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skulduggery-pleasant-bp9 · 10 months ago

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Playing with a Coroner and a Detective is not wise - Skulduggery x Male!Reader Universe

WARNING!: Working on corpses, a bit graphic, cutting open of bodies, organ removal, what Coroner’s usually do, cursing AND MORE ! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED !!!

Part 11 - Inspections

Kenspeckle got out two Scalpels and gave one to M/n. He took it and carefully cut into one of the eyes. Black liquid started to leak out almost as soon as the eye was opened. M/n cringed. The only thing he hates was testing, inspecting and cutting open eyeballs...

“These...these are Necromancy remains.”, Kenspeckle informed.

“Looks like black ink to me...”, M/n muttered.

“Necromancy is black.”, Skulduggery answered.

“Is that how they died ?”, Ghastly asked.

Kenspeckle shook his head.

“No. This just means that Necromancy killed them. If Necromancy killed a person, it stays in the body and after a certain time, the eyes turn black and this will happen when you cut the eye open.”, the Doctor answered.

“So we need to find the place, the Necromancy hit most in the bodies. In other words...we have to cut them open and get all the organs out for further inspections...”, M/n stated dryly.

“Yes.”, Kenspeckle confirmed.

“Yay. Okay then. Sister, turn your ass around. No more show for you.”, M/n told Stephanie.

“Noted.”, she replied and turned around.

With that Kenspeckle and M/n got ready to open up the bodies.

“Before you cut the body open, Corrupted.”, Kenspeckle called M/n’s attention on him.

“Yes, Professor Grouse ?”, M/n replied, with an interested voice.

“Be careful. There could be a possibility that Necromancy will leak out of the body. Cut it open carefully and slowly.”

“Noted, Sir.”

“Good. Then let’s not waste any more time.”

With that they both started at the same time, to open the bodies. Kenspeckle was right. Black started to leak out of the cut in the torso. M/n was a bit shocked, but he’s seen worse.

-Time skip-

They had almost all the organs out at this point. M/n could tell it had been a bit over two hours. He took out the organs and Kenspeckle inspected them. Almost all of the organs were filled with black. The Necromancy spread, but they HAD the find the place it hit in and had the most Necromancy inside. Kenspeckle could do that better than M/n, so he did that and M/n gave him the organs.

“We know the organs that were hit first now, Skulduggery.”, Kenspeckle informed, after the last organ from the second body was examined.

“Oh ? The hearts ?”, the Skeleton asked.

Kenspeckle shook his head.

“No. Ghastly do you have pen and paper ready to note it down ?”

“I have, Professor.”

M/n leaned back and had his left thigh resting on his desk, looking at the three Mages. Kenspeckle told him already and he was slightly disgusted, that someone would do something like that.

“Number eight was drowned from Necromancy. You heard me right. The Necromancy hit his lungs and it filled them up, making the victim drown from it alone. He must have been the one to claw at number seven’s leg. Eight must have been in a war with himself as he was drowning in Necromancy. He could have been forced to hurt his partner, as the Necromancy took over his dying body and mind, hence the burn mark.”, Kenspeckle explained the first case.

“So he threw himself around ?”, Ghastly asked.

“No. Number eight was thrown around. It could be that victim seven fought back, or it happened before the Necromancy was forced into his body, by the killer. Number seven had the most Necromancy in his brain though. Or at least...what remained of it.”, M/n stated.

“What...remained of it ?”, Stephanie asked her Brother, back still to them.

“The Necromancy took care to make the brain explode inside the victim’s skull. There were only small remains, the rest must have bled out of his mouth and nose, which must have been cleaned off by one of the oafs that picked the bodies up and brought them here. The small pieces, that, I found and got out, showed us that it had the most Necromancy, which means, that it was the spot, which got infected first. I am unsure if we should inspect the bones too, just to make absolutely sure.”, M/n shortly explained.

Ghastly wrote it all on the paper, his breath very heavy.

“Fucking hell...”, the tailor muttered out in shock.

“Language ! Not in front of my little Sister.”, M/n scolded.

“You curse all the time.”, Stephanie deadpanned.

“I am a special case, Sister. Now shush.”

“Fine...”

“We should inspect the bones.”, Kenspeckle told M/n.

“Well then, let me get the machine ready. I need to see if the idiots emptied it and then I need to fill in the chemicals, which will melt away everything and give us the bones. Oh !”

M/n turned back around and gave Skulduggery a camera.

“Make pictures. You know, for evidence. We have pics of the corpses, the location they were found in, as in the state, and their nude forms too, so the bruises were already taken into account. This is the examination process and then comes the bone examination evidence in pictures. My Sis can’t take the pictures, Ghastly has to note down, Kenspeckle has to prepare and I have a machine to take care of, so YOU take the pictures. I hope you know how to operate a photo Camera.”, M/n said and then left again.

Skulduggery gave M/n’s back a bemused face.

“How stupid and old does he take me for ? Of course I know how to take pictures and how to operate a photo Camera...”, Skulduggery muttered.

“You are a few centuries old, Skulduggery and usually old people don’t like technology.”, Kenspeckle fires at the Skeleton Detective.

Skulduggery looked at the Professor, then muttered something and started to take pictures from different angles, even from the examined organs.

After a while, M/n came back and told Kenspeckle to bring the first body. After 30 minutes they came back with just the bones remaining of the first body, then they did the second one and another 30 minutes later they came back with these two.

“There are specks of Necromancy engraved into the bones.”, Kenspeckle said.

“Yes, which means the Necromancy was used violently, quick and not carefully. It was hectic.”, M/n confirmed.

“So the bones are infected too.”, Skulduggery stated softly.

“Yes, they are, but they were only infected slightly. The fight was hectic, which means it wasn’t precise. After the Necromancy spread over the whole body, the bones got small remaining specks of it too. Imagine it like a knife was used. Someone stabbed quickly and in a rush, sometimes you put a lot more strength into your blows, than you planned, and then you hit bone. The Necromancy specks, on the bones, are like scratches of a knife. They are messy and not at all the cause of death, just a symbol of more damage.”, M/n explained shortly.

He looked at his Sister and sighed.

“If you can look at human skeletons, you can look, Sister.”

Stephanie turned around and looked at the bones. She saw them white and black. The specks of Necromancy were the black spots then. Ghastly noted it all down and Skulduggery took pictures.

Kenspeckle continued to look at the bones, while M/n stood back and drank a few gulps of water. He didn’t drink anything until now, so it was needed.

“How long have we been here ?”, Stephanie asked.

“At least 3 hours. Could be four too.”, M/n answered his Sister.

She stared at her Brother.

“That long already ?!”

“What are you talking about ? This is the fastest I’ve ever been. I am usually forced to work all alone and do everything at once, because my coworkers don’t do shit. I am usually sitting on ONE corpse for at least SIX hours. And don’t you even dare to calculate the time for the report making in there, that takes another two hours. This is fast, because everyone is actually helping me here, for once !”, M/n informed his Sister, with a slight edge to his voice.

She stared at him in horror with her mouth tightly shut. Kenspeckle looked at M/n in confusion and worry.

“Why don’t you tell your Boss about it ?”, Kenspeckle asked.

“Because he won’t listen.”, M/n sighed out and messaged the bridge of his nose.

“You tried ?”

“Multiple times. This is one reason why the older Coroner left in the end with the few people that did at least SOMETHING to help. He asked me, if I wanted to come along, but I didn’t want to be a bother, so I decided that I will take over everything. I am still in contact with the other Coroner, but...well...I barely talk to him. He is a nice man though.”

“Huh, what a shame...”, Kenspeckle said in disappointment.

M/n shrugged his shoulders at that.

“Humans can be blind and oblivious sometimes. Don’t sweat it, Professor.”

“Kenspeckle is just fine, kid.”

“Okay, first name stage it is then.”

“You are way too formal, Corrupted.”, Ghastly chuckled out.

“I got raised like that. It is supposed to show manners. Sorry.”, M/n replied.

“You can call everyone by the first name. We Mages don’t have a big problem with that.”, Skulduggery informed M/n.

“Okay, noted for next time.”, the Teen replied.

“Good.”

“So are we done ?”, Stephanie asked.

“We are. There is nothing else to find.”, Kenspeckle replied.

Just then M/n spotted something on the skull.

“Kenspeckle ? There is a tear in the skull of victim seven. A small crack, but it is still there, that can’t be from the brain explosion, right ?”, the Teen asked.

The Professor came over and his eyes widened.

“Huh...no it is not from that, indeed. I will take a closer look. It seems like...there was something there. Something small...”

Kenspeckle took the skull and left to inspect it further. M/n turned to Ghastly.

“Ghastly ? Give me the notes you made on number eight. I better write the finishing report about it now. It will be more in order and you will have very little to explain.”, the Teen told the tailor.

Ghastly got out the notes from victim eight, gave it M/n and watched as the boy left and sat down on a small computer. He turned the PC on and soon enough you heard mouse clicking and the keyboard being used.

M/n was very focused and even had his glasses back on his face.

“Why and since when do you need glasses, Bubba ?”, Stephanie asked.

“I only need them for near sight. I am far sighted and when things are near or close to my face, it gets blurry and I can’t read anything. No worries, Sister. I don’t need them all the time.”

“Okay...”

With that M/n continued to type and click away, every now and then he looked at Ghastly’s notes and then continued to type.

Kenspeckle came back 15 minutes later and he seemed concerned. Skulduggery had a face of concern too then.

“What is it, Kenspeckle ?”

“Well, something was hidden in his skull. I suspect a small micro chip. I have no idea what it might have been used for, but it seems it got taken. The Killer must of have taken it.”

“A micro chip ?”, M/n asked in worry.

“Yes, why ?”

“I know ONE small Micro chip kind like that. It can have important information on them, but in that case I think it was used for something else. It can be used as a tracker and spying device. If I am correct, that means the Killer could have known all along about them spying on him/her. But for that, either the Killer themselves must of inserted the chip, or someone must have convinced the victim to take it, as safety precaution and then told the Killer, knowingly. In other words, if my tracking and spying theory is correct...”

“The traitor must be in the Sanctuary.”, Kenspeckle concluded.

M/n nodded.

“We all assume that Serpine killed them, after all he was their last mission to spy on and they went missing in the middle of the operation and ended up here on my table. No one would have let Serpine fumble on them, so I suppose it was one from the Sanctuary. Not many knew about the spies on Nefarian’s ass, so I assume it was only a handful. The handful being: Mr. Bliss, Eachan Meritorius, Morwenna Crow, Sagacious Tome, the Administrator and the Doctor, who did the transplant.”, M/n concluded.

Everyone was staring at him.

“I know, you hate to think it was one of them, but they are the only ones, so far, that definitely knew about them spying on Serpine.”

“Why would the Elders want to help Serpine ? They made him stop in the first place, mostly Meritorius.”, Skulduggery defended.

“And Mr. Bliss helped us.”, Stephanie defended.

“Mr. Bliss knew they went missing and were set on Serpine. He also knew that the Sceptre was real and found. He has motives and he was sus to me, the moment he approached us. He knew a lot and yet didn’t try to get the Elders to wake up. Maybe Meritorius isn’t involved in this at all, but he was very convinced that nothing was wrong. I’ve seen his fear of the possibility of the truce being broken, so I do admit that I also doubt him to be the traitor. Miss Crow was a bit shady, but that was because of the show she put on, nothing else. What discipline does she have ?”

“Necromancy. When she appeared, she shadow walked. It is a type of teleportation, but they can’t do that for a long distance.”, Skulduggery informed.

“Then I doubt it was her either. The traitor and Serpine would have to meet a long distance away from public areas and avoid the spies of catching onto their betrayal. If you see shadows emerge from nowhere you already know it could be Crow, so she is out of the question. The Administrator ?”

“He is barely outside of the Sanctuary. Mostly stays in there and practically lives there, for safety reasons.”, Ghastly answered.

“Okay. Then tell me...what is Tome’s ability ?”

“He is a Teleporter.”

“Any restrictions in that Sorcery ?”

“He can only teleport to places, he has been at before.”, Skulduggery answered.

“Nothing else ? No limit of the distance ? No give away when he appears ? He just comes and goes, like a ghost ?”, M/n pressed.

The Mages were dead silent, Stephanie stared at M/n and was concerned. M/n hummed and pointed gun fingers at the three silent Mages.

“Got cha a possible perpetrator, right there. He can teleport, appear out of nowhere and disappear just as quickly. He has connections to higher places. He gets informed about everything from Crow and Meritorius and he seemed to be a very quiet man too. Easy to forget about, easy to not suspect of treason.”

“And his Motive ?”, Skulduggery asked.

“Maybe Serpine brainwashed him. Maybe he always worked for him. When you talked about Serpine, it sounded like he is capable of anything and everything, if he has to. Who knows, maybe he threatened Tome or something.”

“That is just a speculation.”, Ghastly said softly.

M/n whistled softly and looked at the tailor.

“Look, we can easily find that out. We will leave that Detail out for now, note it down, but I will NOT add it in. You get this stuff to Meritorius tomorrow, Skulduggery, while I will inspect my Uncle later too, if the Corpse is still there, considering that there is a high danger that Serpine destroyed it, to kill evidence. You tell the three of them what YOU have found Skulduggery, no word about me, until Gordon’s case. You make them believe that YOU drew the connections. I will put some small spies on your suit and they will go to the people I want them to spy on. If Tome meets up with Serpine, we will know.”, M/n suggested.

“Small spies ?”, Kenspeckle asked.

M/n smiled and opened his hand, there was a small robot in his hand, and it was active too.

“May I introduce to you, the ultimate little spy. They can be so small, that you can barely see them, they can cling onto you anywhere, even when you are naked. You can’t feel them moving on you. They can record everything with very great volume and video quality and they can instantly notify you when something is happening. Easy to command and easy to program. You slap a picture or a name into their system and they chase the person down. Pictures are easier, but names do it too. There is mostly only ONE person, with the names you people take, so it will be a walk in the park for them.”

They all eyed the small robot and watched as it got smaller and moved around. Then M/n’s phone dinged and as he opened it, there was a notification from his bot that he was live and ready. M/n showed it to them and then another message came, which said ‘Conversation happening’.

M/n opened the message and they saw themselves from the bot’s cameras, faces clear and sharp on the screen of the phone.

“Okay...”, Ghastly said.

The phone played the voice after him too, almost no delay in sending it through too. The audio was spot on and sharp. They all were in awe. M/n smirked.

“They are our key to winning. So what do you say, Skulduggery ? Are you in ?”, M/n asked.

He looked at M/n with a smirk. This will be fun~

“I’m in.”, he replied.

Masterlist HERE !

#read warnings above #Playing with a Coroner and a Detective is not wise - Skulduggery x Male!Reader Universe #Part 11 - Inspections #skulduggery pleasant #male!reader #not the canon au #skulduggery pleasant x reader universe #ghastly bespoke #stephanie edgley #my au #derek landy #Kenspeckle Grouse

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aquilacalvitium · 10 months ago

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Rating my favourite fictional characters on how much I'd trust them to do my top surgery

Wander 🎩🪕(Wander Over Yonder) - Bugs Bunny level antics that waste about eleven minutes of everyone's lives and leave every single person convinced he couldn't do it. It would be the cleanest and easiest top surgery on record and I would walk away unscathed.

Commander Peepers 👁💥(Wander Over Yonder) - He'd take it deadly seriously and spend the whole thing nervously sweating. He would get it done but it wouldn't be flawless. Gods help me if Hater walks into the room during the surgery.

Jack Skellington 💀🎃(Nightmare Before Christmas) - A scientific and analytical mind bodes well for surgery. However. He is a skeleton and I'm fairly certain he doesn't understand how human bodies work or that we can't dismantle ourselves like some monsters. 0/10. Love him to bits. Wouldn't trust him as far as I can throw one of his rib bones.

Fantoccio 🧵🎭(Billie Bust Up) - I mean... I think? He'd take it seriously enough but I'm not sure he'd know what he was doing.

Barnaby 🦉☠️(Billie Bust Up) - Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me. ☠️☠️☠️

Alastor 🦌🔪(Hazbin Hotel) - Must I repeat the above. ☠️☠️☠️

Ingo/Emmet 🔼🔽🚂(Pokemon) - Yeah actually I think they'd do well. They'd take it seriously, do it flawlessly and I'd walk away with a chest flatter than Emmet's hopes and dreams after Ingo got Isekai'd

Sun/Moon ☀️🌙(FNAF) - Ha. HA. HAHAHA. I can't trust them with children's safety scissors.

The Innocent 🪁🐕(Koozå) - Sir/Ma'am/Other title. That is a child.

The Trickster 🪄🎁(Koozå) - Wouldn't even need to go under. I have seen this man summon people out of nothing, my chest would be flat before I could blink. He'd make a performance out of it though and probably make me feel not entirely safe because he is peak moral ambiguity.

The Doctor ⏳️🌌(Doctor Who) - One would take it seriously but I wouldn't trust his unsteady hands. Two would probably have an anxiety attack so that's a nope. Three, Four and Five I trust to get it done safely and seriously. Honestly Six is... well he's certainly the most eccentric regeneration so probably not. Seven I'm not sure would do it properly even though he could take it seriously. Then again he could surprise me, he's more compitent than he appears. Eight and Nine? Ah shit I dunno honestly. Ten's a yes, Eleven is a huge nope, Twelve is a very safe yes and Thirteen is also a safe yes. Fourteen is just Ten repeated so also a yes. I don't know Fifteen well enough to say yet.

James "Jamie" McCrimmon 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🗡(Doctor Who) - He's got the steady hands and seriousness needed, yes. Unfortunately he is from the 18th century and about sixty years before anaesthesia was invented.

Sebastian 🖥🕸(Stardew Valley) - Yeah, actually. I think he'd take it seriously and have steady enough hands for it. I'm in safe company there 👍

Nico the Accordion Man 🪗⚙️(Kurios) - ??? I have no idea??? He's a handyman which bodes well and whatever he was doing with his fingers during Hypnotique tells me he's got the hands for it, but also Have You Seen the Way This Man Moves?

Chief Clown 🤡🎪(Classic Doctor Who) - (Oh yeah I'm getting hella obscure for some of these characters.) I'm pretty sure this man is a homicidal maniac. I have seen the face he makes when he kills someone. I wouldn't trust this lunatic within one mile of me while I am fully conscious and he is unarmed. Especially considering he has been unarmed every time I have seen him kill.

Sweet Cap'n Cakes 🎶🥯(Deltarune) - I love these three adorable sweethearts with my whole chest. And if I let them near my chest with anything sharp I'm afraid I won't have anything left to love them with.

Rouxls Kaard ♥️♦️♠️♣️(Deltarune) - This man. This indigo beanpole. This walking homosexual disaster. Can't make a puzzle more complex than "put box on button." Respectfully and deeply affectionately... ✨️no✨️

Wally Darling 👁🍎(Welcome Home) -

Hatbox Ghost 🎩🦯(Haunted Mansion) - NO. To both film and ride versions for different reasons.

Ghost Host 🪓➰️(Haunted Mansion) - 2023 film Hosty? Never. Put that axe down, sir. Ride Hosty? Well... He's a goober who's not half as dangerous as he appears. But I still wouldn't trust him to know what he's doing or particularly care too much if he accidentally killed me.

The Phantom 💀🎩(Phantom Manor) - Quite honestly I couldn't say. This man was adept at murder but only when given a reason, like his victims wanting to marry his daughter. I can thankfully say that I am queer enough for that to not apply to me. Doesn't make me trust him though.

The Prophet 🖤🎤(Legion of the Black) - Uh. Yeah, I think so. Yeah I think I'd be in okay hands, it wouldn't be flawless but it'd get done well enough.

Captain Rex 🪖🚀(Star Wars: The Clone Wars) - While I'd like to say battlefield first aid would give him some experience - which is true - surgeries are left up to droids. But even so I would say I'd be in safe hands. I trust him to get the job done well.

Ahsoka Tano 🗡🔶️(Star Wars: The Clone Wars) - Oh yeah. OH yeah. Safer than a Jedi holocron in the Jedi Temple library vault (before Cad Bane showed up, anyway).

Natemare 👁🎸(Natewantstobattle) - Ah yes because that is a level of mental instability that I trust to safely and confidently give me surgery. /s

Phantom 📜✒�� (Natewantstobattle) - If you know Phantom you're probably expecting a no, but he holds up his ends of any deal he makes! I absolutely trust him to give me the easiest, cleanest surgery ever. What I don't trust him to do is let me enjoy it for long because whoopsy-doopsy I'm now trapped inside his cane forever.

Lukas 🐈📖(Minecraft Story Mode) - Oh honey no, you stick to your books. He can kick ass and write a good story but he could never perform a surgery.

