#So basically the wait is because I had this whole idea and draft ready for it but then decided I hated it three days before Christmas

[zappedbyzabka]

@cksecretsanta23

Secret Santa gift for @wicked-jade (I’m so very sorry for the wait <3)

Brats in love.

[zemi-noelle-art]

Your LPS customs are soooo amazing!! Like genuinely so inspiring 😭 I wanna get into it but I have no idea how!!

Thank you so much!!! that really means a lot! And I'm really honored to hear I've been inspiring people with my work<3 I can provide some tips on starting the hobby if that helps! this'll be based on my own experience though of course! I can firstly say that getting into LPS customizing was pretty simple for me, because I already had most of the supplies I use for other projects, and it was only a matter of getting the bases themselves to paint on. Of course I have the LPS I grew up with but I didn't want to ruin those lol. I use those blank bootleg LPS bases they sell on amazon. You can also use authentic LPS but I'd recommend making sure you're not painting over a rare one like a big 5 or Savannah Reed first lol. A good starting point is to draft out the design you want on paper/digitally to see what kind of custom you want to make. for me I use digital templates and paint over them in my art program. Templesta on DeviantArt has some really good ones! For paint I use acrylic. Get a teeny tiny paintbrush for detail work along with a couple other sizes as well and those should be all the basic supplies you need to start! You can also get more complex with it and use chalk pastels, water color pencils and glitters too. Get creative! see what supplies you can use to take your customs to the next level. As a tip, make sure to water down your paint and do multiple thin layers. Patience is key because that paint is not gonna want to stick to the base at first. A lot of the actual painting process does come down to practice and a steady hand.

If you want to seal your customs which isn't necessary but gives them a nice finish, I recommend Liquitex high gloss varnish to seal the eyes. There are some good matte varnish sprays out there but I recommend doing your own research on those, as they can be resin based and therefore need a bit of caution and prep to handle. I personally use Mister Super Clear matte spray to seal the base of the custom, and I always spray outside with gloves and a respirator.

And though I have done sculpting I don't consider myself well versed enough to recommend supplies for clay but I've heard Green Stuff and Apoxie sculpt are good clays to use, but be sure to do your own research on those as well.

The monster high doll customization community is a good place to look for material research! A lot of the process of the face-up is pretty similar to painting LPS. That's actually what got me into customizing in the first place; I just watched a bunch of Dollightful, Enchanterium, and Moonlight Jewel's videos and said to myself "Wait a minute, I could do this with LPS!" I also of course recommend watching other LPS customizer's videos to see the process of how they make their customs, and show them some support as well! Pumpkinscustoms Is a really big inspiration for me and HelloStudios, Mr. Crazy Ray and LPSCobalt have really good videos on making customs.

And once again, if you don't wanna dive right in you can just draw them, whether using a template or not to see if you like the process and the design! You can even make a bunch of designs digitally and once you feel ready to tackle a real custom, start there! ahaha I didn't know I'd be writing a whole-ass Essay but I hope all this helps!! Thank you for enjoying my work!

[callsignspark]

Ik this isnt part of the ask game, but would you consider showing us how you outline in Trello?? It looks so freaking effective!

I have been waiting for someone to ask me this question. thank you so so so so much you’re going to regret asking lmao

so as I said before I use Trello - a free cloud based project management tool - to outline and write my fics (and also for my to do list and my Christmas present shopping and vacation planning and literally everything) because, to be 100% honest with you, I have no chill. I have never been relaxed about anything. ever. not a single day in my life. and therefore I marinate on fic ideas in my mind for months (sometimes years!) before I start doing anything with them. this is my process I use for everything I write and we’re using Mar[r]y Me as my example!

the first thing is the idea. I get an idea and I word vomit vibes into the closest thing (notes app, google doc, scribbling into my work notebook, texting a friend) and then I marinate on the idea. I first had the idea for Mar[r]y Me on January 25, 2023. it went through several iterations as I shaped what it was going to be and below is what I sent to Jordan in June 2023 and it’s the basis for the story we’ve all been following. (or mostly, it’s changed quite a bit since then.)

once I’m ready to start writing I create a board in Trello. think of a board like a white board, you then add “cards” which I think of as sticky notes except with a lot more features. also my process is the same no matter if it’s a one shot or a multi chapter fic, it just depends if it gets its own board or it goes into my one shot board. (which is filled with ideas waiting to be written lol) anyway. this is the Mar[r]y Me board!

for a multi chapter fic like this each chapter gets a card in the IN PROGRESS list (they move to the right as things get written/posted). each card follows a template: title, due date (loosely assigned to get an idea of what a posting schedule may look like), a label (always being with need to plan), and a checklist. also the chapter outline - obviously.

before I get into the outline, I use the labels as a nice visual representation of what the status of everything is. as the screenshot below shows, the each writing stage has its own color (and I use the color blind color schemes so I get the fun patterns too!) and it gets changed as we go along. it helps me know at a quick glance where everything is at the moment.

I also love the checklist feature, see below. which basically has all the steps I need to follow once I have a chapter written and ready for final editing. it may seem like overkill but I work long hours and you’d be amazed at how easily my brain forgets things lmao. so this ensures nothing is missed when I’m getting ready to post.

now onto the outline. my outline goes from something super basic, to a few bullet points, to an in depth summary of what’s going to be written. using chapter one as an example of this progression.

1. this is the og outline for the whole story. just a dream and a vibe and one sentence. literally.

2. the expanded outline for chapter one

3. just a small section of the final outline I used to write the chapter. a lot of my final outline ends up being actual sentences that I use in the final draft, I basically write the chapter in bullet points and unfinished sentences.

4. I use the very expanded outline to write the actual chapter. following along bullet point by bullet point. an example from chapter 9 since that’s what I’m writing rn.

5. once everything is written, all the bullet points have been used up or ignored, I transfer it into google docs and read it to myself, editing as I go. once I’m happy with my final rough draft I use grammarly to idiot check things because I’m an engineer not an English major. then I start using the checklist (teaser posting, creating tumblr post, etc.) and then the worst part. I walk around my home office and I read the entire chapter out loud to myself and make final edits as I go. is it excruciating to have to listen to myself speak the flirting I’ve just written out loud? yes. have I made myself cry multiple times? yes. do I find a lot of rough spots and smooth them out? yes. that’s usually done on Thursday nights.

6. from there it’s all final editing and formatting and scheduling the final post. I also have to create the accompanying recipe post for Mar[r]y Me so I do that too. and we post on Fridays! sometimes I share the google doc link with friends so they get an advanced copy of the chapter and sometimes they get to be surprised with everyone else (I’m running behind schedule and don’t have time to share it lmao)

it’s a lot of work for something I’m producing for free but I genuinely love it so much and it helps me keep everything straight. there would be so many lost ideas and abandoned thoughts if I didn’t do it this way. it’s crazy that this the first fic I’ve ever written and that I’ll probably be close to 90k words by the time it’s finished.

if you’ve made it this far thank you for indulging my very intense brain and it’s processes. I love the community we’ve created here on this blog and I’m so excited to keep writing and sharing. and I especially want to give a big thank you to my very good friends Ames, Alexa, and Jordan. Mar[r]y Me would not be the story it is without them and I can’t thank you enough for your love and encouragement during this story.

[emmybeearts]

I'M SORRY I REDESIGNED THEM AGAIN!

explanation (and more) under the cut!

So I made their original designs in a spiral notebook back in high school (I'm not sharing those because they're SO bad) and some of the ideas I had were solid but Really unpolished. When I posted the first draft of these 2 I basically just took the highschool design and made it have a little more geometry.

Everyone else I've posted so far used their notebook designs as a springboard to make something I actually like! but i really wanted to release these 2 together and rushed myself and i made something i just could get to look right no matter what I did!

Recent events allowed me more time to think about how to take their personalities, and figure out how I want to visually represent them- changing up shapes to be more aesthetically pleasing and giving them a color palette reminiscent of their G1 designs but still entirely their own!

Blackout is supposed to be a radically emotional individual. The things he loves, he loves with his whole spark. This love manifests itself as fierce defense for his friends and family. Anything he interprets to be a threat to his family will be met with vicious aggression; and as the team's heavy weapons expert, this should make any would-be aggressor rethink their plans. Because of this, he needed to look like both a huggable softie and an immovable wall.

Spaceshot, however, is supposed to be both the compliment and the antithesis of his brother. while he isn't quite on the same level as Shockwave when it comes to 'logic over emotion', Spaceshot prides himself on his ability to think clearly in any situation no matter how stressful. While he does still feel deeply, especially familiar fondness towards his brother and his adoptive sister Obsidian, he believes the extent of Blackout’s emotional outbursts are highly excessive. He is the team's field engineer, responsible for construction and repair of any Decepticon machinery like mobile turrets as well as maintaining the ships engines. Because of this he needed to look strong and battle ready but also intelligent enough to know to avoid a fight.

I kept their combined alt mode of a Chengdu J-20 but it's been painted in the same style as the Sukhoi Su-57 because I wanted the blue to be more incorporated in their design as opposed to looking like an afterthought of designing characters in a black and white notebook. I'm much happier with these new designs but I will probably keep tweaking them here and there! This is the last of the Decepticon character sheets for a minute because I really want to work on the Autobots sheets next, more than some quick sketches I made while sick lol! I cannot wait to have the first pages of Spring Tide go up! I'm starting to see why people have teams for this lol

[silverloreleysfanfics]

Act 1

I promised myself I wouldn't start another WIP when I already have so many and also I didn't make any breakthrough with my thesis in so long, but... but the first chapter of the TTEOTM x LBFAD fic I outlined here basically wrote itself, so here it is.

It's in draft form, it's long and unedited (I need to study some things more and fix a few others), no beta we die like Pian Ran (too soon?) Chu Huang (it’s already a tag on AO3 lol) and I also have no title yet.

Also, no promises I'll continue this anytime soon, be aware of this.

That said, here it is (first part out, the rest under cut):

§§§

It was cold. Heavens above, it was so cold, and all hurt so much, her eye, her head, her whole body. Her soul, even.

Li Susu tried, she tried to endure the pain, the disappointment, the guilt.

Oh, the guilt, the neverending guilt towards a world she couldn't save no matter her efforts, towards her family still destined to die, one by one, in front of her future self, towards herself for forcing all that pain and ordeals only to fail... and even towards him, her treacherous heart screeched, the one who loved her so strongly and yet she had to betray for everyone's sake, unable to find another route sooner, incapable of looking for one where they all could live.

She berated herself, for her mistakes and the pain in her heart alike, a pain she wasn't supposed to feel, not for him and yet... yet...

No, she had to push forth. It didn't matter what the God of Time said, that they were always destined to that, that there was no other choice, no other route, she had to complete the immortal essence for him, no matter what.

After all, she had been ready to die when she departed from her time. It wasn't like she had any hopes for herself to begin with. Her only wish was to fix things for everyone else.

Distracted and too tired to go on with the cultivation, she acknowledged she had to stop for the day. Eating and taking care of herself in the Cold Palace were ordeals that consumed much of her physical strength, so she tried to do the least possible, her mission the only thing that counted, to complete the cultivation and exchange the Evil Bone with Immortal Essence. Then she could rest, die with heart eased by knowing she'd done all she could.

Somebody had brought her food, as it often happened. Li Susu suspected either Pian Ran or her brother were doing so behind the emperor's back because the foods were usually good, and Pian Ran herself showed up with medicine every two days.

Somebody must have been helping her with other things, she suspected, although she had no idea who or why, her hearing and eyesight too bad to catch a glimpse of them even when she wasn't focusing on cultivating the essence.

Gratefully, she grabbed some of the food, munching it down in slow bites. It wasn't as good as always, or perhaps her taste was declining as well. It felt a little bitter, but so did the water, somehow.

It mattered not. She finished eating and went to sleep, the coppery taste of blood on her tongue overwhelmed her taste buds soon, as it often happened, and just as it often was, exhaustion claimed her quickly.

Yet, that time, that broken body didn't wake.

From the depth of the prison, Ye Bingchang waited for news of her sister's death, unaware she just caused the end of her world with her selfish envy.

§

Xiao Lanhua didn't often go back to the original Siming Hall, as her replica of it in Xishan was more than enough a home for her, as it was for the 500 years she waited in there for her love to return to her.

But, as Siming herself was exiled and the old Goddess of Fate never had other apprentices, Xiao Lanhua felt it was still her duty to take care of the destiny books, even more so now that with her powers as the Goddess of Xishan she could repair the damaged ones with more ease that she ever did.

Therefore, once in a while, she warned her husband she'd leave for a while, ignored his scoffs and whining not to go, and went to her old home to see what she had to do.

Siming Hall was almost abandoned, although Danyin had made sure to install a few guards there ever since she became the Goddess of War to make sure no one would steal or damage further the books, a little courtesy between the two former fairies now Goddesses who were also sisters-in-law.

In the past centuries, the plants Xiao Lanhua had helped with their cultivation had become able to get a mostly stable human form and took upon themselves the task to gather the fallen books and clean up the place so that Xiao Lanhua would find it pristine and liveable as it was when she inhabited the place full time.

As such when, one visit like any other, Xi Yun descended onto the front entrance of Siming Hall, the guards greeted her with the usual respect, she nodded back at them and entered, suspecting nothing out the ordinary.

At least, until she got closer to the Destiny Tree.

She felt it before she saw it.

One tiny bit of something misplaced, not in the wide area she worked on, but up on the tree itself. A leaf different from the rest. A Destiny Book she had to check. She looked up, ignoring the small pile of damaged leaves gathered for her on the desk, searching for the book that called for her, with an urgency at her core that told her to see what was going on impossible to ignore. Looking for the cause of the thin spike of worry puncturing her heart.

She located the book with ease and called for it.

It was like any other at first sight: a golden leaf, with a human's name, a mortal. The name meant "cinders", a strange one, as humans believed the names they gave to their children carried meanings and expectations and that was a humble, if not ominous, one.

And then she delved into it and saw what was wrong. The glowing veins didn't shine a bright gold, but red: crimson filaments engulfed a fate that was just beginning, the same sick, awful tinge as...

"Tai Sui?" she whispered, incredulous.

No, that wasn't possible. Xi Yun had destroyed the Evil God, she had been ready to give her all, Dongfang Qinchang had given his all, to destroy it and never have its poisoning presence taint the Three Realms again.

Tai Sui has been gone for over six hundred years, he couldn't be back.

And yet.

Over that mortal life hanged the grasp of Tai Sui, the boy's destiny was to grow into the Evil God, to become the Evil God himself, the vessel Tai Sui had been looking for ever since he lost his physical form.

She looked further in the book: his mother dead in childbirth, he was to be discareded by his father and seen as misfortune and a murderer before he could even emit his first cry, the nurses would find he already had teeth at birth and consider it another omen of disgrace, and that he wouldn't be able to express feelings, or even have them.

Perceived as different by other mortals, he'd be hurt and mistreated his whole life long, destined to suffer one abuse after another and eventually he'd die, widowed, in a cold snowy night, after which Tai Sui would be able to take control of his body and start the path towards the destruction of the world he so craved with the madness and pain imbued in the young man and the army of demons freed from the Barren Abyss.

Not even the Goddess of Xishan would be able to stop him, not this time.

She considered, for a moment, to pretend she never saw it, remembering her shifu's teachings about not changing mortals' fates, but that was too important. This was a fate that had to be changed, no matter what, no matter the price. The Tianji Mirror lit up with a soft orange glow right that moment. Xiao Lanhua had never seen it open in person, and dreaded what she could see in it.

"Xi Yun, Goddes of Xishan" a voice called from it.

She frowned and got closer. It didn't seem like a vision of the future, as she had been told those were silent, while this one called her by name. The mirror didnt't show much, just an opaque outline of a male figure with white hair.

"I am. Who are you?"

"I'm Ji Ze, God of Time"

Her frown ran deeper. Everyone in Shuiyuntian knew the story of how the gods had perished, long before the war between the fairies and moon tribe, how the only god left had been Ming Ye, God of War, who had also disappeared, consumed by his own grief, they said.

Yet, perhaps, the God of Time could reach past and future. Yes, that would make sense.

"I need your help, Xi Yun. Only you can set in motion what's needed to change the Fate in your hands"

"How?"

"The Devil Fetus' fate is written in that book, but it can be changed. You altered destinies before, you must find a way for this too. Another tried and almost managed, yet couldn't complete her mission and shall go through that mortal life again. Help her, Xi Yun, help Li Susu"

"What do I do?"

"The reason the Devil God can reform is an Evil Bone. Destroying the Evil Bone is the first step towards salvation. Li Susu knows how to. Please, do what you can to save the Three Realms and Four Continents"

"It's my responsibility, as the Goddess of Xishan, to finish what I started and destroy the Evil God for good" she replied and could almost hear the relieved sigh coming from the old god.

"Thank you. I'll leave it to you"

The Mirror dulled again and disappeared from the trunk, hidden as always.

Filled with dread, Xiao Lanhua tried to look for Li Susu's book, but she couldn't find it, not on the tree, nor among the ones to repair. A life not yet existing, or one already destroyed?

Xiao Lanhua hoped for the first.

After hiding the future Devil God's destiny book in her clothes, she penned a message to alert the Goddess of War, sending it with her powers through the air, hoping it would reach her as soon as possible.

She was certain Dongfang Qingcang was already on his way to Simingdian, as he seldom was able to let her stay on her own for too long and often showed up unannounced while she was working. She half-suspected his impromptu visits were also to annoy Lord Yunzhong, who couldn't deny the Yuezun to see his wife.

Therefore, she left on the desk another message for her husband to find. She couldn't wait to gather everyone there. Minutes in the immortal realms were days in the mortal lands, if she wanted to do something about it, provided there was something to do, it had to be done immediately, so she left for Yunmengze.

Changheng, under the pseud of Xiao Run, owned a teahouse in Lucheng those days. It was one of the activities he had tried his hand at in the years he moved to the mortal realm, after the fall out with his brother had become too grave to keep living in Shuiyuntian.

Lord Yunzhong would have wanted Changheng to marry, as he insisted the God of War's true potential could be achieved only through a powerful marriage, and had started to line-up potential matches against his will. Changheng's refusal to stay the God of War, going as far as to recommend Danyin to take his place, had caused a rift between the brothers that, added to their other issues, became a permanent break in about two centuries' time.

Therefore, Changheng seldom came back to Shuiyuntian nowadays and kept switching identies and jobs every few decades, to try the whole spectrum of mortal life.

It didn't help that Changheng had, once again, defied his brother's will in order to follow his heart. First his broken heart, which refused to tie itself to anyone, after he lost his first love.

Then, time later, out of love for himself, that made him realize how little he had valued his own life, and how childish his infatuation had been. How much more he loved life when he was free to decide for himself.

His friends and former enemies had turned into his family: Danyin was both his sworn sister and student, Xiao Lanhua had become a cherished sister as well,  Dongfang Qingcang had gotten used to be his sworn brother again, and even Xunfeng sometimes slipped and called him with familiarity.

All of them were welcome to find him at any given moment, his house and any property he owned were open for them at all times.

So he didn't wonder why Xiao Lanhua - who everybody in Lucheng currently believed to be his sister - appeared in the teahouse unannounced.

He did, although, worry when he saw how she carried herself. Long time before, any feeling could have been read on her face with extreme ease, and it still was the case, when she was relaxed. But when she wasn't, only Xi Yun could be seen, the algid, perfectly controlled Goddess of Xishan.

Her friends and family knew when Xi Yun took over there had to be some issue she was struggling with. Xiao Lanhua hid behind her goddess persona when things were too hard to bear, she had for most the 500 years after Tai Sui's destruction and, at times, even after, because she didn't trust herself enough to deal with certain matters as her old self, the little plant with the damaged root she had been for most her life felt inadequate, no matter how much she'd grown and how many things she went through. Some scars never healed, it turned out. Judging by how controlled her every movement was and how no trace of a smile could be found on her lips or eyes, the matter had to be grave indeed.

"Is something wrong?" Changheng couldn't but ask, and Xi Yun nodded once. "Everyone else should be arriving soon, I need some time to think it through before I explain it all" was her reply.

Changheng didn't ask more and led her to one of the private sitting rooms, the kind reserved for important meetings, with thick walls and sturdy doors to grant secrecy.

Danyin arrived two hours later, which must have been no more than a handful of minutes in Shuiyuntian.

"What happened?" the Goddess of War had asked, worried by the sudden convocation.

Unable to give a proper answer, Changheng had pointed her to the room and waited for the rest to come around.

Xunfeng appeared soon after, a raised brow and a tad of disappointment at not having been convocated in person. Danyin scowled his way when she saw him before he could utter a single word and shook her head, at which he merely scoffed and sat by her side, his impatience hidden with the ease of his diplomatic ability carefully cultivated in the past centuries as interim Yuezun.

Quicker than expected, Dongfang Qingcang strode in, followed by Shangque and Jieli, his first act falling on a knee by his wife's side and cupping her face with both hands, antsy at the sight of her darkened looks.

Xi Yun instantly relaxed a bit, leaned on the soft touch of her love, but the tightness in her features didn't disappear, making all of them even more worried.

"What is it?" the Yuezun stared at his wife, who shook her head and silently prompted him to seat.

Changheng closed the door behind him and sat too.

"You're all here" Xiao Lanhua whispered, relieved.

"Your message seemed urgent, did something happen?"

"Not yet, but..." she put the destiny book in the middle of the table, pinning it with her index finger, as if afraid it could disappear from her sight if she didn't keep holding onto it.

"This is a mortal's book," she began "I felt something wrong when I visited Simingdian earlier, and the reason is this" she activated it, showing the red tendrils that entangled the bright words.

Xunfeng tilted his head "What is that supposed to mean, a-sao?"

"Immortals' destiny books have their own peculiar glow. Mortals' books are less intense. But this never happened before, I had to know why, so I checked it out" she took a breath "This mortal will be the reincarnation of Tai Sui"

"What?"

"Impossible!"

"You destroyed him!"

"I thought so too!" she replied, quieting them "Some part of him must have stayed hidden somewhere, perhaps in the mortal realm, and now it'll come back, taking the body of this mortal upon his death"

"How long?"

"Not much. A couple decades, I guess. He'll be married but he'll be still young when he'll die. Widowed, actually"

She then read the prophecy aloud: "Marred with the sin of his mother's death, he'll be rejected by blood and kin, not a soul moved by love. Torment will follow and pain will court him. No glory will last, no happiness will stay. The day of his wife's death, he too will perish in the snow, to awaken as the bringer of the world's end. The Barren Abyss will open anew, the demons will find him and recognize him as their Lord, and all shall be bleak"

"What can we do?"

"Kill him, of course"

"We can't kill a child, he's innocent right now"

"He's a mortal, how long can he stay alive? A century at most and he'll die anyway"

Xi Yun explained again: "We can't, didn't you hear it? It will be his death that will mark Tai Sui's return"

Danyin pursed her lips "We need to get ready to fight him again, then"

"The best option is to fight him here, before he can reach the immortal realms" Xunfeng reasoned, already planning the next step.

"Unless we can prevent Tai Sui from taking over" Xi Yun then retold them about Ji Ze's message and the existence of the Evil Bone.

"Why did he tell you that?"

"He asked for my help. He said I'm the only one who ever altered people's Fates and I must try to do so again"

"But immortals are not allowed to tamper with Fate" Danyin reasoned "The consequences..."

"I know, but what else can we do?" Xiao Lanhua sighed.

"Certainly not risking the Three Realms' safety" Shangque nodded "Should Tai Sui come back, it would mean certain disaster"

"What would happen if we didn't allow this mortal to fulfill its fate?" Xunfeng asked, pragmatically.

"His soul could turn to ashes, but it's more likely he would reincarnate and start anew. This wouldn't stop Tai Sui from taking his body anyway, it could either prompt the possession at once or just give him another chance in a short time"

"We'd only delay the inevitable at best, make it faster at worst" Jieli summed up.

"So what? We just let him?"

"Never" Xi Yun replied, grasping hard Dongfang Qingcang's hand. He squeezed back. It had been far too short since he came back, the pain of their parting was still strong in both of them. Neither had any intention of repeating the past, of having to make the same sacrifices, this time with no certainty Tai Sui couldn't see through their plans and prevail with his own plots.

"We have to find a way to destroy the Evil Bone, whatever it may be"

"Who is this Li Susu?"

Xiao Lanhua shook her head "I don't know, I couldn't find any book of destiny with that name. It's possible that this person doesn't exist yet"

"So we can't kill him, nor we can neutralize the Evil Bone until we know how, and we won't know how until we find Li Susu"

A heavy silence fell. It seemed like a no-choices situation.

"We must take the child" Changheng said at last "Bring him somewhere else, away from the causes of his fate, and see if we can do something about this Evil Bone on our own"

"Take him where? In Shuiyuntian?!" Danyin springed up "Would you risk to turn like Rong Hao and Chidi Nuzi? Because that's what will happen..."

Xiao Lanhua bit her lip in contemplation "I think it may work" she said.

"You can't be serious!"

"Xiao Huayao, that's madness"

"Wasn't it madness offering yourself to Tai Sui just to trap him into your Sea of Heart? And yet you made it! To defeat Tai Sui we must take a risk he wouldn't expect us to, and altering his fate is surely one"

"We'll need to know what to change, though" "Just how will he become the Evil God?"

Xiao Lanhua took the book again and opened it. A cold night, snow falling, a young man with sharp features and uncanny gauntness kneeling on the ground, then fainting. Then a red glow and he'd wake up with red irises and a new strength.

"He'll die and then awake again as the Evil God. That's all the book shows me. Whatever will happen, it will be from within him"

"We must avoid that, then. If his early death will be the beginning of it all, we must at least postpone it until we find Li Susu and figure how to destroy the Evil Bone"

"We can do it. Take the child, protect him, make sure he doesn't fall into the Evil God's path, or at least that he knows he shouldn't trust Tai Sui and give up his body..."

"We can't take him to the immortal realms," Danyin repeated "A mortal child raised in Shuiyuntian will be exposed to mockery and ridiculous at best, to hatred at worst, provided Yunzhong dijun won't decide to try his luck and execute him, and that would call on the Evil God quicker"

Xiao Lanhua grimaced at the thought "Danyin's right. You may not know all of it, but they weren't nice to me when they believed I was weak fairy with a damaged immortal root, I can't see a mortal child be treated much better, even with all of us by his side, his fate would be the same here"

"In Xishan, then. Or Changyanhai, as long as he grows up well..."

"Run-lang, it's too much of a gamble, and you're a terrible gambler, if this Danyin can remind you"

A ghost of a smile passed over Changheng, the memory of Xiao Run and his terrible habits now more a fond memory than a reason for embarrassment.

"I believe, if he's raised right, we could steer him in the right direction" was his reasoning "We may not be able to prevent his destiny entirely, but we can postpone it for quite some time, if we play our part well"

"But how?"

"By raising him ourselves, or having the immortal sects handle his education"

"Not the immortal sects. Sooner or later, they'll recognize who he is and could decide it's not worth the risk"

Surprisingly, Xunfeng seemed to agree: "It's not like we have a better plan, so we should take him. Besides, if this one is already destined to become an immortal..."

"Uh?"

"The Evil God is still a god, no? He has a potential for immortality already, other mortals will feel he's different somehow, although they won't be able to tell in what regard. He won't fit among them either way. Isn't that so, a-sao?" he pointed towards the destiny book on the table in the middle of the room.

The Goddess of Xishan nodded, having read it in depth and knowing the mistreatment and pain he'd have to go through at the hands of other mortals. In all honesty, it had hurt her heart to see it, it was a sad and painful destiny, filled with hatred and disappointment, betrayal and loneliness. She too wished to change it, despite the risks, and no, it wasn't only about Tai Sui's possible return.

There was a bit of herself in that mortal book's story - loneliness and mistreatment, growing to become powerful beyond expectations -, and a bit of Dongfang Qingcang - emotionless, raised like an object, separated from anyone when it came to the most important things -, a bit of Jieli and Shangque - orphans and needing to fend off for themselves, going hungry and mistreated at young age -, a bit of Xunfeng and Changheng, even - youngest brothers, always second in line, talented but dismissed for faults not theirs -, and of Danyin too - angry at the world, needing to keep a façade of perfect calm to protect themselves - and taking out the equation all that pain could help a lot that boy not to give in to Tai Sui's tricks.

But would that be enough? Would they be enough? Could they really prevent that dreadful fate just like that?

"Love is the only thing that can change Fate" Dongfang Qingcang recalled at least "Siming said that and we know it's true. We won't have to just raise the child, we'll have to love him. Can we do this?"

A heavy silence fell.

Could they love a monster in the making? Could he love them, in any way or measure? Love each other enough to change fate?

"Oh, what are we discussing about?!" Jieli scoffed "It's a child, a baby, but won't be so for long, we need to get a move or we won't be able to fix anything"

"Jieli..."

"No, here, listen. Shangque and I took in lots of children, and we know how they are, don't we? They grow how they're raised, for the most part. Sure, they all have their character and little things that are unique, but how they are raised does a lot"

Shangque nodded "It is so"

"And if we fail?"

"At least we can say we tried, duh. But if we stay here, discussing like old people having tea without taking action, we'll waste too much time and there will be nothing to do"

"What about letting him stay in the mortal realm, then? The child belongs here, he'll be far from the immortal realms and no one but us will have to know"

"I can do it" Changheng suddenly said.

Dongfang Qingcang rolled his eyes "You can't be serious"

"I got used to live as a mortal, I know the Four Continents well enough thanks to my travels, and I have connections and knowledge, I can raise the boy here and you can visit and help at need"

"But then you will interfere with his mortal destiny directly" Qingcang reminded him "You could shatter your soul, like Chidi Nuzi when she chose to take in Rong Hao"

Changheng's stance didn't change. It was the right thing to do, the best option for everyone.

"It's a risk we have to take, if his destiny is to awaken as the Evil God, no sacrifice will be too much"

"You'll be destroyed!" Danyin almost got up again "The payback will be devastating..."

"If you're certain, we'll all take a part of the burden" Dongfang Qinchang assured. They all turned his way, surprised by the sudden change of route, but the Yuezun must have seen something, or understood something, and his stance was clear.

Xiao Lanhua squeezed his hand, a similar determination in her eyes "Ji Ze asked me directly, and defeating Tai Sui is my responsibility, we won't leave you on your own. And if that will make our demise, so it will be"

"The old gods did the same and gave their lives for the cause. We won't be any less" Shangque affirmed, Jieli nodding by his side.

