortunate that within my family we have a wealth of diaries, correspondence, private papers, and other family heirlooms that go back a few centuries which we have scrupulously stored to hopefully pass onto future generations.

So when I can decipher some letters of my ancestors it gives me some insight into what life was like for them as men and women of their time. It’s not always easy to read as they loved to scribble in ink (now faded) in the margins on nearly every page of the books they read. And so the penmanship is stylish but minuscule and therefore sometimes hard to make out. The letters are somewhat more legible but it requires patience and perseverance to make sense of what they were writing about. It’s a wonderful way to flesh out the genealogical tree with titbits of personal anecdotes that could be perfunctory, mundane, scandalous, salacious, romantic, and even political.

I’ve read Jane Austen like every other girl at boarding school I imagine. I like her writings but I wouldn’t say my heart is in it to actually live through that time.

Life for Georgian women, even of high birth, was harsh enough in a time when men still held all the power and husbands could beat and even rape their wives. Noblewomen caught diseases passed on from their husband's prostitutes and were still subjected to confinement and the barbaric medical practice of bleeding when pregnant. Even their fashions and frippery provided cold comfort when their make-up poisoned them, unwashed dresses and undergarments stank and their fancy foods made their teeth rot and fall out.

The fact that women did survive and even thrive is a testament to their strength and fortitude which I find admirable. 

I’m used to mud and sweat and even living rough because as ex-army officer I was trained to suck it up but it’s also in my nature because I love going rough when I hike or climb mountains or trek to other places off the beaten track. So I’m not squeamish so long as at the end of the day I can bathe or shower my aches away and I can put on a fresh change of clothing. However even I recoil in some horror when I consider that despite their elegant appearance, Georgian women carried a world of stench. While hands and faces would be washed daily, immersive bathing was considered bad for the health and was only indulged in occasionally.

The heavy gowns of the period would have caused the wearer to sweat profusely, with only perfumes such as rose water and orange blossom to mask the smell. The clothes themselves would also be pungent. Due to the huge amount of work involved in laundering, most households would have a maximum of one wash-day a month. Linen undergarments were changed as often as possible, but their "clean" smell would still be unappealing to us. Linen was often bleached in chamber lye, a kind of soap made from ashes and urine.

As if bodily odour was not bad enough, there was also the whiff of rotting teeth. A sugar-rich diet led to frequent tooth-decay in the upper classes. Cleansing tooth-powders had started to emerge but most of these featured "spirit of vitriol", known to us as sulphuric acid, and stripped teeth of their enamel. Often the best remedy for smelling teeth and bad breath was to chew herbs such as parsley. Where a tooth was past hope of redemption, it would be pulled with pliers or a tooth key, a claw that would fix to the teeth so it could be loosened in the jaw. To avoid a gummy smile, ladies of fashion sought false teeth made from ivory or porcelain but, where possible, they preferred to have "live" teeth in their dentures. Poor people were encouraged to sell healthy teeth for this purpose. While such a practice was unethical, it was better than the other method of sourcing human teeth: pillaging them battlefields and graveyards.

Georgian women were renowned for their snowy faces and dark eyebrows but achieving the fashionable skin tone could be extremely dangerous. White face powders were lead-based and some also featured vinegar and horse manure. Years of coating the entire face, shoulders and neck with such a mixture could lead to catastrophic consequences. Society beauty Maria Gunning died at the age of just 27, having spent her life addicted to cosmetics. Lead-poisoning could cause hair loss and tooth decay but ingeniously, these problems were elegantly adapted into the fashion and it became desirable to have a high forehead and pencil-thin eyebrows. If your own eyebrows failed you completely, you could always trap a mouse in the kitchen and use its fur to make a new artificial pair.

I usually wear my hair straight or tied up in a bun so I don’t fuss too much over my hair. This would certainly be out of place if I lived in Georgian times. Georgian ladies were the mistresses of big hair. They piled their frizzed and curled locks over pads or wires to create show pieces for the drawing room. Often their own hair was not sufficient and had to be supplemented by horse hair and false pieces. Styles from the 1760s were domed or egg-shaped, elongating into the pouf in the 1780s. But Georgiana, the infamous Duchess of Devonshire, had to take things a step further. She introduced the three-foot hair tower, ornamented with stuffed birds, waxed fruit and model ships. Following her example, women competed with one another to make the tallest headdress. Since these styles were costly and took hours to arrange, they were worn for several weeks. Ladies had to sleep sitting up and travel on the carriage floor to avoid spoiling their creations. With no combing possible, lice were inevitable so a special scratching rod was invented for irritated ladies to poke into their piled up hair.

It wasn’t any real fun being a woman and I often think Jane Austen is selling a false bill of goods in her books. You never see women in her novels deal with their menstrual problems. No one has proved for certain what they did, if anything, for sanitary hygiene. With no knickers to hold in strips of linen or rag, they were left to Mother Nature’s mercy. I can imagine that being a conversation stopper in the drawing room over tea with the vicar and his prissy wife. Their toilet habits were a little more civilised. When ladies at the royal court were caught short, they resorted to porcelain jugs much like a modern-day gravy boat. This contraption, called a bourdaloue, was stuffed up beneath the skirts and clenched beneath the thighs. Apparently it was quite normal for a lady to continue her conversation while urinating into the device! I think Jane Austen missed a trick by not having at least one scene with Elizabeth Bennet urinating under her skirts whilst trading clever barbs with Mr Darcy.

Speaking of which marriage was not a box of chocolates in the early 18th Century or indeed later in Austen’s day. Upon marriage, a lady and all her worldly goods would become property of her husband. It was therefore essential to guard a well-to-do bride’s interests with a legal marriage settlement before the ceremony took place. I read somewhere that Henrietta Hobart, later mistress to George II, had reason to be thankful for the settlement drawn up before her marriage to Charles Howard in 1706. It stipulated that two thirds of her dowry should be invested, with the interest at her sole disposal. Should Henrietta die, the funds were to pass to her children. This arrangement was to prove life-saving when her husband became an abusive gambling-addict and alcoholic.

Lower class women were known to take extreme measures to protect their future husbands from their own debts. "Smock weddings" were intended to show that the bride brought no clothes or property to the union, thus exempting each spouse from the other’s financial liabilities. The woman would be married wearing only her undergarment or smock – or sometimes nothing at all. Of course no marriage settlement, however generous, could save a woman from a violent husband and it remained legal for a man to rape or kidnap his wife. While excessive beating was frowned upon, whipping was considered a reasonable measure to discipline a wife.  Even so, it would appear many men pushed their rights beyond the limit, for laws were later amended to say a man could only beat his wife with a stick "no thicker than his thumb".

Escaping an abusive marriage then was well-nigh impossible. Divorces were so expensive that they remained the privilege of the very rich. Even if a lady did have the money to appeal for divorce, she was by no means certain of success. She would have to prove both adultery and "life-threatening cruelty". And if she won her freedom, it would come with more than just a social cost - any children from the marriage would remain property of the husband. Certainly in my family - on my father’s English side of the family - they had their fair share of scandalous behaviour that didn’t reflect well to our 21st Century minds.

Certainly the Georgians were not sexless and they enjoyed their carnal pleasures but of course being aristocratic they never did things that would publicly expose them to scandal. I was reading one such letter of an ancestor who was writing to her older sister about how hard it was for her to conceive her first child - a son naturally - that her rakish husband first took to prostitutes in an era when such things were common and the risk of infection from sexually transmitted diseases was rife. And then later settled on one mistress whom he seriously gave thought to impregnate her. However the mistress was an actress and thus such a union was frowned upon in landed gentry circles and so he was shamed back to his high born wife and to ‘try harder by God’s Providence’. The duty of any aristocratic wife was to produce a healthy son and heir but if nature did not take its course, they could seek help and so these ancestors of mine did.

Like many other aristocratic couples with trouble conceiving children they sought out quacks who made promises to cure infertility. One such person was a Dr James Graham who had invented what he called ‘The Celestial Bed’ that guaranteed conception and unearthly sexual pleasure. The bed itself was electrified and stood on insulating glass legs. The mattress was stuffed with stallion hair to increase potency. Mirrored floors and music from a glass harmonica heightened the experience, while the air swirled with exotic perfumes. Having made love on this bizarre contraption, the couple were encouraged to take ice baths and have a firm massage. The lady would also be advised to douse her genitals with champagne.

It must have worked because the family line did not die out but flourished. It proves to me that champagne is the answer to almost every question in life. A woman’s travails were not over just because she was successfully pregnant. More hazards lay in her path. Despite advances in medicine, a shocking number of medieval practices remained in the Georgian birthing chamber. The long period of rest or "confinement" leading up to the birth was still enforced for wealthy women. The rooms would be kept dark and sweltering with the expectant mother wrapped up in fustian waistcoats and petticoats. As soon as she had given birth, the room was made even hotter, with the curtains round the bed pinned and even the keyhole in the door stopped to prevent a draft. When I lived in China I discovered this is what Chinese mothers did and still do to this day. So I wasn’t so surprised when I read such a practice happened in other cultures like my own.

Those more fortunate might find themselves in a birthing chair. This had a sloped back and a semi-circle cut from the seat, designed to let gravity aid nature. It was certainly a better option than staining expensive bedding and linen. With only female relatives and an unofficially trained midwife to help, many women and their babies died in childbed, as it was known. Even when male surgeons became involved in obstetrics toward the end of the century, treatments were woefully inadequate. I read in the correspondence of one of my female ancestors that she was frequently ‘bled’ during her pregnancy. Somehow she survived any risk of post-partum haemorrhage.

Even when a birth was successful without complication the wife/mother was not out of the woods just yet. In keeping with custom in landed gentry circles of the times, the new mother would not suckle their own babies. In keeping its custom this taks was given over to a wet nurse. In the case of one of my ancestors whose correspondence I read she got a village girl from the family estates to breast feed the baby. The reason for doing so was brutally simple. Firstly, it was to ensure that the lady could conceive again as soon as possible. And secondly, Wealthier women often had difficulty breastfeeding due to their tight corsets or stays. It was also believed that a child would grow up stronger and hardier with a country-woman’s milk.

But even when the baby sprog was weaned, it was common practice for it to be handed to foster-parents until it was old enough to run about and talk. Interestingly enough Jane Austen and her siblings were fostered by a cottager in Deane village, two miles from their family home.

So overall I’m no so sure I would be thrilled to be living in the Georgian and Regency era even if it meant challenging that scoundrel Mr Wickham to a sword duel (and kicking his arse), match making with Emma, or even missing out on the pleasure of taking tea with Mr Darcy.

Sorry Mr Darcy.

Of course I’m fascinated with history and one sometimes wonder what it might be like to live in a particular time. However it’s just a flight of the imagination because to paraphrase Sir Roger Scruton I prefer to live in “the pastness of the present” rather than the past itself. This is the difference between being an historically illiterate reactionary and being a true conservative.

Thanks for your question

[superman86to99]

Superman #81 (September 1993)

REIGN OF THE SUPERMEN! The secret origin of the Cyborg Superman! We find out that the genocidal robot guy posing as the dearly departed Supes is actually someone we've seen before -- a seemingly minor threat from the past, supposedly lost in the vastness of space. That's right, the Cyborg is in reality... freaking Psi-Phon and Dreadnaught.

No, not really. The Cyborg is none other than astronaut Hank Henshaw, the Reed Richards analogue from that "Fantastic Four, but they all die horribly" story in Adventures #466.

Two months after that, in Adventures #468, we found out that Hank's mind had survived by jumping into a LexCorp computer after his irradiated body fell apart. Hank builds himself a dorky new robot body, but unfortunately, his wife couldn't handle seeing him in that state and went catatonic... and died, too, apparently? Or at least Hank and his minions seem to think so. At this point, Hank decided to jump into Superman’s Kryptonian baby rocket and leave the Earth because his powers were messing with our satellites, and also to avoid being sued by the creators of Johnny-5.

Anyway, Hank traveled the universe for a while until he bumped into the little backwater planet currently ruled by Mongul, former leader of Warworld (last seen running away all the way back in Adventures #455). Hank basically zapped Mongul until the big yellow oaf agreed to become his lackey on his quest to get revenge on Superman for supposedly failing to save his fantastic friends. Upon finding out Superman was dead, however, Hank came up with another plan: using the DNA from the Kryptonian baby rocket to make himself a new body that looks like Superman and nuking the Earth's cities to ruin his good name.

Meanwhile, in Metropolis, the mysterious long-haired Superman in the black suit is having trouble convincing Lois, Lex Luthor Jr., Steel and Superboy that he's the real deal. For starters, he doesn't even have any powers. Lois looks more convinced after she and man in black share a (pretty familiar looking) kiss, but he can't use that same tactic on all the others. Eventually, he gets tired of all the arguing, grabs some flying boots from one of Lex's armored bodyguards, and says he's just gonna go stop the Cyborg and the others can join him if they want to. Superboy and Steel are like, "ugh, FINE, we'll go too." CONTINUED!

Character-Watch:

I’d be really interested in seeing a story about how, exactly, Hank started hating Superman. He still seemed pretty sane at the end of his last appearance, and left willingly to avoid interfering with the Earth’s communication systems. I guess the vastness of space drove him mad, but I’d still like to see his evolution from Sadder Reed Richards to Crazier Doctor Doom. My personal theory is that being inside LexCorp’s computers had something to do with it. Maybe some remnants from Brainiac’s mind (remember he also lived inside LexCorp at one point) combined with seeing Luthor’s secret porn stash drove Hank insane.

Also, we never actually saw his wife’s death (how did Hank find out about it, anyway?) and every comic book reader knows that if it didn’t happen on panel, it didn’t happen. So, I think another interesting Cyborg story would be Hank finding out she’s still alive, but her death is such a central part of his delusion that he refuses to believe it and maybe ends up killing her. (Call me, DC! I have a really good artist friend.)

Plotline-Watch:

Hank’s story is being told by two of his alien minions, a guy who looks like a lion crossed with an Ewok and a guy whose gonads are apparently hanging from his face, all 12 of them. Spin-off series, please.

There’s a brief update on the Eradicator’s state: he’s “healing well” at the Fortress of Solitude, but the Fortress robots are worried that he’ll be sad he missed Kal-El’s return in Metropolis.

The man in black references various moments from the Lois/Clark relationship to try to convince her that he’s telling the truth, like when they got engaged, when he came out as Superman, that time they had their little mountain talk, and, uh... something else. Don Sparrow wonders: “That rainy night in July when we first WHAT Clark? It wasn’t raining the night they first kissed. Hmmmmmm.” It was raining... Jose Delgado’s tears. (Also, funny that it was the “Fantastic Four” issue.)

Lois’ reluctance to believe that the man in black is Superman is understandable given that, as she points out, she’s gone through this four times already. The first thing that gets her to listen to him is when he says “To Kill a Mockingbird” -- which, as we learned in Superman #67, was Clark’s favorite movie. And then there’s the kiss, which is a hairier remake of the kiss they shared before he died in Superman #75.