Helsknight ⚔️🔥(Hermitcraft) - The only things this man knows are Quote Meme, Rap and Be Pathetic. He made a pitfall trap for Welsknight because he forgot that literally every single Hermit has elytra and can fly, and then boasted about it, only to get deeply humbled. He has a total brain cell count of -1. I think you know my opinion.

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giantologist · 2 years ago

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Relics and Remains

The find of a lifetime!

"Professor Finch? You in there?"

With a snort, Finch jolted from his desk, a sheet of paper stuck to his cheek. He pulled it off with a yawn, setting it down and looking at the clock. Seven in the morning. He'd stayed at his desk all night again, only catching half an hour's sleep. Stretching his back, he grumbled as he walked to the balcony that he'd had installed for precisely this purpose.

He recognised the giant kneeling before him, her face above him dirty and slightly sweaty. "Good morning, Skadi." Finch smiled tiredly at her. She'd shaved her head since he last saw her, but he recognised her tattoos and frankly incredible muscle structure. If he were the kind to be attracted to women, he was certain that she'd catch his eye.

"You are not gonna believe this." Skadi said with a squeak that made Finch feel a mix of anticipation and suspicion.

"Right, so, yeah, after you gave those dwarves a recommendation to hire me as a miner, we've been really seeing progress, I've been expanding their tunnels bigger than they ever dreamed. I'm so great at it too, not to blow my own whistle, but the other day--"

Finch held up a finger. "I've just woken up, I need some coffee, but do continue." He left the doors open as he walked downstairs, hearing Skadi's voice just as easily as before as it thrummed through the walls.

"We were excavating deeper, under Scarfang Pass, and Tarlan told me he'd found a cavern down the way. Naturally, I wanted to take a look, and I spent all day digging a path, found some good ore for the lads, but you will never guess what was in the cavern."

The sunlight in his kitchen was cut off, and he turned to see a large eye at his window, focusing in on him. "Tell me what was in the cavern."

"You might wanna sit down."

"Skadi, please, I am very tired."

She laughed, rumbling his crockery, and he held his coffee tightly. "I've only gone and found a burial chamber for a colossal giant."

Smash.

Finch froze, not caring about the hot coffee wetting his slippers. "You…Are you serious?! If you tell me you're joking--"

"I'm not! I actually think it might be King Bjorn, y'know the legendary one."

"You mean Bjorn Fire-Feared?!" The fabled King had been damaged by the tragic death of his family, and ruled an entire province where fire was banned upon pain of death. It was such an ancient story that it seemed like it should be unbelievable. But never had Finch heard of a complete skeleton that old, as cremation was usually the done thing. "Oh, goodness, oh my, oh, Skadi!" He began to jump around in the puddle of coffee, clapping his hands and flailing them wildly. "Let's go!" He flung open his door and ran outside, only to stop in his tracks when two grubby fingers pinched his dressing gown.

"Hold on there, Prof." She curled her middle finger around his waist and lifted him up to his balcony. "You ain't goin' in the mines in your silkies. Get your boots on and pack a lunch. He's not about to get up and walk off."

As much as Finch wanted to rush, he knew she was right. He'd get his adventuring gear too, as it was better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.

oOo

They were close. On their walk, Skadi had been gushing about how much she loved working. He remembered when the dwarves had come to him asking for help getting rid of her from her cave that she had excavated herself. Their 180 in their opinion of her had been down to him, and it seemed that although their warming to her was slow-going, they did in fact enjoy her presence around the mines.

"Finbar is the worst for it though. Every day at lunch he always pretends he's lost his, and yes I don't mind giving humans crumbs, but have you seen how much a dwarf can eat? They're like bottomless pits, I end up with a half empty lunchbox by the time I've finished letting the lads eat what they want. They always joke about me snacking on them, and I've half a mind to if they think about touching my honey cake."

"Remind me not to get between you and your sweet tooth then." Finch replied from her shoulder, glad that she'd found somewhere she fit in.

Speaking of fitting in, the entrance to the mine she led him to was nowhere near big enough for her to stand. Finch was confused until he noticed the grooves in the rock on the edges of the tunnel. It seemed that to get to the main excavation, she crawled along the trenches, any miners and carts passing safely beneath her. As for transport, she slipped him into a pocket on her shoulder, seemingly oriented for just this occasion.

Finch didn't like being underground. A cave, that was fine. A canyon, he could deal with. But a tunnel that sunk into the darkness, unlit and endless, he had to duck into the pocket in order to keep himself calm.

The relief when she finally stood once more made him feel dizzy, but she nudged him onto her shoulder. "Here we go." Her voice echoed for what seemed like years as she used a nearby sconce to light her torch. As it flared into flames, Finch gasped so hard he almost choked.

The steeple of the tallest temple would be dwarfed by the breadth of the skull staring at the pair of them. Despite the intensity of the torchlight, it was difficult to make out even the beginning of the rib bones that xylophoned down toward the rest of the skeleton. It was almost unfathomable in its scale, Finch's jaw slack, his eyes boggling, bereft of speech. He could tell that Skadi was smirking at him, waiting for him to voice his amazement, but he couldn't even move, his body rigid and stunned. Never had he seen a complete skeleton. A tooth, perhaps. A finger bone, maybe. One faceplate buried into a mountainside. But nothing compared to this.

"Should we leave then?"

"Certainly not!" Finch shrieked, his shrill echo sounding like the cave was full of birds. "Oh, to be immortal, to study every inch of this cavern! It would take me centuries!"

"Let's just start with this, eh?" Skadi turned and lifted her torch. The wall above the ancient King's skull sent flickering shadows between the grooves of runes and pictograms, and immediately Finch gave her earring an excited tug forward, making her chuckle as she stepped toward it. "Heh. Don't recognise that dialect."

"It's from the birth of giantish runes! Look, it's even before the letter atte was standardised! Torch left." She did as he asked, illuminating one of the pictures with accompanying runes. "This was meant to be his epitaph. 'Tal vusar kan ur naum'. The Tomb of the Lord of Ruin." He exhaled shakily, his skin rising in gooseflesh. "The carving shows Bjorn Fire-Feared banning the use of fire. Those people there are freezing, those are starving, there's no tools or weapons being made. Torch right."

The next carving made him shudder. "He would send armies of humans and giants to punish anyone continuing to light fires. This says a village was struck by lightning, and he personally flattened it with two steps."

Skadi whistled. "What a shitty guy."

"I don't understand why they went to so much trouble to bury him if he was this abhorrent! Why not simply burn him and celebrate being free?" Finch twirled his moustache in thought. "Skadi, would you mind if I asked you for a favour?"

"As long as you sketch me beside the skull and put it in the book."

"With pleasure!" He smiled. "I need a little more light. Could you set up some braziers, perhaps? Just along the wall, and around his skull?" He pushed his spectacles up his long nose. "I should get these enchanted with dark vision…"

"Sure, Prof. Just a minute." Skadi looked around and reached for a stalagmite, breaking off the point with a tug of her mighty arm. She set Finch on the flat surface so she didn't accidentally tread on him, then her light retreated with her rumbling steps. He could hear her thundering voice calling for various dwarves to help her.

He dangled his legs over the edge of his rocky platform, closing his eyes and taking a breath to steady his heart. "How did you die? Some legends say you went mad and set light to yourself, but that clearly isn't true. Others say you gorged yourself on so many towns that the buildings burst your stomach. I've heard you were murdered by your closest friend. I can't imagine you were close to anyone. Perhaps if you were, you might not have been so cruel."

Skadi's booming presence passed him in the dark, and he envied her low-light vision for a moment, hearing clanks and clangs from all around him. Flint and steel. The roof of the cavern was suddenly lit with the impression of a skull as Skadi lit the first fire inside the King's head since he had died. One by one, slowly but surely, she cast light on the area for him, dusting off her hands once she was finished. Their area of the cave wasn't bright, but after so long in the dark, Finch could see relatively clearly. "There we go. Want me to walk you down?"

"Please." He hopped onto her hand so she could transfer him back to her shoulder, and she began at the start of the wall. As he got out his journal, she kept quiet, knowing he probably wouldn't answer her even if she did speak. He used her ear lobe to steer her almost as an extension of his own body, able to write at his own pace as the history unfurled before him.

Bjorn Fire-Feared used to be called Bjorn Stone-Hand, one of the few remaining colossal giants after the appearance of the other races, when a world of rock and bone became verdant and green. He proclaimed himself King to stop giants and humans from being at war, and it worked for a time, his country prospering so much that it could support two of his kind. His firstborn was praised as a Prince, and the land was happy. Until dissenters used pitch to set his house alight, killing his family. And then the dark times. His spiral into madness, dragging a whole nation into the cold. Almost the entire kingdom dug the grave to his command, many perishing as a result.

"He planned it." Finch said, startling Skadi. He easily kept balanced as she jumped, second nature to him, and she exhaled sharply, her heart audibly fast. "Of course he did, he died here! Nobody could've moved his body, he came here willingly!"

"So how did he die?"

"It doesn't say." Finch tapped his chin with his pencil. "Let's go look at his bones, see if I can find anything."

She nodded and turned away from the wall, approaching the skeleton. Almost vibrating with excitement, Finch stared upward with amazement at the mountainous reach of the King's jawbone, Skadi trailing her hand against it as she ducked through the letterbox shaped slot where his front teeth used to lay, into what was his mouth. "Must've been odd for giants my size back then. Not the biggest fish in the pond."

"Is easily fitting in someone's mouth changing your perspective?" Finch asked, motioning to be set down.

"Yeah, I guess it is." Skadi put Finch on the ground and passed him a torch that was comparatively a splinter. He lit it from the brazier, then began slowly walking from one end of the skull to the other. "He really had bad dental hygiene. Look at the holes there."

Finch paused by one of his bottom molars, humming with thought as he scaled his jawbone so as to better see. "There's a cavity."

"I rest my case." Skadi said with a grin, jamming her torch between two of the teeth and hopping backwards onto them as one might a countertop, sitting comfortably.

Gasping softly, Finch realised the hole was large enough for him to fit into, the edges rounded and smooth, the inside of the tooth hollow. A collection of objects, most rotted away, sat inside the tooth, along with what seemed like a human skeleton. "Wait a second." He flicked through his notes. "That phrase, it was literally 'fang hermit', it wasn't a metaphor. I think this must've been some kind of political prisoner." He scribbled something down. "Let's see… She must have lived here for some time, considering how worn her doorway is. And I think she may have been shackled to the enamel."

Skadi grimaced. "He really must have been bonkers. Imagine living in some geezer's tooth, eugh."

Finch cleared his throat, straightening his glasses. "Does this practice ring any bells to you?"

"Not a tinkle. I guess whatever it was, it was a big guy thing." Skadi hummed. "How did she feed herself?"

Finch stroked his chin. "One would suspect the same way a symbiosis would function..." Something felt odd about this. Not a single tooth he'd found in his life was the same as Bjorn's. He carefully lifted the scrap of fabric upon which the bones lay, moving it away from the pile without jostling the skeleton. He rummaged through the various bits and pieces, most of them being the usual detritus one might expect to see caught between a large giant's teeth; wood and bone and brick. However, buried in the smallest corner he found a metal lockbox, beautifully designed, screwed into the wall of the tooth. Trying not to damage either, he carefully used a nearby piece of metal to pry the box open, the rusted lock breaking with a shriek.

A leather-bound journal looked up at him as if proud to have weathered the wear of time. He was very careful with it regardless, and he stepped out onto the bone that surrounded the tooth house, sitting and tentatively opening the pages.

Skadi watched as he read, hearing his soft gasps and excited titters as he whispered the words to himself. "Well? Good read?"

"I translated the wall wrong. The two giants the land could support weren't he and his wife, it was him and his son. This is his wife."

Wrinkling her nose, Skadi slid from her sitting position and walked over, taking a knee beside Finch. "He imprisoned his wife in his mouth? That's messed up."

"O-Oh…" Finch exhaled when he turned the page. "She was just as disturbed by the fire as he was. She didn't want to lose him too, and after a failed poisoning, she wanted to be vigilant and make sure all of his food was clean." He tapped the page. "The chain was a safety measure. She must have really loved him to give up her life to keep him safe."

"If she did such a good job, what killed them both?"

Finch flipped through the pages. "She died first. There's no record of anything past the destruction of the town that was struck by lightning."

"Yeah, so that means… What does that mean?"

Suddenly alert, Finch leapt to his feet, slowly walking along the bony platform that held the teeth in place. "Let's see… If I could just… Aha!" He reached between two teeth and pulled out the long-rotted husk of a large seed, the size of a grape. "Titanfeller berries."

Skadi almost knocked Finch off his perch when she scrambled backward, and he could hear her nervous pulse through the rock. "Don't you bring that near me!" Finch still hadn't discovered what it was about titanfellers that was toxic to giants but not humans. Still, he was thankful that the seeds weren't viable. The near-extinction of a plant should've been sad to him, but he was happy that they wouldn't be used for nefarious purposes.

"Just don't lick anything, you'll be fine." He twirled his moustache around his index finger. "So… What do we know?" He carefully climbed down to the rocky floor, strolling beneath the jaw and down beside the alien architecture of his spine. Away from the braziers, he couldn't see the ribs that arched above him, but he knew they were there, the whole skeleton mapped in his head. "Did he move here to die after being poisoned?" He mumbled.

"Aren't Kings usually buried with riches?" A male voice said from somewhere in the darkness, startling Finch. "I haven't seen any gold."

Finch lifted his torch, seeing the glittering eyes of a dwarf, sitting on a rock below the root of a rib. "Ah, rather astute, Mr…?"

"Call me Gudrun."

Skadi seemed to have composed herself, and walked over to the pair. "I've told you about Gudrun, haven't I? He's got a kid with a giantess near here."

Curiosity piqued, Finch looked at the dwarf with a smile. "Oh! Wonderful to make your acquaintance! May I ask you about that at a later date?"

"Yeah. Skadi knows where I am." Gudrun stroked his beard, looking around at the skeleton. "So, what have you found out about this guy?"

Finch explained the story behind the carvings, and what he'd found in Bjorn's skull. "I just don't understand the circumstances surrounding his death. His wife died… Then he died…"

Gudrun's bushy brows furrowed. "Well, if my wife died, Gods forbid, I know I'd struggle with living on."

Skadi hummed. "I wonder why he left her there."

Finch perked up, clapping excitedly. "That's it!" He grinned at the pair. "Think about it, if you'd just seen the King crush an entire village, would you risk being within biting distance?" He looked toward the illuminated eye sockets. "So he ate the berries voluntarily."

There was a moment of quiet before Gudrun cleared his throat. "Will you be wantin' his effects? He's got a ring on his left hand, seems valuable."

Finch perked up again. "Oh! Wonderful!" He almost ran, his torchlight fading into the gloom.

Skadi blew through tight lips, a hand on her waist, and Gudrun nodded with understanding. "...Your people are real strange." He said, and she shrugged with casual agreement. "My big girl, she has all kinds of customs that just twist my brain."

The pair heard an excited jumble of theories and conclusions echoing from somewhere in the dark. "None are as strange as humans."

"You're right there, lass."

When Skadi finally went to go see what Finch was so excited about, she was unimpressed. She expected piles upon piles of jewels. "What's that ring made of?"

Finch grinned up at her as he traced the patterns with his fingertip. "I don't know! That doesn't matter right now! Look at this! Oh, this is wonderful." He pushed a long button with all of his strength, and the ring popped open. It was far too heavy for him to open all the way, but Skadi leant a hand, and he stood on the finger bone to peer inside it. "There's a whole room in here!" He cried, leaping over the metal wall. The floor was carpeted, the walls lined with built-in furniture, long-since faded and freyed. Each had a number of hoops, presumably for attaching safety ropes to.

"You think he kept people in here?" Skadi asked, Gudrun appearing over the edge of the ring, looking like he was levitating without Skadi's hand in view.

As Finch immediately began to study the journals and sketches around him, Skadi set up another brazier for him, not wanting him to get eyestrain.

Gudrun touched the metal, then knocked on it. "Pure macronium. Y'know, this stuff is only found in meteorites, but as an ore it's unstable enough to dissipate on impact." When he noticed the pair looking at him, he cleared his throat somewhat bashfully. "The wife has a necklace with a small amount of it. It's a sacred thing."

"Yeah, my Pa said only people touched by the gods could smith with macronium. You've got to crack open the meteor with your bare hands, then slowly and patiently melt it down." She pressed her hand against the cold metal too. "Bet if humans listened to our legends instead of stabby-stabby they'd really find that interesting."

Finch opened a cupboard that was built into the wall, lifting his torch to get a better look. "OH! Books!"

Gudrun looked back to Finch who was reading with one hand and writing with the other. "Anything good?"

"I can't understand a word of this! Oh, how exciting! This must be where his Queen used to live, before the fire." He flipped through a few more with fingers practised in the art of being tender with artifacts. "This will keep me up all night! A few more hours without sleep won't do me any harm."

Skadi poked her tongue into her cheek as she thought. "You haven't been sleepin' at all, have you, Prof?"

"A few stray moments here and there. But that's not important!" He waved his hand at her, carefully filling his satchel with as much information as he could. "What is important is that I have so many answers! And even more new questions!" He beckoned her hand, hopping into it eagerly. "Let's keep going!"

Skadi shook her head. "Oh, no no. I'm not taking you anywhere." When he looked like he might try and leave her grasp, she curled her fingers firmly around him, making him yelp and check to make sure the papers were undamaged. "You're gonna have a nap."

"I'm not tired, I promise." He pushed at her fingers, but they wouldn't budge. "Please, I've got to see more! I had half an hour last night, that was sufficient." He knew that beyond reasoning, there wasn't much he could do. A giant had the ability to make anyone do anything they wanted.

"Hey, we discovered this tomb, so our rules apply. It's our lunch hour anyway." She scolded as she sat down on the rocky floor, leaning against the breadth of the ring band. "You want in, Gudrun?"

The dwarf nodded with a grin. "I never turn down an opportunity to have a kip."

Skadi placed the pair of them on the warm fabric on her chest, a stark contrast from the cold of the cave, and Finch huffed. "It's easy for you. I've only got my life to spend studying your kind. Both of you know that isn't a lot."

"A nap won't kill you, Prof. Don't make me swaddle you." Skadi grumbled. Gudrun was already almost asleep, and Finch sighed dramatically as he flopped onto his back. He realised then how exhausted he was, his mind still racing, but his body thanking him profusely for resting.

"...Gudrun?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell me about your wife?"

The dwarf stretched out, opening one eye to look at Finch. "Absolutely savage, she is. Tall, sharp teeth, penchant for raw meat, the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on. She can rip open a dragon with her bare hands and feast on its still warm carcass."

"It seems as though she's perfect for you." Finch pondered softly. "What's her name, this ferocious beast of a woman?"

"Carol."

Skadi shushed them, knowing Finch wouldn't stop the questions there, but he got the message, closing his eyes. Just a little nap. Then he'd get to work. Five minutes...

#giant tiny #g/t #giant/tiny #Writing #g/t writing #Giantology

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kadavernagh · 10 months ago

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TIMING: Current LOCATION: Banshee court PARTIES: Siobhan, Regan, Wynne, Anita, and many more! SUMMARY: The day has come for Siobhan's re-trial, so that she might be allowed back into Saol Eile. But she's not the only one on trial, as Regan is being heard for her crimes against her grandmother. Faerie court is not quite what the folklore makes it out to be.

Siobhan had been here before. Not on the same spot on the stage—why did they call it a stage?—or with her back so straight or her face dry but she had been here before. She’d been down in the audience, she’d been tossed bloodied into center stage—wasn’t it strange to call a feature of justice a stage?—and she’d begged there just as she’d once cheered from the sides. The younger banshees wouldn’t know, but entertainment was hard to come by when you were in an insular community of screaming women. No, “hard to come by” was the wrong turn of phrase, wasn’t it? Siobhan couldn’t look up, the sun was bright and just the quick glance she’d given them had pinked her vision and turned every blink into a lightshow. Everything was different: the stage used to be angled the other way, there used to be a roof, the skeletons still had skin, and Siobhan wanted to be here. Even that day—she wouldn’t think about that day—she had wanted to be here; she thought that was where the tragedy lived. All her life, all she had ever wanted was to be here. She had been here, she wanted to be here, she was here.

It was just that some fraction of her mind was doing this odd thing—it wasn’t so odd, she’d been doing it all her life—but it was such a tiny piece. An insignificant portion—no part of the brain is insignificant to the function of a creature—would occasionally interject. Siobhan was certain, however, trying to adjust her rosy vision of the court, that it wasn’t really her. She smiled over at Anita. She turned and waved and smiled at the crowd—audience. She wasn’t nervous; why would she be nervous? Because she had directly disobeyed Putrecia’s wishes? Because she wasn’t prepared? Because the last time she was here, they—no, she wasn’t thinking about that. There was no good reason to be nervous and because Siobhan was logical, and never—rarely—emotional, she wasn’t worried at all.

