#To the hero through the bars on your window. The hero of your ancestors and you have to believe he'll come for you too because he

[phoenixcatch7]

Just got all the memories.... Brb I'm going to curl up and cry now. My girl...........

[ninjakitty15]

Chapter 19: Good Impressions (Loki x OFC Pairing)

I looked in the mirror and couldn't help but grin widely, baring my teeth even as a sense of giddiness filled me. It was very rarely I ever actually dressed up or even really did much to prepare for an upcoming battle beyond gathering power, planning and making sure I had all my war ducks in a row, this was extra but it was the good kind in my opinion.

"You know...I read that the Spartans, the fiercest ancient warriors our world had at one point, would pretty themselves up before battle and spies from enemy lines that caught them doing that would overestimate them. Apparently real men don't wear makeup into a war," I told Loki who walked up behind me, watching me check myself out. "Funny thing is in this country and probably a lot of other countries today have this thing called war paint which might not make them look fabulous like a Spartan but it might as well be makeup as it's primarily worn on their face."

"I remember the Spartans, Odin was impressed by their tactics and way of life, especially their stand against the Persians, the odds weren't in their favor and yet somehow they gave them hell before defeat," Loki recalled.

"Quality over quantity," I added. "Those people were literally born to be warriors, only the strong babies survived the first of many tests they were forced into." I combed a hand through my hair, considered messing it but decided against it. "I used to be more of a silk or velvet kinda girl but I gotta tell ya, I'm really digging the leather. It's fashionable, it's sexy even, and it's pretty decent armor, I mean it's no breastplate or Kevlar vest but those are a bit too obvious and that's the last thing we want right now." I took a few swaggering steps, glancing at my backside curiously to see how it all fit together.

"You're enjoying this entirely too much," he mused.

"I know it hasn't been that long since we met, but are you really surprised at this point?"

"No, not really. How long are you gonna fawn over yourself in the mirror before we actually put this plan into motion?"

"Relax, I got this. I just gotta get a few things down pat before we jump head first into this oncoming shit storm." I grinned again. "What's the hurry?"

He watched me, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he shook his head at my antics. "You got the smile right and I'm not sure how you were able to copy my walk so quickly but the humor needs to change if you insist on chattering before things get started."

"But...humor is why I'm still kicking," I protested. "And it's a far cry from your own, which mind you I'm glad you have any at all, some other gods can't seem to grasp that concept despite being eons old. Still, it's a lot more...eloquent than I'm used to."

"Then perhaps don't say anything at all."

"And leave you to do all the talking, hell to the no, spank you very much."

"What's wrong with me doing the talking for once?" he crossed his arms in challenge and arched an eyebrow, daring me to answer.

I gave the god an unapologetic and unamused look. "I'm not the only one that's been muzzled here, maybe your brother was onto something when he did it to you."

"How dare you? You take that back right now!"

"Or what? Whatcha gonna do, huh? Take your shot, green boy, you got me deadbang."

The sound of someone clearing their throat loudly interrupted our usual bickering match and we both turned to see a half amused half arachnid smirking at us with his unnaturally muscular arms crossed as well. "You know this is technically playing with yourself, right? I mean if that's the case, could you get a room that isn't the only bathroom in the apartment, please?"

"How long since this plan was in motion did you wanna use that joke?" I teased the kid.

Peter shrugged and pretended to look bashful but now that he too was throwing in dirty jokes, the facade of him being an innocent kid was now out the window. "You sure I can't tag along?"

"Kid, you got your own enemies to fight and this might be a bit above your skillset which means if you tag along theres much less chance of you coming back."

"But you could just bring me back yourself, right?"

I scowled at his optimism. "Doesn't work that way, I only bring back the ones that can't pass on on their own and want another chance at tying up loose ends, and you better not be one of those people, you're a kid, which goes against my personal code of bringing back zombie kids, that's just fucking depressing having an army of rotting midgets."

Peter sighed in despair and slumped his shoulders. "I never get to do anything fun."

I rolled my eyes at his whining. "I'd also be held responsible for letting you come with and I kinda don't want to be hunted down by a team of go getters and fancyass technology, no spank you. I already have Hydra for the latter. So do me a favor, sit your five dollar ass down, before I make change."

Peter scoffed at my implied threat but stopped bugging me, it might have been his plan that could get the odds in our favor but it sure as hell wasn't his fight and I had no intention of dragging another cute super powered person into my personal vendetta. "Aunt May says you can come back anytime, just give one of us a heads up next time...and maybe something that gets black bloodstains off any surface just in case."

I would've blanched if I wasn't pale already. "Oh no, did I ruin something, I can pay for that."

"No no, just, I think she thinks you'd only come here if you're in trouble like you were this time and she's worried you might miss a spot next time if that's the case, normal blood you can just use hydrogen peroxide, but I'm not too sure it works on corpse blood."

"Noted and tell her thanks for everything, same goes for you of course since you were the one to let us in before she agreed to it. And also not informing the A team, that's important...you didn't tell them right?"

"Not like they take me all that seriously or even answer my calls if I did," Peter muttered. "You're all good there, promise."

"Excellent! You stay sharp and cute, the second either of that fails, you're fucked."

"Thanks, I think."

"Right then." I turned to Loki with another smirk. "How's this for a first impression?" I asked in smooth sorta British sorta something else accent.

He scowled at me but couldn't complain it seemed. "I'm getting the sense you've been working on that before this came to pass."

"Anyone can do an Avenger impression, hell anyone can wear their costumes, right Peter? But I'm not about the hero life, so why waste time on them when I've been giving it all to you?"

Loki was silent at this and it was Peter that actually responded to me. "That was actually really sweet."

"You say that like it's a surprise, physically dead here, not emotionally dead, thank you. My heart hadn't reached that stage where it becomes calcified like a fetus that won't leave its womb."

"You always have the oddest choice of metaphors," muttered Loki. "So you have the walk, the voice, the smile even though I'm not sure that's even necessary at this point."

"When are you going to prepare for the plan then?" I challenged. "Go on, see how well you know your part."

"Don't you worry about my side of the plan, I've been doing this sort of thing for the sheer fun of it long before you decided to do it out of sheer boredom."

I snorted and rolled my eyes at him. "Yes, we're all very aware of your old age, you don't have to remind us like we have to remind you, old man."

"Ye of little faith," he mocked, earning a bar of soap flying at his face he was lucky enough to duck. "Your aim needs improvement."

"I'm sorry, did you actually want to be hit in the head by something solid and hard and not a pillow, because I missed on purpose, you cotton headed ninny-muggins."

"Seriously, is all you two do bicker at each other?" asked Peter.

"Well I mean you wouldn't let us have any real adult fun while we crashed here so we gotta get that pent up energy out somehow, right?" I reasoned.

"She's not wrong," Loki agreed.

"Besides, no one's getting hurt from it, I'm convinced this is our own special way of showing we love each other without being a bunch of saps. I'm 99 things but a sap ain't one."

"What's wrong with being affectionate?" asked Peter, almost sounding offended.

"That implies I have more emotions than I'm willing to admit to anyone including myself, I'm generally not ok with having that much feels." I grinned, slicked back my hair again before doing a little dance for funsies.

"I'd refrain from doing that little jig when the plan's in full swing," warned Loki though he was still smiling in amusement.

"Oh but I like this," I purred with the accent again.

The smirk on his own face twisted, like I said something that somehow offended him and all his ancestors and pissed him off or deeply upset him. "Don't make me take it away from you till right before the fight starts."

"Oh come on, maybe you just need to hug it out and join the fun, bring it in, big guy." I opened my arms wide for emphasis. "There's no better love than self love."

He rolled his eyes at my stellar pun and green magic rolled over him as he changed into character. "I bet you were just dying to make that joke."

I stared at him and it was my turn to glare. "Was that your attempt at a dead joke? Oh hun, you gotta do better than that to fit the bill."

"Don't patronize me, woman, I wasn't even trying then."

I walked over and patted his cheek just to mess with him. "Sure you weren't. Do me a favor and work on that but also turn around for me."

"Why?"

"Just...do it."

He did begrudgingly and I frowned upon studying his form thoroughly before he faced me again. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, you got it right, it's just...I didn't realize it looked like that and now I'm suddenly an insecure teenager. Peter, is this how you feel all the time because, dude, this really sucks and I feel for ya."

"You say that like you were never one yourself," Peter noted.

"I know I was but like, I don't remember what it was like then, I couldn't tell you what I was like as a teen."

"Why not?"

"No memory of it, at all."

"You mean like it was so long ago that you can't remember that far back or lots of stuff happened during it so fast that it's all a blur."

"I mean it's not even accessible, it's gone from my mind completely."

Peter frowned, probably trying to understand what I was getting at. "Amnesia?"

"Mindwipe."

"Like Bucky Barnes?"

"No, that's brainwashed...wait, those do sound synonymous, damn, hadn't even thought about that. Brainwashed is basically having your mind overridden and reprogrammed, there's memories there but they're not real ones. Mindwiped is just nothing there to reprogram at all."

"Did Hydra do that too?"

"No, Hydra can't touch this, something they need to have programmed in their heads for all the times they tried and failed any of their aims when they had me. I can't tell you the who, but I can tell you it was painless and done willingly and without regret."

"You chose to have memories taken from you?"

I nodded simply, unable to elaborate as per the deal.

Loki, knowing there was some things I couldn't talk about for reasons he wouldn't know until hopefully later, chose to cut in then. "I think that's enough curiosity for now, we should get going and finish the plan you concocted for us."

I smiled thankfully at Loki and nodded in agreement. "Yes, of course.  Parker, if I don't make it back by tomorrow...just wait longer."

"Stop teasing the child, Nell, you could be really testing his patience with your antics and we wouldn't be welcomed back."

"You wouldn't, I would because I'm a delight to be around." I strutted after him anyway and he shook his head and beckoned me out of the bathroom and unfortunately out of the apartment.

"The Hydra agents and people that turned on you would say otherwise."

"The Hydra agents don't even know what joy is, the only time they're smiling is when they think they're about to take over the world and people are dying around them...the traitors are just pussies which means it doesn't take much to make em weep."

"Again with the metaphors."

"Maybe you should start taking some notes, eh? Give you a head start seeing as I'm all caught up on my end, unless you got something to add there?"

"Well you still haven't proven you can get the mannerisms right and mannerisms maketh men."

"But we are not men..."

"No, we're immortals."

[hotchocolatewriting]

Care for the living #5

Is it probably too long again? Yes. Am I going to shorten it? Nope! Enjoy part 5 of care for the living!

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 Villain woke up on their mattress. For a moment they were confused, no idea where they were. Only moments ago they’d been on the battlefield. They sat up and hissed as wounds on their back started to burn with pain. Pain.. right.. the battle was more than a hundred years ago. The day of the curse, one of the few days they could still remember in their memory that was filled with gaps. No-one was able to remember everything in such a long life. Villain searched around, looking for any signs of the guards. Hero? Where did they take hero? They groaned as they got to their feet. Muscles burning, their body exhausted from all the power that had left. Villain’s head started to spin, but they had to know where hero was. They wanted to see what they had done, they wanted to say farewell. A guard walked past the doorway and villain screamed, trying to get their attention. “Please, I just.. I want to know.” The guard walked back, standing in the doorway. It was one of the two guards that had been there. The one that told villain that they weren’t hurting hero, but trying to save their life, although villain had never seen anybody do such a weird thing to an unmoving body. It had to be a modern thing, then. Something villain didn’t get.

The guard came in and villain pressed themselves back as far as they could. They didn’t want to be hurt, they just wanted to see hero. The guard’s expression softened at seeing villain’s fear. They didn’t say anything as they put hero’s mp-3 in front of the bars, for villain to pick up. “What.. what does that mean?” Villain asked confused, their eyes filled with tears. “Are they dead? Did I..” But the guard left without saying anything. Maybe they were being nice because villain just saw their loved one die before their eyes. It made sense, this guard had never been too mean to them. Villain leaned against the bars as they put the earphones in. They closed their eyes as they listened to the music. The instruments calming them down and taking them to another world. They thought about hero, how good they’d been for them. How much villain had loved their visits. Now they were alone again, exactly as the curse wanted. “H..hey villain, I..it’s mm..me.” Villain shot up, looked around surprised, searching for hero. The source of that shaking voice. But the room was empty as always. “I.. I hope the gg.guard.. gga..gave the mp-3 to you,” the voice continued. Villain nodded, yes they did. The guard did what hero asked them. “I just wanted... wanted to let yy.you know.. I’m okay.” Villain heard hero gasping for air and coughing. Hero moaned before they continued. “I.. I know I scared you. I just wo..woke up in the hh.hospital. Wanted to let you know... know I’m alright.” Villain smiled and held the Mp-3 close to their chest. They started to laugh, relieved at hearing hero’s voice. Knowing they were okay, at least alive. “The guards told me… Told how upset you were. It’s alright. I hope they didn’t hurt you much.” Villain shook their head even in this condition hero cared more about them. Villain heard sounds at the background they didn’t recognize. They heard how much trouble hero had with breathing, but they couldn’t stop smiling, knowing hero was alive. The audio stopped and villain wiped their tears away. Happy and relieved. They could hardly believe that this was real. But the mp-3 in their hands and the audio on it was everything they needed to know it was. Even if they didn’t completely understand all the modern things, they knew this was real. They could feel it. Weeks passed by and villain listened almost every day to the audio. The shadows hadn’t returned and villain hadn’t even felt a little bit of power swirl inside their body. The guards had been scared that it became worse after that big outburst, but nothing had happened in weeks. Villain heard footsteps nearing the cage. They opened their eyes and looked up at the person standing in front of the bars. The same guard that gave the mp-3 was walking with hero beside them. Villain got to their feet and reached a bit unsure for hero’s hand through the bars. “Good to finally see you in person again,” villain said, a blush spreading across their cheeks. “How are you feeling?” “I have felt better,” hero admitted. “but I’m home again and I managed to do a few things.” Hero gently squeezed villain’s hand. “I heard that your powers haven’t shown themselves in weeks.” Villain nodded, smiling brightly. “I haven’t even felt it. I can’t remember the last time I felt so peaceful.” They lowered their head, staring at their bare feet. “So.. what are we going to do now?” they asked quietly. “You scared the hell out of me last time, I don’t want that to happen ever again.” “First, I want this damn door to open,” hero said, “secondly, I want a big hug and maybe a kiss.” “No more kisses!” villain said, they immediately let hero’s hand go and took a step back, but hero already opened the door and pulled villain close. “Please, hero, I can’t do this,” villain protested, trying to pull themselves out of hero’s embrace. “And lastly, I want you to pack your things and take this lovely sweater.” Hero pushed the sweater in villain’s hands. “What do I need a sweater for? You know the guards take them off.” “No, they’re not, because you’re coming with me.” Villain froze. “Wait, what?” “You are coming home with me, so come on, pull that sweater over your head. You don’t want to be here any longer, do you?” Villain shook their head. They couldn’t leave, even if they wanted to, they would kill hundreds, no thousands of innocent people. “B.but the curse?” Hero took their hand and held it in front of villain’s face. “Do you see any shadows?” hero asked. “Have you seen even a little bit since I arrived?” Villain shook their head, no they hadn’t. “But that doesn’t mean anything, it’s just like the beginning.” Hero shook their head. “You always had some sort of smoke or shadows surrounding you when I was near and it became worse the more you loved me and the more you cared. At this moment you should care more than ever, scared that you might kill me, that you might hurt me again and that I won’t wake up, but look at you, no smoke to be seen. Not a single sign of the darkness.” Villain turned their hand a few times, staring at it in confusion. No smoke? Where did it go? Was it gone? They looked at hero again and back at their hands. “I don’t understand, how?” They looked at the guard. “I can g..go? Just like that? How do we know?” Hero kissed them on their lips. Villain wanted to pull away, squeezed their eyes shut waiting for the smoke to come back and push hero away from them. But hero held them close and nothing happened. Villain opened one eye to look. No smoke, hero was still there. They found themselves leaning into the gentle touch. “Here is your proof,” hero said as they pulled away. Villain stared at them, not knowing what they had to do. No idea what they should think. They looked at the guard again, waiting for some kind of answer, but they only nodded at the sweater in villain’s hands. “I haven’t been outside in a long time,” villain babbled. How would the outside world look after all those years? Would it really be alright? “172 years,” the guard said, “I found the journals. You have been in this cell for 172 years and before that, you wandered in the middle of nowhere for six more years until my ancestor found you and turned the village against you.” That means they had been cursed for 178 years, villain thought. The sweater was too big for their thin figure, but it was soft and villain loved that the sleeves were too long. It was comfortable and warm and it made them feel safer, knowing that they weren’t so exposed anymore. That they could finally cover the wounds and the scars and no-one would take it away anymore. It even smelled like hero. They were quiet on their way to hero’s house. Villain stared out of the window as hero drove, trying not to become too nauseated. They had never been in a car before and they couldn’t understand how hero could sit there so peacefully without feeling sick. But at the same time villain was too stunned by the world outside the car. The way the roads looked, the lights that shined everywhere, the people that walked on the streets, so peaceful, no sign of war. Villain looked at all the weird-looking buildings and wondered what hero’s house would look like. They sure missed a lot in all those years. Villain had fallen asleep in the car, snuggled up in their sweater. Hero gently touched their shoulder to wake them up as soon as they arrived. Villain was happy to see that the building wasn’t too big. Just a small house with a nice garden in front of it. Hero helped them out of the car and guided them around the house. Explaining where villain could find the things they needed and how some of the things worked. “I don’t know if you want a room for yourself or..” “I don’t want to be alone anymore,” villain interrupted, a flush crept up their face. “Good, that’s what I hoped for. Follow me.” Hero walked in front of them and opened the door of their room. Candles were burning and there were fresh flowers on the desk. The smell of the candles reached villain’s nose, lavender. It looked so cosy, with only the candles burning, spreading an orange light across the room. Villain lay down on the bed and hero came behind them, pulling them a little bit closer. Villain relaxed, feeling the heath of hero’s body against theirs. Laying like this for the first time, together with someone they loved and cared for. “You know what? He was wrong,” villain said quietly. Hero moved, laying their head on villain’s shoulder. “Who was wrong sweetie?” “The man who cursed me.” Villain rolled on their back so they could look hero in the eye. “He said I saw people as tools, but I never did. I cared too much. I hated the fights, I was far too young to be a commander. I never wanted anyone to die, I hated it.”Hero hugged them, quietly whispering an “I know.” Villain bit on their lower lip, thinking for a while. “I wonder how much I've changed in those years. This curse was playing games with my mind for years. It wants you to think in a certain way so you don't kill anymore, but the problem is that if I started to think like that, I would become someone I don't want to be. I hope I didn't become like that. Like the commander, that man saw in me.” Hero kissed their cheeks and villain closed their eyes, enjoying the touch. “You didn't,” hero whispered, “You care. You always did.” Villain pulled hero close, so they were laying on their chest. “Thank you,” villain whispered in their ear. “What for?” Hero’s arms were reassuring around villain as they answered. “For being pure of heart and stubborn of ass. You broke the curse.” Hero chuckled, their chest moving against villain’s. “So commander, any new orders for this stubborn ass?” hero grinned as they leaned above villain, eyes filled with sparks. “Only one,” villain said, their voice filled with need as they pulled hero closer. “Please kiss me.”