On his side, Xunfeng tilted his head "So be it"

Danyin looked at the others like they had gone mad, then pursed her lips and straightened her back "Then, our fight starts now. I, Danyin, Goddess of War, declare we will do our outmost to prevent the return of the Evil God"

§ The carriage that brought the captive prince of Jing from his kingdom to Sheng's capital was a barely decent one, good enough for a lesser noble, perhaps, if it had been in pristine conditions, which it wasn't.

It could seem a show of humbleness, sending someone as precious as a prince with such means, but Yue Yingxin knew the truth. The king of Jing had no interest in having his child have any comfort, no matter what. In fact, using the boy as bargaining chip, offering him as captive, was the last show of cruelty from a man who didn't deserve the name of father.

In the best case, Tantai Jin would be graciously hosted in the foreign land, not mistreated or hurt but never free either. In the worst, the king of Sheng would kill the child in retaliation for any slight, imagined or real, coming from Jing.

Unaware of it all, the little boy sat quietly in the uncomfortable carriage, wearing simple clothes that showed none of his noble birth, entertaining himself with a scroll one of the Sheng guards had given him once they took charge at the borders.

The scroll contained the protocol the captive prince would have to follow in Sheng, and the little boy was studying it with the same sharp eyes and attentive mind he did everything.

It was scary how focused such a small child could be, how his questions seemed above his age, how uncanny the look in his eyes was.

Yingxin was terrified of him, and even more so she was terrified of the life awaiting her in Sheng. She wanted to go home, to run away from all that, to curse Lan'an for leaving and not taking her with her, abandoning the child at the first chance.

"Yingxin, what does that one mean?" Jin asked, taking her out her thoughts by pointing at one of the characters. The boy had been barely taught how to read and couldn't recognize most characters, and had been repeating the questions with the same monotone tone and the same gesture multiple times already. At that point, Yingxing mused, she might have well read the whole text to him herself.

She leaned forward to read when the carriage stopped abruptly.

"Have we arrived?" Jin asked, craning his neck to see.

"I don't know, prince" she replied, but the guards fussing outside and the lack of any sounds normal for the outskirts of a city were worrysome.

And then it started all at once: the guards shouting something, the clamor of unsheated weapons, roar of fire and horses whinning in fear as the smell of smoke started to fill the air.

Yinxing realized two things: one, they had been attacked, likely by bandits. Two: Tantai Jin wasn't scared.

Another person, with more experience and less prejudice, would have thought it good that a young boy was not frazzled and she could coax him out and to safety without panic involved, blaming his calm to his lack of knowledge.

Yinxing only thought how dreadful it was that not even an attack could make him feel anything, not even fear for his life.

If the bandits would realize there was nothing to steal - and the appeareance of the child would never made anyone think he was valuable in any way - they'd just kill everyone.

But she didn't know what to. She couldn't fight, nor she had anything to bargain with. The dread filling her more and more prevented her to see that her precious charge had his hands cupped in front of his face, watching a cricket like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"Yinxing, we have to go" he said at last.

"Go?"

Jin nodded "A bad one attacked, the cricket told me. If we leave now, he won't catch us"

"The cricket...?"

Oh. "Oh, the prince has the Yiyue tribe's gift," she thought with a relief she didn't think she could feel at such moment.

Yinxing let the boy grab her hand and risked looking out the carriage, moving the drape that closed itever so sligthly to see if the way was clear.

Aside from the dead guards, it was. The clamor of the fight was all in the front of the carriage, the way back was free. Weird, but lucky.

The prince, with the cricket on his shoulder, started to climb out and Yinxing followed, sprinting in the woods and away from the fight.

She dared to look back once.

It was enough to freeze her blood and tighten her chest in fear.

What they left behind was in an inferno of fire, blood and fallen men, at the dead center of it a single being stood, horns like vines on its head, and more around his torso, glowing red and engulfed with black smoke, a billowy cape covered in fire yet not burning, and a sword dripping with the blood of the last man it was extracted from only to plunge into another with innatural, perfect martial precision.

A demon. They had been attacked by a demon.

Yinxing almost fainted but forced herself to move forth and run faster, hand in hand with the child who was guiding her, changing directions as if he knew where he was going.

He was, in fact, following the cricket's directions. He wasn't sure what had happened. He registered the odd smell and sounds, the worry coming from his nanny, and little more.

But, unused to run as he was, on top of his fragile, malnourished body, he got tired soon. On the grass of unknown woods - as if he ever knew any woods before - his legs gave in and he fell over.

He would have stopped moving, had a thin, almost imperceptible voice near his ear not whispered: "Get up and run, young one, run away! Don't let the demon catch you!"

Faintly, shaking like a leaf, he tried to but couldn't manage, and fell limp on the ground, unconscious.

Yinxing was hit by a thought. A truly horrible one, but one nevertheless.

If she left him there, she'd have better chances at running away. Everyone would assume they both had died in the demon's attack, no one would look for a miserable nanny, a mere servant wouldn't be worth a search, especially if they found the prince there...

She could be free, go home, like Lan'an. Or another place.

She could... she could....

[In one universe, she did. Left him on the ground, ignored the guilt, ran for her life. Or rather, to her death. Her original destiny was, after all, to die after betraying and forsaking her charge. It just happened faster, that time around, with less pain, without going mad, without wounding him by her own hands with a cursed sword. She'd be found at the bottom of a ditch, a week later, body broken by the fall. But this isn't that story]

She went back on her steps and picked up the child, hugging the tiny frame close to her chest, as she had done a million times. And then she ran.

It wasn't a long sprint, anyway. The clamor of the fight was gone, left behind, by the time she got near a river and nothing more than the sounds of the forest and the running water could be heard.

Yinxing let herself collapse to the ground, next to a massive tree. They weren't out of danger, they never would be for good, but she was too tired to go on.

She lied the prince next to her, slumped on the trunk, and let herself drift off.

§

They had escaped the demon, but he was hungry and hurt, chilled to the bones in a way he had not felt even in the Cold Palace.

It was then that he heard the cold voice the first time. But he was too dizzy and hurt to understand what it was saying. It was talking for sure, something about being abandoned and miserable, that such would be his destiny, but the child cared not.

Then, as quickly as it came, the voice was gone and so was the dark landscape under his eyelids, replaced by a gentle, warm light.

"Here you are" someone said, a woman, her voice gentle beyond his every expectation. It was the kindest tone he ever heard, a stark contrast with the cold voice.

He opened his eyes, heavy as they felt, and saw a beautiful lady with golden flowers in her hair and kind eyes, smile to him. She put a warm hand on his chilled face and he immediately felt better.

Someone picked him up from the ground, not the lady, as she still had her hand on his forehead. A faint smell of flowers joined with one of smoke and jasmine, more warmth added to the mix. Hushed voices he couldn't tell apart whispered around him, none unkind nor cold.

He fell in a peaceful slumber, feeling safe and warm for the first time in his life.

§

"How is he?" Changheng asked. He had picked the boy from the ground and was surprised by how little he weighted. He was small even for a mortal child, pale and thin in a way that told of hardships older than the current day's events.

Xiao Lanhua retreated her hand from his forehead "He's weak but not ill, nothing some good food and lots of rest can't fix"

"We almost lost him"

"I know, when he fainted I worried I couldn't use the cricket to guide him to us anymore" Danyin retold "But we have him now and it's all that matters"

Xunfeng gestured with his head towards the nanny "Should we keep the servant too?"

"We'll let her choose" Changheng replied "I could use a hand with childcare, Jieli and Shangque can't stay here in the mortal realms too long, as can't any of you, given your duties. Besides, he grew up with her, a familiar face will do him good"

"Or not" Xiao Lanhua muttered, refusing to elaborate. Nevertheless, she went to check the woman's state, finding nothing but fatigue and, like the child, lack of nourishment.

It had been a suffered decision, to make an ambush like that. They didn't want to accidentally restart the just-ended war between the kingdoms of Sheng and Jing, but they couldn't let Tantai Jin be taken in as hostage and suffer as much as he would. It was bad enough that they couldn't help him in his first years of life, those times would become scars they couldn't remedy to, they couldn't allow it to go further, if they wanted to prevent the end of the world.

Fine, it wasn't the only reason.

Xiao Lanhua was transparent enough they all knew she was genuinely pained at the thought of what the mortal boy would have to go through according to his set destiny, but none of them understood to what extent until they witnessed it in person, when they snuck in the Jing palace to see him the first time.

The place he lived in, the way even servants shunned him, how he had to catch fish from the pond barehanded or dig in the kitchen's scraps in secret just to eat, all the mistreatment and mockery from adults and children alike, chilled them all to the bone.

Jieli and Shangque who knew poverty and hunger, whose thoughts went to the children of their orphanage and compared even the worst of them had had it better when they found them.

Xiao Lanhua and Danyin, who knew mockery and mistreatment, albeit from different steps of the social ladder, and knew the emotional scars that came from it all.

Dongfang Qingcang and Xunfeng who, even with the knowledge of their father's wrongdoings, could still remember the old Yuezun being a loving parent and wondered how could the king of Jing be so unreasonably cruel with his own son.

Changheng too, who grew without a mother, with an absent father too busy to even see him, with a tyrannical brother with a cruel streak and yet never as malicious to him as the older princes of Jing were to their youngest brother. Changheng who had witnessed the ugly parts of Shuyuntian and yet couldn't fathom how much worse a prince's life could be.

Hearing the news the third prince was to be sent away made the plan form itself. Demons were a common enemy for mortals, making everyone believe a demon was the cause for the disappeareance of the hostage would be a perfect way to have no blame on either kingdom, as long as it happened in Sheng.

Dongfang Qingcang had had great fun playing the role, if the spring in his steps and the pleased smile he sported when he joined them was any indication. It had been centuries since he could terrify someone properly and, although his worst tendencies had been abated, he still relished in scaring others.

He had not killed anyone, as per his wife's request, since death would have altered those mortals' destinies for good, but hit with clinical precision to incapacitate and stun all guards while giving Danyin the time to goad the child out the carriage and to them.

Simple enough.

The maid had been a surprise, none of them imagined the boy would have dragged her with him. Out of reflex or imitation of the care he received, it was a good sign for their task. Nor Xiao Lanhua expected Yingxing to help the little prince and not run for her life.

They left the forest soon, the idea was to reach a nearby town and pretend they found the child by accident. Knowing no one would be looking for him too soon, as it would take at least a day for Sheng's palace to be informed and start the search, they would leave the kingdom before the following dawn, never to be seen there anymore.

Or such was the plan.

[lnights]

Layla, first of all: I LOVE Pt 12 of your Soulmate AU sooooooo much 💞💞💞 I am soooo happy for Eevi that she got support from (at least) some part of her family. And I really like Liisa🫂. I kind of treat the AU like a whole series and each chapter like an episode🙈. So between “episode” 1 & 2 I made up my own version of the series in my head but wanted to wait till the “season” is over to share it because I didn’t want to risk influencing the story as it unfolds. I just love your storytelling too much😅 (also my version is way darker than yours because I am a sucker for Angst).

So, my brainworm is, that for whatever reason Aleksi didn’t tell the guys about Eevi and Liisa and also didn’t meet Eevi again (and therefore also never Lisa. Also Eevi is only 17 and a few months away from turning 18.). The girls go back home and a few weeks pass and somehow Eevis family finds out about her and Liisa before she is ready to tell them and shit hits the fan. They take away her phone and put her in some religious pray-the-g-away-camp. Because she is still a minor there is nothing Liisa can do and she doesn’t have Aleksi’s contact info. Thinking that he won’t believe her when she reaches out in social media, she takes the next train to Helsinki and begs the receptionist at the entrance to the studio to tell Aleksi she is here. The receptionist calls in the studio and whoever takes the call (its not Aleksi) is more than confused and tells the room that a Liisa wants to talk to Aleksi because someone named Eevi got found out by her parents and is now in danger. Aleksi understands and immediately races out of the studio (followed by the guys) to meet her and is shocked when she tells him what happened. The guys are of course not happy he didn’t tell them anything but are ready to help him safe Eevi. After getting Eevi out of the camp doesn’t work (they are threatened with the police if they should trespass) and also not talking sense into the family (they only scream at nonsense at them), Aleksi decides to make his story public. His reel on IV goes viral and the public is outraged that Eevi is held against her will at the camp. Eventually, the pressure on the camp gets too much and they release Eevi. For the last month until she turns 18 Aleksi gets custody of her and then she moves in with Liisa. Not sure what happens after or if her parents get punished for basically locking her up, but I do think she and Aleksi are doing a lot of interviews, maybe a doku about both their stories and are definitely becoming activists for same-sex rights✊🏳️‍🌈.

Hi Gemma!

I'm glad you enjoyed the fic! I absolutely love your idea for it

I do love me some angst too, ngl I did have an idea to make Eevi 17 and the threat of conversion camp being a major factor.

Apparently a couple years ago a motion was brought forward to Finnish Parliament to ban it, but it lapsed. (I think only 26 states here have it banned, plus DC and Puerto Rico. Some municipalities have banned it in other states as well, but then that's simply the matter of crossing from one city to another...)

In that version, which was actually my first draft, was that Eevi was going to run away and track Aleksi down at a BC concert and beg for help. They would help hide her until she turned 18 and her family legally couldn't send her, then she would confront them with Liisa at midsummer, and Aleksi would go with her for support.

I had the idea for assault tbh, Aleksi was going to get punched in the face by his dad and Tommi was going to retaliate. The family was going to call the police but Joel would point out that they have all the messages they sent Eevi telling her she was going to be sent to conversion therapy, as well as confirmation of their past abuse to Aleksi, and a recording of the fact Aleksi was hit first and Tommi was defending him (Joel was recording everything just in case something happened)

I almost kept that part in the current fic 😅

Niko pointing out their career would bounce back, even if they took a little hit or had to take a break for a year or two, but their family name would forever be tarnished with child abuse allegations. So they dropped it.

Liisa and Eevi would still have their happy ending and so would the BC boys.

[apathetically-hopeful]

8/30/24 Miss you... don't care.

Hey look! It's me again. My first real entry in over a year (there's several drafts), but here I am really committing on this one. So naturally y'all know I'm sitting here bawling my eyes out and clinging to some detestable form of toxic hope. I don't know how artsy I'm gonna get here. I love my writing so much... I've been re-reading it a lot lately. It's one of the few things I've stop being ashamed to be proud of. However, today I don't know if I can manage the haunting metaphors and romantic detachment.

Although, the fact that I'm already starting this in such shambles makes me think that some big things are going to come of it. The last saga of entries probably won't hold a candle to what the current shape of my life is. I'm trying so hard to even organize myself to get these few sentences down that I've been at this for about 45 minutes to this very sentence. So much so that I've continuously forgotten to light the cigarette that has been hanging on the corner of my lip this entire time. It's now suitable to be fed to the elderly because the filter is basically mush.... well you know what, cigarette? Me too.

Anyway, if you've made it this far; past whatever unhinged preamble that was... I applaud you. My writing is always driven by emotion, but usually I have some grasp on what emotion is guiding the keystrokes. This time I have absolutely no idea what I'm being inspired; or coerced, by. Because I'm not inspired at all; in fact, I'm terrified. I feel like I've become some half-sentient amalgamation of rage, fear, sorrow and regret. I've never felt so much at once that feeling anything in and of itself became impossible. My emotions have agitated my wounds so much that I've lost sensation.

I think I broke someone again... I didn't mean to. This girl came into my life and I pushed for a relationship when she was trying to heal from her own damages. For me the delusion of self improvement had so firmly taken root that I thought I could withstand it. I believed I could save her; guide her down the path I'd been walking that had set me free. Maybe she wasn't ready to be saved... maybe I wasn't a savior. But... my god, something about her; the beauty I saw in her. I went all in trying to get her to see it for herself. There's no tragedy quite like watching an angel suffocate beneath the feathers the world so cruelly ripped from them; before they ever got a chance to fly.

Somewhere along the way I realized the illusion. I was no more use to her than I was to myself on my darkest days. The disappointment I began to feel when I realized I was losing a war I never knew I joined... it began to turn into resentment. The end was coming long before either of us were ever willing to acknowledge it. But we tried to persist. We tried to push it off; told ourselves "love conquers all". Instead we only conquered each other... at first it almost seemed poetic in a 'doomed lovers' sort of way. But before long it was something terrifying, spiteful and paralyzing.

We fell into this terrible rhythm of believing we were damaging each other so much that we had to table our personal growth to try to pick up the pieces for one another. The irony, of course, was that the complete opposite course of action might have saved us. I've been so angry this whole time, accused her of ruining me. And in turn that caused me to ruin her and push her away. But the truth is... I should have been better. I should have paid more attention. And if the reality was that we couldn't find a way to continue our individual paths while being together... then we had no business trying to dress it up any prettier than that.

I know we loved each other. There is no mistaking it. It was something special, something rare. We needed to nurture that small miracle we found in one another, but we got so scared waiting for the other shoe to drop; we ignored the housefire around us. There we were; two people who don't get miracles... who handle every good thing in life like a live bomb; just to realize later we were defusing the sparks we lit inside one another.

If you read this... I'm sorry. It's not your fault. I love you. You didn't ruin me, sweetheart... I ruined myself when I convinced myself I had to tear pieces of myself away to put you back together... instead of staying whole... and using my strength to continue to lift you up. I miss you so much... but please, don't let that stop you from learning to fly. Because your wings will heal, and someday I hope to see you gliding up there... even if it means I have to admire it from the ground.

Love always,

Trevor

--------------

"Quick look Side eye Head tilt As you go by Miss you Don't care

Touchdown Midnight Pull back 'til I get it right I miss you Don't care"

[hgghgfd]

Blissed Out: The Raptures Of Rock

(New Zealand)

by Simon Reynolds Sent by Nick White

This essay/interview was taken from the book "Blissed Out: The Raptures Of Rock" by Simon Reynolds (Serpent's Tail, 1990). The interview was conducted in 1988. It can be a bit too earnest and academic (in another chapter, on Sonic Youth, Reynolds applies the theories of Roland Barthes to the music of My Bloody Valentine- gulp!), and occasionally it covers familiar ground. Nevertheless, I think it's very illuminating, and furthermore, it proves that Nick Cave and his work can quite easily absorb and reward academic analysis.

Discipline and Punish

Nick Cave looks the part. Deep gashes of black under the eyes, skin the colour of ashes, a slight wobbliness to his movements. His speech is fastidious, precise in a way that would seem pompous if he were at all ebullient; but with his small, grave voice- sometimes withering, always withered- the impression is of a wary distrust of words and the way they can be misconstrued. But he's much more forthcoming than in an earlier, abortive encounter. Almost affable.

Pardon the ignorance, but what exactly is The Mercy Seat?

"It's the throne of God, in the Bible, where he sits and throws his lightning bolts and so forth. But it's also about this guy sitting on Death Row, waiting to be electrocuted or whatever. It's juxtaposing those two things. A person in his final days, thinking about good and evil and all the usual fare."

So the fallibility and the arogance of human justice is something that obsesses you?

"It's something that interests me a lot. My social conscience is fairly limited in a lot of ways; there's not much I'm angry about that doesn't affect me quite directly. But the prison system- not particularly capital punishment- but the penal system as it is, and the whole apparatus of judgement, people deciding on other people's fates...that does irritate, and upset me quite a lot."

Is that why you got involved in the film about prison life, Ghosts of the Civil Dead?

"It's a two-way thing: I had those feelings long before I wrote the drafts for the script, but the process of writing and research inflamed them. It should be clear to anybody that the basic idea behind the prison system is corrupt and unjust, but the more I worked on the film, the more I understood how extreme the injustice was. This particular film has quite a strong political statement to make, which is something I'm not really known for.

"I was involved in writing the first two drafts of the film, but by the sixth draft there weren't that many of my ideas left. I also had a small part: I play a kind of known provocateur, who is brought into the prison- one of the new hi-tech ones- in order to disrupt the equilibrium. He's a psychotic with some kind of death wish...spends his whole time screaming abuse.

"What angers me about the system goes beyond the unreliability of "proof"... it's that the way criminals are dealt with has nothing to do with rehabilitation and readjusting people who've stepped outside society's norms. The same goes for mental institutions and so forth. But it's also the very idea of someone being judged "criminal" or "insane" because they're unable to fit into what a basically corrupt society considers "social" or "sociable"".

So you take issue both with the very idea of the "the normal" and "normalisation", and with the fact that the authorities don't even bother to fulfill their professed project of "rehabilitation"?

"Yeah, something like that. I did a lot of homework when I started working on the script. The initial plan was to use the prison world to create a certain kind of ready-made atmosphere. But over the eight drafts, what emerged was a particular vision of the whole penal system as almost a plot by the higher powers to perpetuate the whole system of crime, keep it rolling, keep criminals on the streets..."

In order to terrify the population into accepting the existence of the police. All this reminds me of the ideas of Michel Foucault. He looked back to an era (pre-industrialism) before the things we consider "natural"- prisons, asylums, hospitals- had been devised, in order to trace the "genealogy" of pseudo-sciences like penology, criminology, psychiatry and sexology. What he discovered is that these "disciplines" were not really about uncovering truth for its own sake; the "knowledge" they generated was inseparable from and instrumental in "techniques of domination". Later, he shifted his focus from social hygiene (segregation /surveillance /normalization) to study mental hygiene: the ways in which each individual is involved in self-policing. We define ourselves as "normal" by repressing our own capacity for violence or the visionary- just as we suppress and marginalize those people in the body politic who've gone over limits.

Looking back, it's clear that Cave has always been obsessed with this latent other within each individual, that can be catalysed by an extreme predicament. See how he describes his novel And the Ass Saw the Angel:

"It's set in a small valley in a remote region somewhere in the world. A sugarcane-growing valley. It's the story of the people who live there. The fascination of these closed communities and hemmed-in lives, that recur in my work, is that they breed a certain ignorance, can be the breeding ground for very extreme, absurd emotional releases."

In Cave's work, most of the characters are in a sense prisoners- of an obsession, or a claustrophobic environment. But maybe this sounds glib when set against the specific and extreme misery of imprisonment.

"I've been writing songs about prison ever since I started writing songs. But I have a less romantic conception than when I started. The film is in two sections- the population section and the maximum security section. When the film-makers were in America, going from penitentiary to penitentiary, looking in libraries, interviewing people, they stumbled on this amazing story about Marin.

"Over six months, the inmates were subjected to these totally unfair changes of routine, from small things like not getting coffee one day, to next day having their cells raided and all their possessions confiscated. The whole balance between guards and inmates was totally disrupted. The convicts became more and more upset, the guards were afraid, but they kept getting orders from above telling them to maintain these random violations of the equilibrium.

"Until eventually it broke- and a prisoner stabbed two guards to death. This was leaked to the media, who began to clamour for stricter control. Marin was put onto immediate lockdown- which is where no one is allowed out of their cell and all privileges are removed. Twenty-one months later it was still in lockdown.

"The point is that two guards were sacrificed by the authorities in order to achieve this control situation. That's the kind of system you're dealing with.

"The Mercy Seat is about this person in solitary confinement, becoming more sensitive to inanimate objects, and as he sits thinking about human and Divine Justice, finding himself judging these things as Good or Evil."

Some say that The Mercy Seat is the best thing Cave has done for five years, since Mutiny in Heaven. I wouldn't go this far (that would be to devalue all the peaks in the interim)- but the single is stupendous. It's a gigantic, near illegible swirl-surge, a horizontal, disciplined avalanche. With its maddened strings, echo-chamber vocal and the odd filigree of lonesome country whistling, it is vaguely suggestive of the sixties pop-melodrama of Wichita Lineman or Something's Gotten Hold of My Heart. But a sense of the epic driven to such histrionic pitch that it verges on Velvet's white noise and viola hysteria.

"Dignity" is not a word that figures in my lexicon of praise (too redolent of the prattle of soulboys) but with Cave's work since Kicking Against the Pricks, it's unavoidable. A ruined dignity, the courage of someone staring into the abyss with "nothing left to lose".

Here it's the condemned man waiting to "go shuffling out of life/just to hide in death a while". Eventually, the song becomes a real-time simulation of a locked groove, an out of control roller-coaster of dread but also of resilience: "And the Mercy Seat is waiting/And I think my head is burning/And in a way I'm yearning/To be done with all this measuring of proof/An eye for an eye /And a tooth for a tooth/And anyway I told the truth/And I'm not afraid to die." Over and over and over, 'til you think your cranium is set to bust.

From Her To Eternity

Nick Cave surfaced at a time when post-punk's handle on the workings of desire was diagrammatic and programmatic. Punk had bequeathed the idea that demystification was the route to enlightenment. "Personal politics" was the buzzword: the acknowledgment of the "dark side" was always grounded in progressive humanism, the belief that what was twisted could be straightened out, that the shadows could be banished by the spotlight of analysis. The idea was that through deconditioning, unblocking, a ventilation of the soul ("airing your problems"), it was possible to achieve some kind of frank and freeflowing exchange.

Against this view of love as contract, Cave, in The Birthday Party, was almost alone in reinvoking love as malady, monologue, abject dependence, whose ultimate expression could only be violence: the recurrent theme of girl-murder, or at the opposite pole of the paroxysm of desire in Zoo Music Girl, "Oh! God! Please let me die beneath her fists!" Cave was the first writer, in a post-punk climate of positivism, to start using Biblical imagery (sin, retribution, curses, bad seed, revenge)...

"Perhaps I'm kind of emotionally retarded...but basically I've just written about things how I've felt about them, myself, emotionally. Things like revenge, which you talk about as almost an Old Testament feeling, I see as completely now. It's just one of those things this society has repressed, along with any other strong or extreme outburst of emotion. I think there's a certain numbness in the world today...that accepts certain kinds of violence, but is against other kinds of violence."

So you have a kind of ethics of violence? Certain kinds of violence- the crime of passion- have a kind of aesthetic integrity?

"That's one way of putting it...There's something more noble in revenge, than in...sadism, or violence through greed. Maybe there's something more aesthetically pleasing about it, I don't know...I just find those subjects the easiest to deal with: on the one hand, they're the most tangible feelings I have to pull out of myself; on the other, they make me want to make a stronger statement when I ultimately do that.

"I don't deny any feelings of happiness just because I don't write about them. For me, there's just something more powerful in Man's ultimate punishments- whether they're on a humanist level or a more mystical level- than in his ultimate rewards. The rewards of happiness and contentment and security, I see as mostly drawn out of a routine of things. And they have no aesthetic interest for me, or much lasting value.

"But then again, my favourite song in the world is Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong. If any song really chokes me up, it's that one. If there's a song that I would like to do, but would never attempt because I wouldn't know how to begin, that's the one. If I could produce the same effect on other people as Louis Armstrong does with that song, then I'd be really happy. But there's something so unintentionally tragic about that song. Although I'm sure that has a lot to do with the way I listen, Louis Armstrong being this all-time winner and happy guy."

Do you resent the arbitrary power that beautiful people have? Something shallow, unearned, but capable of putting you in thrall. Revenge would seem to originate in this feeling of powerlessness.

"You're asking me if I'm some sort of embittered, wounded animal, who only wants to reach out and break things because he can't be happy or possess them?"

No, more generally than that: the idea of beauty as terrorism. Of possession as the delusion we all run aground on. It seems like there's a negativity at the heart of romantic love, because love is nothing if not the always already doomed fantasy of possession. Doomed because of the flux (growth or decay) that is the loved one. You were talking about life's punishments just now, and maybe the fact that love is doomed from the off is one of them.

"There's lots of different angles you can look at things from. I accept all that. Although I don't think it's impossible that it can't be the other way, that two people can't grow toward each other. I don't particularly believe all love is doomed. But I guess, one is usually kinda suffering from some aborted love affair or association, rather than being a the peak of one. I think it's fairly obvious that a lot more suffering goes on in the name of love than the little happiness you can squeeze out of it. But I wouldn't like to dwell on it. Perhaps you could lighten up a bit."

Condescendingly, like an agony aunt or something, he adds: "There are plenty more fish in the sea."

The Singer

Since the death of The Birthday Party, Nick Cave has steadily made a transition from exhibitionist, incendiary live performer to something more stately and, yes, dignified. The fireball has become an ember. Kicking Against the Pricks, an album of cover versions, marked the key shift from poet visionary of sex-and-death to interpretive balladeer, from torched singer to a croon the colour of cinders, from Dionysiac excess to a ruined classicism.

And on Your Funeral... My Trial, Cave and the Bad Seeds were staging their own dilapidated equivalents to By the Time I get To Phoenix and Something's Gotten Hold of My Heart, in the gently obliterating, slowly gathering, morose grandeur of Sad Waters and Stranger Than Kindness. Cave has influenced other kindred spirits to leave behind self-immolation in favour of The Song.

When did he start getting into what he calls "entertainment music, although some might call it corn"?

"I've just found myself usually more affected by the cliches in pop, in art, in life, than I have by the..."

Wilful difference?

"Yeah. I find that wilfulness in itself is enough to make me turn away from something. When people are attempting to be different for the sake of it, I find it incredibly irritating."

Do you have different influences now than when you started?

"I think I've been through being influenced by people. I don't think that could happen to me now, in the way that it did in my formative years. My ideas are self-generating now, they spring from what I've done before. It's all very inward-looking, and a lot of the time I find myself- it may sound unforgiveable- ignorant of what's going on outside me and the influences that are going around. I don't think I'm fully formed or ever will be, but my basic creative journey is now self-perpetuating."

But musically at least, you've moved from Stooges-meets-Beefheart conflagration to something more classically structured: the songs are like the charred and gutted husks of magnificent pop architecture. And figures like Dylan and Leonard Cohen and Tim Rose have become important to you...

"But not as a matter of influence as such. I only look towards someone like Dylan because I see the things that have happened in his career and the conclusions he's come to and the way he's responded to outside forces, the audience, the press...and I recognize a similarity to how I feel in my career.

I have a vague inkling of why Dylan has progressed the way he has, which I don't have about other people. The particular songs of his which affect me have helped me to understand what I ultimately want to make of my music, and what I'm failing to make of my music. What I've found to be the most inspiring of his work have been the songs which are ultimately almost meaningless in their simplicity."