How come Supergirl doesn’t join the Team Superman on their mission to stop the Cyborg? Because Lex Jr. didn’t give her permission, while calling her “my pet”. I’m starting to think their relationship isn’t that healthy.

Dan Jurgens is clearly a fan of Dave Gibbons’ take on Mongul in Alan Moore’s For the Man Who Has Everything...

...but the art department is Don Sparrow’s turf, so I’ll let just him talk about that and other stuff I missed in his section, after the jump! 

Art-Watch (by @donsparrow​):

I love this issue.  Starting with the cover, which lets us know in no uncertain terms that they’re no longer playing around—big things are happening.  Besides being a great drawing, I love the relative silence of the image, and how it plays.  When you see it, you just have to open it to find out what’s really going on, and whether the man himself might really be back.  It’s such a good cover, that I can forgive it for the sleight of hand with the Tarzan hair, which for some reason they have been hiding in recent issues. [Max: I still think they had no idea he’d have long hair when they made these covers.]

Inside we’re greeted with another great splash (honestly, we’re in the peak era of the Jurgens and Breeding team here, as the next few issues of Superman are every bit as good as the Death storyline, visually, so it was hard for me not to scan every darn page!) and I love the different facial expressions here, with Lex and Lois having expressions of disbelief (though that disbelief is clearly motivated differently between the characters) to the determination and spunk of the Metropolis Kid to the cool authoritative detachment of the Man of Steel at the back.

More great body language on the next two page splash, as—to me-- Jurgens and Breeding convey, just with a pose, that the real Kal-El has returned.  Though we’ll learn he’s mostly depowered (thanks to the Eradicator using Kal-El’s regeneration matrix as his own energy piggy-bank) he still holds himself with the confidence and invulnerability we expect from Superman.  Am I reading too much into a single panel?  Almost certainly.  But man, this looks great. 

There’s also some great character work from Lois throughout, and they draw her conflicted facial expressions really well, as she just can’t allow herself to hope that this really is what it appears to be—the love of her life, returned to her.  I’m sure the Eradicator wearing his face for all these months can’t have helped either.  

As we cut back to Engine City, we get another view of how amazingly this art team draws tech, followed immediately by possibly the most painful thing the Cyborg does in these pages—full force heat vision to Mongul’s junk.  Ouch. Ok, maybe that’s not as bad as blowing up a whole city, or annihilating a handful of survivors, but still. [Max: He annihilated millions of Mongul’s future children.]

The flashback to the Cyborg Superman’s origins is cleverly delivered, thanks to the alien mercenary’s “pocket ‘puter”.  The image of Henshaw reassembling himself (apparently into Johnny 5) is particularly well drawn, and deeply unnerving.  There’s also a great image of the bored dissatisfied Mongul on the throne. I wonder if the alien he’s telling the story to minds his conquered planet being referred to as “simple” though.

As with the Engine City pages, Jurgens and Breeding excel at drawing technology, so the freaky dragon creature Henshaw into which converts Mongul’s ship is a great piece of art.  The full page splash with Cyborg Superman in his current form is one of the better images of the character as well.  

The heart of this issue, though, is the slow change in Lois, who has held on for so long without Clark by being tough.  As Superman speaks to her about their life together, she is finally able to melt.  As with earlier in the book, the emotions on her face are so well done in this transition.

I love the callback of their kiss, and how it mirrors the tender moment from Superman #75.  And, in a storytelling device that they’d use again on shows like Smallville, it is the familiarity of his kiss that convinces her that it really is her fiancé.   Goosebumps, man!  This is beautiful, romantic stuff.  And in true Superman fashion, he just can’t stand around and celebrate the reunion—there’s a job to do, and it falls to him to do it.  More goosebumps. STRAY OBSERVATIONS

A recurring thing in these pages is the artists playing fast and loose with just how tall Steel is.  Sure, he’s got the platform jet boots, but at times he is depicted as gigantic as his silver-screen counterpart, and other times he seems roughly as tall as anyone else.  This issue veers into the gigantic.

I’m glad he’s back in any form, but it is a bit tough to see Superman wincing at being squeezed on the shoulder by Steel.

Yeesh, we get it, Henshaw’s team were supposed to be analogues for the Fantastic Four, you can stop using the word “fantastic” to remind us.  The other hints at it were plenty.

Funny that even that long ago, a handheld computer was the stuff of science fiction, while today, you might be reading this on a “pocket computer” smaller and more powerful than the one the alien holds. [Max: And whilst sitting on the toilet.]

While it’s not the focus of the panel, when the Cyborg “forms the shape of a man” he sure looks a heck of a lot like the Ed Hannigan design of Brainiac from the 80s. 

I love that Jurgens, knowing he’s picked up a lot of new readers with this storyline, makes it ULTRA easy to follow, even having the narrating alien say, “still not understand?” before recapping the recap from the previous pages.  

I dig the slow burn on Lex Luthor II, and that his villainous nature is creeping out more and more.  When he calls Supergirl his “pet”, it doesn’t sound affectionate, but literal here. [Max: Hey, when did Superboy get that Soder Cola? Does a soda vendor follow him around, like Homer Simpson and the hot dogs guy?]

I will never tire of Superboy’s “cool” 1990s speak.  Rather than read it as a middle aged writer trying to use hip lingo, it could be read as Superboy being “raised” by pop culture.   Because he was rapidly aged, maybe his entire knowledge of the world was programmed by others, who were guessing at how a young person speaks?  So he’s not trying to be cool—it’s literally all he knows. But what I still don’t understand is where Robin came from! 

Reading this issue for the first time, I still (mistakenly) worried that the man in black wasn’t the real Superman.   This was both because the Eradicator, in his healing bath, has Superman hair (even though we saw his hair get blown off last issue) and because I misunderstood the Kryptonian robot’s line of dialogue about ‘the master wanting to be there when Kal-El arose’.   Though this is actually a confirmation that Kal-El has indeed arisen, I thought it meant that the guy in the bath was the real Kal-El.  Plus, Steel has been the character the most “right” and in-tune with the spirit of Superman, and throughout this issue, he’s very dubious of the man in black being the real Superman, even saying how it seems to wrong.  Which I read as a hint that maybe there was another twist coming.

[bailesu]

One Day in Paris (Haruka / Michiru Fanfic)

This is for a Haruka / Michiru exchange thing for @amrynth.  

I’ve put the story behind the cut as it’s kind of long for a tumblr post.

One Day in Paris

By John Biles

For the Haruka/Michiru stuff exchange.

*******************

Some days, Haruka loved being a detective. A good, challenging mystery.  High speed chases on high mountain roads where one wrong turn meant going off a cliff.  Shootouts in a Monaco casino.  Romance under the stars.  Finding yourself tied up the next morning and your wallet stolen.  Being arrested as a homeless person and…

Okay, her last job hadn’t *ended* well, but the start had been awesome.

“But Saaaaaam,” Makoto wailed into her cellphone two desks down.  “I’m a detective!  I can’t just let criminals rampage even if we did plan this for a week!”

Detective Minako had legs which wouldn’t quit.  Wouldn’t quite *kicking her desk to a beat*, that is.  Detective Rei, who had the desk behind Haruka, was starting to crumple paper and make grunting noises, and this could not lead to *anything* good.

“So you’re saying it’s Lupin,” Detective Zenigata said, four desks down into his cellphone.

It’s never Lupin, Haruka thought, sighing; she was busy checking her email to make sure she hadn’t missed a summons from their boss. The last time she’d done that, Head Detective Setsuna had somehow gone back in time and wrecked the best date she’d had in high school.

Petty, yet powerful.

I need a mission, Haruka thought as Rei now rose and began heading over to Minako’s desk.

Also, I need to convince Head Detective Setsuna that this open office arrangement is a *bad idea*, she thought as Makoto now babbled to Sam; no one was sure if Sam was male or female; Haruka was pretty sure Sam was a woman, but whatever Sam was, Makoto was headed for another crash and burn.  Haruka would have felt sorry for her but now Clippy rose from the grave, occupying half the screen on her monitor.  ‘Do you want help with your resignation letter?’

‘I want a damn mission to get me out of this office,’ she typed in.  ‘Also, I thought you died.’

‘That is not dead which cannot die, but with strange aeons…’, Clippy began.

Not another cult case, dammit, Haruka thought.

“If it’s a woman, it’s not Lupin, it’s his confederate Fujiko,” Inspector Zenigata said into the phone. “Be very careful; she is nearly as cunning as Carmen Sandiego, who *still* has my Betamax, dammit.”

A coffee mug slid onto the desk, and Haruka started, then saw it was Detective Usagi.  “I thought you were on the Osaka Jewelry case,” she said to Detective Usagi.

There was a crashing sound as half of everything on Detective Minako’s desk (six figurines of Sailor V, five of various idols, four pictures, a baseball signed by Babe Ruth, and a stack of books Minako would never read but claimed she would) all fell off it because Rei and Minako were engaged in either a fight to the death, foreplay, or probably both, Haruka assumed.

It had been kind of sexy the first three times but after Minako had accidentally somehow knocked Haruka’s favorite racing trophy into the toilet (which was fifteen meters away, an act which was *never* clearly explained to Haruka), Haruka now wished they would keep it at home and be professional at work, like *her*.

“I want to explain it to you, but the Kingdom of D was involved and Umino had to pass himself off as the princess and I just don’t want to think about it,” Usagi said, looking haunted.

“If those two weren’t separated at birth, I will be stunned,” Haruka said, then tried her coffee.  She took Usagi’s hand and squeezed it.  Usagi turned a little red. “You are a master of coffee.  Did you catch the thief, then?”

“It was all a trap to kidnap the princess, and we barely rescued Umino from the deathtrap when they realized they had the wrong person,” Detective Usagi said, trying to sit on Haruka’s desk.

Makoto sat at her desk, clutching her head, while Detective Ami patted her shoulder over and over, trying to help but not knowing what to do.

“I think I have to help Makoto,” Usagi said.

“Drop by any time,” Haruka said.

DING.  

Salvation had arrived.  A mission, so she could get out of this madhouse before…

“So is that your gun, or are you happy to…” Minako began.

“It’s my gun,” Rei said irritably as she tried to pin Minako.

“That joke only works with Detective Conan or Inspector Zenigata,” Ami pointed out.

Minako sighed.  “Ami, the straight woman’s job isn’t to ruin my jokes.”

The mission was to investigate the break-in at Renate Jewels in Paris.  Ahh, gay Paris, Haruka thought with satisfaction.  A city of beautiful buildings, great food and drink, love, and… hopefully not another chase through the sewers.

“No one in this place is straight except maybe Conan but he’s too young for us to think about that,” Ami said.

“Ami, you made *me* the straightwoman,” Minako said mournfully.

Haruka fled to get in her car and drive to Paris.

******************* Haruka then remembered it was not in fact possible to drive to Paris, so she got a plane ticket and arranged for a Lamborghini to be waiting for her in Paris.  When she arrived, she got it and… immediately fell asleep from jet lag in the parking lot of the rental place.

The next morning, she woke up, went to her hotel, took a shower and headed off to investigate the case, hoping the trail had not gone cold.  She felt alive; she needed her missions to give her purpose after she’d been banned from racing, even if it was all that freak Dirk Dastardly’s fault!

Then she headed out to Renate’s Jewels, a beautiful boutique near the Seine; a superheroine and a villain were fighting on a roof nearby, but Haruka ignored them; they had no jewels and were not part of her very important mission.

Renate was a middle-aged redhead who looked oddly familiar to Haruka, but Haruka didn’t worry about that, since it probably wasn’t going to be relevant.  “So she seduced you, tied you up, and then stole everything.”

“I wouldn’t have minded being tied up if she hadn’t *stolen* everything,” Renate said, then swooned.  

Haruka caught her and put her up on her feet.  “You should probably loosen your corset so you can breathe properly,” she said very seriously.

Renate said, “I’m going to need your help, detective.  Why don’t we go upstairs and you can help me do it.”

“Sorry, fair lady, but I’m on a *mission*,” she said, kissing Renate’s hand, then quickly adjusting her corset without taking it off.   Soon, Haruka headed for the Regal Arms, as the thief, who Renate had identified as the notorious Jewel Thief Michiru from a photo, had left behind a pack of matches.  The place was huge and grand, exactly the sort of place for an exciting showdown.  Every piece of furniture was worth two years of Haruka’s salary.

That would make her triumph cooler.  

She paused to adjust her suit in the mirror.  When confronting your nemesis, you have to have everything *just right*.  If your tie is out of place, it ruins the moment.

She then went to the front desk, presenting her badge and a photo of Jewel Thief Michiru running out of a shop with a bag full of jewelry.  “Have you seen this woman?”

The clerk adjusted her glasses.  “Yes, she was lounging around… our lounge… all night last night, looking increasingly cranky, then finally her friend dragged her upstairs with the help of the night concierge.”

Friend?

“Can you describe the friend?” she asked.

Hotel security footage showed Michiru, clutching a wine glass in one hand, unconscious and being dragged onto a luggage cart by a dark haired man in the hotel uniform and by a dark haired woman who was ambiguously teenage and wearing a black blouse, black knee-length skirt, black high stockings, black boots, black nailpolish and a pink rose over her heart which looked lost, but certainly stood out.

Haruka said, “Can you get a printout of that?”

After some tech fumbling, she and the desk lady got the footage sent to Detective Ami for analysis.  She also got the desk lady’s phone number, the address of a good chicken place, and the room number of Jewel Thief Michiru.  

And the advice to never eat at Francois’ near the Arc d’Triomphe.  Or however you spell it; Detective Haruka never sweats the details.

The elevator took her to the twenty-third floor and she made her way down the hallway to 2307.  She pulled out the keycard the clerk had given her and unlocked the door.

“I’m going to have to steal the crown jewels,” she heard Michiru say; she flattened herself against the wall inside the little atrium; to her right was the changing area and a hanging closet; beyond that was the bathroom; she pressed herself against the left-wall, then realized it left her visible, so she slipped into the hanging closet, where a half-dozen dresses were hung up.

The burgundy one was the best, but Haruka wasn’t sure if it really matched Jewel Thief Michiru’s hair.  As she contemplated high fashion, she heard a woman she did not know.  “I’m sure she’s coming.  The Fox told us that her plane arrived last night.”

“Then why didn’t she come to the hotel?” a despairing voice said from the bed.

“Why do you *want* her to find you, anyway?  You’re not the Riddler’s sister, right?” the woman asked.  “I need the money to get Father exorcised, but if I go to jail, I can’t help him!”

“What good is stealing things if there is no one to recognize my skill?” Jewel Thief Michiru said.  “I am in this for the sport, to pit myself against the best.”

“Then why are you worried about this bozo?” the other woman asked.

“I am not a bozo!” Haruka said, coming out and throwing the finger of accusation at the other woman, who turned out to be the teenager from the photo, holding a short fighting staff.

Which she now flicked and it somehow extended into a glaive.

“Don’t bring a glaive to a gunfight,” Haruka said, drawing her gun.

“Now, now, Detective Haruka,” Jewel Thief Michiru said, getting up off the bed and striding closer, gracefully. “Point the gun at me and make empty threats.”

