#SORRY IF THIS IS CLUTTERING YOUR FEED I MEAN NO HARM

[ecogirl2759]

Hey y'all!

I'm up way later than I should be, but I kinda forgot to do this earlier lol

While working on my other two promises from the Taka v. Chihiro poll, I still need to fulfill the second one: what to draw Taka as.

This is my first time making a poll lol. If you have something else in mind that you'd like to see Taka in/as, like poses, outfits, whatever, then feel free to lmk!

Of course, the winning option will be my top priority, but that doesn't mean I won't do any of the others at a later date ;)

Anywhos, uh, thanks for voting here, now go vote for Mondo and Makoto!

That showdown would be hilarious lol

(Might even make another promise if y'all get them to win, who knows)

[bubonickitten]

TMA fic: A Resolution

Summary: Jon and Martin leave the Desolation behind and talk about what the hell just happened - and where to go from here.

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

[Spoilers for MAG 169.]

CW: mild self-harm (scratching/hair pulling as a stim); brief dissociation/drdp; discussion of canon-typical trauma.

______________________________________________________

Jon waits until they’re safely beyond the Desolation’s borders, when the cinders no longer fall like snow and the whiff of smoke has faded, before he stops.

 When he does, it’s so abrupt that Martin nearly walks right into him. Jon doesn’t notice. His thoughts feel disjointed and cluttered; his body feels alien to him. Eyes unfocused, he scans the area and gravitates to the first thing that calls out to him – a dead and gnarled tree, its bark charred and charcoal-black. There’s a little hollow, just the perfect size for two people to hide away. He drops his bag unceremoniously to the ground, sending up a little puff of dust and ash, and tucks himself away in the alcove, pulling his knees to his chest and locking his arms around them. The tree is a sturdy presence, tangible and grounding, and he presses himself against it at every point of contact he can manage.

 After a moment, Martin follows. He has the presence of mind to remove his own pack, grab Jon’s bag from the ground, and lean them both neatly against the tree before clambering after Jon. It’s a tight fit for Martin; he has to keep his head ducked, and squeezing in next to Jon has him pressed against the tree on one side and Jon’s body on the other.

 “Sorry,” Martin mumbles, sounding a bit self-conscious. “It’s – I’m a lot bigger than you are.”

 “I like the pressure,” Jon says, leaning into Martin’s side. A full minute passes before he spares a thought for Martin’s comfort and a little pang of shame ripples through him. “Is it uncomfortable for you? We can –”

 “It’s fine,” Martin says. “For the moment, anyway. I’ll let you know when my arm starts falling asleep.”

 Jon nods, but his thoughts are already drifting again. He bites the inside of his cheek, wiggles his toes, and tries to focus on the safe, solid warmth of Martin’s body next to him.

 “Are we going to talk about what just happened, Jon?”

 “I…” Jon shuts his eyes tight and tries to shuffle his thoughts into some semblance of order.

 He isn’t sure how much time passes before he hears Martin’s voice again. It sounds distant and muffled. Unable to process the garbled noise into meaningful words, his attention begins to slide away again, leaving him adrift in his own fuzzy thoughts.  

 Then, Martin makes a grab for his hand and one word comes into focus: “Jon.”

 Jon startles and draws his hands back, hiding them in the folds of his jacket and hugging his sides. It takes a moment for him to register the hurt in Martin’s eyes, but when he does, he feels a twinge of regret.

 “I’m sorry, I don’t know why –” Jon begins, just as Martin says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

 They both stop simultaneously and Jon nods for Martin to speak.

 “I just wanted to – you were scratching? Your hands.”

 Jon pulls his hands out of hiding and looks. The back of his burned hand does seem a bit irritated, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s not surprising that he didn’t notice the scratching – the scar tissue there never registers much sensation at all.

 As soon as Jon notices Martin looking, he flashes back to their discussion just before entering the Desolation.

  I legitimately hate burns, alright? They’re awful, and they scar horribly, and they just – it just makes me sick; I hate it. Hate it.

 Jon wishes he couldn’t remember it with such clarity, but the Archive in him catalogs everything. These days, he can recall most things verbatim – and even when he doesn’t intend to, the Archive does it for him. 

 He pulls his sleeve down to cover his burn and folds his arms against his chest again. 

 “Jon.” Martin, observant as ever, can apparently see right through him. “Give me your hand.”

 Jon can feel the stinging threat of tears in his eyes. He begrudgingly holds out his burned hand and looks away before Martin can notice him tearing up – and so he doesn’t have to watch Martin’s face as he takes in the shiny, gnarled whorls of scar tissue. 

 Martin’s hand is warm and gentle as he laces their fingers together, and without hesitation, he brings Jon’s hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to each knuckle. Jon can’t help but steal a glance at Martin, and the sheer tenderness written all over his face –

 Jon can’t help it: the dam breaks, the tears overflow, and soon his breath is coming in short, gasping hiccups.

 “You know I didn’t mean it like that, right?” Martin says quietly, his lips brushing against Jon's fingers.

 How did you know what I was thinking? Jon wants to ask, but he can’t form the words. Instead, he just shudders as he tries to stifle his sobs.

 “I love every part of you, and that includes the scars. They’re reminders that you’ve survived.” Martin rubs his thumb over the back of Jon’s hand in a slow, soothing motion. “It’s just – I wish you didn’t have to go through any of it in the first place. I hate what’s been done to you. But you’re more than that, and – and the scars are proof of that. Despite everything, you’re still alive. You’re still you.”

 “Am I, though?” It comes out as a croak, and only then does Jon realize just how raw his throat is. There won’t be any lasting damage from walking through a blazing building, but it’s certainly taking its time fading away.

 He feels another wave of guilt overtake him at the thought of how frightened Martin was. Jon had been so absorbed in recording the fear permeating the Desolation, and then so wrapped up in his own petty revenge fantasy, that he shut Martin out, left him choking on the blistering heat and shrinking away from the flames, stranded with only his abject terror to keep him company – 

 “Jon –”

 “You see what I am, what I can do –”

 “She deserved it, Jon. So did that – that thing that killed Sasha.”

 “Yes, they did. But I used the same power that destroyed the world in order to do it, and I liked it, and – and I dragged you along with me, all for an empty, fleeting moment of vengeance. I promised I wouldn’t let the Eye hurt you, and then I subjected you to –” Jon swallows hard, his sore throat protesting. “And now it’s over, I just feel sick. Jude was right – I’m no better than her.”

 “That’s not –”

 “Did you know, before the change – when I still slept – one of the nightmares I invaded belonged to Jordan Kennedy? The exterminator, the one who was called to deal with Jane Prentiss’ wasp nest?” Once he starts, he can’t stop – the words pour forth in a frenetic rush, and he lets them carry him away. “He would look at me, and look at Prentiss, and he – he never knew who to fear more. Even after years, Prentiss was – she was always the part of the dream that terrified me more than any of the others, and – and in his eyes, we were the same –”

 “Jon –”

 “Prentiss was so frightened in her statement, so human. I thought the hive had hollowed her out against her will, turned her into a monster – but now, I wonder if she chose to let it have her –”

  “Jon –”

 “I talked to Helen about it once, you know. About choice. It seems like the avatars – we all have something about us that draws the powers to us in the first place. The only difference between us and any other victim is that we – we embrace it, to some extent, whether we realize it or not. We have a choice, and we choose to abandon our humanity, and whatever happens after that –”

 “Jon, stop.”

 Jon shuts his mouth so quickly there is an audible click as his teeth collide.  

 “This isn’t healthy –” Martin holds up his free hand as Jon opens his mouth again. “No, let me talk.” He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re equating yourself with the ones who hurt you. You’re… you’re looking back at all the things that traumatized you and putting yourself in the same category.”

 “Jude said –”

 “I don’t care what Jude said!”

 “But she was right!” Jon says viciously, tearing his hand from Martin’s grasp and burying it in his hair, pulling until his scalp starts to ache.

 “What about me, Jon? Am I no better than Peter Lukas?”

 “That’s not the same thing –”

 “Really? The Lonely was drawn to me for a reason. I made a choice to let it in, and then I made a choice to embrace it. I liked it, in my own way.” Martin places one hand under Jon’s chin and guides him to meet his eyes. “What if things had gone just a bit differently? What if you never woke up? I might have actually committed myself to the Lonely. Would that have twisted me, driven me to seek out the isolated and feed them to it in the same way that Peter does?”

 “It’s different –”

 “No, it’s not. You think the Beholding was drawn to you because you’re curious. Fine. You are curious. It’s infuriating and charming all at once, and sometimes you take it to - to careless extremes. That still doesn’t make any of this your fault. It makes you a victim, Jon – you were manipulated, tormented, used, and thrown away. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

 Jon has sunken into a sullen silence, and Martin groans in frustration.

 “Look, let’s – okay,” Martin says, counting on his fingers, “Mike Crew was struck by lightning. Jane Prentiss stumbled upon a wasps’ nest. All Helen did was open a door. Whether they were targeted or just had bad luck, they were coerced into choosing between equally terrible options and twisted into people they probably never expected to be. Even Daisy – all she did was trespass on some childhood dare, right? Look where that led her.”

 Jon chews his lip and says nothing.

 “I’m just saying, from where I’m sitting, the punishment doesn’t seem to fit the transgression. If you can even call half those things transgressions. Helen’s curiosity led her to open a door, but that hardly seems like a crime to me. You’ve never once believed that Helen deserved what happened to her. So why are you holding yourself to different standards?”

 “It’s just… different. I – I had a clear choice, and I chose to be a monster instead of having the decency to –” Jon cuts himself off, but it’s too late.

 “To what? To die?”

 “Well, if I had, it would have freed the rest of you –”

 “And if you died, I would have given in to the Lonely, and Daisy would still be in the coffin, and Melanie would have been taken by the Slaughter, and Elias would have found a new pawn –”

 “I just –”

 “I’m not done,” Martin says forcefully. “It’s still victim blaming even if you’re the victim, Jon. Do you really not see why it’s upsetting for me to hear you compare yourself to people who tortured you? To have you listen to Jude Perry over me?”

 “I…”

 “You know what?” Martin laughs breathlessly. “Yeah, let’s – let’s talk about Jude, shall we? Because as far as I can tell, she’s an example of someone who did choose this. I listened to parts of the tapes while you were in hospital, and she said as much herself. She was always cruel. She enjoyed destroying people long before the Desolation took an interest in her. Who knows, maybe there was something in her life that could explain why she was the way she was, and she just didn’t tell you. But based on what we know? She just liked hurting people. She was never conflicted about it, and she never apologized for it. Hell, she gloated about it. Even at the very end, all she wanted was to scare me and hurt you.”  

 When Martin finishes, he’s slightly out of breath. Jon reaches out tentatively, letting his fingers brush against Martin’s wrist, and Martin grasps his hand and interlocks their fingers again.

 “I’m sorry,” Jon says quietly. “I’m just… I’m sorry.”

 “It’s… well, it’s not fine. But we had to talk about it.” Martin sniffles a bit, then clears his throat. “I guess maybe the Kill Bill thing isn’t working for us, though.”

 “Maybe not. I think… I think it’s not as simple as we want it to be. It would be – nice, to be able to just draw up a hit list, burn through it on our way to Jonah, but… I don’t like what it does to me. I don’t like what it does to you.”

 “Right,” Martin sighs.  

 “And I’m still – I’m still worried about Annabelle. We could be playing right into her hands, and we still don’t even know what she’s after, and…” Jon makes an aggravated noise. “And just like that, I’m back to the free will question.”

 It’s a question that always, always leads him to a dead end. Sometimes he passes hours with Annabelle’s statement playing on a loop in his head until he feels paralyzed with indecision, and nothing good ever comes of it.  

 “Okay, no,” Martin says. “No more self-harm disguised as philosophizing.”

 “Excuse me?”

 “The rumination, Jon – it’s self-destructive. It’s the same as when you’d seek out Helen whenever you were feeling inhuman. You’d let the ‘throat of delusion’ reinforce your fears, and then you’d use that as a justification for risking your life.”

 Jon is struck speechless. He just stares at Martin, mouth opening and closing minutely, trying and failing to compose any coherent response.

 “I was keeping an eye on you, Jon. Even when I was working for Peter.” He pauses, and then, almost under his breath, he adds: “You find such roundabout ways to hurt yourself, sometimes.”

 “I…”

 “You never thought of it that way, did you?” Martin’s smile is half-indulgent, half-sad. “Well, if you’re going to keep getting tripped up by the free will thing, let’s just… address it. Lay it all out, all those little what-ifs and if/thens.”  

 “That seems like… quite an undertaking,” Jon says, uncertain.

 “Yeah, well. Time doesn’t really work anymore.”

 “But people are still suffering with every moment we sit here –”

 “The longer we go without sitting down and talking this out, the more we’ll stumble. We’ll probably reach the Panopticon sooner if we can agree on a strategy, and this… this seems like a good first step. Here, let me –”

 Martin extricates himself from their hiding place with a small grunt of effort. Standing and dusting himself off, he reaches down to help Jon up. “Over here,” he says, leading Jon by the hand to their bags and gesturing for him to sit down.

 Jon complies, Martin settles in beside him, but then – Jon has a sudden thought, and his attention swivels back to Martin.

 “Wait. Before we move on, I… how are you –” He stops himself with an agitated little shake of his head, then restructures the statement. “I would like to know how you’re feeling. If – if you want to say.”