"Take Nashville Skyline. I found the fact that he made that record much more affecting than, say, Highway 61 Revisited. Nashville Skyline was one of the albums he put out after his motorcycle accident, from which the critics concluded that he must have somehow injured his brain...

All the complexities of his lyrics were ironed out...He made some very basic country records. It's these songs, or albums like Slow Train Coming, which affected me more than Blonde On Blonde. The simplicity of the statement, and the bravery...in a way, it requires more courage than making something more 'experimental'."

So you feel the same enlightenment that happened to Dylan has also befallen you? You no longer want to be marginal or difficult?

"I am still waiting for what happened to Dylan to happen to me. I'd be a lot happier if I could disentangle myself from what I've already done and create songs from a completely fresh perspective."

The Bad Seed

When did you first feel different or destined? At school? Later?

"I assumed everybody felt they were different from anybody else...it would be a pretty sad individual who didn't feel that they were unique."

But such an individual usually defines him or herself against a body of people who are meant to be homogeneous and standard-issue.

"I didn't have any great coming out. Perhaps my basic thoughts were externalized by reading Crime and Punishment by Dostoievsky, and realizing that I had a basic Napoleonic complex. That was quite a revelation in those years of juvenilia. That book is all about the idea that the world is divided into the ordinary and the extraordinary, and that the extraordinary shouldn't have to live by the dictates of the mediocre majority. As an adolescent, this made sense to me."

Do you think everybody has the potential to be extraordinary, if pushed over a limit?

"No, I don't, actually. I think everybody probably does feel they do. But I think they're probably deluded. I don't believe that we're all born equal, as lumps of dough that are later shaped by our peers and parents and so forth...I believe in innate inequality."

Did you have an unusual childhood? Was there something to colour your worldview with its tragic perspective?

"I'm sure there was...but I'm not about to start psychoanalysing myself..."

You see it as a bogus science?

"Yeah. Anyway, rather than attributing it to my childhood, I prefer to believe that I was born into the world with greater or lesser faculties than other people and that I can take full responsibility for them. I wouldn't put it down to the way I was manipulated as a child."

Doesn't that mean you have even less responsibility? Wouldn't that make you even angrier with the world?

"I think people get even angrier if they think about this precise thing that was done in their so-called formative years that made them the way they are. I just feel that I can take credit, or blame, for what I do or have done. That it came from within me, not from without.

"I'd rather see what makes me different as something almost congenital. And I have these inklings that what you commit or endure in this world, relates to some kind of justice or balance. Maybe if you get a bad deal in this world, it is because of something you did, or were, in a previous life. Which is why I don't feel sorry for the poor."

Cave's departure from progressive humanism, with its belief in individual and social transformation, is so extreme that his worldview verges on the Mediaeval: the language of curses, bad seed, the worm in the bud. The world is a vale of tears, a giant ball of dung. Even more than Morrisey and his bad memories, Cave's vision is the antithesis of the idea of pop as a remaking of yourself. For Cave, the sole possibility for heroism is in fatalism, a stoic dignity in the face of your plight, the blight that is your negative birthright.

[floral-poisons]

Hii! I just discovered ur blog and in in love. I really like ur take on the boys<3

Well, for my request... We know that each dorm has a series of things in common, aesthetic, qualities, tastes...

How would the boys react to a mc who is clearly a perfect fit for their dorm but belongs to ramshackle?

hi anon!! thank you so much for the love and i’m happy you enjoy my takes on the boys! i’ve had these thoughts festering in my brain for a while now so it’s exciting to see people enjoy my head canons as much as me. i think this is certainly an interesting request and one i’ve thought about before lmao. the format is different considering that i would assume you need a general consensus of letting mc transfer from ramshackle. i believe their reactions would be really similar but i’m going to touch upon personal details that fit the respective characters briefly.

DIASOMNIA

the entire dorm is really excited for you to come! after all, you were best suited for diasomnia. it was just that...well, the dark mirror said you didn’t have any magic. but you and grim were one student and grim had magic so that must mean the magic mirror could be able to read grim. sebek, while not usually willing to bend the rules, wants to prepare the entirety of the welcome party. lilia won’t let him do everything (the last time that happened it was a bit of a disaster) also because they still aren’t sure if crowley would let you transfer over. malleus is the one trying to convince you to transfer. despite how run down ramshackle is, it’s become akin to your home at this school and you were hesitant to leave. silver couldn’t wait for you to come though he was being dragged around by sebek to prepare for the party.

HEARTSLABYUL

riddle immediately hits the rule books when he realizes you’re the perfect match for heartslabyul. there were no rules with the queen of hearts so the only thing holding them back was the school rules. he’s drafting up a whole appeal and has trey look over it constantly. cater is also helping out with the drafts and trying to make the language more “appealable” but...well, let’s say a lot of his edits aren’t up to riddle’s standards. on the other end, ace is busy fighting with deuce over who can room with you and who will be your best friend when you enter heartslabyul.

POMEFIORE

you’re beautiful, you’re graceful, and you’re ambitious. everything necessary to belong to pomefiore. it was that magic mirror that caused you to be sorted into ramshackle. and vil’s not having it, not when there’s clear talent within you. he’s going to appeal and he even scents his letter like the extra man he is. rook’s on board for whatever you want to do. he would prefer you come join them at pomefiore since you are a good fit and even has ideas to fit you your own dorm uniform when you come. epel’s more laid back. at least you’re a genuine person in pomefiore since the dorm is filled with people who aren’t so genuine.

SAVANACLAW

even without magic, your competitive spirit is through the roof which is something befitting of savanaclaw. leona has you coming over and staying over often without appealing which is unbefitting in crowley’s eyes. ruggie’s going to be the one doing the appeal this time around to make sure you’re able to stay. there are other dorms who think you’re a better fit for them and certainly the spelldrive tournament scandal doesn’t help. but that doesn’t matter. jack is excited for you to come and he’s plotting out a welcome party as ruggie’s typing up the appeal.

OCTAVINELLE

azul’s got influence, clearly with the mostro lounge being an established business at nrc. he has no problem talking to dire crowley about letting you into octavinelle and he’ll do it secretly do. the man won’t tell you you’re being transferred. and then jade’s at your door with azul and they’re both got big smiles on their faces, saying, “ready to go?” floyd’s already dragged you to octavinelle and you basically live there since you visit so often.

SCARABIA

it’s already implied that the reason why kalim was in nrc is because of a bribe. so there’s a likely chance that a bribe will be used to drag you into the scarabia dorm. jamil doesn’t approve of the use of bibery and it was probably mentioned offhand during a visit back home from kalim that he would love for you to join scarabia. he’ll probably write the appeal instead and pitch in a good word for you to dire crowley.

IGNIHYDE

there’s not much idia could do other than bring up the idea of you transferring from ramshackle to ignihyde. he’s most definitely preparing to write a letter. and when it’s done, he sends ortho to dire crowley to see the appeal. ortho couldn’t be more excited for the idea of you transferring. in fact, you remember him begging for you to transfer when he recognized that you were such a perfect fit for ignihyde.

[m4tthewmurd0ck]

𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ~ 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎! 𝙱𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚡 𝙱𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚛! (𝙵𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎) 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗 // 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔 *𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴* 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 𝟸.𝟸𝚔

a/n: have a little midnight chapter! i hoped to post this a lot sooner but tumblr didn’t save the draft where i’d done the first 1k words (i have the whole storyline roughly mapped out but it still sucked to lose all my work), so i was like nope fuck this and then i left this alone for a couple of days because i could not be bothered to type everything i’d just lost. BUT we’re back!

     Today makes exactly 3 weeks since Margaret Carter and Brock Rumlow exposed the part of your life you’d hoped would stay hidden forever. Although you told Prince James that you wouldn’t contact him anymore, a big part of you was hurt that he’d made no move to contact you. Steve hadn’t come by the bakery either, and you couldn’t bring yourself to go to the palace gates. If you were asked to leave, you didn’t think you could handle that.

Despite feeling down and wanting nothing more than to spend your days laying in bed, you still put on a happy face every morning. After all, you and Peter still worked at the bakery every day. May and Ben both offered to work your shifts, understanding that you may want time to yourself, but you declined. The distraction of having things to do all day was good for you.

Well, mostly good for you. You woke each morning feeling at least a little exhausted. It took you a long time to fall asleep each night. You’d often involuntarily stay awake until midnight, but would still get up at 6am sharp to get ready for the day.

Peter often snuck into your room to turn off your alarm so that you could sleep while he worked solo in the mornings. He pointed out that mornings were slow anyway, and you were grateful for those few extra hours of rest. 

One morning things appear even slower than usual. By 11am, you could still count the number of customers on one hand. 

You and Peter decided to close the shop at 11:30, for half an hour to have lunch, opting to eat in the kitchen while experimenting with different breads and pastries. May thought that maybe some new desserts might bring in people from the nearby village, and you and Peter were now determined to come up with something good.

At noon when you walk back out to open the store front, you’re surprised to see 2 women sitting on the bench outside. You rushed to unlock the door, apologizing for keeping them waiting. As they follow you back inside, you can’t help but glance at them again. They look so familiar, yet you don’t think they’ve ever come in before.

When they introduce themselves a minute later, you learn that you’re right. You had seen them at the ball.

Natasha Romanoff and Yelena Belova explain that they’re Becca’s private security whenever she needs to be out, and at the ball they were helping to keep a watchful eye on things. And you learn that they’re there right now because she’s asking you to come to the palace.

“I— I don’t know if it’s a good idea to—”

Yelena puts a hand on your shoulder, giving you a reassuring smile. “She said to tell you that her idiot brother isn’t there, so you won’t have to worry about running into him. She only wants to discuss something with you.”

That does make you feel a lot better, though you can’t help but wonder where he is. Still, you’re reluctant to go. Surely Margaret has fed her the same stories, why could she possibly want to see you?

As much as you want to say that you really can’t go, you see Natasha and Yelena standing there basically twiddling their thumbs, and you have a feeling that they’ve been instructed to not return unless you’re with them.

Peter, sensing your anxiety, walks over and stands next to you. “I can manage for the rest of the day if you want to go. If you don’t, I can tell them that I need you here because I have to leave or we’re expecting a big order or something.” He’s been really worried about you, and hopes that if you do decide to go with them, whatever conversation you have with Becca will cheer you up.

Part of you knows that you have to go with them. If you didn’t you’d just spend all your time wondering what Becca wanted to talk to you about.

“Umm Natasha, Yelena? Is it alright if I just meet you both back at the palace? I’d just like to go home and change first,” you approach the 2 of them, still a little anxious, but better knowing that Peter has your back and would’ve been willing to lie for you.

“Oh call me Nat,” she smiles at you. “And we can just come with you, walk you to the palace after. You live just down the road right?”

Wow, guess I was right about them not coming back unless I’m with them, you think to yourself.

You make small talk on the short walk to your house, and by the time you get there your nerves have pretty much gone away. They’re both really nice, and you find yourself laughing at their bickering over who of the 2 of them is the better fighter.

“—it is definitely me,” Yelena grins at you. She motions to Nat, “this one is a total poser”.

Nat scoffs, rolling her eyes but ultimately letting Yelena win the conversation for now. “Alright alright let’s just let her get changed so we can head back, hmm?”

You quickly change into a yellow sundress and run a brush through your hair, exiting your bedroom just 5 minutes later.

“Cute!” Yelena admires your dress, “I might have to borrow that sometime”.

“I wouldn’t let her if I were you,” Nat warns you as you begin the short journey to the palace, “last three pieces of clothing she borrowed from me? Still haven’t seen them”.

You burst out laughing when Nat does airquotes around the word borrowed.

All too quickly, you reach the palace gates.

As soon as you step into the palace, Becca crushes you in a hug, nearly knocking you both to the floor. Yelena and Nat glance at each other, laughing as they excuse themselves, saying they’ll be in another room if you need them.

You follow Becca up to her bedroom, where she shuts the door and you both collapse on opposite ends of her bed. After a moment, she’s the first to break the silence. “I’m sorry I haven’t contacted you sooner”.

“You have nothing to apologize for, you must have a lot to do around here—”

“How are you doing since… what happened at the ball?”

You had a feeling this was why she’d actually asked you to come over. “I… I’m as okay as I can be, I guess. I wish I hadn’t been exposed like that, but I suppose it’s a relief that everything is out in the open. Although part of me is worried about King Laufeyson and what he’ll do when he finds out that I’ve told people about the accident— that I guess wasn’t really an accident.”

Becca sits up, though she won’t make eye contact with you. “You have nothing to worry about. King Laufeyson will not bother you or your family ever again.”

And now you’re on edge. “Wh-what? What do you mean I have nothing to worry about, how do you know he won’t bother us?”

As she realizes what she’s just told you, Becca’s eyes widen. Saying nothing, she simply grabs your hand and practically drags you through the palace. You come to one of the many living rooms and find Queen Winnifred sitting on a sofa, reading.

“Your majesty,” you start to curtsy as she notices you both enter the room, and she surprises you by putting her book down and pulling you in for a hug and telling you to call her Winnie.

“It’s so lovely to finally meet you, I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to meet at the ball. Though I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.”

“Circumstances?” You look between Becca and Winnie, now even more confused. What feels like a million scenarios are running through your mind, but you don’t think any of them are accurate.

“Perhaps we should all sit down,” she motions behind her to the couch. You sit on the couch with her, while Becca opts to sit on one of the large chairs just on the other side. “What do you know of King Laufeyson and his people?”

Dread fills your entire body. “Other than… what he’s done to my family, nothing.”

You all glance up just in time to see Thor enter the room. You stand up when he approaches, and he greets you with a hug, apologizing for intruding but saying he had to come and talk when he heard you were at the palace.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you as soon as I read your letter, but I just felt you should know. Loki is— was, my brother. He was adopted as an infant and we were raised together. Our childhood was normal, we were very close back then. But the older he got, the more defiant he got. It was clear that he needed help. He wasn’t just an angry boy, he was… cruel. Our parents did everything they could, gave him every opportunity and unfortunately covered for him too many times. But finally everyone had enough, and he was sent away to school that was meant to help him. But it only made him angrier. He rebelled, and as soon as he turned of age, he manipulated the crown away from our parents. It’s why my home perished. Not literally, as in a fire, but it was destroyed by Loki. He ran all Asgardian’s out of the kingdom and quickly filled it with his own people that he met while away. He— he is not. good man.”

You sit there, trying to process everything, when Winnie speaks up once more. “We welcomed the people of Asgard with open arms, vowing to help however we good. From a legal standpoint, there was nothing we could do. He was cruel and manipulative, but he hadn’t technically broken any laws. Recently we’ve had people do some digging, and what happened to your parents, it’s not the first time he has caused a situation like that. Two nights ago, one of our people went to your home, and May Parker provided us with the documents proving that he threatened your family and made you promise to never tell. We’d asked her not to say anything to you just yet, for we didn’t want to get any hopes up. But we’ve just received word that your proof, amongst all the rest, was enough. Loki Laufeyson is no longer king of Asgard. The throne will be returned to Odin and Frigga, who have also been living in the palace. They’re on the side that I don’t think you’ve been on.”

“What’s to happen with King— what’s to happen with Loki now?”

“The people of our kingdom, and Asgard, are pushing for a hanging. But even if he should receive a life sentence, he will still never see the light of day, and he will never harm anyone again. James has been away—”

“Is this why he’s gone now? Loki—” Now you’re panicked. And you feel selfish, for being upset that he hadn’t contacted you, when you now know where he has been.

“When Bucky read your letter and learned what Loki did to you and your family, he was angrier than I’ve ever seen him. He wanted to go and apologize and comfort you right away, but he was so angry with Loki. Right away he wanted to leave and kill him. He left the next day, accompanied by Steve and a few of our other men. He didn’t have any real plan, but we got updates from them fairly often. He was the one who gathered further proof of the crimes that Loki had committed, and it was him that informed us that Loki had been overthrown.”

Winnie picks up when Becca grows quiet, “I love my dear son, but he was a fool for reacting the way that he did, when Margaret and Brock tried to air out your personal business. They’ve both since been exiled from the kingdom, because this isn’t the first time they’ve attempted to meddle in business that they have no reason to insert themselves into. They should’ve been dealt with long ago. I apologize that it took this incident involving you.”

You wipe away the couple of tears that had fallen, “I’m sorry that you’re all dealing with this because of the letter that I wrote to Prince James…”

“I’m not sorry,” Winnie gives you a sad smile, “of course I’m sad that this happened to you and I wish that it hadn’t, but now that we know, it’s good that we’ve dealt with the problem. Loki Laufeyson has been allowed to reign as King of Asgard for far too long. Now he’s dealt with, and Odin and Frigga may return to Asgard as the rightful King and Queen.”

You’re about to respond, when Sam and Clint suddenly burst into the room.

“When did you all get ba—” Becca starts to ask, but Sam cuts her off.

“It’s Bucky, he’s hurt.”

not clickable means it won’t let me tag you. (i’ll try to @ you in a comment / reply to this, it’ll come from my side blog @infiniteminds)

series tags: @thebuckybarnesvault​ / @matchat3a​ / @avengersfan25​ / @et-homephone / @adangerousbalance​ / @bxtchboy69​ / @zealouspostwitch / @sgt-tasm​ / @sebsgirl71479 / @ivybarns / @storyofmemory / @sky0401​ / @realgaytrash​ / @moonlightreader649​ / @sugarpits / @browneyedgirl22 / @inkedaztec​ / @buchanansbaby / @starbxcks

all bucky tags: @hallecarey1 / @valkyrie418 / @weirdowithnobeardo / @adoringsebstan / @seabassstanfan / @channelxt / @eliwinchester99 / @searchf0rtheskyline

all character tags: @jaywalkingape

[studythenight-away]

Hello! As finals season (aka 5-research-papers-due-in-a-week season) dawns on many of you, I thought I would share the process I used to write papers in college. This made writing long research papers much less daunting (but can also work on shorter papers). I really hope this helps some of you who feel stuck. Especially during these ridiculous times, when you're stuck at home and might have other uncontrollable factors affecting your mental health, a clear framework of what to do could be helpful. Good luck, my friends! You got this.

About me

I graduated college in 2018 with degrees in Political Science + International Studies and will be starting law school this fall. I wrote nearly 20 15 to 25-page papers, never earning below an A. I loved researching about my topics but hated writing. It's tedious, takes so much time, and everything I write sounds bad at first. Plus, I was a terrible procrastinator so most of these essays were written in under a week. Talk about stress.

Over time I found a process that worked for me, one that made churning out a paper seem straightforward, like going through a factory line rather than this terrifying concept of writing 10,000 words. It kept me sane without decreasing the quality of my work (or more importantly, how much I learned!) 

I'm thinking about making a short video to show this in action… let me know if that could be helpful!

Step 1: Research

How you organize your research is a key step in keeping you sane. Usually I'll have a pile of 20 books in my dorm along with dozens of JSTOR tabs open on my laptop, and that can get overwhelming very fast. Right now just focus on collecting ideas, not developing an argument or even an outline! As with most research papers, you could be starting with little to no background information on the topic, so it is still too early to be thinking about an argument.

Put all your research in one document

Open up a new doc: this will be the heart of everything. For a 15-page paper I usually end up with around 14-18 pages of typed research, 10 pt font, single spaced, tiny margins. This seems like a lot, but essentially all I do is type up anything I read that seems relevant to my topic, so luckily this step does not require that much brain power. Just type type type!

Use the table of contents

Find the chapter(s) that are actually relevant instead of skimming through the whole book. Time is of the essence here!

Use Zotero, cite right away

You can also use easybib or whatever you're used to, but keep track of your sources. I like Zotero because I can keep a log of all of my sources and copy the footnote or bibliography version whenever needed. Before you even begin reading, cite the source and copy it into your research doc. This will save you so much time later when you have to put in your citations in the actual paper. 

Here is an example of what my research doc looks like:

Full citation is my heading for each source just so it’s crystal clear

I ignore all typos (I don’t think there are any in this part though, go me!) because my head is buried in the book just trying to get all the info down

I always start with the page number so I know what to cite when I go back

Create a shorthand 

While typing up research, you might think of something that the author didn't talk about that you'll want to write in your paper. Or perhaps a few sentences already start to form. Put them all in one place, with your research, so you know what source you'll have to cite to then lead into your idea. I type "!@#" before anything that is strictly my own idea so I'm never confused. It's fast and stands out.

This is an example: the two bullet points above are evidence from my source, which made me think of this argument I could make, which I noted with “!@#”

Step 2: Read Your Research

Now that you have all your information, go back and read through it all. Every time you read about a new theme/person/event, write it down somewhere. You may come up with a list of 20+ different ideas in your research. No matter how small, as long as there is something about it, write it down. Each of these mini themes is going to end up being a paragraph in your paper or combined with another mini theme. 

Once you’ve made your list, look for larger overarching themes. In the paper I’ve shown you, I had mini categories like “political party x” “religion” “labor groups” “little organization” and “hierarchy.” When I looked back I though, hey these are all groups and how groups are working together, so they each became their own mini paragraph under the subsection of “Alliances.”

As with most research paper structures, I try to find three general themes/subsections (like an extended version of that 5-paragraph essay we wrote in middle school). It makes the paper less messy and also makes sure I’m not covering things that are beyond a reasonable scope.

During this step, you are also searching for your thesis. It won’t be your final version. As you fill in your outline in the next step you may make slight changes. But this is definitely when you start thinking about it.

Step 3: Outline

We’re ready to outline! Once I’ve collected all my different themes and organized all my subsections and paragraphs, it’s time to fill in that outline. I start a new doc just for the outline and take advantage of google doc’s headings function to make a clear document outline.

Here comes the fun part, I read through my research one more time, this time copy and pasting all my research into each section of the outline. The document outline in google docs makes this easy because I can just click on each subheading to get me there (super helpful when you’re dealing with 15+ pages of research).

Here is what it looks like:

Let’s say I need to add something to my outline about labor groups. Boom, labor groups. Also, the typos are really abound here haha

Step 4: Write the Paper

Okay, I get it, easier said than done. BUT! You already have everything set up. Your outline is essentially just a list of your paragraphs and all you have to do is paraphrase, cite, and create a topic sentence. And that’s how you should think about this: you’re essentially transforming bullet points into sentences and adding footnotes. 

In high school my English teacher introduced us to Sh*tty First Drafts for creative writing, but honestly the same applies to research papers. Sometimes I’ll even have phrases like “wait no that’s not what I meant but basically...” and when I go back to edit, I realize that what came after “but basically...” is fine! And I keep it. So just start typing.

How do you cite while you write? Because we’re trying to get a constant stream of writing going, inserting proper footnotes after each sentence you type is too bothersome. I usually split screen with my outline and my paper so I just copy and paste a few words from my bullet point into my footnote, like so:

(This is from a different paper about cluster munitions.)

Step 5: Edit the Paper

I work best when I print out my first draft and make all edits in red pen. I feel more productive and can visually see where I want to move sentences and what I need to change. The more red there is the better I can feel the paper getting. (Whether or not that’s true doesn’t matter. We’re trying to stay motivated here!) When it’s all digital I don’t really see the progress. Plus, once I finish all the red, I get another moment of passive brain work, where all I’m doing is transferring edits rather than thinking. And at this point in the process, that kind of relief is much welcomed. 

The good thing about this process is there’s not usually a need to cut entire paragraphs or pages because the paper you end up with is just a formalized version of your outline. Because you started with such a detailed outline, the cutting and editing now is just to refine your word choices and get rid of the “but basically”s. You’re almost there!

Step 6: Replace your citations

Now it’s time to go back and replace your footnotes with actual citations. Zotero makes this easy because in Word you can just insert and add the page number, and it’ll automatically do “Ibid.” for you when needed. Ctrl+f in the original research doc to quickly find the source.

Step 7: One More Read-Through and Submit!

Congratulations!! You’ve got a fully-researched and well-backed paper! Of course, even though the process is straightforward, it’s still a lot of work. In ideal situations I would start researching two weeks before the deadline, but if need be, I believe I’ve done this all in three miserable panic-filled days as well. 

Please message me if you have any questions at all! I really hope some of you find this helpful! Good luck!

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

Tension

Pairing: Danny Rand x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of injuries

Word Count: 4.5K

Summary: What happens when Iron Fist takes an interest in an undercover agent? (I’m so bad at summaries and Titles please forgive me)

A/N: This has been sitting incompleted in my drafts for like months and I finally got the energy and ideas to finish it. I feel accomplished.

It made sense that you and Danny never crossed paths. You were just a S.H.I.E.L.D agent and he was part of the superhero program. Even though you were similar in age, you didn’t attend the same school and you had no skills in common so you never saw each other during training.

You were born into being a S.H.I.E.L.D agent, growing up on the Helicarrier and training your entire life to be an undercover agent. You spent your days with different names and different personas, gathering intel and you were more skilled using weapons and gadgets than actual hand-to-hand combat, while he was parading around the city in a spandex suit.

You, of course, had heard of him but only by the name Iron Fist, and you had never seen him in person.

And it would have remained that way if you hadn’t gotten shot on your last mission. Even though it missed anything vital and the surgery had been a success, you were still told not to do anything that might agitate it for the next 3 months.

So, that was how you got transferred from the undercover agent assignments to team strategist department.

“But I don’t want to be in strategies!” You complained, stubbornly following Fury around the Helicarrier as he desperately tried to get away from you.

“Strategies is for boring people! Like Coulson!” You shouted ignoring Coulson’s offended ‘Hey!’, practically throwing a tantrum in the middle of the training room.

“And more importantly, you gave my assignment to that bitch, Lia?! I’ve been gathering contacts for that mission for around a year and you want me to just hand it over to that lazy piece of shit who would rub it in my face even if she never did anything for the mission?!”

That finally made Fury turn around to face you and you sighed in relief, hoping he would at least listen to you.

“Agent Coulson, make sure that every time (Y/N) swears, 50 bucks is cut down from this month’s pay check.”

You threw him a foul glare.

“You will be transferred to strategies in a week—”

“But I don’t want to—”

“Under the superhero programme—”

“Those pyjama freaks—?!”

“End. Of. Discussion.”

You glared at him so coldly, it could have frozen hell over. Your nails were digging painfully into the palm of your hand but you barely felt it through your anger.

You practically growled, pulling out a 50-dollar bill from your pocket and slamming it onto Coulson’s desk.

“MOTHER F—”

***

The first time you met a member of the team wasn’t one that you had expected. It was a month and a half into your recovery and you had written numerous mission reports on behalf of them and reset the programming of their training bots after each practice session but you still hadn’t met any of them.

The time you were taking to recover was driving you crazy. It made you feel weak. 2 months ago, you were in Barcelona, undercover as an underaged bartender for a mafia gang and now you were going to physiotherapy every week.

Since you were young and Fury didn’t want to take the change of you permanently injuring yourself, he was being very strict about what you could do, he basically confined you to a desk job for the next 2 months.

It was driving you mad.

So, one day when everyone was asleep, you snuck into the training area to practice shooting which you were sure had gone a little rusty since the accident. Nothing a little practice couldn’t help.

You picked up your favourite gun, smiling at the familiarity in your hand, loading it and clicking the safety off before pointing at the target and shooting.

The next thing you felt was excruciating pain. So painful that you were on the floor, pressing your forehead against the cold metal, wondering why this was happening to you.

The rebound of the gun had been too powerful for your arm to take. You felt your injury pull suddenly and you couldn’t think of anything other than the blinding pain as you cried on the floor. Feeling utterly helpless.

“Hello?”

You started, teary eyes getting wide at the sight of a blonde by the door. You had to wipe your eyes for your vision to focus, grunting in pain as you raised your arms again.

You recognized Iron Fist. You had been seeing footage of him and his team members for the last few weeks and writing mission reports about him but seeing him in person was a different feeling.

You hid your face, pulling your knees to your chest, hoping he would leave.

“I heard a gunshot.”

“Yeah,” Your voice cracked embarrassingly, “That was me.” 

“Everything alright?” He came closer to you, standing a foot away from you and you shook your head no.

In all honesty, you wanted to get off the floor and go back to bed, but your arm burned so painfully you were scared to move it again.

“Here, let me help.”

You froze, but still let him raise his hand towards you. You saw his palm light up before he pressed it to your shoulder and you whimpered, shuffling away from him but he continued to apply a gentle pressure.

Soon you felt the pain get better, it slowly reduced to a dull buzz.

“H-How did you do that?” You asked, turning to him with wide eyes and he chuckled, seeing the childish wonderment. You clearly had never seen him in person before even if he had seen you.

Danny noticed you the day he had joined S.H.I.E.L.D. You were returning from yet another mission and the soft blue dress you were wearing among armoured soldiers was hard to miss when he passed the debriefing room. Immediately, he stopped to peer inside.

The contrast between the soft summer dress and your cold, professional expressions sent a shiver down his spine. You looked so untouchable. However, he noticed the blush on your face when the agents complimented you and felt his heart flutter.

He had seen your road to recovery, he noticed you falling asleep at your desk every day, constantly doing work because you had nothing else to do and he wondered if it would be weird if he asked you to lunch sometime. For your sake, of course.

Looking at you curled up on the ground, he had wished he had done it sooner.

“You shouldn’t strain yourself before you’re ready.” He muttered, feeling tongue tied next to the girl he had been infatuated with from a distance.

You could only nod. This whole-time people had been telling you the same thing and you always retorted with confidence, saying that you were as good as ready to get back on the field. Never in your wildest dreams would you have thought they were right.

“I’m Iron Fist.”

“(Y/N).”

“I know.” His answer came a little too fast and had you raising a brow. Danny wished he adorned a mask to cover the whole of his face like Spiderman when he felt his cheeks becoming warm, “You write our mission reports. I’m not creepy, I swear.”

You chuckled airily, turning back to the gun that was left on the ground and you pulled it back into your hand before clicking the safety back on before chucking it across the room.

“Thanks for helping me.” 

“I’m glad I was there to help.”

***

After your first meeting, you found him approaching you more often after training. At first it was just ‘hello’s and ‘goodbyes. Then he began asking about your day and you gave him mundane responses before you were forced to ask him how his day was.

Then he started coming early before his training with a cup of tea for you, though it was sometimes juice, sometimes hot cocoa.

Then he started staying late after training and you would give him a bottle of water and complain about him being sweaty.

It was an unlikely friendship but nonetheless, you got closer as the days passed by and once you did, it didn’t take long for you to meet the rest of the team. They kept you company and you grew fond of the rest of them; however, it wasn’t the same way that you felt with Iron Fist.