They would take her back, because that’s what family did and everyone here was some extension of her family—not by blood, she’d sooner be a snail than be related to any of these women. She noted the moment she was led to the stage that the only person in attendance she did share blood with was Orla, her cousin. She did not look at Orla. Her mother once said these court proceedings were childish drivel—she didn’t seem to find anything so childish when she…

The old door creaked open and murmurs rose from the crowd-audience. Banshees didn’t hope, but something like it sat in Siobhan’s stomach when she turned around. Her pink, sun-devoured vision couldn’t decipher the form until she joined her. No, it was too short to be her—Oh, but maybe it’s—instead, it was Regan. Maybe the stage was apt after all, Siobhan’s deflating body was almost theatrical. “...Regan?” she asked, carrying the broken corpse of hope that somehow the sun had made her see spectors of annoying banshees. But that wasn’t true, the sun couldn’t do that—or maybe it could, she wasn’t the one that was the doctor. Why was she here? Was it not enough that she had their respect? Their need? A grandmother who wanted her? A lifetime of worthiness to earn, easily laid in front of her? What was it that Regan was trying to rob her of now? On the higher side of the stage, Siobhan looked unflattering beside the woman. Now, their incompatible heights were on display, and Siobhan was made to look like a giant; the tight, low-cut dress seemed like the tacky venture that it was. Now, her glamour was stupid. Now, Regan was here, and the world was a little less pink.

———

Putrecia's legacy could be felt in every cruelty of the court. The skeletons (human, mostly) hanging on the walls of what was essentially their town hall, the uneven stage, the way the audience had nothing holding them back to keep them from climbing right up next to those on trial, the array of knives available at the judge’s podium. Most telling was the Ciorcal na Cinniúint – a big, spinning wheel that could make or break a case. With possible outcomes such as “witness to the stand” and “closing arguments” alongside “human sacrifice” and “mushroom dance”. When Regan lived here for years, she never came to watch these cases. She had no interest in seeing banshees turn their daggers on each other (on anyone; no, don’t think about that right now). Her absence seemed like a mistake now that she had little idea of what to expect, other than what she had heard from others, and what she was seeing on the wheel. And though Regan knew she was not about to die, banshees preferred to be far more inventive, anyway, so it meant nothing. (Elias had wished he were dead. Maybe that would have been better.)

Her grandmother wasn’t about to die, either. She would suffer for decades, the banshees providing palliative care, because banshees simply did not kill each other. That she facilitated the death of her grandmother – someone she should have revered – made her crime especially heinous.

Fae needed nothing but words to bind each other, so Regan wore no cuffs as she was led up to the stage – she had promised not to escape or try to harm anyone while court was in session. (Like she was someone who would harm others now. Was she? The blood on her shirt seemed relevant.) Her obedience was not rewarded. When was it? Trudging through the crowd that made her skin catch fire, she was positioned on the lower half of the sloped stage, which made the judge’s podium look a full foot taller. And there, above Regan glittering like the proud, golden statue of Talamh-Ithe, across the stage was… “Siobhan?” A wave of disgust rippled through Regan, but also confusion. The other banshee couldn’t be exiled a second time. Was this some sort of second chance? There had to be something Regan wasn’t seeing yet. There always seemed to be.

Her eyes searched for the tiniest amount of reassurance in the crowd, but no banshees would look at her; it didn’t matter how many times Regan had patched them up at the clinic, had dressed their wounds and kept infections at bay – what she had done to her grandmother was unforgivable. (Was this what Siobhan had felt when they first arrived here? Probably not. That hag thought being despised was better than being forgotten.) One of the banshees had even dusted off the band-aid dispenser and set it in the middle of the audience, a reminder that she, too, was disposable. Regan shivered at the sheer overwhelmingness and uncertainty of the situation. Just when she was about to pull her eyes away in favor of staring at her own feet, twisting her ring endlessly around her finger, she saw Wynne’s curly head of hair, and Metzli standing taller than most of the others (a hallucination?), and behind all of the banshees, a small-eared bear with sooty fur.

Regan had wanted to leave. There. She thought it. She had come so close, so close to– but those rolling jade hills shriveled black and flattened, and the endless highway, tantalizingly close to Saol Eile, coiled and became a noose around her neck. Her grandmother was no longer an obstacle to leaving, but every single banshee packed in here was. Regan had people here who would and had fought for her, people who traveled across half the world to find her – which was stupid; humans were stupid and full of hope, though perhaps those two flaws were synonymous – and now they would watch what happened when lesser beings tried to dismantle and disentangle the threads of fate, what happened when they got their mediocre fingers jammed into the knot and were pulled inside of it instead of unraveling it.

———

“Scread go ciúin while we are in session,” Eithne reminded everyone. It was inappropriate to tell banshees they were not allowed to scream, so the best she could do was remind everyone to do so quietly. “Court will be held in English today.” Whenever that was decided, it never needed an explanation. Banshees all inherently knew it was so that the humans watching the proceedings might have a mental breakdown (they were just so fragile). And most of the banshees here, by now, realized that the aos si now had a few extra humans than they used to. They were eager to take advantage of that, a payback for humans thinking they could sneak in here and walk among them without being caught.

“Siobhan Dolan is here for a re-trial. Do you remember her? You may not. Her disobedience of Fate led to the death of seven of our sisters. She was exiled four decades ago and has earned a re-consideration today.” A few of the banshees in the crowd did not scream so silently. “Putrecia has determined this.” That stopped the uproar. “We will know her fate first, and then move on to a new trial for Regan Kavanagh, the leanbh who pushed Cliodhna Caomhánach, her own grandmother, into Farraige na Buanachta.” Now the other banshees seemed solemn. Cliodhna was not nice, no one would call her nice, but she was respected.

“Siobhan comes to us with her own lawyer, devoid of experience. Regan does not have a lawyer. We have issued her a pubic defender.” Eithne placed the pubis on Regan’s podium. The pubic defender did make compelling arguments sometimes, but Eithne did not think Fate would smile upon Regan Kavanagh today.

“If anyone has questions for Siobhan Dolan and Regan Kavanagh, save them. We will see if the wheel allows it. We first join Putrecia for keening and the judge selection.”

———

Putrecia wobbled onto the stage as quickly as her old legs and hunched back could carry her. Her pendulous breasts swayed with each step. Her mouth was opened in a giddy, toothless gape. She wasn’t the judge anymore, but this still filled her with a juvenile kind of excitement, bringing back fond memories of wings being plucked from the backs of exiles and knives carving up traitors. When she scuttled up, she squinted at the taller banshee on stage with foggy eyes. Who was that? Clare? Odd. Out of her old, dry throat erupted a sharp but melodic keen. Respecting Putrecia and the tradition, other banshees joined in, and the town hall filled with the sound of a hundred wails. The sound droned for about fifteen seconds before Putrecia’s mouth snapped shut. She was hungry now. And tired. Every time she came up here she was reminded how much her knees creaked and why she stopped doing this.

The non-banshees became evident, as if they were not already. When the keening stopped, Putrecia’s eyes glazed over the audience. From behind her cataracts, everything looked like a blur. Even so, she could pick out a hare from a field of foxes. Her crooked finger pointed straight ahead. “Ár breitheamh.” Putrecia did not know English, but the meaning was obvious.

The judge had been chosen.

Putrecia’s skeletal fingers beckoned the judge up to the podium.

———

The aos sí had been abuzz with one of the most horrible sounds it could be. It wasn’t the corpse flies, though Wynne didn’t like those. It wasn’t the screams, which made their ears and head hurt. But it was the news that spread like wildfire, the whispers of Nora and Regan arrested, that had been truly terrifying. That, combined with the fact that Elias was recovering from multiple stab wounds in a dusty attic after mediocre if not bad first aid, left Wynne in a strenuous position.

They weren’t sure if there were any banshees that would petition for their friends’ release. They weren’t sure if there was any feasible way to get Elias out of this place with all this happening, either. Wynne had considered calling Emilio, but they didn’t want to alarm him too much — because this was a situation to be alarmed about, wasn’t it? Somehow they were the only person they knew not restrained or injured gravely, and responsibility was pressing on their shoulders. How were they supposed to solve this, though? They didn’t understand human law, let alone banshee law. They knew how to run away from a place like this, but only by themself, and there was no way they were running by themself. (They wondered if that was what Emilio would want them to do. To just leave now that they still could.)

Unsure of what to do, they had ventured to where all the banshees were gathering, clutching a phalange in their hand and keeping their head low. They had Elias left behind after checking his injuries, promising him that they’d return and trying not to cry at the sight of him. They stood among the crowd, somehow having ended halfway through it and stared at the stage throughout the proceedings. They had only looked away to stare at a bright white bear, vaguely in the distance, and they had wondered how Nora had gotten out, or if they were simply losing their mind.

There was only one other familiar face there — Siobhan. From the coffee and the sometimes good advice, who Emilio had warned them about. There was a spinning wheel that had them very concerned as the words ‘human sacrifice’ were on one of the options. There was Regan, eventually, and then the two women who seemed to be in charge. They knew how to look at these kinds of people with respect, but Wynne found it very hard to look anything but afraid.

So they looked afraid all through the words the tall, curly haired banshee said. They were feeling a kind of dread that was bone deep, that was not dissimilar from the dread they had felt for all of their life — but acute again, rising to press on their chest. The kind of dread that forewarned disaster, if not death. They did not know how to save Regan now.. They did not know how to save Elias. If Nora would be okay, if she appeared as a dangerous beast. They saw no road out of this.

The wheel was spun and told the crowd that a judge was to be chosen. Wynne wasn’t sure how this was done, wondered if there was some kind of ritual — but it was as simple as an old lady pointing a finger into the crowd. Around them, banshees scattered and an opening parted. Like Moses and the sea, a story they’d been taught when they’d been younger. The old lady was pointing at them.

Wynne felt the dread in their stomach grow even larger and they were frozen. The women around them, though, started pushing them towards the stage, nails and fingers pricking in their back as they started moving. Legs as heavy as lead, their stomach sinking through the ground and into the earth. They moved up on the stage, eyes piercing through Regan with quiet panic.

———

Throughout her life, people had always told Anita that she had a unique way of fitting into any situation she found herself in. Some called it delusion, others called it confidence. The lamia never really thought much about it, until she found herself in this aos sí. Agreeing to be Siobhan’s lawyer seemed like an easy thing to do - she used to be infatuated with those Shonda Rimes legal dramas. It seemed like a lot of grandstanding and moral righteousness which were things she could feign with ease. But the reality of what was unfolding before her was beginning to set in. This wasn’t some silly thing that Anita could just put the bare minimum effort into. This was important to Siobhan so that meant it should be important to her, too, didn’t it? Seeing Regan come into the courtroom felt surreal, hearing that she would also be on trial was baffling. But Anita had to focus. She had a job to do.

———

Metzli didn’t know what to expect at a fae trial, but everything seemed just about right. It smelled as if despair and defeat had a scent, and it was foul in a way that made the vampire shudder. Moreover, there was a bone defender. It all made sense, felt natural, even. It just wasn’t the kind of boning Metzli was looking forward to.

———

Things in that silly American town hadn’t gone quite as Max had hoped. She had killed only an insignificant few, had failed to dismember the woman Regan seemed most fond of or the child who lived in her apartment. But things here, she thought, would go better. Things were always better here; things made sense. In Wicked’s Rest, things had been so disjointed, so nonsensical. But Saol Eile, things were right. Everything fit together exactly as it should. The stupid judge who thought they were important, the wheel that gave everything a place and a purpose, the banshees on trial who would get whatever Fate delivered to them. And Max, standing beside her sister with their mother hovering behind them. Saol Eile was right. Saol Eile was home. And Saol Eile would return to her all the little things that Wicked’s Rest had taken — shard by shard.

———

Tina figured that maybe she hadn’t done the best job ever in Maine, in dumb stupid America, but she’d tried (not that trying meant anything unless there was success). She was here now with her sister and her mother, and that was where she was meant to be. It was home, it was Fate, it was where she and Max belonged. Besides, she got to watch Siobhan and Regan have all that they deserved handed to them and that made her belly warm in a sort of way that could’ve been confused for being a feeling of one sort or another if she weren’t above that. She straightened up, trying to seem as tall as she could (which, of course, wasn’t very tall) and grinning over at her sister, watching their mother, admirably stone-faced (one day Tina would be like that, she knew it), eager for the trial to begin.

———

As relieved as Clare was to be home, she was disappointed to leave before she had finished righting Siobhan’s wrongs. There was so much to clean up that she considered going back to that horrid town once this was all said and done. Those worries were an ocean away and for now, she was meant to present in the crowd to view the trial. Well, trials, apparently. It appeared that while she was away, the leanbh had come out to play and had been almost as awful as the wingless wonder. Almost. To remind Siobhan and everyone else there what it was she had done, how far she had fallen, she had borrowed Orla’s garish hat. It was hideous, something she wouldn’t want to be wearing when she received her glao cinniúint, the one announcing her own final Fate, but it felt appropriate for the occasion. The black and red spotted patterns were impossible to miss atop her head, even among the crowd of various wings and what not. She hoped Siobhan enjoyed her fashion choices.

She noticed a handful of unfamiliar faces gathered near the wingless wonder herself. That familiar feeling of death turned on his head and gut open clawed down her back again. Another undead. What, was Siobhan collecting them, now? Every time Clare was certain she couldn’t get worse, she found a way. Disgusting. She’d have to make a note to help steer Fate back on course once the dust was settled. Again.

———

Nora sat in the back of the crowd, a bear among banshees. The additional height made for a great advantage in the crowd, she could see clearly over the banshees heads as they gathered like little ants waiting for carnage. Every now and then a banshee would take too much interest in the bear and the back, and the bear would display her teeth. She meant it as a threat each time, but the banshees always took it as a delightful display. Freaks. A numb nervousness spread over her as she saw Wynne center stage, Wynne who just wanted to leave. There was also a shock to see Metzli here. She hoped Metzli, Wynne and Regan would all escape with ease, but was settled in to watch the show.

———

There were few surprises in human courts. The idea of “discovery” tried to keep things fair between the two opposing sides, however fair irrational humans were capable of pretending to be. Court here was different; that had become immediately clear. And Eithne surely relished Regan’s shock (however muted) at seeing Siobhan when she had walked up here. Eithne spoke of a retrial, which made… some sense; it lined up with her initial thought. Even though Siobhan had fetched Regan and brought her here like a dog wishing to please, they turned her away, because there was more, always more, whenever there was space for it. And with how desperately Siobhan wished to return, there was plenty of space.

Elias was insistent behind her eyes, even when they were open; her grandmother still screeched in her ears; the ring on Regan’s finger begged almost compulsively to be squeezed. Jade had said she had the soggiest, wettest heart. Right now, she couldn’t slow it. Regan knew her best chance of getting out of this was to maintain composure and prove to the other banshees that she was one of them. The thought of that lie coated her stomach in iron. She was not one of them. She had never been one of them. Never had that been more obvious than when she almost watched Elias die.

She glanced desperately at the pubis. It was lovely, but offered no advice. It was really more pubic than defender.

Regan stayed silent during the keening, certain that if she attempted it, a shrill scream would come out instead, and such an embarrassment would not help her right now (actually, she’d prefer to never scream again). But when Putrecia lifted her finger toward the crowd, long, dirty nail pointing at someone she knew, Regan was paying attention. Wynne. She pointed at Wynne. Regan fished for their eyes, but the look she gave was anything but reassuring. It begged Wynne to listen, to obey, which came with a guilt all its own; she knew how many years of Wynne’s life had been spent doing just that. But nothing could change the course of things now, and Wynne was pulled up to the platform, ushered to approach the wheel. To Regan’s relief, Wynne listened.

———

In the years Siobhan was away—exiled—they must’ve developed a new form of comedic justice: a bone-rattling Shakespearan imitation of a court-room tale. All the world’s a stage, and so on. But Regan wouldn’t agree to do something like this because Regan wasn’t fun, and comedy was supposed to be fun. Siobhan wasn’t having fun; Regan didn’t seem like she was having fun; the banshees were serious insofar as they could be with the big wheel and the nonsensical pick of judge who—was that Wynne? Siobhan bit her lip to keep herself from laughing. Reality came to her with new tidings: dead magpies rattling out the news. So, Regan did push her grandmother into Farraige na Buanachta. The pubic defender was silent. Wynne was here. Wynne was the judge. Wynne was going to do a terrible job. When life happened on a stage, it was easy to abstract; when it happened because of Fate, when it happened to performers, when it happened and one was not meant to feel anything at all. They didn’t care. Why would they care? When had they ever cared?

That was her life, her greatest shame, that Eithne had just shared like the morning update on which humans had sunk more into Farraige na Buanachta overnight. Her face burned as she glanced around, hoping to find at least one face that wasn’t horrified. Most had no real expression at all. Of course, this was her life, not theirs. She was on a stage. Why did she care? Why had she ever cared?

Had Regan’s childishness ruined what would have been an easy reunion? Or had it never mattered? Finally, Siobhan turned to Orla, and…who was that there? Those neat strands of blonde hair under a…hat? A very familiar hat? Who gave Clare the hat Orla made from her torn wings? Orla, probably. Orla who grinned at her in a sea of solemn faces, holding two thumbs up in a gesture for something that didn’t exist. Siobhan turned back to the judge’s podium, shaking off fantasies of murdering Clare, and held two thumbs up for Wynne; no matter what they did, it wouldn’t be right. Siobhan had been here before—now she understood why they called it a stage. There was only one thing to do when on one. She didn’t care if Regan understood that when all that mattered was if Wynne did.

———

Eithne paid the human ushered onto the stage little mind. They were nothing if not a tool to spin the wheel. They could be replaced by a humerus or femur. It was nice to spin the wheel with one of those, to push the little rods with the tip of the bone. She preferred it, because it meant she got to hold a bone and wave it around as she spoke. It added weight to her words. But a human would do, too, and she could just use her hands. So she gestured to the wheel and said in her accented English, “Spin the wheel.” She looked at the human for a moment, wondering if they needed to hear the instruction repeated. Sometimes they were a little slow to process a banshee’s demands.

They had been raised obedient. Wynne knew nothing of what was happening around them but they knew what was expected of them. They knew how to act on a stage like this, how to hold themself and how to keep their mouth sealed. How to obey those that stood above them – which were no longer Regan or even Siobhan, but a strange woman who held herself like an elder would.

How many times had they stood like they stood now back at home? Looking over the people that made up the community they belonged to? There was no altar here, but there was sacrifice. There was tradition. There were people to make an example out of. They had done that too, at home, though not in a way like this. In subtler ways, behind closed doors. Not with a large spinning wheel that they had seen only once before. They realized with a pang that it’d been at the renaissance fair they’d attended with Elias.

They moved closer to the wheel and gave it a hefty tug, the noise of the wheel clicking echoing in their bones. They held their breath as the various options passed, their eyes constantly following the portion of the wheel reserved for human sacrifice. It didn’t land close to it, though. Instead the yellow wedge slowly passed over ‘bring out the worms’ before it eventually landed on the next thing: ‘opening statement’. They didn’t say anything.

Eithne glared daggers at the mute human. (This was one of her favorite expressions, if only she could make her glowers send daggers.) It was the judge’s duty to speak the words for those in the crowd who might not be able to read what the result was. Her voice was a cold hiss, “Announce it,” she instructed. It was a very courteous thing for her to do. The humans couldn’t help that they were slow to understand their very logical ways. It was only their shortcoming nature.

Wynne cleared their throat. “Opening statement.” A beat. “Please.”

———

Once the judge? Yes, they seemed to be the judge. Once they asked for an opening statement, Anita quickly rose to her feet and made her way up to the stage - the gentle clack of her stilettos echoing throughout the room muddled only by some faint whispers undoubtedly regarding her aforementioned lack of experience. Surely she didn’t look like she lacked experience. None of the clothes she had brought with her were sufficient for a fae courtroom so she had gone out to the city one day and found a white pantsuit that she looked devastatingly sexy in. After all, that did seem to be a crucial part of the lawyer thing according to Siobhan.

“Go raibh maith agat,” Anita offered as she got to the stage and stood beside Siobhan, but the looks of confusion and disdain that she received from the audience informed her that she had likely butchered the Irish thank you beyond recognition. “Lucanidae - commonly known as stag beetles -are the rarest beetle species in the world. Because of how rare they are, many cultures believe that they symbolize strength and power. Those who collect and preserve beetles will pay several thousands of dollars to acquire a stag for their collection.” Gesturing over towards Siobhan, she continued, “The woman before you is a similarly rare specimen. And I am not just talking about how long her leg bones are.” Anita paused for a laughter that never came. Clearing her throat, she shrugged off the slight awkward silence.