[praphit]

Happy New Year! (hopefully, cuz... whew!)

Ugh! Let's get this year over with; what do you say?? I don't even want to rehash the year like I normally would around this time of year.

Pre-COVID seems like so long ago: We were out at bars, games, concerts, and parties of strangers. We were dancing all up on each other, we were passing the bottle around, we were grabbing all kinds of doorknobs with no concerns. Kids were planning to soon graduate and step into their hopeful, bright futures. Adults were planning vacations around the world to escape a once hopeful present.

Times were good! Look at this groundhog eating pizza. 

Not a care in the world.

And then, Thanos snapped his fingers, the world turned into shit, and we all realized how much we cared about Tom Hanks.

Can you imagine if that were literal? I think someone should get another gauntlet and turn planets into literal piles of crap. A new villain - "Poopfingers"

Ew... I know. I'm sorry.

Like I said, I don't want to talk about that stuff. I'd rather focus on entertainment instead. Join me for a few awards that I like to call "The Praphies"

MOVIE OF THE YEAR -

"WAP"

I know what you're thinking - "That's not a movie." Meh, it's movie-ish.

It's got two protagonists, whom are trapped in a mansion. It kinda reminds me of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, but instead of chocolate being manufactured, we'd got... pleasure. Who doesn't want more pleasure after the year we've had??

There's a lot of weird things happening in the mansion, so that’s good for the plot. Plus, these ladies are all about... empowerment? - I guess?

Sure.

Kylie Jenner shows up for some reason, so I'm sure she's up to something; maybe she's the villain. And according to the lyrics "there's some whores in this house". Will they get rid of the "whores"? Will they embrace the whores? Perhaps this word will be taken back, and used as a term of endearment.

As mama looks at her daughter, walking bravely back into schools some day "That's my lil whore." Maybe we're all whores - what a twist.

It's a good picture. One of Scorsese's best. He did direct it right? I think so.

BEST ACTOR -

This one was a close race for me:

Jeanise Jones (Borat 2 - on the right) 

This woman, who was not in on the joke, deserves a medal. She's the star.

Joe Exotic (The Tiger King)

Anyone standing behind Trump during those Rona briefings, who can hold a straight face.

Technically, Joe and Jeanise aren't actors, and Trump's people are... you know, TRUMP'S people, so I give the award to Mario Lopez for his role as Sexy Colonel Sanders.

Did y'all watch "A Recipe for Seduction?" It's entertaining. It was my runner-up for MOY.

SHOW OF THE YEAR -

Easy - "The Tiger King" for keeping us all together in the beginning of this 2020 corona mess.

Which leads me to MY person of the year (cuz let's be honest, Uncle Joe and Kamala... no)

The POY is -

Carole Baskin - 

We all know that she murdered her husband, and yet she took over Joe's zoo property, continues her animal rights activism while being openly weird as hell, and was last seen being applauded on "Dancing with the Stars".

Only in America.

Animated action of the year - “Soul” for bringing us this negro, 

played by Tina Fey :)

I’m just joking ( I love Tina Fey)... well, she does play him, but it’s not like that; still makes me laugh though. At least she didn’t have to worry about blackface.

I like my action flicks. They all can't be tear-jerkers like "WAP".

Which leads us to ACTION HERO OF THE YEAR --- Kiera Allen

If you saw the movie "Run" then you know this actress. She is the acrobatic, wheelchair-bound star of the movie. She is in a wheelchair in real life. In this movie she breaks through one window, climbs across a rooftop, breaks through another window, all with water in her mouth for a special finishing trick to end the scene. And she throws herself down a couple of flights of stairs. Let's see Liam Neeson try to do that!

I'm serious when I say - I expect to see her in the next "Fast & Furious" film.

Award for LEAST FUX GIVEN - Ricky Gervais, for lighting Hollywood on fire.

Athlete - TEAM JLo and Shakira

 --- sidelined me (I attempted to dance like Shakira at work) and sent souls to hell 

(that's some powerful booty shaking... and or just another example of white people being mad at brown people for existing)

SONG OF THE YEAR - 

Vin Diesel’s "Feels like I do" - not up for debate. 

Name another action star in 2020 with a single.

Album of the Year - "The Lion King: The Gift / Black is King" - by Beyonce

We didn't feel much like royalty, but at least we were being heard... well, for a lil bit; a lot more than I ever remember us being heard.

Remember when white people in Hollywood felt so much shame that they did this?

We had corporations like the NFL tryna pretend to be woke. Aunt Jemima and that Native American woman on the butter were freed

 (though they did keep the land).

White people were afraid, and thought that perhaps this album was going to spark the second coming of Black Jesus.

It's interesting -  black people protested (mostly peacefully); wanting justice, and white people got anxious.   People started rioting and looting because of injustices rooted to this country's original sin, and white people, who's ancestors committed this sin, shook their heads at us in shame. Black people and anyone (of any color) standing with them were treated as hostiles, while white people with guns, shooting at black people were hailed as heroes.

What a time. 

I wish Black Jesus really did come back to these Beyonce tunes.

Oh, and this stuff happened too

Toobin (Ha! This guy )

ASSHOLE OF THE YEAR (4 years straight)- 

Trump

It's not even close. I was going to suggest that the dude from "The Vow" being a strong runner up, but even that would be disrespectful to Trump's assholery.

The world was on fire (metaphorically and literally), and Trump as our leader, threw gasoline on it. "BLM" came along to be heard and get justice for George Floyd, and Trump convinced his worshippers that BLM is a terrorist group. He shot away protesters, so he could pose awkwardly with a bible (doing God's work - this “work” included telling us to do the opposite of what physicians around the world plead with us to do during a pandemic, pushing drugs on us that these same physicians say no to, and telling us to inject ourselves with bleach. Hallelujah!). He accused Biden of corruption (pot calling kettle black). He loses to Biden, but fights the results with zero evidence, and at the sore loser rallies, there were stabbings and arrests, to which Trump praises their efforts.

A round of applause for the Michael Jordan of Assholes.

Donald J. Trump!

RESPECT!

Lastly, The Praphie (most coveted of awards)

The nominees are -

Kaylen Ward - raised over one million dollars for the Australia fires relief, by passing out nude photos of herself... yep. Seriously, look it up. Well, maybe don’t do that:)

Michael Jordan -  "The Last Dance" was the only sports content for a sports addict like myself. MJ was the drug we needed.

Dr. Fauci - Really for putting up with us. 

Dave Chappelle - a hell of a year for him. Plus, he was dropping N-Bombs and smoking on SNL

The Fly on Mike Pence's head. 

Kamala Harris

Cardi B - just because

The winner is - Dave Chappelle

Not only for his great year in comedy (in this bleeped up year), but he has evolved into a modern day prophet. Who would have thought that the guy who made "Half Baked"

would be the one we'd seek out when racial tensions got to the highest levels this year??

Kaylen Ward would have won it, if she had continued her efforts. She could have raised some funds for Greta Thunberg. She could have used her nudity along-side protesters, or even joined doctors around the world, raising money for a vaccine. Smh. That's a shame.

In thinking about Chappelle's evolution, I'm reminded that we're all processing and changing as a result of this year. Some will change for the better, and others for the worse. Some will go to the depths only to rise up again. Regardless, of how you handle it, it's important to know who your true peeps are. Who loves you? Who’s got your back? Who do you love?  We're all going to need true peeps to help us endure. Which leads me to my slogan for next year.

"If you love something let it go, if it doesn't return to you. Hunt it down and kill it." Idk about you, but that touches my heart.

Enjoy yourselves as much as you can tonight, and by that I mean safely :) Some of you might want to consider going to bed early, just to end this year faster.

Happy New Year, everyone!

[philosopherking1887]

Something Past and Whole (an A:TLA ficlet)

1587 words; also on AO3.

What should win our gratitude.— It was artists, and especially those of the theater, who first gave people eyes and ears to see and hear with pleasure what each one himself is, experiences, and wants; they first taught us to esteem the hero that is concealed in everyday characters; they first taught us the art of viewing ourselves as heroes—from a distance and, as it were, simplified and transfigured—the art of staging and watching ourselves. Only in this way can we come to terms with some base details in ourselves. Without this art we would be nothing but foreground and live entirely in the spell of that perspective which makes what is closest at hand and most vulgar appear as if it were vast, and reality itself.

Perhaps one should concede a similar merit to the religion that made man see the sinfulness of every single individual through a magnifying glass, turning the sinner into a great, immortal criminal. By surrounding him with eternal perspectives, it taught man to see himself from a distance and as something past and whole.

—Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science section 78 (trans. W. Kaufmann)

Zuko was accumulating epithets, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

His friends, naturally, all found it hilarious. They already delighted in poking fun at the titles of his office, calling him ‘Your Fieriness’ or ‘Your Fire Lordship’ or even, when Aang was feeling particularly obnoxious, ‘Flamey-o, (Sifu) Hotlord!’ The new epithets were just more titles for them to play around with and give him grief about.

Zuko did not find them amusing. Not, as his friends all claimed (with varying degrees of tact), because he took himself too seriously and didn’t know how to laugh at himself! Well, maybe there was some truth to that charge… but the problem with the epithets was that he found them morbid—as if the world was trying to write his epitaph before he’d even died. Trying to pin him down, to flatten him into a single static image, like a dried flower or a butterfly to be pressed into a book, catalogued alongside history’s other specimens of world rulers: Warlord Toz the Terrible, Earth King Wei the Fat, Earth Queen Jian the Just, General Chin the Conqueror, Fire Lord Sozin the Bloody, Princess Yue the Brave. Rival historians were already fighting over his father’s legacy: detractors (hoping to ingratiate themselves to the new Fire Lord) called him ‘The Phoenix King of Ashes’ or ‘The Phoenix Who Did Not Rise’; loyalists (who did not fear retaliation from a Fire Lord they thought too weak) called him ‘The Last Dragon’ and prayed for the return of the deposed Fire Lord Azula as ‘The Blue Phoenix.’

Of course, Zuko had already acquired a couple of epithets before his ascension to the throne: ‘The Banished Prince,’ or ‘The Disgraced Prince.’ Accurate enough, but too simple, too straightforward for the full truth of the matter. So too were the epithets he had gained since becoming Fire Lord, starting with the ones that Fire Sage Shyu had given him on the day of his coronation: ‘Zuko the Peacemaker’ and ‘Zuko the Restorer’—not only of his own honor, but of the honor of the whole Fire Nation, of its place in the community of nations, of balance among the nations.

Those were the official, government-approved descriptors; but Zuko heard himself being written into history in different ways, too, in reports from the network of spies that now answered to Ty Lee, or while stealing around the Capital in the guise of the Blue Spirit to listen at the windows of bars and gambling dens, lurking in the alleys near the late-night food stalls where carousers gathered and (importantly) talked. Some of these epithets were pedestrian and perfectly predictable: ‘Zuko the Burned’ or ‘The Burned Fire Lord’ were among the most common, and Zuko resigned himself to being remembered, like poor Wei the Fat, for his most noticeable physical characteristic.

Others, however, were more significant and telling of how his people viewed him. Some called him ‘The Avatar’s Fire Lord,’ ‘The Avatar’s Puppet,’ ‘The Avatar’s Pet.’ For surrendering the Fire Nation’s cause in the war without a fight, they called him ‘The Toothless Dragon’ or (in mocking reference to the temporary loss of his firebending) ‘The Dragon Without Fire.’ They jeered him as ‘Earth Lord,’ ‘Water Lord,’ or ‘Air Lord Zuko,’ depending on which nation he had just made some shameful concession to: evacuating the newer Earth Kingdom colonies; paying reparations to the Water Tribes; taking formal responsibility on behalf of his ancestor and his nation for the Air Nomad Genocide, denouncing as shameful slander the propaganda used to justify the slaughter, publicly abasing himself—on his knees with his forehead to the earth (as he had not lowered himself since he had apologized to his father for his disrespect and begged for his mercy)—and apologizing to Avatar Aang as the last survivor of his people. At their most blunt, Zuko’s own people called him ‘Zuko the Traitor’ and ‘Betrayer of his Nation.’

But not all of the epithets Zuko heard by spying on his subjects were so damning. Some sincerely used the titles Shyu had given him, Peacemaker and Restorer—spoke them with respect, gratitude, even reverence. There was a name he had first heard among Fire Nation migrants to Republic City, which had made its way back to the Fire Nation Capital to be spoken softly among his younger subjects (who barely remembered the years of the war, and had grown up with his account of things rather than Ozai’s or Azulon’s): not just ‘the Restorer,’ but ‘the Redeemer.’ Zuko hated that one even more than ‘Traitor’ or ‘Avatar’s Pet.’ He didn’t deserve it and could never live up to it; he knew he could only disappoint those who expected it of him. Better that they should call him ‘the Redeemed,’ but he could scarcely say he deserved that, either.

In the years since Zuko had raised Druk, he began hearing a few epithets he didn’t mind. ‘Zuko Dragon-tamer’ he considered inaccurate and insulting to his companion—did they think a dragon was a platypus-bear that one trained to do tricks?—but ‘Dragonrider’ was truthful enough and, he thought, had a nice ring to it. He preferred ‘Dragon-friend,’ in recognition of the honor and favor bestowed upon him by the Masters Ran and Shaw; but that one, unfortunately, had failed to catch on. His very favorite—the one he dared to hope might be the way history remembered him—he heard only three times over the space of a year, some thirty years after the war’s end… the year that Uncle Iroh died suddenly of no ailment anyone could identify. He could not tell just from hearing it whether it was ‘The Dragons’ Son’ or ‘The Dragon’s Son,’ but he liked to think it was somehow both.

Aang was teasing him about ‘Dragon-tamer’—“You should run off to join the circus like Ty Lee; I bet you’d look smashing in a ringmaster’s uniform!”—when Zuko finally managed to put words to what troubled him, instead of inarticulately spluttering his indignation. “I hate that they all want to make me into only one thing, wholly and completely, and ignore—or maybe deny—all the times I haven’t been that thing, and all the other things I am, and have been, and might still be.”

Aang considered this. “Maybe you should think of them as like roles in a play—like theater masks that you can put on and take off.”

“Yes, because when we’ve been made into dramatis personae in the past, it’s always been so flattering,” Zuko said, his voice dry and sharp as desert wind.

Aang laughed. “I’ve learned that sometimes it’s easier to just play ‘Savior of the World’ or ‘Wise Ancient World Spirit’ than to try to explain all you really are. And sometimes it’s fun to pretend that’s all you are, that everything is simpler than it is. Of course you have to take off the mask eventually… but you know how fun it can be to wear it for a little while, and for a little while just be the Dragon Emperor or the Dark Water Spirit. Or is it the Blue Spirit?” he asked slyly.

“Easy enough for you to say, when you’re always cast as the hero. What if it’s the villain’s mask they want you to wear?” Half-consciously Zuko put his fingers over his scar where it covered most of his cheek, then ran them up to the corner of the eye that was permanently narrowed, mask-like, into a threatening glare.

“I haven’t always been the hero,” Aang said quietly. “And I’ve also learned that sometimes it’s easier to accept your role as the villain than to tie yourself in knots, and most likely break your back, trying to convince everyone to love you.”

“You’re one to talk,” Zuko retorted. “You can’t even stand to let Katara stay mad at you for an hour.”

Aang chucked ruefully at that. “Becoming a parent has changed my perspective somewhat.”

“And what is ruling a nation other than parenting an enormous family of unruly children…?”

“I didn’t say that, Your Fatherliness. I mean…”

“Very funny.”

“Aw, c’mon, Peacemaker. You know you can’t stay mad at me.”

“How could I, when I’m your faithful pet?”

“Who’s a good dragon…? Ouch, those were definitely teeth!”

“Don’t believe everything you hear about me… or read in history books.”