Your crush on Iron Fist snuck up on you when you were least expecting it but once you realized it you couldn’t stop yourself from falling hard and deep. Still, you continued to hang out with him, pushing down the butterflies whenever he smiled and stopping yourself from grinning too wide whenever you were around him.

You tried to keep your relationship platonic, not wanting to get caught up in it because it was unprofessional. You didn’t even know his identity and you didn’t want to find out. You were afraid that once he revealed that part of his life to you there was no going back on your love for him.

So, you stayed friends, good friends.

***

“So, it all blew up in her face? Huh, I should say I’m surprised but I’m really not.” You said, sighing when Fury handed you the mission file that you had been working on for a year before handing it off to another agent.

“You get to relieve her of her duties and start working again. Effective as of next week.”

You were grinning now. The doctor had given you the all clear a month ago and you had been waiting for a mission to be handed off to you but it had been a quiet month, with no need for undercover or even recon missions.

To get back the mission that you lost when you got shot seemed like the best one to start off again, and you thought your day couldn’t get any better but it seemed like you were having an incredibly good day.

As soon as you exited the room, there stood Iron Fist in all his glory and your excitement got better of you. You bolted right into his arms, catching him off guard with a hug.

“Woah, did something happen?” He asked curiously but still wrapped his arms around you to return the hug. You pulled away, flashing him the mission file in your hand and grinned brightly.

“I finally got cleared for a mission!”

“Congratulations!”

“Thank you! I’m so excited! I have to go and prepare right away!”

“Wha—Right now?” He asked and you nodded frantically, “I’m off in about a week, lots to prepare before that.”

“Well, how long is it going to take?”

“Not sure, oooh, maybe I’ll get relocated someplace cool like Dubai or India or something.”

He didn’t seem to share your enthusiasm but just chuckled in a dejected sort of manner before nodding his head, “Maybe.”

***

“Partner? Fury, I don’t do partners. I am a single lady and would like to stay that way.”

He just sighed, used to your temper tantrums. Though he was honestly wishing he had a mute button on you. You were like the daughter he never wanted. Usually, he maintained a professional relationship with all the other agents but you were like the gem of the department.

Being one of the youngest and most capable of the agents was a reason for many of the older ones to fawn over you. I mean let’s be honest, a baby who can kick ass was adorable!

That always made you more outrageous than the other agents, letting yourself have the temper tantrums and choosing not to be a stiff, boring agent. You knew just how to push Fury to get what you wanted.

“The mission is to go to a socialite party and while you have the skills, you don’t have the contact.”

“That hasn’t stopped me before—”

“We need someone that has the last name to get you in. Besides, after last time, another agent looking after you wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”

Your face fell and Fury knew he made a mistake in choosing his words. Your lip quivered slightly and he heard an agent tut disapprovingly at him and mentally sighed.

“That wasn’t my fault...” You said softly, your voice seemed thick and he knew one wrong move could possibly break the floodgate. He sighed, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, “I know that. But we just want you to be safe. Just in case something goes wrong again, so this time somebody can have your back.”

You nodded sadly, lips in a small pout and eyebrows furrowed. Somewhere in the background he heard another agent whispering to another that Fury was trying to make you cry and felt his eye twitch.

“No one blames you for what happened.”

You nodded wordlessly again, still frowning.

“Tell you what, because it’s your first mission back, you get a higher budget for it.” That was it. Your face brightened like the sun and you giggled childishly, sending him a mischievous smirk as you thanked him.

You disappeared before he could even scold you and Fury then heard the rest of the agents burst into laughter about how you managed to play him.

Again.

***

“Daniel Rand.” You mumbled, looking over the case file. Apparently, he would be your partner for today but it was odd that you never heard of him before. It took you a very short time going through the S.H.I.E.L.D. database to find his name.

‘Daniel Rand, a.k.a. Iron Fist.’

‘WHAT?!’

Daniel Rand? The blond aristocrat that looked like he was picked out of your wildest dreams. With a face that could break hearts and make knees weak, was the confidant and friend that you had been crushing on for weeks now?

Wow, he definitely had a face to match.

Without realizing, you had been staring at his picture for about 5 minutes, fawning over his sharp jaw and deep green eyes with a ridiculous love-sick smile on your face, with your heart fluttering in your chest.

‘God, please, like me.’ You said in your head. So far you had sort of a flirtationship going on with Iron Fist but you wondered if it was the same for Danny. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would intentionally lead you on, but now that you were seeing his face, you realized just how little you knew about him.

He probably had a life of his own and you took up only a sliver of it. Being an agent, you didn’t leave the Helicarrier very often, and you certainly didn’t have too many very friends. You never really realized how much you were missing until you got shot.

Iron Fist, well Daniel, filled the void you felt during your time off but it was also very possible that he didn’t feel the same way, that you were just someone he spent time with to get over his boredom.

Maybe tonight would be the time to change that.

The mission was supposed to take place today, so you woke up bright and early to finish up some things. Go over case files, do a weapon check and pick out your outfit. You were supposed to wear something that would catch people’s attention. And in the back of your head, you also wanted to blow Daniel’s mind right out of his skull.

Red seemed like it would make a statement. So would a bodycon, or maybe a long dress with a high slit. You wanted to go all out for your first mission in months. Maybe even get a few jaw drops.

Finally deciding on an outfit, you quickly texted Daniel.

‘Wear (F/C).’

***

“This guy is coming right?” You asked, bored. You had been ready for about 15 minutes now, looking like you were dripping diamonds and lounging comfortably in Fury’s seat, with your legs thrown over the armrest.

“He’ll be here any minute now.” Said Coulson, checking his phone.

You rolled your eyes, “Why do I feel like this is one of those movie moments where the girl comes down the stairs and the guy is just staring at her with a jaw drop. Or like when the bride walks down the aisle and the groom bursts into tears.”

You sighed, checking your watch again. 20 minutes.

“For someone making me wait this long, he better be so good looking that it makes me cry.”

“Well, I hope I don’t disappoint.”

The new voice certainly turned a few heads and there stood Daniel Rand. The pictures online really did him no justice. Sure, you didn’t cry, but your eyes definitely didn’t feel worthy to be looking something so pretty in the eye.

Before you could help it, a ‘wow’ slipped past your lips and he blushed, having heard you. Wow, he was cute inside and out. Unfortunately, Coulson had to come in where he wasn’t wanted and suggested a quick briefing which you had to agree to.

In the middle of the briefing, Coulson handed you a ring box and you raised a brow, “I’m a little young for you, don’t you think?”

He let out an irritated sigh but you noticed the tips of his ears turn red from embarrassment, “You’re posing as his fiancé. You need an engagement ring to match.”

“Shouldn’t he be getting on his knee then?” You joked, gaping at the size of the diamond for a second before slipping it on, completely missing the way Danny got redder at your teasing, “Wow, it suits me so well one would think I was made to be a socialite’s fiancé.”

Danny didn’t say anything and you brushed it off, putting him off as the shy but cute bookworm who would come through in a difficult situation. As soon as the thought came to mind, you facepalmed. All it took was one good looking guy to mess up your work habits.

“Well, come on honey, we have a party to get to.” You called out teasingly and handed him the keys to the car before strutting to the garages.

Coulson clapped him on the back with a small smirk on his face, “Good luck, honey.”

***

It didn’t take much effort to meet your contact in the party and you quickly left Danny’s side to discreetly to get any information he could pass to you. You quietly chatted with the contact.

Behind you, you vaguely heard a bunch of girls flock around him, giggling shrilly and trying to flirt with him. You resisted rolling your eyes. You had on an engagement ring but Danny’s finger was still bare and even though he might have announced being taken to them, apparently it was necessary for a ring to show his commitment. Something told you that even if he got it tattooed on his forehead, people would still try to flirt with him.

He just had one of those faces. Those faces that made people lose all reason. I mean, you’re slightly annoyed at the girls that have no moral and are shamelessly throwing themselves at him. But really, can you blame them?

Danny was gorgeous. He looked like a Greek Adonis that was sent down from the heavens to grace your eyes. Honestly, you couldn’t take your eyes off him while the two of you were driving down to the party.

Seeing them get handsy was more irritating than It usually would be. As annoying as it was to see these women through all their morals out the window and try and get a taken man to reciprocate their advances, it was more annoying to see them gawk over the guy you were crushing on.

A part of you wanted to just leave him in the car and not have anybody look at him.

But to keep your crush a secret, you maintained your distance from him, talking to the contact in a mixture of different languages so no one would be able to understand. Once you were done, you opted for getting a drink until you saw the pleading look on his face and almost felt bad.

So, you sauntered over to him, cutting right through the throng of girls, disgusted to see that some of them had wedding rings on, right to Danny’s side, snaking an arm around his waist and placing your hand underneath on his chest, giving him a sweet smile.

The shiny engagement ring on your finger caught their attention and they frowned, reminded that they were allowed to look, but not to touch.

“I hope you didn’t miss me too much.” You said, syrupy sweet and loud enough for the girls to hear before turning to them with a charming smile, “I hope my fiancé wasn’t too short with you girls today, he’s very stressed lately, with the wedding planning and all.”

Their faces fell further when you leaned into him and they could all recognize the possessive glint in your eyes. A look that said, I saw you trying to get your hands on something that was mine, you vultures.

The left you two quickly after that, resorting to go gossip in some corner. You wondered if they were snivelling about you but then realized that you shouldn’t be too cocky.

Instead, you turned your unamused gaze to your ‘fiancé’, pulling away from him with a frown.

“I’m assuming that you haven’t come here to flirt with someone else’s wife.”

“I wasn’t flirting though...” He replied innocently and you pursed your lips, resisting the urge to scowl at him. Instead, you just sighed and turned away from him, keeping an eye on the rest of the guests.

If what you were told is true, then someone is going to attempt an assassination on your contact and it was your job to protect him. However, you were distracted once more when he placed a hand on your waist.

You meant to turn around and ask him what he was doing but his grip was strong and he then pressed his lips to your ear. You froze, neck getting uncomfortably hot.

“At the entrance to the foyer.” He mumbled, looking into the mirror that was facing the entrance. Sure, enough you saw it too, the glint that came from the shadows. Someone was there.

The two of you still managed to stay inconspicuous, pretending like you were a couple in love. You turned to him with a smirk, hand going to your thigh where a gun was holstered.

“What do you say about getting out of here?”

With a hand around your waist, he led you to the other end of the room. Just as you expected, a waiter came up to you, trying to guide you elsewhere and you realized that both exits were covered. Grinning up at him, you asked him where the restroom was, giggling in a way that suggested something and he showed you up to the staircase to a hallway. 

Some of the older couples gave you knowing smiles while some of them passed disgusted glances as you made your way to the bathroom that for some reason had a couch in it. Damn, rich people.

You pulled up a schematic of the house, along with security cameras and looked figured out that each one of the exits were covered. Quickly making a plan with Danny, the two of you were about to exit again when you stopped him

You reached up and raked your fingers through his hair, dishevelling it a little before messing up his collar and slightly untucking his shirt. Taking a step back to admire your handiwork, you stopped for a second.

Something was missing.

It quickly occurred to you and you used your thumb to ruin your lipstick a little before smearing it at the base of his neck, “That should be convincing enough. Don’t you think?”

You didn’t give him a moment to answer, not that he even could, with you so close that he could smell your perfume and the scent made him feel dizzy. You pulled away to mess up your own hair and dress.

“How do I look?”

“Dishevelled.”

“Excellent.”

***

“Mission successful, assassination attempt was unsuccessful, contact is safe and being placed into witness protection, assassinators are in custody for questioning. Report 291220. Agent 290803. Phase Beta successful.” You reported into the com set.

Danny was quiet beside you, choosing to pay attention to the road while you deactivated your gadgets for the night. A quick glance from the corner of your eyes made your heart speed up just a little. He was doing that thing where he drove with just one arm.

“You know...” You started, clicking the safety on your gun, avoiding his eyes, “We don’t have to go back to HQ right now? We can get some dinner or something? In the mood for a veggie burger?”

“Is this meant to be platonic?”

“It’s meant to be a date.” You commented. His jaw tightened slightly and you raised a brow at him, did you really make him so uncomfortable?

“I thought you were in a relationship.”

“What?”

“Iron Fist. You like him, don’t you?”

An amused chuckle left you. Of course. He didn’t know you were aware of his secret. Resisting the urge to laugh at him, you shot him a smirk, leaning against your arm.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Danny’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. He didn’t look at you, instead staring at the road with a steely gaze and for a second you wondered if you shouldn’t have pushed him.

“It’s a little hypocritical of you to nag me for not being loyal in a fake engagement and then going behind Iron Fist’s back, don’t you think?”

His voice was tight and he was gritting his teeth as he talked to you. You sighed, not wanting to upset him, “Not when you’re the same person.”

He jerked.

“Woah! Drive straight dude!”

“You knew?”

You snorted, “Pretty much, yeah. And since when are we in a relationship? I don’t remember you ever asking me out?”

His cheeks coloured, embarrassed and he looked away from your gaze, “I was planning to.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You continued in a comfortable silence while he drove. You weren’t really paying attention to where he was driving, choosing to look at him with a small smile. He really was beautiful. Judging by his red ears, he was well aware of your staring.

Eventually, he pulled into a parking space and you were mildly surprised to see he had driven you to a McDonalds. You grinned at him and he returned the smile, getting out of the car to open your door before taking your hand.

“You owe me a date.”

You sent him a soft smile, curling your finger underneath his chin before pulling him in for a gentle kiss. He returned it immediately, slightly pushing you onto the car door and gripping your hips. You pulled away, giggling when you realized some of your lipstick was now staining his.

Chuckling, you leaned up until your lips were brushing against his ear, “Hey genius, you still haven’t asked me out yet.”

Forever Taglist: @simonsbluee

USM Taglist: @imcarolinashannon

[writing-in-april]

A Hope to go Home

Spencer Reid x Gender Neutral Reader (Spencer’s POV and Vietnam war AU)

Summary: Spencer is drafted for the war and the only thing that helps him get through it is the letters he gets from Reader.

A/N: This is my second fic for my 1250 follower celebration!!! It’s also the third part for my Spencer Reid & Letters series based on this request by @90spumkin 😊 This was super fun to write cause of how much of a history nerd I am! It’s the first time I’ve done a full blown historical AU (besides the series I’ve got coming in the future) Thanks for reading hope y’all like it and requests are open!

Warnings: Talk of violence & Talk of war- this whole fic is kinda loosely based on the prison arc with Spencer, just with an obvious twist

Main Masterlist Word Count: 1.6k

When October 28th was called out over the radio my heart dropped deep down into my stomach. I had been huddled next to the men that I worked with that were eligible. I remember distinctly thinking that there was no way that it could ever be me, if I didn’t fully acknowledge the possibility it would be easier to get through.

Then reality decided to slap me across the face.

Out of all the 27 million men that were eligible for the draft, why did I have to be part of the 2.2 million that got chosen?

None of the other men I worked with at the bureau had been called in, besides Anderson though I wasn’t very close with him. Most of them besides Me, Anderson, and Morgan were already too old to be eligible, I envied them immensely.

The looks on their faces told me all that I needed to know. They looked like they were already ready to start planning my funeral. I was glad I had at least been given the rest of the day off so I wouldn’t have to look at their somber faces anymore. At least I’d also get to go home to them early. It would probably be my last day off in a while, maybe ever.

Morgan and I had been pushing to get funding from our bosses for a new department, along with a few others, especially that old timer named Rossi. We had a few working names, chief among them the “Behavioral Science Unit”. Our idea was to create a unit in response to the uptick of violent crimes- especially serial offenders and help catch them by analyzing their behaviors. Most of the bureau thought we were a bunch of cooks, they still viewed our idea to use psychology to help catch criminals as a pseudoscience. I had even considered quitting my position a number of times because of the rampant disregard for people’s rights by the director, J. Edgar. Hoover, who’s questionable investigations caused my stomach to churn regularly.

But, we were getting close to getting that first pile of cash to help us fund a unit and I felt a need to see this project through. It was too important of a project to quit right when we were so close. Even though the actions of the government made me sick, I wanted to help from within, I wouldn’t quit. Though in light of my new circumstances I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to see that pile of cash, let alone be able to name the unit. Maybe I’ll live to see what name they choose, if I get out of Vietnam alive. Though from what I had seen already from the people that came back injured beyond belief, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to get out alive.

Even though I considered myself too weak to be a proper soldier that could be successful in combat, I didn't have any viable exception to the draft and I wasn’t brave enough to dodge. I cursed myself internally for not going for another PHD, I had heard it was rather easy to obtain a waiver if you were a student. However, I felt increasingly guilty for thinking that.

It was a well known fact that the richer you were, the easier it was to get a deferment. And, even though I wasn’t the most well off I still would have been able to afford to get another PHD when many couldn’t even think about getting a bachelors. Plus, I wasn’t even sure what we were supposed to be fighting for anyway. In the last world war there had been a reason. It seemed like no one knew the reason for this one. Was it worth it to see all these men perish? I guess it was for the Washington elite.

As I boarded to leave to a country so few knew anything about or cared to know anything about, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever come home again. The look on their face when I broke the news to them and their devastation when we had said what may be our last goodbye haunted me. They were smart, arguably just as smart as me, they knew I was most likely marching to my death. I hoped their devastation wouldn’t be the last thing I’d ever be able to remember of them while I bled out in a country I didn’t think we should be fighting against. I hoped I’d be able to come home.

—-

The only thing that was really keeping me going over here, where the sun was so hot I thought I would be incinerated to a crisp like those poor people in Hiroshima and Nagasaki was my hope. Though maybe that was the fear of being bombed by my own country and brushed off as “necessary casualties” talking, all in an effort to put down an enemy most of us didn’t understand.

I waited impatiently under the burning sun tapping my foot repeatedly while someone next to me kept talking. Any other time and at any other place I would’ve been talking just as much as he had. When I first got here and the only person that I had connected with in basic training was almost immediately blown to smithereens. I decided that forming relationships here was futile. It was just easier to keep my head down and hope for home.

It had been quite a long time since I had gotten my last letter, specifically from them. Most of the letters I ended up getting were from them, my mom sent some on occasion but because of her fragile mental health I had told the staff where she was to not tell her where I had gone. My co workers had tried too, mostly at the beginning though when it was somewhat assured I’d still be alive. I think they had lost hope that I’d return, though some had obviously thought that was never going to happen, probably on account for my obviously unathletic stature.

My significant other had been the only one who seemed to hold out hope, even sometimes more than I could muster. That’s why every night I’d look over the letters they had sent me, to help replenish the hope that had been drained throughout the days.

It had been so long though, since I had received my last letter from them. A sense of dread filled the bottom of my stomach over the crippling fear of wondering if they had moved on. I didn’t know how long I’d been here, I stopped counting after a month. Had they stopped bothering to count too? Was it no longer worth it?

“Reid!” My last name was barked at me by the man in charge who I only bothered to learn the name of because I didn’t know I would have gotten in trouble. He barked again at me, “Letter for you!”

My heart caught up in my throat. I hoped the letter would be from them, if it was from anyone else I’m not sure it would bring me any happiness- at least it would be nothing compared to the happiness letters that they sent me made me feel, even if only for a moment.

I scooted off quickly with my letter in hand towards the barracks eager to tear into the letter. I hadn’t flipped over the envelope yet, wanting to wait to see who it was from by myself so I didn’t show emotion in front of the other soldiers. I plopped down on the cot assigned to me, though it was so thin it might as well have been a wooden board. My fingers shook as I tore into the envelope rabidly, I needed to see the words written in their hand. I didn’t know if I could handle this letter not being from them.

“Dear Spencer,”

As soon as I saw those words written in loopy cursive on a creased piece of paper I always felt slightly better. The letter was filled with sweet words and flowery language that most people would scoff at, but it meant the world to me. I wasn’t ok by any means and I didn’t know if I’d ever be fully ok again. But the words ‘Dear Spencer,” made me hope I’d one day go home again.

—

When that fateful day came, it was surreal. It wasn’t until I was back home on U.S soil that I had processed that I was finally going home.

My heart pounded in my chest as I waited to be reunited with them- the streets were crowded with many people. It had been the happiest sight I had been able to see in a long time, people reuniting with their loved ones.

I couldn’t find them in the sea of happiness around me, it made me worry. The last letter I had gotten from them had been a few months ago. I clutched it in my hand like I had clutched onto my hope. I wondered if it had been too long since I had been home.

“Spencer!” My name being called, my first name, not my last as I had become accustomed to overseas. Relief flooded through my veins that had only known anxiety, dread, and fear for so long. I knew who it was instantly and I knew it was time to come home. Maybe they’d let me name the unit now that I was home.

——

Tag list (message me if you want to be added):

All works:

@shotarosleftpinky @oreogutz @90spumkin @kyra-morningstar @s1utformgg

Spencer Reid/CM:

@calm-and-doctor @destiny-tsukino @safertokiss @slutforthegubes

Letters Series: (Group of Unlinked fics about Spencer and letters)

@whoreforthebau @sierraraeck @90spumkin

[reginaofdoctorwho]

ok so i started this as a draft days ago and barely remember where i was going with this idea but i tried to fill it out a little more. basically it’s just that anytime Curt says he misses being a spy he misses being a spy with Owen or the spy he was with Owen. so probably everything is what everyone knows already

Curt ties being a spy with Owen. completely, intrinsically, whatever, okay?? in Spy Again Curt says “Owen would want me to do this”, and lists

hop in a jet and fly again

grow a spine again

do my best not to cry again

wear a suit and tie again

drink martinis and drive again

get by again

feel like a real important guy again

as what he’s going to do as a spy. let’s check off what happens before Owen’s reveal (i’m trying to include some)

hop in a jet and fly again

grow a spine again

do my best not to cry again (i’m trying to be nice here he’s probably doing his best despite what happens)

wear a suit and tie again (literally part of the mission)

drink martinis and drive again (he’s sobering up)

get by again (barely my dude)

feel like a real important guy again

which, decent, but our dude is also having gay flashbacks, messing up a very simple and clear mission, and mistakes flirting for fighting (to quote my friend “Amelie” “he’s,,, so bad at pretending to be straight”) this all being with him having been one of the greatest spies, to the point of recognition years after he retired.

and post Owen’s reveal

hop in a jet and fly again (we’re going to count whatever that in

grow a spine again

do my best not to cry again

wear a suit and tie again (i mean he doesn’t need it??)

drink martinis and drive again (ok i don’t know maybe?? he does shots before and THEN chases Owen and then he’s drinking whiskey when he meets with Tatiana)

get by again

feel like a real important guy again (look at him at the end

more below the cut because this is already long and it’s going to be even longer

Okay, to be more in depth, (this’ll sound like a lot of my other posts) at the beginning Curt Mega is truly a great spy. yes, he was captured by Oleg, but the entire interaction with him Curt is still in control. he mocks Oleg, breaks his fingers, hits the bat back at him, all while holding a conversation (and flirting) with Owen. he’s confident the entire time, he’s willing to go against plans and is overconfident to a fault. While Cynthia is somewhat rude and pays more attention to Owen in the beginning (”finally someone who knows what the hell they’re doing!”) but i think she’d treat him the same as Curt if he ever did decide to work for her. it’s partially a “bring in new talent” and partially a “keep the old talent from being overconfident” thing. i don’t think it’s an actual mark on what pre-fall Curt was like as an agent. but either way, their record was six minutes to get out of a building presumably set to explode (or implode. fuck if i know) and they were still both confident and eager to lower the time even more. and they would have accomplished it, if not for Owen falling. what i’m saying is pre-canon Curt was a very effective agent, was good at his job, and was likely almost never out of his depth.

in Spy Again, he’s talking about becoming a spy again, but he links this to Owen, believing that being a spy again would enable him to work past Owen’s death (”but maybe this time’ll be different, it might be what I need”). he’s haunted by the “memories” not “memory”, which could be taken as any time he and Owen worked together, not just when he died. he wants to be a spy, but even stating that and the things he misses about being a spy (above lists) starts to remind him of Owen (”and i know just where i’m goin’, me and my partner Owen!”). he sees himself post-fall, with his beard, alcoholism, and trying and failing to improve (”i do what i can, try to make a plan, to be a better man, but nothing seems to stick”) and again relates it to Owen (”Owen please, if you could see what’s become of me, what would you think?”). Curt decides Owen would want him to be a spy again (”i once was a spy. i think you’d want me to spy again”) and repeats it to make it stick (”Owen would want me to do this”), and that is what truly starts him off again. or so it would seem.

in his first mission back, Curt can’t start again. he has to talk himself into doing his job again (”looks like that someone has to be me. you came here to do this, so do the job, stop acting like a little pussy”), and then mostly rides along on what Tatiana does anyway (”i second that motion!) a far cry from the beginning Curt who did his job eagerly. and we are again reminded that Curt was a great spy when Sergio recognizes Curt on sight and says “is that Agent Curt Mega? ... i can’t believe this, the most famous spy in the world busting my arms deal. hey, would you mind signing something...” followed by DMA immediately being able to disarm Curt with ease, showing the contrast. Curt does recognize the baked goods are the way to hurt Sergio, but also loses the bomb to Tatiana

Curt is, at this point, still waiting [in a way] for a partner. it is not implied in the beginning that he and Owen worked together every mission, rather the opposite in fact (“MI6 didn’t tell me you were on this mission”), but he still seems to almost expect a partner, and goes off what Tatiana says even though they’re not working together, and they both train their weapons on the baked goods.

Cynthia points out that he’s been on an early retirement for four years, which Curt is very quick to correct as a grieving period. his hands shake during Cynthia’s drill, he fumbles the gun, and he has none of the grace or style of the beginning. when Cynthia mentions Owen and Curt’s alcoholism (”i remember when i got the call that Owen died and you lived, i screamed into Susan’s neck for fifteen seconds, then i locked it up and moved on. you on the other hand, you drank yourself to rock bottom...”) Curt doesn’t even look at her. when she poisons him, he’s still able to repeat back (in essence) what she said, showing that the spy of the past is still there, deep down.

Eyes on the Prize II is the (i think) first time we see Gay Flashback-Owen. he is notably not slipping and dying, as would likely be going through Curt’s head if he were haunted by that specific memory alone (going back to the “haunted by any memory of Owen”) thing i mentioned, but is instead also saying “keep your eyes on the prize” with the ensemble, again lining up Owen with Curt’s idea of being a spy.

during the casino scene Curt is clumsy with his acting, and is trying to get information from Tatiana (it’s all very awkward. “make it a white russian, hold the vodka, please, thank you so much” “excellent choice. one vodka martini bone dry, and one glass of cream”), but as soon as another person joins it (Dick Big), the relationship between them turns from enemies trying to get information from the other to an uneasy team (”i’m hardly alone, the woman and i were just about to-”), with Curt even giving a russian toast, and although Tatiana definitely notices when Curt is given a gun by the dealer, she politely declines to mention it, and when Curt offers her his arm while Dick is off finding a waiter, she smiles. and while it could be argued that it is just them working undercover, this did feel more genuine than when they are alone and back in their assumed positions (”besides, without that horrible face fungus, what will i have to yank?” “we are talking about fighting, right?”) Tatiana also recognizes that Curt is alone in more ways than one, both without backup and without anyone he can trust fully. in the short time they’ve been together, they already are close enough to friends that Tati apologizes for bringing him to DMA

despite the two of them being on opposite sides during this encounter, they are already beginning to act as partners/friends, and Curt takes her betrayal more personally than he should have

i’d also like to take this moment to point out that DMA almost instinctively stabs the Nazi henchman for saying “seems his noggin’s a bit dense!” of Curt

during Torture Tango, it seems like he’s having a natural reaction to getting tortured. Curt is nervous, he’s afraid, he’s ready to die (”you sick bastard, why don’t you just kill me already?”/”i can’t deny that i’m gonna die”). but this is NOT how the torture scene at the beginning went, even before he knew Owen was there. at the beginning scene Curt is arrogant, throwing Oleg’s words back at him, breaking his fingers, keeping a cool tone and staying in control the whole time. this time he barely talks to the DMA, he doesn’t fight back, he just accepts it. also, he sings “i once was a spy but i won’t be a spy again” and “thought i could say goodbye, but i can’t lie i wanna be a spy again” despite the fact that he is a spy again. he says he wants to be a spy again, but he already is a spy again, what he’s missing is Owen. he was once a spy with a partner he loved and could trust completely, and the partner felt the same way about him. that is what i believe enabled him to be such a good spy, he had someone who knew everything about him, being gay included, and he was able to act more confidently as a result. what he misses is less of the “go get the girl and go save the world” and more seeing his partner even for short periods and having the confidence that comes from being known. also, curt is on the verge of death and is still thinking of Owen (”doesn’t even matter if i killed my best friend”)

back to Tatiana, who’s having her own crisis. “is Mega my enemy do i let him die? i’ve got to think about my family ‘cause no one’s looking out for me...” she, at this point, has not interacted with Curt beyond the arms deal, the casino, and betraying him to von Nazi and DMA. despite this she still sees him as a possible ally, and ultimately does decide to betray von Nazi and DMA for him (to his understandable confusion). when she unties him, he only calms down when she holds her arm out to him, but he becomes so distracted by it and Gay Flashback-Owen that he doesn’t notice DMA is waking up until he’s already been shot.  i’d also like to point out that Gay Flashback-Owen is doing the same arm out pose Tatiana is doing while holding Curt’s arm

end of act 1. can i get a wahoo?

when Curt is with Barb, he acknowledges that he’s fucked things up, but still catches himself on saying he is a [great] spy again ”i was, i am, supposed to be the best”

i think during the gala he is trying to be the Curt from the past while ignoring why he was that way. he insists on going rogue, he confidently (and foolishly) announces that he is a spy, the prince will be assassinated, and that the Russians and Americans know, despite the fact that it doesn’t seem like a good idea if thought about at all. With blowing up the facility at the beginning there was some merit to it. they had been seen, they stole the plans and possibly wished to muddle why they were there, the facility might have had more plans they didn’t know about and they were already on a time limit. they also had a limit on the tech items they had (no rocket shoes :’( ).

when Tatiana rescues him again and takes him to his mother’s safe house, who mentions a “constant parade of drinking buddies, for poker or wrestling or whatever you boys do in the rumpus room” and while we could make an argument about Curt trying to move on after the fall, i think this youtube comment on the video is a fucking treasure and i will forever remember it.

i’d also like to point out now that Tatiana is truly the only character that i believe could “replace” Owen for Curt. he needs someone in his life who can know even the parts he hides from those closest to him, someone on equal footing with him, someone who doesn’t idolize him, and someone who works well with him. he can’t tell his mother, because she wants grandchildren, she wants a daughter-in-law, she wants to plan a wedding. it can’t be Cynthia, she’s his boss, it’s set during the Lavender Scare when he could lose his job for being gay. it can’t be Barb, who has an intense crush on him, and even when she does act in a platonic way, she is willing to risk her job based on the fact that it’s him (in an almost awestruck way). Tatiana is unimpressed with Curt when they first meet, they become friends quickly, work together to stop von Nazi and DMA, they are both spies at the top of the field, and she accepts him (”you’re cool with me?” “till the end!” “cool :)”). also, i think it’s interesting that Tatiana believes she is saving someone (her family) by leaving them behind, while Curt believed he killed someone (Owen his lover) by leaving them behind. just kinda parallels i think

before Doing This, Curt says he is is afraid that “[he’ll] never be the spy [he] once was” and that he believes he shouldn’t need anyone else. when Tatiana says he’ll get everyone who cares about him killed with his line of thinking he says the line “i already have.” explains about Owen, and adds “and that was back when I was the old Curt”.

during One More Shot, Curt acknowledges that he tried to get past missing Owen by trying not to need anyone else, which was wrong (“i used to think i could do this by myself i was fine, i didn't need any help“). this is him starting to take his friendship with Tati and being able to use it to see that while he cannot work alone, he doesn’t need one specific person to make him the man he is.

this of course promptly goes out the window when DMA is revealed to be Owen

however, Curt still calls Tatiana “partner” before going after Owen.

when he does go after Owen (One Step Ahead), he still thinks of Owen as the man from 1957 (”what happened to the man i knew?”). when Owen begins to explain, Curt tries to remind him of what they did “together. two of the greatest spies to ever live”. once again associating him and Owen together with being a spy

also, once Owen is dead (idk if i hope for real or not) again, Curt does make a change for the better. he’s able to be fairly confident around Cynthia, he tries to be enthusiastic about Barb’s tech/data analysis merge, he is able to talk about his “ex lover returned from the grave” with Tatiana. i do find it interesting though that he does not tell her about the other facilities, again taking it upon himself to fix it, and only telling her “give me a ring if you’re ever stateside”.

in a final moment, Curt is able to move on from Owen, and acknowledge “i once was a spy, i’ll always be a spy” with or without Owen.