“She is the kind of person you want to have in your community. Like the stag beetle she brings with her beauty, value, strength, and power. I can say from experience that life is never boring when Siobhan Dolan is around. Cheek bones that could draw blood and probably have. Today you will see things like I do, to deny Siobhan would be to deny Fate.” Anita didn’t know a whole lot about the banshees relationship with Fate, but from what she had gathered it was a significant one. Maybe it was a bit of a hail mary, but hell, it wasn’t like she couldn’t tell a lie.

———

Everyone has to die. Some people live longer than others, but every person comes into being and then ceasing. It is the cycle that everyone knows, and the one that banshees revere and forewarn. To Metzli, for a while, it did not matter what choices you made, but the commands you obey.

As long as you follow those, as this supposed Fate wills, all will be right. There is no room for one’s existence outside of what duty calls of them. Metzli would make the argument that that was simply surviving in worship. But they had no voice to give at that moment. They had their own obligation in love, staying silent in a courtroom that looked nothing like the ones on television. That alone felt like a freedom that could only derive from escape. Was that possible for all of them? All Metzli could do was hope, silently, with a reassuring nod to Wynne.

———

It was starting. It was starting and Max, like so many of the banshees here, craved the sense of it. The wheel would spin, the cards would fall, and Regan Kavanagh and Siobhan Dolan would each get exactly what they deserved. Max shot Tina a pleased look. This was what they’d been waiting for. This was what they’d wanted since the first day Regan dared step foot in the same classroom as them, since she’d had the audacity to pretend herself an equal. Whatever justice Fate decided.

———

Clare was certain her eyes were going to roll out her head before the trial was over. A human sacrifice for a judge? What was Putrecia thinking? Clare knew her eyes were going but was her mind gone with it? At least the “lawyer” in question was pitiful. She didn’t know the first thing about Fate or how it worked. And her Irish was dreadful. “Booo,” she hummed under her breath once the statement was finished, one hand obscuring her mouth as if it would help disguise where the sound came from. The daggers Putrecia shot her way was enough to make her stand a little straighter, her fingers lacing together as her hands dropped down towards her waist. Fine, she had enough respect for Fate to play nice. For now.

———

They understood what needed to be done once the lawyer woman was done. The wheel was spun again. Instead of Siors or an absent demon deciding how the proceedings went, it was a spinning wheel of fortune. Wynne spun it again. Once more, the option ‘human sacrifice’ was skipped. They wanted to ask the tall banshee who had instructed them before if judges could be human sacrifices, but instead opened their mouth to announce the result: “Statement from leprechaun.”

Once they’d addressed the crowd their eyes fell on Metzli. That didn’t make sense — why would Metzli be here? Why was Metzli watching them on this stage? Wynne blinked viciously as they stared at their employer and friend. They gave them a look of reassurance and they wondered what that meant — was Metzli here as a savior again? They didn’t dare hope like that and thus averted their gaze, lest they give something away to all the other banshees eyeing the stage.

———

It was a good idea to have Anita as her lawyer. Wise Anita, who would always wear the correct outfits. Smart Anita, who would always praise her appropriately. Ireland so far had been a series of mistakes, but assigning Anita as her lawyer had not been one. Siobhan had enough sense to keep from praising Anita vocally, and in front of several banshees who, for all they cared, probably thought Anita was human. (And Clare, who she knew she heard booing, and whom she didn’t want to do anything in front unless it was stabbing her) Anita’s Irish could use some work though.

It took a moment for her to realize that the wheel had been spun again, and to the only option she had been dreading (she would’ve taken ‘human sacrifice’ any day). “There will be no leprechaun.” Siobhan tried to keep her voice steady despite the rattling inside her chest. The audience erupted into gasps and murmurs, as if she’d conducted the sound out of them. She wouldn’t talk about how she’d kidnapped the one she found (because she couldn’t ask a friend to lie for her) and then how she’d let it go (because she couldn’t ask a friend to endure trauma for her sake; a friend that couldn’t even attend the trial). That was the sort of thing the stage might like, but it was her life. Also, extremely embarrassing. And, they didn’t care about all that, anyway. They hadn’t cared when she tried to explain herself forty-two years ago, they wouldn’t care now about the way she felt concerning lesser creatures—her friends. She was a shameful banshee; had she learned nothing?

The rising whispers were burning her ears. A banshee wouldn’t lie in court but who would expect whole honesty from an actress? Wasn’t the truth elastic? Taking a cue from Anita (also a friend), she channeled the woman’s confidence and bolstered herself. “Why must we bother the leprechauns?” Siobhan straightened up, giving one coordinated boob jiggle. Putrecia didn’t look happy, but Siobhan didn’t care—wasn’t that the point?

She raised her voice carefully, speaking over the din. “How would you feel if you were taken away from your important business to speak on the affairs of some other fae?” The murmurs rose; she was leading them the wrong way. “If you were cleaning your bones, or watching a body decompose, would it seem urgent to abandon your obligation to appreciate Death? To speak to strangers?” She could hear the room split; grumbles of agreement against groans of disapproval and the banshees that didn’t understand English who just wanted to start screaming. Siobhan turned and greeted them, boobs and all. “This court is for us,” Siobhan switched to Irish, “what we want is more bones, more blood, more screaming…not to hear the leprechauns. When have they ever said anything good?” Or comprehensible.

The audience was stirred, if they agreed with her—and Siobhan had just enough self-esteem left to assume they did—they needed a place to go. If she pulled them into a crescendo—and she assumed she did—she needed to deliver them to a final. “Worms,” she said, “péist.” She pointed at Regan (why did she get the more flattering, shorter side?). “Her worms are gray. And tiny. I saw them!” Siobhan pointed at the dispenser, who had been standing in the audience all this time; a little dented from being tossed around, she thought. “Has our old doctor ever pushed any grandmothers? I only want to know how we can trust this leanbh not to push my grandmother?”

———

Regan had been in courtrooms before, many of them, actually, as a distinguished expert witness discussing her autopsy determinations. It was routine, easy, with no surprises. She dressed crisp and conservatively and had an answer for every question. There were no wings on her back or mousey-blonde roots in her hair, and she was so deeply, richly in her element that she didn’t have a spare second to consider the flawed, human stage fright lighting up her brain. She could always defend her work more than she could defend herself. That was a world away. Never before had she felt like some child in front of a jury – awkward, scrawny-limbed, with no nametag (,MD) or lofty introduction. It was Siobhan, it was the stage, it was a hundred looks of reproach, like she was back in school belting out the poorly-pitched notes of Oklahoma, trying to disappear beneath the bare, cardboard branches of her Tree #2 costume.

She had never been able to hit any of the notes, even then, and this presentation was immeasurably worse; she had not even been given the script. Were they supposed to bring leprechauns? Bás síoraí, that must have been customary. Wynne… was pretty short. Maybe they could all pretend they were the leprechaun. No, she had told more than enough lies these last few weeks. They came pouring out of her stomach at least twice a day, mixed with blood and bile. At least she wasn’t on trial for those. No one seemed to know about the lie she’d told to save the ham child’s skin, even if it all fell apart, or the lie to buy Wynne and Elias some time – even though the selection of Wynne had a judge had her worry she might be wrong about that. Well, her grandmother might have known about Wynne, but that seemed– that wouldn’t come up here. No, it seemed to be the lies she told herself that were most apt to get her in trouble. So Regan let Siobhan carve out the path of disappointment, not lying but also not willing to tell the audience just yet that she didn’t have a leprechaun either.

Siobhan seemed to have no such anxieties. Of course she didn’t. She was a banshee, proud and true, on a literal pedestal, here for forgiveness instead of punishment. Her poise made sense. She could roar with the same pride she had when they’d first arrived here, before she realized her name had been forgotten and Putrecia sent her packing (somewhere, presumably). She could work all of this in her favor where Regan could not. Except Siobhan was spinning off in some other direction (as were her breasts) and… what was this, some fae form of veganism? Banshees were not going to see anything wrong with taking something and dragging it here if they thought it belonged in this place. Regan knew that. She knew that down to her shaking bones – every one other than the noble pubis her thumbs smoothed over in her hands. Siobhan did belong here. If others agreed with her, they, like her, were thinking about this backwards – how wrong it would be to be anywhere else.

Despite this, Regan thought this would work for Siobhan. Anita made a strong case for her (sort of… also, why was Anita here?). Siobhan wouldn’t have been receiving this retrial if a return was off the table. This was being handed to her.

And she was using it, her power, her time to appeal, to turn everyone against Regan. Those hundreds of eyes, now sharpened like iron daggers, were set on her again, and her flesh crawled with oppressive fae presence like an army of ants pinched at her skin. Regan flashed Siobhan a sharp look that said are you kidding? They weren’t even on trial against each other. This was not a debate. Why did Jade like this foul banshee? Why did Anita and Metzli? Regan was able to ignore everyone for just as long as it took to snipe at Siobhan. “They were good enough for your worms to lay with, weren’t they?” Siobhan wouldn’t appreciate her speaking of this. So she was. “How embarrassed you were by their tubes of sperm and wriggling affection. How coddled yours were, as if you were used to living in such a manner yourself. I was not the one leaking at the sight of them. Your tear ducts are defective. They work.” Regan crossed her arms, chin pointed up. She had just cried for three days straight. No one had to know that.

It was the mention of the old doctor, of pushing grandmothers, that shot a bullet through Regan’s moment of confidence. The worms in her mind scattered. Was her pubic defender not supposed to do something here? Did it work without the ilia and ischia? When Regan heard the word leanbh, it had not come from Siobhan, but from the tar pit across town. And predictably, the coward that she was, Regan shrank back. That voice said banshees do not fear, do not cower, just as often as it called her a child. It was right on both counts. Regan was no banshee. A banshee would not have pushed her grandmother to her inevitable death. Whatever she was, it did feel fear. Maybe not for Siobhan. She didn’t care very much about Siobhan. But the banshees in the crowd were full of spite, and it was no longer for Siobhan.

———

The pubic defender did not say anything about how Siobhan’s statements against its client were unfair, or irrelevant to the matter at hand. It did not say anything, because it was a bone.

———

The arguments regarding worms caught Anita off guard, she wasn’t expecting her actual area of expertise to come up. “Objection!” She said and stood up from her seat, channeling her inner Elle Woods. “The claims of leaking are, uh, hearsay.” After receiving some unwelcome stares, she quietly sat back down.

———

The phonies did well to block out the noise of the room, but they couldn’t do much more than that. No tool could dull out a banshee’s scream, nor could it block it. A few seconds alone could tear the flesh away and turn Metzli into dust, but they found that outcome far preferable to losing people they cared about. Having to exist in a world where love and freedom were ripped from their friends and replaced with obedience and rot was worse. Time and distance had given both Regan and Siobhan the chance to experience what it meant to connect and love and care. Even as it no longer remained the priority in the Aos Sí, Metzli could see how their time away affected them, changed them to be who they were meant to be as they sat at their podium.

They weren’t sure if they believed in Fate, but for all intents and purposes wasn’t that Fate, too? Weren’t connections a direct cause of Fate? Wasn’t that why the distance between Metzli and their loved ones only made the pull in their chest stronger? As if each connection wound itself tightly like a string and grew taut with each step away. Metzli didn’t understand why that didn’t matter to the crowd that despised their abhorrent existence, but they found they didn’t care anymore. Why would they listen to loveless and cruel creatures that reminded them of their clan? If Metzli deserved to be dead, so did they. But they had to behave. Be better.

———

The human was good at making the wheel spin, though that was hardly something to compliment. A child could do it. As could a gust of wind. As could a bone. Eithne watched them swing at it again and hoped for a little bit of respite. A nice sacrifice or a dance break. She was tired of hearing Siobhan talk of worms, as if her having girthier worms was (though admirable) in any way relevant. It was kind of amusing to see the two banshees argue, though. “We all know by now Regan Kavanagh has no regard for Worms. It is not yet her turn, though, is it?” Eyes flashed at Siobhan. She was no fan of big displays of emotion but plenty of banshees cried over worms. Especially on worm remembrance day, which the leanbh had made all about her. “Spin.”

———

Wynne watched with a weary look on their face how Siobhan and Regan argued about worms. All of the words were white noise, jumbling together like the clacking of the wheel that would come again. It all seemed like filler. Like the air bubbles that formed when you baked sourdough bread, trapped and surrounded and at the end of the day, not all that important. They were there because of a process but they added nothing when you cut the bread. They released hot, baked air and when you put jam or butter on a slice of bread, you had to maneuver around it. They thought this was like that. Baked air.

But who were they to protest? Who had they ever been to protest? Even when they had ran they had not left a long letter, even when they had returned they hadn’t offered a great speech. They looked at Regan with wide eyes but remained quiet and eventually just spun the wheel again, the clicking and clacking as monotone as the words that had been spoken. They wondered how long this would go on. If this really was all a charade and how long this postponed would take until a judgment was passed.

Because if what they were saying was true — if Regan had killed her grandmother, then what did it matter? She would be punished. What did this stage offer? Why were they there, if not to be looked at with a kind of mirth, and not the reverence they had once been used to. Maybe it was a blessing they were all focused on Siobhan now, who Wynne knew less well. Who they were slightly afraid of. Who had been unkind to them, at times, even if she had also offered them a kind of clarity way back when.

Wynne stood very still, afraid that any wrong move might reveal the way they were teetering on the edge of collapse. If regression had given them anything it was composure. They shot into action when they were told to spin again, waiting with baited breath as the wheel clicked around and watching it land on ‘sketch artist’ with a sense of dull relief.

———

She’d gotten a totally dope (that was an American word that she could maybe get on board with) role in this trial, and she wasn’t going to disappoint. She’d spent the whole time carefully observing everyone, her pencil hardly ever leaving the page. Tina might have not killed the child and Regan’s woman back in Maine, but she could do a good job here and now.

So when the scared and beautifully sacrificial human spun the wheel and it finally landed on her, she nearly leapt up (but that would’ve been showing too much emotion, so she didn’t) and held up her drawing. She’d been paying attention so much, and her drawing showed – well, it showed something. Regan, drawn extremely lifelike, being nibbled on by an army of worms, bits of her flesh being consumed. It was delightful and gruesome and her mother had to be proud of this. “It’s something. It’ll be a good and solid memory to have.” Her lips twisted with a certain sense of pride. Tina couldn’t help herself.

———

Eithne moved off the stage for a short moment to approach Tina. She held an important role, as it was good to freeze these kinds of moments in time. The community hadn’t really gotten the hang off backing up mobile phone pictures in the cloud yet, so drawings were still preferable. And so she considered the drawing with an expert’s eye and nodded approvingly after a few beats. “Great, yes — it is certainly a good start. It requires more anguish, though. Keep at it.”

With a swish she turned around, back onto the stage. She cleared her throat just once, which was enough to kick the human in motion.

———

Wynne thought of spinning a bottle with their friends back at home in a game of truth or dare as they pulled at the wheel again. The urge to cry rose and disappeared and they continued to be as they had once been. In control of their emotions, exuding a level of calmness that had been called a gift back at home. The wheel turned. They hoped for a finale.

———

The Ciorcal na Cinniúint clicked and clacked. The yellow wedge it stopped on indicated that it was time for what the crowd clamored for: Siobhan’s judgment. Eithne was a generous soul. She would help the human judge out once again, because humans did not always respect the roles they were meant to fulfill. It was a grand kindness, she thought. She was having a very kind day, so far. “You must decide.”

Everyone looked at Wynne for the verdict, hundreds of eyes staring at the pitiful, trembling human who was clearly trying very hard not to tremble. Eithne offered a little more help, because she was very gracious that day, “Tibia, or fibula?”

———

Wynne blinked at the banshee. They wanted to ask what bones had to do with the so-called judgment, but then remembered where they stood. They turned their head to look at Siobhan and wondered if the next word out of their mouth would determine the course of her life. She already hated them because they hadn’t promised their bones to her, and now they also had to cast judgment.

They thought for a moment, scoured their mind in an attempt to remember what they knew of tibias and fibulas. They were in the lower leg, that was simple enough — one of them was thicker and more supportive, the other was for … stability, something of that sort. They tried to remember which was which, as if this was one of those exams outsiders had to take. Tibia, yes, tibia was the stronger one. The more prominent one. The fibula? Sometimes it was merged with the tibia, in some animals, they remembered that too, from the cattle skeletons at home. Horses barely had a visible one. But did it matter? Was it even a metaphor? Siobhan had once thought their idea that femurs were good for spontaneity was ridiculous, after all. Bones were bones. Bones here were seemingly treasured for rarity and quality, not for function. (Though femurs did seem to be favored.)

And Emilio had said Siobhan was bad, so where did that leave them? Did that mean they should be malicious and choose what they figured to be the worst option? Or should they extend mercy in the face of this court? Their mind was spinning with considerations, with fears of what might happen if they said tibia or what might happen if they said fibula. What Siobhan might do if they chose wrong.

They didn’t want to choose, that was where the dread in their stomach mostly came from. They did not want to participate in a place like this, to once again be a cog in a machine that took part in human sacrifice and other cruel methods. They didn’t want to say either of the two words. They didn’t want to know what would happen once they moved onto Regan or what would happen if they made the wheel land on ‘human sacrifice’ and most of all they did not want to be here, they had never even wanted to be here, even if it had felt like the right thing to do. They didn’t want the banshees to look at them any longer but all of them did, and all of them grew restless with every second the judge did not cast their judgment.

They were no longer feeling calm. They looked away from Siobhan and said, “Tibia.”

———

It took the human long enough. Eithne was pretty sure they would start crying even though she had asked them a very simple and straightforward question. She could have made it harder! She could have asked them the average circumference of a fox’ third rib, after all. She could have asked them to stand on their head while delivering the judgment. It was always very disappointing when she was faced with the frailty of humans, though it was never surprising.

No matter. The human picked tibia, which was a good answer. There were bad answers, of course — like um, or what do you mean, or please let me off the stage, I don’t know what I’m doing and I am going to have a mental breakdown! — and so she was satisfied. Not that it mattered very much, how the human ruled.

As if banshees would let a human decide their verdicts.

Eithne took a step forward and announced the verdict: “Siobhan Dolan will be allowed to return to us. After today, there will be no further stipulations.”

———

Metzli gasped quietly and whipped their gaze toward Siobhan. The verdict had been what she longed for, regardless of some failure. Since they’d arrived, Metzli had prepared themself for the possibility for her illusion to become reality, and still, they found themself mourning. They were supposed to be relieved and happy for her, but they couldn’t fight the sorrow inside. Despite this, Metzli offered yet another lie, and smiled.

———

Anita wasn’t disillusioned enough to think that anything she said in her opening statements made much impact on this decision, but it still felt like a bit of a victory. She looked over at her “client,” someone who would no longer be her co-worker, possibly someone who she could truly call a friend. The reality of the loss took a moment to settle in but she didn’t let her face betray her and reveal those emotions. Instead, she tried to make sense of the expression on Siobhan’s face. There was little sense about much of what was going on, however, she had figured that much out. What she was able to determine was that with Siobhan’s trial concluded, her role was completed, and it was time for her to exit off stage left and rejoin the crowd for act two.

———

It wasn’t what Max had wanted, though like many of the banshees present, she was far less interested in Siobhan’s verdict than Regan’s. After all, she’d never known Siobhan, hadn’t been directly affected by her betrayal. Siobhan’s disgusting mistakes had taken place long before Max and her sister were born, and even longer before they were born as things that mattered. Still, she thought of the terrible, undead thing Siobhan had cared for back in Wicked’s Rest. It would be difficult, sharing a community with someone who could stoop themselves to such levels. Max would make sure Siobhan knew, now and forever, where she stood — that Max was the better banshee, and that Siobhan was little more than a failure being given a second chance she hadn’t earned. Max was good at reminding people of such things.

———

Clare could feel a scream boiling her lungs, like oil bubbling and splashing, trying to spill over a burst through her chest. Siobhan was allowed to return? She was allowed to return to the place she had nearly destroyed with her own arrogance even though it was clear she had learned nothing in her decades away. Clare turned to look at Putrecia, hoping that she would intervene, say there had been a mistake, that the sad, pathetic excuse of a human sacrifice was, in fact, not the proper judge, that this was not the will of Fate.

Siobhan had snapped Fate in two the last time she tried to bend it to her own will, she was the reason that Clare lost her mother, the reason why six other banshees fell before their true fated end, too. This time, though, this time Fate bent to shape itself around her, granted her immunity for her crimes and let her reclaim what she had rightfully had stripped away from her.

It was all she could do not to scream to Fate and ask why it had betrayed her for a second time. Why it favored Siobhan in ways she couldn’t understand. Instead, she pulled the horrendous hat off her head and let a focused, concentrated scream echo within the repurposed wing. It was a more emotional display than she should have allowed herself, Clare knew that, and it almost pulled her down to the wingless wonder’s own level in a way – another way she’d been wronged by Siobhan – but she couldn’t help it.

It was tempting to storm out right then and there to toss the stupid hat into Farraige na Buanachta so it could join its pair but there was more to witness. Maybe Fate would grant at least some rightful justice today.