“They’re not empty!  I’ll shoot!” Haruka insisted.

“We both know you won’t shoot us,” Jewel Thief Michiru said, gliding closer. “Why didn’t you show up last night?”

“Jet lag,” Haruka grumbled.

Jewel Thief Michiru stopped, then said sympathetically, “I forgot to take that into account.  My apologies.” The other woman, still unnamed, frowned.  “Okay, what is *actually* up with you two?”  She had turned her glaive back into a staff and put it in her black purse.

“Oh yes, Haruka, this is my new assistant, Hotaru.  She’s a cyborg assassin from the future.”

“I’m not a cyborg *or* from the future,” Hotaru insisted.  She pinched her arm. “This time, anyway.”

“I’m from the future!,” another teenage girl said from the balcony; she wore what looked like a Star Trek uniform to Haruka.   But she was armed with something like a lightsaber.  The big heart on the end did make it stand out.

“No!  You’re going to ruin our sexy confrontation,” Michiru said angrily, pointing at her.   The glaive vs. Heartsaber battle began wrecking the hotel room, so Haruka said to Michiru, “How about if we check out this chicken place I know about until they’re done?”

“My plans… in ruins…”

Then the scented oils caught fire from a parried Heartsaber blow and the whole suite went up in flames.  Haruka picked up Michiru and ran.

***************

“So I got docked two weeks pay because Paris caught fire and it wasn’t even my fault,” Haruka groused to Usagi later as they ate okonomiyaki which Makoto had made them since they both had, as usual, no money.  

Makoto flopped down on the other end of the couch with her pork okonomiyaki and put on Netflix.  “Did they riot?”

“Don’t let the boss know or I’ll lose even more pay,” Haruka said, shaking her head.

“He doesn’t know I sunk Atlantis, either,” Usagi said conspiratorily into Haruka’s ear.  Then she began stuffing her face.

I thought *I* sunk Atlantis, Haruka thought.

Makoto would never ever tell them it was the result of her trying to date a brother and a sister at the same time without either finding out about the other.  Never, ever.

So don’t tell Haruka now that you know.

Iris Out.

[jflashandclash]

Traitors of Olympus IV: The Fall of the Sun

Twenty-One: Sadie

 I Go to Press Big Red Button

             For looking as unimposing as Leo did, the bloke was due more credit than I’d originally given him. He threw me over his shoulder and bolted towards Mount Camel Dung faster than a shabti would try to kill its master if it had all its appendages. Maybe those demigod genes gave him a natural, muscular edge. Maybe it was lugging all the metal to build homicidal, giant lizards.

           Either way, I owed the son of Hephaestus an apology for assuming he wasn’t as strong as his friends.

           Lightning exploded behind us. Harsh gusts of wind tore pieces of the iron fence down and threw sand into the air. The path forward was rapidly becoming a cross between a battlefield of inanimate objects and an obstacle course. Sunlight dimmed as clouds quickly spiraled into a net across the sky.

           Set’s gleeful laughter boomed through the cyclone of stuff.

           The rock formation was further away than it originally appeared. That was the problem with deserts: a lack of kilometer posts.

           At the first batch of red rocks jutting out of the ground, Leo took cover. He dropped me rather ungracefully on the sand.

           “Hey!” I protested, shouting over the wind.

           “Sorry, Lady Sadie,” he said. He lifted up one finger and a burst of flames hissed out like a mini blowtorch. “We’re keeping up the tradition of ungraceful landings.”

           If he was about to do what I thought he was about to do, I was about to tell him to shove that finger somewhere not very nice. Sure enough, he tilted that mini-blowtorch toward my bindings.

           “Are you mad?!” I demanded, not quite in the mood to be set ablaze.

           I’m sure there was some irony in my asking that question, as I rather enjoyed doing mad things, but all I could think about was coming out as a toasted Sadie marshmallow.

           “Trust me, I’m an expert in pyromania,” he said, giving me that crazy elf grin. “Now, inhale deep and exhale when I tell you. The Flaming Valdez is gonna set you free.”

           As he had me inhale, then exhale, he squirmed his other hand between the bindings and my skin, so he could use his own hand as a heat shield for my skin. I couldn’t help but feel like he looked nervous. Normally, it took a bit of magical work to undo a binding spell. I remembered the time my wand turned into a Celestial bronze dagger when Annabeth touched it and wondered if Leo’s magical flames acted like the Egyptian words of power for Bollix Your Binding Spell.

           Once he freed my hands, I withdrew my wand to help dispel the rest of the binding.

           In the last moment, the weather went from partially overcast to pitch black.

           My skin shivered. The temperature dropped at least five degrees Celsius.

           You know how you’re not supposed to look directly at the sun? Both Leo and I abandoned that notion to glance up.

           There was no dispersed glow behind the clouds or circular silhouette off in the distance. It was like Apophis had swallowed the sun all over again.

           “Is that a normal power of your Superman?” I asked, feeling a bit queasy.

           “Uh, no. I’m going to put that solidly in the list of NOT-Jason powers,” Leo said comfortingly.

           We peered over the rocks to see how Jason was doing against Set. Probably a good idea before leaving him on his own to fight a god. I knew we had to find Hemera and we were wasting valuable moments, but my mind kept flashing to how far he’d flown when Set first blasted him.

           All we could see was darkness at first. Leo kept a tiny flame alight in his palm so we could dodge debris caught up in the wind. Some tourist must have discarded an empty can of suntan lotion in the desert; the now-projectile almost took Leo’s head off.

           Off in the distance, there was the soft glow of a city—Phoenix.  

           Closer, lightning gave eerie bursts of illumination to the massive dust storm outside of Governor Hunt’s tomb. Each red streak would make the fog look like a dispersing firework before dimming back to the roaring nothingness.

           In the last burst, we could see the outline of a muscular boy on flying horseback. The horse itself seemed to spark and flare with static. The rest of the horse blended into the mass of debris. Jason must have found his gladius—more sparks exploded outward as the golden blade parried a strike from a flaming battle axe that spun around him. The red sand of the desert swirled higher and higher, as though reaching to drag the stallion down. A mass of it—Set’s avatar I presumed—loomed in front of the Roman horseman, cackling with thunder and laughter.

           Jason looked like he was fighting the desert itself.

           “Em, is he going to be alright?” I asked, withdrawing my wand. I had fought Set on more than one occasion and Lapis seemed quite the powerful host for the god.

           “Yea, this is a normal party for our Golden Boy.” Despite his confidence, Leo looked worried. “What I wouldn’t give for a bulldozer or a wrecking ball though. Can you magic those out of your little Do-a locker?”

           I could envision Leo singing that old Miley Cyrus song, “I came in like a wrecking ball,” while actually riding atop a wrecking ball. I’m not sure how it would help us, but the thought was quite entertaining.

           I was about to inform Leo that I didn’t store demolition equipment in my locker, other than some fireworks that Carter doesn’t need to know about, when I saw a blue burst of light from up Camel Dung Mountain.

           My brilliant reflexes saved us. “Drowah!” I shouted into the wind. The hieroglyph for boundary shimmered into a wall of golden light behind us. The blue wave slammed into it before dissipating.

           For that instance, I could see the silhouette of a man in linen robes with a staff and a small shack behind him.

           “Hemera’s shack!” I cried.

           “Hey! No fair—Set can’t add another creepy dude to the mix,” Leo said.

           The image of the shack and man shimmered under some kind of cover.

           “Creepy magician with powers,” Leo corrected.

           Another flare of blue light shot toward us.

           This time, Leo deflected it with a small blast of fire. We dived to the next closest rock, realizing we couldn’t take shelter from both he and Set at the same time. We needed to get up there.

           “He has the higher ground,” I said. “Can you lob a fireball up there?” I didn’t want to kill the other magician; I didn’t know what Nome he was from, if he was possessed by an evil god, or if Set had threatened him with cheese magic, something that inspires great terror in the Egyptian world. Still, I figured a ball of flames would keep him occupied.

           “I might burn the shack. I doubt it would kill Hemera, but we’d have one pissed off goddess on our hands. I guess you can’t toss over some Egyptian voodoo, Lady Sadie?”

           I deflected another wave of blue. I could fly up as a kite, the bird, not the children’s toy, but I would be a sitting duck—well, kite—for any attacks. “I was hoping for a bit more of a distraction so we could make it up the Mount Dung without being under fire.”

           Leo reached into his tool belt. His eyes blazed like those of a maniac, and I couldn’t help but think that I could get used to seeing that expression of pure madness. “Oh, I’ve got an idea that will leave you spinning.”

           A minute later and Leo fashioned a tiny fleet of rubber band-and-paperclip helicopters to drop nails, tacks, balloons filled with motor oil, miniature failed-shabtis, and anything else we could quickly rig from my Duat locker and Leo’s tool belt.  I gave them some honing magic. [Leo later said we’d have to call Coach Gleeson to eat up the mess. I have a different respect for Camp Half-Blood, knowing one of their counselors is loony enough to eat metal.]

           Despite the heavy wind, his tiny contraptions flew brilliantly.

           Our cue to run up Camel Dung Mountain came about ten seconds later, when the enemy magician started screaming.

           The bursts of light and tremble of thunder continued at the base of the rock formation as we climbed. I hoped this Jason fellow was as accomplished as Leo claimed he was. I hadn’t heard Set gleefully giggling about ripping someone’s limbs off or turning Jason’s skeleton into a puppet, so that was a good sign.

           Climbing the mountain wasn’t easy. All we had was my wand and Leo’s flame for light, and the rock formation didn’t seem to like being compared to a camel toilet, as it kept trying to trip us, though from Set’s magic or our clumsiness, I wasn’t certain.

           Once we got close to the top, I shouted, “Sun-ah!”

           The hieroglyph for reveal appeared in the sky, and the shack and magician came back into view.

           “Wow,” Leo said.

           I seconded the notion.

           Leo’s fleet had worked marvelously.

           Two tiny helicopters still sputtered in the air. One dive-bombed the magician, dropping a wad of chewed gum into his eyes. [And Carter says I need to keep my locker cleaner. Imagine if I hadn’t.]

           As the magician was blinded, he shouted a spell to explode the other airborne helicopter. This released Tabasco sauce shrapnel everywhere, something Leo claimed was vital for any dragon workshop.

           The magician had just withdrawn the gum from his eyes when the spicy condiment struck his face.

           He screamed again. I almost felt bad for him.

           Now that we were up close and I had dissolved his invisibility spell, I could see he was roughly in his thirties. (As far as magicians go, that means nothing. The bloke could be 564 for all I cared or knew.) He was tall, with a traditional forked beard, and caramel skin. His white linen robes were edged with blue.

           This magician must have been a bit confused about the colors of Ma’at and chaos.

           One of my failed shabti creations had landed on his shoulder. It was a blobby humanoid shape without legs, something I imagined would crawl up from under my bed one night to take revenge for its creepy existence. It kept bludgeoning the magician with its deformed, flobby arms, shrieking, “die, bipedal swine!”

           As the poor magician frantically conjured milk to wash out his eyes and blast the shabti off his shoulder, something about him seemed familiar. I hoped this wasn’t someone else’s displaced, distant son or nephew of someone Carter and I had once fought.

           Either way, he had to go. He was standing between us and the ten by ten, rickety shack that shuddered violently in Jason and Set’s storm. Quite charming as godly penthouses go.

           “Sadie Kane!” the magician roared.

           Not sure how he detected us, but Leo and I exchanged a glance to claim KO rights. I won, of course.

           “My name is Mel!” the man said.

           “There’s a magician named Mel?” Leo asked, sounding amused.

          ��Mel continued, ignoring the mockery. “I’m from the First Nome and guarded it for centuries before the Kanes caused the death of Chief Lector Iskandar and Desjardins, put a minion of Set as the new Chief Lector, and turned Zia Rashid traitor. You escaped me once, but this time—“

           “That’s lovely and all. Goodbye, now,” I said.

           I blasted him with a spray of green light. He was so disgruntled, having been both sprayed with Tabasco sauce and milk, he didn’t have the awareness to counter.

           I envisioned Mel as something much more containable: a tiny, green lizard. Within seconds, I had asserted my will over him. The magician shrank in size until he was a cute, confused-looking gecko that slithered out from the linen robes.

           “Dude!” Leo said. Within seconds, he’d created a cage from scattered paperclips and quick finger-welding. He snatched up our transformed friend. He leveled the cage with the trapped lizard to his eyes. “I know you’re saying, ‘I-guana go now,” he said to the trapped lizard. “But we can’t have you escaping. Hey, Lady Sadie, what was that stuff he was talking about?”

           Leo attached the tiny cage to his tool belt and stepped towards the shack.

           We’d have to clear up all those lies later. I was still rather upset about the deaths of the previous Chief Lectors, especially since Iskandar had been nothing but kind to me and Desjardins died to save Carter and me. What he was referencing were lies that Sarah Jacobi had spread to make my family look like rubbish. It was amazing how much damage someone could cause after death, though, after stopping a poorly-dressed ghost from taking over the cosmos, I shouldn’t have been surprised.  

           “Oh, just some gossip our enemies spread to make us look like Big Bad Guys. You know how it goes.”

           Leo nodded sympathetically. “I was possessed by an eidolon once and it made me attack our friends’ camp with a warship. One ballista fire led to another, and then all the Romans are saying Greeks stink. So, uh, yea. I know a thing or two about bad press.”

           Although it sounded like that had happened awhile ago, Leo’s smile lost its brilliance.

           “We should have a chat about that over some ice cream,” I suggested, knowing some solid camaraderie over possession might lift his spirits. My Uncle Amos was an expert in such matters.

           Leo stopped walking towards the shack. He glanced over his shoulder in confusion and disbelief, like he thought I had chatted up one of the tumble weeds, which—with Set and Jason’s storm—were twirling in the air like startled goldfish.

           “Trapped goddess, “I reminded Leo, “Your friend fighting for our lives so Set doesn’t make us into finger puppets?” I dispelled a booby trap around the shack: sloppy and simple ones with easy-to-find hieroglyphs. Really, they don’t make clever, monomaniacal villains like they used to.

           The poor boy’s cheeks roughened. I do have that effect on people sometimes, though usually it’s because I’ve utterly humiliated them with my verbal wit. Although the scene of chaos around us was terrifying—what with the crashing debris, the flashes of lighting, and the dim glow of fire on Leo’s face from his lit hand—Leo looked quite cute.

           [What, Carter? Yes. I said it. Yes, I know Walt and Anubis can listen to this recording. Give me more credit than that.]

           As he ran to catch up, he said, “Careful. I’ve melted the heart of an Ice Goddess once. I’m dangerous around ice cream.”

           “We’ll have ourselves a double date, shall we? We can invite our godly boyfriend and girlfriend,” I suggested. I was going to say “to keep things from getting too hot,” but caught myself before those horrid words came out of my mouth. I really didn’t mean anything by that.

           I blame my embarrassment for almost doing something incorrigibly stupid.