[mystery-star]

The Biggest Compliment – Spock

Pairing: Spock (AOS) x gender-neutral reader

Warnings: none

Words: 3944

Please do not repost my work on other sites or platforms!

-

Of course everyone in the 23rd century knew about Starfleet. But while you were certain that you would never join them, you had not believed that you would need to work together with their Academy one day. You hadn’t known what they wanted of you, when you had been told that your designer talent was needed. First you thought they might want to have new uniforms but probably a tailor would be better for this. Then you speculated over the possibility that they wanted a new logo. Or maybe it just was something like an advertisement for new recruits or so.

The thing they needed your help with, however, turned out be a test. Well, a simulation, to be exact. They wanted to animate the whole thing new. And not just animate, as you heard also the coding hat been redone, for whatever reason. After they had shown you what the old simulation looked like, you were introduced to your co-worker; the one who had written the new coding. It was a Vulcan and you didn’t know what to think of that. Not because he was not human but because you had never seen a Vulcan ‘close-up’ but hat heard a lot of, not so good, things about their race. As it seemed, also the instructor who was showing you around didn’t seem to be a big fan of him and leant closer to you before he left you in your new office.

“Don’t mind him, he can get pretty prissy sometimes” he whispered to you before he wished you good work and then left, leaving you alone with the man you’d spend the next weeks with. You looked at him for a while and didn’t know what to say.

“May I see what you have?” he asked. It was the first time you heard his voice and you had to admit, it sounded quite good.

“What do you mean, what I have?”

“I am certain you have already prepared something” he said it with such a certainty that made you feel bad that you had, in fact, nothing.

“No?” he raised an eyebrow “Look, I literally heard what they want from me half an hour ago. Before, they only told me that they needed my as a designer and I had no idea what it was” he remained silent and you didn’t like that “All I have are a few notes. I’m sure you couldn’t have made drafts beforehand if they just called you to their office for making a new code without telling you what it was about first”

“That is not quite correct. I have asked to reprogram the test myself and therefore have arrived to the meeting sufficiently prepared” you rolled your eyes

“Well as I said, I only took a few notes during the simulation I watched”

“May I see those?” he held out his hand to you

“It’s just the basics, like what notes what it is about. Because I was told that you would tell me exactly what you need” he still didn’t move his hand, so you sighed “Fine, here you go” you pulled out your PADD and placed it on the table. Because you didn’t want to give it into his hand if he behaved like that. He had a look then pointed at the title.

“The simulation is called Kobayashi Maru, not Cobrayoshi Moru”

“Well excuse me for understanding it wrong” he didn’t reply and continued

“What do you mean by ‘good ship’?”

“The ship, this Kobayashi Maru that is in distress”

“Then please describe it accordingly

“As I said” you hissed “this are only first notes”

“Besides, I already have defined the amount of the Klingon warbirds to five, so your note that reads ‘ca. 4-5 enemy ships’ is inaccurate”

“I counted them on the screen of the simulation I watched. And apparently that wasn’t good or else you wouldn’t have reprogrammed it, right?”

“I have solely noticed inconsistencies in the coding. The animation itself was not much flawed”

“Okay” you took a deep breath “How about we sit together and you tell me exactly what you want, so that I can get working on it?”

“For now, I solely need one of the animated warbirds”

“But that’ll take hours to make. I could make a sketch in 5 minutes or so”

“I need a three-dimensional model of it”

“Well, I don’t have one right now. The only ship that I can offer you as a model of a cruise ship. Or no, maybe we also have one of a science fiction starship somewhere”

“I do not need a cruise ship or a random starship” he explained that he needed the actual ship that would be used in the simulation so that he could finetune the programmed movements with the animation.

“Good then give two hours and you’ll have a draft-model. I can still change it later on when you have calibrated it”

“Very well” he gave a nod and you sat down at the desk that had been prepared and started unpacking your stuff before you got working on some sketches. Suddenly, you noticed that someone was standing behind you and you turned around.

“Please don’t do that”

“What are you referring to?”

“Looking over my shoulder. It’s distracting. I can’t work like that” he raised an eyebrow but left you alone.

-

About half an hour later you were ready to present him your three drafts of the ships.

“I only requested one”

“Yes, but I made three versions. Drafts”

“I have not asked for drafts, especially multiple ones”

“Do you have any idea how design works? Obviously not or you’d have done the damn animation yourself” you muttered the last part “I always make drafts for a client after they told me what they need, which you didn’t even do, so sorry if I don’t get it quite right on the first try.”

“I have informed you that I need to have a model of a Klingon warbird”

“And here you have three drafts” you pointed at three models “Which one do you like best?”

“I do not like them” you had to bite back a sigh and a part of you just wanted to smack him right in the face.

“Good” you said, taking a deep breath and picking up your stylus “Then what would you like instead?”

“I would have preferred if you had invested all your time into one model instead of three”

“Look, I will put more work into one of them, just tell me which one is the best”

“They are all flawed” at least you now totally understood what this other man had meant with that he could get prissy.

“Well it are only drafts” you explained “Don’t Vulcans do drafts?”

“We do not prepare several different versions if only one is needed since it would be a waste of time”

“Good speaking of wasting time; just tell me which model you want me to edit and make it perfect”

“No matter how much work you will put in it, it will always stay an animated model and therefore will never be perfect”

“Which. Ship?!” you hissed gesturing at your PADD.

“This one” he pointed at the second draft “However….” You had to fight not to roll your eyes. Of course you knew there was a ‘but’ coming. You did your best to not become upset when he told you what mistakes you had made on your draft, while you made notes on the most important points. A part of you wondered how long you could take it before you just broke his nose, cut off his ears, ripped off his bangs or rammed your stylus in his eye. Or all together.

-

While you started to get working on the chosen model, Commander Spock took the draft to link it with his coding, while you tried to make the starship as authentic as possible which was not so easy without an accurate source or idea how it looked like except for the description you had gotten. When you left for the day, your client seemed to be a bit disappointed that you could not finish the model already. For that reason you decided to come an hour earlier the following day but to your dismay, the Vulcan was already there

“Did we not agree that you may start at 0830 hours?” you had been in the office for three seconds and already were pissed off by him again although you had tried not to be anymore.

“Yes but since I didn’t come as far as I wanted yesterday, I decided to come earlier today. The sooner I get the animation done the better” because it meant, among other, that you would be rid of him. Luckily, you didn’t need to talk to him that much today. But then he requested you to get a second model for the second ship. “Give me a second”

“I doubt you can create an accurate model in a second”

“Just watch and see” you tapped on the model you were already working on and duplicated it “there. Took me a little under two seconds”

“You cannot just duplicate the model”

“Oh but I can. I can also centuple it” you glared at him, tapped the model again, called up the settings and set the number of duplicates to 100 and when you returned, the whole screen was filled with ships “There. That should occupy you for a while”

“As I already said, there are only five ships that I need for the simulation. Besides, I cannot use these duplicates. If you wish to copy your models, you need to use a template”

“Well okay” you said “But that’ll take me a couple of minutes” he gave a nod “Why thank you, (Y/N)” you muttered to yourself “Thank you for your co-operation and withstanding my coldness”

-

Because he wanted all ships to be visually different, you decided to change minor details on them before you gave him the new model. Once you had prepared all ships, even the Kobayashi Maru, you needed to take care of the surroundings for which you designed the space, of course in the dimensions that Spock had told you. Then you set your models into it and adjusted their positions so that they more or less corresponded with the coordinates that Spock had programmed for them. When he had a look at the model he raised an eyebrow

“What now?” you asked, knowing that something did not please him at all.

“The positions of the Klingon warbirds one, three, four and five need to be adjusted slightly” At least he was now calling the ships by numbers and not the stupid model names he had given them in his code. It had taken you almost two days to get him do that and you had just written his model name onto the according ship in ugly red letters so that you knew which one he was talking about. “Move ship one 2.3 millimeters to the left and 1.8 millimeters down, ship two….”

“Woah wait… I never heard anyone saying decimals of millimeters. This model doesn’t even accept them. I can give you half millimeters but not point three or point eight. Besides, no one can actually know if the ship is perfectly aligned when they do the simulation. And if we align the weapons right they will still hit the ship if they enter the coordinates of the ship”

“I know but I wish that it is as accurate as possible. Speaking of accuracy” he explained that the surroundings were not accurate either because the constellations were wrong and did not look like this ad the place the simulation took place

“In other words you want me to fucking re-align every single star correctly?”

“It does not need to be completely accurate, yet I do ask you to adjust their positions so that it does have more similarities with the coordinates where the simulation occurs”

Well, in contrast to you I don’t have a fucking stellar map saved in my brain” he walked away and then handed you a PADD, explaining that it would turn into a 360° stellar map if you opened the correct program and entered the coordinates you wanted.

-

So you just spent the following three days on redoing the whole surroundings, this times even with micrometers as unit so that you could adjust the ships perfectly as he wanted. At times you found it easier to agree to what he wanted and have more work instead of discussing with him, which would result in you doing as he wanted anyway. You hadn’t even been able to make it clear to him that sometimes you need to be polite and say please and thank you, to which he replied that such formalities were illogical since they did not change anything about the request and that he would never say please in an order to subordinates.

Since it was a bigger project, it took up several weeks of collaboration with Spock and somehow the thing that bugged you most about working with him was the fact that you had to admit to yourself that, despite everything he did or said, your stupid, illogical heart had managed to develop romantic feelings for the Vulcan. You didn’t know if that just was because of his appearance or if it also was his almost dominating behavior that made you feel that way. One thing was for certain; the more you worked with Spock the stronger these feelings got. So, you were a little relieved when the semester started again and he wasn’t around all day but spent a great part of his time teaching classes. But at times that also brought problems because you had learnt that sometimes it was better to just ask him if he was okay with something sooner rather than later because if he wanted you to change many things about it you’d have more work later on. So you would just leave your office and go looking for him instead to show him what you had done. He had forwarded you his timetable so that you knew where to find him at which time. If you found the correct classroom, of course.

“Spock, I think I finally could make the final….”

“Can you give me three minutes?”

“Fine but then don’t complain that we’re three minutes behind in schedule” you muttered

“There is no such detailed schedule. I even do not have a fixed date on which we need to be finished but rather a time interval”

“So that means we don’t just have one more month but two in total?”

“Yes” you gave a nod

“Good then I’ll let you finish your stuff”

-

One thing you always loved about your work was to see it in action. In that case that was, when everything was finished so far that some test people could make the simulation to see how everything was working. It was mainly to test the simulation itself, to see if the coding worked but you had been asked to be there as well so that you could have an eye on the animation and make sure everything happened in life time and correctly. You were quite proud when you noticed that almost everything was working perfectly fine and that there only were a few details you had to change. As well as some details on the ships themselves because Spock still was not perfectly happy with them.

“And?” you asked after four goes at the simulation

“What do you wish to know?” Spock asked

“Well what you think of it”

“I have noticed that there are a few instances that you will need to go over” you crossed your arms

“What?” you couldn’t believe that this was his answer and to your dismay he started listing up some flaws.  “Stop” you growled, making him raise an eyebrow “I know that there are some imperfections but I’m sorry that I’m not as perfect as you”

“I never claimed that I was perfect. I am a being and all beings are flawed”

“Wow that I got you to admit that”

“To claim that I am perfect would be a lie and highly illogical”

“You and your stupid thinking in code”

“The assumption that I think in ‘code’ is not correct”

“But logical. You think logically, as a Vulcan. Coding is pure logic”

“I see, yet the conclusion is still incorrect” you sighed

“Wow, you’re never ever gonna compliment me or my work, huh?”

“It would be illogical to point out points that do not need modification anymore. Therefore I only tell what you will need to work on again”

“Well but I’m human and we sometimes need reassurance that what we did is good!”

“As you can derive from my statement, your work can be considered as good, when there is nothing that I ask you to change about it”

“You don’t get my point, do you?”

“I do but I do not think it is necessary to point…”

“Just one compliment about my work. I stood your behavior for weeks now”

“Four weeks, five days and 3.6 hours to be exact”

“See, even worse. You have to be so precise and perfectionistic every fucking time”

“However, if you had a problem with something you would have addressed it”

“No. Because humans don’t always do that. But I am complaining now”

“Very well. What do you wish me to change?”

“Well you could make just one simple compliment or something that you like about the way I work on this project” he raised an eyebrow and was silent “Or are you just as fed up with me as I’m with your behavior?”

“You work highly focused” you let out a huff

“Well at least something”

“Besides” he added a bit more quietly and after a pause “I find your hands and fingers to be pleasingly shaped and they move gracefully”

“Okay that was hella unexpected” and even a little creepy “Did you pay that much attention to my hands?”

“When you were showing me something, yes I was at certain times” you frowned. How could he still have noticed so many flaws in your work then if he had just stared onto your hands?

“That is a little weird, don’t you think?”

“No”

“No?”

“Hands hold a different value on Vulcan” he explained that their hands were extremely sensitive and often were something like a symbol of love in their culture.

“So if you told that another Vulcan… what would happen?”

“Usually, Vulcans will only compliment their bondmate’s physiology”

“Hm okay. Are bondmates something like a spouse?”

“Or what you call fiancés”

“But back to my question, what would happen?”

“I cannot say because some might react emotionally in such a situation”

“So you’re saying that you’re not acting emotionally? Like never?”

“We are sentient being so we all will act emotionally at times, whether we want it or not”

“Okay. But what do you want to do, now that you told me how much you like my hands?”

“I have never stated that I like them” you frowned

“That sounds like something is bothering you”

“It is of no consequence”

Come on, tell me. You already told me you like, no wait you… whatever, find my hands pleasing or how you’d want to formulate it. And now something is bothering you”

“I was wondering… whether you would let me touch you”

“And you ask that?” you just took his hand in yours and ran your fingers of the other hand over the back of it. His hands were softer than you had imagined but also colder. When you looked up at him, you saw a slight green blush on his cheeks and smiled “Suddenly so flustered, huh?”

“Touching hands is something rather intimate in Vulcan culture”

“Oh” you let go of him “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know that” but maybe you could have thought about it, considering what he had told you about the meaning of hands on Vulcan.

“I did not tell you, therefore you could not know” he said “You do not need to reproach yourself” you gave a nod and were surprised when he continued “In fact, I have found it rather pleasing” you smiled. For some reason you just held out your hand to him again and he actually took it. Well not really, he more or less just traced his fore- and middle finger over your skin, making you shudder a little

“You’re right that feels nice” he raised an eyebrow and placed his other hand at your back and pulled you closer, then lifting your head and leant down until your lips were inches apart

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all” you breathed and then his lips were on yours. For some reason you could not really say what you were feeling and you wondered if it was right to do this, you were working with him after all, at least for now. Contrary to what you had imagined, he was a pretty good kisser and his fingers still were stroking yours and while you liked the feeling, you wondered if it felt even more sensual to him. When you felt him pull you closer, you thought that this probably was the case and felt yourself smiling into the kiss. You placed your free hand at the base of his neck and pressed your whole body against his. He didn’t seem to mind but some seconds later you parted, looking at each other

“Perhaps we should not have kissed”

“We should” you corrected and leant up to do it again and he responded immediately. This time, the kiss came to a more abrupt end when suddenly the door opened. You let go of each other and quickly stepped apart. While Spock turned to the visitor, one of the people that had tried out the simulation, you touched your lips which were still tingling from the kiss, making you smile

“I’m sorry, if I interrupted something or came at an inconvenient time I can just go and well… leave. We can discuss it later”

“I will be with you momentarily” Spock said and told him to go to a briefing room. You awkwardly played with the hem of your shirt, not sure what to say.

“Well, I should get working on my faulty animation then”

“It is not faulty, (Y/N)” was there a difference in how he said your name now? You had had a long time until you got him to call you (Y/N) instead of his formal for of addressing you with your surname and he had allowed you to just call him Spock in return.

“Was that just another compliment?”

“If you wish to take it as one” he replied and you gave a nod, wanting to return to your workstation, but he took hold of your wrist

“Huh?” you asked

“I do not know what humans will do after such occurrences but on Vulcan, the logical conclusion is that the two individuals will start a relationship”

“You’re asking me for a relationship?”

“If you approve of it”

“I…” you looked down but then found yourself nodding “Yes. I think so”

“Very well” you didn’t know if there was something like a tiny curl in his lip that may have been a little smile. This made you smile as well “I suppose that the discussion will take up the rest of my time at work. Would you be amendable to accompany me to dinner later?”

[fuckyeahharryhart]

KINGSMAN: THE GOLDEN CIRCLE, IN MY AU, HARRY HART WOULD STILL BE A BADASS WHEN THEY FIND OUT HE’S ALIVE. HE’S JUST A BAD ASS WITH NO MEMORY

IN MY ALTERNATE UNIVERSE - this is what happened when they found Harry. And Roxy is alive, cause “what the hell?” And basically is an excuse for me to thirst on Colin Firth as Harry Hart, who will always be a badass gentleman spy, memory or no.

Merlin, Eggsy and Roxy survived the explosions that destroyed Kingsman. Following the clues from their doomsday protocol, the three of them traveled to Kentucky to Statesman HQ.

They are confronted by Agent Tequila where they try to explain what they are doing there. Tequila does not believe them. He disarms and disables them. The scene begins in Statesman underground holding room. Roxy, Eggsy and Merlin wake up to find that they are bound and restrained.

(apologies in advance for grammar, spelling, format. First draft, secondish draft. Just did one quick read-through and fixed most of the glaring errors.

PS I kinda nerded out with the amnesia and weapons research) 

-----------------

The room remained vague and shadowy. Eggsy fought against a heaviness that kept his eyes closed. He tried again to blink them open. No such luck. They were uncooperative. Moving on. Assessing what little he could, he tested the restraints that bound him to a cold metal chair both at the wrists and ankles. Zip ties. Cheap and easy, but harder to release from than traditional handcuffs. He tried anyway. And then a second time, only with more force. Nothing. He willed himself to relax. If he couldn’t get free with brute force, it was time to get creative. Switch to strategy and problem solving. At least try to figure out what the hell was going on and why a souped up cowboy was holding them hostage. 

His training, his instincts wanted to kick in regardless of the fact that he was restrained. He ran through his checklist anyway. Scan and clear the room. Assess the threat. Spot entrances and exits. Locate the nearest weapon. It didn’t necessarily need to be a gun. Any object that could possibly disable an enemy would suffice.

It was infuriating that he was unable to proceed with his training. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It was a moot point anyway, nothing of him seemed to be responding to his commands. His surroundings remained a bleary haze. His brain still foggy, was trying to catch up.

The renegade cowboy that had disarmed and disabled Eggsy, Roxy and Merlin, was waiting rather patiently for them to wake up. That is, until the point he was no longer patient and decided to empty a bottle of perfectly good whiskey on Eggsy and Merlin. As he considered himself a gentleman, he spared Roxy.

 It was unsettling how he took the three of them down so easily. Eggsy reasoned that they certainly weren’t at their best. Shit had gone down in the last 24 hours and they were damn tired.

Eggsy and Merlin sputtered in protest. 

“So good of you to join us.” The cowboy’s tone was relaxed and untroubled.

He took a casual stance and leaned up against the wall like he was just waiting for something interesting to happen.

His head cocked to the right. “Now where was I?”

 Nodding to himself, “Oh yeah”, he said, as if he just remembered something fascinating. His fingers snapped together with a sharp click. “You were just about to tell me who ya’ll were and how the hell you found us.” He mentioned this as if he were waiting for them to describe what they ate for breakfast and whether or not they had enjoyed it.

The disparity between his gregarious tone, his friendly manner, and the slightly hostile glint in his eyes was disconcerting.

He crossed his legs on the other side and tipped his head to the left.

“Anytime ya’ll are ready to start talkin’, Im all ears.”

They had already tried to explain what happened to their headquarters. Well, their tailor shop backstop. How likely was it that generations of tailors had passed down a secret doomsday protocol for survivors in case of complete destruction? Of their tailor shop? Eggsy had to admit, as a story, it positively wreaked implausibility. But it was true, aside from replacing their secret intelligence agency with a bespoke suit business. 

From the cowboys perspective, it would seem kind of insulting that they expected the him to buy their story. Actually, It would seem pretty insulting to expect anyone with the most basic cognitive skills believe it. The problem was that, as ridiculous as story was, it was, in fact, the truth.

Eggsy didn’t have any more to say. Roxy, who would probably take him down if given half the chance, wisely remained quiet. Merlin’s furrowed brow meant that he most likely had a bloody lot to say, but nothing that would improve their situation. 

They had reached an impasse. 

The cowboy regarded them thoughtfully from under his Stetson, wide brimmed hat. 

“We don’t have folks from your neck of the woods in these parts that often.” His lips pursed in thought.

“I would reckon once every year or so, some might pass through here that sound like y’all. Why,” nodding his head confirming his own information. “I think it was just about a year ago, we had someone drop in unexpectedly.” 

He gazed up and to the right, as if recalling a memory. Maybe y’ll know him.” He said, his eyes falling back on them.

Merlin. “I highly doubt that.”

The cowboy drew back slightly, irked by their obstinance. These brits were stubborn as all get out. Did they seriously expect him to believe their doomsday protocol story? What was this? Were they on some kind of scavenger hunt?

“I just find it awfully convenient that you just “happened” to find this bottle of whiskey with our name on it. Right after your entire “shop” exploded with ALL it’s employees and everyone who worked there. Every single person who knows you, gone with it. That would be mighty upsettin’ if I was in ya’lls shoes.” He tried on a little sympathy for size. Nope, didn’t fit. He continued with his slight undertone of sarcasm. 

 “Can’t even make a call to see if anyone can vouch for y’alls.” Such a shame, he thought. Alrightly, he’d just keep talkin’ at ‘em until one of them slipped up or said something interesting.

He could talk into the night for all he cared. “Not even anythin’ left to take with you. Except a couple of watches that can unlock a biometric security system.” Now this was legitimately irritating. 

“Why would some little ole tailors shop need to have a biometric security system? I mean, ya’ll look mighty fine in them suits and spectacles, but sorry to say, not that fine.”

He used this opportunity to break out one of his favourite southern idioms. “You see, that dog don’t hunt.” He amused himself.

“Look.” Said the Scotsman. “We have no idea what you are talking about. The only reason we are here is because we found one of your bottles.” 

He nodded his head in understanding, before pressing his lips together, this time doubtfully twisting them to the side.

“See, here’s the thing. Lots and lots of folks have our bottles. Ain’t none of them ever broken into our maximum security “warehouse” before.”

“You’re looking for the Brit, ain’t ya? “His eyes narrowed. “And now why would that be?”

Merlin’s brow furrowed even deeper. “We still don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was reaching the far ends of his exasperation. “We do not know anyone here. Quite sorry to say, but we have never heard of Statesmen before. In our part of the world, we prefer a single malt scotch. No offence.”

“None taken.” He said pleasantly.

The cowboy pushed himself off the wall.

“Well,” he huffed, “It seems we’re at a stalemate.”

The cowboy continued to study them as he spoke.

“Ya’ll telling’ me a story you say is the truth.”

He shook his head in disappointment, feigning sadness. “And I just don’t believe ya. Now we could go round n round like this until we’re all blue in the face. But that sounds like a waste of time to me.”

“If we ain’t getting anywhere like this, might be time to switch things up a bit?”

“Ya’ll say you don’t know the Brit. But I’m thinkin’ y’all should talk to him. Might be able to make some sense out of what’s comin’ out of your mouth ‘cause I just don’t get it.”

Silence from the three of them. Well, weren’t they a stubborn bunch. 

The man sighed dramatically and shrugged his wide shoulders. 

“Well, it appears you wont be cooperatin’ with me. I think it’s about time ya’ll talk to someone else cause I sure aint getting’ nowhere with ya. But I don’t know if you’re gonna wanna talk to him.”  

He regarded them sympathetically. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be on the other side of that table when he’s the one asking questions. Ya’ll might be wish’n to see my pretty face again.”

Three almost identically frustrated faces looked back at him.

“Word is round here, don’t matter what you won’t say to me.” 

He started ambling across in front of them, from wall to wall in slow, measured steps. 

“What matters is what y’all gonna to say to HIM.” He stopped mid-stride, turned toward them. 

“Now, I’ve seen him doin’ his thing, right?  Believe me, he’ll have ya talkin’ in ways you can’t even imagine.” He continued along his thoughtful line, turning away from them.

He began to let the heel of his boots scuff the floor with every step. “You wont even be able to shut up, ya’ll talk so much.” He spoke over his shoulder. “ Tellin’ him things you ain’t even tell your mama.”

No response from the three Kingsman.

He turned toward Roxy. “My apologies little lady, but here at Statesman?  Guys and gals? We’re all on equal footing.” He had the gall to wink at her. “No matter what our name says.” 

He hooked his thumbs under this belt and hitched the whole get up, flask holster and all, up his non existent hips. 

“I hate to see a pretty miss like you have to go down with the likes of them.” He tilted his head in the direction of Merlin and Eggsy. “But, at Statesman, no special treatment for the fillies.”

Roxy proceeded to murder him with her eyes.

Absurdly, he decided it was a good and proper time to dial up the charm.  “Say, you don’t wanna tell me what you and your boys were up to here? I’m pretty sure you’re the one keeping these fellas in line.”

Her eyes were wide and fierce. It turned out that Roxy no longer needed to blink. 

“That’s quite a look you’re thrown’ at me.” The cowboy smirked.

“Well, I’m really sorry. I apologise for this, but ya’ll don’t give me no other choice.” 

He turned toward the side and pulled out a pair of aviator sunglasses from his shirt pocket. The lenses were shaded to a dusky gold. He unfolded them, put them on and tapped the side of the lens. 

“Ya there?” He spoke into the air.

Evidently the glasses were a communications device and he received an answer in return. He nodded to himself. “Yep, affirmative.” 

There was another brief pause as he listened to the person on the other side. “Roger that.” He turned off the communication by tapping the side of the lens a second time. 

He looked at them almost sympathetically. “It looks we ARE gonna find out what happens when we change things up a bit.”

He walked over to the frosted panel window and flipped a switch.

Roxy, Merlin and Eggsy were momentary blinded by a brilliant white light. So bright and unexpected that they had to turn away. They squinted against the flare as coloured spots tripped behind their eyelids. They continued to blink until their eyes adjusted to the intensity of the new light. 

What they saw as the opacity of the glass dissolved… Well, to say they were ill prepared would be the understatement to understate all statements.

It couldn’t be.

It was utterly impossible.

But there he was. 

Outlined by a dazzling white light. 

Unmistakable.

It was Harry Hart.

—

The agents tried to gather their collective wits like they were trying to herd cats. It was nearly impossible. Harry disappeared from view. Sharp, tell tale footsteps could be heard walking down the short distance from the viewing area to their holding room. 

Between the three of them, none had taken a single breath from the moment Harry Hart appeared behind the glass.

For Eggsy, a white hot wave surged through his body and seared him from his finger tips to his toes. He could even hear the heat ringing in his ears. It was a high pitched whine that reverberated from one side of his head to the other. He had no control over his physical response. Any authority that he may have had, dissipated with the frosted glass. Apparently, his body knew exactly what to do, because it was doing its own thing, without any input from him. He set his thoughts aside and let his body do whatever it felt the need to. He was fairly certain he was exhibiting the physical signs of shock. He felt pale, his hands were damp and clammy. He felt weirdly mortified. He might as well be naked, for he felt exposed to the deepest, most secret recesses of his soul. Places that had no business being brought to light. 

He felt laughter bubble up through watery eyes he didn’t even know if he could call tears. For joy? Sheer bewilderment? Whatever the reason, his eyes were leaking. The buzzing in his ears wouldn’t stop and he felt sure he was about to pass out. He wanted to drop his head between his legs, but he didn’t dare pull his gaze away from the door he knew Harry Hart would enter from. He didn’t dare blink. Let alone look away. 