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 61: The Thousand Year Buildup to a Single Moment

Chapters: 61/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Mature Warnings: Death mentions, Snap flashback Relationships: Loki x Reader (There We Go) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Thor(Marvel), Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Stephan Strange Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Communication Is Still Not Their Family’s Forte, Look Historically Vikings Really Got Around, The Descendant Of A Viking Could Come From Anywhere

Summary:  You spill the beans about your dreams, and Loki learns about your ancestors.

You munched apprehensively on a granola bar while the entire roster of Avengers watched quietly. They'd wanted to talk to you about something, though Loki protested. Apparently, a decision had been made over breakfast, which you'd missed, and even Thor didn't seem too happy about it.

It was definitely time to worry, when a god-king seemed put out by his friends.

“All right.” You said once you'd swallowed the last of your granola. “What kind of trouble am I in?”

“No trouble.” Steve said. “Just some questions we need to ask.”

“Does the name Thanos mean anything to you?” Tony asked.

You blinked at the directness, but said nothing.

“It's okay. You can tell us.” Steve encouraged.

“Well...cats out of the bag, huh?” You sighed. “Yeah, I remember. Everything that happened in that whole year. But to be specific, I don't actually know anything about Thanos except for what Thor, Loki, and Mynos have told me. All I know about was the result, what it was like living in that world, and then it suddenly being reversed, and no explanation for any of it. I really thought I was super crazy, you know? People disappearing, the whole world thrown into chaos for a whole year, and then it never happened? No one remembered? No I definitely thought there was something really wrong with me.”

“And there are more like you?” Banner asked. “More people who remember?”

“Yeah, but I can't tell you who they are.”

“Why not?” Steve asked.

“It was all online. I don't know any of their names. We never met each other, we're scattered out, all over the world We only really found each other by accident.”

“Are you willing to talk about it?”

“Well...”

Tara had stopped talking, stopped laughing, an odd expression on her face. It was almost midnight, the two of you had come home from a movie. It was all so sudden, the quiet, the confused whisper, the soft rustling of dust as she disintegrated in front of you, pouring through your hands.

Slamming door and running footsteps on the grass. Hyperventilating in the car, the engine roar loud. Screeching, honking, cars run off the road on either side.

Trees fell across the road, snapping, splintering cracks, blocking your path just long enough for them to decay into dust. People rushing out of their houses, out onto suddenly barren lawns, screaming muffled by the car windows, the growling engine.

It was dark, the land had changed. You almost got lost int the swirling clouds of dust, and empty cars, but you found your father's home.

Momo meowing frantically, scraping at the door. The television on, sitcom reruns, and a pile of dust in the kitchen.

Retching echoing in the tiny bathroom, flushing water swirling, swirling like clouds of dust in the wind.

People in the streets, coughing and choking on their neighbors and loved ones.

The corn was gone.

You spent the next week alternating between hysterics and numbness. You spent the week after that burying those who couldn't go on. You never actually stopped doing that, throughout the following year.

You numbers shrank and shrank, as social services failed; power and water, garbage pick up and deliveries, medicine and perishable items, all dwindling away. Your little town had been forgotten. Or maybe there really was no one else left. After the loss of electricity, there was no more news from outside.

Most people came together, but there were always those who didn't understand how to work together, or who had broken during it all, or were broken beforehand. People who couldn't put their prejudices behind them, or tried to seize control over others.

There were violent acts. Assaults. Murders.

You were a murderer.

You hadn't ceased to be a murderer, because you had never ceased to be. You had never started over like everyone else had. The weight of all of it rested on your shoulders like a great and festering tumor.

You had come now to realize that this burden would never be lifted.

The people who cared for you would do what they could. They would build braces for your legs. They would spread soothing balm. But nothing, not the Avengers support, nor your father's acceptance, nor Loki's affection could ever remove this from you. It was part of you. All anyone could offer was a little relief.

You shrugged. “I don't suppose my story is any different from anyone else. Shit sucked.”

“Fair.” Tony agreed. “So, who's Mynos?”

“Yes,” Thor asked. “Who is Mynos?”

“Uh...” Whoops. “Um. He's an alien. That I've seen in my dreams. He's one of whatever Thanos was. Big purple guy.”

Tony and Peter shared a quick glance. Thor was staring at Loki, who managed somehow to look both defiant and contrite simultaneously.

“Um...Titans are extinct.” Tony said slowly. “I was...there. I saw their world; what had happened to it. There's none left now.”

“You said this is a dream you've had?” Strange asked. “You've dreamed of Titan? Can you tell us what it looked like?”

“Yeah. It's...orange, mostly. Dry. Dusty. But I can breathe there, so there's air. There's clouds in the sky, and dust storms. The people there are trying to set back the clock on a major ecological disaster. I guess they poisoned the land and water with pollution, and now they're trying to figure out how to get plants to grow again. Mynos is the only Titan I've ever seen, I never even saw a picture of Thanos. But in my dreams, I can talk to him, and he told me some things.”

“Dreams, plural?” Strange asked. Thor was looking at Loki with open worry on his face.

“Yeah, it's sorta...” You glanced at Loki, who was squirming. “You didn't tell anybody?”

“Yeah Jafar, you didn't tell anybody?” Tony accused. “What didn't he tell?”

You stared at Loki, trying to discern what he wanted you to do. You didn't want to lie to your heroes. But Loki might have a good reason for keeping this to himself. You didn't want to throw him under the bus, but you'd already started talking about it.

He caught your eyes, saw the confusion there, and sighed heavily, dropping his gaze.

“_____ and I have been sharing dreams since the day we met.” He admitted. “For the most part, they are normal dreams, as odd and unfathomable as any other. But in others...”

“We kind of go traveling.” You finished. “We fly through space, and visit places. We've been to Titan twice. It has the potential to be beautiful, and they're trying hard. I wish we could help. But Mynos seems to be the only one who remembers what happened. He's the only one who even remembers Thanos. According to him, even people who worked for Thanos don't even remember him.”

“But these are just dreams.” Sam said. “Why take them seriously?”

“They might be kinda real.” You said. “Like I said, I had never seen a Titan before this; Loki didn't even describe them or show me a picture. And Loki hadn't been to Titan.”

“The description is accurate enough.” Tony said. “I was there. Me and the kid. It was orange, dry and dusty.”

“And there was definitely a civilization there once.” Peter added quietly. “There were ruins everywhere.”

“But no Titans. They were all gone by that time.” Strange cut in.

“Mynos told us that he remembered Thanos killing them all. Not directly, exactly, but he blew a bunch of them up, and made it so that the rest couldn't get what they needed to live. So I guess they went extinct.”

“We believe these dreams to be at least quasi-real due to the fact that, every time it happens, we bring something back with us. Planetary dust and a leaf, to be precise. These samples both reside with our scientists right now.”

Thor looked momentarily outraged, but got a handle on it almost instantly.

“Why was I not notified about this, Loki?” He growled.

“Because it is firmly within the realm of magic, which is my realm, not yours.” Loki said with sharp imperiousness. “What would you have done about it, besides fret?”

“Still think you should have mentioned it.” Thor mumbled.

“Do you mind if we look at these samples?” Dr. Banner asked.

“You can look, but you cannot take them. As you might surmise, these are very rare materials.”

“Which you got from a dream. Because magic.”

“Well, my magic is teleportation, so that's the only thing I can think that makes sense. We were kinda sorta there, and I teleported them out with us.” You added.

“Do you think it would be possible for you to take someone else with you?” Strange asked. “Into your dream escapades?”

Loki frowned and very conspicuously took your hand, cradling it in both of his. “I don't think that's necessary. We do just fine on our own.”

Strange sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, lovely couple, blah blah blah. But for the sake of what we discussed earlier, do you think you could at least record these dreams from now on? Not every single dream you have; there's plenty that no doubt goes on in your brain that I want no part in. Just these possibly real dreams?”

Loki scoffed, but you shrugged. “Nothing wrong with just writing them down, is there?”

“No, but magic, especially as ephemeral as dream magic, cannot be solved by a think tank! It requires insight, meditation, the mind of a seer-”

“Or the ability to see multiple timelines?” Strange suggested.

“Braggart.” Loki scoffed again.

“Or, like, if we're still debating whether Titans exist again, we could just ask Heimdall, right?” You asked. “Right?”

“Well...” Loki said.

“Yes, we certainly could.” Thor answered. “We can get to the bottom of this. Just write them down as they happen. No doubt you phones have a journal app that you can use. Right?” He asked Bruce, who nodded.

“Yeah, that's a thing phones can do.”

That settled, the group moved on to other subjects, the settlement of Trolerkaerhalla, Tony's missing shipment of Chitauri artifacts, the possibility that they were now on the black market, and the fact that one had shown up just outside of Asgard...

But also about funding Asgardian building projects, integrating Starktech into their computer systems, and donating those very computers so that Asgardians could get training in Earth technology. Of finding the materials for Asgard to continue rebuilding its own technology, of trying to integrate the two.

Of an Asgardian space program.

Thor wanted to mine asteroids for resources, so that they didn't put extra pressure on Earth. Tony was all the way behind this idea, but Steve had reservations. Who owned what in the solar system? Was everything going to be a free for all? Would mining other celestial bodies help ease pressure on the planet, or would it be a race between Asgardians and humans as to who could get the most stuff? Would there be space battles? Would Asgards obvious head start in space travel garner them the lion's share of the systems extraterrestrial materials, and would that foment even more human resentment against them?

Although you loved the cosmos, space jurisdiction was way over your head. You dropped out of the conversation to talk to Peter, a precious boy with boundless energy, who you still thought should be in school instead of super-heroing, but it seemed like he was trying to do both. You briefly wondered if Avenging counted as an extra-curricular.

Between the two of you, you came up with an idea to help with the funding of Asgard. You would record videos and podcasts about Asgardian life and custom. Peter helped you set up a patreon, and you ruminated over ideas. You couldn't wait to get Saldis in on this.

Natasha was the first to leave. She just said she had something else to do in Iceland, and saw herself out. The majority of the others left with Tony, on his private jet. Strange went last; all he had to do to get home was open up a portal of orange sparks and walk through. Loki took him aside and spoke quietly with him for a few moments, getting a long answer from the wizard, and obviously pleased with what he was hearing.

He kept that buzz of excitement all through dinner, while Thor seemed to be caught up in the satisfied silence after a pleasant time with friends. He didn't really seem to notice when Loki took your desserts- cubes of goat cheese and grapes drizzled in honey-and whisked you away to his favorite spot to be with you: The black sheepskin rug in front of his fireplace.

There you ate your desserts with the fancy, tiny ram horn forks provided, and he clutched you close so you could feel the solidity of his body, see the firelight sparking in his eyes.

“I found out something interesting today.” He said.

“Did it have something to do with what you were talking to Strange about?”

“Yes, it did. Do you know what I learned?”

You nodded.

“I learned that, a thousand years ago, an object once called the Tesseract  was abandoned on earth by my father. There was a great deal of devastation around it, caused by people who tried to wield its power, but the humans of the area finally came to the understanding that they could not safely use it, and built a place of secret worship around it. An order of priests rose around it, claiming their sacred duty was to safeguard the artifact until Odin returned to reclaim it.

Now, I'm sure it's been mentioned that it was actually the Space stone within the Tesseract, and these humans being in constant proximity to it...Well, it changed them, over the generations. Each of these priests was allowed to have one child; and that child was to become a priest or priestess to replace those lost to old age.

Well, one of those children decided to do something else. He ran away, and never stopped running, fearing that he was being chased, and would be dragged back to that life he didn't want. He traveled far and wide, eventually married another traveler, and his descendants also traveled. They went everywhere; deep into Africa, to the farthest reaches of Asia, into India, and all through the Mediterranean. They married in those areas, and their descendants also took to exploring the world. And their descendants, and theirs, reaching Australia, and South, Central, and North America, each generation eventually leaving the place and people they were born into, and settling down somewhere far away. Each generation having the influence of the Tesseract in their background, and never knowing it.

And so, your grandmother left her family in the Yukon, and moved far to the south, gave birth to a son who travels endlessly for a living, and gave rise to you; the first in generations to access the power of your far-flung ancestor.

My darling.” He kissed the top of your head. “My darling, we were always meant to meet.”

He took your marked hand in his, pressing the runes together briefly, only long enough to trigger the buzz. “We were always meant to be connected.”

“So, my ancestors were from Scandinavia?” You asked, caught up in his story.

“They were from everywhere, potentially.” He answered. “Stephen followed all of them on their journeys, but he did not tell me exactly which branch led to you. He did find out where your grandmother came from, and that you have many, many distant relations, all over the planet. All ultimately descended from this one man.”

“Wow. I...it goes so far back. And all because your dad left a shiny thing behind, and of course humans loved it.”

“You are the result of devout worship, and of a galactic force older than existence itself. So unique, my little space sorceress. My precious Seidkona.”

“Loki...” You leaned into him, drawn to is earnest gaze. Was this what he meant when he had said that the Norns supposedly wove peoples lives like threads? Had all these relatives down the line spread out across the tapestry, bringing your thread close to his, until they twined together?

As your lips met, you hoped that those threads would not separate, but stay wrapped around each other indefinitely, creating a beautiful new color together.

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

Bad Blood - Chapter 27

You can read it on AO3 or find the Tumblr Chapter Index here. 

____________

Stiles isn’t easily distracted. He knows that’s what Allison and Derek are trying to do with him. They draw him into conversations about random things, they watch TV with him, they play cards, they do anything except talk about hunters and werewolves and Gerard and Kate. And Stiles appreciates the gesture in an abstract sort of way, but Gerard and Kate and the past six years are still right there, still an itch under his skin, still the scrape of nails down the chalkboard of his memory. Stiles is unsettled and jumpy, and it’s getting harder and harder to hide it. He sits on the couch and his leg jiggles.

It’s been over twenty-four now since he and Allison ran from the house.

The house that Peter and Laura have left the loft to go to now.

The house that contains Stiles’s supply of Adderall.

He hopes they remember to bring it like he asked.

He remembers how, when Kate took him, at first he didn’t have his Adderall. He remembers when Kate brought him some, a week or so later, and Stiles had swallowed it down eagerly, certain that he’d feel better again—that his heart wouldn’t race, that he wouldn’t cry anymore, that he wouldn’t break the things they gave him—except the pill didn’t magically make him good. It didn’t make him the sort of good they wanted him to be. And he still cried and shivered and didn’t listen.

He’s not sure when that went away.

He only remembers a feeling of profound relief the first time that Gerard told him he was a good boy, because that meant he wouldn’t be punished that day.

Stiles thinks that might have been the day he locked the crying boy away inside a room in his head, because letting that boy out only got him hurt.

He knows Gerard will never forgive his treason. And he understands that. He accepts that. He can’t say he was never warned, can he?

His heart races, and Derek looks at him.

Stiles jiggles his leg for a second longer, and then stands up and makes his way to the kitchen.

Twenty-four hours, and he’s not still locked in that windowless room, is he? He’s helping himself to a can of soda from a werewolf pack’s refrigerator.

This isn’t captivity. Stiles isn’t a hostage, and Gerard, shrewd and narrow-eyed, will spot it in a second. He’ll see it Stiles’s face the moment he looks at him, and then he’ll kill him for his treason.

He leaves the soda in the refrigerator, like that will make a difference, and goes to sit down again.

***

Peter and Laura are back at the loft by six, just as the afternoon shadows are starting to lengthen and soften into dusk. They bring up crates and crates of weapons, explosive and gear, and leave them stacked in the corner by the TV. Stiles approaches the plastic crates warily, and pops the lid off the first one to see inside. A couple of stun guns, some body armor, a crossbow and arrows, and a case of flash grenades. He feels somehow grounded to be looking at this stuff again. Here, in all the chaos, is something Stiles knows. He fights the urge to open the other crates as well, because he’s aware of Peter watching him closely.

Stiles is still a hunter, isn’t he?

Maybe.

He doesn’t really know anymore.

Allison is less constrained than Stiles.

“Hey, a crossbow!” She lifts it out and holds it. She has good form. She aims it at the TV, and stares through the sight a moment. For a moment she looks a little like Kate: sharp, focussed, cold. And then she sets the crossbow down again, and her dimples appear when she smiles. “I call dibs.”

“You don’t need a crossbow,” Laura says. “If things go to plan, you won’t get close enough to be able to use it.”

“But, just in case,” Allison says. Her tone is upbeat, but it doesn’t leave any room for argument. “I’m a good shot, and this is just like the one I have at home. Unless anyone else here can actually use it?”

The wolves don’t answer.

“Good,” Allison says. “Dibs.”

Stiles has underestimated her, he thinks. He glances at Peter and sees the same realisation dawning in his eyes. Allison hasn’t been raised a hunter, but she has been raised to know how to shoot, and she’s not the fragile flower she appears. Gerard shot her dad—or Kate did, but the distinction is academic—and Allison isn’t forgetting that for a second.

Stiles wonders if she’s also remembering how they shot Scott, and how Stiles was there. How maybe Scott would have got away if Stiles hadn’t chased him right into Gerard and Kate’s path.

Sour guilt twists in his stomach and rises in his throat.

“You found everything okay then?” he asks Peter.

Peter inclines his head, a smile playing around his lips. “Yes, thanks to your directions. Now we just need John to tell us what to do with all this stuff. Apparently my plan lacks finesse.”

Stiles doesn’t know how to respond to that. He sits down on the couch again.

“Oh,” Peter says, and digs into his pocket. He tosses a plastic bottle of pills toward Stiles, and Stiles catches them. “Your Adderall.”

Stiles squeezes his fingers around the familiar bottle. “Thank you.”

He goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

***

Stiles’s father arrives later that night. He’s still in his uniform, and Stiles looks at the badge on his shirt and remembers the way he used to play with it—it was shiny, okay?—tugging at it until his dad had to carefully unpeel his little fingers before he ripped his shirt. He’s also got four pizza boxes.

“I thought you didn’t finish until ten,” Peter says.

“Benefits of being the boss,” John tells him, setting the pizzas down on the breakfast bar. “I got two meatlovers, one supreme, and a pepperoni. I hope nobody’s vegetarian.”

“In this crowd?” Laura teases, but looks to Allison and Stiles questioningly.

“Total carnivore here,” Allison says happily, and Stiles nods.

Stiles waits until his father has selected a slice and stepped back before he moves towards the pizzas. His stomach rumbles at the smell, and he can’t remember the last time he had pizza. He grabs a slice of the meatlovers.

“Is that all you’re having?” Derek asks him.

Stiles looks at his slice.

“Take another one,” Derek says, and elbows him gently. “You have two hands.”  

Stiles feels a rush of warmth, and smiles slightly and reaches for a second slice. Then he glances over towards his father, and sees him watching. Stiles flushes, and turns away.

His father isn’t a thing he can deal with. Not yet. It’s too big. Stiles still gets an almost visceral negative reaction to even hearing his name, let alone seeing him, and while he knows that’s not fair, that the hatred he feels—or felt, he doesn’t know—for the man was constructed on a foundation of lies, it’s not just a matter of knowing it. Stiles has felt it for so long, and so acutely, that he can’t just make it vanish in a heartbeat. If he could, then maybe everything would be easier, but he’s believed it for so long that he can’t just let it go.

He remembers reading the books in Gerard’s study. Remembers the burn of pride he got from learning about his ancestors. They were heroes. Stiles never doubted it. They were heroes, but it had only taken one man to break that chain, hadn’t it? To break it and trample everything into the mud. Stiles worked every day to prove to himself and to Gerard and Kate and to every person in the hunter community that he wasn’t his father. He wasn’t. He was better. The thought of it kept him going even when his body wanted to quit. It sustained him when he was tired, hungry, and even when he was terrified. And he knows now that it was Gerard and Kate who wove his hated so deeply into his every motivation, but knowing that it’s poison doesn’t mean the knowledge is a magic antidote.

He almost wishes his father would show some frustration, some anger, something for Stiles to push back against and validate his hatred a little. But he doesn’t, does he? Because that’s not who he is.

It’s too big to deal with for now.

He goes and sits on the couch, with Allison on one side of him and Derek on the other, and eats his pizza.

“Okay,” his father says at last, and clears a space on the coffee table. He unrolls a blueprint. “This is an empty warehouse on Elm. We’ve got office space at the front, and a second floor. We’ve got windows all around, with bars. Two doors on the ground level, plus the roller doors for vehicle access, and two points of entry via the roof.”

Stiles follows the explanation as his father points out each feature.

“Now, we can rig it easily enough,” his father says, “but we’re going to need bait.”

“Me,” Allison says.

“Ally!” Stiles exclaims.

“No, I mean it,” Allison says. “If I call Grandpa crying about monsters, he can trace the call to the warehouse, and he’ll come and get me.”

“It’s a good idea,” John says.

And there it is. There’s that low burn of anger in Stiles’s gut that could translate so easily into hatred.

“You can make the call,” John says, “then we get you out of there but leave the phone you’re using.”

Stiles sucks in a breath. “Gerard’s not going to fall for an empty warehouse. He’ll smell a trap a mile off.”

“Then I’ll be Allison,” Laura says. “We’re about the same size, and it’ll be night, right? I can wear her clothes, keep my face down, and lure them in. Then I’ll go out the roof.”

“While the building’s exploding?” Peter asks. “You’re an alpha, Lulu, but you’re not fucking invincible!”

“No, but I’ve got a better chance than Allison!”

For a moment Stiles is sure he’s going to see claws and fangs. Then, in the middle of the tense silence between the alpha and her left hand, he hears the very improbable blast of Rihanna’s Umbrella.

Peter growls, and tugs his phone out of his pocket. “Deaton? What’s going on?” He’s silent, but his eyes flash beta gold as he listens. “You’re sure? Fuck.” He growls again. “Okay, keep yourself safe.”

He ends the calls.

“Bad news, kids,” he says. “Deaton just spotted Gerard Argent and his goons in a black Cadillac Escalade on Hooper Street, travelling west. They’re not heading for the warehouses on Elm. They’re heading here.”

Stiles closes his eyes for a moment, and reaches out to grip Derek’s hand tightly.

So much for their plan.

[katedoesfics]

Shadows of Hyrule | Chapter 42

Link found himself with no plans on Saturday. Mipha had hardly spoken to him in school – in fact, she barely even looked at him – but he didn't push her. Distance was what she needed, and he felt obliged to give it to her. However, that meant he was now free to drag Aryll around the city, where ever she wanted to go. And she was set on spending the entire day with her big brother. He couldn't be too upset, however. Since his newly appointed role of Hero, he was hardly home, and Aryll made it a point to express that to him.

Link let her drag him through the city, stopping only for a moment to get her a donut, and himself the biggest cup of coffee they would sell him. To his surprise, Urbosa was seated at the bar facing the window. She took a long sip from her iced coffee as her brows knit together, her eyes scanning the open book rapidly. After they got their order, Link slid into the seat beside Urbosa while Aryll took the chair next to him. He sipped from his drink loudly and peered over her shoulder curiously. “What's that?”

Urbosa sighed and closed the book. She turned her gaze to him and grinned. She held the book up, displaying it dramatically. “This, dear Link, is called a book.”

Link snorted and rolled his eyes. “Shut up. I mean what kinda book? It looks old as fuck.”

“That's because it is old as fuck,” Urbosa said, turning her eyes back to the pages as she opened it once more. She flipped through it casually. “Zelda brought a bunch of them. She said a lot of them are recordings from the Sheikah of thousands of years ago.”

“Sounds boring,” Link said. He turned his gaze out the window and continued to suck loudly from the straw in his coffee. He stole another glance, wondering if they were the books Zelda had been searching for.

“It's all about how the curse on Hyrule came to be, and some of the books recount all the times Ganondorf has risen, and various other villains.”

“Other villains? Sounds like a terrible movie. The Legend of Hylia: Ganondorf Returns, Episode Three.” He grinned at his own joke.

“You know,” Urbosa started. “You're ancestors were much better for the job.”

Link nodded and sipped some more from his coffee. “I'm sure they didn't have to juggle high school while they were trying to save the world.”

Aryll leaned over Link to look at the book. “Is that a good story?” she asked as she bit into her donut.

“It's about Hylia,” Urbosa said, turning her gaze to the young girl. “You know about Hylia, right?”

Aryll nodded. “The beautiful Goddess of all of Hyrule!”

“And do you know why she's so important?”

Aryll met Urbosa's gaze. “Because she's pretty?”

“Hylia sacrificed herself so that we can leave peacefully here in Hyrule.”

Aryll's eyes widened. “She did?”

Urbosa nodded. “When evil threatened the lands, Hylia sacrificed herself to stop the darkness, sealing it away. She was reincarnated as a young woman hundreds of years later when the seal broke. With her power, and with the help of her Chosen Hero, they were able to stop the darkness from taking over the land again. That's the curse that Hyrule must bear. And every time evil threatens our world, Hylia's spirit and the spirit of the hero are reborn so they can save the world again.”

Aryll's lips twisted to the side. “Is that like a princess movie?” she said. She stood up on the chair excitedly. “Do they fall in love and live happily ever after?”

“Hylia and the hero? Maybe they do.”

Aryll turned to her brother excitedly. “Does that mean you and Zelda are gonna get married?”

Link scrunched his nose. “What? No. Why would we?”

“Because you're the heroes and you're gonna fall in love!”

“Not in a million years,” Link said. “Zelda is the most stubborn, irritating, know-it-all -”

“Link and Zelda sitting in a tree,” Aryll sang.

“Stop it,” he grunted.

“You gotta get married!” Aryll shouted, slamming her palms down on the table. “If you do, then I get to be a princess!”

“I don't think that would make you a princess.”

“Yeah huh! Why don't you wanna marry a princess?” Aryll whined as Mipha came into the coffee shop.

“Who's marrying a princess?” she asked.

“Link is gonna marry Princess Zelda,” Aryll announced proudly.

Mipha met Link's gaze, but he tore his eyes away.

“No, I'm not,” he muttered.

“Aryll,” Urbosa warned, but she was not heard.

“But that's how the story goes,” Aryll said. “The heroes fall in love and live happily ever after.”

Link hesitated. “I'm not a hero.”

“Go get another donut,” Urbosa said to her, but still, she was ignored.

Aryll rolled her eyes. “Yes, you are, Link,” she said as if it should have been obvious. “You're the spirit of the hero and Zelda is the spirit of Hylia.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I'm not as dumb as you think I am,” Aryll said. “I'm way more mature than you. And that's why you have that sword.”

“She's got you there,” Urbosa said.

“They're just legends,” Link started, his brows furrowed at his sister. “Legends aren't real.”

“Its the truth, Link. You guys are destined to be together!”

Urbosa glanced at Mipha, but Mipha was elsewhere, staring out the window. She opened her mouth to say something more to Aryll, than thought better of it. “No one's listening, anyway,” she said to herself with a shrug.

“Has it ever occurred to anyone that its possible for me to live my own life?” he sneered. He pushed himself abruptly from the table. “No, of course not. Let me live the life everyone thinks I'm supposed to live. Because that's all I'm here to do.” He started to walk away, then hesitated, turning back to his sister. “And none of it is real!” And with that, he left the coffee shop, slamming the door angrily behind him.

Aryll sighed and let her chin rest in the palm of her hand. She turned to Urbosa. “Guess I don't get to be a princess.”

Mipha looked toward the door for a moment, then followed after him.

“Guess not,” Urbosa said. “But maybe you should stop talking about your brother's love life.”

“What love life?” she said. “He's never gonna get a girl friend with that attitude!”

Urbosa grinned. “You're way smarter than Link says.”

Aryll smiled proudly for a moment, but her smile quickly disappeared. “What does he say?” she demanded. “He's stupid!”

Mipha hurried out the door, looking in both directions before catching Link across the street. She jogged to him, but he did not wait for her to catch up.

“You're just going to leave your sister alone?”

“She's with Urbosa,” he said simply, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Aren't you mad at me or something?”

Mipha hesitated, stopping on the sidewalk. After a few more paces, Link, too, stopped, looking over his shoulder at her.

“I'm not mad at you,” she said slowly.

“It seemed like you were the other day,” he said angrily. “Oh, wait, you're mad at yourself.” He rolled his eyes.

“What's your problem?” Mipha hissed at him. “You have been unbearable lately.”

“Right, I've been unbearable,” he said. “I'm sorry that my problems have caused such a strain in your life.”

“Your problems?”

“Sorry, what was I thinking? I have no problems. All I'm supposed to do is give up everything to save the world. No problem at all.”

Mipha hesitated. “Link -”

“Forget it,” he snapped. He glanced at Mipha, hesitant, before turning his back to her. “Just forget it,” he muttered. He shoved his hands in his pockets and continued down the road, leaving Mipha alone on the sidewalk.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sable Skirts (I)

Awaiting Sentence

Summary: Keris is arrested after she is caught running an underground publication in Erebor. Facing a certain death sentence, she may have a way out, but it might cost her more than her life.

Note/Warning: So this is a fic I’m reposting from ao3. It’s a dark!Thorin Oakenshield/OC fic. It’s very dark, like super. It includes violence, noncon, and overall a bad time. Please mind that warning. Let me know what you think (I’ll be posting a few a day until I catch up)

This is dark!Thorin Oakenshield and explicit. 18+ only.

Keris had known the risks but facing the consequences was much more dire than merely imagining them. Sitting in the grimy cell; water dripping from the dank walls, the smell of worn stone and human filth. All she had lost was ever more clear to her.

She wasn't truly sitting, more crouching. The floor was slick with an unknown substance. Its smell assured her she did not want to rest in it. They had taken her boots and her stockings, leaving her feet bare and cold. She was hidden so deep in the Mountain that the spring rains had left it damp and musty, mixed with other unmentionable fluids. She shivered, cupping her hands over her mouth to warm them with her breath.

It had been close to a day. Maybe even two. Down here there was no marker for dawn and dusk. The torches always burned dimly just outside the cells; just enough to make out the iron grate barring her in and the shadows of guards.

She didn't regret her crime, only that she had been found out. She had been right in her actions though the law would dictate otherwise. Authority, she had concluded, was not always the keeper of morality, nor the voice of reason. The king and his council signed their acts and bills their own behalf, excusing it as for the people, though it was more than not the people who suffered for the wealth of the nobles. It was that inherent disparity, the growing corruption which had driven her to act against those who named themselves elite.

She closed her eyes as another brisk draft blew around her. They hadn’t even left her a cloak; her wool tunic, topped by a thin cotton dress offered little warmth. Outside, warmth followed the seasonal rains but down there, it was not but the cold. She replayed her downfall once more.

She had known when the knock sounded who it was. There had not been enough time to cram all her papers into the stove before they entered. The mountain guards, called greybacks for the dull colour of their uniforms, burst in and seized from her the handful of parchment she had been trying to destroy. The chaos of her pens being dumped onto the floor, books being cracked and torn apart, the uncirculated pamphlets gathered and held as evidence. All the while she had thrashed against their restraints, the cuffs scraping her wrists as she fought against them. A slap had stilled her body but not her anger. She spat at the guard who had struck her, a glob of blood and spit landing on his cheek. He hit her again, his gauntlet leaving another gash along her lip.

She was guilty. She did not presume to feign innocence. She had printed contraband. Treason, even. She had called for a break in the system; a balance of powers. The poor were only getting poorer and the rich, richer. Every week saw a new tax; tea, linen, bread...soon enough, they would pay for the very breath they drew. She had not sought bloodshed or massacre, only equality.  In the Mountain, however, that was as good as. The very structure was the physical embodiment of hierarchy. Those lower floors homed the peasants and invalids; as you ascended, merchants and lower lords lived, above the greater nobility and royal occupied the highest floor. The king himself overlooked the rocky landscape from a balcony along its peak. A beacon of the system.

Footsteps kept her from the memories that came next. Being dragged to the cells, past those she had called friends and others who were unknowingly her enemies. She had kept her head high, shoulders straights, face unyielding. She would confront her fate with the dignity she had sought for the masses. She would give them hope when despair triumphed.

She stood as the guard unlocked her door, a pair of greybacks entering. Wordlessly, they turned her around and shackled her hands behind her. They spun her to face the door and shoved her through it. She stumbled, barely catching herself. A sharp rock stabbed the bottom of her foot but she continued onward.  The walk was long. They passed the narrow windows carved into the mountainside, the light of dusk shrouding the horizon just beyond her view. Up and up and up. She had never been so high in the Mountain. The air grew warmer with their ascent but the foul stench of the dungeons clung to her.

A towering set of doors stood open, the light of a dozen lamps shining through. She was escorted inside and the buzz of voices within died. She had never seen the chamber but she knew where she was. This was the high court. That reserved for the most heinous criminals. The benches were empty and only a small group sat at the front of the hall.

The king was the first to catch her eye though she had only ever seen him from afar. Thorin II’s dark head topped with a thick golden crown; his black doublet slashed with matching gold silk. He sat upon a dais with two others. His eyes were planted on the far wall and he seemed not to notice her despite the hush which had overcome the room.  To his left, in the place of honour, sat his heir, Prince Fili. His green eyes flitted towards you, a wrinkle in his brow betraying curiosity. His interest dissipated quickly and he pushed back the thick blond braid which had fallen forward over his shoulder. The emerald brocade of his jacket matched his eyes, though the lustre of the latter faded.  To the king’s right sat the other prince, Kili. His dark hair was slightly askew, his doe-like eyes averted as he rested his chin his hand. His leg wobbled with impatience as he held back a yawn, seemingly disinterested in the whole process.

These Durins had once been heroes. They had reclaimed the dwarfish homeland and returned their people to their rightful place. Then they had fallen into the antiquated habits of their ancestors. Those very practices which had assured the apathy of the elves during the descent of Smaug. That which had isolated Erebor from the rest of the world; the rich from the poor.  Perhaps, she thought, the dragon sickness hadn’t taken the king as feared, but another type of greed had poisoned his soul. Their entire bloodline had a tendency towards it. They presented themselves as righteous to their people but wrote deceit in their statutes. Those rumours of their baser acts; those vulgar pleasures derived from the suffering of others, travelled quickly. Keris knew, that behind every snippet of gossip, there was a sliver of truth. As it was, the indulgence of the royals was not diligently hidden; flaunted even.

Two other nobles. Dwalin, the captain of the silvercloaks, the royal guard noted for their shining capes, stood to the left of the royal dais. His own brother, Balin, stood in front of the podium. The white-haired elder was the head of the king’s council; Lord of the Chamber. The legate she had been actively opposing in her activities. Those few others present were guards; both grey and silver, lining the wall as they watched the prisoner’s arrival.

Keris was stopped before a lectern. This was her trial. Held in the last light to hurry the process. To keep quiet her crimes as to not encourage those with similar leanings. To hasten and ease her sentence which had certainly already been decided. It was a farce. Her presence allowed her no defense or judgment, truly. It was all show.  The doors were pulled shut with a boisterous clang. The silence was trapped in the hall, broken at last by the calm but ringing voice of the head legate.