           Leo and I busted our way into the shack door, which, really, we didn’t need to do. The shack almost fell over when we came through the entrance. Inside, the rattle of the ceiling as it strained against the storm was more alarming than the storm itself. Refer back to “don’t make monomaniacal villains like they used to” and add, “don’t make godly traps like they used to.”

           The wall and ceiling boards looked just as rickety and dilapidated inside as they did out. Talk about horror cinema center. There was a rusty, metal control board, like something out an old radio station, with levers and a giant red button that said Release and a giant green one that said Capture.

           A woman lay in the center of the red sand floor. Her dusty blonde hair rippled dimly, like sunlight filtering through a dirty window. The remains of a tattered sundress clung to her body, the color indiscernible in the glow of Leo’s fire. Heavy chains linked her hands and feet to the floor. Red wires ran from the chains to the control board.

           I’ll admit it: I walked right up to the control board to hit the giant red button.

           Obviously a trap? Highly likely.

           Did I care? I might have been a bit too flustered and distracted. Besides, I’d rather press first and handle consequences later.

           Leo grabbed my wrist before I could make contact. “Woah, Ladie Sadie, seriously? The Big Red Release button set up by two gods of chaos?”

           “What’s your plan instead?” I asked.

           The goddess drearily lifted her head at our voices. This Hemera looked downright knackered and I had the queer feeling Set had already started to picnic on her powers. She was lovely, as most goddesses tended to be. (If you can make yourself look like anything, why look any less than gorgeous, like my stupid boyfriend Anubis.) Her eyes appeared black in the darkness.

           “Who goes there?” she asked weakly and quite delayed.

           “Professional heroes. Saving the day and whatnot,” I said.

           “Just make sure you give us a Five Star Rating on RateMyHero, Madam Daylight,” Leo said. He sounded distracted as he looked over her chains. “Huh,” he said and snapped off a piece of the wire connecting the chains to the control panel.

           “What are you doing?!” I demanded. That, supposedly, was the way to unlock those chains.

           He grinned and popped the wire into his mouth and began to chew.

           Any previous attraction I felt for this demigod zapped away. Had he been switched out with a monster without me noticing? Or were all Greeks secretly this loony? Or was magical wiring secretly delicious?

           “It’s pieces of Twizzlers, the kind you can peel apart,” he said. “These chains aren’t actually hooked up.”

           Leo examined the control panel. He withdrew a screwdriver from his belt. With a few quick flicks of the wrist, he’d removed the front, metal covering to reveal a stack of dynamite underneath the Release button. He pointed to the wires connecting the button to the dynamite. “Those,” he said, “are real wires.”

           I blinked at the dynamite. The sight was so foreign, it almost looked cartoony. Despite being around so many ancient weapons and dangerous spells, it suddenly hit me how rarely I had seen modern-day weapons. We didn’t really do the gun thing in Britain and we didn’t have any modern weapons at Brooklyn House.

           “Ah, explosives,” I finally managed, “Well, that’s not very… magical or demigodly.”

           He withdrew the panel beside it to reveal some kind of net-system under the Capture button, something that looked primed to latch around a mammoth.

           “At least they’re honest about their advertising,” Leo said about the names of the buttons. “Eris doesn’t really seem to play on the normal demigod or magical level.”

           “So, if we’re not going to use the Big Red Button to open the chains, how do we open the chains? I don’t see a keyhole or even a break in the metal,” I asked, running through a list of spell words. Without a seam in the metal, the word “open” wouldn’t do anything. I had a few ideas, but, judging from how sturdy the shack was and the dynamite a few feet away, I feared I might blow us all up. I was good at that.

           “You can’t!” Hemera said. Her voice was weak. I had the distinct feeling she would put the back of her hand to her forehead if she had the strength. “The Spartans made these to trap Ares.” When she tried to lift a hand, the chains shimmered with red Greek writing. “He never found a way out. Sparta had to be destroyed to release him!”

           “Yea, well, I have something Ares didn’t,” Leo said. He tapped the work goggles out of his hair and over his eyes.

           Hemera looked Leo up and down skeptically. “The strength of Hercules?” She sounded hopeful.

           I choked on a laugh. As much as I liked the Latino Elf, he definitely didn’t have that.

           Leo reached into his magical tool belt and withdrew a circular saw with a glittering black blade and what appeared to be a massive battery packet. He grinned, snapping the battery packet into the saw, looking like a crazed serial killer. “Power tools.”

           Ah, the grand words of greatness from Admiral Leo. Some people make speeches about freedom. Some about justice. Leo about garage implements.

           [Carter thinks Leo was mental for thinking power tools could work on magical chains, but has Carter given real thought to magical power tools? Besides, Leo said he’d done this before on a different goddess’ cage. Carter just thinks Leo said that to chat me up.]

           As Leo’s saw whined to life, I fished through my supplies to withdraw a minor healing potion that Jazz, our healer, had made me. I popped off the top and offered it to Hemera, partially because she looked like she’d been through three of my brother’s lectures on the importance of dairy in Egyptian mythology, and partially because it kept her from staring in horror at the maniac demigod sawing so close to her skin.

           She was too weak to reach out. I propped her up in my lap to give her the potion and so Leo wouldn’t accidentally decapitate the poor woman in his power tool mania.

           I wasn’t sure how a magician’s potion would heal a goddess, but she seemed to perk up.

           “So, when we’re done releasing you,” I shouted over the whine of the saw and the scream when it touched the metal, “You can god your way over to Nyx and sort this kidnapping nonsense out? And maybe tell your godly mates to help Camp Half-Blood?”

           One of the shackles fell away from Hemera’s wrist. Apparently Ares’ chains were no match for the Valdezinator. Take that as a point towards brains over brawn.

           Hemera’s skin seemed to glow a bit brighter, though her head stayed lolled off to one side. She mouthed something, but her voice was too weak to be heard over the sawing.

           When the second chain fell and Leo went to shove his saw back into his tool belt, I could hear her say, “I can’t, young heroine. I don’t have the energy. Set has been feeding off me for too long. Alas, since I am no longer worshipped, I can’t recover my powers in a timely manner.”

           The last part sounded more like an apology for bollixing a dinner party invitation. I thought about the gods that I had seen at Sunny Acres Assisted Living Community, how their memories would fade with the memories of their worshipers, falling into senility as they were forgotten. I envisioned this pretty goddess in a smock with a walker and I felt a bit nauseous. Watching something immortal dying is nasty business.

           “Let’s get you out of here,” I suggested. I could give her a pep-talk later.

           For now, I slipped one hand under her arm to pull her up. Leo got her other side so we could drag her out of the shack. Not the most efficient way, having two tiny godlings lugging a goddess around, but we managed.

           Just in time too.

           As we exited the sad excuse for a building, a boy-and-horse-wrecking-ball catapulted into the roof of the shack. Instead of stopping there, like a good ball of destruction, it continued through, taking the roof and walls with it. The dynamite-rigged control box and chains were shockingly still intact, sitting out in the open as the rest of the building smashed into the side of Camel Dung Mountain. It exploded up in a poof of dust that got swept away by the storm. Hopefully that puff didn’t also contain scattered Jason particles.

           Dark laughter echoed around the desert.

           The flashes of lightning grew closer, brighter. A massive vortex of sand rose to our level on the mountain, making it look like the mountain itself was crumbling into the sandy floor. Because the light from Leo’s fire only extended a few meters, the storm look like it had encompassed the world.

           “Oh, that was fun, Pretty Boy!” Lapis and Set’s voices combined into one. They twirled the flaming battle axe in an arc around the dust storm. “Tossing you is almost as much fun as tossing Tuft-Ears!”

           Jason groaned out an answer. His horse had dissolved into a burst of lightning and was sparking back into horse shape further up the mountain. It didn’t look excited to be tossed again.

           Jason drearily dragged himself from the wreckage. He was bleeding from his mouth. His shirt sleeve and half his shirt had been burned away, and—in the dim lighting—it looked like the skin under had some nasty blisters. As he fished his gladius out of the debris, his left arm dangled uselessly behind him.

           Tenacious bloke, that one.

           Set’s host didn’t look like he was going to win a beauty pageant anytime soon either. Lapis’s eye was puffy from being hit. Blood soaked his right pant leg. His face had grown ashen and, despite the laugh, he grimaced in pain. Sand stuck to his face with the beaded sweat.

           This reminded me of when Uncle Amos tried to control Set: Lapis was struggling.

           “I’m ready to kill you now, if you don’t mind,” Set said, seeming not to notice his host’s pain.

           Last time I fought Set, I opened a portal to transport us out of the desert and plop us in Washington, D. C. And I had his secret name. However, last time, he hadn’t made an agreement at the start of the fight.

           I crossed my arms like an irritated mother—something I’d learned scarily well from Isis. “That would be a bit fussy, don’t you think?”

           “Killing you? I count on it!”

           “No, going back on a promise,” I said. “I’d say it’s been five minutes.”

           I had no proof, but clamoring up Mount Camel Dung in the dark felt like an eternity.

           A smirk slid onto Set’s face. “And how would you know, Little Sadie?”

           “We timed it,” Leo said.

           I thought he was reaching into his pocket for a watch and wanted to hug the demigod for his forethought. Instead, he withdrew two screws, a silver disk, a chain, some wires, and a small, flashing light from his tool belt, keeping his hands partially inside so only I could see the components. His fingers flashed overtop and, within seconds, he was presenting Set the most garage-style pocket watch ever invented.

           Fortunately, Set was not the god of super vision.

           Leo pointed to the blinking light. “See Ol’ Blinky here? It means the timer went off.”

           I wanted to hug Leo for a trait I valued much more than forethought: quick-thinking.

           “A deal is a deal,” I said.

           Set pouted. “Oh, come now, Sadie. At least let me rend the flesh from one of their bodies.”

           “Nope!” I put one finger up and waved it back and forth. “No flesh rending. Bad Set. Taking us back to our friends? Good Set.”

           He bellowed a laugh. “Assuming your friends are alive. Now, why do you think I picked five minutes?”

           The fire on his Egyptian axe poofed out. The dust storm started to die, lowering him several inches closer. Now that I was able to hear a little better, I could tell Lapis was panting.

           “You wanted enough time for a commercial break?” Leo guessed.

           “Because that’s exactly the amount of time it would take me to burn through Lapis’ life force if I didn’t give her enough extra power,” Set grinned. “Good luck getting to your friends in time.”

           Then his face went slack and his eyes closed.

           The dust storm collapsed.

           Lapis, and our chances of a quick ride out of here, fell out of the sky and plummeted to the bottom of Mount Camel Dung, unconscious.

Sorry for the missed chapters, guys. Admittedly, I’m trying to figure out the end of the series right now and none of my characters (or my own writing) is cooperating, so I lost some steam to get chapters out.

Regardless, i hope you enjoyed!!! I will try to be back to our normal output next week!

(As a quick hint-hint, one of the reasons I’m struggling with the end is because of a new project I started that i think you’ll all really enjoy! :D)

[thelazymotivatedstudent-blog]

Bit of advice, funny stories and a bit of nagging of uni

So let me tell, University isn’t just some walk in the park, nor is it all nights out and sleeping with people willy-nilly; I mean it might be for some but in my experience, it is exactly the opposite of this.

So when I first got to university, I was like a deer in headlights. Honestly, I had about several emotions at once which conflicted either from where will I unpack this box, how will I make friends at university and firstly OMG I will be living on my own grounds rather than in a house with parents with other people in the same boat. So from that as a person who was already fairly independent; I had been working since I was 16, so I wasn’t too worried, I knew how to budget and fairly organise myself, I was and still am a good cook ( even if i do say so myself), but it was all on my terms when I ate, what I ate and how I cleaned my room/kitchen.

So as you can imagine it was a crazy experience, as it was a lot in one go!

But funnily enough my first night of uni I will never forget. Within a few hours of my parents/grandparents leaving me in the halls, I had managed to drop my phone down the toilet! In my head, I was just thinking I can’t cope already. I am already this disaster who has managed to screw it up and ruined my phone which was expensive as it was, you know since apple considerably rips you off for this technology that you can get so much cheaper everywhere else if you can part away from this fashioned brand with the good old iMessage and FaceTime…

I still went to the first-night event though, which was a white t-shirt party which is where you met everyone you were essentially living with and studying alongside. I won’t lie I can’t say I know everyone I lived with as in my first year I lived in this massive old building, which was essentially like a hotel with singular rooms going down it, and between every other room, there was a toilet and two showers and kitchens either end of the floor. So as you can imagine there was about 30 odd on each floor and I was on the second floor ( I am still thankful for the lift being there too, it meant in a drunken state I didn't have to face what felt like a mountain of stairs!). But within this white T-shirt party, I had met a good few of them that was on my floor and that I had previously spoken to on social media (Facebook the lifesaver!!!!!!), which I will say helped with my anxiety before moving into university. So I cannot recommend to those going to uni enough to make sure you find all the facebook pages and group chats for your year of freshers, the university page and the halls of residence pages, as they really do help and it can come more helpful to at least be good friends with one virtually before the original meeting of everyone in one go. It was within the event my T-shirt was signed by everyone starting that year, and typically as words do, they had spread about my phone going down the toilet the first night, so as you can imagine this was written all over my top by several people in several places of the top… oh yay.

However, to make my first night at uni so much better are you ready for the best bit? I was kicked out of my room on the first night! Yeah, you read that right. A wasps nest had started to develop in my room since leaving a little window open to air it out since it was vacant over summer. From the get-go, I was ready to leave and give up on this dream of becoming a psychologist/counsellor. Nevertheless I had luckily met someone on tinder a year or so before going to uni, who was at the other university in the same city, but had remained good friends since first speaking to one another, so thankfully I had at least a floor to sleep on with a blanket for the first night, despite being given all these offers from people I had just met, on the first night I was far too anxious to stay with them.

The second day of uni, my family brought my old phone to me so I had a phone until my insurance claim went through and I would have a good phone again, that fully functioned. But funnily enough, this old phone ended up with a smashed screen thanks to helping another fresher on a night out, who obviously couldn’t handle their drink. Oh yeah, another piece of advice for anyone going to university, get used to your drinking ability beforehand, as it is hard for us heavyweights balancing about 6 people, keeping them safe and getting them home in one piece, especially when most drunken idiots decide that running into busy roads is a good idea! I also do recommend definitely going to freshers week though, and finding out what different clubs are doing as they are some of the best nights out you can have before you get clogged up with endless deadlines, unless you are one of the fortunate few that have the ability to write an essay overnight and still get an amazing grade, then I slightly despise you for that.

The next disaster I had at university, that I have heard everyone experience is the dreaded finding a house for second year/third year. There is always fall outs during this process, and no one ever really knows why it just seems to be the point where everyone drops this fake Mr. nice guy act and becomes there true self. And trust me I have met some characters during my university experience so far and there are some awful, toxic people out there.

So before you get your hopes up of leaving the childlike drama that you experienced at school, because at a university there is still backstabbers, aggressive people and in general the people that will put you down for anything; which so far I have experienced in both my first and second year. Also don’t forget the best kind of people, the ones that tell you interesting facts about yourself that you never even knew yourself, like damn I didn’t know I slept with so many people but apparently that was common gossip across ‘friends’. But I won’t scare you too much as there are also some lovely people out there that you meet at university, and I am so fortunate to know just a few and can see the friendship continuing even after we leave university despite living miles apart.

