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pagankingfinn · 5 years ago

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The Unfaltering Chaos Trio - Chapter 1 - Goddamn it Izu

The noise of multiple sets of feet pounding against the pavement echoed up the walls of the building around them. The tallest figure spun around to cover their escape with a veil of fire, following the shorter companions soon after. The shouts of heros and the sirens of police cars reverberate around the inside of their skulls.

The tallest had dark, almost purple in color, burn scars that covered his body. Between old and new injuries it was difficult to tell what his condition was. He seemed to mostly be covered in dirt, however, the unlit alley ways provided no way to tell.

“Izuku this is all your fault!” The tallest yelled, the smallest responded by flipping his head back with a grin and a giggle. His green and black curly hair was pulled into a messy bun, his dark moss green eyes glimmered with mischief, he had several injuries already but didn’t seem to notice as he ran with a limp. The female running beside him was covered in scrapes and bruises, the hems of her clothing were singed and ripped.

“You’re welcome Dabi!” He responded as he looked forward again, and led the other two through the streets. Despite the delays they had been setting up, they could hear the pro heros getting closer and closer. A fireball narrowly missed the female of the group, hitting Izuku in the back. He cried out in pain as he stumbled and fell.

“Shit! Come on Izuku, tell us which way to go!” The female spoke as the taller male carried Izuku on his back. The anxiety of the three rose with every passing second, the heros were on their heels as they continued to run through the streets.

Before they could get any instructions, their escape was cut off by a wall of branches. The other passage was blocked off by several pro heros. Their sweat dropped as they heard the familiar thump of combat boots against concrete. They spun around to look at the raven haired man.

As Dabi and the unnamed female took a fighting stance, they were cut off before anything could happen.

“Your friend needs medical attention, it would be wise to surrender before he gets worse.” The pro hero, Eraserhead, stated. The pair didn’t seem to like that, seeing as the female gave a loud outburst in response.

“NOBODY TOUCHES OUR LITTLE BROTHER!” She screamed, the only thing keeping her from lunging forward was the weak grip she felt on the shoulder of her sweater. She looked to see Izuku was the one who had grabbed hold of her sweater, while Dabi sweeped his arm out to keep the female back.

“Toga, we’re surrounded. If we fight now, we might lose Izuku. Look at him-” Dabi tried to reason, Toga’s head dropped to the ground as she reached up and gently grasped the hand holding onto her sweater. They both knew that there was no way to easily heal him, after all the organization they belonged to had no healer in the group.

Izuku began to slip off Dabi as he spoke, Toga let out a screech as he rushed to try and support their chosen family member. Dabi looked alarm as they turned their attention to the boy faintly breathing at this point. They shared a look before slowly nodding, and surrendering.

Except, they forgot to put Izuku down beforehand, so they ended up dropping him on accident. Luckily Eraserhead was fast enough to use his capture gear and grab the boy.

The rest went as expected, except with Izuku in an ambulance while Toga and Dabi were being taken in for questioning. They ended up taking an offer that they couldn’t refuse from a mouse bear dog creature, and then were taken into the newest place of residence for the next few years.

That’s how Izuku woke up, handcuffed to a hospital bed, covered in bandages, with Toga sleeping next to him and Dabi leaned across the end of the bed in a chair. He stirred slightly and made a small noise as he reached out for his older brother.

“Hey Izu, how’d you sleep?” Toga asked him as she woke up and sat up, hooking an arm under his right armpit and holding his left arm to help him sit up. She then used her foot to poke Dabi awake.

“... Where are we?” Izuku rasped out, looking around the room carefully. Dabi slowly looked up and saw that Toga was helping to support the sickliest member of their sibling group. Dabi moved onto the bed, sliding behind Izuku so that he could fit. He looked at the bandages on his back and slowly untied them.

“We’re in UA. They used you as a bargaining chip against us, if we didn’t accept they were going to seperate us all.” Dabi explained as he unwrapped the tight bandages. Unfortunately, because of how Izuku’s broken bones had healed when he was younger, he had to be careful to not cause any more breakage. Izuku slumped softly against Dabi once the wrappings weren’t so tight.