———

How easy it was to sway a room; how simple to thread the lines of their little play. Stories, like life, were commanded by Fate. Could Romeo comment on the inevitably of his end? Or his idiocy in believing Juliet to be dead? In falling in love at all? Could Wynne say anything to the matter between Tibia and Fibula? And did it matter? Siobhan had what she wanted, even if she’d been one word away from something else. Fate favored her today—No, that wasn’t right. What was that about stories? They were written, chosen, made. What had she been thinking about the room? Those were her words about the Regan’s worms, her words about her grandmother. This stage was made at the direction of someone else. The wheel spun because it was pushed. Wynne was the judge because they were picked out; Wynne’s choice wasn’t Fate, Fate didn’t exist in a coin toss. Who had placed the coin? Who was flipping it? Who said it needed to be done at all? What was Fate? Was it Fate that took her wings—no, that was her mother. Was it Fate that pushed Cliodhna—no, that was Regan.

Siobhan peered down at Regan, staring at her from under her lashes and over the tip of her nose. She was so small but more than just the slope of the stage, she appeared shriveled into herself—thin and sad like her worms. And it was Siobhan that had done that, in some way, not Fate. Regan looked wrong, not because a banshee ought to stand tall and proud but because she remembered the woman that met her with an indignant gaze as she dumped her gray worms out. This was the woman that called her a hag. This was the woman that said she hated her, just the start of this month, and now she was small. It was wrong for Regan, and that wrongness twisted Siobhan’s stomach. Why did she care? She didn’t like Regan; she hadn’t lied when she said she hated her too. She hated her childishness, she hated her lack of humor, she hated how much she envied her. Why did she care? Let the woman feel small. She was, after all.

Siobhan got what she wanted. She won. She was going home. What had she been thinking before about Fate and stories? Oh, it was nonsense anyway. Fate adored her, Fate was appreciative of her almost-century of dedicated service. She loved Fate. She was so happy—no, she didn’t feel much of anything except the twisting in her stomach. If Siobhan assigned the synonyms in her head, she could author her reality. Happy, gleeful, content, joyous, relieved, jovial, merry—she tried to form herself under those words. She was swarming with cheer as she turned and met Orla’s gaze, who wiped a tear. She could feel nothing but pleasure as she turned the other way and found Metzli, who looked sad. Happiness clawed and tore her innards when she met Anita’s gaze, who she would never see again. It was glee inside of her as she looked up at Wynne, who was probably confused. She could imagine the Siobhan that would’ve felt a thesaurus of contentment, but she couldn’t find her.

In reality, there was only a short burst of delight as she met Clare’s gaze and blew her a kiss—she ought to feel more remorse, but it was Clare and she had her wings on her head. So, fuck Clare, boo-hoo and so on. Siobhan won! Clare lost! And the thing Clare lost was…her mother, actually. Clare had lost a long time ago. And now there was Siobhan and she should have been feeling something, a particular way, a sentiment less contradictory. She should’ve been whole.

She was Siobhan and not Siobhan. A shell encased around the woman who carried that name, but also that set of brown eyes and silky brown hair and those memories. And still, the terrible swirling inside and the thoughts that battled and snapped and the expanse of life that couldn’t be put on stage; that words would always fail and that the question of tibia or fibula would never answer. She was haunted by a thousand twins; each of them humiliated by the others and by herself, most of all. The interjecting voice was her. The one who cared was her and she was the one who always had. The woman who berated Regan and would gladly do so again was her. She chose to act on the stage, and she chose to spin the story and she wasn’t happy at all, even now that she’d been given all that she wanted. And she was the one that felt ungrateful and indignant and shamed—why hadn’t her mother come to see her?—and proud and warm—she had friends!—and guilty and annoyed—even at her lowest, Regan could inspire someone to care when no one had ever cared for Siobhan when the stage swallowed her. To be a banshee would mean the rejection of these emotional selves but to be Siobhan meant the acceptance of her own contradictions and confusions; her pain, her life, her words, her mutilated skin, her sympathy for helpless things and her revelry in chaos.

She’d been Siobhan for so long—whatever it meant to be that undignified, embarrassed, fraying woman. For forty-two years she’d been ingloriously Siobhan. And for all one hundred and six years, shamefully, never anything but herself. She couldn’t be a banshee now. Unlike herself and the most like herself she had ever felt, all she wanted to do now was tell Regan she was sorry, but there was nothing she could do to stop a play in its second act.

———

Regan’s gan úsáid human fear still kept her feet from moving (more freeze than fight, flight, or fawn, only one of which was correct for a banshee), and she felt like she was being electrocuted on a wire, but Siobhan’s verdict reached her through it. No further stipulations after today. That was distinct from right now. Had Siobhan noticed that part, or was she basking in the glow of finally getting what she wanted, willing to overlook what should have been obvious, and the opaque and subjective meanings of tibia and fibula here? Regan had spent recent years interacting with other banshees, trying not to become tangled in their words, keeping an ear for any attempts to humiliate her more than she already had herself. Siobhan had not. She might have grown up around banshees, but how carefully did she listen, really? It was how she had ended up in the middle seat in the Economy section of a seven hour flight.

Regan wouldn’t look up at Siobhan to assess her response. Maybe she couldn’t. Regan wasn’t sure if it was a conscious choice or she only convinced herself it was. But she decided – because she could decide things now, or had at least once, which was why she was standing here – that she did not care what Siobhan’s future would look like. She stared straight ahead, her face flat, a distant soldier her grandmother probably would have approved of. “Congratulations,” she muttered, still refusing to look at the other banshee, but she spoke against the shockwave still running through her. “You are perfect for this place”.

#writing #c siobhan #c wynne #c eithne #c anita #c metzli #c max #c tina #c clare #c nora

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kloppinthekop · 1 year ago

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꧁ hello! ꧂

amy ᝰ ❧ scorpio sun and moon, she/they, grey-ace, 30s

i support liverpool f.c. (epl) and mclaren (f1). faves include: dominik szoboszlai, lando norris, oscar piastri, and carlos sainz jr.

→ formula 1 sideblog: carlandoscars ←

i have a ph.d. in english literature, specializing in science fiction, but i really only write for fun these days.

other interests include: kate bush (queen of my heart), goth and post punk music/subculture, horror and sci-fi films, jane austen, mary shelley (i am always ready to bring frankenstein into any conversation), orphan black, star trek, studio ghibli, and more.

a masterlist of my fics and other scribblings are below the cut! a gentle reminder that i do not take requests for fics; however, headcanons are welcome and my askbox is open!

you can find most of my fics on archive of our own (ao3). some may be archive-locked (only viewable to users who are logged in on ao3). fics are sorted by type, ship/pairing, and then alphabetically listed within each category (for the most part). ratings are indicated in parentheses next to each title. if you are under the age of 18, please do not interact with any mature/explicit fics. full list of tags and any potential content warnings are available on ao3. masterlist to be updated periodically.

꧁DOMITRENT꧂ (dominik szoboszlai/trent alexander arnold)

dream come true (M, eventually E) 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔰 ➾ [work in progress]

→ Dominik, whose dreams of becoming a professional football player ended years ago due to injury, has dedicated himself to a new passion: physiotherapy. After moving to Liverpool to complete his studies, he meets Trent, a local lad whose dream of playing in the first team is about to come true. But what if, in meeting one another, their dreams become intertwined?

꧁HENDOLLANA꧂ (jordan henderson/adam lallana)

borne in red (E; dubcon) → In a world where men have been discovered to be infertile, the few men who are not sterile are forced into service of Captains and their Wives. Adam Lallana is one of these "studs," also known as Reds. He is also, dangerously, in love with men. Over a course of Ceremonies, he discovers that his Captain has a secret, and that his proclivities may be indeed similar to Adam's own desires…

A Hendollana AU based on Margaret Atwood's novel, The Handmaid's Tale.

⟡ by chapter: chapter one: waiting | chapter two: discovering | chapter three: being | chapter four: waiting | chapter five: coda

꧁DOMITRENT꧂ (dominik szoboszlai/trent alexander arnold)

we lit the fire and it's burning bright (E) → After the Liverpool vs Manchester City game (where Trent scores the equaliser), Dom takes Trent back to his apartment and proceeds to take him apart with his hands and lips.

working on the riddle of your heart (E) → Dominik can’t stop thinking about Trent. Ever since pre-season training, he has been obsessed. God, Dominik wants to be possessed by Trent.

you're out there killing the game (E) → Trent gets his arse out for all to see, but Dom wants it to be just his.

꧁CARRAVILLE꧂ (jamie carragher/gary neville)

gary knows; or, gary the fool in liverpool (T) → Liverpool’s lost the league, and Gary’s lost his damn mind.

a christmas carraville (merry crimbo, ye big lug) (G) → God I love him, but my husband is an idiot, Jamie thinks. In which Gary Neville and Jamie Carragher are married, but Gary doesn't know it yet.

champagne supernova (happy new year, ye tosser) (T) → It's New Year's Eve, and all Carra can think about is whether a certain Manc will kiss him at midnight. Maybe a little liquid courage will help light the way.

package deal (it's valentine's day, ye dimwit) (E) → Gary's got a Valentine’s date with an idiot.

꧁GERLONSO꧂ (steven gerrard/xabi alonso)

days of legends past (G) → "When you left, it broke my heart." Three vignettes related to various and sundry myths and legends.

꧁HENDOLLANA꧂ (jordan henderson/adam lallana)

fools in love (G; archive-locked) → aka, five times that other people noticed Jordan and Adam were dating before they did, and one time they finally realize that they’ve been a couple all along.

hounds of love (G; archive-locked) → Jordan's not sure what his soulmark will be yet, but what he does know is that he's terrified. A slow-burn soulmate AU.

merry to go 'round (G; archive-locked) → The lads buy a house together at the end of the 2026 World Cup campaign, and not a single one of their teammates (former teammates now) are surprised.

soft lad (E; archive-locked) → Five-hundred twenty-five thousand six-hundred minutes… it took a span of two pre-seasons for Hendo to realize that he was in love.

vignettes: tickertape (G; archive-locked) → After the trophy lift, Hendo searches for a tangible piece of memory…

vignettes: turf (G; archive-locked) → Lallana leaving LFC, but choosing a certain squad number for familiarity…

꧁OTHER SHIPS꧂

put myself on a pedestal - virgil van dijk/jarell quansah (E) → After the Union Saint-Gilloise match, Jarell says some things to the press that perhaps ought not to have been said. It's Virgil's job to educate him. But perhaps there are things that Virgil also ought not to say out loud… Then, Jarell comes over to his house one night after training, and Virgil finds a more effective way to stop Jarell from saying stupid things.

eu sou... - eric dier/dele alli (G; archive-locked) → Dele is um idiota but so is Eric. Pining ensues. footballers watch: eurovision 2019 - multi-ship (G; archive-locked) → What it says on the tin. [Pairings include: Carraville, Hendollana, Gerlonso, Deledier, and other random cameos.]

꧁GEN FICS꧂

klopp in the kop, forever - jürgen klopp (G) → Jürgen Klopp, the normal one, is about to live a normal life, for the first time in his life.

vignettes: takumi (G; archive-locked) → Second day at Anfield • Daemon!fic aka His Dark Materials/Football RPF

⟡ domitrent headcanon - who's naughtier, domi or trent?

⟡ domitrent headcanon - valentine's day

⟡ domitrent headcanon - who fell first

⟡ domitrent headcanon - dealing with injuries

⟡ domitrent headcanon - sex positions

⟡ domi and trent headcanons - fashion styles, shopping habits

⟡ domi, trent and jude headcanons - jealousy

⟡ trent and jude headcanons - food habits, sweet tooth

⟡ cheeky - domitrent

⟡ the prince and the scouser - domitrent

⟡ queen's gambit AU - domitrent

⟡ anfield is a cauldron - gen!fic

dividers created by @cafekitsune | other graphics resources

#pinned post #about me #masterlist #fic masterlist #my fics #fanfiction #football rpf #ao3 #fanfic #domitrent #gerlonso #carraville #hendollana #virgil/jarell #liverpool fc #liverpool #kloppinthekop #blog intro

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itsladykit · 1 year ago

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Compound Fracture, 40 - Fire and Ice

Summary: In which Sans and Slim have a one-sided chat.

CW: alcohol use/abuse, past domestic violence, self-deprecating thoughts, over-protective brothers being overly protective

After that morning’s discussion with Edge, things became peaceful to a degree Slim found surreal.

Breakfast was normal enough. Those little signs of interest he’d noticed around the kitchen table nearly a week ago were still present, but they were more obvious now. By the time Edge had prepared a plate of muffins and fresh fruit and eggs for Slim, Red, and Paps, Blue had prepared a plate as well, piled high with everything they’d made. Edge gave him a look when he set it in front of Edge’s seat.

“Pipsqueak…”

There was a warning in his tone, but Blue just smiled brightly. “I didn’t think you’d mind sharing. Is that okay?”

That had earned him a raised brow-bone, but the suspicion faded from his features. “I…suppose.” He cleared his throat, then took his seat between Blue and Paps. Grinning, Blue handed him half of a muffin, already smeared with butter and jam. Once he took it, Blue tapped his half of the muffin against Edge’s in mockery of a toast and took a bite. With a subtle smile pulling at his mouth, Edge relaxed his shoulders and followed suit. Then he leaned forward and began asking them about Underswap’s housing situation, where they’d best be able to find a place, what kind of money or paperwork would be needed. All the critical pieces of information they’d need to establish their safe house.

As they chatted, Red watched closely while making it look like he wasn’t watching at all. Slim saw the way his eyelights darted from Edge to Blue to their shared plate. Before Slim could remind him that they were safe in this universe—Edge was allowed to relax here—and that they wanted the Swap brothers to lure him away from Underfell entirely, Red’s hand uncurled from the loose fist he’d formed. He swallowed hard, then turned his attention to his own food.

It took Slim a moment to realize why, still not yet as attuned to Edge as he was to Red. After a beat, he understood; Edge was eating, seemingly without difficulty or protest. And even if Blue wasn’t precisely the cause, he was certainly helping rather than hurting.

After that, Red remained watchful, but he seemed disinclined to disrupt whatever magic the Swap brothers were weaving.

The next couple days passed in what seemed to Slim like a surreal haze of peace and warmth. There was bickering—you couldn’t throw seven skeletons into a house and expect them not to argue—but it was good-natured, even if Edge and Red both had to add coins to Rus’ swear jar. Rus continued to flirt with Red, and the Swap brothers continued to prove that Edge was not nearly as unapproachable as Slim had always assumed, even if he remained just as prickly. It left his soul feeling warm and pleased and—

—and anxious, certain as he was that the fragile peace couldn’t last. Hurt, too, because they were only seven, when they could have—should have—been eight.

On the third night of Edge’s return, that absence seemed magnified. More so because no one else seemed to note it. Edge and Blue were pouring over some obscure paragraph penned by the Elder Puzzler. They held a heavy tome between them, heads bent together as they stabbed at the page, talking over each other as they discussed the passage’s meaning. Paps—somehow—had managed to fall asleep beside them, taking up more of the couch than he had a right to. His skull was pillowed against Edge’s thigh, and Slim didn’t miss the way Edge’s hand—his arm no longer wrapped—settled on the crown of his head or the back of his neck when he and Blue paused their discussion. His fingers would periodically ghost over Paps’ bones before returning to the page to point at some other obscure bit of minutia.

In other circumstances, Rus’ attention would have been on them and the discussion of puzzles and traps, but Red had pulled him away and was—ostensibly—teaching him how to play poker. He leaned against Rus’ side, the two of them bent over the cards laid face up on the table. He reached over Rus’ arm, deliberately brushing against him as he sorted the cards into various hands, explaining which were the most valuable. And cracking dirty jokes under his breath to fluster Rus whenever he could work them in.

It was all very sweet and domestic. Despite himself, Slim kept trying to imagine where Razz would have seated himself, what he would have done on such a cozy, peaceful evening. He found he could only imagine his brother mocking the Fell brothers for their sudden softness, picking a fight to disrupt and disturb the fragile peace. Even if Razz had chosen to stay, he would not have belonged here amongst them. He would not have wanted to belong, seeing only weakness.

Slim’s soul ached, sick with loss and guilt. Because as much as he wished that Razz had stayed, he was too grateful for the warmth and peace to wish that he was here. He’d never forgive himself for that. He was a terrible brother, as traitorous as Razz claimed.

There was another absence weighing on them too. Rus kept checking the door, waiting for his own brother to reappear. At first, Slim had assumed he was worried that Sans would disrupt his time with Red, but as the night went on and Rus seemed to grow more and more despondent, he realized his looks weren’t furtive but upset. Rus was a better brother than Slim could ever hope to be.

In fact, Sans—like Razz—seemed to be pulling further and further away from his brother and the other skeletons. He hadn’t joined them for “arts and crafts”, and the last few days, he’d barely made an appearance at meal times, disappearing shortly after Rus, Blue, and Edge cleared the dishes away. It was no mystery where he’d gone, though Slim couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t stay. This was his home. He was Tale-verse. Was it simply overwhelming, having everyone here? Or was there more going on?

Slim stood up and stretched. Red looked to him, brow-bone cocked. Then Slim held up a pack of cigarettes, and he nodded. “ya wan’ comp’ny?” Slim shook his head, waving Red off as he headed toward the door. He lit up outside, so he wasn’t really lying, then started down the street toward the tavern.

He couldn’t do anything for his own brother, but he could at least do something for Sans.

He paused outside, looking up at the name writ large across the building’s side. His mouth felt dry, and he ducked his head, wishing he was wearing Red’s jacket. He missed the hood to hide his face, missed the ruff of warm fur that smelled of mustard and stale smoke. His fingers trembled, but as he ran his phalanges over his wrist, he felt the paint that still clung to the bone. He took a breath, stealing himself, and stepped inside. The collar at his throat was heavy and reassuring.

The room smelled of cigar smoke, grease, and wet dog, but the low murmur of voices wasn’t as overwhelming as he feared it would be. His gaze dropped down when he saw a flicker of fire from the corner of his socket. He kept his head down as he made his way toward the bar, cervical vertebrae prickling. He sat beside Sans, eyelights fixed on his pink slippers. For a moment, Sans didn’t react. Then he shifted, and Slim could tell he was looking at him.

Before Sans could say anything, Slim felt a sudden wash of heat as the bartender came to get his order. The breath caught in his thoracic cavity. He couldn’t bring himself to look up, let alone speak, and when Sans asked, “uh…d’you want anything?” he felt his bones start to tremble. Sans cleared his throat. “uh…how ‘bout some caramel for my friend—” Slim’s hand shot out, gripping Sans’ sleeve. He shook his head. “huh. alright. no caramel, then. wanna give something else a try?”

Slim swallowed, wondering why he’d come here. Had he really thought he’d be any use to anyone? He couldn’t speak on a good day—and now he thought he could talk to Sans in Grillby’s bar, of all places?

He stood, knowing that this had been a mistake. He shouldn’t have come here. He shouldn’t have—

A fiery hand slipped into view, sliding a glass of something forward. The hand shaped the words, “Is maple syrup okay?” and he looked up.

Whatever reservations or biases he’d had about this Grillby slipped away. His brows were furrowed in concern, and his eyes were kind behind the glasses he wore. Tale-verse warmth bled off him, reminding Slim more of a sweet-piece than the gang leader he knew. Even the color of their flames was different. The only thing he shared with the Grillby of his ‘verse was a name.

He signed again, asking about the maple syrup. This time, Slim nodded and pulled the glass closer. The elemental checked in with Sans, then left after giving him a fresh bottle.

Sans rolled it between his hands, eyeing Slim out of the corner of his socket. “did pap send you?” he asked after a few minutes of silence.

Slim shook his head.

“edge?” He shook his head again. Sans turned to face him, frowning. “blue?” Another head shake. “stretch? no? well it wasn’t…” He paused. “red?” He shook his head one last time. “then who…?” Sans paused. “oh. you, uh…you came on your own?” Slim nodded. Sans stared at him. “why?”

Slim looked him up and down, then raised a brow-bone. Sans huffed, turning back to his drink. “well, thanks i guess but you really didn’t need to.”

Slim gave him a skeptical look, then shrugged, turning his attention to the syrup. It didn’t look bad. And it didn’t have any unpleasant associations. He spun the glass in his hand, watching the viscous liquid roll. He did prefer his drinks have a little body to them.

He took a tentative sip, and when he lowered the glass, he realized the bartender was watching him. “good?” he signed.

Ducking his head, Slim averted his sockets but nodded nonetheless. He hunched his shoulders, again wishing he had Red’s jacket. Or his own. He didn’t like feeling so visible.