However I will warn you of the worst thing to do with a university is the good old debate of whether it's a bread bun, bread cake, cob and bread roll will ruin friendships or leave you arguing about it for days! I personally call it a bread bun or a bap if there is bacon in it, but I lived with a few people from Nottingham area that called it a cob, like ew, but this caused a lot of digs every day over it being a cob and well I was outnumbered!

And there is also the issue that if you are susceptible of picking up other accents too, you will quite possibly leave for summer with about 6 different accents rather than the one you came with. I, myself am from Lincolnshire but lived with 2 Irish people, 4 from Nottinghamshire and several others from Yorkshire, so just imagine how many words I started to say different and in weird ways. Even when I go back to work there is the comment that I pronounce some words very posh, but that was also around since I grew up with family from down south, but got progressively more and more due to the various accents I was in contact with each day.

There is also the joys of meeting people who have had mummy and daddy cleaning after them all the time too, and it is very noticeable to find these kinds of people, and I had 3 of them in the kitchen with me, and I was only in a kitchen of 4 of us. They were so messy and sometimes I am pretty sure didn’t understand what food hygiene was, and for me who worked in a food industry this was very frustrating, and I mean I live with one now in the second year also who is the same. But I suppose you could say I am a bit of a clean freak when it comes to the kitchen being cleaned and hygienic as I used to wash everything up straight away, dry it and have it straight back in my cupboard and out of everyone else's way within the same hour of eating and preparing my food.

On the topic of kitchens, you will also see some people don’t really know how to share the space you are provided with, whether it is in university accommodation or private accommodation. I have experienced this in my both of my years so far at uni, as people seem to have the primal instant when they go to the shop to buy so much shopping that they have to ‘borrow’ other people’s shelves as well as their own, meaning that half the time you have to cater your shop to a tiny part of a shelf that can sometimes barely even fit a little butter on, which I mean is ideal for the student that only really know/eat toast and beans but not for people like me who are very experimental when it comes to cooking and likes to have plenty of cheese.

But nevertheless, I recommend anyone going to university to stay on their feet, get your work done early and get the additional help provided. This might sound like the usual nagging teacher comment that they always say but from going from failing in my first year to now getting 2:1s, and recently being diagnosed with dyslexia too I am getting the additional help I need and it is evidently paying off!

TBC

[the-voice-of-hell]

The Septagram

This is a first draft of a novel. Opinions welcome if they come from a reasonably kind place.  The final draft, whenever that happens, will have substantial editing of dialogue, but keep most events intact.  It will have some illustrations, and RPG rules for the setting in the back end, and probably sold cheaply through Amazon.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Violence, Gore, Horror-themed Content, Some Cliché Positive Depiction of Cops that Could Understandably Be Taken as Copaganda, Bible Quotes, Depiction of Demons that Could be Offensive to Some Satanists, Strong Sexual Content, Some Depiction of Sexism, Racism, etc.

THE SEPTAGRAM

-Great American Satan

Grade 7

PART ONE:

THE HERALDS

          “The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood, and they were cast upon the earth: and the third part of trees was burnt up, and all green grass was burnt up.

       And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire  was cast into the sea: and the third part of the sea became blood;

        And the third part of the creatures which were in the sea, and had life, died; and the third part of the ships were destroyed.

        And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters;

    And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.

 …And I beheld, and heard an angel flying through the midst of heaven, saying with a loud voice, Woe, woe, woe, to the inhabiters of the earth by reason of the other voices of the trumpet of the three angels, which are yet to sound!”

                                             -Spoiled Brats Knocking

                                              Chess Pieces Off Tables

***

“Daddy, I don’t think we should have taken that road.”

“Aw Snookums, it’ll be fine.”

“But what about the murderers?”

“Don’t you trust the boys in blue to do their jobs, Honey?”

“You should’ve trusted their wisdom to not weasel your way around the roadblock.”

“Haha, ya got me there, kiddo.  Listen, we’re driving. Nobody can murder us if we’re pulling seventy sweet em’s pee aitch on these empty streets, right?”

“I guess...”

Jason Homme drove his daughter Maddy crazy sometimes, but they had a good reason to be heading into the locked down part of the state.  Jason’s brother Kevin and mother Susan were in an isolated city, secured by police, but mom was unwilling to leave.  Kevin figured if anyone could convince her to evacuate, it was Jason - in person.  He brought Maddy to alternate driving until they were in the safe zone.

“We can do this, Maddy.  You just gotta believe in your old man.  You believe in me, right?”

“I guess...”

“Whaaat?  Has Daddy’s Princess lost faith in the king?  Our kingdom will surely perish!  No one will be spared!  Only the pure heart of--”

“Knock it off, Daddy!  I believe in you.  God.”

“...And so the kingdom was saved.  Trust me Princess, we’re gonna be A-OK.”

The state of Washington had a great variety of local climates, partitioned by mountains, hills, and bodies of water.  The east of the state was a great plain with typical midwestern skies, bright and hot in the summer, grading into patchy forests here and there.  As the car climbed the hills along the winding little road, the forest grew more dense.

But something was wrong here and it quickly became apparent.  That haze turned out to not be morning mist after all.  It thickened into great waves of smoke.  A forest fire was out of control somewhere, and not far away.

“Oh,” cried Maddy, “This can’t be good.  We really shouldn’t have come this way!”

“Oh Baby, it’s just a little forest fire.  They happen every summer around here.”

“Yeah, but what if there’s no firemen around anymore?”

“Don’t worry your head.  We just get past this, get to your Gran and Uncle Kevin, and it’s smooth sailin’.  We’ll ride out of here with a veritable phalanx of Washington state’s finest.”

“OK, but go faster.”

They were already up to eighty.  At that rate, if they didn’t get in a crash they were going to hit the mountains in minutes.  The smoke thickened and thickened, white grey and then black.  The little road had no real outlets - just lumber trails and rural residential dead ends.  If they chickened out, they’d need to turn around and lose a hell of a lot of time.

Jason flexed his solid hands on the wheel, pricked up his alertness to its full height.  He didn’t look from side to side, unfocused to take advantage of the widest amount of his peripheral view for motion and danger.  They drove into the smoke like driving from day into night.

He couldn’t help but reduce his speed, nervous of falling trees and the possibility he’d have to brake for a wall of flames.  Still, he was brave enough to do sixtyish.  Maddy was in the middle of the back seat, one hand gripping each of the front seats, trying to get the fullest view of the road - as if that would protect her.  They were sweating bullets.

Orange lights gleamed in the dark. Sparks raced across the road and disappeared behind them.  And then they saw the flames.  It was so quick at that speed - one second in relative darkness, another in the sparking zone, one more and there was a wall of fire.  Two walls of fire, left and right.  The flames nearly formed an arc over the road.  Maddy started to scream.

“FASTER, DADDY, FASTER!”

“I’M GOIN’, BABY!  I’M GOIN’!”

The road curved too sharply for their speed.  He skidded through the gravel, rode the guard rail like a demolition derby devil, got back on concrete after torturous moments.  Was their car already on fire?  They bored through hell like a power drill.

And then it passed.  The black disappeared, leaving them in grey-white smoke again, ash whipping in the wind like dust devils.  They had rounded the curve of a hill, whose steep sides were bare enough of grass to form an outer limit for the demonic flames.

“See, Snookums?  We did it!  Easy as pie.”

“Daddy!” She practically cried and punched him in the shoulder.

“Seriously, hon.  It’s gonna be fine, I’m for real about this.  Faith.”

She collapsed into her seat.  “I believe in you, Daddy.  I do.”

They finally got far enough from the thick of the smoke that Jason dared to roll to a stop and check to see if the roof was on fire.  As he got out, Maddy remembered the reason for the blockades and looked about crazily.

Murder clubs.  The concept was chilling.  Everyone knew that some people are just rotten and bad, like serial killers and their ilk.  Nobody guessed that there were enough to form cult-like groups and plot mass-murders for fun.  But they made the mistake of focusing their efforts in one geographic location, which let the government contain them with a little old fashioned martial law.

Martial law that they’d broken to get in here.  Maddy didn’t know what to expect.  Would they look like those internet losers, mad they couldn’t get laid?  Would they have lots of guns?  The stories said they preferred to use machetes and axes.  She shuddered and almost cried out for her father again, but he got in the car and spared her nerves.

“Just a lil’ sooty up there.  Guess I’ll be visiting a body shop when we get back to Yakima.  Unless you think they still have service in the safe zone...”

“Just drive, Daddy, please!”

“I’m drivin’, I’m drivin’!  Your wish is my command, Princess.”

***

Iphigenia Wallace washed her hands in the sink.  She was pretty sure she’d killed a few of them.  Those men.  Not that it was a sin, but she wished she could know for sure.  Had the one died when she smashed his head with a brick?  Had the other two died when she ran them over in a stolen Dodge Charger?  She didn’t know and it made her nervous.

The world had gone to hell and her family with it.  Those murder creeps started killing people in the night and the government overreacted with martial law, roadblocks.  But that only served to trap people in an area with an army of homicidal bastards and inadequate infrastructure.  Communication blackouts aimed at keeping them from coordinating by cell made it so no one could talk with their families and friends.

Ippy was one of those confused people, scrambling to find out - of her friends and family, who made it out?  Who was still in danger?  But she had worse luck than average.  Her mom and younger brothers and sisters all lived in Lakewood, which had been hit badly by the murder clubs.  The clubs had members in the military at Fort Lewis.  She found her family in their home.  They never had a chance to flee.

Then she sought out her best friends, in Fern Hill and South Tacoma..  Candy and Yvonne were both nowhere to be found, with apartments showing clear signs of breaking and entry.  She didn’t have any choice but to stop searching for them.  They could have been anywhere.  She realized, looking at the scratched and corroded bathroom mirror, that she’d always filled her life with routines, filled her thoughts with friends and family - and that meant her head was emptying out at an alarming pace.  What would she find when she didn’t have anything or anyone left to think about?

There was still Elijah.  Elijah had been her first boyfriend in junior high, but grew up to be more of a gay best friend.  He was living in Hilltop.  Her desperate search for the last traces of herself was narrowing in on Tacoma like a noose.

“Elijah... Be alive.”

She was dark, barely visible in the feeble light.  But her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw a person in there.  Who is she?  She put a thin reedy hand on the mirror then jumped back in shock.

What she had taken for a rust spot on the mirror sprang to life - a tiny bat startled by the vibration of her fingertips on the glass.  It flapped and shrieked, knocking Ippy on her ass with its outsized personality before getting lost inside the space above the toilet stalls.

She turned and got to her feet in a hurry, hustling out of the beast’s filthy little kingdom.  A little routine popped into her mind, made her feel like a human again - the annoyance that her freshly cleaned hands had just touched the bathroom floor and needed to be washed again.

Outside the bathroom she was in a gas station parking lot, cheap businesses on one side of the street, a string of forested lots on the other.  A car sped by, then an SUV.  It screeched to a stop and backed up for her.  She steeled herself for action.

The window was down and a Samoan lady hung her arm out the window in a peaceful gesture.  “Hey!  You wanna come to our church?  It’s safe there.  We have a lot of guns.”

“Uh... No thanks.  But can I get a ride to Hilltop?”

The guy at the wheel bitched, “I ain’t driving to fuckin’ Hilltop.”

The lady turned to him, “Why not you lazy bitch?”

“It’s too dangerous.  Forget it.”

Ippy waved the lady off.  “It’s OK.  I got a car, just thought it would be safer in company.  I’ll be fine.”

“Mm, OK.  Whatchu got for a weapon, Honey?”

She shrugged, then hoisted the hammer.  It was a slim profile claw hammer with a recurved long yellow plastic handle and black rubber grips, with serration inside the claw side.  She’d just picked it up from a house that had been abandoned in the middle of renovation.  “How about this?”

The Samoan grinned a gold tooth, her eyes disappearing into pleasant black crescents.  “I love it.  Have a nice trip!”  The man drove her away.

Iphigenia decided going unseen as little as possible was the ideal and went into the forested lots.  Someone peeked out of the dumpster at the gas station, watched her go.  He picked his way out of the noisy hiding spot with preternatural stealth and set his sneakered foot to concrete.  He padded across the bare street behind her, exaggerated spring in his tiptoes, looking like a cartoon burglar.  As he began to scale the forested hill behind her, his fingers slapped the wet bark - skin as moist and green as banana slugs.

***

Hilltop, crown jewel of Tacoma.  Well, crown at any rate.  Tacoma was an extremely sprawled, mostly one and two story grey smear on the southeast side of Puget Sound.  The sprawl was a motley of lesser cities that had been incorporated over the centuries in a cement of cheap hideous houses and strip malls.  The real Tacoma at its center was a port city next to a massive hill.  “Downtown” was the mix of mint-condition antique brick buildings and gleaming new development sloping down to the water.  But the real heart of Tacoma was the peak of that hill - blocks and blocks of impoverished single-family homes - weathered, cheaply built and long overdue for demolition.  Everybody from Olympia to Seattle knew about Hilltop - much more than knew about the Tacoma Art Museum.

It wasn’t the most easily defended piece of real estate, despite the high ground.  But people insisted on having more breathing room, access to their own bathrooms.  Nobody wanted to move into the hospital tower, which Detective Park and his irregulars could defend more easily - snipers watching anything within a mile of the place.  Park settled for gathering people in that crusty old neighborhood, keeping a weather eye through elaborately planned and executed patrol patterns and radio communication.

“Something is interfering with radio in the southeast.  Patrols there aren’t always getting through.”  Park was discussing strategy with the other commanding officers.  They were such a mixed bag of cops, soldiers, and volunteers that they decided to forgo normal chain of command and voted him chief of operations, but he still operated in a loose council - rarely made a call without consulting the other ranking officers.

“I can confirm that,” Officer Coffey said.  He was in charge of the civilian contingent - a high ranked security guard and army vet.  “I couldn’t get a signal on my patrol.  My guys couldn’t either.”

“It has to be the power lines.  We could try calling in closer.  Patrols there get word to the middle blocks, they relay to command.  If it works, make that part of protocol.”  Colonel James was active Army from the fort and should have been in charge, he was less assertive from a sense of shame.  Some of his men had turned out to be members of murder clubs.

“It probably won’t work.”  First Lieutenant Alameda was Air Force.  “We just have to do it analog - make the patrols quick so we can get word of mouth intel.”

“Mmm… something more than that,” Park said.  “Let’s make sure everyone who patrols there has a noisemaker.  Something they can use to get a warning out quick, without wasting ammo.  Ideas?”

Sergeant Infante was the only other guy from Tacoma PD.  “I think I know where I can scrounge up some air horns.”

“Make it happen, Infante.  Thanks.”   Park smiled at him.  That guy was top notch.  Not just another gun bunny looking for an excuse, despite being SWAT.  “Any more word from Homeland Security?  This holding pattern is the pits.”