“I, Lord Balin, Son of Fundin, Lord of the Chamber, do hereby inaugurate this hearing. By the law of the Mountain and ancestors of Erebor, in the name of our king and ruler, Thorin II, son of Thrain II, King Under the Mountain and Blood of Durin, recognize the defendant, Keris Wyck, charged with distribution of contraband, conspiracy to commit treason, and sedition. This trial shall now commence.”

Keris looked around as Lord Balin’s voice echoed in the silence. Though it lacked an audience, the chamber was intimidating. Her heart started beating furiously, as if it had been still before.

“Girl,” The king called to her, drawing her attention from the empty benches. His voice was frightening; deep and stony, as if he was the mountain himself. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

She swallowed as she looked up at the dais. For the first time, King Thorin’s eyes met hers. Her stomach turned sour and she fought to keep her hands from trembling. She saw cruelty in his eyes. Judgment. There was nothing she could say to exonerate herself. But she would speak.

“Yes...I-I do,” She cringed at the stutter in her voice, “I would argue that what I wrote was not contraband, and thus the act of distribution was not treason. What I wrote was the truth. What I wrote was a recounting of hardship, of struggle, of reality. Of the very same desperation you once bore in your desire to reclaim our home.  I wrote for the washerwoman with her brood of children who must decide between feeding her family or her hearth. The cook who must choose between a room to live in or a slice of bread. I write for those who are taxed until they are starving while the nobles gorge themselves on venison and wine.”

“Enough!” The king slammed his palm upon the arm of his chair, “You admit openly to opposing the royal authority. Do you know the punishment for such an act?”

“I am well aware but I daresay that death would be preferable than living in such squalor,” Keris snapped. She could hear her pulse in her ears; feel the boiling in her veins.

Prince Kili seemed to have been awoken by the king’s outburst and Prince Fili stared between the king and the defendant. King Thorin growled, the rumble permeating the room as the venomous thoughts swirled in his maddened eyes. He stood, pointing a thick finger at Keris.  “I declare you guilty, girl!” The king roared, “On your own admission. By my authority and by the blood of the Mountain, I see you guilty of treason!.” He seemed to be struggling against his own temper, “You seditious bitch! Vile wench!”

Keris was shocked by the affront he had taken. She had thought her plea quite eloquent and had thought to accept her fate with a grain of courage. Her unwillingness to beg however had quite bothered him. Yet, she knew, whether she had spoken those words or others, she would have faced the same verdict. She was only gladdened to have spoken for herself; for the people. Even if it fell on deaf ears. Even if she fell, too.

Keris was back in her cell. The Lord of the Chamber had quickly confirmed the King’s declaration while the latter stewed in rage. He had lost his Mountain once and any challenge reminded him of his years of exile. He would see to it that it would not happen again. Even one as minor as herself was a threat.

She did not sleep. She could not. She would not bring herself to lay on the filthy cobbles until fatigue forced her to do so. These were her last days, day even, and she would see her death without piss and shit upon her dress. She leaned against the wall, trying to take the weight from her legs. The cut on her foot throbbed, likely infected from the mire below her.  She didn’t hear the approach. She was so tired she couldn’t even hear the steady drip at the back of her cell. It was only the shift of light, the grate’s whine as it was opened, that alerted her to his presence. She looked up, pushing herself from the wall as she greeted her visitor silently. She muffled the groan of pain which came with her movement.

Lord Balin entered, the door closing behind him. He looked around the floor in disgust, trying to place his feet in the less slimy patches. His glossy blue eyes found her in the dim.  “I’ve been searching you out for months,” He began; his voice a blend of gentility and menace. “This rogue pamphleteer. Rebuking every statute, every word I wrote with his own. Or rather her own.”

Keris watched him. He paced two steps back and forth. The most he could afford without getting ankle deep in the sludge. A ghost of a smile appeared at the corner of his lips.

“Admirable, almost. It’s quite one thing to fight one with steel, but with a pen, it is rather more intriguing.”

“Are you here to boast then?” Keris asked.

“No, I don’t like the practice truly. Modesty is much preferable.” He flourished his hand carelessly, “I am come, officially, to deliver your sentence.”

“Did it need to be stated aloud? I’m quite certain I shall have a block at my neck before the next eve.”

“That is an option. Traditionally. But, the law has always been more accommodating to offenders of your...sex. It needn’t end so tragically. You are young and have many years left to you.” He rambled.

“I gave those up when I set my quill to parchment,” She scoffed.

“Would you hear my alternative or are you so set on your own demise?”

She sighed, giving a curt nod for him to continue. He backed up, letting the torchlight stream in clearer, looking her over with an appraising eye.

“I read your pamphlet, ‘On the Sins of Wealth’. An intriguing look into the underbelly of noble pleasures and I must say, very well written. Almost accurate, truly. But I daresay our royal harem is much more hospitable than you would have it. Those dams are of high-esteem, unlike those in the lower levels. Sad little things, trading their services for a loaf of bread.”

“Because they haven’t any other choice,” She insisted, “Because you would mandate that they give up their coin for your own comforts.”

“Hmm,” He gave a half-chuckle, “As I was saying. The royal harem, or 'sable skirts' as they have been so cleverly nicknamed, are not maltreated, rather they are well-kept. And in return they give their services; simple pleasures but otherwise, they live a life of luxury.”

“I’m afraid my pens have all been disposed of, otherwise I would revise that pamphlet,” She said dryly, “Why in Mahal are you telling me all this?”

“Ah, back to what I was trying to say before; my alternative…”

Keris’ heart had skipped a beat. She was sure of it. The pang in her chest was so sharp she nearly gasped. The realization struck her before he finished his thought. His offer was all too plain.

“You want me to sell my body for my life?” She sputtered.

“A skirt or the block,” He held his hand out like a scale, “It would seem an easy choice. Life or death, really.”

“But...as repulsive as the offer is, why?”

“As I said, the law is not so callous towards dams and...I like you, Keris. Were you a noble on my council, you would be an indispensable asset. And your words in court were almost endearing, if not near-sighted.” He grinned, “And well, the harem always welcome new blood and dams are as rare as ever.”

Keris looked down as her foot throbbed once more. Her feet were black with dirt, her skirts starting to stain. Her head pounded and her lip hung heavy and swollen. This was it. She would spend her last day in this cell; filthy, bloodied, and cold.

“Can I think about it?” She asked, ashamed of herself for even considering the proposition.

“You have five minutes,” He declared plainly, “I’m afraid I can’t wait. The block is to be brought out by day’s end, if at all.”

Keris exhaled. She let all the breath leave her body as she closed her eyes. She reached up to touch her greasy hair, grasping her head as if it would split. She gulped, afraid to inhale. Afraid to continue. She wished she could stop time. Wished she could rewind. She wished she wasn’t afraid but now that she stood before death, she wanted nothing more than to run the other way.

“Alright…” She finally spoke, the cold air filling her lungs.

“Pardon, dear?” Lord Balin leaned in.

“I said alright,” Her teeth were close to chattering but it had nothing to do with the chill, “I’ll...I’ll do it.”

[worldwalkernovel]

The dynamic duo: What is their favorite book/poem/song of earth? Of Alleirat? Can they sing? What are some instruments of Alleirat? What are they made of? How are they made? Are they widely available? Of earth's instruments, what is their sound similar to? Are there major festivals/holidays? Any strange ones (like the city in Spain that has an annual tomato fight)? What are Alleirai beds like (raised on four legs/futons/hammocks)? Are there sleeping bags or does everyone just suffer on the road?

Hey, y’all, sorry I just...fucking vanished there!  Real life obligations caught up with me.  Ironically this is a long term positive--I’m much more productive in writing when I have a job, because it leaves me less time to second guess myself.  Point is, I’m going to try and actually Do Things on this blog again.  Also the last one about holidays got pretty long so I put it under a cut.

What is their favorite book/poem/song of Earth?  Of Alleirat?

Oh my God, listen, I’m not gonna get to most of this question because I got overexcited, but let’s talk about these two and Earth poetry, yeah?

Crispin discovers Emily Dickinson in seventh grade English class, and the first poem of hers he ever reads is, of course, Because I could not stop for Death.  He traces his fingers over the words “Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yet//Feels shorter than the Day//I first surmised the Horses’ Heads//Were toward Eternity –” and for some reason he can’t quite put his finger on, his throat closes up tight and his voice breaks when he’s asked to read aloud.  Some indiscernable something about her words ring in his head like English hasn’t rung in years, and he checks a collection out of the library the same day.  His favorite poem of hers is--it’s not really his favorite, but the poem of hers he knows by heart and can’t seem to peel out of the beat of his pulse is I measure every Grief I meet.  Some days he loves it, for how cleanly and purely it seems to scribe him into neat four-line stanzas.  Some days he can’t read it without crying, or throwing the book across the room.

The only Dickinson poem Brenneth likes is Tell all the Truth, and sometimes when she looks at Crispin she thinks it was written for him.

Brenneth doesn’t like poetry much, she mostly prefers songs--they’re easier to remember and she knows what to do with them, she doesn’t really know what to do with poetry (can’t sing it, doesn’t have a narrative, can’t even go see it performed) and she doesn’t like not knowing what to do with a thing.  But once she read Goblin Market, by Christina Rossetti.  She started it by accident, and there was a story, a narrative threading through the ramble, and she kept reading, and--

Brenneth has dreams for a week, dizzy uneasy dreams of Crispin biting into strange foreign fruits and letting juice as thick and red as blood stain his mouth, and of hands--his hands, strong and crackling with lightning--pressing the fruit against her mouth and saying eat, eat, and of a mouth on her jaw and neck and collarbones, drinking the juice from her skin.

What are Alleirai beds/travel beds like?

The basic structure of Alleirai beds is “four legs, some kind of pad, sheets/blanket, maybe a pillow” but there’s a lot of scope there and it’s not unheard of for people to have a different arrangement based on what they’re used to--sailors are used to hammock-style bunks on ships, travelers used to sleeping rough are most familiar with bedrolls that consist of little more than two blankets and possibly a very thin pad.  At the end of the day, though, since a large portion of the continent is arable, elevated beds have the practical advantage of being easier to keep relatively clean of dirt, water, and creepy crawlies.  As such, a cot-style arrangement is considered the bare minimum, with a base of taut cloth and no mattress at all. The rich might have a four-poster bed with a down mattress.  Most people are somewhere in the middle with plain frames and horsehair or straw ticks that get exchanged on a semi-regular basis.

Can they sing?

Yes!  Brenneth has a nice folksy low alto, it’s nothing special but she used to sing shanties and ballads while she worked in her forge, especially while she was hammering or doing anything else that required a rhythm.  Sometimes she gave people a discount on their work if they were willing to teach her a new song instead, and people made jokes about the singing smith.  Crispin has a beautiful mid-range tenor, sweet and clear as glass when he was a child and deepening to something warm and full as he got older.  He has formal voice training, which was part of his education--singing is a good way to learn to project your voice, which is a desirable trait in a hero of legend.  However, he hates to sing alone, which is where all his training lies, so he taught himself to sing harmony to Brenneth’s melodies and that’s the only way he sings anymore.

What are some instruments of Alleirat/what are they like?

They hit a lot of the same major categories as we do--they have necked and non-necked string instruments (things like guitars or fiddles and lyres or harps, respectively), drums and other percussion instruments, wind instruments.  They lack the finesse to make out modern instruments, and most wind instruments are made of wood rather than metals, whereas they have a lot more metal drums than hide-and-wood drums, so playing the drum in Alleirat is equally about knowing how to stop a sound as start it.  You know that dome-shaped hang drum thing?  Something similar to that with only a few tones (like four total) is pretty common on ships and is used to keep time for sea shanties, and more complex versions are popular during festivals, in combination with strings and singing.  Vocalists are prized in Alleirat, so wind instruments are less common than things that allow singing and playing simultaneously.

Are there major holidays/festivals?  Any weird ones?

I’d have sworn on my life I answered this already, but apparently not.  The Alleirai seasons each have a festival at the height and one at the end of the year, four religious festivals and one political.  The political festival is Unification Day, the commemoration of the unification of the continent of Alleirat and the formal truce of the lengthy wars that threatened to kill everyone on it, and takes place in the early days of summer.  How seriously and/or cheerfully people take Unification Day depends on how they’re feeling about the Unified Council at that moment, and whether or not their protectorate state is on the verge of civil war with a neighbor.  

The religious festivals are:

the Feast of the Wanderer, which takes place at midsummer and is a festival of plenty and warmth and alcohol--the Wanderer is the god of life and fire, and the festival is encouraged to embrace and embody joy and revelry.  There are also ritual fights, which are largely in fun and more like friendly bar brawls than formalized gladiator matches, and both participants are usually quite drunk.  Agreeing to be the on-call flesh workers standing ringside on the Feast makes you an obscene amount of money, but you have to be sober.  Gifts are also exchanged at this festival--material gifts, specifically.

the Lady’s Night, or the Night of Stars, which takes place at midwinter and is very much a festival of...keeping out the dark, I suppose, would be the way I’ll put it.  The festival is about remembering that We Are Alive And Life Is Short, as well as remembering the dead, with a lot of candles lit in memorial and just for light--traditionally, you stay up from dusk until dawn, and if your candles and fire go out, you’ll have bad luck all year.  There’s still drinking and feasting and general celebration, but it’s more intimate and less raucous than the Feast.  You exchange stories and sing and hold your breath whenever the flames flicker.  (Cheating with magical glowglasses is considered bad luck as well.)  There are people who learn a single story or song all year in preparation for the Night of Stars, and you display them as a gift for the people you’re celebrating with.

the Landing, the first day of the new year at mid-spring, which marks the day that tradition and lore say the gods first came to Alleirat.  It’s probably not the right day, sort of like Christmas was moved around a bunch, but no one but the very well educated or very pedantic care.  You leave offerings at the temples or shrines at dawn, and then you go out and celebrate.  All day if you can, more often just from “whenever you get off work” to “whenever you collapse.”  The large cities and sometimes smaller towns and villages hold a parade, and crown young people, a boy and a girl in their mid to late teens or early twenties, as the Lady and the Wanderer for the day.  The crowns assigned to each of the two (generally flower crowns, rather than anything valuable) is supposed to be handed around over the course of the day, as a sort of village-wide game of Tag with the crowned people as “it”, and whoever holds the crowns at sundown has the responsibility of leading the town in the service of the Landing, which is a whole thing.  It’s sort of like religious hot potato with drinking.

the Eve of Dead Gods, which is pretty much what it says on the tin.  In terms of the feel of the Eve, it’s sort of somewhere between old celebrations of Halloween and Yom Kippur, with an emphasis on considering your own actions of the past year and serious reflection, as well as a  day when...well, they’re pretty serious about the dead gods.  Gods can’t be ghosts, of course, don’t be foolish, but--but when you worship the last two of a mighty pantheon, it doesn’t hurt to do honor to those who went before.  On the Eve, you lock your doors and windows at dusk and don’t go outside again until the sun is shining, and you remember that everything dies.  Even gods.

Some people--those whose ancestors escaped the sinking of the western continent--hold a quiet holiday for the Chained Lord, the god who didn’t answer when they called for salvation and whose death throes killed thousands.  It’s a small thing of fasting and candles and salt scattered on the floor, observed by most as little more than a cursory tradition and not even a shadow of a shadow of what his festivals must have once been.

[plutoswrath]

Neptunes Claws

Neptune in the first: We don’t know much about us, we just know there is a lot of us to give. I am everyone and everything, the cosmos is a part of me and I am a part of the cosmos. Little pieces of me fly through the air between us, kissed by the muses, I don’t know if I will be able to recollect them ever again.

Neptune in the second: All I have is all I give. Coins transform into cotton candy, I feed it to the cloudy sheep in the sky and well, I do not care. Art is in my heart, music runs through my veins. Forever I will sit in my little sea shell, waiting for the better days to come. I will cling onto your sleeves, hold me close to your chest, closer, closer, make me one of yours.

Neptune in the third: All I speak is fairytales that I dream about every single night. The concept of words and cold numbers is harder to coprehend than my own sun kissed naivity. My brothers, take me by the hand and count the flowers on the field with me, for I don’t need my teachers words to cage me. Why bothering being present, when in my dreams I can fly over the city at night?

Neptune in the fourth: My home is my castle, my home is my hell. I don’t know much about the past but I feel my ancestors calling me from the bottom of the ocean. Mom has been absent, dead has been irritated, there was just me and my lonely big heart, waiting for another hungry hug to suffocate me - lonely appreciating every ray of light that shone through the bars of my window. 

Neptune in the fifth: There is dimmed lights in me that crave to be freed. I take my brush and paint away the pain. Lover, be my muse, lover, be my savior, lover, let me kiss your soul and interwine our souls, for we are both gods that need to create and destroy till we fall apart and become one with the earth again.

Neptune in the sixth: Holy Marie, how much do I need to give, how many times do I need to sacrifice? My body, the tempel - its ruins lay in front of my feet and the days are passing by without me realizing what I intend to do. Isn’t there more to the story? Isn’t there more to see, less to give? Oh holy Marie, one last prayer..

Neptune in the seventh: We believe in the cosmos, we believe in souls being connected by fate. Haven’t you always wanted to be the hero? Being a part of my  life was my  greates wish, but oh when will I finally be a part of yours? I see you, kissing me, hugging me, but why does your touch sting then? After all, why do my wounds open yet again?

Neptune in the eighth: I have seen something behind the horizon. I saw the face of death, the face of the devil, I have heard their voices, screaming my name, I will write their last words on my heart. Heart and body long for yours in my deepest dreams, only to find myself with headaches in an empty bed the next morning. I see no clear boundaries, heaven and hell are mixing, slowly. 