Sans eyed him but didn’t say anything, which Slim didn’t mind. He missed his music, but someone had put a coin in the jukebox and one of Mettaton’s songs was playing softly. He ran his thumb over the edge of the bar, fingers silently tapping to the beat. Sans tried to ignore him at first, but Slim was more comfortable with silence, and as it stretched between them, Sans started to fidget. Finally, he said, “so, what’s up with you and the fell bros?”

Slim cocked his head in question.

Sans cleared his throat. “look, i know there’s a lot of stuff we don’t get, but i know this—” He touched his throat, where a collar would rest if he wore one. “—is kind of a big deal.”

That was a lot to explain to a Tale-verse monster, and he didn’t have the energy to try. So he just shrugged and rolled the glass between his hands. Sans watched him. When Slim continued to not say anything, he said, “i heard the edgelord call you brother. is that…” He swallowed. “that it, then? they adopted you?”

Slim glanced at him and offered a little nod.

“good,” he said, “that’s—it’s good.” Slim raised a brow-bone; it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Sans cleared his throat. “i’m happy for you.” He smiled, though it didn’t reach his sockets. When Slim turned to face him fully, he downed the rest of his ketchup and flagged down the bartender. “heh. dead soldier,” he said, wiggling the bottle between his thumb and forefinger when the elemental came over. With a soft sigh, he opened another and set it in front of him. “thanks, grillbz!”

He turned back to Slim. “they’ll—they’ll take care of you,” Sans said, elbows resting on the bar. “they’re good. a little rough around the edges—” His grin widened, and he offered Slim a wink. “—but good. they’ll look after you.” He nodded to himself, taking another swig of ketchup. Slim began to wonder how many he’d had already. “yeah,” he said, more to himself than to Slim, “and you’ll—you’ll look after them too.” He took another long drink. “’s important,” he said, staring at the bottle, “family. need to look after your own.”

Brow-bones furrowed, Slim reached for him, but Sans turned suddenly and stared at him, eyelights bright and urgent. “did anyone…? anyone tell you?” Slim cocked his head, eyelights darting from Sans’ face to a spot just past his acoustic meatus. There was an intensity in his gaze that made Slim uncomfortable. “they didn’t, did they?”

Sans sat back, and Slim eyed the legs of his stool, noting how they wobbled. “not surprised.” He swallowed, his smile wide and—forced. “everyone’s been a little occupied. but you should know. you should—” Suddenly distracted, Sans grabbed the bottle of ketchup and took another long drink.

Slim fidgeted with the cuff of his sleeve, tugging on it as he eyed the bar. It was beginning to feel like a mistake, coming here. He’d been worried about Sans, but seeing him like this, he realized how woefully unprepared he was to deal with whatever was bothering him.

Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Sans set the bottle down with a soft clunk. Then he pointed a limp finger at Slim. “he came back for you.”

Slim stared at him, sockets wide—nearly panicked as he tried to guess what he meant.

“razz.”

The name cut through him, and his soul dropped. His grip on his sleeve tightened. Sans held up his hand, as if in surrender. “not-not like that.” He shook his head, sipping his ketchup. “when you first disappeared on us. razz went back through the machine, and your house was—it was on fire.” He stared hard at the bottle. “he barely—he didn’t even hesitate. just charged back in, back through the machine. into an inferno. if papyrus didn’t go in and grab him….”

Slim stared. No, no one had told him anything about this. He caught Sans’ sleeve, shaking it until Sans looked at him again. His eyelights were hazy, unfocused. But still intent. “he went back for you,” he said again, “he….” Something vital seemed to drain out of him, and Sans turned back to the bar. He leaned one elbow on it and rested his head heavily on his upraised hand, picking at the bottle’s label with the other. “he didn’t even hesitate,” he said again, but now he sounded tired—morose. “charged straight into a fire. but he wouldn’t stay. why…?”

With every word, Slim’s soul twisted itself into tighter and tighter knots. His breath froze in his thoracic cavity, and his bones prickled. The hum of mana through his skull was suddenly loud in his earholes. Forcing himself to move—to breathe—he turned back to the bar and grabbed the glass of maple syrup. It was warm in his hands. He took a fortifying swig, the syrup so sweet it made his teeth buzz.

A figure came to stand on his other side, and Slim’s skull jerked to look at him. Cool red eyelights stared back. Seeing the third skeleton join them, the bartender approached and waited for his order. “Siracha on the rocks. With lime, if you have it.” The elemental cocked a brow and gave Sans a look, but turned away to prepare Edge’s drink before anyone could attempt to interpret that reaction. “You were gone a while,” Edge observed, looking at Slim. “We were beginning to get worried.” He thanked the bartender for his drink when it arrived, offering a subtle nod of approval after his first sip.

“hey, grillbz, can you get me a fresh one?” Sans held up his empty bottle. “this one’s dead too.”

When Grillby approached, Edge put out a hand, stopping him. “Just water for him.” Grillby eyed Edge and Sans, then nodded and went to fetch a glass of water. Sans blinked in surprise, staring at him. “I did warn you I’d step in if this continued,” he said coolly.

Sans started snickering, cheekbone propped on his fist. “so, you gonna adopt me or date me, edgelord? ‘cause it seems to be one or the other with you.”

A bright red flush crept up Edge’s cheekbones, but he kept his head high and his gaze steady. “How refreshing for you to admit you need looking after. And while I am well aware of my desirability as either sibling or date-mate, I’m afraid my hands are full.”

“two brothers, two bonefriends—i’ll say your hands are full.” Edge’s blush brightened, though he refused to look away. “better be careful you don’t drop anyone, juggling like that.”

Edge straightened. “And what, exactly, do you mean by that?”

“means you spend too much time sticking your fingers in everyone else’s pies.” He eyed the glass of water. “figured a baker would know better than that."

Edge glared at him for a moment, then shook his head and took a sip of his drink. He looked to Slim, surveying him a moment before observing, “I was surprised to find you here, brother.” Slim winced, waiting for the chastisement, but Edge just settled closer, leaning his back against the bar as he looked down at Slim. “I’m glad you were comfortable coming here. It’s good to get out and relax a little.” He cast an eyelight at Sans. “In moderation, of course.”

Snorting, Sans asked, “what would you know about moderation?”

Edge’s brow-bones furrowed. “I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean.”

“even temperance is intemperate in abundance.” He winked while Edge bristled.

“Self-control is not a vice,” he snapped, but Sans just kept grinning.

“you sure? seems like it’s got you in its grip.”

Edge shut his sockets and took a measured breath before focusing his attention on Slim once more. “I have a meeting with the captain tomorrow.” Slim gave him a skeptical look and touched his own shoulder. “It’s well enough now,” he said, “Besides, it’s a meeting, not a sparring session. And she’s made it clear I’ll be on desk duty for the foreseeable future.” He huffed, crossing his arms, though Slim couldn’t help but feel relieved. “In any case, I would like you to come with me.”

Slim stared up at him, soul beating hard. Sans leaned around him to catch Edge’s eyelight. “you sure that’s a good idea?” Sobering, Sans looked between Slim and Edge. “kinda soon, isn’t it?”

Edge shrugged, sipping his siracha. “It’s not an order.” He gave Slim a pointed look. “It’s an invitation. You can stay here, if you prefer.” He said it lightly, even cheerfully, and Slim swallowed, tightening his jaw. If he intended to live with Edge and Red, then he would have to prove to Edge that he could handle it.

He took a fortifying pull off his drink. The sudden flux of magic burned through his mana lines, making his soul and his cheekbones heat. Still feeling the warm buzz, he caught Edge’s socket and gave a firm nod.

Edge just gave him an inscrutable look and said, “Tomorrow, then.” He eyed his drink, then downed the rest—shaking his head as he set the glass down, as if to clear away the hum of excess mana. “In that case, you’d best get some rest—we leave first thing.” He eyed Sans. “Are you staying out again, or can I tell your brother not to worry?”

Sans was already trying to catch the bartender’s eye. “you can tell him not to worry ‘cause i’m staying out with friends.”

Edge very pointedly eyed the empty bottles. “Interesting way of characterizing this outing.”

“hey, just ‘cause you wouldn’t recognize a good time if it hit you in the mouth—”

“I think you and I have very different ideas of what constitutes a good time.”

“yeah? what’s yours—doing your taxes?” Edge’s sockets widened, and then he covered his laughter with a cough. “what’s so funny?”

Edge shook his head. “Nothing. Just—I believe that means something different here.”

Sans blinked. “…what else could it mean?”

“Don’t worry about it.” He dug some coins out of his pocket and set them on the counter. “Brother, let’s be going.” He put a hand on Slim’s shoulder, guiding him away from the bar. “Since Sans won’t be returning, we can spread out a bit—you and I can take his room, and we’ll let the runt sleep with Rus in his room. That will be far more comfortable for everyone, I’m sure.”

Sans froze, then turned to glare at Edge’s back. “edgelord,” he said, eyelights out.

“Something wrong?” He was smirking.

“i know what you’re doing.”

“Making more comfortable sleeping arrangements? Yes, how nefarious.”

He glared. “why don’t you sleep with pap in his room?”

Edge’s answering grin was positively wicked. “What a fantastic idea. Neither of us sleep all that much, so I’m sure we’ll be able to keep each other well entertained.”

Innuendo dripped from his words, and Sans sputtered. “you wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t what?” He touched the tips of his fingers to his breastbone, as if scandalized by the mere implication of impropriety.

“you have a boyfriend! two of them!”

“And they clearly don’t mind sharing.”

That was enough for Sans. “grillbz, put it on my tab,” he said, disappearing before the barkeep could object. The elemental just sighed and dutifully began wiping down the bar.

Edge leaned on the counter, catching the bartender’s eye. He held a coin between his fingers. “I don’t imagine he pays his tab very frequently.” The bartender eyed the coin, then slowly shook his head. “How much would it take for you to tell him he can’t drink here until it’s paid?”

The elemental reared back as if Edge had slapped him. Then, glaring, he signed, “Sans is a friend. He can come here any time he likes.”

That clearly surprised Edge. He paused, obviously not sure how to respond. He palmed the coin and lowered his hand, still holding the bartender’s gaze. “He’s been coming here every night for nearly a week now. Friend or not, you know that isn’t good for him.”

“He comes here for a sympathetic ear.”

Edge paused. “If he were just talking, I wouldn’t see the harm.”

“Everyone needs to let off some steam sometime. I’m not taking that away from him because you waltzed in here and flashed some gold. You want to help him, then help him.”

He turned away before Edge could reply, making it clear he was finished. Edge watched him for a moment, then gestured to Slim. “Let’s go.”

They trudged through the snow in silence. Slim watched Edge warily. His features were set and stony, only a thin line between his brow-bones hinting at his feelings. Slim braced himself, sure that Edge was going to turn around at any moment and lash out at him, using Slim as an outlet for his frustration and embarrassment. He’d do it before they got back to the house, of course, where the others wouldn’t see.

But Edge just said, “I forget, sometimes, how different this place is. Fell-verse solutions don’t work for Tale-verse problems,” and kept marching through the snow. He sounded thoughtful rather than angry, and Slim’s bones started to shake all at once. He took a shuddering breath, soul beating hard—his body still ready for a confrontation that wasn’t coming.

It wasn’t right that he would think such a thing of Edge. For that matter, it wasn’t right that he would think such a thing of Razz, no matter how often things had played out exactly like that. Had he really come back for him? Rushed headlong into an inferno for him? And if he had….

What right did Slim have, to stay safe and sound in a Tale-verse while his brother navigated the warzone their ‘verse had become? What kind of brother was he? Worse than a dog, since a dog was at least loyal. He’d betrayed everything his brother stood for, then abandoned him to whatever fate awaited him in Swapfell. His chest felt tight, and he found himself staring hard at the door to the basement.

“Slim? Brother?” He jolted at the light touch to his elbow, turning to stare up at Edge, soul fluttering. Edge looked first at him, then at the basement door. “Are you thinking about Razz?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically soft.

He swallowed, trying to guess what the right answer was. Was it disloyal to think of Razz when Edge and Red had taken him into their household? Would it be better or worse to lie about it?

Paralyzed by indecision, his silence seemed answer enough. Edge sighed, eyeing the door. “Are you thinking of going after him?”

Slim froze again, not sure how to answer. That’s where his thoughts were leading him, weren’t they? But he hadn’t really been thinking of that. Right?

“I won’t pretend that we could stop you,” he said after a moment. “Not if you were determined to go. But if you do….” He leveled a steady look at Slim. “We’ll come find you. And bring you home to us again.” Slim stared at him. “You’re family now. You wear my collar. And I’m not in the habit of abandoning family.”

The words might have been comforting, in other circumstances. As it was, it felt like he’d been struck. He stared hard at the door, swallowing.

Edge swore under his breath. “Brother, look at me.” Reluctantly, he obeyed. “You didn’t abandon him. He left, and he left fully knowing what he would face. And knowing he couldn’t come back. He made a choice—it’s not your responsibility to save him from himself.”

Slim looked away, soul still aching. It still felt wrong, like he’d failed. Worse than that, he desperately wanted to believe Edge, wanted to use his words to excuse his own cowardice. But he knew what Razz would say, knew how his brother must—

A hand alighted on his shoulder, drawing him closer. “I know it’s hard to let someone go,” he said after a moment, “Especially when your feelings for them are…complicated.” He brushed a thumb over Slim’s cheekbone, and Slim realized he’d started crying. “No matter how badly they’ve hurt you, it’s hard to hate someone when you’ve seen the best in them. And they’ve seen the worst in you.” His gaze was distant, his focus inward.

He squeezed his sockets shut and shook his head, as if clearing his thoughts. He eyed the basement door. “Razz and I are more alike than I care to admit. In the end, I don’t know why our paths diverged so widely, but I do know this.” He touched his thumb to Slim’s chin, holding his gaze. “The best part of him is glad you’re safe. And the worst wouldn’t thank you for interfering.”

Without thinking about it, Slim wrapped his arms around Edge’s ribs, clinging tight as a choked sob broke free. Edge remained stiff in his hold, head up and eyelights vigilant. Still, he curled his off arm around Slim’s back, returning the embrace. Before Slim pulled away, he murmured, “It’s okay to mourn what could have been, but I do hope you’ll find joy in what is.” And that set Slim to sobbing once more.

#undertale #my work #compound fracture #swell papyrus #sans #fell papyrus #spicyhoney #edgeberry #spicyhoneyberry #redpuff #cherryblossom

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flagboi-whotookit · 1 year ago

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THE PEOPLE HAVE SPOKEN

Moreso that @sweetheart-haely made a good point, and I like helping people. (I apologize for janky language, as I said, I'm not a professional) But before I start reviewing roguelikes, I need to answer an important question: What makes a good roguelike?

I'm going to assume that if you're here you know what a roguelike is (that and I have no clue how to explain them, they're more a feeling than a genre in my mind) So, what separates the bad from the mediocre and the mediocre from the good? 1. Replayability: This is probably the most important thing on this list. Roguelikes are a genre BUILT on replayability. I hate metaphors, (mostly since listening to seven hours of Chuck Wendig. If you know you know) but that's the best way to describe this. A roguelike is (rogue)like trying to get through a locked door. You try and pick the lock, but you don't really know what you're doing. You could try and break it down with brute force, but you're not strong enough. Maybe you try and take it off it's hinges, but you don't have the right tools for the job. But after breaking hundreds of lockpicks, or tackling the door until every muscle in your body hurts, or manually unscrewing hinges for hours, you finally get past that door. On the other side there's... another door. But you know what works for you now, so you get ready to use your preferred method to get through that next door. Sometimes that next door is a little bit tougher, sometimes there's an endless amount of doors, sometimes it's both. This is how you should structure a roguelike, or if you're a player, this is what you should look for. I got Clone Drone in the Danger Zone around five years ago, and I STILL play endless mode. You'll never want to put down a good roguelike, and if it's made correctly, you won't have too. 2. Difficulty scaling: If the start of a roguelike is the hardest part, that is not a good roguelike. Roguelikes should start at their easiest point (some roguelikes' easiest point is still excruciatingly difficult though) The tagline of the roguelike genre should be "Roguelikes - They're not going to get easier". This seems obvious though, right? Yes, you'd think so at least. But a not insignificant portion of roguelikes start extremely hard, and then snowball to the point it's not a challenge. For example: Teracards. The hardest part is the beginning. Sure, the amount of money you need to not lose goes up each time, but after a certain point purchases are negligible. Even though you went from having to pay 1 million coins to having to pay 4 (million that is), once you have that much money, you can afford to place anything in order to get that four million. I'll go into ways they could have prevented this (or fix it, since the game is still early access) in my actual review on Teracards. For now though, make sure that even if it doesn't get harder, it never gets easier. 3. Theming/gimmick: This is where a lot of roguelikes fall short. A dungeon crawler where you have to fight skeletons, goblins, and slimes? Sure, it works, but it won't stand out. You can fix this in two ways, either A) change up the setting (Shotgun King, Fights in Tight Spaces, FTL), or B) change up the mechanics (Backpack Hero, Peglin, Paint the Town Red). I don't have much to say on this broadly, as it's more of a case-by-case thing, that I'll explore more in my individual reviews. But for now, try and stand on your own in a sea of cliches. 4. There is no four. Alright, the title's a bit off, but these are probably the big three. I could ramble on and on about roguelikes, but I'll save that for the individual reviews.

So, that's it for now. Stay tunned, I'll make some actual reviews once I recover from all this typing.

#roguelike #ramblings #game review #“review”#I think that's all #gonna go turn of my brain for a minute now

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nehswritesstuffs · 2 years ago

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except I walked out on you when your hair was starlight

I’ve been thinking about this potential theory for a long while now (I mean, like, since last year) and I can’t help but think that it’s one of the wilder things that might come even slightly true because it just aligns perfectly with what we currently know about the Monkey Dads just being very distant fathers who end up pulling the same shit.

9122 words; pure crackfic unless proven otherwise; has anyone else thought of this bc pls where are you I want to talk to you if you have; this is very much not my usual fare when it comes to relationship and family dynamics so don’t expect, like, actual parenting; I very much expect this to be considered null and void within five chapters of canon (very specifically 1084 lol) so pls humor me okay; is it canon compliant? We’ll find out; general warning for timeskips and me just making shit up

except I walked out on you when your hair was starlight; All Dragon wants to do is bring about a more just world by exposing the World Government for what it really is. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to deal with a child’s bounty poster that looks disturbingly like his ex. [9122 words; alternate interpretation as to why the Buster Call at Ohara was the last straw]

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“You shouldn’t be here,” Clover said. Dragon shrugged casually at that.

“You’ve never been upset to see me before,” he reasoned. The young man casually leaned on the desk, giving the scholar a smirk. “I’m here to see Olvia. She around?”

“Even if she was, why would I let you see her?” Clover huffed. “Last time you were here you nearly got bodily fluid on priceless tomes of knowledge.”

“I am not the first person to have gotten lucky in this tree, and you’re just jealous it was never you,” the young man smirked. A certain platinum blonde then caught his eye and Dragon made his way around the desk and over to her side, done with pleasantries. “Old Man Clover’s bullying me.”

“Now why would he need to do that?” she wondered idly.

Oh, she knew.

“He’s jealous,” he offered.

“Professor Clover is one of the most renown archaeologists in the entire world; what would you have that he could be jealous of?”

A functioning libido, but they weren’t going to go there with other people nearby.

“Maybe,” she smirked, “I’ll have to study this condition of yours. Make sure it’s not… lethal.”

“Read my mind; pick you up at seven?”

“Seven-thirty—there’s a meeting I can’t skip again.”

“Fair.” He leaned down and pressed a light kiss against her cheek, a giggle getting out of her before walking away. “Seven-thirty!”

“Oh, and Dragon?”

He turned around, only to see the library in flames.

“Run.”

Gasping for air, Dragon sat upright in his bed, his body slick with sweat. He shakily looked around the room in the darkness—Baltigo, not Ohara.

Besides, Ohara burned ten years ago.

After turning off his alarm—it was fuck-all ‘o clock—Dragon decided it was good a time as any to get a head start on his work for the day. A full day of work would make him sleep solidly, and solid sleep meant no dreams, and no dreams meant no ghosts. He put his feet on the floor and shivered—there was nothing that could be done about the chill that seeped into the base, no matter what they did to prevent it.

The base was usually quiet around this time, thankfully, allowing Dragon to slip down the corridors relatively unnoticed. There was always the skeleton crew that kept an eye on things at night, but even they knew better than to bother their commander with anything more than a polite nod unless it was a real emergency. He was able to get to the showers and stood under the spray for a whole ten minutes before actually doing anything.

Did he feel guilty? Of course he did, but Ohara wasn’t coming back, even if its knowledge was all saved.

Then again, that’s why they were there, he reminded himself as he scrubbed his face. Ohara had been the last straw and now someone was fighting back. He’d told Vegapunk those years ago that it was because of Clover… because of the severe loss of knowledge and human life… but really… how many wars over the course of history had been waged for a woman?

Fuck.