“Just maintain,” Coffey said.  “Three commands didn’t check in this morning.  Auburn, Des Moines, and Beacon Hill.”

“Mm, I don’t like that.  They’re spread out, but still close enough it makes me wonder if they got hit by something.”

“SeaTac is close to all that, they report status normal.  Still taking evacuees, no hostile activity.”

Park pushed the meat of his forehead around.  “Can we spare anyone with a motorcycle to check on Des Moines?  That has the least cover en route, minimum ambush potential.”

Alameda said, “My secretary is always bragging on her bike.  She lives downtown, too.  It’s available.”

“Great.  Thank you.  Gentlemen.”  He nodded to dismiss the meeting and people broke into smaller groups to discuss needed details before returning to their respective commands.

Park followed Infante out of the tent, slapping him on the shoulder.  “Hey buddy.  Where are we shopping?  Archie McPhee’s is up in Wallingford.”

“Haha.  There’s an auto parts downhill.  I’ve seen ‘em there, at least a few.  Should be enough to equip patrols if they hand off.”

“Good man.”

Infante, appropriately, had a babyish face.  His pleasant, sensitive expression made him look all the younger.  “Not to be rude Detective, but don’t you have another duty?  We’re spread pretty thin up here.”

“I have a few.  Might as well get in my cardio instead of sitting on my duff up here.”  Park hoped he didn’t come off weird.  He was just glad to be hanging out with a fellow policeman.  The irregulars were good guys, but it was tense dealing with them.  If the Colonel decided to pull rank at any point, who knew where Park would end up?  “Besides.  I’d rather be with Tacoma PD any time.”

“Thanks, boss.”

They ambled along the cracked and mossy streets.  Some civilians were chilling on their lawns, glad for the time off work, whatever the situation.  They had to be told not to run barbecues and dads with invisible aprons glared at the cops as they passed.  Park was over six feet tall, broad-shouldered in a business casual and a shoulder holster.  Infante was just under six feet, his jarhead hairstyle and bulky SWAT uniform making his head look a bit small for his body.  His skin had a pleasant reddish tone, Park was like a sun-shy mushroom of a man, though his forearms and upper face were starting to get a light chestnut burnish from tromping around under summer skies.

“We don’t get much time to socialize on this duty.  How do you like SWAT?  Pretty new, right?”

“A few years here.  I didn’t see you much either.”

“Yeah.  So how about it?”

“We get all the toys, you know?”

“True…  Don’t take it wrong, but I don’t like guns as much as I did before I made gold.  This stuff going on… What if these assholes didn’t have easy access?”

“Eh, you and I both know we can’t what if.  It isn’t in the job description.”

“Yeah.  Well, it’s good to know there’s well-armed good guys.  I’m really glad we have you.”

“I just wish the rest of the squad was still around.  How could they just evacuate like that?  We got a job to do.”

“Only two detectives stayed.  SWAT had a better ratio.”

“Just me out of twelve.  That’s ate up sir.”

“That’s a big 10-4, Sergeant.  Heh.”

They could hardly talk as they staggered down a very steep stretch of hill.  The street there was cobblestone, quite randomly and at odds with the local architecture.  Then they came down to a comparatively level cross street and turned the corner.

The city was largely abandoned.  Foolish vagrants stuck around for primo looting and could still be seen wandering the streets sometimes, but there weren’t any within line of sight.  The police were quite alone.

Park saw a trickle of sweat at the back of Infante’s neck - a sign of humanity in the perfect soldier boy.  He didn’t know why it brought a smile to his face, not really.  “This isn’t the worst duty to draw, given the circumstances.”

Infante wheeled on him, shocked.  “Excuse me, sir?  We aren’t exactly neck deep in alligators, but this is fucked up.  Some of those psychos were Army and we’re working with Army right now.  And as far as we know, the murderers are all in plainclothes.  They could be anyone, come from anywhere.  This detail sucks balls, sir.”

“I’m sorry, brother.”

“It sucks balls.”

“I really am sorry.  I don’t wanna make light of anyone’s … travail, whatever.  I’ll be glad when we get these people out of the lockdown too.  I don’t know what to say.  What do you have to say about it?”

“About what?”

“About… them.  The murder clubs.”

“Pure evil, straight out of hell.  When we get everyone to safety, I’m gonna come back and send them all where they belong.”

“I bet you will.  Good man.”

Park didn’t like hearing him talk about killing.  It was an interest in killing that brought the creeps together in the first place.  He knew Infante’s mindset was fundamentally different, but it still made him sad.  They stepped into the auto part store through the already broken window and collected their prize.

***

Jason and Maddy weren’t about wasting time.  The forest roads didn’t feel safe - too many places for murder clubs to hide.  So they drove as fast as they dared.  Maddy took the wheel and Jason kept an eye out for trouble and turns.  They came out of the mountains into a cow town, then headed north through heavily wooded suburbs before turning west.  That street would take them into and out of the Green River valley and up to Interstate 5.

They descended into a cleft in the hill face, surrounded by tall dark evergreens, then burst out into the valley.  More dairy farms, but corporate parks and car dealerships too.  It was the flat nothing between Auburn and Kent.  The open space, empty of people and cars, was uncanny.  But to Maddy, who had been imagining attacks from the tree line for the last hour, it was a relief.  She unconsciously eased off the gas pedal and they slowed to forty-five.

“Perfect.  It’s been a while but I recognize all of this,” her dad said.

“And you’re sure 99 is going to get us to Beacon Hill faster?”

“Princess, look at the time we’re making.  We’ll be there before you know--”

His words fell away as he tried to comprehend the thing that was rising from the small stand of trees at the side of the road.  It was like a human arm, somehow grown longer - twenty feet for the upper arm, twenty feet for the lower, and patterned like a dairy cow.  It touched the street in front of them and they crashed into it.

Glass spider webbed and erupted with cutting little chunks.  Sparks flew.  Airbags exploded in their faces.  They whipped in circles before smashing through the guard rail and splashing in a wet ditch with intense force.

Jason woke up to his daughter shaking his head and shoulders around.  Maybe not the recommended first aid after a car crash, but he wasn’t able to think clearly enough to advise against it.  He licked blood from the corner of his mouth.

“DADDY DADDY WAKE UP!”

“Princess?  It’s OK, it’s fine, Baby.”

“You need to-” she sobbed “-g-get out of the car!”

“Sure thing, whatever you want, kiddo.”

Maddy took his manly arm in both of her scrawny paws and jerked uselessly.  He tugged his arm back gently.

“C’mon, hon.  Just let me do it.”

“O-oh OK.  OK, fine.”  She threw her hands up, stepped a few feet away, and slumped against a muddy embankment.

Jason tried opening the car door, then failing that he repositioned himself to force it.  He was a not atypical man, a little under six foot and two hundred twenty pounds, formerly a bit athletic.  But all his limbs felt leaden and clumsy.  He just kept moving until he took in enough air to decompress his ribs, start to revive.  She couldn’t watch for long, just taking short tearful glances at him and trying less successfully to get control of her own breathing.

He finally pushed the door open and staggered out, then leaned back against the car.  His feet were in ten inches of muddy water.  Or was it watery mud?  “See, snookums?  I’m right as rain.”

“Oh Daddy!”  She came in for a hug and he accepted it.

Probably no broken ribs, he thought.  Then he remembered something else.  “Uh, sweetie, did you happen to see the… tree that hit us?”

“Oh god!”  It looked like she was just remembering as well.  She broke from the hug and clambered up onto the street.

He followed, more slowly.  “Uh… Whatcha got there?”

“Nothing!  Noth-”

“Princess?”

“Oh!  There’s blood!  Oh no...”

He finally got up onto the concrete and came up behind her to lend moral support.  He saw the blood spray on the road.  Looked like what you’d expect from a very small animal - a squirrel, rabbit, rat, that sort of thing.  And there was no other remains in sight, so perhaps it was something small that got flung out of the road at that.  He couldn’t figure it.  “It’s nothing Honey.  Let’s just get walkin’.  We can probably find a car to borrow in one of these houses.”

“We should keep walking for a while, get away from here.  I don’t trust these houses.”  Maddy looked at the side of the road the thing had come from.  The sky looked above it was in a red haze almost, like a field full of cows kicking up their own manure - but no cows in sight.  She trembled.

“Alright, Baby.  Let’s shake a leg, OK?”

***

Iphigenia had lied about having a car.  She crashed the charger after killing those murderers.  She was driving crazy, worried she was being chased.  She did tend to feel safer on foot because it was easier to hide and harder to get truly boxed in.  She could escape killers in cars by just running where they couldn’t.

Why had she lied?  Just to end the conversation, allay the lady’s concern.  Maybe the hammer had helped in that respect.  She didn’t think much of it at the time she picked it up, but it was very handy - not just for impressing women.  The wooded lots were on a steep hill - one of the bumps that eventually added up to Hilltop many miles away - and she had taken to hooking the trunks with the tool as a climbing aid.

Ippy came out on a paved residential street, part of a good long stretch of pure suburbia.  Two story houses with lawns and everything.  Before the evacuation there would have been more cars in the driveways and on street curbs, but the people took their best cars and locked up the leftovers tight in garages.  Aside from that and the relative silence, the neighborhood really didn’t look any different from how it normally would be.  She walked between blocks in the middles of streets, cut through lawns, kept an eye out for useful stuff to borrow.

She was cutting across a lawn and randomly decided to go under a set of swings rather than walk around it.  She hooked the hammer claw on the bar for no particular reason and swung from it.  Her feet were still touching the grass, but as she let the bar carry her weight, she spun in a half circle.  That’s when she saw it.

Just for a moment she saw a greenish human shape duck behind a fence.  It had been looking her way.  Following.  Hunting?  Well Green Man, let’s go.  Ippy very quickly switched directions and headed straight back the other way.  Was it watching her that moment?  She heard its footsteps as it began to run, and kept pace, leaping a small fence and rounding a corner onto the sidewalk for an open chase.

It was dressed like a man, but had its lower arms and the back of its neck visible, and looked some kind of slimy green color.  Ippy had no idea what to make of that, but didn’t want to let it get away, just to stalk her again or go get its friends.  And she was faster.

It slowed just a moment to round another corner and she caught up, swinging the hammer into its shoulder, sending it flipping onto the ground.  It looked like a murder clubber - young, acned, male, nondescript clothes, camouflage army cap.  But his skin had all turned green and slimy-looking.  His ears were nearly inhumanly large, nose bulbous, mouth too wide and groaning through needle-like teeth.

“What the fuck happened to you?” She asked him, but wasn’t expecting a response - was too lost in confused thoughts and feelings.

“Whaddya mean, bitch?  You think we care if we live of die?  It’s--”

She silenced him by swinging the hammer within an inch of his mouth.

“I mean why do you look like that?  Why are you a goblin?”

“Stuck-up bitch, think you’re too good.  You’re prey.  We’ll--”

She dropped the hammer’s head into his guts, forcing his last syllable to dissipate into a wheeze.  “My curiosity is running out.”  She was trying to be coldly threatening, but she thought about these cruddy little fuckers and she thought about her family and her face went hot, her hands began to shake.  To still them, she gripped the hammer harder, then found herself raising it without any conscious thought, swinging it down.

“AUGH!  AUGH!  AAAA!”  He tried to block the blows but they just destroyed his hands before destroying the rest of him - he only prolonged his suffering.

His blood was green.  Guess that’d do that to one’s complexion.

***

    NEXT

    -

[buckygirl-fanfiction]

Memory Chapter 1

Pairing: HydraBucky POV X Reader POV

Word Count: 1.6K

Summary: Not much Bucky in the chapter, just the intro. I decided to turn my one shot “Not Always Perfect” into a short series.

A/N: Bucky whose still under Hydra’s control meets and slowly falls in love with the daughter of one of Hydra’s leaders. This is the account of their brief, passionate, and tragic affair.

She was irrevocable proof that there was heaven and that even men like me could enter it, however briefly that may be. Do not forget her.

 December 12, 1991

 y/n’s POV

 January 19, 1991

 When you’re little your parents tell you, you can be anything. They tell you that the world is yours. My mother told me to chose my life, those were her dying words to me. Chose your life. I was young when she died, yet the power of those words linger with me even to this day and they will linger with me till the day I die.

 “y/n, my darling,” said my father casually strolling into my lab admiring his domain, “you are always closed off in this little laboratory. Come explore. There is so much waiting for you.”

 “I like it in here,” I say hoping he’d leave soon. This was my place, my very own little hideaway and if I had the power i’d like to keep it closed off forever.

 “You will have to leave one day,” he says and I know he means well but to me his worlds come out as ominous. “Come Alex is working on a new prototype. His first field test is today, you will like it.”

 I knew even before I saw the demonstration that i’d like nothing about his prototype. It’s hard to believe someone you’d grown up with could change so much. We’d chased birds together and climbed trees and fed rabbits, done all the innocent little fancies of childhood together. Now I watched him, a grown man, inject a small white rat with a syringe filled with amber liquid.

 “There is a second serum to delay the effects. Once injected the subject will have 12 hours hours to get into position. Timing of dosages are important. You will see why.”

 I stood beside my father and a handful of other powerful men watching through the glass as the rat slowly turned amber. Like the amber of antique jewelry. Then it began to crack slowly at first then with much more force. The white rat was no more within a couple minutes. It exploded with considerable force leaving only shards of amber behind. The room erupted in hearty laughter and cheer. Some men clapped.

 “Of course the size of the explosion will increase with the size of the subject. It’s the perfect undetectable substance to move onto human trials.” Alex said as I watched trying to conceal the horror and disgust bubbling up inside me.

 “Brilliant isn’t it y/n.” My father said with a wide grin, he put his hand on my shoulder shaking me and I smiled back at him with apprehension. He patted my back then released me walking towards Alex to congratulate him for the hundreds of lives he just condemned with his new ‘innovation’.

 I didn’t stay to watch. I left. Walking fast through the compound. I never came on this side so I didn’t know it well. Just well enough to make a wrong turn or two before running into the bathroom. I saw the startled face of a woman when I forcefully pushed the door open and ran into a stall. I sunk to my knees and hurled. I hadn’t eaten much but that didn’t stop me from emptying the contents of my stomach, even if it was just stomach acid.

 My mother's words came back to me as I was sitting on the floor beside the toilet. Choose your life.

 I could leave. I’d thought about it many times. Run off somewhere, escape. He would find me wouldn't he? Wherever I went he would find me.

 I left the compound early that day. I got in my car drove past the security checks and kept driving until I reached the forest. I’d come out here when I was younger with my parents to hike.