His ears burned, his cheeks flamed red and splotchy. It was as if he was caught off guard doing the most embarrassing thing he could think of, just times a billion and witnessed by everyone from his mum to his kindergarten teacher, not to mention every famous person that he had a crush on or looked up to and the whole mortifying episode was being televised live around the world. 

Whatever he was experiencing, it was nearly unbearable. Like suffocating and hyperventilating at the same time. Was that even possible? His heart had either stopped or was beating so rapidly that it felt as if it was hardly beating at all. Which seemed feasible as most of his blood had pooled in his cheeks and the tops of his ears. Surely, there was none flowing to his brain. It had signed out for the moment. It certainly wasn’t sticking around to see what was coming next. 

 He tried to arrange his face into the shape he thought would be appropriate for when his mentor, who he saw get shot point blank in the face, a man who died over a year ago, who he had spent what felt like a lifetime grieving, materialise as an interrogator for a covert cowboy secret agency in Kentucky. He couldn’t imagine what an acceptable face would look like in that situation, so he assumed that his face had no expression at all. It was the best he could do. 

He didn’t even posses the wherewithal to see how his partners where faring. He hoped that they were in a more presentable state. He moved his mouth to form words, but nothing came out. He tried clearing his throat, but it was dry and papery. Apparently, whatever autonomous system that controlled his salivary glands also decided that this whole situation was bullshit and decided to check out, too.

The track of the footsteps, even now so familiar, paused at the door. The handle turned with a weighty click. 

He didn’t have the brain capacity to even imagine what would happen next.

The only thing in his head were three letters. And they weren’t  ABC. 

They were W. T. F.

The door opened. 

They saw the man who had once been the foundation of their agency. 

The man who had once been its living and breathing heart and soul. 

How long had it been since he last thought of Harry Hart? After the initial grief, the denial, the anger, and finally, the acceptance, the loss became a dull ache.  Though tolerable, it never went away. They never found his body, but he didn’t have hope that Harry would ever return. He saw the shot that took his life. Even the best agent had no way of possibly surviving a point blank shot to the face. Harry fell where he had once stood. He didn’t get back up. And like that, Harry Hart was gone.

In the aftermath of V-day, Eggsy and the others didn’t have a chance to even stop and think about what happened to Harry, let alone process the loss. That came after. In the moments when time slowed down, things got quiet, and they no longer had the urgency of missions to distract them from the loss or to use as a vehicle for their anger and rage at the unfairness of it all.  

Eggy’s pain was not only due to the loss of his mentor, but also from the fact that he never got to tell the man just how important he was to him. Their final conversation repeated in his head, over and over, on endless loop. The last words that he had exchanged with Harry were harsh and accusatory. How much he wished that that conversation had not been their last. What wouldn’t he give to say the rest of the words that were caught in his throat. To finally release them. To say he was sorry. But the chance never came and the words clung to him, never to be spoken.

A tall man in a dark pinstripe suit entered the room.

At first glimpse, he was their Harry Hart. As perfect as they imagined and just as they all remembered him. Only on closer inspection did they notice small, but significant details that would indicate otherwise.

He was wearing what looked like the exact same suit he “died” in. But this one didn’t show any of the wear and damage that was sure to have happened in that final, brutal rampage. Either Statesman had an excellent tailor repair the original suit, or more likely, Harry had his suit replicated. 

The details were exacting as they had always been. The tie with the Windsor knot. The pristine white spread collar and crisp pocket square. French cuffs that were still held by the Kingsman cuff links. 

His standard horn rimmed communication glasses had been modified. The left lens was now shaded a solid black. There was an additional piece that covered his peripheral vision from the edge of the lens to the end of the arm on his left side.

How was it possible that he stood before them, as handsome and regal as ever? Hell, the man could even make a blacked out eye look distinguished. It added to his air of gravitas.

A curious pair of black cowboy boots with elaborate stitching, stood out from below the mid-break of his trousers. The footsteps they heard in the hallway didn’t come from his standard oxfords.

Neither did they see the familiar Kingsman standard issue pistol he would always pack without fail. In his right hand, held down by his side, he toted a nickel plated Colt Single Action Army revolver modified with a double barrel. He carried it by its smooth, wooden grip.

But he did walk with the same measured strides, familiar in pace and sound. Harry took his place in front of them as the cowboy found a space off to the side. 

They wore their incredulity in silence.  Words were insignificant compared to this impossible occasion. Words that would adequately express their turmoil did not exist. Merlin looked like he was trying to deconstruct a complex algorithm in his head. Roxy looked, he imagined bizarrely, like she had just been denied an orgasm. Where the hell did that come from? Eggsy fairly certain he looked like a bloody idiot.

And so they waited. 

Familiar, golden brown eyes, well, eye now, gazed over them. Making and then holding eye contact with each of them in the way they had always remembered he would when he required their full attention.

They searched his eyes and face for recognition. To see any kind of dawning realization that he knew who they were. Merely seeing Harry, alive and mostly whole, was something that was unfathomable to them. 

Finally, Harry spoke.

The vibration of his voice was able to resonate through their shocked and dampened senses. It was a deep and calming sound. Smooth, measured tones with an aristocratic accent that clipped his words. Vibrant. It was a voice that was warm, safe and familiar. It was a voice that sounded like home.

What was completely baffling were the words that beautiful voice said. 

“Please excuse my dreadful manners. But I don’t believe we have properly met.”

They turned and glanced at each other in confusion. What the hell? Surely there had to be some part of Harry that recognized them. At least Merlin, with whom he shared a history going back over twenty years. 

“Harry. It’s us.” Merlin implored. “We’re not undercover. Right now, we’re not anything. That’s why we came here.” 

“Harry.” Merlin’s voice was touched with sorrow. “Kingsman is gone.”

Harry’s face remained impassive. The spark of recognition remained unfired. There was no hint of softening, no warmth, no glint that told them, “Not to worry. Everything is under control.”  

Harry confirmed. “Yes, I had the pleasure of hearing your story.” He leaned back against the wall and took a casual stance. Crossing his legs in front of him much like Tequila did.  He placed a hand in a pocket. The other gripped the Colt lightly.

“It’s quite interesting.” He looked thoughtful. “And particularly unfortunate that this Kingsman Tailoring “Agency” that you speak of, was completely and utterly destroyed. How unfortunate that the three of you happen to be the only survivors.” 

Time paused with him as he contemplated this thought for awhile.

“It would seem rather convenient, on the other hand, for that gives us absolutely no way to possibly verify your doomsday scenario.” 

The disappointment on his face hit them with a guilt that was worse than his impassivity. 

“And why, all of a sudden, after a year, would not only one, but three mysterious Brits arrive here at Statesman, of all the places in the world, for no other reason than a bottle telling them to.” 

Beseechingly, Eggsy replied. “Harry, we don’t understand what’s happening. We thought that you had died when Valentine shot you outside the church.”

Harry’s face suddenly hardened. Slowly he pulled himself up to his full height.

“How could you possibly know that?” The air around them became sharp with tension. 

How did they end up on the wrong side of the interrogation table? They had never seen Harry from this perspective. But they had witnessed him work targets before. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

As Harry continued, his voice remained very calm and very steady. 

“No one. Pardon me. I should clarify. No one alive except Statesman has that knowledge. Not even I had that knowledge in the beginning.”

Instantly, it was crucial that no one speak out of turn. Harry’s voice had taken on a tone that was flat and affectless.  They had rarely heard it before, but they knew it was dangerous to be on the receiving end of that dull and indifferent voice. 

Harry was walking his edge. And Harry on the edge was not someone you wanted to push. To anyone else, he would have appeared unchanged. But he had the sharp glint in his eye, the set to his jaw, and the steely note to his voice that betrayed he was very, very angry. They only knew this because of their history with him. It was critical to tread very lightly. 

Eggsy words were dressed with caution. 

“Harry, you were at the church, “he emphasised, “on behalf of Kingsman.” He carefully walked through a minefield of words, wary of any misstep that would trigger Harry’s anger in their direction.

“We knew that Richmond Valentine was up to no good. You were assigned the mission to find out exactly what he was planning. You flew to Kentucky. Valentine was testing his SIM card transmitter on the people in the church. You were there as well. Even though you didn’t have a SIM card, the transmission was strong enough to affect everyone, whether they had a SIM card or not.”

 “Merlin and I were on the communication feed. We saw everything…. You were affected by the sound waves, too… You had no control…” He wasn’t sure how to continue, but he definitely didn’t want to mention the number of people Harry had killed.

Merlin spoke on his behalf. “Eggsy’s right. We saw you confront Valentine. We saw him shoot you in the head. We thought that you had died. The bullet destroyed the communication feed or else it would have transmitted…” he paused. “Proof of life, or confirmation of death.” 

Harry reflected. “Yes, I did almost die on that day.”

Eggsy and Merlin flinched.

“It was only through, whatever would like to call it, luck, perhaps fate. Regardless, it was Statesman that located me. They were able to save my life. I owe them. I am a man who honors his debts.”

The room prickled with silence. They dared not say more until they were able to see more of the landscape they were trying to traverse. It was littered with threats.

Harry, now pacing in slow, steady strides, continued. “With all the resources you say this Kingsman agency had, how surprising that it had to be strangers that came to my aid. Otherwise,” he recalled, “I would be, quite dead.” 

The three of them realised they were on eggshells atop a minefield. Never before had they been confronted by Harry in this manner. Never before had they even witnessed Harry in this state. They were uncertain of what to do when faced with this degree of suspicion and mistrust from a man, who in the past, would have given his life to save any of theirs.

When no one spoke, he began to ruminate. “At Statesman, we knew that it was Richmond Valentine who shot me. Confirmed by two of their agents.” He turned back toward them. “Though the question of why still remained unsolved.”

Coming closer. “But you three, now, are here with that answer,” He paused in-between his points for effect. 

“But you are here, completely by chance.” pause 

“Only because of a doomsday protocol scenario.” pause 

“A scenario that led you to Statesman.” pause 

“And I just happen to be here as well.” pause  

“Do you know what the odds are of that happening?” pause  

“Rather extraordinary, don’t you think?” pause  

“I must say, you are quite the interesting trio. Unassuming.  Not quite what one would expect for this sort of operation.  Perhaps that is the point. Disarm me with your improbability, with your accents, so familiar to my own. Here to deliver stories of how I was part of an organization that no longer exists. And you are the only other individuals who know what occurred the day I was shot.” He stopped in front on them. He turned to face them and drew tall once more.

Looking at each other was a dare none of them were willing to take. They knew that the most important thing at that moment was to maintain eye contact with Harry anytime he looked in their direction. If they couldn’t offer him any answers, at least they could show him that they had nothing to hide. Now was not the time to look or act guilty.

No matter how many tactics he used, regardless of how hard he pushed them, their story would be the same because they had no other story. Was there no memory of Kingsman at all? What about Harry’s moral code, that Kingsman only risked a life to save a life. Was that a credo he still followed? The did not know what to expect.

“Regardless. Questions for another time I suppose.” He waved his hand as if brushing them away.

“The pressing issue still remains.” He was firm and unyielding. “Who are you and how did you find us.”

 What could they possibly say at this point? They remained silent.

“We welcome our visitors and our guests. However, we do not take kindly to trespassers. You say you have nothing to protect, but your honor. If the three of you are the only survivors of your organization and you are as close as you say, I would assume that you would, at the very least, protect a third of what remains of your agency.

Eggsy suddenly found himself on the business end of a Colt Single Action Army revolver. 

Staring down the barrel of the gun, he felt drunk, off balance, like he had fallen into an alternate universe. Where the laws of physics no longer applied. 

“Harry, it’s me.”  The only thing he could think of that could reach Harry was the guilt he had carried with him for over 17 years. The guilt that made him reach out to Eggsy in the first place. 

With self-possession he did not have, he composed himself as well as he could while being threatened by the mentor he once thought was dead.   

“My father saved your life.” He spoke quietly and deliberately and without hesitation.  “But you had made a mistake that cost him his. You were trying to repay him by helping me find purpose, to do something good with my life. You recruited me to Kingsman. You changed everything for me.” 

The look Harry returned for these words was almost kindly. 

“I’ll give you the following three seconds to prove that to me.”

Fuck. Eggsy was drawing a blank.

He could hear Roxy and Merlin, as if they were underwater yelling to Harry anything they could to make him stop.  

What felt like a lifetime later, the door burst open. Apparently, he had lost the ability to count, because that brief passage of time felt like much longer than three seconds. 

“Stop!” a woman yelled urgently. She tossed Harry a black umbrella. He caught it deftly with one hand.

“Their story checks out.” She held her palms out toward Harry. Please stop.

“I checked our doomsday scenario locker.” She explained. “Only to be opened in the case of a catastrophic event that cripples the agency to the point where we cannot rebuild on our own. It was established by a network of international intelligence agencies, forged when they first began. Since autonomy was the goal for each agency, once the protocol was put into place, no agency was to uncover it unless absolutely necessary.” 

“Take a look.” She nodded to the umbrella in his hand. “Kingsman. It has our logo on it.”

Harry paused to inspect the handle. Sure enough, the Statesman logo replaced the “s” in Kingsman.

He handled the umbrella in a way that seemed familiar to him. It almost seemed like he was looking for other recognisable features. Eggsy has seen plenty of Harry handling the umbrella like it was an extension of himself. He had saved Eggy’s life with it. It looked so natural in his hands. Like it completed the final picture of their Harry Hart and he was hopeful that this might be the final piece of the puzzle.  

Harry looked at the umbrella thoughtfully. It was difficult to read his face if he didn’t want it to be read. After a pause, he tossed it lightly back to Ginger. 

“Not good enough.” The gun swung back toward Eggsy.

They froze, unable to move, speak or even breathe. They were at a loss, nothing in their training prepared them for this. Roxy and Merlin could only watch helplessly as Harry cocked the revolver at Eggsy. Was it a live round? Or was it blank?

What kind of FU world would allow something like this to happen? Eggsy thought. He grasped for any hope, any last play that he could make, but the only thing within his reach was empty space. It simply slid through his fingers, without purchase, without substance. There was nothing that he could hold on to.

BUT… his eyes darted towards Harry’s right hand. The gun in his face was blocking his view… Fuck it. He squeezed eyes shut as he opened his mouth. The words ran together and toppled over each other as they spilled out without pause. 

“you wear a gold signet ring on your right little finger gentleman are traditionally supposed to wear the ring on the left hand but you wear yours on your right because a Kingsman always wears it on whatever hand happens to be dominant and you are right handed”

Nothing happened. And it was quiet.

Cautiously, Eggy peered from one eye. He wasn’t dead. He opened the other eye.

Harry regarded him from along the barrel of the revolver. Eggsy flinched away from its deadly mouth.

Harry deliberated. His mind took a step back and a step to the side. He looked at the situation from a different perspective. Because he was wearing a signet ring on his right hand, not on his left, as was the gentlemen’s  tradition. He was wearing it when he was shot. He could not recall where the ring came from, or its significance. Researching the insignia came up with no leads. But he continued to wear the ring, for no other reason than it felt right to him. Like he insisted on wearing his suit, rather than Statesman’s tie and jacket. 

His eyes let go of some of the hardness. Eggsy hoped that he saw a little softening at the edges. 

Harry’s voice, so familiar it made his heart hurt. Not accusatory, but with interest, he asked, “How do you know that?” 

Eggsy, with great effort willed his gaze to leave the barrel of the gun and meet the face that had once meant so much to him. He caught Harry’s eyes and didn’t flinch.

He took a deep breath. “I know,” he said with a calmness and a clarity he did not feel, “because I’m wearing one, too.”

Harry, without breaking eye contact, nodded to Ginger. She hurried to Eggsy’s side. After a quick glance, she confirmed, indeed, he was wearing a signet ring exactly like Harry’s.

Harry lowered his gun. There were three consecutive sighs of relief.

“My apologies.” He said as he holstered his weapon.

“It seems as if we have much to discuss.”

———

They found themselves in a massive great room at Statesman HQ, the top floor of a huge structure the shape of the Statesman signature whiskey bottle. Floor to ceiling windows circled the entire room, providing a 360 degree view of the rolling hills of Kentucky from every vantage point.

The centrepiece of the space was a leviathan of a conference table. Elaborately carved, solid hard wood. The trees that created that table must have had lived for years to grow to such a substantial size.  It had space to sit 12, but only few of the spots were occupied.

One of which by a larger than life, genial, vintage cowboy of a man. A little flashy, a little ostentatious, more than a little gregarious, he was the head of the Statesman outfit. With a place at the head of the table, he leaned back in his plush armchair with aplomb. He introduced himself as “Champagne” or Champ as he was known affectionately by his agents.

Roxy wasn’t surprised that, aside from Ginger Ale, she was the only female present. Hell, Ginger was the only other female that she had seen since they had entered Statesman HQ. Well, technically ‘broke in’, but still. They had an invitation, even if it was only in the shape of a whiskey bottle. A bottle that they had emptied while wallowing in self pity. Even Merlin was a bit maudlin, at one point, sobbing into his whiskey and singing Country Roads a little off key. Roxy had side-eyed him until Eggsy spotted the secret message hidden behind the label. She wondered they they had made the clue unnoticeable until the bottle was emptied. They could have quite possibly missed the hint. Being under the influence of, admittedly, very smooth whiskey did not enhance ones ability to spot decades old subtext on the back of whiskey labels. Whose clever idea had that been? 

Once again, she found herself in the odd situation where she wanted to be taken seriously as an agent, but Agent Tequila’s insistence on calling her sweetheart, miss, darling, filly of all things didn’t give her much confidence that Statesman would be any different from the old boys club that was Kingsman.

Even back at HQ, she was often, dear, dearest, or darling. The only person that she tolerated those endearments from where Eggsy, who used them in jest, and surprisingly Harry Hart. But Galahad, and Galahad Sr. calling her dear was much different than a two-bit, over the top, slick cowboy secret agent she had just met calling her something as intimate as “darling”. 

Would it kill him to call her Lancelot? It miffed her that he used Eggsy’s handle and not hers. Looking at the head of their organisation, she didn’t expect him to be much different. 

She took a seat the near end of the table, between Eggsy and Merlin. Agent Tequila walked in with Ginger, followed by Harry. She was surprised when he continued past them and walked around the head of the table to the other side, the Statesman side, and took a seat next to Ginger. He pulled out his chair, as smooth and as graceful as he sat thousands of times at the head of the Kingsman table. Even unbuttoning the last button of his suit so it wouldn’t crease and smoothing the back of his jacket before he leaned into his chair. The crossed legs, the hands folded on the knee. The authoritative, yet relaxed posture. It was all so familiar. What she couldn’t reconcile was the inscrutable, impenetrable expression that fell over his face every time he glanced in their direction. There was no warmth, no familiarity, no flicker of understanding. It made his face look unfamiliar and she did not like it one bit. 

To add insult to injury, Ginger had leaned over and whispered something in his direction. The small hint of a ‘not quite smile’ that pressed his lips together, his mouth just barely turned up at the corners, meant that she had shared an observation that confirmed something in his mind in a bemused sort of way. It was the look Harry had once made, when inquired about Eggsy’s tardiness, she revealed that he was running late because it was JB’s birthday party later and he wanted to get the dog “pupcakes” to celebrate. The memory tugged at her heart.

She didn’t turn her head to see how Eggsy was faring, but she could almost feel his dejection. She hoped it wasn’t so obvious on his face. Sometimes he was a little too earnest for his own good. Not that her other side was an improvement. Merlin was seated directly across from Harry. Only a distance of several feet, but it might as well have been lengths of the world for as distant Harry was from them. The furrow between the Scotsman’s brows had appeared the moment they discovered Harry alive. It took up residence on his face. Harry Hart, the man who was the only person close enough for Merlin to consider a friend, was now a mystery to him. 

The loss, between Eggsy and Merlin, was a cold empty space that Roxy had the unfortunate pleasure to be seated between. She was determined to warm up whatever mood vacuum that had sucked her in. Or at least not make it any worse.             

 And why did she always have to be the mediator? The men had elected Roxy as their spokesperson as neither of them thought that they would be able to speak without laughing, crying, shouting or hitting something. Predictably, she found herself the voice of reason. To be fair, she WAS the one with the least emotional involvement. Not that she hadn’t adored and respected Harry Hart, like everyone that worked under his guidance, but she had to admit, Merlin and Eggsy must be twice as confused and devastated by the recent turn of events. She mentally steeled herself against any additional revelations that might be thrown their way. But at this point, if there was something that could top this most recent turn of events, they might as well just blow up this joint and let it all burn down, too.

After everyone had settled in, and to her amusement, a pour of whiskey was set in front of each of them. She decided to get this “rodeo” started. She nodded in Champs direction. He tipped his chin, tapped his glass with his pen to get everyone’s attention and announced the opening of the meeting. All the Statesman and Harry, emptied their glasses. From her peripheral she saw Merlin and Eggsy follow suit without hesitation. Did all agencies revolve around the consumption of alcohol? She had already developed quite a tolerance from her brief stint at Kingsman so far. Well, if it brought these two agencies on familiar ground, who was she to argue? She tipped her glass back. And the welcomed the warmth after the initial burn, though still much smoother than could be expected. She appreciated the added touch of liquid courage. She cleared her throat. 

“We find ourselves here, under what we,” she gestured to herself and her colleagues, “believed to be the most difficult of circumstances. Only to be faced with another impossible situation. As you can imagine, the revelation that Harry Hart, our Sr. Agent Galahad,” she nodded in his direction, “who we believed had been killed over a year ago by Richmond Valentine, that he is still alive, has been shocking for us.”

In Harry’s direction, she continued, addressing him directly. “Harry. If we had believed there to be even the most infinitesimal chance that you could have survived Valentine’s bullet, we would have not hesitated to garner all the forces of Kingsman to find you and bring you back.”

Harry, respectfully listened to Lancelot, attentive, but without revealing anything aside from simple interest.

She faltered a little under his gaze. And she, too, wished for that little wink, the small tilt of his chin that would encourage her to continue. Just as he first did when she joined Kingsman, nervous over her first debriefing. There was no comfort to be found in his direction. She took a deep breath and continued. 

“Both Eggsy - our current Galahad - and Merlin witnessed the events of what we thought was your death.” She forced herself to face him, eye to eye, without hesitation. After all that he had sacrificed for them, it was the least she could offer him.

Her voice was clear and firm, her words meticulously thought out. “They saw you get shot, point blank, in the face, by no more than a distance of 10 feet, by a 9mm semi-automatic Heckler and Koch P30. The bullet destroyed the communication transmission via the left lens.”

Both Eggsy and Merlin were looking down. Both remembering all too clearly the events from that day. The details were painful for them to hear, especially when the man who they thought had died, was in fact, sitting across the table. Even though they had every right to call time of death, they couldn’t help but feel they had left him behind. 

Roxy continued. “Merlin, our communications and technology strategist and Galahad, who was at the time, your protege, had witnessed all the events up to the point the bullet severed the transmission. We could only deduce, at that point, that a bullet of that caliber, from that distance, would have shattered the lens.” She took a deep breath, “and continued through the left eye and exited the back of the head. Resulting in immediate death.” 

She could sense Eggsy flinch by her side. He had seen the whole thing far too clearly. 

“As much as we wanted to, we were unable to collect the body at the time of death. Due to unforeseen circumstances regarding treachery within the highest ranks of our agency, Merlin, Eggsy and I, had to straight away address both the source of our internal corruption and abort the plans initiated by Richmond Valentine. We were successful in both, but not in time to prevent casualties, both enemy and civilian.”

In speaking so intimately regarding what they thought was his death, she decided to switch identifiers from “the” to “your”. The man was sitting right in front of her. She spoke with a new earnest note in her voice. Rather than distancing herself from her words, she decided to speak from the place that had felt the same grief and loss as Eggsy and Merlin.

Harry’s eyes took on a different note as he heard the emotion in Roxy’s voice. 

“In the immediate aftermath of V-day, after the initial threat was neutralised, we flew to the States in an attempt to find you, identify you, and bring you home for proper internment, but we were unable to locate your body. We tried over weeks, through every channel, every resource, we followed every lead, with no success. We didn’t hope to find you alive.” 

She fought against the wave of emotion that threatened her composure.

“But we hoped that we would be able to properly commemorate your bravery, your integrity, your sacrifice, with the honour, dignity and grace worthy of your life and your legacy.” 

Roxy had stop for a moment, but she did not look away. A small tear rolled down her cheek without her noticing or bothering to wipe it away. It was as if the loss was new again. This pain was fresh. For all of them.

Harry’s eyes finally softened and they caught a glimpse of the man they remembered. But whether it was empathy for Roxy, clearly struggling to continue as her emotions caught in her throat, or understanding how they felt and what they had to do in the most difficult of situations, they did not know. 

And whatever amnesia he was experiencing had to be temporary, right? Surely Melin could devise a plan to help jump start his memory. Now that the were there, they could help him remember.

—

Roxy was determined to continue until the end. 

“After the events of V-Day, we had to recenter and regroup. Our agency had clearly been compromised. We needed to locate and close the leaks and tie up any loose ends.  Our losses were felt across the board. We had to rebuild what we could from the ground up. To recapture the integrity of our organisation. The immediate need to clean up the aftermath was one of the few things that we could focus on to help us come to terms with your loss. We knew, that if you had survived, you would have taken the mantle of Arthur. And that it would be your highest priority to rebuild the agency beyond reproach.”

“After several weeks, in which we continued our search for you, we felt that it would be best for us personally and professionally to move on. We held a private memorial for you, and honoured you as best as we could. After that, we could only move forward. It was a difficult time for all of us.” 

“We found ourselves here, after our organisation was levelled again. This time with only the three of us as survivors. Our HQ, our foundry, our storefront.” Her eyes flared with anger at this point. “And all of our agents worldwide aside from Galahad and I, were all taken down as targets.”

“Merlin was the only surviving handler and tech strategist and the only one of us that had been with the agency long enough know that a Doomsday protocol existed. With all of our resources destroyed, we had no way of protecting ourselves, to find out who had organised and carried out such a coordinated attack. Our last and only option was to see if this protocol existed.”

“We found the Statesman logo. Located your distillery here in Kentucky. At this point, we really had no plan beyond finding your organisation and hoping that you would be able to assist us.”

“We still had some tech in our possession, which I admit, looked suspicious for a group of tailors to have, let alone know how to use. That’s when your agent found us. We meant no ill will, but we had no other way to get into contact with your organization.  We didn’t even know if you existed. We had nothing to lose but to continue to follow any clues that we might come across. We had no protocol for a circumstance like this.”

“You can only imagine our bewilderment to be taken as adversaries when we were looking for help. And then our shock of finding Harry Hart. Finding him, not only alive, but with no memory of the agency he was devoted to over 30 years. It still is an unthinkable situation that we were not prepared for and obviously, are still trying to process.”

She had been speaking for a long time. She paused, took a sip of water, swallowed, before continuing.

She addressed the table. “Everything that we have said is the truth. We were also an independent intelligence agency with headquarters in London.” 

She turned again to Harry. “You were an integral member of this agency for most of your adult life. You know each of us well. Merlin has been your colleague for over 20 years. You knew Eggsy’s father, he saved your life in a mission that had gone sideways. That was seventeen years ago. You had recruited him as a way to repay his fathers sacrifice. My uncle was also a long time colleague of yours and our families go back many years.”

“We are so grateful that you are alive. We are sorry that we left you behind. That would never be our intention. We are forever indebted to Statesman for saving your life and taking care of you. But as you can imagine, we have questions of our own. How did you get here? How did you survive? Do you have no memory of Kingsman at all? What can you remember? Obviously, you have retained your skills, but to what extent? If you honestly don’t remember, then we can see how unbelievable our story is. But I think if you are still a man of honour and integrity, then you have to feel that we are not hostiles or adversaries. We pose no threat to you. Your instincts must tell you we are offering you the truth.”

She could tell that Harry was processing the information, she just couldn’t tell whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Roxy concluded. “And that brings us here to the present. I think our most pressing question is “how did you survive?”

Harry nodded to Ginger to answer the question. He seemed to want to observe the conversation. His attention had never wavered from Roxy while she spoke, only widened at times to include Eggsy or Merlin. If he had come to a conclusion, there was nothing that they could see.

Roxy gladly handed off the meeting to Ginger. Harry’s unwavering gaze was getting a little unnerving. Without the added scrutiny, she could get collect her own thoughts and feelings. Kingsman recruitment training had been brutal, but nothing could have prepared them for the last 48hrs. Nothing in the Gentleman’s Guide had a blueprint on how to behave when your agency gets blown up and your dead mentor, comes back to life, has amnesia, and then almost shoots you.

——

Ginger spoke up.

“I would like to confirm that we now have proof that your story is legitimate Which means, Harry, what they are saying about your history with Kingsman is most likely the truth.”

Harry tilted his chin slightly in her direction in acknowledgement. 

She spoke in the direction of the three Kingsman. “We have just received corroboration from several independent sources that the events did occur as described and that your agency was the target of a massive strike against organisations such as ours. We are sorry for your loss. You will have full access to our resources to investigate this adversary and we will provide you with support. This is a threat that affects all of us.”

Merlin spoke up. His voice was rough with concern. 

“Harry, what happened?” 

Harry’s voice, deep and a with familiar, crisp authority, suddenly filled the space.

“At this point, I believe Ginger will be able to recall the events much more clearly than I. I have no recollection of events immediately following the shooting.” He turned to her. “Please, continue.”

Merlin gaze remained fixed on Harry and worried there for several moments, before he turned his attention to Ginger.

“The day prior to V-Day, we detected the transmission of a very low frequency sound wave. Much lower than what is normally used for any legitimate communication. This frequency, for the time and location, was suspicious to say the least and it was imperative that we investigate. Agent Tequila and I helicoptered to the spot, about 10 miles away.”

“The frequency stopped right about the time we were closing in on the location. We had already pinpointed the source so we knew where it originated from. Even though the transmission had stopped, we could still find clues to its origin.” 

“We were just flying into the zone when we witnessed the shooting. We saw Valentine and his accomplices depart. They didn’t confirm death. I expect they thought that shooting someone in the face.. well, there are not many outcomes. Our timing couldn’t have been better planned. We had developed what we call “alpha gel” to use on our own agents in the case of a head shot. Previously, a head shot meant immediate death. Body armour can only protect so much. We’ve lost very good agents.’ 

But depending on where the bullet entered the skull and if there was minimal damage to the actual brain and spinal cord, the gel could potentially save an agents life. 