Neptune in the ninth: The weird feeling of being driven to another souls purpose longs in me. My eyes desperately jump from one image to another: everything has a soul, everything is alive, everything is speaking to me. Is it faith? Is it karma, my past life telling me to sit patiently on top of the mountain? Or is it me, tying my own hands and feet, starving, suffocating?

Neptune in the tenth: How I see myself, is not how you perceive me, no - in fact you do not know me at all. My mind is a labyrinth waiting to be solved and crossed, being unclear of what turn I will take next. My hands reach for something that maybe doesn’t even exist and oh, what a painful thought of tripping, falling, never making it back on ones own feet again.

Neptune in the eleventh:It was always me taking the hands of the broken, the used, the stray dogs and putting them in one anothers. Ah, so many beautiful faces, so many people, so many things to change, peaceful times to come..but why is it always me, crying when feeling like an empty vessel again, feeling like never reaching my goals, feeling like being the stray dog myself, left behind, kicked and used?

Neptune in the twelfth: I feel like an angel - out of this world, knowing my companies fate. I feel like the devil - not acting on my believe, leaving myself behind, letting others and my own life suffer through the anxiety and guilt deep inside of me. I want to be Mother Theresa - guiding my children into the deepest nature of earth, compassionatly allowing them to grow wings, letting them fly through the skies of gold, orange and heavenly blue. 

[magic-can]

Okay I tried to pick just some questions but they are all so good so like,, can you answer all of them?? (Unless you don't want to answer some jsjdksldk)

(I’m not gonna answer ones I don’t have an answer to if that’s okay dndjdjjd)1. If you got the chance to hang out with any famous person for a day, who would it be?Tbh? Probably Sean McCloughin (or jacksepticeye for anyone that doesn’t know also I hope I spelled his last name right hhhh) because he just seems so,,,down to earth??? Like I’m not saying other ppl I’m a fan of are egotistical or anything it’s just that?? He’s always interacting with fans, he knows he’s not a perfect person, and he’s super non-judgmental and optimistic and accepting and he just seems so approachable. (I’m gonna make a post about why I have a lotta respect and appreciation for this dude actually, bc I’ve been binge watching his videos and I’m being reminded of why he’s my favorite YouTuber, such an awesome dude.) Not only that but he has a lotta the same interests as me and stuff and he actually has a really thoughtful mind when it comes to a lot of things and I’d feel a lot less nervous around him than any other famous person.2. If there were 4 things you could get rid of, what would they be?* Mistranslated religious scriptures bc hooh boy they’ve created a lot of misunderstanding and controversy * pedophiles* TERFS* nazis 3. If you could uncancel any cancelled video game, what would it be?Silent Hills,,,so much potential, Thrown out the window by a greedy company. It’s such a shame the game got cancelled, I was super pumped for it.4. Is there any celebrity you used to be a fan of but now aren’t?Pewdiepie, he gives me a really bad feeling now.6. Time travel: cool or a horrible idea?HORRIBLE IDEA 7. Are you a creationist or evolutionist?Definitely creationist, but I do believe there are quite a few animals that have common ancestors and stuff like that.8. Worst song(s) you’ve ever heard?Can’t think of the absolute worst one I’ve ever heard in my life, but recently? Despacito and Shape Of You hhhh.9. Have you ever astral projected?Nope. I can’t even imagine what that would be like.10. Have you ever had any experiences with the paranormal?I think maybe...I’m not sure though. Even though I 100% believe in the paranormal I don’t assume something odd is automatically of the nature, evidence is important.11. What’s the last song you listened to?Papua New Guinea- The Future Sound Of London 12. Would you rather take 3 pills that would each make you forget an embarrassing memory, or take 3 pills that would each get rid of a bad habit?3 pills that get rid of a bad habit, yeah I’ve done a lot of cringey stuff but I think those would help me more in the long run.13. What is the worst fandom in your opinion?I used to think it was the Skeleton Clique, but nah, the KPop fandom looks like hell on earth (and I’m going nowhere near it, especially after hearing about the abuse and torment the KPop stars face. I will NEVER support KPop even if there was a gun to my head. Those people don’t deserve this hell.) 14. Do you still have stuffed animals?Buddy I’ll still have stuffed animals when I’m 50.15. Do you have any fears that other people might find weird? Is fear of time weird? 16. Which of your parents are you closer to?Probably my dad.18. Thoughts on roleplaying?There’s nothing wrong with it if it ain’t hurting anyone!19. Does the world scare you?Yeah, but it doesn’t discourage me, we CAN make it less scary.20. Any good advice you have?A priest that used to work at my church (he moved tho and I miss him bc he was the sweetest guy) once told me that people tend to view the world in black and white, when in reality it’s multiple shades of gray (not 50 shades of gray this is a church goodness.) That’s something that’s always stuck with me. I think that’s a mindset more people should have.21. Thoughts on this site? What’s good about it? What’s bad about it? What can be fixed?The good things about this site is that it can give people opportunities to share their art, interests, views, and build communities. It’s a shame that instead people use it for hate speech, hypocrisy, this gross hive mind, extremism, etc. Oh, and a staff that ignores all the crap.22. Ever gotten anon hate?Not directly.23. What’s the weirdest dream you’ve ever had?All of my dreams are freakin bizarre, I can’t choose the weirdest of them all. Like last night I had a dream that a rat turned into a worm and that’s one of the more “tame” dreams.24. What do you think heaven and hell look like/would look like?I don’t believe in the fiery hell a lot of people believe in. I believe in Sheol tho, you know, the depths, a v v cold lonely sucky place. Heaven...idk exactly what heaven would look like, but I know it’s beautiful and otherworldly in the bed way possible.25. If you had to have an encounter with any famous horror movie character (examples: Jason Voorhees, Freddy Krueger, Mike Myers, a Xenomorph, etc.) who would it be?Okay I haven’t seen any of these kinds of movies, but wasn’t there a movie where this girl ended up kinda-befriending Xenomorphs?? Bc in that case I’d go with a Xenomorph.26. Do you think science is flawed?To an extent. I’m gonna make an entire post about this subject, because I my views are different based on different situations.27. The age old question: what came first, the chicken or the egg?I mean,,,chickens are the closest relatives to dinosaurs, and dinosaurs laid eggs, so obviously the egg.28. Any book recommendations?The Plague Dogs by Richard Adams (the same man that wrote Watership Down!) It’s my favorite book, I will warn that it has gore, both human and animal death, animal abuse, and even mental illness?? (There’s a character that experiences delusions and hallucinations and stuff like that but he’s not demonized at all. There are outdated terms to describe him at times though, the book was written in the 1970s so there’s another warning.)29. Ever go through an “embarrassing” fandom phase? (You know the ones.)Anime and Vocaloid (even though I will always low-key love Vocaloid with my entire being.)30. Favorite superhero?Used to be Batman, but now it’s Black Panther. One movie was more powerful than years of attachment and nostalgia regarding another character. I really hope I get buy a lot of the comics soon, I need money.31. If there was any outdated meme you could bring back, what would it be?Any memes from the past that were focused on just having good fun. Stuff like the “Just Do It” and John Cena prank call, you know those kinda memes. Less “cringe compilations” and more of those please. 32. If there was one holiday you could get rid of, what would it be?Columbus Day, I don’t even have to think twice about that. Replace it with Indigenous People’s Day. Genocide should never be celebrated, I can’t believe we live in a world where that’s a controversial statement.33. Thoughts on the education system where you live?It’s a flaming heap of garbage.34. What would you do for a Klondike bar?Buy one at the store or something if I want one, duh.35. What’s a question you hate being asked?“How can you be ____ if you’re Christian?” Ugh.36. What’s the worst nightmare you’ve ever had?I don’t feel comfortable talking about it openly, because a lot of them are REALLY bad ones and I only feel comfortable talking about a few with friends though personal messaging.37. Worst villain you can think of? They can be from anything.Scourge from Warrior Cats HOLY FRICK HHH38. A reverse of the last question, the worst hero you can think of?There’s definitely a worse hero that’s not coming to mind but the worst one I can think of is Beck from Mighty No. 9.39. Look left to you. The first thing you see is what you use to fight the devil. What is it?A gigantic blanket. Welp.40. Does rainy weather make you happy or sad?Happy, probably bc rain is fairly common where I live and I associate it with home.Whew! That took a while but it was fun. Thank you so much love 💜💙💜💙💜💙 I hope you’re doing well!

[theblackpanther]

Hello! I just discovered you and A Professional Observation a few days ago and I LOVE IT! You've got a loyal reader here. :) Can I ask questions 3 & 4 regarding A Professional Observation, please?

Hello Annie. Very happy to hear that! :) Do you happen to be also the Guest who left the review on ff.net on April 23?

Since A Professional Observation is one big author-service (written because 1. things I liked the most about “Arrow” disappeared from the show althogether 2. I couldn’t find fics that explore the tropes I wanted to read about), there is more than one example. Beware, this post is ridiculously long.

3. What’s your favorite line of narration?

“The rain was monotonously beating against the barred windows of the interrogation room. It was small almost to the point of being claustrophobic, heavily shadowed in the corners, but strongly lit in the centre from the ceiling lamps. Currently it was occupied by only one person — a handcuffed man in his early thirties, sitting by the table placed in the center. The bright light gave his costume an unnaturally vivid shade of green. His hood was pulled off his head, lying flat on his back, the mask gone altogether, probably locked up alongside his bow, quiver and other equipment in the evidence locker.”

(Maybe nothing special. But I’m not a native speaker, and those were first lines in English I put conciously after years and year of wanting to write in a foreign language—I think it works well as the opening and sets the tone of the story.).

“He was not mad. He would know if he was, wouldn’t he?”

“How he wished he was still a free man and could just run into the night. He always escaped into night from all he had. Or perhaps the night was all he had.If only he could feel the chill of wind on his face and breathe in rain-soaked air. Look at the city’s skyline from the top of the highest building, the hood down over his head and the reassuring weight of the bow in his hand… He didn’t need it to be efficient in what he was doing; he shaped himself to be the most dangerous weapon. But still he viewed his mastery of archery as something to be proud of.This was making it even more difficult to accept that the part of his life as a vigilante was over. And that he would never again hear the rustle of an arrow’s fletching being taken out of the quiver, when the feathers softly rubbed against each other, or bowstring’s ring when it was released. He loved being the Arrow, he couldn’t deny it. When he observed people from the rooftops, living their normal lives, he knew that it was something he would never have, but accepted it as the consequence of the path he had chosen. It had not only given him the sense of purpose in his once dull existence. It had also provided him with a shot of adrenaline he craved.”

(Some angst, also one of many Archery Is Awesome/Archery Placement scenes.)

“She wanted to break him down and pick through the darkest corners of his mind. Get inside his head and make him believe he was suffering from some psychological disorder. How could he regard her otherwise? Right now Doctor Pressnall, despite her ordinary look, seemed to be a much more dangerous foe than the Dark Archer and Deathstroke put together. They wanted to take everything from him, and in the end kill him. But what she intended to do was even worse. Deprive him of everything that gave meaning to his life and force him to live without it.”

“He raised his eyes slowly and observed Doctor Pressnall for a longer while as she indulged herself in reading some excerpt in his file. Studying her as he would study his quarry, trying to figure out what tactic would be best. Giving some thought to what he already knew about her, what he had learned during their conversation, and what he could make out of her appearance. If she looked at him at this moment, she would probably be greatly surprised that he was watching her like a hawk. Thoughts flashed through his mind one after another, piling up, building up a bigger, more complex picture out of little pieces. Unlike one of his fellow vigilantes, the Arrow was no detective. But still he was able to make some deductions on his own.”

(Ollie’s observations and Sherlock Holmes mode was fun to write. Before the show kind of forget about that, he was able to make some deduction/investigation on his own.)

“While people from City Hall were doing all in their power to lessen the Arrow’s influence on violent crime rates steadily declining, and ignore all the good he was doing, the “little guys” showed their appreciation in whatever way they could. True, there were no cool gadgets like Flash action figures one could buy in a gift shop, or The Flash coffee, but people found other ways to express their gratitude. There was a small tea room on Grell Street, run by an old lady, which was serving Green Arrow tea, which was basically a jasmine green tea with a fancy name. In some stalls one could buy a T-shirt or a green hoodie with an imprint of a hooded man with a bow. He looked more like Robin Hood or a comic book character in those pictures (Oliver had no idea why some artist drew him with a distinctive goatee), but still, there was no doubt that all of those were supposed to represent the local vigilante. Him.

Shortly after the Arrow saved the city from Deathstroke and his Mirakuru soldiers, some street artists painted a huge graffiti on a wall of one of buildings in Glades of the Arrow, watching over the city. Most of his face was covered by the shade of the hood. Someone from City Hall decided to paint it over, but once the people from Glades heard about it , they protested so vigorously that the plan was dropped almost instantly. The mural stayed in place.

Over the years the Arrow, become something more than only an elusive, shadowy figure. Sometimes someone managed to catch a glimpse of him. People were looking up on the roofs or peeking into dark alleys, knowing that those were his “favorite” places. Kids from Glades hoped that if they got lucky, they might find a stray arrow with characteristic green-and-yellowish fletching, or an arrowhead that police overlooked while they were securing the area and gathering the evidence. That part of the public interest was relatively harmless. Oliver was, however, getting more and more annoyed with people who wanted to take a photo of him or record a film on those rare occasions when he had to appear in open space, close to civilians. Not only because the police could use it as evidence against him later on. They put themselves into harm’s way—some were so reckless that they would walk into the middle of shootout just to get that precious photo of the Arrow.One of the most original and unexpected forms of tribute he was given was an unofficial archery contest.”

(At some point in the show people just mysteriously disappeared. The city no longer felt alive. I wanted to show what impact on the life of ordinary normal citizens the existence of vigilante hero would have and how he would fit into the city’s space.)

“Without Mom, Thea and Dad…Or even without Walter, who tried to replace his father in his life the best he could…It’s not the house anymore. He doesn’t care about his ancestors, no matter what they did, or what they achieved. They are just empty names. Probably put a lot of effort to raise themselves up over others. He wouldn’t have the means to finance his crusade without the money he inherited, but he prefers to not think of that. Because it would lead him to thinking that he is no better than other wealthy and well situated people using their position to do whatever they want. But to do what he does nowadays, having a plain English longbow and some wooden arrows wouldn’t be enough.

Damn, he really should go catch some sleep, since he’s comparing himself to Robin Hood now. He doesn’t like this association, because on some level he thinks that Robin Hood should belong to those romantic ballads and stories, where everything was so simple, painted in black and white colors. Robin and his merry men were the good guys, the Sheriff and his thugs the bad ones.

He doesn’t exactly remember when, but he learned that in Robin Hood’s time, the bow was not viewed as a noble weapon. It was associated with peasants, and what’s worse also with thieves and bandits, men who had no honor. No nobleman would touch such a thing. So maybe after all he had more in common with Robin Hood that he wanted to admit. He was no thief, but according to the law he was a bandit, and the fact that he used his skills to fight crime and injustice had no meaning to that law. “

(Robin Hood reference is must-be in “Arrow” story. Also way to slip in an information that in Robin Hood times a bow was not viewed as a noble weapon.)

“Viewed from the high rooftop, with its busy traffic on the main street arteries, Starling looks like every other city aspiring to be a modern metropolis. Long torrents of cars, with gleaming yellow and red lights, from this height small like toys, are streaming in all directions. And for a change it is not even raining today. From this vantage point all dark corners of the city and its poor, badly reputed districts are invisible, hidden in shade of skyscrapers, towering over the whole surrounding area.

Once it was one of the busiest docks on the West Coast. But the last of them were closed in the late nineties, and over the years the former wharfs were redeveloped and turned into a business district. Now it is full of office buildings, as impressive as constructions of metal, glass and concrete can be, and although the revitalization of the area is not a bad thing, on some level Oliver hates those skyscrapers; their only purpose seems to be raising themselves above others. Modern, elegant yachts are moored next to them in newly constructed marinas. The port itself introduced some major changes as well. New quays were constructed in the north part, and all the wet docks were deepened in order to handle vessels with bigger displacement. Only recently four gentry cranes were put into service in the container terminal, though there are still a lot of people who can’t find their place after the last big shipyard was closed down. Oliver poured a lot of money into a program which was supposed to help them retrain and get a new job, but it didn’t work as well as he planned.

So, to put it shortly, Starling pretends quite well to be something more. Something other than what it truly is. However, on a global scale, it means nothing. Just like him.”

“Usually when someone wants him somewhere it means that they want to kill him. Oliver comes well before the time and circles around, checking the surrounding. There is no sign of any trap though. Not many possible hiding places in the area as well, since this part of the port is remarkable mostly for its emptiness. South Pier is just a long strip of metal and concrete stretching out into the Starling Bay. A long time ago it served as the mooring place for a local cruise company. It used to have a number of connections with other port cities of the West Coast, including a ferry going to Coast City two times a day. Unfortunately the company bankrupted years ago. Although a revitalization process of the unused port area has been gradually put into motion, and over time South Pier became an official part of Harbour Green Park, none of the plans to somehow restore it have been so far successful. The sole remnant of its historical significance is an rusty archway, which used to serve as the entrance to the pier. Original shipyard lettering—"White Star Line" is still clearly readable.

Looking up at the company’s name, Oliver briefly remembers the trip to Coast his parents took him and Tommy on when they were both nine or ten years old. Sunny day, gusts of oceanic wind, a huge white ship and both of them ferreting about the deck, getting in every hole—especially if the entrance was prohibited to the passengers. On their return journey they were allowed to the helm though (nobody refuses Robert Queen). During the whole trip his parents looked genuinely happy together. He even saw them holding hands when they stood by the ship’s side, talking about something softly. Much later he was wondering bitterly if at that time his mother was already sleeping with Malcolm. And if his father was cheating on her with his secretary. After all, Isabel Rochev was not the first woman he had an affair with—he knew that there were others “lapses” in his life, much earlier.