In the end, an ex was just an ex, weren’t they? They both moved on. He had moved on.

So why was it getting to him?

Clothes, a shave, some coffee; before long, Dragon was sitting down at his desk, the dawn twilight not yet creeping across the sky. He looked at the pile of papers that had been placed in a very important pile since he’d last been in his office and grimaced—something told him he would have given the top spot to that organizational freak Bart had he known there was this much fucking paperwork involved with running a revolution. Taking the top one off the pile, he slowly started to clear out the backlog that admittedly had been growing for a few days at this point. Getting lost in work was usually fairly easy for him, and yet, he couldn’t help thinking about the real reason why he founded this seas-forsaken venture…

“They said you didn’t eat breakfast!”

Dragon snapped out of his daze as a tray was placed on his desk, culprit tilting his head in curiosity. Fuck the kid could move quieter than a cat.

“Oh, thank you, Sabo,” he said, blinking heavily. The kid’s bandages had recently been taken off and he could see the fresh burn scars, pink and shiny and raw; it pissed him off every time he saw it, and not because he hated the kid. It was almost impossible to hate someone who brought him coffee and a sandwich at… ah, shit, the sun was well past being up. “Iva hunting me yet?”

“Nah; they said they were gonna let you relax today,” the boy replied. He looked at the pile of papers that barely had a dent in it and frowned. “That’s a lot of bounty posters.”

“Yeah—I haven’t seen a lot of them either, which is really saying something,” Dragon frowned.

“Why’s that?”

“These are reissues; every so often, the World Government will reissue bounty posters of those whom they consider dangerous, even if they haven’t heard of them in a while.” He took the top one off the stack and handed it to the boy. “That one’s been circulating since I was younger than you.”

“Humming Brook… he’d be an old man by now, wouldn’t he?”

“He would.” He watched the kid’s expression—he was sharp for being only ten years old. “Does this… help at all…?”

“Not really,” Sabo admitted, handing back the poster. “I still can’t really remember that much from before.”

“It’ll come in time,” Dragon said, unsure if he was lying to the boy. The kid stood there awkwardly; neither of them knew what to do with him. If only dumping him with his dad wouldn’t mean putting him within arm’s reach of the Marines… “Say, go through these and rank them by potential for recruitment. Let me know what you think.” He took a chunk of the bounty posters and handed them to Sabo. “Just… rank them.”

“Yes, sir!” Sabo left the room and Dragon instantly felt exhausted. He hated to think what it would have been like had he been able to take his son along like planned… it was tiresome just thinking about it.

Maybe if he just closed his eyes for a little bit… yeah. That would be good.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It was ironic how if someone would ask Dragon what his dreams were, he could easily say any number of things. Toppling the World Government? True peace? An unveiling of all the dirty laundry that was the Void Century’s secrets? A society designed to lift up and support everyone and not the select few? Having the ability to tell his father off to his face? He had a veritable list ready and waiting.

Except, sometimes, dreams weren’t goals and ambitions. They were places one’s brain went when they were at their most vulnerable, gripping them at their core and forcing someone to relive the impossible time and time again.

What truly were Dragon’s dreams?

He didn’t like to think about it.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“What are you thinking about?”

Dragon looked over at Olvia and saw her face remained calm in thought as she stared up at the night sky. All he could think about was how gorgeous she looked in the starlight, the galaxies reflected in her eyes as they laid on the deck of his boat.

“There’s an expedition that Clover wants me to co-chair.” Ah. “It would be about a year.”

“Don’t say you’re breaking up with me, because you know I’ll just follow you.”

“Actually, I petitioned the professor to let you come along.”

“You did?! And…?!” He waited for a response. “Olvia…? What did Old Man Clover say…?”

She finally turned her head and looked at him, her expression sharp and steady as ever. “Wake up.”

“…that was rude of him.”

“No, sir, wake up.”

For the second time that day, Dragon shuddered awake, this time being jostled by Sabo. The boy jumped back as he flung himself forward towards his desk, the present world grabbing hold of him in a vice grip. Dragon quickly caught his breath and rubbed his face with both hands—fuck, this was getting bad. He looked at Sabo and saw that the kid’s eyes were wide and confused.

“I… uh… sorry…” he squeaked.

“No, no; it’s alright,” Dragon replied. He tried to shake the sleep from his body, only making it more of a shiver instead. “Does someone need me?”

“No, sir. I have what you asked of me.” The boy held aloft the stack of bounty posters and their prior conversation came flooding back to the man. That’s right—the bounty re-issues from around the time he was too busy founding an army to pay attention to who was up next for his father’s bosses’ chopping block. “I triple-checked; there’s only three good ones out of the entire lot.”

“Are there now?”

“Yeah—most of the people this stack are either really old or already spoken-for in a pirate organization.” Sabo put most of the stack on the desk face-down, holding back three papers.

“How do you know that?”

“I cross-referenced everything with our database; some of the duds are officers in the Big Mom Pirates, or with someone called Doflamingo in the North; I doubt they’d change alliances too swiftly based on their established levels of loyalty.”

“Keep this up kid and you might be gunning for Iva’s spot,” Dragon frowned. He took a sip of his coffee—ice cold—and watched the boy’s face brighten.

“Oh, I don’t want to be the G Army Commander,” Sabo beamed. “I want to be the Chief of Staff!”

Dragon was neither awake nor drunk enough for this. “…and what does that entail?”

“Doing important things for you!”

“Sabo… you won’t even officially be a member until you’re sixteen,” he chided. “Just… show me the candidates.”

“Okay!” The kid put the first page down. “This one is called Karasu. He’s from the North and got his bounty by beating up Marines that were bullying some civilians. I think he’d be a good match.” Dragon nodded with a grunt; okay. “This one is Waters Lila. She’s Southern and is known for breaking up slaver ships en route to Sabaody. If we get her, we’d likely get her whole crew as well—forty-strong at last estimate, many former slaves themselves.” He then hesitated, staring at the last poster.

“Yes…?” Yeah… definitely not drunk enough.

“I don’t know about her, but I think it’s a good chance if we can find her,” Sabo nodded.

Dragon raised an eyebrow. “If we can find her?”

“She was younger than me when she got her bounty, so I don’t know if she still looks the same.”

“Younger than you…? Those were the ten-year re-releases.”

“Well, she apparently wants to destroy the world according to the rumors, so there is that. I would too if I sank six ships to survive a Buster Call.”

“She what…?”

“Yeah,” Sabo exclaimed, placing the poster down. “Apparently she’s from the West Blue, from this island of people who were…” Dragon stared at the photo on the page in horror, Sabo’s voice fading into nothing.

WANTED – DEMON CHILD NICO ROBIN – DEAD OR ALIVE

80 MILLION BERRI

APPROACH WITH EXTREME CAUTION

Before him was the image of a small child, just a little older than his son was if he remembered correctly. His brow furrowed as he studied her face—there was no way she was anything other than Olvia’s blood. Her brother’s daughter, perhaps? It made him nauseous to think someone this small was listed for so much, so young.

“Sabo…?”

“Yes, sir?”

“How old would she be now? If she walked in through the door?”

“Eighteen!” the boy chirped. “I really think that she’s the best bet out of the lot—she has a pedigree.”

“I’m going to pretend you did not use that word,” he grimaced. Yeah, the kid was former nobility alright whether he hated it or not.

“Oh… well… her mom was pretty famous too! I found her bounty in the archives.” He took the top poster off the upside-down stack and held it out, making Dragon want to vomit.

Olvia.

It wasn’t her niece.

Oh, fuck, no…

Olvia’s daughter.

The only survivor of Ohara was Nico Olvia’s daughter.

A daughter who had her face, yet his coloring.

Seas almighty.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“What the hell is your problem?!” he hissed at her. She had been sitting at her desk in the ship, a lantern illuminating the papers that were scattered everywhere. The rest of the expedition party had either long-since retired for the evening, or were on the shore around the bonfire—it was just them.

“I’m only doing my job. You knew that’s what this entire trip was about.” She hadn’t even looked away from the book and that seemed to just depress him more.

“Those have been here for hundreds of years; they’ll still be there in the morning.”

“I need to get this done before we ship out—there’s only two more days.”

“Two more days here, a week there, some hours elsewhere; it doesn’t end! It’s been three years of this!”

She put down her pen at that, closing her eyes to steel herself. “You knew what this was before we left Ohara.”

“I didn’t leave Ohara thinking I’d be ignored… that I’d go to bed alone most nights… that on the rare nights we are together, you’re too distracted to even fake it.” She stood, furious. “Oh, hey, an emotion—nice to see them again.”

“How dare you…”

“I think it’s the other way around, Olvia—we should have called it off while you were out on this stupid thing…”

“I thought you were behind what we were doing!”

“…when it didn’t mean I was being ignored by the woman I love!” He hunched his shoulders as he held hers, looking into her eyes. They were so fierce… so determined then that he had nearly lost himself in them. “I’m here now, Olvia. I…” He swallowed. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this, playing second-fiddle to whispers and rocks.”

“We’re almost done. Just a few months and…”

“No.” His voice was quiet then—defeated, even—as realization settled on him. “We’re done.”

Tears ran down both their faces as he kissed her one final time.

When she went to bed that night, she went alone.

He was gone.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

All Ivankov knew was that Dragon was having a crisis.

He’d have those every once in a while in private, threatening to crack under the pressure of leadership. It was generally nothing, where he’d just do frantic laps of his office while attempting to talk himself out of whatever corner his assorted demons had shoved him into. If they were being particularly honest with themselves, it would have been a more troubling thing had Dragon not had a crisis now and then, given the sheer amount of pressure and obstacles that came from raising a revolution. All they, or Kuma, or both, had to do was simply stay with him until he calmed down and things would eventually be better again.

It had been nearly a whole day—he was not getting better.

“This is awful,” the man muttered for the fifty-second time that day. Ivankov poured themselves some tea from the service and raised a perfectly-manicured eyebrow.

“Are you havingk problems zat my Hormones vould fix?”

“No… just… fuck!” Dragon stopped his pacing long enough to take a swing at thin air before grabbing at his hair again. “I can’t believe I did that—fuck—how could I have done that?!”

Ivankov sipped their tea.

“Fucking hell, Iva! I’m having a mental breakdown here!”

“I can see,” they replied flatly. “You’re ze one vho seems to be very mum on details.” Dragon stopped moving and stared at his friend and comrade, nearly at his breaking point.

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“You know I keep your secrets.”

“No, Iva… this isn’t a normal secret. This is a something that, should you ‘learn’ about it in the future, you need to pretend that this conversation never, ever happened.”

“Vhat is so drastick that I need to play ze fool?”

“I think… I think I have a daughter,” he said, his tongue feeling thick as he spoke. “I think I walked out on my daughter.”

“You don’t have a daughter.”

“…but I walked out on this woman nineteen years ago.” Dragon took the bounty posters from his desk and showed it to Ivankov, who took put down their tea before taking the papers. “That child—her child—is now eighteen.”

“Her fazer could have been a rebound and ve vould not blame zis Olvia one bit.”

“Iva, I walked because she was too busy with those damned Poneglyphs to give me the time of day—any time we did…” Dragon exhaled heavily. “She was always too out of it to concentrate on us, so I left. I can almost guarantee there was no rebound.”

“Zis is vhy you people are exhaustingk,” Ivankov sighed. “How did you know eachozer?”

“She… was from Ohara… was one of Old Man Clover’s top researchers…”

“…and so, vhen you vent to investigate Clover’s knowledge assets—drawn in by the pursuit of zingks your fazer kept you from—you fell in love viz a girl instead…? How cliché, candy.” They put the papers down on the low table and went back to their tea. “You know for a fact she is yours?”

“I had Sabo research a stack of re-issued bounties—if her registry information’s correct, she was born six months after I last saw her mother. Olvia was distant, but she didn’t sleep around.” He rubbed the back of his neck and groaned. “Fuck…”

“Vhat does her registry information say about her fazer?”

“Dead.” They had to hand it to themselves—Ivankov didn’t think that finally getting information about Dragon’s past meant that he was going to spill it all… or if he was spilling this now, it was titillating to think of what else the man might have been hiding. “She made it look like she got married, never changed her name, and quickly became a widow. I’m sure that’s why… she has her family name instead of mine.”

“I’d imagine it’d be rough on a child, carrying a name zey had no connection to,” Ivankov shrugged. “Besides, if she had your name, that fazer of yours vould have kidnapped her longk ago.”

“Bad enough what he does have,” Dragon grumbled. Ivankov waited for an explanation and never got one—it was folly to think they were getting any more out of their friend than this very specific and embarrassing tidbit. They watched as he stopped moving, instead putting his hands on his waist. “So… what do we do…?”

“Not vhat ve do… but vhat you do.” They regarded him carefully. “You alvays know vhat to do. Vill you admit to everyone zat zis is revenge for a former lover? Zat zis child is more zan ze last of her kind? Or vill you do somezingk else? Somezingk interestingk?”

“Olvia wasn’t my lover, Iva—I would have married her if I could.”

“Zat is not here nor zere. Now: vhat vill you do?”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“What will you do?”

It was a simple enough question—the royal brat and his footman were due back in the sandpit soon, so he didn’t blame her for wondering. It was just him and Olvia in his room, the pair having snuck up there while Clover was regaling the students with drunkenly-told tales of his adventures. They were sharing a bottle of cheap wine at the table by his window—no other activities until they heard their heavy-sleepers of charges snoring the next room over.

“Not sure,” he shrugged. He looked out the window at the night sky, knowing that soon the view would change. “This place… it fits, you know?”

“For technically being here as a bodyguard, you sure are quite the pacifist,” she replied. Olvia took a sip of her drink and let out a low huff. “It’s honestly more interesting with you here.”

“Then maybe… I can come back…?”

“…to do what?” He turned his gaze to her and saw that her expression was now completely deadpan. “You’re smart, yes, but you’re no scholar. The Professor does not take too kindly to lightweights.”

“Is that what he refers to people who’ve had sex as?” he asked. She nearly choked on her drink. “I just want to be with you.”

“I know.” She saw a flicker of something cross his face, with it leaving as quickly as it came. “What…?”

“If I could just stay here, I would. Let the kids find their own way back home. It’s peaceful here… serene… like nothing bad will happen here.”

“Oh, it shall eventually,” she shrugged. “Things always happen.”

“Not like…” he paused, “not like what I’m used to with my father. There’s a certain unease in the air in a lot of places he’s sent me to, and none of it shows up here. Yeah, there’s people being petty and bad storms and the occasional drought of traders, but it’s not…” he sighed, “this place is calming, Olvia. There’s no real hostility.”

“Then maybe it would do you some good to return here,” she agreed. “Though I have to warn you: I get buried in my work when I’m not tutoring.”

“I think I can handle that; that might be when you’re the most gorgeous.”

“You don’t need to flatter me—you know what we’re doing later.”

“Doesn’t hurt to have a little extra insurance on the matter,” he winked. She giggled and leaned over, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “How much time do we have again?”

“Not enough.”

“Hmm… I think it’s enough.”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It’s easy to leave someone when you realize that you can’t stand one another. Sure, actually doing it might not be easy, but once you’re gone, the effort to purge them from your life is cathartic in its own way. It’s a refusal to give them power, as they never should have had any to begin with.

Conversely, it’s difficult to leave someone you’re still in love with, mostly because it is that much of a challenge to forget. It’s still wanting them there, despite their deep, deep flaws, and yet remembering the pain of why that is simply not possible. It hurts and claws at the heart, burning and stabbing until there is nothing that doesn’t make you think of them.

What’s worse yet is when you’re both still in love, and yet they don’t stop you.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Revolutionary Army Dispatch

Official Memo from the Desk of Founder and Supreme Commander Monkey D. Dragon

The following Legacy Bounty Individuals (LBI) are to be actively recruited into the ranks. Any contact with such Legacy Bounty Individuals needs to be reported to the appropriate level of hierarchy.

-_-_-

Karasu

Age at Bounty: 25

Current Age: 35

Origin: North Blue

Current Location: North Blue (confirmed)

Devil Fruit: unknown type – appears corvid-centric – proceed with caution until confirmation

Crimes: contempt of law; resisting arrest; repeated destruction of Marine bases; torture of varying Marine officers; coordinating largest mass-release of inmates in the North Blue in 200 years

-_-_-

Waters Lila

Age at Bounty: 47

Current Age: 57

Origin: South Blue

Current Location: Grand Line, Paradise (confirmed)

Devil Fruit: none known

Crimes: grand theft; destruction of slaver ships; being impossible to arrest; harboring runaway slaves; cussing out Celestial Dragons; repeated escape from Celestial Dragon “owners”

-_-_-

Nico Robin

Age at Bounty: 8

Current Age: 18

Origin: West Blue

Current Location: unknown; potentially West Blue or Grand Line

Devil Fruit: Paramecia – can replicate limbs elsewhere

Crimes: only surviving member of the Archaeological Scholarly Association of Ohara; can read Poneglyphs; evading arrest; varying smaller crimes related to survival

HIGH PRIORITY – report directly to Supreme Commander if contact is made – capable of becoming the Light of the Revolution

-_-_-

May we stay strong in the face of our uncertain times.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Ten years.

It took ten years before Dragon heard any more solid news of Nico Robin. He had to hand it to her—she was a difficult woman to catch. Most of what he’d heard were whispers. A few people even saw her, but no one was able to get in a conversation long enough to convince her to join their ranks.

She was still alive, however. No matter what, Olvia’s daughter was still alive, and some days it was all he could do to be proud.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“I have to say, sir, you sure do know how to pick them.”

Dragon was laying down on a camping cot, the tent he was currently occupying in the far-reaching backwaters of the East, the backdrop of a civilian uprising in the distance. Sabo and Belo Betty had insisted on helming this charge, which left him sulking back at camp with a cold compress over his eyes as he fought off an impending headache in the command tent.

“What do you mean, Ahiru?” He heard the young woman’s mechanical arm click and whir as it handled papers at the table.

“One of your High Priority LBIs just had war declared on the Government for her.”

“You know Sabo has been making over half that list for years now.”

“She’s been on the list for a long while,” she replied.

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“Nico Robin.”

Dragon sat up immediately, the compress falling to the ground. “What…? Who declared war for her?”

“The crew she’s with now,” the young woman said. She held out the newspaper as her boss stood and crossed the room. “A rookie crew from these waters, it seems.”

A small gasp left Dragon without him even realizing it: the Straw Hat Pirates.

Robin found Luffy.

His children found one another.

“…sir…?” He looked at her and saw the concern on her face. “Are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just…” Ahiru gave a nod, avoiding eye contact. “It’s nothing. Forget I said anything.” Good—he did always appreciate her discretion.

He looked back at the newspaper in his hand and allowed himself a breath of relief. After everything, his children were still finding their family—finding each other—despite his own failings.

Maybe… maybe this was how things were supposed to go.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The kids he was supposed to be babysitting were off with the old man on the first of many “field trips” to the bar when he first made his move. She was in his room going over their academic progress when he allowed his hand to reach across the table and rest atop hers. One of her eyebrows arched, curious.

“Bold,” she noted with a smirk, “but is it bold enough?”

In retrospect, it had been a miracle in of itself that they had gotten themselves put back together in time for her skunk-drunk boss to bring back his equally-drunk charges. The trio were so drunk, they found, that they completely ignored the fact they still smelled of sex and her blouse was on inside-out.

What they didn’t know wasn’t going to hurt them, right? Besides, all it took was twenty minutes and they smelled like the kids’ vomit instead.

None of this was going into the report.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

There were times where Emporio Ivankov, Ruler of Kamabakka Queendom, Founder of the Revolutionary Army, Establishing Force behind New Kama Land, really did not enjoy dealing with their varying colleagues. Out of them all, the best—also the worst—was Monkey D. Dragon. He wasn’t even all that easy on the eyes, and yet his drama was nothing they wanted to ever touch.

Except, it kept finding them.

“You. Office. Now.”

They didn’t even break stride as they entered headquarters for the first time in years, simply walking by Dragon as he was discussing something with Lindbergh and Hack. Inazuma seamlessly inserted herself into the situation instead, allowing Dragon to grouchily follow Ivankov to their office looking extremely cowed. Newer recruits could only gawk—so this was the power of the legendary Okama Commander?

“Any ozer spawn you have running around I should know about?!” Ivankov hissed. Fuck… the door was barely closed…

“Iva…”

“Don’t you Iva me,” they scolded. “I should not learn you have a son because I am savingk his life in Impel Down! Vhat is viz you?!”

“Thank you, by the way,” Dragon said. “You did an excellent job keeping Luffy alive.”

“You tell me to not pry into your past, and yet your past keeps poppingk up in ze oddest places. Vhy are you like zis?!”

“We all agreed to bring as little of our baggage into this job as possible,” he claimed.

“Havingk people ve care about is not baggage!” they argued. “Sharingk stories about our lives is not baggage!”