 “Jon,” Martin says, his voice stern, “you are not redirecting this into a conversation about me just because you don’t want to talk about your feelings –”

 “No,” Jon says quickly, “we can come back to this, I just - it’s not fair, me venting to you and expecting you to soak up my – my nonsense –”

 “Not nonsense –” Martin says crossly.

 “Okay, okay, fine – my – my feelings.”

 “The word isn’t going to bite your tongue off if you say it,” Martin says, shaking his head with an exasperated smirk as Jon rolls his eyes.

 “All the same, I…” Jon reaches over and cups one side of Martin’s face. He didn’t realize until now how caked in soot and ash they both are, as he rubs his thumb over Martin’s cheekbone. “I was being self-centered before we went after Jude, and I was being self-centered just now. I’d like to know where you are right now, in all this.”

 Martin closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and leans into Jon’s touch. “I’m… scared. Obviously. I think the Desolation is one of the fears that gets to me the most. Not just the pain aspect, though I – I was being serious when I said that burning is my least favorite pain ever.”

 Jon lets his hand drift to Martin’s hairline and brushes a stray curl away from his forehead, shaking loose a sprinkle of ashes.

 “But it’s also… it’s the loss aspect, I think?” Martin continues. “How easily you can lose everything, how quickly the people you love can – can disappear from your life.”

 Jon reaches out with his free hand – the burned one – and places it on top of one of Martin’s. Martin takes it gratefully, intertwines their fingers, and rests his head on Jon’s shoulder.

 “I’m… I’m not used to people caring about me, but being abandoned still hurts, even when it’s people who never cared for you. And now – now I have someone who does care for me. When you tell me you love me, I believe you, which is… I never thought I’d have that. If I lost you, I don’t know… I don’t know what I would do.”

 As the tears start to trickle down Martin’s cheeks, leaving trails in the soot clinging to his skin, Jon’s breath hitches and his heart clenches in his chest. A sudden, jarring memory returns to him, of Jude describing how she could reach in and burn his heart right out of him, and he pushes the thought away.

 “I’m sorry, Martin. I… I didn’t think about that.” He squeezes Martin’s hand in his, hoping it comes off as reassuring. “Honestly, I think I’m also still getting used to the concept of someone actually… caring what happens to me. It doesn’t always occur to me naturally – the thought of someone missing me, or – or grieving for me.”

 “It’s alright –”

 “No, it’s not,” Jon interrupts. It comes off more sharply than he had intended, and he softens his voice before he continues. “Don’t let me off the hook. I… I knew I wouldn’t lose you, I knew I could keep us both alive, but I also knew it we wouldn’t pass through unscathed, and I dragged you in there anyway. I’m…” He frowns. “It's not an excuse, but I - I think I’m somewhat desensitized to physical pain, at this point?”

 Martin opens his mouth and Jon cuts him off.

 “No, I – I still feel it, it’s just... I've come to expect it? And then I heal so quickly, it - it doesn't feel consequential.” It’s more that his body doesn’t always feel like it belongs to him. There’s a sense of detachment that grew up over time, layer upon layer; he can’t quite pinpoint when exactly he started to think, Well, what’s another scar?

 “That’s worse. You get how that’s worse, right?”

 “Yes, I – I suppose,” Jon admits reluctantly. “But that’s not the point. You told me, explicitly, how you felt, and I subjected you to it anyway. I rationalized it by saying there would be no lasting physical damage, but that - that isn't the only kind of harm there is, and it's no consolation in the moment, when all you can think about is how much it hurts." Jon closes his eyes. "It was wrong of me to take you in there.”

 “Maybe.” Martin bites his lip. “I am the one who wanted to go Kill Bill, though.”

 “But I went along with it, and for the wrong reasons.”

 “I don’t think revenge is a bad reason. You have every right to feel angry –”

 “Probably. But I’m… I’m also the most powerful thing in this wasteland. I could cut a path of destruction from here to the Panopticon, and nothing could stop me. But I’d burn you in the process, and – and probably lose myself, too.” Jon pauses, grappling with how to phrase it. “The Eye already forces me to feel what it feels. To See what it Sees. And I worry that - that I'll reach a point where I'm so numb to it all that I'll forget what it was ever like to be human. To care about people suffering. And using these powers for no reason other than taking revenge, I think it feeds the Beholding, strengthens its hold on me. I can see myself rationalizing it, but when I look at some of the other avatars… making those kinds of justifications led them down a path that I would very much like to avoid. Whether Jude deserved it is a moot point.”

 “I think she did, though,” Martin says. “So did the... the Sasha thing." 

 “Honestly? I think so, too. Forcing them to experience the suffering they’ve caused, it was what they deserved. But Jude was right, when she said I was enjoying it. Using my powers to hurt people, knowing that they can’t hurt me now… it feels good. It feels right in the same way that – that taking live statements used to, and that scares me. And I think… I think it scares you, too.”

 “I’m not afraid of you, Jon.”

 “And I don’t want to reach a point where you are.”

 “That won’t happen.”

 “You don’t know that.” Martin opens his mouth to argue, and Jon holds up a hand to stay him.�� “Even if you’re not afraid of me, you’re afraid you might lose me to this. I’m not – I didn’t read your mind,” Jon hastens to add, “I just… I saw how you looked at me, when I was dealing with Jude. When your voice couldn’t reach me. I’m still unsure how much of it is the Beholding and how much of it is just me, but I do know that I don’t like it, and that it isn’t worth the cost. It doesn’t change anything, and it hurts you, and it – it isn’t healthy for me, either.”

 I see you, he thinks, staring into Martin’s eyes, I see you.

 “I meant it when I said that you are my reason. I lost sight of that for a moment, and I don’t want that to happen again.”

 “Okay,” Martin sighs, tightening his grip on Jon’s hand and forcing a tight smile. “No more Kill Bill. At least – at least not recklessly.”

 Jon nods. “From now on… unless something poses an imminent danger, and I have to defend us on the spur of the moment, we talk. We explore all the options, all the potential consequences. I don’t smite unless we both agree on it – for the right reasons. No more feeding the Beholding on a whim.” He looks into Martin’s eyes again. “Does that seem… I would like to know if that feels fair, to you.” Martin nods, and Jon lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. “And if one of us starts feeling differently, we revisit this conversation. I don’t want you to feel as if you can’t… renegotiate, or add more conditions.”

 “I’d like that,” Martin says, and plants soft kiss on Jon’s lips.

 They sit in silence for a few minutes, Martin’s head on Jon’s shoulder and his arm wrapped firmly around Jon’s waist. Eventually, Martin clears his throat.

 “So. Back to the free will thing,” he says, lifting his head. When Jon starts to make a noise of protest, Martin shoots him a stern look. “You promised.”

 “Fine,” Jon says through a heavy exhale, sitting up straight as Martin leans away and resenting the loss of the comforting weight of Martin’s body against his. “So, how do you want to do this?”

 “Well, you always liked visuals.”

 “What?”

 “You had a conspiracy corkboard in your office, Jon.”

 Jon flushes in indignation. “Don’t call it that –”

 “I’m joking. Mostly.” Martin laughs and kisses Jon’s cheek, which Jon receives with an only somewhat petulant huff. “Seriously, though, I think a visual will help you keep track of your own thoughts, and it’ll help me follow along.”

 Jon isn’t quite sure where Martin is going with this, but at least it’s a starting point, which is already more than Jon could come up with.

 “Okay,” Jon says quizzically. “How should I…?”

 “Well, I figured you could just…” Martin scribbles in the dust with one finger.

 When Jon leans closer to see what he’s written, he can clearly make out the words:

  GET FUCKED, JONAH.  

 Jon chokes on a laugh. His sore throat twinges again, but when Martin starts laughing, it creates a feedback loop, and soon both of them are left wheezing as they try to catch their breath.

 “He – he can probably See that, you know,” Jon manages to get out.

 “That’s rather the point, love,” Martin replies with a grin, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Jon’s ear.

 “Okay.” Jon takes a few shaky breaths, fighting back a smile and trying to school himself back into seriousness. “Okay. Let’s… let’s give this a try, I suppose," he says, and sets to dragging an index finger through the dirt.   

 It takes Jon a few minutes to acclimate to it, but soon he’s mapping out his tangled, racing thoughts on the ground, funneling his anxiety into flow charts and network diagrams. He’s always had a highly associative mind, prone to tangents and distraction. He finds himself adding parentheticals, footnotes, asterisks, arrows, all of it blurring together as the loose dirt gets pushed around. It doesn’t take long before Martin has to move back to give him more room to work. At some point, he breaks a branch off the charred tree for Jon to use as a pointer, and Jon accepts it absentmindedly without even the slightest pause in his dissertation, barely noticing the shower of ashes that rains down from the jostled tree.

 It’s absurd, taking an intermission during the apocalypse to navel gaze about the nature of free will, but… miraculously, it’s helping. Martin stops Jon frequently to ask questions, redirect his focus, provide feedback, and expand on certain points. Jon is struck by how much effort Martin seems to be putting into following each of Jon’s convoluted trains of thought to their many branching, disparate destinations, and he thinks, not for the first time, What did I do to deserve him?  

 “When I think about it,” Jon says feverishly, pacing and gesturing with his hands the way he does when he’s absorbed in a debate, “the Web may have been pulling strings my whole life. I – I was marked by it when I was eight, and that was partly why Jonah chose me. He said I might have even been a gift from the Web, that I was drawn to the Institute, and that makes me wonder how many of my choices have been… influenced, without me ever noticing.”

 “Okay, let’s take that as a premise,” Martin says patiently, placing one hand on the stick Jon is waving around and guiding the point down until it’s less of an accident waiting to happen. “Not saying it’s true, mind you – we shouldn’t trust anything Jonah says – but let’s just… follow that to its conclusion, see where it leads. What would it mean?”

 “It would mean…” Jon wets his lips, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “It would mean that, like Gertrude, I was always going to end up here. But – but then again… Annabelle’s statement. She suggested that the Web is just the fear of manipulation, and maybe it’s actually hands-off, just feeding on the paranoia we create for ourselves. But she also said that maybe it doesn’t matter, because either way, the Web always gets the results it wants.”

 “And Annabelle also said she might just be telling you all that to make sure you do what the Web wants you to do.”

 “Yes.” Jon groans in frustration. “I wish I knew what the Web wants. Does it even have a goal, or does it just look like it does to our pattern-seeking minds? Like – like some sort of metaphysical pareidolia.”

 “Hmm. I think we need to look at this a different way.”

 “Go on?”

 “If we can identify one instance of free will, that proves its existence.” Martin shrugs. “It doesn’t say anything about the extent or nature of it, but it at least eliminates the possibility that everything is out of our control.”

 “That… sounds reasonable," Jon says, just a little doubtfully. "But the problem is – how can we know whether something was fully our choice?”

 “Well, choices don’t occur in a vacuum anyway – they’re products of our past experiences, right? So there’s always going to be something influencing us. The question we need to focus on now is whether there’s another consciousness pulling the strings.”

 “Okay.” It’s far too tempting for Jon to veer off topic and into this new potential avenue of discussion, but it helps having Martin to guide him back on track. “So, can you think of anything, any time when, looking back, you can say with confidence that you made a choice without being manipulated by something for its own gain?”

 “Yes.”

 “Oh?” Jon feels a little bewildered by how immediate Martin’s response is. “Do tell.”

 “Loving you,” Martin says without hesitation.

 “I – what?” Jon sputters. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t that. He knows Martin loves him, of course – that comes as no surprise – but he’s still taken aback whenever Martin says it so directly. He’s so casual about it, so sincere, so confident, as if there could be no reality in which it isn’t true.

 “It’s true,” Martin says, a faint blush beginning to blossom on his cheeks. “I mean – it’s not that I actively decided to have a crush on you or anything, attraction just kind of happens unconsciously, but – but deciding to pursue it? That was a choice I made. Even if I have a hard time imagining a scenario where I wouldn’t want to take care of you – I still could have decided not to act on it.”

 “I… certainly made it difficult for you, I suppose.”

 “Yeah, you weren’t exactly receptive to…” Martin snorts. “Well, any kindness at all, really.”

 “So then why didn’t you give up? Why did you keep putting the effort in, when all I did was push you away? What if –”

 Martin shakes his head with a fond little smile. “Jon, what possible reason could the Web have to make you happy?”

 “What?”

 “Why would one of the fears choose to manipulate you in a way that didn’t make you miserable, when there are so many options to do it in a way that hurts you? Since when would they care about you feeling safe, or cared for, or – or supported? If anything, you being isolated would make you easier to manipulate.”

 “Not necessarily – you can control someone by threatening someone they love. That’s why you kept working with Peter, isn’t it? You knew he was using you, sure, but – but I listened to the tapes. I know I wasn’t the only reason you went along with him, but it did factor in. You were distracting him, keeping him occupied so he didn’t come after me.”

 “True,” Martin concedes. “But can the fears even comprehend love?”

 “I’m still not convinced the fears are conscious at all, or if they just... exist." Jon frowns in concentration as he tries to find the right words. “Like – like gravity. Forces with no sentience, no minds of their own, except for what we project onto them.”

 “That only bolsters my argument.”

 “I suppose.”

 “Either way, I don’t think the fears could force me to love you, and even if they could, I don’t think they’d bother – not when there are more straightforward ways to terrorize us. I don’t think they particularly care about our feelings.”