Harry was still alive when I checked his vitals. I applied the alpha gel immediately. It’s crucial to activate the gel to prevent tissue damage and accelerate the nannites that are used to repair neural pathways. I won’t go further in depth at this point. The main issue at that moment was to preserve life. 

Of course, because of his glasses, we knew that he was intelligence, we just didn’t know whose and we had no way of finding out without compromising Harry’s safety and our anonymity.  

Harry suffers from retrograde amnesia, which could be from the injury. But it can also be a side effect of the alpha gel. However, when life it at risk, the benefits outweigh the possible negative outcomes. This kind of memory loss, you lose existing, previously made memories. This type of amnesia tends to affect recently formed memories first. Older memories, such as memories from childhood, are usually affected more slowly. 

She motioned to Harry, while he listened closely to her explanation.

“So while Harry was whole as a person, personality wise, function wise, cognitive and behavioural skills in place, he had no memory of who he was aside from what could be observed. He had no memory of his past, people, places, events. This was an interesting case because usually with retrograde amnesia, there can be the regression to the younger self. The skill set and knowledge and the growth that occurred during the time of memory loss can also be lost as well. Such as, if you learned French while you were in college, but you lost the memories of this timeframe, in most cases, you would no longer be able to speak French. In fact, the whole memory that you learned it to begin with would be gone. In these cases, the knowledge and skill learned during this time would also be forgotten. However, in some rare cases, the ability to remember the skill remains, while the memory of the past when it was learned is lost. 

“In Harry’s case, it was obviously the later.” 

The slightest shift in the landscape of Harry’s face indicated that we was thoughtful and reflective. How must it be to wake up and not know who you are.

Harry, while still maintaining full concentration on Ginger, set a small part of him free to revisit the day he regained consciousness. Which technically, would not be regaining consciousness, since he had no recollection of losing consciousness to begin with.

——

POV HARRY HART

“My name is Harry Hart.”  It was the first thought that went through his head.

Secondly, “Caucasion male, 6’2”, brown hair, brown eyes, 58 years of age. 13.5 stone” That all sounded perfectly reasonable to him.

Thirdly, wasn’t a thought, it was a feeling of emptiness. Not as if he was missing something. It did not feel like loss. It did not feel as if he was lacking. That would imply that there was something present to begin with.  It was not a feeling he could identify or that felt familiar or could find a word that was representative. It was unusual for him. He never found his vocabulary lacking. Perhaps if it could be called a non-feeling. He was a vessel. Neither empty, nor full. And no desire to be either or. An interesting sensation. 

When he first woke up, he had not realised that he was suffering from amnesia. Due to the amnesia there were no memories that insisted he should be a certain person. That he had to exist in a certain place. Doing something specific. A curious circumstance. There was no sense of surprise waking up in the condition he found himself to be. He did whatever he would do in a circumstance like this. Assess the situation. 

As he entered a conscious state, his mind automatically shifted into overdrive. But without moving. Without betraying any kind of change. He felt the need to remain unnoticed. He did this from where he rested. He first determined if he had sustained any injury or damage that had caused permanent physical disability or bodily harm. He had full function of all of his appendages. He did not know how long he had been in this state, but he did not notice any signs of muscle atrophy or joint stiffness. They must have a system that stimulated muscle tissue and nerves to prevent deterioration or he had not been in an immobile state for any length of time. Blinking his eyes was like scrapping sandpaper and his throat was a desert of sand. He attempted to make any kind of noise and found it difficult. That meant he had to have been out for at least some meaningful period of time. His head did ache something awful, and he noted a bandage or some other type of patch over his left eye. The use of only one eye would change his perception of depth, and the range of his peripheral vision, but he did not doubt that he would be able to adjust accordingly.

He had no reason to question his cognitive function. He processed information unhesitatingly and with ease. Without a sense of doubt, without faltering, he scanned the room and began to examine his surroundings. He was being held in some kind of hospital or medical ward. Not civilian. It was either private or for research. Maybe military. Hi tech, advanced equipment. Everything was in pristine condition. Two exits on opposing sides. No windows. A complex ventilation and filtration system suggested an underground location. No immediate threat that he could ascertain, but that could change at any moment. No apparent weapons. Some medical instruments that could possibly work. He was not restrained so he was not being held against his will. Or there was no need if he was unconscious the entire time. He did not feel any urgency or sense of immediate danger, but he did not question his need to assess the situation .

He heard two people approach the door to the left. Judging from the echoing quality and the gradual volume and clarity of their foot steps, from a fairly long corridor. 

His eyes remained closed, his breathing shallow and steady, his heartbeat was slow and rhythmic. He concentrated on the sound. One set of footsteps was clearly male. The stride was longer, more pronounced, in heavy shoes, presumably boots. But an easy pace. Most likely 6’, 13 stone, physically fit. His gait was even, balanced and light. Not the walk of someone that led a sedentary life. The second set of footsteps he concluded were female. Lighter, but not timid. A confident woman. Just a smaller stature. Medium height. Slight frame. Like her partner, fit, alert, competent. 

He did not know why or how he came up with these deductions, but he did not question them. He held the information in his mind so it was easily accessible. The voices, once they became decipherable, were relaxed and easy. Their tone was jovial and non-threatening. Younger than he was. American accent, with a southern drawl. He could be in the US, but anywhere was possible. While he did not expect danger, he still prepared himself for the risk. Mostly, his need was to understand the where he was, how he got there and have leverage over the situation.

The door opened with a heavy swooshing sound. He did not hear the click of a lock being turned, so he was not being held in high security setting.

The two individuals were still conversing, and he could just almost decipher what they were discussing. The man remained on his right hand side while the woman walked around the foot of the bed to inspect the instruments and diagnostics panels to the left. Her back was turned away from him. The man remained at his side. A quick glance in his direction. A holster was slung around his waist, it held a nickelplated SIG-Sauer P226 with wooden grips. A quality weapon. To his advantage, the strap securing the weapon was not snapped in. That would have been a trickier maneuver.

He guessed the woman was in medical, the man, based on the weapon and the fact that he was not actively participating in the tasks, that he was a guard or protection of some sort. With their relaxed tones, and familiar interactions, possibly a friend or colleague. 

Not one to overthink a situation, he decided now was as good a time as any. No use in waiting, expecting a better scenario. Best to address the situation you know rather than wait for one you don’t. Never a guarantee for a better set of circumstances. Only guarantee is time lost.

He waited patiently for the moment to proceed. Just a small distraction was all he needed. It arrived sooner than he anticipated and under better circumstances that he had the right to expect.

“Tequila, would you be able to hand me the print outs right behind you?” 

Harry saw him turn away from the bed, his hips rotated in his direction, the angle ideal for him to grab, cock and point. He only hoped that his deductions regarding his physical state were correct, or it would be a moot point. He might not even be able to sit up, let alone hold a weapon.  Take the out, the told himself. 

These thoughts occurred within fractions of a second. Without hesitation, in one fell swoop, he grabbed the gun, pulled back the slide to load the chamber. Thankfully his body responded without any resistance or weakness and he slid himself back into an upright position. 

He judged the distance between the three of them. The man called Tequila, was close enough by his side to possibly disarm him, so he swung the weapon in the woman’s direction. She was far enough away that the gun was not within her reach. He centered the sight at her chest. It was not the aim of a stop shot. It was the aim for a kill shot. Might as well show them he was not a man to underestimate. He did not want to shoot her, but he did want to make it very clear to them that he was a man to take very seriously. 

Once he guaranteed that he had their attention. Though he had many questions he wanted answers to, he asked them the two questions that were the most urgent.

His voice was gravelly, but still clear enough to understand. 

“Who are you?”

“What am I doing here?”

For having a gun aimed at her chest, the woman was surprisingly relaxed. She held up her palm towards the other man. She would handle this. The man shifted his weight back to a holding posture rather than the offensive stance that prepared him to take action. 

“You have a British accent. That’s helpful to know. How are you feeling?”

“My first two questions still stand.” He regarded them impassively, but kept any notes of aggression from his tone.

—— 

Gingers POV

“My name is Ginger Ale, I’m Head Strategy Executive and Director of Medical here at our outfit.  This is Agent Tequila. Welcome to Statesman, our whiskey distillery. You’re at our HQ in Kentucky.” 

She handed him a cup of water. “Sip. Don’t guzzle.”

She was succinct. “As for what you are doing here, we were waiting for you to wake up so you could tell us. We found you outside of a church about 10 miles from here. You had been shot in the head. You were still alive, so we did everything we could to keep you that way. You’ve been unconscious the entire time here. Your vitals were strong. We were just waiting for you to wake up. We have some questions for you as well.” 

Her voice was gentle, but firm. He did not catch any inflections or hesitations that would indicate she was lying, or with holding information. Her tone was honest, forthright and it put him slightly more at ease. 

“I answered both of yours. Would you be so kind to answer mine?” She asked politely.

He did not refuse, but he didn’t say yes.

“How are you feeling.” she asked again.

“Would you care to clarify?” He asked in return. “There are multiple ways I can respond to your question.”

So he was witty.

“Pick one.”

“At the present moment, tolerable. Though this persistent ache in my head leaves something to be desired” He equivocated. 

“That’s to be expected with a headshot. You did lose your left eye. There will be residual pain/discomfort until the injury is completely healed.”

“What is your name? 

“My name is Harry Hart.”

“Do you feel comfortable enough at the moment to answer some questions for us? Is there anything that you require immediately? 

“More water would be appreciated. Otherwise, feel free. Fire away.” He looked amused. He reached over to return Tequila’s gun. “Perhaps a poor choice of words in my case.” He revised his response. “Very well then, proceed.”

She refilled his water and pulled a chair next to his bed. Tequila found a place strategically viable to intervene if things went sideways. He wasn’t one to get caught off guard twice.

“Now, since we are on a first name basis, can you tell us why you were at the church that day? Why would someone would want to kill you?”

“No.”

“No?” 

“I simply do not know.”

“Why you were there? Or why someone wanted you dead?”

“Neither.”

“Where are you from?”

His face remained blank.

“That may be a little vague.” Ginger specified. “Where do you live? Where is your home?”

No response.

How old are you?

“58” 

“Do you know what you do for a living? Where do you work?”

An almost imperceptible turn of the head.

“Can you remember where you went to school? Secondary or university.”

He squinted his eyes. But no answer.

“Do you know who the current world leader is? President? Prime Minister?”

Her regarded her impassively. She started to form her own understanding of how he was communicating. She could play along. Any form of communication was good for her. It didn’t have to be words. There was more than one way to impart information. It would all get her to the same place. Plus, she would have the chance to read his non-verbal cues. That would be a challenge. His expression was nearly inscrutable.

A slight turn of the head meant I don’t know. His impassive face meant maybe, but he can’t know for sure. The blank disinterested stare meant that he had no idea what she was referring to. She was already intrigued by her patient. She was becoming more fascinated by the moment. 

Changing tactics, she asked. “Can you play the piano?”

A slight tilt of the head. This was new. That meant the question sparked something in his mind. It was a possibility, but he couldn’t know for sure. Interesting. She went further down her tangent.

“What’s pi to the tenth decimal?”

Without hesitation, he rattled off. “3.1415926535”

“Parle vous français?”

“Oui”

How many languages can you speak?

“Six ”

“What are they?”

English, French, Spanish, German, Italian, Arabic.

Hmmm. Arabic was interesting. She filed that away to look at more closely at a later time.

“Do you know were you learned Arabic or why?”

He was taciturn.

“Are you right or left handed?”

“Right.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

Impassive.

“Do you own a car?”

Impassive.

“Do you know how to drive.”

“Yes.”

Now they were getting somewhere, she thought to herself.

“What was your favourite game as a child?”

He furrowed his brow but answered.

“Chess.”

Were you good?

“Yes.”

“Did you compete?

No answer.

Hmm. Retrograde amnesia, she pondered.

“Can you shoot a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever killed someone?”

A tilt of the head. Possible, but can’t confirm.

“Do you think you’re a good person?”

“I have no reason to doubt that.”

“Do you know what orange means?”

“The color or the fruit?”

Good. “The fruit, what does it remind you of? 

“Winter. Christmas.”

Excellent. “Do you remember a Christmas from your past?”

Blank stare.

“Do you think you’re attractive? Good looking.”

He huffed, amused. 

“It’s not a trick question.”

“Not to seem chuffed, but I’ve never had any complaints in that regard.”

“Can you remember any specific compliments that you’ve received in the past?”

Thwarted.

Good. “So you know that other people think you are attractive and desirable. But is that how you see yourself?”

 “I was attempting to be modest.” 

She waited for his response.

Reluctantly, “Yes.” He admitted. “I know that I am attractive, handsome, good looking. However you would like to call it.” 

He continued even though he had already answered the question. It was his first moment of revealing information on his own.

“I would go out with myself if I were able, but unfortunately, that is not an option. I am not a narcissist. However, I would say that I regard myself with a healthy and acceptable amount of vanity. “ 

Did Ginger just discern a bit of sarcasm?

His good looks have been a point of contention in the past. Not that she could blame him. She was curious to know how his appearance either hindered him or helped him. She did note that there was no wedding ring when they found him. She couldn’t complain. It didn’t hurt her daily check ups that he was extremely easy on the eyes. Even his hospital issue gown made him look handsome.

Ok. Time to move on. She switched her line of questioning. 

“Where are you right now?” She asked.

His expression was doubtful. Of her, not of his answer. His face asked the question. “Didn’t we just discuss this?” Nevertheless, he answered her with a bemused sigh.

“Kentucky, United States. Apparently 10 miles away from a church where I was shot in the head.”

Ginger nodded. She was encouraged. 

He didn’t see why. It wasn’t difficult to recall. She had only just told him.

“Do you remember our names and what we do?”

He found the helpfulness of these questions debatable, but if it would accelerate his process, he was willing to comply. And participate, if it made this whole interaction a tad more interesting.

“Your name is Ginger Ale. After the beverage, I can only assume. Your colleague, here, is called Tequilla, after the alcohol. I am under the the impression that these are code names that are assigned by the intelligence agency that employs you. Statesman. With a distillery as a backstop. Hence the libation themed code names. 

“Ginger Ale, I gather from your code name’s slight variation, you are in an essential, but supportive role. Whereas Tequila, a right tipple, would be classified as an agent. Of your independent organisation. I would believe, comparable to the CIA, but without the restrictions that often hinder government run spy organisations. And with more interesting code names.”

There was just the slightest hint of cockiness in his tone and in his expression. She found it equally amusing and charming at the same time. Now they were making progress. More than she could have hoped for.

He was obviously intelligent, well mannered, well spoken, though taciturn. Understandable upon waking up with no memory of where he was and why he was there. It was a very promising discovery. He seemed to accept his situation without resistance. He was alert. No hint of confusion. Just a desire to understand the circumstances he found himself in. 

He was emotionally stable, if not a little irritated, by his current state. He took the loss of his eye as a matter of fact. Overall, his ability to acclimate was nothing short of remarkable. 

He folded his hands on his lap, one over the other, tilted his chin in her direction. His posture said. “I’m waiting patiently..” He was throwing shades of a personality she was already warming toward. 

There was a momentary pause. They regarded each other with interest. 

 Finally Harry spoke. “I have amnesia.” He wasn’t asking a question. He was stating it as a fact.

She confirmed. Nodding. 

“I would like to perform some additional CT and MRI scans, and EEG, but judging from the traumatic brain injury you’ve suffered, you most likely have retrograde amnesia. Just based on this conversation alone. To be more specific. Focal retrograde amnesia. 

She continued to explain. “Focal retrograde amnesia, also known as isolated or pure retrograde amnesia, is when someone only experiences the loss of memories that have already been made. Anterograde amnesia, on the other hand, is being unable to form new memories.

He listened to her with a new interest. 

She continued. “So, it appears you have retrograde amnesia, but no anterograde. This means that the ability to form new memories is left intact. You easily recalled information from a short time ago. That is very good news.” She paused, looking for his understanding.

“Please, go on.” He said.

“This kind of isolated memory loss doesn’t affect a person’s intelligence or ability to learn new skills, like playing the piano or affect previously learned skills, like driving a car, speaking different languages. Most likely, if we sat you at a piano, you would be able to play, based on your response to my question.”

“What is the prognosis?”

Ginger, equivocated, a little hesitant “With amnesia, it’s difficult to predict. Retrograde amnesia can result from damage to different parts of the brain responsible for controlling emotions and memories. These include the thalamus, which is deep in the center of the brain, and the hippocampus, which is in the temporal lobe and the cerebellum. There are many variables involved.”

“Thats is all very interesting, but doesn’t quite give me any predictions for my future.” 

“To be completely honest, for the injury you sustained, the amnesia is surprisingly less severe than I would have predicted. Most traumatic brain injuries are mild, resulting in concussion. But a severe injury, like a serious blow to the head, or a bullet for that matter, can damage the memory-storing areas of the brain and lead to anterograde amnesia as well. Depending on the level of damage, the amnesia could be temporary or permanent. I know that’s not very helpful.”

“Ginger, there is no need to “hedge your bets” as they would say. I am quite prepared to accept any answer you provide.”

“The fact that you can remember new information is promising. Your cognitive and behavioural skills are, as far as I can tell, excellent. I would be interested to test your knowledge further. You may have skills that you don’t know you have until you have a need for them.”

“If I were to summarise… “ Ginger concluded. “And please let me know if I go too far off the beaten path as I find this area of research very intriguing.”

She stole a glance at Tequila. “Many would find it boring.” 

Tequila gestured with a shrug of his shoulders..”So what? I think it’s boring.”

Ginger turned back toward Harry.

“Are you comfortable?”

“As much as one could hope.”

“Please understand that I’m generalising here. Just the fact that you are interested in this subject and can process information is extremely promising. The questions I asked you, though random, I asked for very specific reasons.” 

“Our memories” she explained, “can be separated into two groups: Explicit and Implicit. Each of these categories can then be further broken down. If I can use your case as an example?”

Harry nodded.

In the clear and assured tones of a professor, she explained. 

“Explicit memories, or declarative memories, are those we consciously try to remember and recall. When I ask you a question, such as, “Where were you born?” to answer, you would navigate through your explicit memory.

“Explicit memory stores events and facts. This is your conscious memory. You know that you have them and can remember them when you need to. In your case, I asked you to recall a derivative of Pi. You did that easily. That would be an explicit memory. Your knowledge of different languages also taps into your explicit memory.” 

Harry was still, but receptive.

Encouraged by his attentiveness, she broke the concept down further.

“Of these explicit memories, there are three different types. The first two are episodic and semantic memories. Do you know what semantic means?” She asked him.

“Of course. That which is related to language.”  replied Harry.

Ginger was pleased.

“Exactly. Our semantic memory stores knowledge about words, concepts and language-based knowledge and facts. Knowing the definition of “Semantic” is, in fact, a semantic memory. So is your knowledge of Pi in relation to the numerical expression, and the ability to speak different languages. This part of your memory seems to be unaffected.”

She checked in with Harry. She had the tendency to explain way beyond the interest of the listener. He confirmed. Go on.

“The second kind of explicit memory is called episodic memory. This is information about events that you have personally experienced. For example, if something looks or feels familiar, you’re probably trying to pull from your episodic memory. Times in your life, people, places, emotions and context that make up the events in your life. The what, when, where, how and why of your memory.”

“This seems to be a large part of your memory that has been affected and it seems to go back for a very long time. Typically, when you see lapses in episodic memory, it’s usually the more recent memories that can’t be accessed. Memories of childhood are still there.  In your case, your entire past seems to be wiped.

He asked his first question. Well, other than the first two, but that was at gunpoint, so they didn’t really count.“Then how is it that I still have all of this knowledge.”

“Yes, just getting to that. Now we move over to your implicit memories. These memories are not part of your consciousness.”

She took a breath. “These memories are based on behaviours and movements. Memories that are retained through practice and repetition. A learned skill would be part of this memory.”

She had vast knowledge of memory loss due to brain trauma and she welcomed the opportunity to share. “There are two types of implicit memories. Procedural and emotional conditioning.”

“Procedural stores information about how to do things. Why you are able to perform actions without consciously monitoring the sub procedures that need to be pieced together in order to perform the task. Or, more simply, it’s the reason you can brush your teeth without a second thought. It is the memory for skilled actions.”

“This part of the memory is why you can do things without thinking about them. You know how to drive a car. But you don’t know if you own one. You can play chess, but you don’t know if you played competitively. Same with the piano. You can shoot a gun, but you don’t know if you’ve ever killed someone. Even something as simple as brushing your teeth is part of this. You don’t have to consciously think about every sub action you have to make, or the motor skills involved. Probably the same way with a gun. If I asked to take apart and reassemble Tequila’s gun, you could probably do so without knowing how or why you possess that skill.”

“Lastly is Emotional Conditioning.  This can be a little trickier to identify. I would have to ask you more questions to see how this part of your memory was affected. These memories are made through classical conditioning, associations made through stimuli. You know what an orange is. You know what they smell like. It reminds you of Christmas. This is emotional conditioning. But you can’t remember any Christmas that you’ve had. That is your episodic memory.”

Harry looked openly thoughtful. He was no longer guarding his expression. The softness took years off his face. It was hard not to just stare at him. 

“There’s one more category of explicit memories that is important. Autobiographical. This memory system is made up of both episodic and semantic aspects of your memory. It’s a collection of memories specifically related to the self. This could be how you look, your height, specific meaningful points in your life, or the general idea of your concept of self. Which is why I asked you questions not just on how you look, but how you, yourself, viewed your looks.”  

“You know what a gun is. Semantic. You know how to shoot a gun. Procedural. You don’t know if you’ve ever killed anyone. Episodic. Killing someone is only acceptable under certain circumstances. Emotional conditioning. But without knowing whether or not you’ve ever killed anyone, you believe you are a good person. Autobiographical.”

“In regards to the actual landscape of your brain, your cerebellum and prefrontal cortex seem to be the least affected.  In addition to contributions to implicit memory, conditioned responses, fine motor movements, posture and coordination, the cerebellum also maintains internal representations of the external world, which allow you to move in darkness as long as the room or space is familiar to you, and how you would need to position your self to aim a gun and hit a moving target.”

Harry was still engaged, so she went on. 

“It seems the hippocampus was the most affected by your injury. This would make sense based on the entry point of the bullet. This part of the brain processes declarative and episodic memory, people, places, and things as well as recognition memory.” 

“I know that’s a lot to take in. I’d like you to rest in the meantime. You’ve only just woken up, in well, less than ideal circumstances. Even though you say you feel “acceptable” you are still recovering from a major injury.  We’ll follow up with you more frequently, now that you are awake.” She wasn’t asking.

Harry, for the first time, addressed Tequila. “I take it that she is always the voice of reason.”

“Without fail.”

“And I assume there is no sense in arguing.”

“None at all.”

——

For simplicity’s sake, they assumed that he was from the UK as many of his mannerism and idiosyncrasies were quintessentially British. Tequila had gotten into the habit of calling him Hart, or The Brit for short. Harry, who was not one for such informalities, was amused. He did, however, recognise that Americans, as well as Statesman, were more easy going and relaxed in their word, dress and interactions with each other, overall. 

——

“Was there anything, physically, or possessions that I had on my body when you found me, that would offer any clues to my identity.”

Ginger paused. “Well, Harry, we found you in quite a unique state.”

They had already been over the event numerous times. But Harry knew that little details were often overlooked the first time around and could surface after a spell.  Ironic, since his own memory wouldn’t be surfacing in any amount of time. He would have rather used a more elegant metaphor, but he was like a top notch computer with nothing to process. All of his files were wiped. Who knew if they were recoverable. No use in wondering. 

When Ginger Ale and Agent Tequila found Harry, he had made quite the impression. As the helicopter descended, Ginger and Tequila saw him closely for the first time. He was splayed out, flat on his back, unconscious, with a bullet through his eye, wearing of all things, an impeccably tailored, navy pinstripe double breasted suit. He was fully decked out with all the details. Spread collar, tie with a Windsor knot, suspenders, oxfords, even a tie pin, cufflinks, a pocket square, and a signet ring. It was a sight not often seen in their part of Kentucky.

While Ginger attended to the man, Tequila checked the church. It was the site of a bloodbath. This was no mass shooting. A mass shooting would be clean and simple compared to what he found inside.  These people had been slaughtered. Creatively. Luckily, whatever or whoever the threat was that had massacred the congregation, had departed. 

Harry had definitely been involved in the bloodshed, but to what extent, they did not know. The tell tale signs were on his suit. It hard to see the bloodstains against the dark wool, but there were unmistakable splashes of red on the crisp whiteness of his cuffs and collar. It was torn in places, whether from a weapon or some other object, one couldn’t tell. But mostly, the proof was on his hands. They were stained with blood and gunpowder residue up to his wrists. He did not have any weapons on his person when they found him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one inside. Nevertheless, a person doesn’t get that much blood on themselves from using a gun. Even at close range, the blood spatter would spray backward. 

Whatever he had been involved in, it was up close and personal. Rage sound waves plus the expert skill and killer instinct of a veteran assassin could definitely equal the carnage that was left behind. He was fitted with a shoulder holster, but no weapon. They didn’t have enough time to search for identifying evidence in the church. The object that they found the most interesting were his glasses. Handsome, squared off, dark tortoiseshell horn rimmed frames. But it was the lenses that revealed the most about him. The glasses told them he was intelligence. They just didn’t know whose.

Intelligence agents, as a rule, never carry anything that can identify them. Harry was no exception. His clothing, even his shoes, though exceptionally well made and no doubt very expensive, bore no labels. It was all bespoke, custom made to fit him, and him alone and as a result, no identifying markers.

They tried to reverse engineer the communications transmitter from the remaining lens. They also attempted to disassemble his watch, but both were designed to withstand and prevent external tampering. Whoever designed them was talented and had the foresight to put anti-tampering mechanisms in place. 

Of course, they had run a facial recognition and prints through their international database, but as they expected, there were no matches to be found. They couldn’t investigate thoroughly without compromising his safety. Obviously someone wanted him dead. It could even be his own agency. More than once, had an agent been removed by their own employer. The threat might still exist. Nor could they risk the anonymity of their own agency. 

They scanned news for anything surrounding the Kentucky event, who was involved, any unusual occurrences that happened at the same time, but they only found information on Valentine and his cohorts. They even kept their ears open on the secret spy wire, to see if a fellow agency was looking for an operative, or had an agent who had gone rogue, or had one go dark. They didn’t have any luck. It’s not like they could put out an “if missing an agent, please call” flyer. While Harry was recovering, they also put out feelers for possible missing persons that matched his description in the civilian world. Even if he was an intelligence agent, that didn’t mean he didn’t have a cover in place, a backstop that could possible lead to his identity.

His accent immediately suggested he was from the UK. However, his lack of a specific regional dialect, made it difficult to narrow their search criteria. Harry’s accent was that of the Queens English, or RP Received Pronunciation. Which might mean he was from Great Britain, or any of the commonwealth countries. Their contacts at MI6 and MI5 received a little exchange of information to see if they had any leads, of which there were none. Whatever agency that he was with, was not government funded. Of course there was the brotherhood of clandestine intelligence agencies across the globe. But in this circumstance, they did not want to broadcast that they were potentially sheltering an agent that could have possibly blown his cover, been burned, or been compromised in any fashion. The safest avenue for both Statesman and Harry was to remain inconspicuous until a tangible lead was discovered.

Because, at the very least, he was intelligence, and so were they, they were curious as to his specialty, his area of expertise. Handling a gun was part of every agents training, no matter where their loyalties lie. It was no surprise that he was comfortable shooting a weapon. All agents were. It was possible that he could be a clandestine officer, or focus on espionage, recruiting assets. He could be an interrogator. He was intelligent, well spoken, articulate. Psych-ops, psychological warfare or diplomacy could be just as likely.  His fastidious appearance, polite manner and gentlemanly demeanour would certainly lend itself to international relations. Certainly a man with his physical attributes wouldn’t be secluded to a desk in analysis. With his charming personality he could possibly be a raven, a male agent employed to seduce people for intelligence purposes. That would be effortless on his part. He would just have to show up. There were many ladies that had taken notice of the handsome figure who was a mysterious presence at Statesman’s HQ.

 It was also feasible that he had cross specialties. Some of the specialties would be more challenging than others to assess. Weapons were straightforward. You were either good or you weren’t. Once he felt both physically and mentally up to task, they brought him to their version of Hogan’s Ally or the Farm, the FBI and the CIA’s, respectively, tactical training facilities. 

When Harry’s health improved, they discovered the true extent of his abilities. They were far greater than Statesman expected.  As Harry’s strength and coordination returned, complex tasks became second nature again. His body began to respond to the stimulus and he gravitated toward the physical challenges that Statesman tested him with. What they learned on the shooting range, then in the Statesman tactical training facility and Special Operations Division, they did not expect and were not prepared for.

Harry found the whole process amusing. If not outright entertaining. Losing ones memory had its advantages. One need not worry about expectations, preconceived notions or judgement. He would either be good, or he would not be. Either outcome would be acceptable to him. No one, not even he, would know the outcome until after the fact. And he knew how useless it was to wish for one scenario or the other when anything was possible.

What did happen, was that the challenges of their tactical installation were not capable of quantifying his ability. His skills far surpassed the most advanced exercise they had.

He proceeded to excel at every exercise, drill, and challenge they placed in front of him. He performed without thought, without hesitation, with the grace and composure they had come to equate him with. First, on the shooting range and then finally on their full scale replicated “warehouse” where they would simulate real life combat situations, including the use of live rounds.

The first test was for speed and accuracy and his knowledge of different firearms.  At the shooting range, they laid out a variety of weapons in front of him. The guns were unloaded. He was tasked with loading the ammunition in to the proper clip or magazine and then loading the weapon. He was to discharge the all the rounds at the target at the end of the range. Aiming for a kill shot either at the head or chest, release the clip and return the weapon and then move onto the next weapon he was familiar with. 

Statesman didn’t know what to expect, but the certainly didn’t anticipate what they witnessed. 

Harry had insisted on wearing his full suit as he did every day. The Brit was calm, cool and composed. He was neither excited nor concerned regarding the proceedings. More than anything, he seemed relaxed, but slightly more interested in the tactical challenges than the cognitive behavioural tests that they had him perform. They explained to him what the task was. One by one, load the clip, load the matching weapon, discharge all the rounds, release and repeat. 