“If anyone knew about my family, that’d put a target on their backs they might not want!”

“Even from your friends and comrades?!”

“Yes, Iva! Everyone!”

“Tch… no vonder you vere never told about the girl…”

“Iva!”

“Zese are your secrets, Dragon! First, you have a daughter from an old flame, now zis boy one of my candies finds in Impel Down is your son?! Vhat more is zere?!”

“You know I can’t tell you that!”

“Then vhat can you tell me?!”

“That as the figurehead of this entire operation, I can’t be seen as having any potential weaknesses! I come in with nothing so I can leave nothing behind! There is nothing to complicate things! A venture was never compromised because they kidnapped my son and held him at ransom! By him remaining far away, we all were safe.”

Ivankov huffed, their scowl pointed and accusatory. “I believe in zis, and I believe in you, so you better not make me regret anyzingk from here on out. Ve cannot afford to be fightingk.”

“I’m trying, Iva,” Dragon assured. “You know that’s all any of us can do.”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“Sir…? The Tequila Wolf contingent has returned.”

Dragon glanced up from his coffee to see the fresh recruit standing there in the doorway of his office, absolutely quaking in his boots. It was almost adorable how the newbies were so easily categorized into either Hilariously Overzealous or Scared Shitless, with this one solidly in the latter category.

“Usually the leaders of such an expedition report to me themselves that they’re back,” Dragon noted. “Why did they send you?”

“There’s a bit of a commotion, sir,” the recruit admitted. “They were able to find a High Priority LBI while freeing the slaves.”

“Now who would that be?”

“Uh… Nico Robin of the Straw Hat Pirates, sir.”

Dragon’s stomach found his throat as he paused, taking the information in. After vanishing into nothingness on Sabaody, she was now there, in Baltigo. Ten long years and she was finally there, in the same building as him; it was terrifying to think of.

“Send her up once she’s been given the orientation,” he requested, keeping his stoic mask. “High Priorities always need a briefing from me personally as to discuss what they might bring to our cause.” It was the truth and the recruit saluted before leaving.

The wait was honestly one of the worst stretches of time in his life. Dragon wasn’t entirely certain whether was pacing for a few minutes or a few hours, but eventually there was a knock at the door and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He breathed deeply and collected himself.

“Come in.”

Olvia’s ghost walked in, almost as though no time had passed at all.

“Please close the door; I’d prefer this conversation to be private.”

“Since you asked nicely,” she nodded. Robin gently shut the door and took a few steps into the room, unsure if she should sit or remain standing like Dragon. “I hear you often debrief new additions and allies yourself. It’s commendable to be so active in the base of your organization.”

“I cannot do it on my own,” he claimed. She watched him as he walked over to the window, using it as an excuse to not look at her directly. “Does this mean you are going to join my ranks?”

“Consider me a loan of sorts,” she chuckled. “I have some time to burn while waiting to reunite with my crew and I might as well do something worth while in the meantime.” He could see her reflection in the glass; it was scary how much she looked like her mother. “Your son is something of a tricky individual to follow; it’s just a matter of chance that I’m keeping my alliances in the family.”

Oh, how little she knew despite how well she was informed.

“Has… anyone ever told you why we founded the Revolutionary Army?”

“…to rise up against the tyranny of the World Government,” she replied. He was silent. “Then again, something tells me that there’s more to it than that. There always is.” She watched him, pensive. “What was the final straw that drove you? A scuffle with the Marine Hero?”

“He barely cares about what he does on a daily basis, let alone care what I do enough to get into that big of a fight… no.” He did not turn around, instead preferring to look out the window. “It was Ohara.”

It was slight, but he heard her inhale slightly.

“What was your connection to Ohara?” Robin asked, her voice wavering slightly.

“I spent a lot of time there when I was younger than you are now,” he admitted. He sighed, then opened his mouth to talk again, only for Robin to grab his arm and turn him around to face her, eyes wild in shock.

“Did you know my mother?!”

“I… I fell in love with your mother.”

She let go of his arm and took a step back. “…oh. That must have been difficult.”

“It was,” he agreed. “Olvia was a wonderful woman. Sharp-witted, dedicated, kind, insurmountably intelligent…” He smiled to himself, letting his gaze slip out of focus towards a bit of wall. “She had hair like starlight and eyes that would reflect the galaxies.”

“Did she ever…?” Her question trailed off, unsure if she wanted to give life to the words herself.

“Your mother’s true love was knowledge, and by extension, her research. She had no room for me, so I left.”

She scoffed at that, almost relieved. “What do you have to be sorry about? It happened a long time ago.”

“Summer 1493, if you want to be precise about it.”

The only sound was the steady ticking of the clock on the mantle. Dragon focused his eyes again and looked at Robin, seeing the careful, calculating face he’d last seen over twenty-five years ago. She eventually nodded—everything fit.

“You didn’t know, did you?”

“I didn’t, though I don’t know how much good I would have been had I known and stayed.”

“You would have been there.”

“You’ve met my father—do you think I would have let him raise Luffy if I didn’t think it was the better choice?”

“That is true…” She looked him in the eyes, as though she was trying to see where the crack in the lie was. “What brought you to Ohara in the first place?”

“Initially? Babysitting. When all was said and done, it pissed off my father that I was in love, so I went back.”

“Then it is not just him that Luffy gets his defiance streak from,” she noted.

“I’m the one running a Revolution and you thought he got that from my father?”

“Merely an observation.” She smiled lightly at him, an expression so her mother that it nearly made him hug her. “Now, I think we have some negotiating involving the terms of my stay?”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Babysitting was a drag.

According to Aunt Tsuru, his dad owed the Queen of Alabasta a favor or eight and now it was Dragon’s turn to fulfill a request, as it involved the prince and his footman and not the old broad herself.

“We’re almost there!” the fifteen-year-old prince beamed. He turned towards his servant with a wide grin across his face. “Can you imagine?! That tree is thousands of years old! It doesn’t even have the Alabastian climate to help preserve it! Something that old! Still alive!”

“It truly is something, milord,” the young servant agreed. Igaram…? Yeah, Igaram and Prince Cobra. They were almost the exact same age and yet the difference between them was vast. Even though the princeling wasn’t an asshole about it, there was still that chasm Dragon knew was there… even if it was the footman that kept it there.

“Go pack up your shit,” Dragon said. “We’re going to be living on the island while we’re here, so you can’t leave shit onboard where it can be stolen.”

“Gotcha!” Cobra dashed below deck of the small clinker-built cog, Igaram close behind him insisting on doing it for him. Dragon rolled his eyes—this was honestly the last thing he wanted to be doing, but his father was… persuasive.

With his fists. The Hero of the Marines beat his son in a fistfight. Fuck.

It took another half an hour to get into the harbor at Ohara. It was a lively town, with the Tree of Knowledge dominating the landscape. Since he was contracted to be the teens’ bodyguard, Dragon went with Prince Cobra and Igaram as they went to the massive library that was carved into the tree itself, the entire building a living testament to knowledge.

“Ah, there you are.” Dragon saw a middle-aged man approach them as they entered the trunk. “Prince Cobra, I presume?”

“Yes; you must be Professor Clover?”

“That I am!” Dragon fought back rolling his eyes—everyone here was a nerd. “Queen Ouraeus told me you are almost as thirsty for knowledge as myself.”

“Indeed,” Cobra confirmed. “I have to be knowledgeable to become a great king one day, and Mother said you were one of the cleverest and learned men she’s ever met. It will be an honor to learn under you.”

“In that regard, I have to apologize,” Clover said. “Most of your tutoring will be conducted by one of my top pupils, who shall report to me on your progress. I’ve already written your mother and she has given her permission.”

“It must be difficult running this place,” Igaram noted, still staring at the interworkings of the library as they milled about.

“It is, unfortunately,” Clover sighed. “My apologies; you must be young Mister Igaram, which makes you…”

“Dragon—their babysitter.”

“Bodyguard,” the prince corrected. “He comes highly recommended from several high-ranking Marines as trustworthy.”

“Do you now…?”

“The Marine’s my old man, who can fuck off for all I care.” There was something about this Clover man that made him seem guarded… something wasn’t entirely legit. “I think he’s hoping his wayward son straightens himself out on this mission or some shit like that.”

“Then I’m sure we’ll get on splendidly,” Clover nodded. He then waved someone over, who gathered her books from the desk and approached them. “This is the one who is going to teach you lads.”

“Oh… I can’t…!” Igaram panicked. “I’m just here so His Highness…!”

“Nonsense—the Queen requested both of you be tutored,” Clover insisted. “This is Olvia-san. She is one of the most brilliant minds on this island and a native of Ohara. I leave your education in her care.”

Dragon swallowed hard—the young woman who walked up to them was one of the most gorgeous people he’d ever seen. Her brown eyes were the color of warm, lacquered wood and her platinum-blonde hair almost seemed to shimmer against her sun-bronzed skin.

“It is a pleasure to welcome the Alabastian delegation to our humble halls,” she said sweetly. Clover noticed that all three newcomers seemed overcome by her presence, which gave him an idea.

“How about if I take our newest young scholars on a tour of the library?” he offered. “Olvia, you can discuss the accommodations with their bodyguard. We can do the initial assessment after lunch.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” she agreed. Clover took the two teens with him and went off into the library, while Dragon stood awkwardly next to Olvia. “Would you like to see where you and your prince shall be staying?”

“He’s not my prince,” Dragon blurted out. “I mean… uh… my dad owes his mom some favors. It’s… complicated.”

“That must be awkward.”

“A little, but…” he shrugged, “you know.”

She gave a slight chuckle at that, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a smile. “Let me show you to the dorms.”

He nodded—what else could he do?

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It was difficult having Robin around, all things considered. Although she fit in amongst the other Revolutionaries with wonderful ease, there was still the fact that Dragon could not look at her without feeling a pang of regret. He hated the feeling, but did not avoid her. It was difficult, yet he knew that bringing her into the organization after such a long effort only to ignore her would be suspicious… too suspicious for him to counter. He instead kept on, as though the woman was not the mirror image of his long-lost love. Hers was not the face he waged this war over, nor was it the one that would lob the final volley.

Their venture had grown much larger than Olvia’s memory, and yet to have her daughter in their midst? However temporary? It was priceless.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The rest of the day went by in a whirl. Cobra and Igaram were going to share a room during their yearlong academic retreat, with Dragon getting an adjoining one to himself. He followed along as Olvia showed him around the tree’s internal chambers—where she would be tutoring the teens to where the kitchens were—and it was extremely difficult to keep his mind on her words and not drift off into a daydream.

Seas, she was pretty.

“It looks like Professor Clover is only partway done with his tour,” she noted as they stopped on a staircase. They could see the academic with the teens as they scoured some shelves, looking for a specific book. “They’re good kids, it seems.”

“Yeah, they are as good as fifteen-year-olds are going to be, anyhow,” he shrugged. “It’s still going to be a pain in the ass.”

“So your contract is to stay here for the duration of their tutoring?”

“Yeah, I’ve got to bring them back to Alabasta myself, so I can’t just ditch them here and be done with it. That’s not going to be fun.”

“Well,” Olvia chuckled, “if you ever need anything, let me know. I’m sure I can help out.”

He hesitated before deciding to fuck it.

“Actually, I’d, erm, like to get to know you better, please. Outside of the kids.”

“…and why’s that?”

“…because one day, someone is going to ask me who that woman is teaching my charges, and I’d like to be able to say more than the pretty one with the books.”

She smiled knowingly. “Nico Olvia; nice to meet you.”

“Monkey D. Dragon; the pleasure is mine.”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“Her name is Nico Robin, sire.”

“Nico…? That is a name from the past, indeed.” Cobra frowned as he looked at the photograph of the woman who was reportedly conducting business on the behalf of Baroque Works. It was late at night after everyone else was in bed as he sat up in his chambers, one of the few times he could truly talk freely with his captain of the guard. “She looks enough like her, if my memory serves me right.”

“I’m surprised I remember anything about that trip at all,” Igaram groused. “Even the smell of beer is ruined.”

Cobra chuckled at that; few things made him laugh these days, and much of it involved the past. Seas… that had been before he had even met Titi…

“Possibly,” Igaram continued, “if we appeal to her on the shared admiration of her mother, we might be able to get her to cooperate.”

“No,” the king said firmly. “If she goes by her mother’s family name, then she is likely a sensitive subject. We cannot let it be suggested that we ever knew her.” He placed the photo down on his writing desk and exhaled heavily. “That was thirty years ago… and where were we when she was thrown to the wolves as a child?”

“Burying your lady mother and readying for your marriage, not to mention the chaos that a monarch change involves.”

“…which is why I wish to slowly abdicate, to give Vivi a better transition than what I had… if we even make it that long.”

“It is a fine goal, sire,” Igaram agreed. He watched his monarch—his life-long friend—stare into the middle distance, clearly wrapped up in thought. “Is there anything else you require tonight, milord?”

“No, thank you. You may go now, Igaram.”

“As you wish, milord.” He bowed deeply. “For the good of Alabasta.”

Igaram quietly left the king’s chambers, finding that the young princess was waiting for him out in the corridor. She was such a haunting image of the late queen that it was terrifying…

…but this was a child, even if some would mistake her for being grown.

“Is she the same one that you remember?” she asked, voice quiet. He shook his head.

“Even if she was, we would have no basis on which to build a parley. We are to function as though the name is a coincidence.”

Vivi nodded slowly, considering her options. “Then I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to infiltrate Baroque Works.”

“…but Princess…”

“I can’t sit by and do nothing, Igaram. That’s not what a monarch is supposed to do. I’m here to serve the people, right? That’s not always about fancy trips to the Levely and hosting other nobles.”

“You are correct way too often for my blood pressure’s liking, milady,” he sighed, accepting their fates. “When do you wish to leave?”

“Tonight.”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“Dragon-san…?” He glanced over from the map and saw Cobra standing there, the kid only growing into something more awkward by the day. “How did you know you were in love with Nico-sensei?”

“I just kind of did,” he grunted. They were a full day out from Ohara, sailing back towards the entrance to the Grand Line. “Why? Someone there catch your fancy?”

“No… it’s just…” the teen worried his bottom lip with his teeth. “I’ve been taught plenty this past year, but watching you and Nico-sensei reminded me that I still don’t know what it will be like when I love someone. I imagine it’s… difficult.”

“It is,” Dragon admitted, “but sometimes it just finds you. At first it’s a like—or maybe they’re just smoking hot—and eventually you just find yourself realizing that the world isn’t quite the same without them in it.”

“…but that’s how I feel about my friends… my mother… my people…”

“Love comes in a lot of versions, kid,” Dragon shrugged. “You’re pretty observant to be a noble and understand that you should love your people—something tells me you won’t have a problem figuring out the romantic part when it comes.”

“You sure…?”

“Yeah.” He then jerked his head towards the rigging. “Get your asses up there and secure the topsail; we’re going through a real windy area soon.”

At least as the kids were up in the rigging, he’d have some quiet.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“Are you sure that going back is what you wish?” Dragon asked. Robin was chuckling softly as Koala sobbed in her arms, not wanting the other woman to leave. “You could do a lot of good here…”

“I will do a lot of good anywhere I go,” she claimed… and rightfully so. “My place is with Luffy. He’s my captain and we’re not done yet.”

“Just don’t tell him that I’m still around; I��d rather do that myself,” Sabo chuckled.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“So the kids… they’re doing well…?”

Olvia shrugged as she tied Cobra’s hair back as the teen slept—last thing they wanted was for the kid to wake up and get drunken vomit in his hair. She wasn’t entirely sure that getting a sovereign prince blackout-wasted-drunk every weekend was setting a good example, but Professor Clover was not one to be argued with when several pints were on the table.

“Well enough,” she replied. She glanced over at Dragon, who was peeling an ale-soaked jacket off Igaram, and shrugged. He would know if he had the ability to sit in place while the teens were at their studies, yet school hours were often when he went wandering around Ohara, taking in the local sights. “Unless there’s a sudden breakthrough, I think there’s one thing that they won’t be able to do, but it won’t be horrible in the long-run.”

“So not something Her Highness requested?”

“Oh, she requested it, but it’s notoriously difficult. People of all ages attempt to learn and some never get it, no matter how long they try.”

“What’s that? Some sort of arcane science?”

“Reading.”

He paused, watching her as she finished putting Cobra to bed. “You’re talking about a prince and his nursemaid’s son—they’ve long been able to read.”

“Do you promise?” she asked.

“Promise what…?”

“Do you promise?” Olvia went to his side and held out her hand. Dragon looked at it, then up into her eyes, before placing his hand in hers.

“I promise,” he replied. “Better yet: I trust you.”

With a nod, Olvia helped Dragon finish with Igaram before taking his hand again and leading him out into the corridor. They went through the labyrinthine maze of staircases until they reached one that had no light down it, only darkness.

“The fragile manuscript storage room?” he wondered. She shook her head before taking the handrail and carefully stepping down into the dark.

“You know how we here in Ohara strive to uncover the secrets of the world through our research,” she explained, not waiting for him to follow. He did, which made her smile in the dark. “If your father came here and asked what sort of research we were doing, we could honestly tell him that much of it involves ruins and old tomes, surviving fragments from over the centuries. It is different from Vegapunk’s research, yet it is no different in our dedication or the danger that follows.”

“Vegapunk is being courted by the Government,” he reminded her.

“True, yet this… this is something we’re been hiding for much, much longer, and the knowledge from which we glean from this will benefit everyone, from us to Vegapunk to the young prince and everyone who wishes for the truth.”

“Olvia, what are you…?” He felt her stop in front of him and heard a heavy latch open.

“Welcome, Dragon, to the Poneglyph Chamber.”

The light from inside the room was bright as Olvia opened the door and ushered Dragon in. Once his eyes adjusted, he gasped at the sight of the giant stone in front of him, scholars all around as they went about their duties. Some stared at them as they made their way across the room, but most remained unfazed.

“You… you are teaching them to read this…?”

“Attempting; there is one in Alabasta, a rubbing of which Queen Ouraeus provided us in her youth. The secret history lies in these markings, and if we are to understand the Void Century, then we must first understand these Poneglyphs.”

“…but he’s not getting it.”

“No; I would be impressed if he ever did, if we’re being honest. His language skills lie where he’s able to understand the practical applications. Although this limits him to things such as Alabastian and Celestial and sailors’ creoles, it means that academic languages are unfortunately beyond his grasp.” She watched as he placed his hand on the Poneglyph, taking it all in. “There is nothing else in the world like it, is there?”

“Dad’s bosses would have a field day with this,” Dragon marveled. He looked at Olvia, seeing that her face was concerned and distant. “That’s your true goal here, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“That’s wonderful,” he replied. “It’s never sat well with me that there’s so much we don’t know, and the fact you’re doing it here? Sticking it to Dad and his bosses and their bosses? It’s like a military brat’s dream come true.”

Olvia nodded at that, too choked up to respond properly. Something deep inside her said she was doing the right thing by showing him their biggest secret, and the sparkle in his eyes made her heart swell.

He was going to be the one to do it.

He was going to be the one to make all their research worth it.

All they needed to do now was wait.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It was a beautiful day as the Thousand Sunny sailed towards their next destination. With Fish-man Island the the Ryugyu Kingdom behind them, the crew’s spirits were high as they enjoyed their time together.

“Hey, Robin, do you want to play with us?” Luffy asked. She glanced up from her book and saw her captain standing rather close, with Usopp in the background attempting to ride on Chopper’s full-reindeer form as though his back was a furry surfboard. “It’s a lot of fun!”

“I’ll pass for now, but thank you,” she replied. Luffy didn’t go away, the teen instead tilting his head at her. “Yes…?”

“Something’s different about you,” he noted. “It’s not bad. Just… different.”

“We’re all different than how we were before,” she reminded him.

“I know.”

“…but there’s something else…?”

“Yeah.” Luffy went and threw his arms around Robin’s neck in a hug. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“I’m glad too,” she replied, patting his back. “I think you might want to get back to the others—Usopp seems like he’s getting rather good at that.”

“Oh! Hey! Usopp! Let me have a go!” Luffy was sufficiently distracted enough to run off and tackle the sniper right off the doctor’s back, all three of the teens laughing.

‘Maybe, we both always had an idea as to the truth,’ she thought as she watched her youngest crewmates roughhouse. They ran around silly until Sanji came out of the kitchen with snacks and drinks, snatching their attention. ‘The little brother I always wanted was right here after all.’

#Monkey D. Dragon #Nico Olvia #Nico Robin #Emporio Ivankov #Professor Clover #One Piece #fan fiction #this is complete crackfic that I expect to be disproven #but again: let's torture characters by making them related #but this time give Olvia and Dragon both some character development #it makes more sense than some stuff I've seen #and down here bc they're kind of spoilers I guess #Nefertari Cobra #Igaram (One Piece)#what is linear storytelling #this is a fcking mess but idc

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