 “Helen said something similar once,” Jon recalls. “I wanted to know when the Eye would make me monstrous. When I would stop feeling guilty. She said that the Eye wouldn’t have a reason to do that, when I was already doing what it wanted regardless of my own feelings on the matter. She said… she said that Helen made a choice to just stop feeling guilty, because she was going to feed whether or not she felt guilty about it, and it was pointless to agonize over it when the outcome would be the same either way. And now… well, you see what she’s like.”

 “See? I doubt any of the fears would take an interest in our slow burn love life," Martin says with a wry smile, "and if they did, it would only be to sabotage it.”

 Thinking about it, recalling all the moments leading up to this…

 “I think you might be onto something.”

 “Oh?” Martin perks up, clearly delighted. “You’re saying I was right?”  

 “Yes, Martin, you were right,” Jon sighs, amusement creeping into his voice despite himself. “I don’t think my feelings for you were being controlled. Even if the situations we were thrown into were orchestrated, I… I can’t think of a single moment when loving you felt coerced. Even following you into the Lonely – it may have been part of Jonah’s plan, maybe even part of the Web’s machinations, but looking back at all the choices I’ve made, I think… no, I know that one was all me. You ending up in there was a result of manipulation, but my choice to go after you – I didn’t hesitate. That – that isn’t like me, I second-guess everything, but… I didn’t, then. In my mind, there was no other option – and that wasn’t because someone removed all the other options, it was because I decided that no other option was worth considering.”

 “Oh.” Martin's voice sounds very, very small. Then: “I do think sometimes, though, about how… if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have been marked by the Lonely. It was the last mark Jonah needed to use you for the Ritual, and I –”

 “He would have found another way.” Jon shrugs. “The outcome – being marked by the Lonely – that may have been inevitable. But the way it happened – that was me. I didn’t follow you because I felt guilty, or because I had no one else, or because the Eye wanted me to experience the Lonely. It was because I care about you, and because you deserve better than to be Forsaken.”  

 When Jon looks up, he sees that Martin is crying, and draws him into a tight embrace.

 “I’ve never once regretted coming after you,” he promises, wiping Martin’s tears away with his thumb, “and I would do it again. It might be the only decision I’ve made where I've never doubted whether I made the right choice.”  

 “Thank you,” Martin whispers after a few minutes, as his sniffling subsides. 

 “I love you,” Jon replies, voice rough from his own unshed tears.  

 “That was… quite eloquent.” Martin lets out a tearful chuckle, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “So – did this help at all? Did you have any – any epiphanies?”

 “I think I did, yes.” Jon releases Martin and picks up the stick again, drawing a rough illustration of a set of scales in the dirt. “One side is 'being controlled.' The other side is 'having free will.' I’ll never know how the scale is balanced, and that’s… I’ll just have to accept that. As long as there’s some free will in the equation, that’s... that's going to have to be enough to move forward.”

 “Are you okay with that?”

 “I think I have to be. I feel it’s a question that will never be answered to my satisfaction, and no amount of obsessing is going to change that. Even if I could seek an answer, I don’t think it would be worth –”

 A sharp, electric pain courses through Jon’s head just then, leaving him gasping in its wake. The vertigo that floods him brings him back to his encounter with Mike Crew, and when he comes back to himself, he finds himself on his knees, trembling in Martin’s arms.

 “Jon! Jon, are you alright?” Martin’s concerned face comes into view as Jon’s blurry vision clears, and he nods wordlessly. “What was – what was that about?”

 “I – I don’t think the Ceaseless Watcher liked that very much,” Jon says, wincing at the lingering ache. “The prospect of – of letting a question go unanswered.”

 Martin holds him, rocking gently, stroking his hair, until the throbbing begins to wane. Jon clenches his fist in Martin’s jumper and breathes deeply.

 “I’m alright,” he says eventually, sitting up again.

 “So… where do we go from here?”

 “What I was going to say, before – before the Eye threw a tantrum,” he hisses, glowering up at the sky.

 “Don’t provoke it, Jon –”

 “What I was going to say is that I think the best way to tolerate the ambiguity is through action.” Jon holds his breath and steels himself before he continues, half expecting another bout of disapproval from the Beholding. “Any amount of free will means that change is possible. That means it’s worth trying, even if the outcome is uncertain, or – or hopeless. If that means taking it on faith that I can make my own choices, then… it’s a fair tradeoff, I think. The only way to determine how much control we really have is to experiment.”

 “Some practical research, then?”

 “I suppose so. Discovery through praxis. At least real-world evidence of cause and effect gives me something tangible to observe. It’s better than… what did you call it –”

 “Rumination as a roundabout method of self-harm,” Martin supplies helpfully.  

 “Yes,” Jon says sheepishly, “that.”

 “Well, at least we have a way forward now.”

 Martin stands and pulls Jon to his feet and right into a strong embrace before picking up a bag in each hand.

 “So, where to next?”

 “Something horrifying, I’m sure.” Jon takes a moment to glare at the Panopticon, still so far off in the distance, before taking his pack from Martin and sliding the straps over his shoulders.

 “Well, come on, then,” Martin sighs, linking their hands together. “Onward.”

 “Onward,” Jon says with a resolute nod, gripping Martin’s hand tightly as they resume their journey.  

[segenassefa]

3. A Semi-Original List of Things To Do During Quarantine

Niggas all over the timelines are baking banana bread, doing headstands, and making Tik Toks. Yeah it was fun the first few weeks – but now we’re almost four months deep into quarantine and the gworls need some change! A bit of variety. Some pizazz, if you will.

Well, fear not!

I am here to help (as per usual). Digging into the depths of my chicken breast-like brain has been hard, but I’ve done it to compile a list of things to try now that quarantine is dragging along. Some of these you’ve definitely heard before (but they were so good, it was worth mentioning again), some of these you may have considered but never really saw the value in, and some of these seem like I pulled them out of my ass, but I promise, they’re a fun time and definitely worth the try.

Take up a new workout routine now that gyms will probably cease to exist.

I can’t even speak on this one (my record this quarantine has been four days without leaving my bed), but health comes in different forms. Even back in the early stages, one of my favourite things to do was get a coffee and aimlessly walk around downtown – it got me out of the house, it didn’t feel like exercise, and was an excuse to take advantage of the warm weather. Exercise is both important for physical as well as mental health, as cited by a million and one studies, and can break up the monotonous cycles of online shopping, self-loathing, and eating that everyone seems to be trapped in these days. Your options, however, go beyond yoga and walking. Buy some weights or use one of the jars of canned tomatoes you have sitting your pantry (…) and do a weight routine. Go for a run. Climb some stairs. Bring back step aerobics like the bad bitches from the 80s. Ride a bike (Queen’s Quay is really nice, and pretty empty on the weekdays). The other benefit to establishing a good routine now is that you can carry it out through the winter. Maybe not the bike riding part, but you get my point.

Socialize (safely).

           I never understood the obsession with patios until I went to El Jefe a few weeks ago, and it got me thinking about how fun that actually must be when everyone isn’t terrified of getting a virus from the person eating chips and guac two tables over. But! There are alternatives! I know you don’t believe me but there are! Toronto has more parks and green spaces than you’d think, and now is the perfect time to take advantage of them. Connect with nature, friends, and socializing in an environmentally friendly space (throw those White Claw cans in the trash, please) and you and your friends will literally be the peak of ecofeminism. If you’re tired of wearing your crop tops and lashes to the grocery store, picnics and beach days also give you a reason to look cute in public again (and with a mask, you don’t even have to put foundation on the bottom half of your face. #win). Some of my favourite places include Trinity-Bellwood Park and Woodbine Beach. If you have a car (or a lot of patience) Scarborough Bluffs is also definitely worth the commute. I think it’s a game changer that ���going out” now means sitting in the grass making small talk, instead of getting hammered in some dark, damp club, but maybe it’s also improvement.

Clear out the clutter that you always tell yourself you’re too busy for.

           I know you see it, bitch. That box of clothes overflowing in the back of your closets. Or the basket of random hair ties, scraps of paper, and pen caps on your shelf. What about when you open social media – Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, whatever – a see all these random people on your feed that you don’t remember following, much less ever meeting in real life. Quarantine has forced us to retreat to our own spaces, physically, mentally and emotionally, and now more than ever is the best time to reflect and take inventory of what brings you joy and (God forbid we’re in this situation again) what you’d be ok with surrounding yourself with 24/7. It may be hard – times of crisis especially encourage a scarcity mindset instead of an abundance one – but it doesn’t hurt to try and reframe your thinking!

The 3 Restaurant Rule

If you’re anything like me, then you love Uber Eats. Since this virus has stripped the joy of going out to eat from my small and soft hands, we’ve had to find ways to work around this. One of these compromises has been Uber Eats. But that, much like anything else in life, can soon get repetitive (and niggas were clowning me for actually enjoying Swiss Chalet. Fuck y’all.) So, I established some ground rules, one of which being the three-restaurant rule. Do I follow it all the time? No. But knowing that it exists had made trying new foods more like a game. Here’s what you do:

1.     First, pick a type of cuisine (I’m partial to sushi, so we’re going to use that for this example).

2.     Next, really study Uber Eats. Find the best restaurants in your area specializing in that kind of food and pick three restaurants that look the best to you. Another alternative (especially if you’re lucky enough to live downtown where a majority of restaurants are doing take out) would be to curate a list of places on Yelp! I loved doing this when outside was open – it made eating out feel a bit more purposeful, almost like it was for research).

3.     Then, keep a lil list – on your phone, on paper, in your camera roll - wherever. When you’re not in the mood to cook, consult the list, and don’t pick a restaurant twice in a row. Start building up a list of places that you can say you’ve tried. Keep tabs on how you felt about the food to compare it to in-person dining when restaurants re-open, or make it an event with friends. Dress up, get together, crack a bottle of wine (or some beers, or sake, ya know – whatever floats your boat) and make it an event.

The other upside to this is now when people ask me for recommendations, I can give them with confidence instead of bullshitting like I would have before (sorry y’all LOL).

Learn how to do your own personal upkeep.

           It would probably take me ten hands and feet to count the number of videos I’ve seen of nail salons throwing customers out for being black or on the prejudice of race and/or class, or the number of hair salons and stylists who charge extra fees for thickness, length (or lack thereof), or for specific styles and modifications, etc. If you knew me, you know I was devoted to my nail salon. I loved the feeling of getting a full set of acrylics, having all the work done for me, the little burn on my cuticles when they’d slide my hands under the UV light. But in quarantine, a lot of things happened – nail salons closed, I became unemployed, and suddenly, $60 manicures every two weeks were not realistic. YouTube has so many videos on how to do basic self-care - things like cutting or dyeing or braiding your own hair, doing your own nails (whether it be acrylic, gel, even a basic polish manicure), doing your own eyebrows – the possibilities are all there. And, if you get good enough – you can always go ahead and make it your own side hustle (with salons operating at half capacity, the demand for people that do house calls is rapidly increasing). I’ve recently swapped my acrylics for press on nails and let me tell you – game changer. They last just as long, look just as good, and allow me the freedom of talon-like nails without having my bank account scream at me (a post on how I do my faux-acrylics at home coming soon!)

Try to watch something that isn’t reality television.

I know 90 Day Fiancee is that GIRL. And if you’re like me, you tend to get very sucked into YouTuber mukbang drama as well (if anyone wants to discuss Nikocado Avocado with me, I am more than willing). But after a while, it gets kind of repetitive, and there’s no harm in educating yourself on other topics. Netflix, Amazon Prime Video, Hulu, even YouTube all have so many documentaries on a variety of topics – from crime, to health, to cults – there’s literally something for everyone. Plus, there’s something really self-satisfying about learning something on your own. If you need a place to start, my personal favourite is Bikram (Netflix) and any of the Vice documentaries on YouTube, but there are so many, so browse around and find one that suits your personal taste.

           There are also many documentaries on environmentalism and the Black existence/experience/life in America and globally. Considering all the things that are going on right now, it would be wise to educate oneself, especially when the tools for doing so are a few clicks away. My personal favourites are 13 and Who Shot the Sherriff, but there’s so many that you don’t have an excuse not to at least learn SOMETHING.

Severe ties and blame it on the pandemic.

This one is pretty self-explanatory. Maybe there’s the persistent wanna-be friend who you tried to avoid in your Thursday 11-1 lecture and would incessantly text you for notes. Or the creepy guy who would always be in your study spot in Deerfield and message you after with the dumbass eye emojis. Maybe it’s that one friend you used to call to console you of your issues, but by the end of the chat you felt more unnerved than understood. Whomever it is, don’t be afraid to stray away a bit and use the excuse of social distance or “getting your head together” to gradually give yourself some space and make things a bit obvious without having to be a total asshole. It can help, tbh, and the last thing you need in a time like this is to feel guilty for someone else’s feelings.

Be ok with doing nothing.

Life is always on some go,go,go shit. With people posting all those fucking memes about hustling or whatever, it can be easy to feel like you’re sitting in quarantine wasting your life away because you haven’t joined Forex, or OnlyFans, or started three side businesses, or taught yourself a new language or whatever. But listen – look at quarantine like a break. You had a nice long break to re-cooperate and self-indulge a lil bit and you know what? That’s ok! You’re not less of a person because you chose to rest or hang out in bed more than you should have. Don’t let other people’s progress (or lack thereof) be a measure of your own. How can you expect to bounce back after a GLOBAL PANDEMIC if you spent the entire time beating yourself up for not living up to other people’s idea of success? …Exactly. This list is just for fun and personal growth, but realistically, quarantine is for doing whatever the fuck you want (safely and sanely, of course), but literally look at this time off as God, Allah, Buddha, whomever, pumping the brakes on what is a normally hectic life. Slow down, enjoy the small things (ALL the small things), and allow yourself to be what you are – a human being, not a fucking machine.