Without any visible effort on his part, Harry loaded the first clip, loaded the weapon, and then seemingly without aiming, pulled the trigger.  The first several shots landed off mark. He adjusted and then fired the entire clip, alternating between two chest shots, followed by one round to the head of the target at the end of the range, chambering each bullet between shots if there was a slide. It did not go unnoticed that his method was the one used by assassins. They all knew, when eliminating a target, it was without fail, two to the chest, one to the head. He was still completing his follow through on the previous round, while reaching for the next clip, before releasing the clip of the weapon in his hand and switching to the next. He did this smoothly, with ease, dexterity and without hesitation with the entire set of weapons. One after the other, shot after shot, hitting mark after mark without effort. No fancy moves, no showy stance, just incredibly efficient, accurate, skill and technique. With the reverb of gunshots echoing through their ears, Harry laid down the last gun in line with the rest, turned toward the observing Statesman. His precision was astounding. 

 There was no perceptible change in his demeanour. He could have been doing a crossword puzzle for all the exertion that was evident on his face. 

“Does this suffice?” His face was pleasant. There could have also been the tiniest hint of amusement. 

It was Ginger that spoke up first. “I do believe, yes, that will suffice.”

Tequila regarded him not only like he was from a different country, but a different species of man all together.

 “How the hell ’dya do that?”

Harry gave him a good natured smile. 

“Knowledge of the weapons.” He continued plainly while smoothing out the front of his suit and adjusting his cuffs to their proper length.

“One must possess an understanding of the moving variables involved when discharging handguns, especially for a significant number of rounds. One must focus on accuracy, which involves trigger pull pressure and control, proper stance, a secure but consistent grip, taking in to account grip tension and fatigue. Excessive trigger pull weight will cause muscle fatigue of the index finger and can ultimately lead to task failure during pistol marksmanship.”  

While opening and closing his shooting hand, he massaged the base of his trigger finger. 

“With the variety of weapons that were included in this drill, one must locate the front site alignment based on the make and model and identify the site picture, either combat, center, 6 o’clock hold, if adopting a classic stance. However, front site becomes irrelevant in situations where the target is not in front of you.”

The Statesman were surreptitiously glancing at one anther. Was this man for real?

“And then one must consider breath control, trigger press and reset, and naturally, follow through.  Of course, one must account for situational awareness. Needless to say, it is far less complicated aiming at a static bullseye in a controlled environment,” He gestured to the range. “rather than at a moving target under enemy fire.”       

He spoke with an easy nonchalance, as if he were describing how to serve tea. Incidentally, last week, Harry had already instructed them on the official rules of how to prepare a proper cup of tea. He had looked vaguely insulted when he inquired about tea and Tequila handed him a cold bottle of sweet tea from a nearby cooler. Following this incident he educated them on the finer points of afternoon tea.

“First and most importantly,” he informed them.” Select the appropriate English tea.”

Harry recommended Earl Grey, Breakfast Blend, or Traditional 100’s black teas. Slightly more bitter than American teas, he informed them.

“Always use freshwater for individual steeping. Boil water between 180-200 degrees.”

Harry stated that it was imperative that the water is at boiling point to properly release the flavours of the tea.

“Slowly pour into a teapot over a single tea bag or loose leaf diffuser. Let it steep for six minutes. Remove the tea bag. Do not squeeze the tea bag. Pour the tea into a proper tea cup, not a coffee mug. At this time, one can add milk, not sugar, unless you want to disrupt the flavour of the tea.” 

He was firm on the following point. “Only milk, if you are looking to make a proper cup. The color of the tea with milk should have a dark orange-brown hue, similar to American coffee. Once the milk is stirred, the tea should be at the perfect temperature to enjoy. If feeling especially British, one can pair with scones and clotted cream.” 

With the same casual, relaxed ease, he continued. “Naturally, it helps if one is familiar with muzzle velocity, air resistance, barometric pressure, humidity, air temperature and wind speed. The quantity and quality of propellant used in the firearm as well as projectile mass and length of the barrel.”

He saw the blank stares of the Statesman agents. He equivocated, “Or in more simple terms, front site, trigger press, and follow through.”

If he was this level on the shooting range, they were eager to see what surprises he had in store for the simulation. If his performance on the shooting rage was any indication of his abilities, his proficiency on the full scale replica could very possibly be stupefying. 

Word traveled with the wind on Statesman grounds. The following day, allowing his shooting hand appropriate time to recover, Harry prepared for the real life simulation.  A variety of curious onlookers, from fellow agents, handlers and operations support began to gather in small, inconspicuous groups at the control center where anyone watching would have full audio and visual of Harry the entire time. 

The immersive course was situated in two enormous warehouses with an open courtyard area in between.  It was devised to test Harry’s technical and tactical skill. So far, he had shown exemplary marksmanship. But like he had mentioned, it was much less complicated to shoot with accuracy in a range under a controlled environment. The ability to perform with the same accuracy and precision under pressure is what separated a good agent from an exceptional one. They were going to find out which category Harry fell into.

Harry, as an operator, would have to perform under the following conditions; unknown target distances that vary from close to extended ranges, identifying threats and non-threats prior to engagement, making decisions under pressure, speed vs. precision shots, tactical movements, utilising different types of cover and tactical shooting positions to accomplish the mission, which was to come out clean on the other side. Firearms ranged from pistol, rifle, shotgun, carbine rifle, AK -47, as well as improvised munitions. There could be an active shooter scenario. A hostage situation. Anything was possible.

The Statesman insisted that he didn’t have to wear his suit during the engagement and offered him combat gear. His suit was certain to interfere with his maneuverability. He showed up to the course, fully attired in his classic pinstripes, down to the cuff links. He couldn’t explain why, but it felt completely natural and at ease. 

“One should always be able to engage in life threatening situations while properly attired.”  He explained. 

 Call it vanity, call it pride, but he only felt comfortable in suits when he was in a professional role. Wearing anything else seemed sacrilegious. He wasn’t going to wear any less for an evaluation, no matter what the evaluation entailed. And he was very particular. About his suit specifically. He had several suits tailor made by a firm of Statesman’s recommendation. 

The one concession that he did make regarding his attire was to replace his Oxfords with the Statesman issue cowboy boots. Cowboy boots, of all things. But he had to confess, they felt good on his feet. It was easier to cover the unfamiliar terrain of the Statesman property, which included dirt, gravel, hay, barns, and stables and various other interesting outbuildings. At least the boots still made a familiar sound on hard surfaces. He particularly enjoyed the hollow, rounded quality his footsteps made when he crossed Statesman’s many hardwood floors. Particularly in the large storage areas the housed the enormous barrels of whiskey while they aged. 

He was also pragmatic. The boots were definitely more appropriate on the occasions they went horse riding, or other “outdoor activities” that his new keepers might engage in. While he might be fastidious in regards to his appearance, he still valued practicality.  For the landscape of Kentucky, the boots were more appropriate. And they did indeed, have a satisfying click that was comfortingly familiar. 

While the course was being finalised, he tested his right hand by creating a fist and then opening his palm wide. He repeated this several times. There was residual soreness from the prior days drill, but nothing that caused him concern. In the simulation, there would be a wide variety of firearms and weapons available in the course. Not every weapon would be a handgun. A shotgun or a riffle could be braced on the shoulder. Different weapons would require a different set of muscle and therefore prevent repetitive fatigue.

His shooting hand didn’t concern him, he was fairly certain he could fire from his weak hand as well. He was curious to find out. He decided to try even if the opportunity didn’t present itself. 

As he entered the course, the Statesman gathered around the monitors.

Even in a suit, he manoeuvred like an elite operator. His movement was refined, graceful, efficient. He held himself tall when he needed to check and clear areas, keeping his spine in alignment. His footing was sure and stable as he maintained a mid-foot drive with every step he took, balancing his weight between the ball of his foot and the heel.

He was not one to peacock. His skills and technique always had a specific goal and end result in mind. Ego had no place in life and death scenarios. But on the course, after he completed a task successfully, he could’t help but push the level of his abilities. Explore his edge. He began following up his kill shots with a second maneuver from a trickier vantage point, or with a more demanding technique, adopting more and more challenging strategies and unlikely scenarios. Each time, giving a little bit more than was necessary. He wanted to discover the full capacity of his skill. 

On the course, he felt a new vitality. Whether it be due to the physical exertion of being in the field, or the mental challenges that sharpened the edges of his mind, he did not question. He simply allowed it to flow.

He attempted to fire from his non-dominant hand when the weapon and the cover required it. He adopted a canted shooting stance, firing the gun from a 45 degree angle, aiming for a target that would be impossible in his position with a right hand grip. Well, that was confirmation he could shoot with both hands. When he needed to reload, he also did so with one hand, just to see if he could. He could. With the slide locked to the rear, he placed the gun between his knees with the grip facing upwards. He slid the magazine and then locked it into place and removed the gun from between his knees. His hand hit the slide release and he got back into the fight in a matter of seconds. Some of those watching hadn’t been noticed. His technique and execution was flawless.

He fired on the run at a moving target who was using a “civilian” as cover and hit his mark.

He shot two weapons at a time.

He shot from behind his back. 

He could shoot through things and still hit his target on the other side. 

He could shoot away from a target, knowing that the force and angle of the ricochet would hit its intended target.

He used bullets as a tool, shooting items into place, to remove barriers, open doors.

He used bullets to adjust a reflective surface so he could see around a blind corner.

It was as if he was mapping the entire course and picturing it in his head while he moved. Once he scanned an area, he was immediately able to place the location in relation to his position and the rest of the course. 

Not only was he expert at weaponry, a top notch marksman, his physical capabilities far exceeded their expectations. He was physically fit, but it was beyond that. He was evolved. He had a body awareness, not only in control of his physical actions, but the awareness of his own body moving through space. (He would be one hell of a lover) At times his movements were economical, not wasting a single iota of energy on a motion that was unnecessary.

But the movements that he did come up with were impressive. One motion would seamlessly flow into the next like a dance. A dance with bullets and weapons, but a dance nonetheless. 

He could shoulder roll while aiming and discharging a weapon.

He could knee slide to dodge obstacles.

He could position himself to make a defensive position into an offensive one. 

He could use a target as a cover, while taking out the target at the same time.

He could practice hand to hand combat for close quarter contact, simultaneously hit targets on the periphery with his weapon. 

At one point he threw his gun forward in the air, while on the move, used both hands to catapult himself over a low wall while the gun was still traveling through space. He caught the gun, landed and then swung it around in his hand and used it as a cudgel to incapacitate a target before he had a chance to reload. 

Agent Tequila leaned in.

“Holy shit.”

“Mmm Hmm.” Ginger replied.

If they hadn’t witnessed it on the monitors, they would not have believed it. 

It seemed like the further he got into the course, the better he performed.

He moved faster, with more precision, solved problems more quickly, took out more targets.

His most valuable asset, even more than his marksmanship and his physical and tactical expertise, would be his sheer creativity and his ability to improvise on the fly. It was as if, when faced with a problem, there was always a solution. You could almost hear him say, “Well, let’s find out.” The methodology that he used could be seen as unorthodox. It often purposely put him in harms way, but that same method enabled him to open a door to a solution that previously had not been possible. It wasn’t that the proposed solution was not feasible. The solution did not even exist until he created it.  He was confident enough to trust his own judgement and took risks in only the most challenging situations.

Agent Tequila, “If there was a soundtrack to go with this, that would be some kickass music”. 

Ginger nodded. She had to agree. Watching Harry move the way he did in his suit? It might seem silly or old fashioned or traditional to think what she did. He looked noble, gallant, honourable even.

Harry Hart was never one to disappoint. When he was expected to deliver, he delivered and then some. He completed the course while beating Statesman’s record time. To the observers, it felt like he had been in the warehouse for a lifetime. Hadn’t he been moving in slow motion? Some of them even forgot to breathe. 

He burst through the exit on the other side. The doors opened to the sound of cheers and applause. The breeze was cool on his skin, while the sun provided an inviting warmth. The air was fresh and crisp. It was a beautiful day to feel accomplished. He left any residual stress or tension behind. He felt light.

This was not a sight that Statesman was accustomed to seeing after a course was completed. More often than not, the agent would appear dazed, distressed, a little shell-shocked, a little traumatised, perhaps even rethinking his chosen career. Not many were cut out for this kind of work. Rarely did you ever see one, not just capable of the work, but made for it, thrive on it. Harry Hart was the latter.

Harry was exhilarated in a way that he hadn’t felt since he regained consciousness. The calm, cool, collected, focused, deadly Harry Hart from the warehouse gave way and a new man took his place. His expression opened up with a vibrant laugh that changed the very structure of his face. Hell, it changed him into a different person. Whatever, walls, barriers he built had fallen aside, revealing his true authentic nature. He was a man who enjoyed being alive. When he grinned, it was easy to imagine that he would have no problem winning hearts. Certainly most of the females that had watched him take the course were left a little breathless, a little enchanted. And actually, the men didn’t look that much different. 

Why did he seem so attractive at that moment?  

Why did he look so charismatic as he stood, tall and confident in his pinstripe suit, outside the warehouse with an easy smile and warm brown eyes? What had changed from the time he entered the course on the other side? 

The man who started the course had been handsome. The man that came out at the end? It would be easy to fall in love with him. That man was beautiful.

They were seeing a man in his element.  

They were witnessing a man finding his identity.

He seemed more present, more there, more alive. 

He finally felt like he had a place and a purpose. 

When he woke up in the medical ward, his first thought had been:  “My name is Harry Hart.” 

It was different now. There was a connection, a new realization. 

Now he was awakening outside the warehouse.

This time around, he thought to himself.

“I am Harry Hart.”

His brown eyes appeared even more golden in the sunlight. They were warm and inviting. No longer cold. No longer closed off. The light wind tossed a lock over his forehead. In a rare gesture he ran his hand through his hair.

He slung the communication headset around his neck, but not before jesting.

“All right.” He said definitively.   He paused for a moment.

He grinned. “Would you like to see that again?” 

——

What they discovered when Harry completed the course. …Whatever past Harry had come from, he had advanced tactical and technical skills that had muscle memory and strategy so ingrained into every fiber of his being that he didn’t need to think–he simply acted. In the face of immediate life threatening danger, he didn’t merely react to a situation. He took charge. He didn’t make decisions to survive. He made decisions to win.

They had to assume an agent of his caliber would be missed by his organisation. His talent, skill and expertise, if found in an agent, you very well make sure that agent stays in your employ. It was even likely that he was a senior agent or a director. They could certainly imagine him in a leadership role. A complicating factor could be that he was presumed deceased, and therefore, there was no chatter on the wire where you could find information, if only you knew what to look for. 

——

After Harry had literally triumphed over the course, there was a new aura about him. Before the trials, though he was always the perfect gentleman, he was reticent, distant, not quite aloof, but definitely keeping himself an arms length away. Both physically and metaphorically.

He wasn’t one to participate in any activities that weren’t directly related to him. He certainly didn’t spend time in the lounge, conversing with the others or stopping in for a cocktail. He didn’t socialise with any of the others. He would politely participate in conversations that happened around him. Could be quite engaging when immersed in a topic he was intrigued with. There was an unspoken invitation that he was always welcome. In addition, one of the Statesman usually asked him to join directly. Harry would always politely decline. Not offering a reason or excuse, but simply turning down the offer in his quiet, but firm way.

He answered questions that were directed to him, but when the conversation took a turn away from work and into more personal areas, he would offer his apologies and depart for a quiet location. He could often be seen a little aways from campus, sitting in the sun, an open book in one hand, a cup of tea in the other. 

He never spoke of his past unless he was questioning Ginger or Tequila for any information that they may have overlooked when they initially found him. By all appearances, he seemed to be handling himself well. Especially under the circumstances. But since they didn’t have a frame of reference, they didn’t know if he was usually so reserved, or if this was a result of the situation he found himself in. 

They found that he could horse ride. Once he brushed up on tacking and the most basic fundamentals of horsemanship, he was able to recall the rest on his own. He only rode alone. He never left the campus unless it was required by Statesman. He wouldn’t have anywhere to go besides. The only time he was away, was when he was on horseback. 

He did make an exception regarding his attire when it came to this activity. The Statesman all rode western style. A suit wasn’t the most appropriate. If they rode English, he would have requested a riding habit. His compromise? A pair of trousers, and a button down shirt. No suit, no jacket, no tie. Regardless, he did make a striking figure on horseback. Once he was, quite literally, back in the saddle, he handled himself gracefully. He was both firm and gentle with the animals and they responded to him in turn. He seemed more at ease and communicate more with the horses than with people. It was auspicious, though, seeing a cowboy hat perched on this head. 

They kept an eye on him, at least from a distance. Making sure that they caught any signs of undue stress, mental or emotional problems, disassociation, anhedonia, or displacement. The side effects of amnesia were hard to predict. If a person is unable to reclaim their lost memories, they would have to start rebuilding their history from scratch. This was easier for some than others. The older the person was when they suffered memory loss, the more difficult it became to let go of a past they no longer remembered.

With Harry being older than most of the Statesman, he may be having a harder time assimilating. Even though upon waking, he was coherent, intelligent, adaptive, accepting of his situation, once the realisation sets in that their condition is permanent, there may be a later period of denial that was similar to grief. Suffering the loss of their identity. 

Looking at the person that he was before the physical trials was like looking through a window that was covered with a thick film of dust. You might be able to discern that there was something significant, meaningful, worthwhile on other side of the glass, but it would always be a shadowy, vague, dim suggestion of what it actually was.

The tests had cleared away the dust and debris until the glass was clear, crystalline, perfectly see-through. And what had been behind the glass suddenly shone through. That person was the real Harry. Not the shadow form that you would occasionally see, always crossing from one place to the next. Hardly ever still. Never comfortable to remain in one place for long.

After the trials, he was more open, quicker to smile and engage in conversation. Though he would still refuse invitations on occasion, he would be more willing to accept with equal frequency. They discovered he could be quite the conversationalist. His dry wit and biting sense of humour was a welcome change to the often crass or juvenile comments from the male agents. 

If he wanted to, he could easily hold court. His accent and his deep voice were as captivating as his words. But never did he dominate a conversation. He always made a conscious effort to include everyone’s remarks and would even ask the opinion of those who looked like they wanted to say something, but were hesitant for one reason or another. He was more than willing to have someone else take the lead in a conversation, but if the conversation veered in an uncomfortable or inappropriate direction, he always managed to guide it back to civility. Not that he was opposed to a healthy debate, but he did believe that some words should be either said in private or not at all.

He was just as expert at navigating social situations as he was the field. This was a surprise to them since he was so withdrawn at first. They discovered that he was just someone who never wasted words. 

Not only did he become an increasing part of the fabric of Statesman’s front, he also participated more in the intelligence side of the agency. His insight was valuable, his strategies were sometimes unexpected but always effective, and his analysis sharp and concise. He didn’t go out into the field on operations, but he often assisted handlers and their agents with more demanding, complicated missions. Many times he was able to foresee an obstacle that they could avoid, or lead them out of an operation that had gone sideways. At first, the teams were hesitant to request his assistance, whether they were averse, intimidated or just nervous to approach him. But as he led teams into more successful missions, with less loss, less injury, less risk, he was often sought out, his time claimed in advance.

If he missed the field, it didn’t show. They still didn’t feel comfortable sending Harry out on assignment and he never requested a mission. They feared that the lack of direct action, the kind that he had participated in during his test course, would revert him back to the state where he was listless, closed off, removed. But he did not regress. If anything, he become more. It was difficult to explain to someone who didn’t know him during his transition. But with every passing day, with every new interaction, with every mission that he assisted, with every training session he held for advanced weapon and tactical skills, which he did have to admit, he particularly enjoyed, he just become more himself. 

By the end of the year, he was The Brit. Everyone knew him. Everyone adored him. He was free with his smile, his laughter, with a kind or encouraging word. His pinstripe suit was now a common site on campus. He had his own group of women that would pine after him, though he remained firmly unattached. His opinion was respected, his advice valued, his critiques, though sometimes harsh, were always considered constructive. 

He was not exactly gregarious, but he was a very skilled conversationalist. He could exchange witty repartee, as well as engage in topics with depth and you could trust that there was always something interesting on his mind. When he excused himself for any reason, you were left knowing more, feeling more, thinking more. However, by nature, they learned, he was a reserved and private person. But whatever walls or fences that he had constructed at the beginning of his stay, had slowly but consistently been deconstructed. On that bedrock, he wasn’t rebuilding his history. Without even thinking about it, he was fashioning a completely new one. 

The last year had been spent laying down the foundation for his new life, accumulating building blocks, each experience a new row of brick and mortar. He had let go, completely, of who he might have been in the past. The exercises that he and Ginger went through to try to recover his memory, from hypnosis, light therapy, trauma induced memory retrieval, did not work. After not even a modicum of success, felt that he spent an appropriate amount of time trying to regain his memory. He accepted the fact that his memory was gone. That he would be best to move forward. Not to look back. It was simple really. There wasn’t anything to look back on. So he began his life at Statesman.

—-

His awareness circled back to Statesman HQ, to their stateroom and fully to the present moment.  Ginger was explaining the last of the progress he had made during his year at Statesman.  He had finally reached a point of satisfaction with what was his life. Was he looking for more? Perhaps. Contentment wasn’t a natural state for him. There was always room for growth, for learning new things, and having new experiences.

However, ironically, not just because of the amnesia, he was not one for looking back. He felt that he had always been this way. Now, here were three individuals who were asking him to do just that. Asking him very earnestly, sincerely, and genuinely. 

Like the girl had said, his instincts would be triggered if they were being dishonest or withholding information.  He believed they were telling the truth and had nothing to hide. But for once, he was at a loss.  What was he to do with this information?  Was it even possible to be the person they wanted him to be? He was looking for an answer, but could find none.

He tested the weight of his questions. Was this a burden that he wanted to carry? Does a past that you can’t remember even matter? Should it even? Perhaps the only reason would be to recognise the relationships with those who still remembered you. Where was the honesty in that situation? Wouldn’t faking a past that you can’t remember be just as bad as pretending that you are the person that you used to be. While organising these questions in the folders of his mind, he kept his face calm and neutral. He didn’t have to decide anything at this moment. But he did need to establish boundaries.

He couldn’t give an answer to these three individuals. But what he could do was help them in their current situation. Help them find out who had destroyed their agency, what they were planning and how to stop them. At least, that he could offer. That, he could do. The rest would still be there. Problems, if ignored, only became more vexing. He would look at them later. Perhaps the answer would come to him.

“My sincere apologies.” He started. 

“Ginger is correct. I suffer from amnesia and I recall nothing about my history. Nothing prior to my time recovering here at Statesman. While I retain the skills and knowledge that I possessed in the past, I do not have any memory as to how or why I have them.

“We have tried every means available to recover my memories, with no success.” 

“But we are here now.” Merlin interrupted, encouraged. “We can remind you. Perhaps trigger something that makes you remember.”

“We can help. He’s right. “ Eggsy added. “Who knows more about you, than Merlin?”

Roxy nodded in agreement.

It was probably the first time the group looked somewhat enthusiastic.

Ginger interrupted. She was worried about this. She would have to be the one to grab their hopes and tether them back to reality. 

“Not to discredit your suggestion. If this were a different case, then yes, there is the possibility that it would work. But when someone is suffering from retrograde amnesia, unfortunately, their memory cannot be recovered by simply being informed about their personal experiences and their identity. What you are referring to is called the reminder effect. This would consist of re-exposing the patient to past personal information. This can work for other types of amnesia, but simply giving Harry details of his life won’t help him retrieve memories.”

Eggsy eyes narrowed. He was dubious. He was convinced something they said or told him could surely open up the gates to Harry’s memory. They just needed to try.  They just needed a chance. They hadn’t even had the opportunity to say anything to him at all. They looked toward Harry, imploringly.

Harry was his usual respectful, attentive self. But his expression was guarded and he was quiet.

Their frustration limped across the table in his direction. Ginger needed to redirect.

These people had been through hell and back. But Harry was her patient. And he was Statesman now, regardless of his pinstripe suit, his accent, or his British mannerisms. As much as she sympathised with their situation, there was the risk that Harry’s progress would stall or that he could relapse. The worst thing they could do would be to insist Harry be someone he no longer was under the misguided notion that they were helping him. Harry would be trapped, defeated and they would only face disappointment.  Ginger arranged the words carefully before she spoke.

“Memories are exceedingly intricate. But to simplify, making a memory involves storing information in the brain as a specific pattern of electrical activity.” she explained.

While avoiding excess jargon, she wanted to emphasise the complexity of Harry’s memory loss. If only it were as simple as forgetting something and not being able to remember.

“When we recall a memory, we recreate the pattern of electrical activity that formed it in the first place. This information is then distributed across different regions in the brain to retrieve the memory.  Injury in any part of this circuit can fracture memory function.  It’s not that the synapses, the path, necessary to make these connections, is blocked. It’s much more than that. There’s nothing at the end of the path. There’s nothing to retrieve. It is as if the memory was never made. It’s not hidden. It’s not in the subconscious. It’s not filed somewhere deep in his psyche. It simply does not exist.”

Disheartened. Dejected. Depressed. The three of them were the dictionary definitions. Ginger sighed. Being the bearer of bad news was never a party, but this was less than enjoyable.  However, she wanted to explain as much as she could so Harry wouldn’t have to. He had made so much progress in the past year. It had to be unsettling to face an unknown past, when you had made so much effort to be in the present.

Getting to her point. “Unfortunately, there is no established cure for retrograde amnesia memory loss. There’s no magic drug or deep-brain stimulation that jolts memories back into the mind. I wish there were. If recovery does happen, it largely occurs on its own.  With amnesia as a result of brain trauma, If you're really lucky, new pathways form among the remaining brain cells, like in stroke victims, or other parts of the brain take over from the damaged areas in what we call neural plasticity. But that is very rare.”

“Sometimes, the reminder treatment is more than ineffective, it can also be harmful. Too often, the stories people tell amnesiacs sound like someone else's life and it can be unsettling to them. Witnessing the disappointment of past friends, colleagues, and family when they can’t remember, or be the person who they used to to be, can be emotionally damaging. Having people tell you how to think and feel, or that you’re not who you are supposed to be can be distressing.”  

 “I don’t mean to be discouraging or unsympathetic. It’s crucial for us, for our own sakes, but most of all, for Harry’s,” she placed her hand on his forearm for emphasis, “ that we are realistic.” She wanted to be very clear as she drew her hand back and made her final, essential point “Do not make expectations that can only result in disappointment.”

As Eggsy, Merlin and Roxy discussed Harry’s future with the other Statesmen, Harry claimed this time to examine the three faces across the table. He set aside any of their mannerisms, agitations, conflicts that were due to the current circumstance and concentrated on what he believed to be their true and natural state. He didn’t try to analyse them, judge them or question what he saw. He tried to feel them. To feel the look in their eyes, to feel the expressions on their faces, to feel the quality of their movements.

He closed his eyes for a moment and just listened, not to their words, but to hear the sound of their voices. He felt their vibration.  Not only to see if anything sparked in his mind, but viscerally. A reflex, an intuition, a sensation that stirred something deep rooted in his bones. 

But his mind and his body were quiet and still.

It was time for him to speak up. Before he addressed them directly, sat up even straighter. Tall and silent. He did not make any of the usual gestures he did when preparing to take over a conversation. Familiar movements of brushing something non-existent off his suit, adjusting his cuffs, running his hand along the back of his hair, adjusting his glasses. He was still. His hands were clasped and rested on the table. 

Only seconds ticked by until everyone quieted along with him. Their heads all turned in the same direction. Harry could always pull attention to him without saying a word. 

He was also not one to hold back words that needed to be said. Time would be lost and nothing would be gained.  He did not want them to get their hopes up. He did not want to them to expect something from him that he could not deliver. 

For the second time, he opened with an apology. “I’m very sorry.” His eyes were sympathetic. 

They had the feeling he was preparing them for bad news.

His words were sure and resolute. There was no hesitation. No wavering. When Harry made a decision, he was firm.

“I do not remember Kingsman.” 

He shifted his weight forward in his chair, resting his elbows and forearms on the table and folded his hands together. It was a gesture of familiarity. He spoke directly to them, as if they were having a conversation. It wasn’t just reciting a statement. He knew, full well, they would be affected by his words. He knew that they would not be the words they wanted to hear. He knew it would be painful for them to be on the receiving end of his words, not matter how gently and honestly he delivered them. He would serve them by being unguarded, unreserved and up front.

He paused so they could process what he was telling them. 

“Prior to your arrival, I was not even aware of its existence.” He added frankly.

“I do not recall any relationships I may have had currently or in the past.” He spoke plainly.

“As much as you may want me to, and I recognise that you do, and I understand where that need comes from, I cannot say, in all honesty, that I know you.” 

Harry was nothing if not direct. 

His eyes held each of theirs. He saw the dejection in their faces. He could not help but feel empathetic. It was obvious that, whoever he was in the past, these people cared for him very deeply. Perhaps even loved. But for Harry, he was never this person and he was never one to fake an emotion he didn’t feel. 

He was compassionate, but firm. "I’m unable to say I even recognise you. I want to make it abundantly clear that I am not the man you used to know. I may look like him, I may sound like him, at times I may even act like him. But I am not him.” His voice was kind now. His face was gentle. His expression no longer guarded. 

“However meaningful your relationship was, no matter how strong the connection, I am unable to reciprocate in a way that would honor that bond.”

With an honesty and an openheartedness that touched all their raw wounds, he offered.

“It’s not that I can’t remember the Harry I used to be. Or that I do not care. It’s obvious that your relationship with this man was very important, very meaningful, to all of you.” 

He softened both his voice and his manner.  

“It is, that this person you used to know, in my eyes, he never existed.” His face gentled. Became grave and solemn, almost tender. 

“Do you understand?” 

And for Roxy, Eggsy and Merlin, that perhaps was the most painful moment of all. Because with the kindness they heard in his voice, and the softness they saw in his eyes, the way he held his concern for them, on his sleeve where they could see it, he was in that moment, everything that they knew and loved. He was their Harry Hart. He was their Galahad. 

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Whew! If you got this far thanks for reading. Let me know what you think, good, bad, funny, dumb, sad, WTF? Whatever.  

Always feel free to reblog, share with someone else who thought TGC had sooo much more potential. Or was pissed that they killed off Roxy. And don’t even get me started on Merlin....