 I came here when things got to be a little too much. When the reality of my surroundings began to pull at my conscience. When the guilt became too much to bear. It was cold and I had my jacket wrapped around me but even the wool wasn’t enough to keep the chill out of my spine. I’d worn the wrong shoes. I should have worn boots but I was in no state to go home first. So sneakers would have to do. It was around 3pm when i’d set out on the trail. I followed my usual path which wound around the mountains. But, this time I didn’t turn back. I kept walking past the rock that usually marked my turning point. Past the trees and stray branches till I saw it. It was a little pile of rocks stacked up together, almost like a staircase. Beckoning me to climb it. Curiosity getting the better of me I walked towards it carefully putting my foot on the first rock testing its stability. It seemed solid so I stretched my arms out for balance and stepped on the next rock, then the next, and the next until, with the aid of some careful footwork, I reached the top of the pile. The final step was a little further up and I had to pull myself up to the precipice. But i’d managed it. Once I was up I looked back down at what i’d climbed, it was about 7 feet down. Then I looked forward. The path ahead was not one that was intentionally made. Instead the ground was depressed by the footsteps of someone who’d come before me. It was a narrow path winding into the trees. Against my better judgement I followed it my shoulders brushing the deep forest green pine needles beside me. Then there was a opening. A wide piece of rock jutting out into the azure bay. It was beautiful, breathtaking, stunning almost enough to make me forget why i’d come. I must have hiked out far enough without realizing. I walked to the very edge of the cliff where the rocks were slightly cracked and looked down. It was about a 40 foot drop to the water where the waves crashed against silver rocks. I stood at the very edge looking down. I could do it. I could jump. I felt the wind urging me, pushing me, to do it. I felt the glimmering blue water calling to me. I felt the odd feeling you get when you're at the edge of a cliff telling you to take another step, just one.

 I could do it. I could leave it all behind me. My father, Hydra, the compound. But I didn’t. Instead I sat there for hours at the edge of the cliff thinking about how my life had turned out. Before i’d had the chance to realize the sun was setting. It was beautiful like the sky had erupted into fire. I was so enamoured by the display i’d forgotten where I was. By the time I turned back it was dark. I stood at the top of the rocks facing a daunting climb back down in complete darkness. By some miracle I got back down with some wobbly foot placement and the aid of the flashlight on my cellphone. I ran back down the path till I reached my car. I didn’t want to go back home but It was late my father would be wondering where I was. As soon as I reached civilization again my cellphone service returned. My phone rung and I answered.

 “Where are you, I was worried,” said the stern voice on the other line.

 “I went hiking,” I replied while speeding through the highway.

 “I have a meeting today with…” He trailed off, “Alex’s serum was a hit.”

 “I understand,” I said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

 I hung up the phone and continued to drive. I didn’t want to go home. He usually held his business at our house. It was a big victorian fashioned mansion, which he liked to call perfect for business. When I turned 18 I moved into the guest house on the grounds. If I was quiet enough I could sneak past the garage without anyone noticing me. But, I hated it. So I drove back to the compound and walked through the mostly deserted halls towards my office. Maybe I could sleep on the couch for a while until tomorrow at least.

 I turned the corner and came face to face with Roan, my father’s second in command. Behind him stood the intimidating looking man with the metal arm. He was the American, the soldier. I’d seen him around the compound a couple times. But, I never been close enough to see his features before. Through his long auburn hair I saw a pair of icy eyes look down at me and I took a instinctive step back.

 “y/n what are you doing here so late?” Roan asked looking down at me. He was tall, but not as tall as the man standing behind him.

 “I… I have some work to finish.” I said tearing my eyes away from the soldier's gaze.

 “Where is your father?” Roan asks.

 “He is having a meeting…” I say.

 “Ahh right.”

I don’t prolong the conversation. Instead I carefully walk past them down the corridor. I take fast steps and when i’m a couple feet away I turn back, glancing over my shoulder, unable to hold back the curiousity. His back is to me and he walks behind Roan like a dog following his master. Then he turns almost instinctively as if he knows someone is watching him. His icy eyes meet mine just for a second and they remind me of the water I saw today. The water that was calling out to me, to jump. I turn back around quickly and continue walking.

[dull-bones]

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[illyriantremors]

ACOMAF Part 1: The House of Beasts Chapters 1-13 (Rhys POV)

Chapters 1-4: Return from UtM to Feyre’s Wedding Panic Attack Chapter 5: Feyre’s Wedding & Arrival in the Night Court Chapter 6: Learning to Read Chapter 7: Returning Feyre to the Spring Court Chapters 8-10: The Next Three Weeks & Retrieving Feyre for Her Second Trip Chapter 11: Feyre’s Second Night Court Visit Chapters 12-13: Rescuing Feyre from the Spring Court

I did a thing. We’ll see if I can do more before ACOWAR comes out. Below is Chapters 1-4 of ACOMAF in Rhys’s POV and above are the links to those same chapters plus the rest on AO3. Hope ya like!

Summary: Roughly Chapters 1-4 of ACOMAF from Rhys’s POV. It’s mostly a focus on the last two weeks before Feyre gets married with summation thrown in on how his time has been since leaving UtM. Includes her nightmare that opens the book and some lovely chatting with Morrigan the day of Feyre’s wedding.

Hello Feyre Darling

The mountains of the Illyrian Steppes wrought a chill through my bones I hadn’t felt in years.

We flew for most of the day, listening to wherever the shadows at my brother’s back directed us, until at last the sun began to set and we landed in a small clearing between the trees.

They were close. Near enough to sent them on the tendrils of wind that carried their blood and sweat through the heavy pine of the woods. Since my return, I’d lost count of the number of rogue Illyrian war bands I’d had to hunt down and confront. And that wasn’t counting the number Cassian and Azriel had taken care of in my absence.

Today’s hunt felt restless. The outcome had been decided the moment we left the Steppes. These primal encounters never changed even if I spent the hours flying faster towards them hoping they would.

A confrontation. An offering of second chances. Bow down and obey - or pay the debt they owed for the blood they’d spilt, the debt for using fifty years of freedom to push the boundaries however they pleased.

The Night Court would need every drop in the coming weeks that it could spare. Petty disagreements over territory, among other things, wasn’t something I could deal with in the middle of a shift that sought to overthrow the entirety of Prythian.

And once Illyrian alliances shifted, they rarely shifted back.

So in blood, they usually ended.

We threaded through the trees, Cassian and Azriel silently stalking several paces out on either side of me until we hit the gap where the band made camp. It was a small legion, perhaps a dozen or so with their chosen lord in the center. An exquisite gash ran down the center of his cheek. No doubt he had been forced to earn his rank, had likely volunteered for the blood bath.

I wondered what they had done with the bodies, if they’d bothered to bury them properly in Illyrian fashion or had left them to rot in the snow.

Their heads turned in our direction as we neared close enough for them to catch our scent, but by then it was already too late. I held their minds steady from the grip of my power long before the three of us cleared the trees lining the perimeter of their camp.

My brothers strode quietly out from the trees, the swords they’d been gifted at the Blood Rite brandished in their hands in an offensive gesture, ready to strike at a moment’s signal from me.

Slowly, I narrowed my eyes on the newly elected lord and approached, tendrils of darkness trailing in my wake, my wings stretched out wide enough at my back to send a jolt of fear down even the toughest Illyrian’s back.

“Do I need to bother asking?”

My voice was flat, hardly even a question as the lord looked me over once and spat directly at my feet. “Whore,” he cursed and internally, I savored the feel of my mental claws dragging through his mind, undoing every last piece of who he was and would ever become before I let his body fall limp and ragged to the snow. I didn’t even wait. Little impulses of pain trembled along his skin and muscles in those last seconds before he gave up and was no more.

All round me, the forest rang silent save for the bitter, cold wind howling my sins in my ears.

Red splattered in harsh contrast against the snow at my feet, large sloppy drops dripping from Truth-Teller’s blade.

Azriel looked stoically at me as if he hadn’t just shed the blood of a half-dozen men he’d once shared camp with. I often wondered how he managed to lock that darkness away so well.

Slowly, he lifted a brow as snow crunched between Cassian’s heavy boots on my other side.

“Rhys?” Cassian said, dragging my attention down to my hands. They were shaking in a near violent manner.

Whore.

“Let’s go.”

“Rhys-”

I grabbed both their hands and winnowed on the spot before they could say another word.

I did not join them at the House of Wind that night for dinner.

There was blood everywhere.

All over the three young fae hooded and kneeling on the unforgiving marble floor, the dagger I watched fall clattering to that same ground, and most especially all over her.

Feyre stood reaching with a trembling hand for the second dagger covered in blood. Her clothes were soaked from merely one kill that shouldn’t have garnered that much evidence of her deeds. It carried onto her hands - her poor, stuttering hands that plunged themselves upon the fae woman singing herself into death’s waiting arms.

Amarantha sat poised on the throne calling Feyre on with praise. It felt disgustingly wrong.

Feyre pulled the third dagger and I knew what to expect as the veil was to be lifted on the final victim. Tamlin would be waiting and then our fate would be in the hands of this small human girl none of us knew. I felt like I was going to be sick even as Feyre questioned whether or not she could go through with one more murder - just one more murder, and we would all be free. Such a steep price to pay for her.

The hood lifted. Silence fell.

The blood stood out in stark relief against the resounding quiet of the room.

Feyre knelt before the third victim - before herself, her ears turned up into two stiff points, her skin smooth and blended into a soft perfection only my own breed possessed. And her body, which had become so long and elegant with its new fae gifted powers, sat strongly before her, beseeching her move forward.

And that’s when I knew where I was.

I saw Amarantha up on her throne because I saw her from Feyre’s eyes and not my own place on the dias where I should have been. This was nothing new. We’d been inside this prison countless times before and always we failed to get out alive.

Murderer.

The words chanted inside Feyre’s mind as a flurry of self-loathing and hopelessness I only ever felt inside myself welled up beneath her skin.

Butcher.

She angled the dagger at herself and my lungs screamed inside of me to stop her as I felt her anticipate the relief that blade could give her. No, no, never -

Monster.

A relief she welcomed, craved even. It was horrifying to watch, to feel.

Liar.

And it killed me to think she could see herself that way, in any way other than the determined, resourceful woman I’d met Under the Mountain who had saved us all and lost herself in the process.

“Feyre!” I screamed inside her mind, as violently and brutally as I once had to stop Amarantha from attacking her.

Deceiver.

But it was too late.

Feyre thrusted the knife into her own chest and I watched as my mate willingly committed suicide before my own eyes. Somehow, it was a thousand times worse than hearing her neck snap against her will.

I was already half-awake when I felt Feyre wake me from her nightmare.

Maybe my body was adjusting, learning to anticipate these moments each night, waking me up hours before the day needed me.

But Feyre needed me - needed someone. And so each night, I readied myself to be stolen prematurely from sleep. If I thought it might be a welcome reprieve from my own nightmares, I was wrong. Watching Feyre suffer was infinitely worse than doing it myself.

Her mind read like an open book when she woke like this and tumbled blindly out of bed racing for the bathroom. Had it not been for her own obsession with marking Tamlin’s position strewn about the sheets, willfully ignoring her distress, I wouldn’t have even realized he was there consuming her energy.

But he was there and night after night I watched her pretend it didn’t hurt her not to have him wake up at her movements, her tremors.

Calmly, I rose from bed and walked to my own bathing room that stretched wide and luxuriously off my townhouse. Most visits to these chambers, I indulged my wings in the freedom the space allowed, but tonight, I allowed no trace of them.

Sitting down between the toilet and the edges of the bathing pool, I felt the cool porcelain meet my back and waited for Feyre to finish retching... hundreds of miles away. Sweat coated both our brows. Feyre’s brown-gold hair fell against her face, a curtain around my own vision as I blacked out the waste filling the toilet in front of her - in front of us.

I wished I could see her eyes. It was, perhaps, the cruelest and most overlooked portion of my bargain with her. The bond linking us showed me what Feyre saw, but Feyre never looked at herself. Never gazed into any mirrors or wandered past lakes or meadows or reflective surfaces of any kind that might give me a glance at her face. I knew she wasn’t getting out that frequently much to my regrettable ire, so the lack of scenery in her life didn’t entirely surprise me, but the fact that she actively avoided her own reflection in the privacy of her rooms spoke volumes enough.

Redness stung sharply at Feyre’s eyes and at last, I felt her pull back and cling to herself, scrambling only mere inches away for the open window that revealed the night sky and she wiped the slickness away from her cheeks. Whatever remained was soon dried by the cool, crisp air kissing her skin.

Were her eyes more grey or blue tonight? I couldn’t remember from when I looked at her Under the Mountain, how the colors changed with her growing distress.

This is real, she thought. I survived. I made it out.

She had survived. She was free.

But still, she huddled around herself hugging her knees to her chest as though she were anything but.

Agony sank into my stomach as I felt her sharpened nails dig into her skin at the fists she’d tightened, as she gasped for air in deep breathes I took alongside her out the open window. She struggled for air, anything to feel a stasis again and there was only so much of it the night sky could provide her.

My night sky. I felt like a failure every time the stars blinked out in front of her and she lost herself a little bit more.

Real.

She mouthed the word to herself over and over again.

Yes, this is real, I thought, but I didn’t say it loud enough for her to hear.

For three months I’d sat back and watched just like Tamlin had on his seat next to Amarantha. For three months, I’d quietly convinced myself that the mask I wore Under the Mountain had become my real mask here at home. For three months, I convinced myself that the glorious emerald sitting on Feyre’s finger, the tears of joy she’d cried receiving it, were exactly what she wanted - what she deserved.

Tamlin.

She had done all of this for Tamlin. Not me. She hated me. More than hated me. Perhaps hate was too weak a word for what she felt for me. I had to remind myself of that fact constantly even as it drove knives under my skin.

If an eternity in the Spring Court was what she wanted, then I would let her have it. Cauldron knew I had done enough to fuck up her life. Dragging her to the Night Court for pointless visitations that would guarantee she hated me more, even if it meant gaining a valuable edge in what I knew was coming, would not help her.

And all I wanted was to help her. For my mate, I would yield to this nightly poison if it meant her happiness.

And yet...

Here she sat night after night. Alone. In the dark waiting for something to answer her. It was the only time I wavered. It was the only time I questioned my decision.

But unless she asked the question, unless she made the choice and called my name, I’d leave her be. This was her peace and she’d earned it.

However much I hated every single second of it and denied my loathing in the process, I had become such a coward. A monster.

Feyre’s noting of the pain lacing her palms dragged my attention back to her. I saw her fists unfurl revealing the sleek eye I had etched upon her left hand. She felt calmer now, more recovered from the incident that had transpired tonight. But her scowl at the tattoo and subsequent abhorrence flooding through her was dismissal enough.

And I knew those feelings all too well to ignore them.

Together, we stood. Together, we left our bathing chambers.

Separately, we returned to our own private worlds - she in hers and me in mine.

I had two weeks until I lost her, and likely the future of my court, forever.

The smooth ceiling of my room shimmered faintly in the early morning light as it poured in through the open windows of my room. Snow from the rooftops nearby reflected an extra layer of sheen to the light that would have been somehow dimmer any other time of year.

Though I hated having my wings pinned down, I rested comfortably on my back preferring to have them out and suffocated than stuffed inside myself, a further reminder of my previous imprisonment.

It was rare that a day went by in which I did not fly somewhere. Most nights I couldn’t sleep and so the stars wove together to form a cradle for me instead. I had missed it, that feeling of open air and crisp cool wind that burned my skin and lungs so badly the pain became a pleasure. Not even on the rare occasions Amarantha let me out of my cells of dirt and stone did I dare attempt flying. Anyone could see. Anyone might mark me for it and use it against me later on.