[iximaz]

Blood-Forged ch4

Summary: Din takes his young charge to a new planet with a new plan to hide. It quickly goes sideways after he meets another Mandalorian who has never seen her own kind.

Characters: The Mandalorian (Din Djarin), Baby Yoda, enby!fem!OC

Pairings: Slow burn Din Djarin/OC because it turns out I’m a thirsty hoe

Warnings: Eh, right now it’s just in light PG-13 territory. Mentions of family death, some blood/violence/bodily harm. Will probably end up becoming smut later.

Word Count: 2333 (indefinite chapter count coming)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 (you’re here!) Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Aysa’s apartment was small, but cozy. They had walked into what looked like the main room, a combined kitchen and living space stuffed full of squashy, mismatched, secondhand furniture. A door to a bedroom that had to be Aysa’s judging by the green-painted walls stood ajar at one end, while two doors that led to what Din could only assume were a bathroom and the building proper were shut tight. 

“You guys can take the bedroom,” Aysa said, pulling off her helmet and setting it on the dining table. “I imagine it’d be easier for you to sleep without your helmet.”

Din looked around and nodded. “Thank you. Though if the little one could sleep in here…?”

“Huh,” Aysa said, raising her eyebrows. “Even people who won’t remember your face can’t see it?”

Din shook his head. 

“Alright, then,” Aysa said. “I’ll keep an eye on him. He doesn’t cry or anything, does he?”

“Not often.”

“Good,” Aysa said. “Because I like being able to sleep.”

Almost on cue, Baby began to make little whimpering noises. Din swooped down in an instant, picking him up and bouncing him gently. “Got any broth?”

“Think so. Stock okay?”

Din nodded, and Aysa stripped off her gloves, going to the kitchen and pulling out a pot from the icebox. She put it on the stove to heat before glancing at Din. “What about you? No foods that your Way won’t let you eat or anything?”

Din shook his head, and Aysa turned on the oven before going back to the icebox. “Afraid I’ve only got leftovers,” she said, sliding a meat pie into the oven. 

“That’ll be fine,” Din said. He hovered by the table, studying Aysa’s helmet without touching it. 

Aysa glanced behind her. “You can pick it up if you like,” she said, though there was a faint hint of trepidation in her voice.

Din picked it up, treating it with the respect it deserved. “You’re very fortunate,” he said.

Aysa glanced up at him. “Hm?”

“Your mother’s beskar,” Din said. “I don’t know if the practice was the same in your clan, but in mine, it’s traditional for armor to be passed down between family members.”

“It was the same in mine,” Aysa said. She smiled a little ruefully. “Nobody to reforge my mom’s armor, though, so it stays like it is.”

“When we find my clan again, I’ll ask the armorer to reforge it for you, if you like,” Din offered. “I think she would be honored to do it.”

Aysa’s eyes stung with tears, and she nodded, hastily turning away so Din wouldn’t see her struggling not to cry.

He noticed, of course. He noticed lots of things, after all, but it was kinder to pretend he hadn’t. He turned the helmet over in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship. “Did it belong to anyone before her?” he asked.

Aysa shrugged. “I dunno,” she said, focusing too hard on stirring the stock pot. “Never really asked before it… happened.”

Din nodded. He inspected the interior, nodding in satisfaction when he saw the internal wiring was compatible. It looked much newer than the rest of the helmet, and he wondered if Aysa had done the work herself. The soldering work looked clumsy, which made him think so.

Still—not bad for someone without training.

“When the soldiers attacked,” Aysa began. She cleared her throat and swallowed back the growing lump. “Well—Mom took a blaster bolt meant for me. She shielded me with her own body, but it missed her armor.”

Din inspected the half a scorch mark on the bottom of Aysa’s back plate. So his suspicions had been correct.

“I had to play dead under her body when they ran past us,” Aysa said. She shivered. “We were separated from my dad. I never did find out what happened to him.”

Din set the helmet down abruptly, and Aysa startled, looking around at him.

“I lost my own parents in an Imperial raid,” Din said at long last. “They hid me in a bunker. I never saw them again.”

“I’m sorry.”

Din shook his head. “Don’t waste your breath apologizing for things that weren’t your fault,” he said. 

Aysa bit her lip, but nodded. 

“The Mandalorians saved me after that,” he continued. “They took me in as a Foundling—but they didn’t do the same for you.” He left his words to trail upwards, the barest hint of a question. He’d leave it up to her if she wanted to share.

“Scavengers,” Aysa said. “They helped me get the armor off Mom, packed it in a bag for me. Dropped me off at the next planet over with a couple of credits and the bag and nothing else.”

Din frowned, his shoulders tensing. “You were a child.”

Aysa nodded, not turning around. “The rest of the people who took me in, one after another—some were kind. Some weren’t. Doesn’t matter—I survived, and I managed to keep ahold of the armor, and that’s what does.”

Din studied her for a moment. He was hardly the type to go around dishing out compliments, and he wasn’t about to start now. All he said instead was “That’s good.” He tapped the helmet in an obvious change of topic. “If you’d like, I can wire your helmet’s coms up so we can keep in contact.”

Aysa glanced at him over her shoulder and smiled. “I’d like that.” She stooped to pull out the meat pie and dished some of it into a bowl; she looked around and grabbed a cutting board, putting the bowl, a fork, a napkin, and a glass of fruity cider on the makeshift tray. “Here,” she said, carrying it over to Din.

He took the tray, then glanced over at Baby, who was sniffing curiously at Aysa’s curtains. “I should feed him first.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Aysa said. “I’m not the most maternal person, but I do know how to get a baby to eat.”

“But—“

Aysa nodded at the cutting board tray. “Your food will get cold. And you’ve gotta be starving,” she added, raising her eyebrows. “If it really makes you feel better, you can always snarf it.”

Din smiled, but gave no indication of it that she could see. “Thank you,” he said, and disappeared into her room.

Organized chaos was probably the best way to describe it. Din paused just after shutting the door behind him to take a look around; it was clear the clutter had a pattern to it. 

A row of alcohol bottles were lined up haphazardly on the windowsill, but their labels were all turned forward and they all had their matching lids or corks. The papers strewn on the desk were apparently sorted into teetering piles by category: bills, invoices, medical notes, bank information, insurance. 

Din tugged the curtains shut before he pulled his helmet off and set it on the floor, running his fingers through his tangled hair. It always felt good to smell that first breath of air that wasn’t filtered through his helmet.

Books were stacked in strategically precarious rows on an old shelf, some tomes crammed in sideways on top of other books. As Din ate, he cast a curious eye over the titles. Lots of planetary encyclopedia books, but a fair amount of novels, political analyses, books on economic theory, electronics wiring.

Sometimes he wished he had the space for a proper library on his ship, but books took up weight and space, both of which were valuable commodities on a ship. Besides, it was unnecessary when he could simply download all the books he could ever want to read straight to his datapad.

The meat pie was good, and hot enough to nearly burn his tongue as he quickly ate, then chased it down with a gulp of cider. 

Before he went back into the main room, he paused by the mirror to inspect his face. No new scars, but his hair and beard were starting to get scraggly. He’d need to trim them both soon.

Din grunted and put his helmet back on, retreating into the safety and anonymity it offered him. He picked up the tray and went back out, pausing and grinning when he saw Aysa sitting with the Womp-Rat at the table, coaxing him into eating one spoonful at a time.

“Here comes the TIE Fighter,” Aysa said, her voice noticeably higher-pitched and more sing-songy. “Open wide…”

The kid willingly opened his mouth for her to spoon in the broth, and he giggled and clapped his hands together after he’d swallowed.

Din was sure he hadn’t made any noise when he’d come in, but Aysa spoke without turning to look at him. “Food was alright?”

“It was. Thank you,” he said, setting the tray on the counter.

“Bet you don’t have many home-cooked meals on the ship,” Aysa said, and Din shook his head.

“It’s mostly ration bars,” he said. “There’s a galley, but it’s barely large enough to fit in even without my armor.”

“That does sound problematic,” Aysa said. “And you’re not a real big guy, either.”

Burg’s comment of “Tiny” came to mind, and Din rolled his eyes at the memory. “No,” he agreed neutrally.

“Hey, not saying that’s a bad thing,” Aysa said. “Means you need less beskar to be all armored up, for one. Right?”

Din grinned, knowing she’d be able to hear it in his voice. “I suppose.”

Aysa set the spoon down. “Are you smiling, Din?”

The sound of his name from unfamiliar lips was… strange. Not unpleasant, just unusual.

“I guess you’ll never know,” he said. “Go eat. I’ll finish here.” He pulled the bowl of broth towards him, beginning to coax the Womp-Rat into eating.

Aysa watched the pair for a moment, smiling. Her stomach growled, and she got up to help herself to a small serving of pie.

“So does Baby eat anything else yet, or just broth?” Aysa asked, sitting back down and digging into her food.

“Frogs,” Din replied, sounding slightly strained. “Preferably live.”

Aysa choked on her pie and began coughing. Without taking his eyes off the kid, Din reached over and thumped her squarely between the shoulders.

“Thanks,” Aysa gasped. “Frogs?”

“I’m trying to get him to stop,” Din said, reaching out to poke Baby on the nose. Baby scrunched his face up and leaned away, only to lean back when Din offered him another spoonful. 

“Well, it doesn’t seem to have killed him yet?” Aysa offered faintly.

“Yet,” Din muttered.

Aysa made a small noise of sympathy. She dumped her empty plate in the sink and headed back out to the speeder pad.

Din eyed the plate in the sink. She’d barely taken several mouthfuls of food. She wasn’t kidding about not eating well, but he wondered how much of that was by choice.

Aysa returned with the crates from the speeder bike and set them down just inside the door, beginning to unpack one of them. She glanced up at Din; he ignored her, so she figured she was okay to continue. With one crate empty, she disappeared briefly into her room, returning with a thick blanket that she used to line it. 

“Baby can sleep in here,” she said, and the kid’s ears perked up at the sound of her voice. “Settle him down whenever, but I’m tired.”

Din said nothing; Aysa shrugged and disappeared into her room, reemerging a few minutes later with a pillow and blanket under her arm. She was wearing nothing but a pair of thin sleeping trousers. Din glanced up and was suddenly quite glad she couldn’t see him staring.

He hadn’t been wrong: her chest really was boy-flat, distinctive white scars just under where her pectoral muscles curved. Surgical, unlike the other scars that lined her torso. Most of them were heavy burn scars like the one on her face, but a few on her arms and stomach where the armor didn’t cover looked like cuts or blaster hits. Not too dissimilar to his own.

She was lean and well-muscled as fit a mercenary, but thin enough he could count her ribs. He frowned. Muscled she might be, but there was no way that meant healthy. When she turned her back to him, his frown deepened. Parts of her spine—or maybe all of it—had been replaced, angry red skin growing up over the metal segments embedded in her back. It didn’t look like an old injury by any stretch of the imagination, especially judging by the twisting, ropy scar that stretched from shoulder to hip, cutting across her body.

He couldn’t imagine baring himself like that. It was the height of vulnerability, a complete lack of regard for one’s safety.

It was not the Way.

Not for him, he had to remind himself. For her, this must be normal. 

Or—and this thought drew him up short—she was acting like this because she trusted him. It made a certain amount of sense. He trusted her as well. Not fully—they had only just met—but there was a certain respect that went to fellow Mando’ade that would grow stronger with time. The differences between their clans were a footnote in that larger picture.

Aysa lay down on the lumpy sofa and rolled herself into her blanket until the only parts of her Din could see were her toes and the top of her head.

Baby whined at him insistently and he quickly refocused his attention on feeding the child. As soon as Baby let out a soft, contented belch, Din gathered him up and set him in the makeshift cot in the corner of the room. Baby looked like he wanted to hold on, but he yawned as he was set down, big eyes slowly closing before he’d been fully laid in the cot.

“G’night,” came Aysa’s muffled voice from the corner.

Din’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “Good night.”

[july-19th-club]

stranger things - the essay fic

the history of this idea is in this post from the other day, and I got held up for various reasons, but here it is finally, under the cut, complete with the above super-original title that i came up with days ago and definitely not just now in the midst of my post-work exhaustion: a fic based on me trying to figure out what steve harrington’s college admissions essay would look like 

spoiler: it’s not the one he was writing at the beginning of the season anymore 

Hawkins, Indiana: 1987

Friday night. The apartment’s filled with the fading smell of onions from yesterday’s homemade chili, and Nancy opens the door to hear someone yelling from the back bedroom. She follows the sound to its source, and finds Steve with a desk full of papers, looking harried. “Hey, they’re having a grownups get-together over at the cabin, are you coming with us?” ‘They’ is the adults of the crew, Hop and everyone, and ‘us’ is her and Jonathan, who’s quietly gathering his coat and camera from the master bedroom. El’s aunt is in town, and that’s usually an excuse for the teenagers to take the movie money she gives them and run around in town while the adults drink and tell war stories.

He turns, grimacing, and rubs his eyes hard. “Listen, no, I gotta get this done.”

“Now?”

“Damn, what time is it?”

“Six-fifty,” she tells him. “You can’t take a fifteen-minute break?”

“To a party at the cabin? That’s not a fifteen minute break. Jon, you don’t even like that stuff.” He leans even closer to the desk until his forehead is touching it. “Great,” he says, his voice muffled but rising. “I should just go anyway, this isn’t going to get done. I quit.”