Now all of this seems to have a spectral place in his memories. His parents and Tommy are gone forever, and that ship (he still remembers the name written with golden lettering—"Olympic") was scrapped shortly after the company ceased to exist. That archway and few bleak, distant images in his mind, like a bunch of old photographs, are the only proofs that it ever happened. If he dies tonight—and he can’t exclude that possibility—the only link with that past event will disappear for good, as well as those little parts of his parents and Tommy which are still alive in him.”

“He eventually finds himself around the bay. But instead going to the embankment near Harbour Green Park, he heads to the port, specifically to the part that hasn’t been revitalized yet. And maybe never will. An old abandoned power plant looms in the distance, its striped white and red chimney rising high. He passes a terminal container and enters an area that is a pathetic sight. He goes along a narrow street with cracked asphalt, passing long chains of railway wagons standing on the sidings on his left. On the other side, empty warehouses with broken windows and dirty, shabby-looking walls are towering over him.

He takes a short-cut through the closed ship assembly plant. A half-finished hull, lying under a gantry crane, reminds him of the skeleton of some deep-sea creature, dragged onto the bank. He goes through a large gap in the fence and finds himself under a brick wall of the abandoned power plant. He enters the building through a side entrance—it is one of his alternate hideouts. He is pretty sure that even Amanda Waller doesn’t know about the existence of this one, nor does his former team. Here he keeps some backup gear, even a spare motorcycle. But today he hasn’t come to grab some equipment, but to leave the backpack with the things he took from the foundry.”

(Finally, many descriptions of the city, which is a character on its own. Starling is full of contrasts, modern districts and neglected Glades, revitalized area contrasted with the abandoned places. Also many references to existing places/cities.)

4. What’s your favorite line of dialogue?

“I’m not crazy,” he said through clenched teeth. “So stop talking to me as if I’m one of your patients, living under some delusion and unable to tell lies from reality” An edge of threatening tone crept into his cold voice. It was the Hood speaking all over again. He regretted it almost immediately, seeing anxiety mirrored in the psychiatrist’s eyes. After all, he didn’t want to scare this woman.

“I’m not crazy,” he repeated, his tone much more level. “And contrary to what you might think, I don’t consider myself to be Robin Hood.”

“Then why do you wear this green hood? Why did you choose a bow and arrow?” she pressed on. “Does it have something to do with the island you were marooned on for five years? What exactly happened to you out there?”

(Oliver finally decides to speak with Doctor Pressnall.)

“I’m afraid you’re not in a position to judge anyone, given your own criminal record and how many victims you have on your conscience…I’m sorry for the harsh words, Oliver, but someone has to break it to you. Especially because you act as though you don’t realize how serious the charges against you are.”

He glared at her and retorted: “I’m handcuffed to the table. I get it.”

(One of many exchanges between them.)

“No man is a lonely island, Oliver, if you’ll forgive me bringing up this quote.”

(Putting references to island is always fun, second on the list after Robin Hood references—well, maybe it’s not fun for Oliver, given the situation…)

“That came addressed to you,“ says the Captain, handing the archer an envelope and glancing at him suspiciously. "You don’t seem to be surprised. Don’t say that now I’m your P.O. Box when someone wants to send you feedback or fan mail.”

“ This is not fan mail,” says Oliver grimly.

“ Queen. Oliver. Don’t turn your back on me like that,” says Lance suddenly. There is a hard edge in his voice. It stops the Arrow in place.

“ It was always so obvious, wasn’t it?”, he asks calmly, not shaken by this revelation at all.

“ You don’t seem surprised that I know,” observes the Captain.

“ You are too good a detective to not figure it out. You did a good job pretending that you don’t know.”

“ Yeah, the same goes to you. Keeping up appearances that you were not aware that I know,” sums up Lance. “Now, since it’s clear where we stand with each other and who knows what…”

“ I’ve never thanked you for what have you been doing for this city,” says Lance. His face bears a sour expression.

“ You never had to. I don’t do this for a thank-you.”

(Scenes with Lance and Oliver/the Arrow are my favorite, so of course one of the most imporant part of the story is Quentin’s and the Arrow’s cooperation—for me it was obvious that he had known for a long time who is hiding under the hood, he just didn’t care. Also, reference to Nolan’s Batman, exchange between Gordon and Batman from Batman Begins.)

“ I… I’ll call the cops!” Leeds makes another empty threat.

“ Go ahead,” says Oliver with a mocking tone. “How fast do you think Captain Lance will send his men here after you had proposed to cut down his retirement?”

“ He should be fired from the force for working with you!”

(Who said that Oliver doesn’t have a sense of humor? :p Also reference to Kevin Smith’s Quiver.)

“Sometimes I wonder…” he pauses. Barry is looking at him expectantly, so he swallows hard and goes on: “…how long I’ll be able to carry on. I chose this life. I became a vigilante, I use the night. But sooner or later I’ll go down. It might be the Dark Archer, or Deathstroke, or just some punk who gets lucky. Or perhaps some overzealous cop who’ll shoot me down. And when this moment comes, my last thought will be probably whether I made any difference.”

“ Oliver, the city would fall apart without you.”

“ Maybe. Maybe not. You know what they say… When you look too long into the abyss, the abyss looks back through you. And the longer I look on my city from up here…the less sense in all of this I see.”

“ You know what I think? That you are talking complete rubbish.”

“ That is really reassuring of you to say.”

(Some angst and moment between superfriends—as Barry’s and Oliver’s friendship is another of my favorite parts of the Arrowverse. Also Batman TAS referenced, “I Am The Night” to be precise.)

“He mastered to perfection keeping two halves of his life separate. And he convinced himself that he did this to keep her out of the harm’s way. It was easier to justify not being honest with her that way. It’s quite easy to understand what he was thinking. However, some other things about him are far more intriguing. How did he choose his targets? How did he decide whom to spare, and who deserves the most severe punishment in his book? Did he take pleasure in killing? Or was simply having total control over the situation, something he was deprived of on the island, enough to satisfy him? Those are few of many questions I would like to get an answer for. Maybe by understanding how his mind works, we can understand other people like him. And see the bigger picture.”

(Doctor Pressnall gives her observation.)

“I used to hate him and everything he represented. There was a time I would have sold my badge to nail him,” admitted Lance sincerely. “But… that’s changed. In city like Starling normal methods just… fail. And if we had realized that earlier, maybe we could have avoided tragedy… (…) The lines are getting thinner, the longer I’m in this line of work,” he explained, his tone sounding weary. “I used to think that you don’t need to step outside of the law to get justice. Starling taught me otherwise. And right now all I know is that—no matter how absurd it sounds—a hooded guy with a bow is…was the only one who stood between us and other masks running around the city. And this city is hurting. There were guys like Merlyn, or Wilson, or Brick who wanted to tear it apart. Bertinelli, Triad, Bratva, Los Halcones, Church… The never ending list. Cut off one head, two new take its place… But right now we are about to put away the only guy who could do something about it .”

(This fragment is not yet published, as it’s from chapter 19. Quentin’s thoughts on the Arrow.)

I’ve said it will be long…

[outofshame]

Writing snippet- Foremothers and power

You are never alone. You are never wothless. You are never incapable.

Do you realize what treasure you are? How beautiful you are? That you are worth more than greatest crown, than grandest masterpiece of most virtuoso artist? That each drop of your blood and each breath you exhale is worth more than all gems of world? 

It is said of people like us, that our greatest flaw is that we are creatures of past. We do not live fully in moment, nor plan for what comes ahead, but are stuck bound to  what has been and is no more. We research history and legends of things now passed, we tend graves and speak with dead, we unearth  visions and memories of before, and wonder of what we could have done better, over what we will  leave after us when we are gone, haunted by regrets and people who have left us.

Maybe. Maybe we are, but why should that be flaw? History must be remembered, so it wouldn’t be repeated. So that accomplishments and wounds of our predecessors would be celebrated and mourned. Sothat we may offer our ancestors gratitude and respect they deserve.

Look at yourself. Look at it, your body, your self ,in mirror or window, in puddle or cracked sheet of ice. You have your mother’s nose and your aunt’s hair, your grandmother’s overbite and her mother-in-law’s nimble fingers. All those women, stretching into infinity, live in you, for we are made of past, of pieces of our foremothers that lasted through centuries and made their way to us, and in but a short while we shall join them. In your blood and bone is written an unbroken chain, stretching back to beginning of world, and nobody can claim it but you, not even closest, and no welath can buy it, and it is yours to use as you see fit, as long as you bring no harm upon it.

(Do you know how much is thousand years, child? If we go for averages, if we accept one belief as undeniable truth, and believe that each mother spit out a child at twenty, instead of waiting for time when she is stronger, more secure, more accomplished.

Thousand years. Ten centuries. Enough time for  kingdoms to rise and fall, formlanguage to evolve and shrivel, for wars to start and pass in oblivion, for legends to be born and lost, for gods to be brought and abandoned...

Thirty generations. Thirty mothers. They are never as far away as we think they should be.)

But blood is not everything. Your ancestors are owed respect, but they owe you care, and if one is not provided while other is demanded, the bond is null and void. You can walk away, with talents and health and powers you inherited, and if they ever repent, they should know your forgivness is privilege. Gifts are passed on, but choice is yours how you use them.

And there are other ancestors, other foremothers (you can be one too, without ever birthing a child, for kindness and warmth and effort is what crafts connection, not names, not bloodlines, not guilt and ‘’respect I am owed’’). Those who fed you and sang you lullabies, who braided your hair and attended your recitals, who taught you to write and were first to buy your book, who mentored you and then let you discover things on your own. They who are bound to you by skills gained, and love they warmed in your heart, and stories passed down to you and stories you shall  pass on and story you shall become.

And that is why we must remember them.

Why does king hold throne? Because of territories their ancestors conquered, negotiations and agreements they established, vassals they bound with oaths and debts, deeds that passed in songs.

Why do these great clans hoard such power? Because talent sought out  talent, because they hold name spirits and demons recognize as taht of  their voctorious opponents centuries ago, because they passed in myths and epics, because they leave out offerings and hoard spellbooks of their great-great-great-grandmothers, because each mother passes ritual and history to her child, forging new link in chain of memory, because they sought out their teachers and were initiated in and preserved so many ways and rites.

That is where power comes from. Our ancestors follows us everywhere, in colour of our eyes (same as mother’s), in dinner recipes ( that grandmother perfected), in lullabies we sing to out own children (that kind teacher who got you through so much wrote that one), in superstitions we follow without thinking   ( great-grandma from dad’s side said it could never hurt), in way we hiss at annoying rodents ( your best friend’s mother, who was always there for you, scared them worse than snake), in songs we listen to when we are sad ( the girl who saved you, who you wanted to be your sister, introduced you to them).  A family, a line, a tradition.

A recollection of past, a feeling of affection and longing, the offering and prayer and smile. Those tie ancestors to us even after death stole them from us. Even when we don’t see them, they stand behind us, with us, inside us, they lead us, and when we must depart they will take our hand so we could rejoin them until it is time to return, until ancestor becomes descendant. In memory and love is power forged, the generations, beloved, mothers countless standing behind us and lending us their power- whether we were born with it, or they taught us, whether we promised and bargained and received, or in time of need our self remebered what they could do and forced memory in reality, found potential and revealed and nurtured it in ability.

And that is not all.

No family, no line, no culture is straight, isolated line. We travel and curve and shift, and connect with so many lines. We love and meet and join altogether, and in each generation there are so many more, each year, each century, each generation brings so  much more strength to us.  And it spreads out, a seed that becomes a forest.

And there are those, who you don’t know, who you hold no affection but great admiration for. The gargantuans and heroes of pasts, the girls who rode out to protect their family, the women who learned letters at night, who discovered great things despite obstacles in their path, who inspired you, whose standards you want to meet, whose legacies and history you wish to honour. Even ones whose names and faces you don’t know, whose footsteps have almost washed away from this world-but, ah, they walked path you walk, and were cut on same thorns, and defeated same monsters, and in that moment, in that place, you and them are same.

You are not alone. You are not worthless. You are not incapable. Nobody is. You are you, and you have your past, and you have time to make amrk on this world as large or gentle as ylou want before you are to be snuffed out, and you are alive, and thousands live in you, and you honor foremothers of yours, however they were found or bound to you, and even if you aren’t aware of it, even if you think you don’t deserve it, their power shall flow through you, until it is time for you to join them, the ancestors, the-who-we-were, the Mighty Dead, The Great Host, who-we-are-to-be. To face you, it means...

To face the world.

(Oh, and what of girl who is nobody?

Oh, the nameless girl, the bargain child, the unwanted and unneeded, the darkest price that must be paid, the one that will never be taken in.

Oh, what of girl who has inherited nothing but contempt (and not one that can be used, that won’t be nurtured or held down), who nobody has taken in or shown the way, whose bargains and offers nobody will accept, in whom nothing sleeps that can be awakened for all potential is barred, whose prayers none will hear for her voice is too weak and ugly, who knows not whom to offer her gratitude, whoser service and form are judged useless and revolting, who was born severed and hollowed out?

Oh, what of this savage girl, who holds on slivers of memories that have been taken away, that have walked away, the girl who is given a lie of favor in exchange for deadly boons, whom no hearth will warm and no tomb shall cradle, the girl who has none to turn to, this savage girl who will never be beautiful, who will never know a peace but reprieve of hunt, who will never be loved, who will know no justice, for her existence is deemed proof of crime and crime itself, the girl whose cause nobody will believe or take, who will be laughed at and told she deserved it, the girl who cannot forge a bond, girl who is offered nothing but screams and obligations that can’t be twisted to her use, girl who is clear glass dreaming of becoming color, who can do nothing but bear pain, bear insults, bear curses until all fear of dark and death and end she purges from herself, girl who bites hand that would have fed her hearthy meal, for she sees another’s leftovers and collar that awaits, and will not bow, but become something worse than monster, for she is a hunger that had been tamed by none but her own hand, offering of herself she gave to herself, by her own hand for ehr own dreams?

Oh, what of a girl who turns away from hearth and roof, the girl who goes in silent and strange places where shadows don’t dare thread, girl whom none don’t even notice, whom they curse when she calls attention to herself, the girl who leaves community for wild and rises herself to stars, broken and forged, hungry and free, full of wonder, promising ,,I shall perceive you as you are?’’

[ruffsficstuffplace]

And The AWRD Goes To... (Part 13)

“Say, Mother, won’t you tell me that story again?” Diana asked as she stood on the side of her mother’s bed, her beloved teddy bear nestled in her arm.

Bernadette smiled. “That tale you love so dearly? ‘The Wise Woman Beatrix.’”

“The hero who started the Cavendish family!” Diana cried, her eyes growing wide and bright.

“That’s right.” Bernadette smiled. She looked to the tapestry on the wall, depicting Beatrix with a mythical unicorn, the two of them surrounded by flourishing trees and plants. “And one of the greatest figures of the War.”

She read the inscription on it. “Sybilladura Lelladybura. ‘When traditional and modern powers mingle, the gate to an unseen world will open.’”

“Traditional and modern powers…?” Diana asked, looking at the tapestry with her mother.

Bernadette started coughing, her body visibly wracked with pain.

“Mother!” Diana cried, fear in her eyes.

“Diana...” Bernadette said as she put her hand atop her daughter’s own. “I believe that you can be the one to open that gate… you can create a new future for the Cavendish name.”

Diana frowned. “Mother...” she mumbled.

Click.

The double doors of Nick’s office opened, Akko stepped out, looking much more confident and determined than when she went in earlier. “You’re up, Diana!” she said as she passed her by, shooting her a smile and a look with a meaning she couldn’t decipher quite just yet.

Diana decided to ignore her for now, and stepped into Nick’s office, her posture perfect, her movements graceful, and a noticeable chill emanating from her.

“Please, take a seat, Cavendish,” Nick said, gesturing to the couches near the snack bar. “Cocoa?”

“I’d prefer we do this at your desk, Professor Schnee,” Diana said as she took one of the seats in front of it. “The snack bar feels too… informal.”

“Suit yourself, Cavendish,” Nick said as he returned to his desk, closed the doors with the button, then  pressed a different button next to it.

Thoom.

Diana flinched as all of the mountains upon mountains of paperwork flew skyward via controlled explosion, so fast and instantaneous the sheets didn’t even have time to get out of alignment before a basket with a folding caught them, kept in alignment and from falling.

“You know, I always thought your special button for temporarily ridding yourself of paperwork was a joke...” Diana said as she slowly relaxed, brought her feet back to the floor.

“You thought wrong.” Nick said as he settled back in his chair, a custom-made giant that gave off the impression of a leather-upholstered throne with a rotating seat. “So, what’s bugging you, Cavendish?”

Diana sucked in a breath, and let it go slowly. “I’ll be frank: I believe I should have been the leader of my team, instead of Akko.”

“Oh? And why do you think that?”

“Because, Professor Schnee, I am quite certain that I am much more qualified than she in every possible way.

“I will admit, my personal experience with Akko has been extremely limited, and while she has certainly proved that she is a more than capable fighter by herself or coordinating with others—even ones she had only met that day as was the case with myself and Ruby—it is of my opinion that she’s not fit to lead.”

“And why’s that?”

Diana sighed. “You’ve read the report about our disastrous experience during initiation, yes?”

“Yes, yes I have. I’m assuming you’re referring to your little run-in with the gravediggers?”