“Thank you.” Izuku mumbled in gratitude. He shifted until he was more against the larger male, enjoying the heat his body gave off as it helped relax his taxed muscles. Toga joined her brothers in the pile on the bed, nestling into the crook beside Izuku.

That’s how the UA staff found them, well, that’s how Aizawa, Nezu, and Recovery Girl found them. They looked up silently at the door as it opened, the three of them stiffening as their muscles tensed. Dabi dragged Izuku closer to him as the trio subconsciously tried to squeeze themselves as much as possible against the white brick wall. They stood out against the sterile environment of the infirmary.

Izuku glared at the three, ignoring the tender areas on his back as he pressed against Dabi. He pulled Toga closer as well. The sight was quite interesting, with the three teens tense and hunched over like vultures. They didn't make a move or speak as they looked at the adults in the room.

Nezu jumped up on the bed and Izuku nearly screamed in response. It was hard to not want to reflexively screech when a white furred creature jumps up onto your hospital bed. Toga, Izuku, and Dabi were all too dazed and off put by the surreal events to fully process what was going on.

Recovery Girl did end up yelling at Izuku for not having his bandages on, when it was explained that the boy had a history of breaking bones without proper treatment. Meaning that, and this was especially true for his ribs, if there was too much pressure applied he could break his bones again. It also didn’t help that Toga and Dabi wouldn’t let the old woman get near Izuku if she had any intent of breaking his bones to heal them.

Once Izuku was no longer clad in a hospital gown. He instead was now wearing his tattered clothing that had been repaired with staples and the most hideous prints Izuku had ever seen - courtesy of Dabi and Toga - a random tee shirt, and the rest of his regular outfit. Including the twink shorts, stockings, garter belt, and high tops that had been dragged through the zombie apocalypse and back four times over.

Soon enough the chaotic trio had been led to the 1-A dorms, and shown their rooms. As the three weren’t allowed to leave campus yet, Nezu had instead placed them in the dorm systems as guinea pigs for how dorm life would look. Nezu would open up the dorms, likely at the end of the first semester, to the students.

It was only once the three children were inside the empty dorm building that they let out the breath they had been holding. They looked around the commons for a bit, then Aizawa gathered them shortly after.

“Alright you three, there’s a separate floor that’s just for you guys. Nezu had Cementos add to it while Izuku was in the infirmary. It does have running water and electricity, it’s also the floor where the boiler, furnace, and backup generators are. But you won’t be able to access that area.” Aizawa explained to them with an authoritative tone as he led the trio to the elevator. He inserted a key, opening up a button that would take them to the basement.

It was eerily quiet, the teens were still trying to process what in the fresh fuck was going on. It wasn’t too much of a surprise as their world had been turned upside down within only a few days.

“Thank you, we should be able to find our rooms from here.” Dabi huffed out as he coralled his siblings out of the elevator and sent them off down the hall. He raised his eye skeptically while Aizawa glared at him.

“What? We may have just had our entire world flipped, but we can take care of ourselves. We don’t need you or any other adult to keep us in check. The three od us may be chaotic but we’re not stupid, and even if Toga and Izuku are the most likely to get into trouble, they still know when to not push the boundries.” Dabi responded dryly, crossing his arms as he stood in front of Aizawa. His piercing lightning blue eyes seemed to cut into the hero’s soul.

“Yeah yeah, just stay out of trouble. Here’s a copy of the key to the elevator, don’t lose it.” Aizawa responded with the same dry tone, he placed a spare key in the hands of the teenager. He continued his conversation as he walked to the elevator.

“You three will be required to wear the UA uniforms tomorrow. I or another staff member will grab you tomorrow morning when classes start.” Aizawa spoke as he entered the elevator. The doors shut behind him, Dabi watching the entire time until he could hear the box departing. He headed in the direction Izuku and Toga went.

Toga came running around the corner screaming, hiding behind Dabi while the croaky cackling of Izuku could be heard. “He found a bunch of tools left over from construction!” Toga squeaked as she cowered behind Dabi, Izuku came tearing around the corner soon after with a sledge hammer in hand as he grinned widely. He was covered in dust and seemed very proud of himself.