“Can you do it in the morning?”

“Deadline’s tomorrow.”

She’s a seasoned enough student to know that once you decide you’ll ‘do it in the morning’ you’re resigning yourself to never actually completing the thing you want done.

He shakes his head. “I’m so goddamn tired, guys.”

Jonathan pats him awkwardly on the head. She thinks he must really be wiped out, because he doesn’t even fish a hand up from the desk to slap Jon away from his hair. She wants to tell him he’s been doing really well, but that’s not going to go over nicely in the midst of despair. It’s true, though. He has. He’s taken the paperwork in small doses so it doesn’t wreck his concentration, made sure he’s alert before he gets started, gotten enough sleep. He’s even wrangled shorter hours at work so he wouldn’t be too worn out for homework at the end of the day. But she supposes the stress had to catch up sometime.

She signals Jon over her shoulder. The essay, she decides, is probably more important than getting to the party on time. Or at all. They have these things every couple of months, and while life is fleeting and unsure and you never know when it will change, it’s not every day that a very old friend takes a step this big.

“How about - how about this, what do you still have left to do?”

He spreads his hands out over the scattered papers. “Type up the revisions. They’re all done. It’s pretty good now, I think. You guys can look it over if you want. But I can’t keep staring at the paper, I really can’t.”

Jonathan pokes his head around the corner. “Is it the World War II one?”

That gets a small snort of laughter out of him. “No. No, that one sucked. This is...a different one.”

“Okay, okay, I got you. So how about we do it?”

“Do what?” he frowns, then catches it. “No. You’d be writing my essay.”

“Not necessarily.” Jon’s grinning now, and Nancy, catching on, begins to think that this is really going to work. “You go take five minutes, get some water, get an aspirin. And we’ll just type it.”

“You’ll just type it?” He gives it a few moments of thought. “Can you read it out loud? Sorry, I know it’s stupid, but maybe that way, if I want to change anything.”

“No, I like it,” she says. “I’ll read, he’ll type, and you can let us know if you want to add or alter anything while we go. We’re not writing your paper, we’re just - transcribing it.”

“And it’s not stupid,” Jonathan adds. “It’s really smart.”

The boys leave for the kitchen, and she sits down at the desk to go through the paperwork. It’s happening, she thinks, it’s really happening. It’s been a few years since the world turned right side up again for good, and he’s only now thinking about college. Part of it is that they’ve all been busy, and with Nance and Jonathan gone at school, someone’s had to be the supervising presence back at home. Not that she thinks it’s been much of a chore for him. When she got back for spring break, Mike informed Nancy that Steve is trying to teach him to drive (“he says Max only has so much patience, and honestly, he’s right”). She’s satisfied. She can’t imagine either of her parents trying to coach her little brother behind the wheel. They completely overlooked Nancy when it should have been her turn, and it had been she, Barb, and Steve who’d figured it out together.

Now he lives in the apartment that she and Jon got a year or so ago. He doesn’t have to; his parents are perfectly happy to have him at home, but she thinks he desperately needs some semblance of independence. So during the semester, he keeps the place clean and pays his part of the rent and works in town, and when they get back on break, well - that’s when it becomes a home. A real one, with cooked meals eaten at a dinner table or out on the tiny balcony or squeezed together on the sagging couch. It shows itself in little ways: in the plate that keeps their keys by the door. In the chore schedule they badger each other to keep to. In the clutter of mismatched soap and hair product on the bathroom counter.

In the way they will fall asleep on the couch all together sometimes, and wake up halfway to dawn and stumble, blurry, one by one by one, back to a single bed. In the way, when it’s just them and they’re at home alone, the boys will occasionally hold hands without her. In the way, when a good thing happens or someone needs comforting, she’ll kiss one, and then the other, and it will be easy as anything good should be. Once, at Jonathan’s house, Joyce had asked them very seriously if it wasn’t a little awkward for Steve to be the third wheel, and he’d given her the trademark grin and said, “What third wheel? We’re all friends here.”

She doesn’t know if it’s sustainable. It’s scary, and they’ve never gone past the most casual gestures of love. Jon’s scared for their health. Steve doesn’t say it, but she knows he’s scared of ridicule. And she’s scared of...she doesn’t know what - Harm? Sickness? Every one of her beliefs being quietly upended and replaced by something both freer and less defined? All she knows is that in the wake of every monster she’s ever fought, this is the most anxious and most content she’s ever felt.

They both know how big this is for him, this college thing. He’d barely graduated back in ‘84, although it wasn’t really his fault. By the time that year’s crisis was over, he’d spent weeks doggedly ignoring what had turned out to be a significant concussion. By the end of the year, he hadn’t had the energy or the confidence to do anything but scrape by. They’d still had a good time at graduation, but in the fall, the other seniors had packed up and left, and he’d wound up with a job at the Gulf oil station, one he’d later had to quit because the gas fumes gave him migraine.

But this year had been different. He’d worked, reluctantly, for his father, and had spent the spare time researching schools. Community college, nothing fancy, something that would let you take just one class a week if you wanted. “What for?” his parents had asked. They’d needed to know what kind of education they were funding, even though he’d made it clear he wanted to pay his own way through. Of course, if he was still working for Harrington’s, then it would amount to the same thing, something she tried not to bring up in irritable moments.

“Teaching,” he’d said, of course. He didn’t know what he wanted to teach, or for that matter, what he could possibly be qualified to teach. He’d been reading as much as he could manage, lately, and was leaning towards history. His mother said she hadn’t known he had such an interest in kids, and had managed to make it sound not just like a bad thing, but an unsavory one. Dustin, in his well-meaning and prescient (some would say presumptuous) way, had suggested science, but Clark wasn’t anywhere near retirement yet. Somehow, Nancy thought, they all assumed he’d want to teach in Hawkins. She wondered what she’d do if he decided to go somewhere else.

The point, really, was to get that chance in the first place.

He’d brought home application forms to the apartment and organized them all into manila folders, and the next several months had been slowly but steadily productive. And now here they were. Crunch time. The boys take longer in the kitchen than she thinks it should take to pour tap water, but it turns out they’ve made Country Time and brought plates with a pile of Oreos on the top of the stack. Once they’re back, Jonathan feeds new paper into the electric typewriter and checks the ink. Steve sits down on the bed and falls all the way over onto his back with a satisfied oof. Nancy takes the corner chair, sips her lemonade, clears her throat. “Are we ready?”

Steve waves his hand like a conductor, and Jonathan signals the thumbs-up. “Go.”

The prompt is “How do you define family?” She begins.

                                                   On Family

I know a man whose daughter came to him at the age of thirteen, when both of them were as alone as someone can be. I know a woman who is the definition of motherhood not because she’s always strong but because she just never stops. I know a girl who picked her own big brother. I know that in some ways my own family may be unorthodox, but it is the most unbreakable thing I have ever been a part of.

Webster’s New Riverside college dictionary lists multiple definitions of ‘family.’ First, it tells us that ‘family’ comes from the Latin word ‘familia,’ which comes from the word ‘famulus,’ which means ‘servant.’ In that sense, family only meant part of a household, or someone who works in the house. Today, it’s evolved into something more. In this analysis, I will break down Webster’s definitions, and try to find out which one, if any, resonates most.

1) a fundamental social group in society consisting esp. of a man and woman and their offspring. We’ve all been part of that sort of family, even if it shows itself in different ways. We may not know our biological parents, or we may know them but they live in different places, or we may have lived with them our whole lives. In mine, it’s as simple as the sentence above: my father, my mother, and me, no siblings. A family unit. But sometimes the unit can sound impersonal, or unrelatable. It’s only a family because the definition says it is - because ‘family’ is just the best word to describe the situation of parents and child.

2) A group of people sharing common ancestry. My dad’s family stretches back to the Revolutionary War, where they were English people who settled in the colonies and became Americans. My mother’s family is Irish, and immigrated after the Civil War, in order to escape famine. The thing about Irish and English people is that they’re antagonists; their countries have been at odds with each other for hundreds of years and for a long time England owned Ireland. But my parents met in Indiana, and they were never a part of the conflict. I have common ancestry with both sides of the fight: the winners and the losers. The victims and the oppressors. If family can be defined as ‘common ancestry,’ then what does it mean that I was, in a way, born halfway between those things?

3) Distinguished lineage. In my mother’s family, all the girls traditionally go to a private school in Indianapolis. It’s called a legacy: members of the same family following each other into the same place, and passing it on to their children. Because my mother doesn’t have any nieces yet, it’s possible that this particular legacy is over. I’m not part of any legacy, and maybe that means it’ll be easier for me to choose my own direction. I think the important thing is that even though they often center around blood relations, legacies don’t always have to. A distinguished lineage can be formed by passing something (like information, a tradition, a motto, or values) on to the next generation, and letting it grow and spread.

4) All of the members of a household living under one roof.In this case, my roommates and I qualify as a family, simply because we share an apartment. But if you had asked me a few years ago if the three of us were family, I never would have agreed. One of my roommates is a girl I was once in love with. If I’m honest, we’re much better friends now, years after ending our relationship, than we were when we were together. We were able to understand each other, and ourselves, better when we had the time to be alone. Now that there’s no pressure, we’re very close.

My other roommate is a boy I distrusted and maybe even hated, and it would be easy to say that it was because at the time we were fighting over the same girl. But I also disliked him because he was quiet and different and it was kind of fashionable, in my school, to make fun of him. We’ve both made some mistakes, but it was only after I got to know him in person that I could begin to form a friendship with him, and consider him my family now. None of us are related by blood, but I’ve learned a lot from the two of them: how to be a good sibling, how to get over things, how to let other people look after you. Without their company, I think I’d be a pretty different person.

5) A group of like things. When people come together because of a crisis, they form unlikely alliances. They look out for each other because they have to, and then it becomes ‘because they want to.’ In high school, a friend of my girlfriend died, and after that we ate dinner every few weeks with her parents, even though they weren’t ours, even though the only thing we had in common was the one thing that was missing. Still a family: parents, without a child.

In my hometown, where stranger things happen every year, the biggest constant I can find is that the people you fight through those things with will become your family. You might be closer with some than with others, but your shared experiences make a unique group out of you. You’ll have jokes that only you will understand, and memories you can only share with certain people, and it can be scary to know that there will be other groups you won’t be a part of. But there will also be houses you can go to that will always let you in.

Family: a group of like things. Something you can make anywhere.

[justadump]

Shifter - Chapter One - Boombox Week: Alternative Universe

Other Tags: Junkrat/Lucio, Boombox, Fluff, Comfort, Romance, Mentions of d.Va/Sombra, No Omnics, Modern AU, Shifter AU/Shape shifting AU.

Chapter 1/?

Word count: 4000+

Chapter One – Lucio

The city of New York was beautiful in the winter, Lucio thought, as he walked down a sidewalk sprinkled with a light dusting of snow. Thankfully he remembered to cover up with a warm scarf and gloves before he left for work. It was nearing 3pm, the streets becoming more vibrant with the rush hour- although every hour seemed like rush hour for New York.

Lucio deftly dodged around the many people that wandered or also rushed by, when he first moved to the city it had seemed a rude thing to do, but was now one of his many habits as he travelled from A to B.

Lucio was finally nearing the pet store, a small local place that was one of his two jobs that he worked - to keep himself in college and under a warm roof. Lucio would admit it was stressful, working two jobs, and studying a degree in engineering that he didn’t quite want to take, all whilst trying to cope with being abroad in a country far from his home of Brazil, away from family.

“Lucio, you’re ten minutes late.” Lucio’s boss, an aged man named Paul sighed, trying to look stern but failing. He was a lax guy, too lax to care about slight tardiness. Especially when it came to one of his hardest working employees.

“Yeah, sorry bout’ that.” Lucio said, with guilt. He did feel bad. “Professor Reyes kept me behind for like an hour, I had to catch up on some work before he let me go.”

“I’ll accept that excuse, but try to be more on time next time.” Paul shrugged, handing Lucio a piece of paper. “I got some extra jobs for you today, just some extra cleaning out and feeding. You can handle that?”

“Yeah, no problem man.” Lucio mock saluted with a grin, glancing down at the list- it would be an interesting shift for sure.

Once his boss left him to his tasks, Lucio began by feeding and cleaning out the reptile section, checking their lamps were working and that the animals were healthy. Lucio couldn’t resist putting his earbuds in, humming and swaying lightly to the music as he worked. He cooed and petted the animals when he could, feeling quite cheered up by the presence of them. Whilst Lucio was only working in the pet store for some extra money, he couldn’t deny the fact he loved working with animals. They were pure creatures, unable to judge or be cruel and not to mention highly therapeutic for many people, including himself.

It was refreshing after a stressful day at college to unwind with the animals.

Customers entered the store every so often, most just browsing the animals- or picking up supplies for their own.

Lucio served them all with a bright smile, and he would admit being proud of his customer service skills, the ability to engage strangers in a conversation came easy to Lucio. Usually the topic was animals, unsurprising considering the place.

At one point, Lucio served a young brunette woman who came in to buy some bird food, they were having a pleasant conversation about what species of bird she was hoping to spot. Lucio noted that she was British, having a pleasant cockney accent.

When the woman passed the money over, her sleeve slipped down her arm, past her wrist.

Instinctively, Lucio looked and spotted the brand. A large red S on her inner wrist.

He quickly looked up, only to witness the woman pale even further- she looked terrified.