I knew she knew. She had to have known about my wings. She couldn’t not know after the weeks she’d spent with them pinned to the walls during the war torturing me for information. Yet it was the one part of myself she seemed to have forgotten or else casually chose to ignore while I was Under the Mountain.

There is one person who saw your wings in that court. You showed them to her when she cleaned your room...

I shuddered with a groan, the sheets beneath me feeling stale.

The Mountain.

I had to stop drowning in thoughts of it. It was too masochistic when this day already brought enough pain for me to harvest for the remainder of many winters yet to come.

Yet here I was lying wide awake in bed, my fingers tracing circles over themselves as I stared at the blank expanse of ceiling that mimicked the future I would enter into by the end of the day.

War was coming.

For three months since I’d earned my freedom and come home, my mind had been torn in two with one half dedicated to this repeated thought.

War was coming.

And the only way I could see to stop it was... just out of my reach. Barely any time into my reign as High Lord and already, I was going to fail my court miserably. Fifty years of service in those gods forsaken caves would be wiped out, forgotten among the pages of history the second Hybern figured out the key to rebuilding that damned pot that would unmake us all. I supposed if he succeeded, my lone consolation would be that all of history would be forgotten alongside whatever shitty contributions I had failed to make in a feeble attempt to go down on the side of good.

Dread knotted into the muscle fibers banding around my stomach and I didn’t know if the sentiment was mine or hers - the other half of my pounding thoughts. Maybe it was ours both.

She’d thought my name last night, only hours ago. Not only thought it, but said it.

Then you don’t know Rhysand very well at all.

The words had floated casually into my mind in a sea of emptiness I’d blocked out most of the day, startling me into pleasant surprise.

She never thought my name unless she could help it. The only time her mind dared to wander down that dark and drunken alleyway was in the middle of her nightmares, when she’d stare at that eye tattooed upon her skin and curse my name for it.

A curse. That’s all it meant to her. A cauldron damned curse.

Which was why it shocked me so thoroughly to feel it spoken off her lips, the bond opening like a chasm deep and wide for that brief moment to let me in.

...Rhysand...

She had so little control over her mind. There were times it was wide open and I flipped her thoughts over as one would the pages of a book, easily taking my time to peruse as I saw fit, something I preferred not to do if I could help it.

There were other times that it was closed. When she was so distracted by how bored or idle she was that ironically her mind felt it had nothing better to do than shut against me, entirely unaware of what she was doing.

But last night, she’d spoken my name. Spoken it and cringed even as she showed me through her vision those around her doing the same, including Ianthe, that frigid High Priestess better suited to a brothel than a temple altar.

Reflexively, I stretched my fingers wide allowing the stretch to pull the curse out of me. I had no love for Ianthe and her schemes, but it shamed me all the same to condemn her to the same names I had resorted to for the sake of my court.

Whore.

Perhaps that was what my mate called me in her mind when she tried not to think my name. She certainly hated me enough to use it. Everyone else did. My name was sure to be a curse inside her mind, one she would spend the rest of her life avoiding, already did avoid every time she stared at her tattoo and prayed I had forgotten her with such loathing and desperation, I sometimes forgot my place and plummeted straight out of the sky.

I avoided her name too. Avoided it like the plague. It was a reminder of what I could not have even if I was prepared to sit by for an eternity and watch her myself through the bond she thought was nothing more than dark blue ink on her arm and a broken bone I’d once mended.

Most days, I succeeded at keeping her out save for those moments her emotion become so strong she was practically at my side screaming at me. The only time I couldn’t seem to avoid it entirely was when -

A knock rapped curtly at my bedroom door. My eyes flickered close with a deep sigh. Speak of the devil, I should have known this would be coming.

“Come in, Morrigan,” I said, not bothering to sit up in greeting as my cousin walked briskly into my bedroom. “As if you needed an invitation.” My voice did not come out pleasantly.

“Good morning to you too,” she said with a small frown. “I’ll try not be too hurt by your underwhelming reaction to seeing me.”

She plopped herself down on my bed lying next to me, her arms tucked behind her head teaming with long golden locks that grew brighter in the increasing sunlight streaming in from outside. She had on a pair of dark leggings and a deep blue blouse, a color that suited her well.

I turned my head enough to look at her and spoke plainly.

“I told you weeks ago not to check in on me anymore.���

She pulled one hand down to examine her well manicured nails and flicked them off without a word.

“Morrigan.”

“When are you going to stop pretending that everything is fine? I’m not an idiot. I know what day this is.”

“Everyone in Prythian knows what day this.”

“Not everyone, including Cassian, whom you stormed out of training with yesterday after insisting you were fine when he asked you why you want to get shit faced tonight for no apparent reason.”

She lifted her brows daring me to deny it. I shrugged. “I see no reason why it’s any business of his - or yours for that matter - if I want to get drunk with my friends for the hell of it.”

“For her, you mean. For Feyre.”

Feyre.

And there it was. Morrigan was the one constant in my life capable of always dragging the truth out of me. She didn’t even need the aid of her magnificent gifts or charm to do it. Sheer will and nagging were enough alone.

“And I think you mean friend, singular, not friends, seeing as how no one else was invited to your little escapade tonight.”

I snorted and a ghost of a smile almost graced my face. “I suppose that’s why you’re here now, is it? To tell me how much you long to take care of two sick puking Illyrian males for the evening. And you can spare me the trouble of trying to convince me Azriel actually wants to be there for that.”

My brother would sooner have dinner alone with Amren than turn up to watch me become a morose drunk. Azriel spent his life among the shadows. He didn’t need to deal with my self-indulgent pity party on top of that.

“Azriel can take care of himself anywhere, as you damn well know,” Morrigan said, her eyes hard as steel, ever ready to defend her preferred Illyrian. “And he’d be there in a heartbeat,” she drummed her fingers on my chest for emphasis, “if you asked him and you know it. As I would too.”

I sighed, but didn’t say anything, my attention returned to that blank, blank ceiling above us.

Because of course she was right. That’s what was so annoyingly perfect about her and why we had all clung to her like honey for the better part of near on six hundred years.

“Rhys,” Morrigan said, propping herself up on one elbow, her voice softening. “It’s not too late, you know. She doesn’t marry him until sundown.” I didn’t have to ask who she’d spoken to for that intimate piece of information. “You could go and get her.”

“And say what, precisely? ‘Remember me? The man who got you drunk for three months, tortured you, taunted you, and pushed you into a bargain you didn’t want when I could have just been nice and saved you without asking anything in return? We’re mates and I’d love it if you didn’t marry the High Lord of Spring that you risked everything for. How does that sound?’“

Morrigan pursed her lips and bobbed her head a bit considering. “That’s an... interesting way to do it, but you might find a more subtle approach to yield better results.”

“Your suggestion, oh Queen of my wretched court?”

Mor smirked like a tiger. She liked that one and it seemed to put the next idea in mind.

“Why don’t you try starting with ‘Hello, Feyre darling.’ Someone once told me that one garners quite the reaction out of her.”

“Why do I tell you these things,” I said shaking my head. “You are impossible.” Morrigan laughed.

“So are you. Must run in the family.”

I was too miserable to return the laugh.

“Sundown.”

“Sundown,” she confirmed even though I already knew that detail, had been given every detail of this weeding right down to the lace design of the doilies they would set the tea kettles on. Azriel had given me all of that and more.

She would marry at sundown, when I’d go find Cassian and likely watch Feyre marry herself away, taking the easiest, albeit still perilous, path towards stopping an impending war away from my court along with my mate. In my drunken state warping the barriers of my mind, I’d likely see everything as it happened and hopefully forget it all by morning.

The Cauldron was cruel.

Perhaps a night of obnoxious drinking with my brother wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Sunlight filtered the room in full force now. Morning was here which gave me a long time to decide how much revelry I would be up for come nightfall.

“Morrigan.”

“Yes, Rhys,” my cousin replied thoughtfully.

“What are you doing today?”

“Hmm,” she said, a little hum in her throat. Her hips gave a scoot on the bed knocking into mine teasingly. “Hanging out with your sorry ass, I’d imagine.”

If only Feyre was never this alone. She might be here already.

Despite how much I liked to complain about my dear cousin, having Morrigan around for the day was more comfort than I cared to admit.

The only one who knew. The only one I’d told. Not even Amren knew everything that had transpired under that rock of dirt that cut Prythian in half.

By now, my inner circle knew strictly the facts. Feyre was a mortal who had willingly come into the lion’s den and offered herself already dripping in blood and bait to save Tamlin and break the curse on our world. After defeating three brutal tasks to free the fae she had grown up despising, she solved Amarantha’s riddle only to be killed at the fae queen’s hands anyway and wind up miraculously remade into one of our own. A High Fae lady among us with the spark of seven High Lords in her blood where once a human huntress had been.

And that was where the knowledge stopped. No one knew who she was to me. No one knew how deep the bargain on her tattooed hand now ran. No one knew what torment those three months had wrought on her still human heart, the one keeping her sane despite what she thought.

Feyre Cursebreaker was whispered throughout Prythian. Even the fae of Velaris, my own sanctuary I had struggled for centuries to keep hidden from the world, spoke of her. Their savior, she was hailed and rightfully so.

But never their Lady. Never their queen. And certainly never my mate.

I knew the second I saw Morrigan waiting for me on that balcony when I came home that I would keep it all locked away from them. I told Morrigan because I had to. I had to tell someone and she just happened to be there for me, the right person when I’d needed her. Had it been anyone else...

The relief at seeing her was... overwhelming, to say the least.

The words fell out of my mouth in droves I couldn’t contain. We didn’t move until I’d spat the entire story out at her, her eyes grown wide from shock as she watched me fall apart. I hadn’t even given her time to embrace me before I was gasping She’s my mate, my mate, my mate - she’s my mate at her over and over again and she had no idea who I was even referencing.

The last time I’d seen my cousin, I’d been dressed in my finest mask, the essence of power and might and all that I ever was and I’d returned home to her a mess. She had pleaded to go with me, had said I needed someone at my side that night to keep me from ripping my hair out all evening. I’d almost let her come. I would have been utterly fucked if I had.

And I vowed never to let the others see it. The second my story was done and I let Morrigan winnow us home to Velaris, I felt a hole inside of me close for none to pass through. Close, but a gaping pit remained beneath it waiting for the stitches holding it shut to burst open.

I wouldn’t let it.

We spent most of this day in quiet silence, content to remain at the townhouse for most of the morning before taking to the streets of Velaris and breathing in the fresh air. We walked for hours, never saying more than was necessary. Her presence was enough.

Occasionally, Morrigan would touch my wrist or squeeze my shoulder, but she never pried. Not once.

Not until we came home and stood on the rooftop watching the sun begin its descent towards the tips of the horizon. It was nice to stop and be idle for once. A day of walking had wormed a sick, nauseated feeling into my gut that was becoming harder and harder to ignore the longer we went.

“Cassian will be here soon,” I said. I stood stiffly with my feet apart and arms crossed over my chest.

“Is that a dismissal?” Morrigan said with little inflection. Stay or go, she would accept my request.

“It’s never a dismissal. You know that.”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and smirked up at me. “I’ll try to remember that the next time we bicker over dinner or you get invited to a big party in someone else’s court.”

“That’s your own doing and you know it.”

Morrigan leaned up and kissed my cheek before turning for the door. “Say hello to Cass for me.” Her voice darkened and I felt her grow deadly serious. “He’s worried about you, you know. We all are. Your mask doesn’t fool everyone, Rhys. And this isn’t Amarantha’s court anymore. You needn’t always be so guarded.”

“I’m not so su-”

“Feyre?”

The words died in my throat. The barriers of my mind cracked open like lightning ripping the heavens apart as I saw through her eyes miles and miles away from me.

Tamlin was standing feet from Feyre, his arm outstretched towards it as she struggled in vein to convince her to take his offered hand.

Help me, help me, help me, she begged - pleaded so pitifully in her mind, her body begging her tongue to make use of the thought and turn it into some kind of action. I saw through her eyes, took advantage of the window she’d opened for me and surveyed the scene.

High Fae - hundreds of them - sat around her gawking whilst red rose petals that Feyre couldn’t stop staring at screamed at her from every corner.

Blood boiled in my veins. Darkness spilled out of me like waves on a turbulent night sea. I couldn’t see it through the fog I traveled within between our minds, but I could damn well feel it.

The bastards. The fucking bastards had recreated her damned trials all over again.

With Feyre, I saw them the way she did. This was not an assembly of Prythian’s finest turned out to celebrate a blessed union with her. This was a human standing in a pit of mud and bone and grime while those same people pretending to be her friends now stood around the perimeter of her cage and watched her fight a creature from the bowels of hell itself that she could never hope to kill. This was a girl who had no education, had never learned to read standing before a riddle she could not decipher while her only friend cried out behind her and these fools applauded feet above her head. This was the girl who had stained her soul with blood and death for the sake of the man she loved and earned only the cruel snap of her neck in return.

Save me - please, save me. Get me out. End this.

This was Under the Mountain all over again. Feyre was relieving it in the full light of day, but this time, the mask was pulled off and she was forced to see it as a blessing.

But her happiness, her happy ending... no one moved to help her and the solution sat there dangling before my eyes and I couldn’t move even as my heart tore itself to shreds watching her panic rise to a breaking point. I couldn’t take her future away from her, not unless she -

No.

Tamlin stepped forward and Feyre recoiled. No - no.

That was all I needed. That one little word. That was all I had ever needed.

I made my decision. Tamlin might be content to sit idly by and not do anything, but I would not. I would never keep quiet any longer. I would never - could never - let her suffer an eternity like this. I was shamed for how long I’d already let it go on.

“Rhys?”

Morrigan’s voice became a dull, distant memory in my mind as I winnowed on the spot. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Velaris had been plunged into darkness and storm with the rage that flew off me and swirled itself into thunderous applause as I landed in a cloud of smoke and shadow in the middle of the Spring Court. Starlight flecked the dust around me and when it settled, I stepped out of it giving a brisk shirk to the lapels of my jacket, now formal and elegant compared to the casual tunic I’d worn most of the day.

I had no idea of the chaos erupting around me. I spared the guests no thought as my eyes plucked over them one by one like the strings on a violin looking for her.

And then, there she was. Standing mere feet away from me.

And she was absolutely horrified at my appearance, but I didn’t care. Seeing her there standing in that dress that drowned her out and stole her voice, I felt a flicker of happiness for the first time in months.

My mask - that cruel mask of the wicked High Lord of Night hated and despised by all - was fitted tightly around me once more, but after fifty years of wearing it and three months of struggling to remember who I was without it, it felt like a comfort, a road I knew how to navigate that would get me... somewhere. Anywhere that was closer to her.

I looked at Feyre dead in the eye and the words sprang immediately to my lips in a rich, soothing purr that felt immediately familiar.

“Hello, Feyre darling.”

All around me, everyone screamed.

xx