“An encounter we could have probably avoided if she could have just contained her excitement upon seeing the Shiny Rod,” Diana spat. “The petra gigas would certainly have still been a concern if we had tried to retrieve it, but those subterranean pests and their grave lord would have not gotten tangled up in our business, and the aftermath would not have been nearly as disastrous as it was.”

Nick nodded. “I agree, that was really stupid of Akko, and the situation could have gone better if she had acted more professional. What do you think about how she got you out of your actual situation, with the petra gigas vs the grave lord?”

“You mean Akko’s plan to retrieve the Shiny Rod? Yes, I’ll admit her gamble worked, but still, it was a gamble, and a very stupid one at that.

“I’d accept a calculated risk, but that was a total shot in the dark; regardless of how well it worked, I’m certain we can attribute her success much more to the fact that the Shiny Rod decided to choose her as its new wielder and allow her to use its power, and even more that Weiss just happened to have a semblance and the mastery of it to help us survive the cave-in, let alone Sucy, Constanze, and the others just happening to be in the area, and having the equipment capable of performing that rescue!

“Our survival was all about the stars aligning in our favour!” Diana cried as she threw her hands up. “To somehow attribute all or most of that to any skill of Akko would be absolutely ridiculous, unless I wasn’t aware that her semblance is also extreme luck that happens to happen to occur when she needs it most.”

Nick nodded. “So your argument for Akko being an unfit leader, is that her big, potentially lethal mistake in those caverns was self-inflicted, avoidable misfortune, and how she got you out of that mess was divinely-granted, skill-independent fortune. Does that sound right?”

“Yes, exactly!” Diana said, smiling. “I understand that our very lives always have an element of luck involved—accidents are an inevitability, after all—but that was just relying far too much on it.

“Fortune favours the bold and the prepared, and Akko while fits the first, she doesn’t particularly strike me as the latter—quite the opposite, actually. To trust her with so much responsibility as the leader of our team, much more for the next four years, is just a step short of asking the gods to bless you with as much misfortune as they’re capable of!

“Conversely, I think I am a much better choice. You’ve read my transcripts, my performance, my recommendations from Atlas Combat School, yes? Wouldn’t you agree that I’m an exemplary student, and thus the better choice for leader?”

Nick nodded. “I have, Cavendish, and yes, I agree: you really are the picture of an ace student, someone any teacher would have been proud to have in their class then...”

Diana beamed.

“… But I respectfully disagree in your belief that you’d make the better leader now.”

Diana blinked, before she frowned. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Cavendish, for the purpose of full disclosure: Haven’s decision making process for team leaders is very holistic and thorough, looking past a student’s performance in combat school or the GCD, and into every other aspect of their lives.

“We talk to their families, we talk to their friends, we talk to the people who know them, probably even better than the student does themselves. We look into public records, we look into your public social media histories, we even have the right to look into your permanent records in non-martial schools, and your criminal record, should you have one.

“In short: we try and use every single legal means available to use to learn pretty much everything there is about you, as a person, not just as a student of combat school or someone taking the GCD.

“And frankly, Diana, just from the assessments of your old professors at Atlas alone, you don’t feel fit for leader material in my eyes.”

Diana scowled. “Would full-disclosure happen to include my getting to read what they wrote about me?”

“Generally, no, but it seems your professors knew you well enough to waive their right to confidentiality, in case you wanted to investigate. Would you like me to read you some?”

“Please.”

Nick held out his cybernetic wrist, a two-sided projection appeared before them.

It is with a heavy heart that I write this recommendation letter, for though the inevitability of it has always been on my mind, to whom I would be addressing it to, what institution my beloved student Diana Cavendish wished me to aid her enrolling in, has caught me completely off-guard.

Ask any of her classmates or my colleagues, and you will know that I have made no secret of my preference, my admiration, and indeed, my awe for Cavendish: truly, she is one of the most exceptional, talented, and hard-working students I have ever had the pleasure of teaching, whose input, works, and mere presence I looked forward to every lesson, and whose absence was sorely and easily felt by everyone, even a random student passing by and peeking in through the window.

There is no doubt in my mind that she is destined for greatness, one of the rare individuals in each generation that have the power to completely and utterly change the world as we know it, someone who is already making waves and an enduring legacy name for herself as we speak.

But whereas I have always imagined her as joining the hallowed ranks of Atlas Academy, and making her meteoric rise to the very top of its ranks in no time at all, it seems that her heart is destined for Haven, the alma mater of her mother, and indeed, all of her ancestors save Beatrix, if only because it did not yet exist.

You have my word that Cavendish will be a blessing to your institution, like one of the divine gifts of legend the gods rained down from the heavens, or summoned from the very bottom of the sea. But like those, I leave you with a warning:

When Cavendish has set her sights on something, it would be foolish to attempt to stand in her way, and you would do best to either support her, or simply get out of the way.

Signed,

J. J. Lukov, PhD

P.S. If, for whatever reason, you have not done yourself the favour of reading through her accomplishments, I’ve attached records of what I believe to be Cavendish’s most impressive and inspiring feats.

Nick skipped the hefty attachment, and went through a handful of other recommendation letters.

… I honestly believe she would be much better suited for the rigid and structured life of the Atlesian Military, and fear what is to come to her if she continued on with her plans of joining the highly individualistic, diverse, and rather informal culture of Haven academy.

A third letter.

Cavendish is something of a legend in her classmate’s eyes: the one you partner up with if you wish to pass a class from the very brink of failure, get a guaranteed 100%, at the cost of experiencing the other extreme of ‘leaders from hell,’ the one who demands and will ensure she gets nothing but the best from all of you, at all times.

She’s become so infamous, they’ve even coined a term for it: ‘selling your soul to the Blue Devil.’And indeed, it seems that as soon as the contract is honoured, both parties cease all interactions till the next time the need arises, just like any sort of purely professional business arrangement.

Even her closest friends Hannah England and Barbara Parker seem more like personal assistants or loyal sycophants than companions.

“I could go on all night, but Belladonna’s still waiting outside,” Nick said as he shut off his wrist-projector. “I’m pretty sure you get my justification for not choosing you as the leader, unless I thought wrong?”

Diana sighed, sitting lower in her seat than earlier, her posture less proud and straight. “Yes, yes I have, Professor Schnee… thank you for taking the time to listen to my appeal, and for explaining your reasoning.”

“Any time, and you’re welcome, Cavendish.” Nick said. “Anything else?”

“If you can please disclose it: why Akko…?” Diana asked. “I mean, I get that the optics of you choosing your own granddaughter to lead would have been questionable, to say the least, but in time people will surely see that it was far from a case of nepotism, and simply coincidence that the most qualified candidate was also related to you.”

“Because, Cavendish, Weiss isn’t as fit for the position as you think she is, and even with having seen Akko at her best and many more times at her worst, she is still the best pick to lead you all,” Nick replied. “Again, I could go on and on all night about the details I can disclose, but again, Belladonna.”

Diana nodded. “I understand, Professor Schnee. Excuse me, I will take my leave now,” she said as she began to stand up.

“Actually, before you do, could you do me a huge favour?”

Diana sat back down in her seat. “Depends on what it is, sir.”

Nick opened his drawer, pulled out an old, worn, inelegant looking device, about the size of a fist.

“What is that?” Diana asked.

“First prototype for the portable power core that runs the ventilator they replaced my lungs with,” Nick said as he placed it on his desk.

“After I complained about never being able to actually do much of anything because the old cores drained so fast, your mother made it herself and personally socked it into my chest for its first field test. She always said she wanted me to give it back when I was done with it, but I never did—between studying it to make improvements, and all the other shit that happened shortly after I made the Mk. II, it just always took a backseat, until, well...

“… Look: I know your estate preferred to have it as a private, family-only affair, but I always regret that I never could pay my respects to your mother in-person, before they put her to rest in your family crypt.

“So the next time you’re paying her a visit, could you put it somewhere near her?”

Diana looked at the device with an unreadable expression.

“I’ll definitely understand if you don’t want to,” Nick said. “You’ve got school, it’ll take up space, and unfortunately this thing was a big reason she went when she did...”

Diana took the device from him, gently held it to her chest. “I’m sure my mother would love to have proof that even in death, she continues to do her passion: saving lives,” she said, smiling.

“Heh...” Nick said, the corner of his lips tugging up slightly. “That she would…” He stood up. “Come on, I’ll see you to the door...”

Diana went down the hallways, looking deep in thought as she cradled the prototype power core in her hands, Nick leaned out his door and looked at Blake. “Belladonna, your turn. Sorry for the wait, there was a lot to discuss.”

“It’s fine, sir,” Blake said as she closed her books, and got up from her seat. “And I think you’ll be happy to know I wasn’t planning on taking long.”

“Oh? And why’s that?” Nick asked as she stepped up.

Blake looked up at him, sheepishly grabbed her arm, before she smiled at him and said, “I just want to thank you, sir, for the opportunity you’ve given me. I promise, I won’t let you down.”

Nick chuckled. “In my experience, being chosen to be a leader isn’t something you should be thanking someone for, but you’re welcome.”

“And I think differently, sir,” Blake replied. “Excuse, I’ll be taking my leave now.”

Nick nodded. “You do that. Oh, and Belladonna? Before you go: you read any interesting books lately?”

“Not really sir, no,” Blake replied. “There was a historical fiction about Mantle that looked like it was going to be interesting at the start, but it fizzled out pretty quickly.”

“Shame, that. Till next time, then,” Nick said as he stepped back into his office, closed the door behind him. He got his mug from earlier and refilled it with more hot cocoa, before he returned to his desk, opened one of his drawers, and pulled out a framed, printed picture:

Him, shirtless and in a wheelchair, all the robotic parts of him on full display, smiling as a brand new, portable power core glowed and hummed in his chest, Bernadette beside him looking frazzled, sleepless, but proud and happy.

Nick started tearing up. “You know, Bernie… between the two of us, I always thought Dust Lung would get me first… funny how things actually worked out, right…?

He spent a few minutes crying, sipping his cocoa in between sobs. And then, when his eyes were finally dry, he wiped his eyes, and pressed the second button underneath his desk.

Click. Thoomph.

The mountains of paperwork from earlier were back on his desk once more, a layer of gravity dust keeping them from flying out of their stacks. Nick picked up his pen, found where he had left off earlier, and got back to work.

“Cry all the tears you have, and mourn for as long as you need to, and, bury your dead, and honour all we have lost, and hold close those you still have left...” his father, Herakleides “Herk” Schnee, had said. “… But when your eyes are dry, and you can grieve and wail no more, and the dirt has been patted flat with the grave marker placed, and you have said all you could say, and even your closest loved ones pull away from your grasp…

“… You better be damn sure you’re ready to get back to work, for the work of the living never truly ends.”

[sen-solaan]

The Intelligence of Ignorance

“Sokhana,” she groaned, rubbing a finger along the snout between her eyes. The female senaalian turned, at the same time twitching her antennae in such a way as to express disproval. “That is literally the dumbest idea I have ever heard.”

Solaan twitched perkily alongside his sister. The two of them stood alone in the small room together, with the windows shut and barred, and the door itself barricaded by a chair, such that no one on Senaalisa would be able to walk into their conversation and overhear the information.

Ledaka watched her brother closely as he maintained an utterly logic-defying chipper disposition. The words that tumbled out of his mouth were almost incoherent, but the excited and energetic tone was inescapable.

“Oh, that’s the entire point! I mean, the entire point is to be dumb. But it’s not dumb. It’s not dumb at all. Grandiose. Plan is grandiose. It’s completely smart. The entire point is I’m doing something that is very smart but it’s something you think is dumb so that’s the entire point. And don’t forget, the name’s Solaan, it’s Solaan, you know that, I’ve told you, don’t let our ancestors get angered at us. We’re still siblings, of course we are, but you know the soul of Solaan is in me now, so you better be calling me Solaan instead of Sokhana, right?”

“Right. Solaan. Sorry.” 

Ledaka huffed and stepped away, turning away from her biological brother and staring at an empty wall. She frowned for a moment, took a second to lick one of her eyeballs, and then turned around. Her glare at Solaan was impeccably stern.

“My point still stands, though. You’re seriously just going to run off on fool’s errands and ditch the entire senaalian race?”

“No! No. No no no no no no no! Not at all! Not at all! Preposterous idea, completely against what I am hoping to accomplish. I might be leaving the planet, but my future heroicism across the stars will return to your people and brand you with a new form of awe, excitement, and happiness! The senaalians will all look up to me with glee because I am a hero, and -”

Ledaka cut her brother off, entirely unamused.

“Quit the shit with me, Sokha- Solaan. Quit it. You’re talking to me, the one person alive who knows your stupid charade. Drop it.”

Conflicted features ran across Solaan’s face: hurt, concern, and above it all, a defiant glibness.

“Oh come on sis! I’m not close with like all of my siblings except you and stuff, I mean you’re the only one I’m close to from my siblings, so that means you should totally know that this is entirely me!”

“Sort of you,” she amended. She sighed. Pacing around her brother, she began peeling away his layers, bit by bit, in an utterly scathing tone of voice. 

“Being happy, cheerful, I know it’s the way you ‘deal’ with all the dry spells and tormenting heat in your life. If you pretend to be naive long enough, maybe that’ll mean emotionally on the inside you’ll be experiencing the bliss of ignorance. If you act happy all the time, then that means you never have to deal with the issues eating the inside of your soul. By being so cheerful, you guarantee that you can keep on pushing away the things that you never want to be serious enough to confront.”

A happy voice confronted her. “Ledaka, what do you -”

“QUIET!” she hissed. She waved a hand angrily in his direction. Then she continued. 

“You actually seem to believe you’re that happy. And I think you are happy and as perky as you act. That’s how much you’re steeped in your own lies. Your own intentional lies. If people lie to themselves long enough, they do start to believe and live it. That’s what you’ve intentionally done to yourself - cocoon yourself away from all your problems, all your stresses, all your grievances, all your pain. You actually do believe you have no problems and stresses and grievances and pain because you don’t ever take the time to self-reflect.”

“I know who I am, Ledaka!” Solaan managed to insert that comment into the center of her tirade. His voice was shaking a little bit, but he still managed to sound fairly juvenile and innocent. “I know who I am, I definitely do, and I know who I’m going to become! I’m going to be a -”

“A roving space hero, I know,” she said dryly. “Look, brother,” she said, leaning toward him. Their eyes were almost touching, she leaned in so close. “You need to reflect internally. All you do is run away. Run away emotionally. And now, you’re going to be running away physically. Run away, run away, run away! For all you can be analytical and level-headed with your precious scientific data, you are absolutely incapable of seeing what’s inside your own soul! Absolutely obtuse. Shallow! You’re never going to confront your issues, and so you’re never going to grow.”

“I’ll have a new life!” Solaan protested. “I’ll be going out into space, doing something new and exciting! I’ll save people! I’ll be growing TONS! I’ll grow more than anyone’s ever grown in all of senaalian history and maybe histories of other peoples as well!”

“You’re going to be a buffoon.”

For once, silence descended in Ledaka’s household.

Solaan’s eyes stared down at the floor. His feet shuffled. His antennae twitched. And then he said, slowly, quietly, with none of the chipper eagerness of before:

“Yes.”

His sister recognized the change in vocal tone immediately. She sighed, but this time, not in exasperation. It was relief.

“There you are,” she said. “There’s my brother. Not the twitchy idiot who acts like a child - a child who never could have been a commendable researcher for the senaalian government. Here’s the real deal: the cogent adult who rationally led a team across Senaalisa’s greatest scientific frontiers.”

He stared her in the eye. His gaze was piercing, keen, almost as intense as hers was. But the edge was lost somewhat from the sadness that leaked behind.

“I don’t need to be that person,” he said.

“So you’re going to be a blathering dimwit for the rest of your days?”

“I refuse to be that person,” he enunciated, still continuing on his train of thought, and completely ignoring his sibling’s latest interjection. “I hate that person. You were the only one who liked the level-headed me anyway. Only came out when it had to. Just enough to place me in control for scientific endeavors and to be respected by my peers.”

“The level-headed you is what made you an extraordinary asset to Senaalisa’s scientific community.”

“The level-headed not-me is what killed...”

He stopped his sentence. Never finished.

“You know I can’t stay here,” he said, backing up. He was moving toward the barricaded door and pushing away the chair that was blocking his exit. “I cannot live with the press, the interviews, the questions, the concerns of why I was the only survivor on the mission. I cannot live continuing a life that destroyed what I cared about the most. I cannot live in any way here on the planet so long as people know who I am and what I’ve done. There’s no way to escape it on Senaalisa. The best way to get over this is to disappear by completely changing my image and heading off to the far reaches of the galaxy. No one will find me out there, not any of you.

“And you know...” he gave a wry smirk “...I was always bored with offices and paperwork.”

Solaan gestured widely, almost grandly. “Think about it this way, Tsela Ledaka. It’s a new challenge for me. A new field of exploration. A way for me to keep exploring where I’ve always wanted to go.”

“It’s self-denial and avoiding your shit,” she said flatly. But then, with a shrug-like twitch of her antennae, she continued, “but I realize I’m not going to change your mind. You can’t self-reflect. You can’t, even when you try. Not in your charaded personality, and not in your real personality, either. Nothing I say will make you think through your issues. Nothing I say will keep you from running away forever and pretending you never were who you actually are. So I guess all I can do...” and her face finally softened “...is wish you the best.”

“I’ll miss you,” he said.

She turned away, but there was distress on her face. It was clear Ledaka did not want Solaan to see her this upset. 

“I’ll miss you, too,” she said.

When she turned around, he was gone.