“Oh… um…” Lucio was at loss for words for a brief moment, the woman’s terror catching him off guard. But he understood why completely. “Hey, I didn’t mean to look miss, but you got nothing to worry about here. We’re not that sorta place, what you are isn’t any of our business.”

For a moment, the woman looked shocked. But her tense expression melted into relief.

“Thank you…” She breathed, composing herself. “You wouldn’t believe how many people refuse to serve me when they see it… are you…?”

“Oh, me? Nah, but I do feel for you.” Lucio sighed, fighting down the instinctive anger that came with the subject. “I uh, really don’t know what to say, other than sorry that you had to experience that.”

“…well, cheers luv,” The woman said with a sad smile, glancing around the store- which was beginning to fill up with people again. “I should be off now, have a good night, yeah?”

“Yeah, you too,” Lucio nodded, watching the woman leave for a moment before serving the queue that had built up.

-x-

The interaction had stayed in Lucio’s mind for the rest of the shift, he couldn’t help but think about the injustice against the Shifters, the almost militant control over people who had a power they couldn’t control or change. Lucio knew it was worse in other countries, Brazil wasn’t exactly progressive when it came to the Shifters.

The fact that America (so called land of the “free”) required Shifters to be visibly branded left a sour taste in Lucio’s mouth, he tried not to stew in it for too long. Whenever he thought of the curfews, the discrimination- it pissed Lucio off. Not an ideal mood at work.

It was now nearing 7pm, and in 15 minutes Lucio would be able to leave. He was sweeping the floor, the store empty of any customer. The only sounds being the chirping of the lovebirds and budgies, and the rattling of plastic hamster wheels. Lucio hummed to himself as he swept, feeling exhaustion creep up on him.

Can’t wait to get home and rest… Lucio thought wistfully, but frowned. Damn, Reyes set that deadline for tonight…

Lucio sighed heavily, resigned to his fate of an exhausted late night, and an even more tiring following morning.

-x-

If it wasn’t for the startling bright lights of New York, the street would be pitch black- the air was starting to get uncomfortable in temperature, the once beautiful snow an almost deadly layer of sleet. Lucio shuddered, tucking his nose further down his scarf, he could never adapt fully to the cold. After double checking the store was locked properly, he began to make his way home.

He didn’t live far from the pet store, only a few blocks away which was convenient. Lucio liked to cut through the alleyways to lessen the journey further, he found walking down the pitch black alleyways intimidating at times- but Lucio knew he was fast enough to get away if need be, and could put up a fight.

So, he pushed down his initial fear and entered the dark mouth of the alleyway beside the store.

Lucio liked to be aware of his surroundings, leaving earbuds out and ensuring he scanned the area properly. It was devoid of anyone, which was both a relief and not. He began a slow walk- scanning for any sleet that may slip him. It almost got him a few times.

Lucio had only walked a few metres down, when he heard an odd sound.

It was a very feint squeak, so feeble Lucio doubted he heard anything at all. Taking out his phone, he flipped on his bright torch setting- scanning the ground where he swore he heard the animalistic sound.

It took a minute to find the source, but the sight Lucio found made him gasp.

Beside a dumpster on the ground, was a curled up rodent. On closer inspection, Lucio knew it was a rat. They were not an uncommon sight in the city, especially near dumpsters. But the thing that shocked Lucio the most was the fact it was injured, and quite severely so.

Blood covered a vast majority of the blonde fur, some dried and most looked fresh- as if still seeping from the wound. The rat’s hind limb was bent at an awkward angle, looking broken or at least sprained. Lucio noted with pity that it was missing the other hind limb, and one of its forearms- old wounds considering the healed over stumps.

The only reason Lucio knew it was still alive was the fact its whiskers were twitching rapidly, the rat letting out a soft squeak when he stepped closer. It looked like a goner, and Lucio knew he had to do something to help the poor thing.

“Hey little buddy,” Lucio cooed softly, kneeling beside the shaking animal. It was startled at his presence, a startled hiss coming from the animal- although it came out more garbled than anything. “Hey hey, I’m not gonna hurt you little guy. I just wanna help, okay?”

Lucio was speaking more to reassure himself than anything, but it seemed his soft words caused the rat to stop hissing feebly at least.

What should I do?

In this situation, Lucio knew he had to react quickly- it seemed like the rat had lost a lot of blood, and from what he knew that could lead to shock, which was deadly to such a small rodent. Lucio also knew the best option was to free the animal of its pain as quickly as possible, which would be euthanizing the poor rat.

Lucio shuddered, he couldn’t bear to hurt the little guy- the thought of trying to snap its neck was sickening. He was too much of a pacifist to inflict any harm, even with good intent. Lucio also didn’t like the idea of taking it to a vet for it to be only killed too, even if it was the best option…

Without much thought, Lucio wrapped his scarf around the rat- he was going to try to take care of it.

-x-

“Yo Hana- you got a first aid kit in your dorm?”

Lucio had asked breathlessly into his phone, which he held up with his right shoulder as he jogged through the streets. The bundle in his scarf was barely moving at this point, the occasional squeaks dying out into quiet. Not a good sign.

��Hey Lucio… uh I think so, why?” Hana replied, sounding curious, but also concerned. “You hurt or something?”

“Not exactly,” Lucio breathed, the sight of Hana’s dorm coming into view- thankfully it wasn’t very far from the store, or Lucio’s own apartment. “It’s kinda hard to explain, I’ll show you in a minute.”

“Oookay Lu?”

When Hana opened the door to find a dishevelled Lucio, with windswept dreads, a look of panic in his eyes and his scarf bundled in his arms. She didn’t know what to think.

“What’s wrong?” Hana asked as Lucio came inside her room, looking around until he found a non-cluttered surface, i.e. her desk- placing the bundle onto it. Hana watched with curiosity.

“Don’t freak out on me Han, but I found this little guy out by the store…” Lucio explained, and Hana peeked into the scarf. “I couldn’t just leave him.”

When Hana saw the heavily injured rat within the material, she jumped back with some alarm.

“Lu! What if it’s got rabies?” Hana whined, trying to hide her disgust. Although she did look at the bundle with pity. “Poor thing… but it might have a load of diseases. And it’s on my desk!”

“I know, sorry Han.” Lucio said, feeling only a little guilty. He was more concerned for the increasingly quiet animal lying in his scarf. “I just need to borrow some bandages and stuff, then I’ll be off.”

“It’s okay, I know you want to help the little guy… but is he even still alive?” Hana asked, with a sad frown.

Lucio pulled the scarf away so he could see the rat more clearly, and on closer inspection it seemed like it was still breathing- its abdomen was moving feebly, very weak breathing but breathing nevertheless. Lucio let out a sigh of relief, although he knew there was much to do still.

“I’ll get the kit,” Hana said, brushing her hand over Lucio’s shoulder as she walked over to her drawers. The Korean girl returned with a thankfully large first aid kit, Lucio thought there would be enough in there to help somewhat. “I think I got some latex gloves in there, put them on before you touch it.”

“Gotcha,” Lucio nodded, and took out what he needed. Latex gloves, antiseptic wipes, bandages, and gauze. Lucio was thankful for his limited but useful animal first aid knowledge, it was sometimes needed in the store. “We need to clean his wounds first, find out what exactly is wrong. The blood is making it hard to see anything…”

“Just tell what to do Lu,” Hana nodded, and Lucio got to work.

It took longer than he thought to just clean the wounds, the blood had soaked deeply in the blonde fur- Hana compressed some of the more serious wounds whilst Lucio used the antiseptic wipes. Most of the cuts and wounds were only mild, and were already clotting- however a large slash across the rat’s stomach was a cause for concern. Lucio made Hana compress it whilst he prepared a sterile saline solution, as well as a clean cotton pad and gauze. Lucio couldn’t do much for the fractured hind limb.

Lucio was too engrossed in his tasks to even feel nervous, although Hana looked quite pale.

It seemed like forever, but finally Hana and Lucio had cleaned and bandaged all the visible wounds- Hana looked feint, and Lucio couldn’t help but exhale heavily.

“Lu, please let me know next time when you plan to bring over an injured animal and get blood all over my desk.” Hana sighed, glancing down to her blood soaked gloves with a grimace. She threw them in the bin with a frown. “Ugh.”

“Heh, yeah sorry bout’ that…” Lucio said with a chuckle, looking around Hana’s dorm room- a quite cluttered sight considering her massive TV and console setup. “You got a lamp I could use? This little guy could use some warmth.”

“Sure, just don’t get blood on it.” Hana quipped, plugging in her desk lamp and angling above the rat. “…Do you think it’ll be okay? It was practically dead when you brought him here.”

“I think he’ll be okay… I mean, as long as he doesn’t go into shock.” Lucio sighed, and pulled out the chair to sit- Hana perched herself on her bed. Lucio saw the state of his scarf, and groaned. “You gotta spare scarf or something? Think mine should be burned at this point.”

“Definitely,” Hana smirked, and tossed Lucio a bright pink scarf from her drawer- decorated with cute bunnies. “Pink would suit you.”

“You right, I mean, everything suits me Han.” Lucio smirked, he carefully moved the rat out of the bloodied green scarf- throwing it straight in the bin when he could. The animal barely moved at this disturbance, Lucio didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. He then wrapped the bandaged rat in the pink scarf, making sure it wouldn’t aggravate his wounds. “It suits him better.”

“You sure it’s a “him”?” Hana asked, and Lucio shrugged, looking down at the rat.

“I guess? I just get that vibe, y’know?” Lucio explained, now that the blood was cleared away Lucio could get a better look at the animal. The rather skinny rat had light fur- a blonde colour streaked with yellow, his long whiskers were nearly transparent, and to Lucio’s surprise its eyes were open wide- he expected some shade of red common to albinos, not a pleasant mixture of hazel and orange.

“Huh, I think it’s awake.”

“Oh, really?” Hana jumped out of bed to approach the desk to take a look, Lucio noticed that the rat’s gaze was quite blearily- as if it wasn’t focusing properly. “It looks really out of it.”

“He probably is…” Lucio said, sighing sadly. He supposed it was a good thing if it was awake at all. Then, a thought came to Lucio’s mind. “Damn… do you have anything we could feed it? Maybe food would be too much… fluids maybe?”

“Should I google it?” Hana said, already unlocking her phone. After a brief search she hummed. “It says the best thing to do for an injured rat is to give it “warm fluids” to rehydrate it.”

“So just some warm water?” Lucio said, Hana shrugging in response. “Doesn’t sound too difficult, think I saw a syringe in the kit.”

-x-

It was easier said than done to hand feed a delirious rat warm water, Lucio had placed the scarf on his lap- cocooning the rat between his arms and the material, as he gently coaxed the syringe into the rat’s mouth, slowly injecting the warm water. At first it seemed it was working, the animal instinctively swallowing the liquid. Its eyes were open but still quite blurry, Lucio began to worry if there was any lasting brain damage.

But then it hissed loudly.

The rat seemed to suddenly come to its senses, eyes more alert, and noticing the syringe and Lucio’s finger- dived for the kill. Lucio couldn’t help but yell out when the rat chomped on his index finger.

“Ah!” Lucio cried out, but refusing to let go of the injured animal. “Fuck! That really hurt.”

“Lucio, you alright?” Hana had rushed over, hearing his cry of pain through her headphones- she ignored her game for the moment to stare at his wound. “Shit Lu, it got you pretty bad.”

Lucio glanced down to the offending animal, and his finger. The rat had managed to tear the skin deep enough to bleed, it was a throbbing pain that made Lucio grit his teeth.  

“I’ll get the kit… again.” Hana said with a slight smirk, although when she came back with an antiseptic wipe and plaster, she was frowning. “You should probably get that checked, if it has a disease…”

“Yeah, yeah… I’ll go to the doc tomorrow.” Lucio agreed, and couldn’t help but glare lightly at the rat still in his hold. The glare softened when Lucio realised how weak it was again, it seemed biting him took a very big toll on the rat. It was breathing harshly, eyes half closed. “Hey, little guy… it’s okay. I ain’t gonna hurt you, I promise.”

It let out a pitiful squeak.

“I can tell you love animals Lu,” Hana chuckled. “Even after being bitten you’re still cooing to him like he’s a baby.”

“He’s just scared, it wouldn’t be the first time I was bitten cause’ of that.” Lucio shrugged, and decided that the rat had enough warm fluids. “Uh… do you have a crate or something I could put him in? I don’t really have anything back home, don’t think Alfonso will appreciate a rat in his vivarium.”

“A frog and rat living together, couldn’t imagine what would go wrong.” Hana giggled, then hummed in thought. “Sombra used to have a hamster, maybe she might have her old cage?”

“Ooo, Sombra.” Lucio grinned, causing Hana to roll her eyes. “I haven’t met your girlfriend yet.”

“Firstly, she’s not my girlfriend-“

“Yet.”

“Yet, and secondly, shut up.” Hana blushed, making Lucio laugh aloud.

“Aw, I’m only teasing Han.” Lucio said with a chuckle. “Could you text your not-girlfriend girlfriend if she has one? I’d appreciate it.”

“Hm, you’re lucky I love you.” Hana grumbled, and began texting her crush. Lucio smiled fondly, he was glad Hana had someone she cared about a lot, he knew his best friend had been through a lot and deserved it, being displaced from Korea for being a Shifter was tough, and being forced abroad away from family to protect her was a pain he could somewhat relate to.

Lucio never thought of Hana any different when she confided in him, if anything, Lucio thought it was pretty awesome his best friend could transform into a rabbit.

“Okay.” Hana said with a pop of her bubble-gum, her cheeks were still red. “Sombra says she was going to get rid of her old cage for room, so you can have it for nothing. She’s um, coming over now.”

“Ooo-“

“Shut. Up.” Hana growled, furiously popping another bubble.

-x-

Thankfully, the rat dropped off into a slumber whilst Lucio and Hana waited for Sombra to come over. Lucio carefully placed the bundle back on the desk, under the heat lamp where the rat could stay warm and comfortable. Lucio noted with a smirk that Hana was growing increasingly nervous.

“Chill Han, you said yourself Sombra isn’t your girlfriend. You got nothin’ to be worried about.” Lucio pointed out, now sat beside the Korean on her bed. She gave him a half-hearted glare.

“You better not say anything embarrassing Lu,” Hana huffed, trying to focus on her game but failing miserably. “I might have a little crush, but don’t go ruining any little chance I have, ok?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Lucio said, and he was only a little serious- he wouldn’t do anything too drastic. Lucio couldn’t help but chuckle when someone knocked on the dorm door. “I think you should get it.”

“Ugh, funny.” Hana sighed, but practically jumped up at the sound, throwing her controller and headphone onto the bed recklessly. Lucio was surprised, Hana was religious over her treatment of her devices.

She had it bad.

“Hi, Sombra.” Hana said brightly when she opened the door, on the other side was a pretty olive skinned woman. She had a very punk sort of vibe, with pretty purple streaked hair which was shaved on one half. Lucio knew she was definitely Hana’s type. “Come on in.”

“Hola Hana,” Sombra said with a smirk, Lucio swore it was almost flirtatious. She walked in carrying a medium sized plastic tank. Sombra nodded towards Lucio when she spotted him. “Hey.”

“Yo, name’s Lucio.” Lucio stood up to take the tank out of Sombra’s hands. “Thanks for this by the way, I appreciate it.”

“Hana told me what happened,” Sombra nodded, glancing towards the desk. “Though I’m not much of a rat person, thought I could help… I didn’t need this old thing anyway, so it’s not much of a hassle.”

“Glad to hear it,” Lucio said, placing the tank on Hana’s bed. He went to retrieve the rat, still bundled in the scarf sleeping. “If you’re not much of a rat person, what did you have?”

“Oh, y’know, the usual hamster that every little girl gets for a birthday.” Sombra said with a sigh. “It was my little Hermanas pet, but she didn’t want it anymore. Got stuck with the responsibility. Kinda sucky when you’re trying to get through college and find a roommate who can deal with the noise of the things.”

“Roommate?” Lucio questioned, looking back to Sombra after he gently put the rat in the tank. It would do for now. “…hey, you found one yet?”

Out of the corner of Lucio’s eyes, he could Hana glaring daggers at him.

“Nope, still looking.” Sombra looked between Lucio and Hana. “…why? You know someone who could help?”

Hana sighed, Lucio grinning.

“Yeah, I know for a fact that Hana is still looking for a new roommate.” Lucio said casually, hiding a grin by turn his back to them. “Just a thought.”

“Well, I just had a thought Lu…” Hana hummed, poking Lucio harshly in the back. “…that maybe it was time you went home?”

“I had the same exact thought!” Lucio teased, dodging another aimed poke. “Okay, okay I’m going. Damn woman, you’re vicious.”

“You better believe it.” Hana sing-songed, Sombra looking on with mild confusion.

-x-

Carrying the plastic tank back wasn’t as difficult as Lucio thought, he had gently refused Sombra’s offer for a lift back in her car. He didn’t want to separate the potential love-birds from… bonding.

“Nearly there buddy,” Lucio cooed into the tank, where the rat was still bundled up sleeping. Lucio hoped it wasn’t too cold for him, it was getting late and more snow had begun to fall. Thankfully Lucio’s small apartment was in view, it wouldn’t take any longer than a few minutes to finally get home. “You’ll be all nice and warm again, promise.”

Lucio continued his cooing until he was finally inside, and as he looked around his cluttered apartment he remember how much he needed to clean. Lucio found an uncluttered table in his bedroom to place the plastic tank on, then he searched for a spare heat lamp to keep the rat warm, thankfully having some spare from a previous spending spree at the pet store.

Thank Deus for staff discount. Lucio thought with chuckle, as he set up the lamp above the tank. It would keep the rat warm which would be important for recovery, Lucio wasn’t sure what he was going to do with him, whether to keep him or rehome him. He definitely wouldn’t just throw him on the streets again.

It didn’t seem like the rat was wild, if anything, it just looked like a very skinny fancy rat. Domesticated… even despite the bite.

Maybe he was abandoned… Lucio frowned. The thought itself was upsetting, but not unlikely, it wouldn’t be the first time an inexperienced owner dumped a pet that proved harder than expected to care for.

“I won’t let that happen to you again,” Lucio mused aloud, with a sigh he began tidying up. He knew he wouldn’t get much sleep tonight, not with having to hand feed the rat fluids every couple hours.

-x-

“Man… I should probably name you…” Lucio hummed, whilst he syringed some warm water into the rat’s mouth. It was still out of it, not seeming very alert, but still swallowing the liquid. Lucio took that as a victory. “You mind just Rat? I’m pretty awful at names. Alfonso can attest to that.”

No response, not that Lucio expected one.

“Hm… Buddy, Ratty, Skinner?” Lucio listed off names, grimacing at each one. “Nah, too generic. Damn I’m terrible.”

Lucio emptied the last of the syringe, relieved to see that the rat had drank every drop. His breathing was evening out to a more normal rate, and Lucio couldn’t spot any signs of severe shock. Despite the bad state he found him in, the animal was recovering.

Lucio yawned.

“Looks like it’s time for bed…” Lucio glanced at the clock on his bedside table, it read just past 1 o’ clock. Lucio knew he was going to be exhausted for college, and work tomorrow. But he didn’t regret it, he could handle some tiredness if it meant the little rat was safe, warm and most importantly alive.

Lucio gently placed the rat back into the plastic tank, which was covered by a layer of towels and blankets, as well as the bright pink bunny scarf. Despite being half-delirious, the rat instinctively burrowed into the warm material. Lucio smiled at the sight, and started to undress for bed. He decided to just sleep in his boxers, slipping under the cool covers of his bed with a sigh.

Closing his eyes, it didn’t take very long before Lucio was lightly snoring.

[worldofadvent]

NEO World of Advent Chapter One

Neo World of Advent

The streets of Neo Arcadia lined themselves with a chaotic cluttering, one that brought confusion to all but those who called them their home. From above, the oppressive sun shone on passerby as the murky, humid heat was complimented by the sound of bustling machine parts and the squeaking of oil. Barely three feet of the original framework of the road that stretched throughout the world's greatest and only city remained unsullied by broken cars or the current fashionable mode of transport, a sort of hoverboard called the Slider. If one were to ask where to find a certain shop or location, they need merely ask – for a price. These were the suburbs of Arcadia, close enough to the slums, yet far enough from the grand throne room and its surrounding districts to still give off a distinct sense of pandemonium.

As it stood, the current passenger racing through the streets needed no such directions, nor did the chaotic bustling of his home bother him. For Cipher, everything was in its rightful place, as it should be. Cipher knew the city to act like a well-oiled machine; this area was but one of its many cogs, grinding together in harmonious cacophony. He held together a patch of paperwork clutched tightly in his left hand. His right was too busy, preoccupied with navigating the narrow stretch of space available to passerby. It wasn't long before he came to a stop, resting his sore legs at a shop sign whose label read "Cipher Mechanics and Repair". Under it, a slogan read "We can fix anything – alive or inanimate."

As Cipher made a move to open the door, he waited. It was a thoughtful pause, one that gave consideration to the event that would, as he knew, undoubtedly unfold next.

The door flew open, and a delivery boy sailed across the clearing, dropping spare parts in his hurry to get where he was going. "Sorry Cy!" he called out. "I'll be more careful next time."

Cipher shook his head, half in exasperation, half in amusement. His Family was a rambunctious one, but most Advents were. Cipher caught himself thinking upon the word. An Advent, living child of human and machine. Were it not for the progenitors of Adventkind, Ciel Kanara [made up name] and Umera Umbria, they wouldn't exist. Cipher himself was one. Among the oldest living Advents, he was assigned the duty of raising and managing a haphazard group of Advents of equal or lower age. A Family, the bureaucrats called it, likely pleased with the euphemism. As if a child could lead other children as effectively as an adult. Nevertheless, the idea stuck, Advents like Cipher dealing with the newfound stresses of maintaining a grip on their fellow Advents.

Making his way inside his shop many simply knew as "The Workshop", Cipher took a second to reacquaint himself with the familiar surroundings. The scents and sounds of fresh oil on newly packaged cogs and wiring were welcome, as were the sparks that flew around the large cube sized space that encompassed his shop. Roughly 1,800 square feet, it was quite a large shop as compared to its surrounding businesses and other assorted stores. But the size meant business. And business meant profit. Profit meant the ability to feed his family.

Five main cubicles packaged themselves neatly in rows, with the largest, Cipher's office standing in the back next to the office sink and cupboards. Within the four cubicles, an Advent each stood or sat, depending on the time and Advent in question. Above, machine parts slid forward and down on a massive pulley system Cipher himself designed.

The Workshop was fairly disorganized, papers and spare nuts and bolts sprawled in random directions. That is to say, save for Cipher's own paradise of orderly organization. Never understanding how his fellow colleagues and members of his relatively small Family could function in such a messy environment, Cipher had long since implemented a rule of absolute orderliness in and around his private cubicle.

"Morning Shirley," Cipher greeted the closest of his Family, an Advent girl of around fifteen. She was currently embroiled in the throes of paperwork, her bored and impatient expression twitching at Cipher's greeting.

"Morning," she said. "And don't call me Shirley!"

Cipher chuckled. It was a well known fact around the office that Shirley liked to be called by her nickname, Shelley. If it were anyone but him calling her by her birth name, they would have likely received a bruise born from one of the many thick books Shelley kept nearby, ready to send airborne upon the earliest convenience.

Bradley too was working in a cubicle, too busy to return Cipher's greeting, choosing to give a curt nod instead. Currently pacifying an irate customer over the phone, Bradley returned to the task at hand. "No, Mrs. Smith. We'll have your order ready by tomorrow…"

The remaining two cubicles were empty. Kent, Cipher could see, was hard at work sampling the office coffee when he should be managing the budget. Cipher gave the black haired Advent boy a sideways glance and a small cough, taking small pleasure in Kent's surprised yelp and curse as he spilled the fresh coffee over his shirt.

"Righteo," Kent said, grinning abashedly. "On it, boss."

The last cubicle, one directly in front of Cipher and slightly to the right, belonged to Charles, his next in command. It was a surprise not to see him working on the next set of work orders. A quick glance inside Cipher's own cubicle told him that Charles was organizing some papers for him.

Cipher liked Charles. A neat freak like himself, he had shown promise the minute Cipher had accepted him into the small Family he maintained. The five of them were less than half its total population, but consisted of the entire work force, keeping the rest of it fed and sheltered. It had been a long time since Cipher had moved into the private sector in favor of higher earns at the cost of government subsidiaries. At least it allowed for more wiggle room, Cipher reminded himself.

"Hey," Cipher greeted his lieutenant. "What's up?"

"Oh not much," Charles muttered, too caught up in the work for pleasantries. "You've got to go over these," he said, handing Cipher a stack of papers with photo identities printed on their top right corners. "You won't like it, but some Advents have recently been taken from the streets in our District. They go under your jurisdiction."

Cipher groaned. It was hard enough keeping the twelve of them fed. Just how many more would he potentially expect to come under his responsibility?

"Thanks Charles. I'll handle it."

Charles nodded solemnly, walking over to his personal cubicle, where Cipher could hear the distinct sound of shuffled papers.

Six Unclaimed Advents? In my district? I don't know if we have the funds to support another mouth to feed. True, they could go to Harley… He seems nice enough, for an Umbrian. Still, to live in the slums and to have the Umbrian name tacked on to you for the rest of your life? There must be another option.

Cipher snapped his fingers together, a habit he tended to do when he had just figured some answer to a complex and difficult equation.

Joan! She has some designation in the District as well, even if by a technicality. Troublesome woman she is, she has never turned down an Advent yet. Her governmental subsidiaries should allow for it. I guess there are some advantages to working in the public sector.

Cipher poured himself a celebratory cup of coffee, adding a liberal amount of cream to it. After gingerly testing the temperature of the brew and determining it safe to drink, he gulped it down, humming softly to himself as the liquid settled pleasantly in his stomach. Moving on to a more immediate concern of his, Cipher took a look at the inventory of expected income versus what funds they had actually acquired. Frowning slightly as he realized that they were already halfway over budget, he called Kent over to manage the findings.

Fortunately, the demand for Sliders was on the rise, something The Workshop excelled at. If there was any one thing Cipher could pride his shop on doing, it was creating a damn good Slider. Cipher sighed, figuring that it would only do harm to postpone the situation concerning the Unclaimed Advents and made plans to leave.

"You're in charge, Charles!" Cipher called out as he jingled the keys to his personal Slider. "Let me know if anything comes up."

"You got it boss," Charles said, standing a little taller as he took the mantle of temporary Head of Office.

Clutching the necessary documents in one hand, Cipher unlocked his Slider, carefully maneuvering around the hustle and bustle of heavy traffic. Several delivery trucks ran the way through the narrow lanes assigned to citizens of Neo Arcadia. Because the Slider was a relatively new invention, he had less right to the roads than they, but much more flexibility.

Cipher ducked under a heavy transport bus, wind rushing in his ears as he did so. It was times like these he felt alive, where the only worry on his mind was how to move, how to fly, how to get to where he was going. What happened when he got there could wait. He was in his element now.

Grinning like a madman, Cipher whipped through a tunnel exit, making his way to the subterranean areas of the city. Neo Arcadia was a large city, the human capital of the world, but even it could not afford to sprawl out endlessly. Thus, the tunnels were constructed. Grey and wired, hosting both energy to be rewired throughout the city in accordance to the leaders of Neo Arcadia's orders, they also served as a means to get one place to another without having to deal with the tedious traffic. Hosting a large and varied kind of occupants, ranging from drug dealers and the homeless to the Advent Families assigned, it was a vast and at times confusing system. But again, Cipher was no stranger to these particular tunnels, and made his way through them with relative ease.

Ordinarily Cipher made a point to get to one destination to another as fast as possible, but whenever he made trips down here, he couldn't help but pass a Zenny or two to the odd homeless person haunting the tunnel side exits. It was unfortunate that not every human and reploid could find his or her place in their city, something Cipher wished he could change. As it stood however, Advent rights were on the fringe, with many religious groups protesting Human/Reploid unions. Even some senators made their voices loudly heard. It was all Cipher could do to ensure his Family was well protected.

After making a quick left through some of the more narrow pipelines, Cipher stopped, knowing that Joan's home, the Forge, was nearby. Sure enough, children covered in soot appeared seemingly out of nowhere, camouflaged by their dark environment.

"Mister Cipher's here!" one of the smaller children squeaked. Others ignored him. Others still hopped down to give Cipher a disapproving glare.

"What do you want?" one in particular, a soot haired girl named Jenny, asked. "You and Joan aren't dating anymore. I thought you said you wouldn't be around anymore."

"Yes," Cipher sighed irritably. "We're not dating. No, I never said I would avoid the Forge. It was a mutual breakup! And besides, our Families do business with each other. It wouldn't make sense for me to just forget where she lives."

"Hmph" Jenny offered in response. "I suppose I can let her know you stopped by."

Cipher watched Jenny saunter slower than he thought ordinary towards the front gate of the Forge, opening it slowly, giving the nearby occupants a glimpse of its insides and a wave of heat. As Cipher watched Jenny take her time, he decided it would be a good idea to find a way to entertain himself. Jenny would likely find any and every excuse to keep him waiting as long a possible.

"So what are you doing here," a human male Cipher recognized as being Joan's second in charge, Johnathan, said. He had a rough leather jacket on, goggles obscuring his forehead, reaching up into his soot covered hair. It was impossible to tell what the natural color of hair was from anyone living in the Forge.

"Business, mostly," Cipher said casually. "Between you and me, you may be getting some new siblings soon enough."

"I see." Johnathan's face was stoic, as always. "Is there anything I can do to assist you with your business with Miss Joan?"

"Miss?" Cipher snorted. "She's only a year older than I am. But yeah, there is one thing I would like to know. Why are there so many humans here? I thought Advent Families usually kept within their kind."

"It's better than living on the streets," Johnathan responded. "I was a thief on the streets before I had the misfortune of trying to pickpocket Joan. She brought us wayward souls here, to the Forge, and gave us hope and direction." He paused. "She gave us purpose again."

"I see." Cipher nodded. "That does sound like Joan alright. So how does she find people? Just how many non-Advents are there in the Forge?"

"There are approximately fifty seven humans currently employed under Miss Joan," Johnathan said. "Is there anything else you would like to know?"

"Nah," Cipher said. "I'm good."

The two of them stood in comfortable silence while they waited for news about Joan's potentially seeing about Cipher's issue at hand, namely the Unclaimed Advents. It wasn't until twenty minutes later that Cipher heard Joan's voice echo throughout the tunnels surrounding the Forge.

"Yo, Johnathan! What did I say about talking to strangers?" Joan grinned, dressed in full plate armor and bright red hair that seemed impervious to the oppressive soot. "What up, Cy?" she asked, punching his arm. Hard.

"Pretty good," Cipher said, rubbing his arm tenderly. "Save for the bruise that I'll have tomorrow. How have you been, Jo?"

"The price of steel these days is killing me," she said irritably. "It's like there's some shortage of iron or something."

"I know," Cipher said, glad to be able to have an easy conversation with Joan again. "It's hurting us back at the Workshop as well."

"You have my sympathy," Joan said. "So what brings you all the way to the Forge?"

Cipher grimaced. "Can we talk in private?"

"Is this bad?" Joan sighed. "Alright. Johnathan, go stoke the fires, would you?"

Johnathan gave Joan a stiff salute, making his way to the maw of the Forge. There was a harsh grating sound as the gate opened, blasting Cipher and the apparently immune Joan with a gust of superheated air.

"How can you stand this place?" Cipher asked, fanning himself with his hands. "It's so hot!"

"Wimp." Joan rapped her metal armor proudly. "Here at the Forge we learn how to weather heat quickly."

"Whatever," Cipher sighed, the overbearing heat making him irritable. "Let's just get this done with. I have some Unclaimeds I want you to look over. Do you think you can manage a few more?"

Joan sighed. "I'll take the lot in. But they had better be prepared for a lot of hard work soon enough. Everyone earns their keep in the Forge."

"Thanks Jo," Cipher said, relieved. "I knew I could count on you."

"No problem." Joan bit her lip. "Hey, Cy."

"Yeah?"

"Do you think it could ever have worked out, you know, between us?"

Cipher's eyes softened and shook his head sadly. "We're just too incompatible."

Joan nodded, as if that was the answer she had expected to hear. "Yeah, I guess so. Come on in anyway. There's something I want to show you."

A suspicious and intrigued Cipher followed Joan into the Forge, hearing that awful gate screech open and close once again.

The Forge had not changed much from Cipber's last recollection of it. Huge and oppressively hot, it hosted dozens of Joan's Family. People of all denominations and backgrounds worked several varying stations in varying degrees of enthusiasm. As usual, Cipher noted, Joan was unaffected, even in the metallic armor she always garbed herself in. How she managed to stay cool underneath all that metal remained a mystery to him; even as they were dating she refused to tell him the secret. In its center lay a massive pyre in which people dumped large quantities of metal in, where it would pool out, now molten liquid from one of four stops on each side of the Pyre. A clanking and screeching of gears and machinery could be heard as workers pulled the stops to an open or a close in a discordant rhythm in accordance to the flow of the lava like flow. Swelteringly hot and unabashedly so, the Forge was, as Cipher knew, Joan's pride and joy. Just as he had designed the Workshop, she had the Forge, with his help so many years ago.

As Cipher and Joan made their way to Joan's office, she barked orders to slacking workers, giving motivation to those already hard at work. "Joe! Cassidy! I'd better not catch you two making out when you're on the Bellows again!"

Joan's office was in the back of the Forge, a clustered space full of overfull bins and drawers. Filing cabinets lay overstuffed, with some papers strewn across, with holes burnt through from all the heat. A solitary picture of her birth parents, who died when she was very young, was placed upon the only desk in the room.

Joan handed Cipher a mug of coffee, pulling out a paper sticking out of one of the nearby cabinets, tearing a corner in the process. "There ya go. Take a look at it. Thought it might interest you."

Cipher read it aloud.

"Welcome one and all, Advents of all ages! The Grand Serena Tournament opens This month at the Arcades Coliseum! Test your mettle against other Arcadians, Prove your mettle with contests of strength, Acquire riches! Fame and Glory are yours to be had. Applicants accepted XX/xx/XXXX."

Cipher put the paper down. "That's in a week, Joan."

Joan nodded. "I know, but think about it! We can do it, Cy. Think about it – ten million Zenny prize money! That would feed our families for years. No more worrying about budget cuts, federal funding, or if the price of milk shoots up again. We would be rich."

Cipher took the bait. "And if, against all odds, one of us makes it to the top, what then?"

Joan gave Cipher a confident look. "We split the prize money. Half-half."

"I don't know, Jo. That's a lot of time in the Dojo I'm not using to run the shop."

"Just promise me you'll think on it, will you?"

Cipher sighed, knowing how persistent Joan could be. "I'll think about it. I make no promises though."

"Thanks, Cy. You're the best."

Cipher waved the compliment by as he stood up, yawning. "Thanks for the coffee. I have to go now; it was fun catching up with you though. We should do this again sometime."

"Preferably without the pressure of Unclaimed Advents," Joan said lightly. "But yes. It was fun."

Exiting the Forge took a little time to navigate due to all the activity and people. Cipher made a small smirk at Joe and Cassidy, who were still sucking face behind a pillar. "You know she's not kidding when she said she'd put you on double Bellows shift, right?"

The two stopped just long enough to give Cipher a very long and irritable glare before continuing their scheduled make out session.

Outside the Forge, much to Cipher's irritation, his Slider was missing. Groaning at the thought of the long walk all the way back to the Workshop, the thought of borrowing one from Joan flitted across his mind, but he quickly shoved the thought away.

It was an uneventful walk through the Tunnels, save for the growling of Cipher's stomach scaring off the local homeless, who believed it to belong to some rabid beast reploid. Cipher wondered if anyone had ever had their rumbling stomach mistaken for a Maverick before. Ultimately, Cipher decided to stop by a café for some lunch, quelling his growing hunger.

It was a quaint, small place, but Cipher liked it. Wooden, not the normal metallic store, it had a nice, natural feel to it. In the background, a documentary about the Resistance droned. Cipher listened to its droning in the background of his mind.

"Here we are at the famous Resistance Base, once thought destroyed in a surprise assault by the infamous criminal Dr. Weil. As a note for our new listeners, there will be a complete documentary on the life - and death of the criminal mastermind responsible for the takeover of Neo Arcadia next week. For now, we will be focusing on the changes that have occurred over the last twenty years.

It all starts with the advent of Ciel's grand idea for furthering peaceful relations between reploid and humankind. Her idea, to unify the families of man and metal was to be called the "Advent" which we know today. Notable groups protested this idea, including Senator Crux of Neo Arcadian royalty. Nevertheless, the first Advents, among them, Ciel's own child were successfully incubated on the day of XX/XX/20XX.

It appeared to be a happy new beginning for the small family of Ciel, the famous Hunter Zero, and the child as plans for another child were made. Sadly, tragedy struck the day Umera Umbria, the reploid Ciel placed in charge of the incubation process, turned maverick. In an act that shocked the world, he kidnapped the baby Light and smashed many of the incubators growing new Advents. Light's whereabouts are unknown, and he is widely believed to be dead.

Fortunately, Ciel has since taken all incubations under her direct command. And with them, a healthy baby boy was born fourteen years ago today. The now famous "Child of the Resistance," Cero, lives with his parents in the Resistance Base."

Cipher let the rest of it continue without paying much attention to it as his food arrived, a plate of eggs and Sim Sausages.

On the way back to the Workshop, Cipher thought about the resistance kid, Cero. Many people said he bore a resemblance to the Resistance kid. Cipher always waved it off; celebrity look-a-likes were never his thing. Still, the unmistakable sense of loneliness crept up, until it was abruptly shattered in the crash of someone riding a Slider colliding straight into him.

"Ouch…" A girl's voice said. "Oh! I'm sorry, did I hit you… Cero?! What are you doing here?"

"The name's Cipher," Cipher said. "I just look like him is all. Do you know him?"

"Yes," the (quite attractive, in Cipher's eyes) mystery girl said bashfully, as she up righted herself. "I'm from the Resistance. My name's Sorra. I was sent here to deliver an order for military grade Sliders, you know, the ones with blasters equipped to them?"

Cipher took a quick look at her order forms. "Those are for the Workshop, my store. I guess I could show you where it is if you came all the way here for it."

Sorra's face lit up. "Oh really? Thank you! I've been looking forever for it."

The two made their way inside the office, the bell chiming as they opened the door. Bradley was working the front desk now.

"Who's the lucky girl?" he asked.

"No one," Cipher replied, used to Bradley's antics by now. "We just ran into each other. Literally."

Cipher tacked Sorra's order form to the wall, preparing her some tea as he did so. "We'll have it to you by next month," Cipher promised. "You can rely on the Workshop to do a good job on it, too."

"Thanks," Sorra said, wandering around. "So this is what an Advent Family looks like?" she asked, pointing to Cipher's smaller family of twelve. "You all look happy."

"We're not always that way," Cipher said. "But we try."

Sorra nodded. "So who manages this place? Is it you?"

"Yes," Cipher said, "But I answer to an old reploid named Tom."

"That must be a lot of hard work," Sorra said sympathetically. "Do you, well, do you know who your biological family is?"

"No," Cipher said, sipping tea from a paper cup. "Heads of Families aren't allowed to look up their family ancestry. They think it would upset the balance we have with maintaining our own Families."

"That's horrible," Sorra said, frowning. "What if they're still alive?"

Cipher shrugged. "Who knows? A lot of Advents ended up in this kind of situation after the incident with Umera. It's just the way it is."

"Still…" Sorra said. She picked up the paper Joan had given Cipher. "The Grand Serena Tournament! Are you attending? I am. I can't wait to go."

"Err," Cipher said. "Yes. I am."

"Great!" Sorra said, beaming. "Well, I'll see you there, Cipher. It was nice meeting you."

"You too," Cipher said, perhaps a little foolishly. Cipher kicked himself as soon as Sorra had left. Honestly, he thought he was more in control of his hormones by now. Oh well. Cipher thought, picking up the paper. It could be fun.