“I knocked out the walls between the point where two of the bathroom cabinets connect, and the wall between two of the closets. So now we can have tunnels to visit each other!” He squealed, dragging them off to show his handy work. Surprisingly he didn’t absolutely destroy the walls and had somehow managed to get fairly clean cuts.

“How did you-” Dabi began to ask, before being cut off by Izuku.

“Magic.”

Dabi looked at Toga, who gave him a shrug. He seemed to just accept the fact that their younger brother was one to take action without thinking. This was clearly one of those moments, as Izuku ran off to go explore some more. Meanwhile, Toga and Dabi decided to explore the now connected rooms. Each of them were bare beyond a closet with some uniforms, a night stand, and a bed. They wrinkled their noses in disgust with a light sneer.

“Hey Izuku! We’re going to dismantle the beds and move them all to the central room! Bring that tool box you found!” Toga yelled out into the halls, there was some rustling and a crash before Izuku came bounding over with a tool box. Dabi set out on dismantling the wooden frames while Toga and Izuku went to work on moving the mattresses out into the hall.

Izuku and Toga soon returned to grab tools and go dismantle the other bed frame, they kept the one in the central room intact. Using the closet tunnel they moved the pieces of the frame into the central room. Dabi got them to help move the pieces into the hall and into the central room.

The entire process took over an hour, and rebuilding a bed frame to fit three mattresses all next to each other took even longer. By the time they had finished they were all wiped out, they had no clocks in the dorms, but guessing by their biological clocks and their exhaustion they figured it was around 9 or 10 pm.

The low growling of their stomachs shook them from their shock as they sighed, Toga flopped onto one of the mattresses with a heavy huff. Izuku gave a sigh.

“I’ll go scrounge something together for us, there’s likely something I can manage to find in the school kitchen.” Izuku offered, he had the most experience with living on the streets than the other two. So when it came to times like this he was usually the one to go and scrounge around.

On the other side of the city, it had taken Aizawa until he got home to realize he forgot to tell the kids to go grab food. He mentally cursed at himself, there wouldn’t be any other teachers present at this time to tell the kids. He didn’t have any way to call them, as he didn’t have their numbers despite them having phones.

Izuku didn’t take long to exploit his skills of having the flexibility of a ferret. To the boy, climbing around and finding escape routes was like a sixth sense. So within fifteen minutes, he had escaped the basement, gotten out of the dorms, snuck into the cafeteria through the kitchen back door, and was now poking around to see what he could find.

There! An open bag of white rice. He looked around for something to put the rice in, deciding to turn his hoodie around and use his hood to carry the rice. He filled it with as much as he could manage, pulled the draw strings tight, and fled before he could push his luck too far. He was back to the dorms even quicker now that he knew where to enter the basement again.

It wasn’t long before Izuku had found a hot plate and a small pot to cook with, he squirreled away back to the room where his siblings were. Toga sat up when she heard Izuku, and Dabi looked over from where he was seated. They watched as Izuku filled the pot with water and plugged in the hot plate. He scampered off to grab a lid, a stirring spoon, and some dishware to use.

Izuku had only made a small portion of the rice, and soon enough the rice finished cooking. The trio was able to dish up their plain meal. Izuku unplugged the hot plate as he and his siblings dug into the bland rice, but even so they enjoyed just having something warm to eat. Soon enough with the warmth of food inside them, mixed with exhaustion, they all climbed onto the beds and fell asleep with their limbs entangled.

The next morning the three woke up fairly early, each of them got up and stretched individually. Without saying a word, Toga bounded off to one of the bathrooms to shower, while Izuku and Dabi used the same one. Both boys had trouble reaching various spots. Izuku often couldn’t get all the soap out of the thick mop of hair on his head. While Dabi couldn’t always reach his back to clean the dirt out from under the staples and in between his scars. Izuku also liked to help Dabi re-dye his hair when the black began to face.

Soon enough all three were finished with their showers and had dried off. They each dawned the new uniforms they were required to wear, and Izuku went to wash the pot and cook up some more rice before a teacher came to grab them. All three of them scarfed down their rice after it was finished cooking. After, Izuku styled Toga’s hair into her usual space buns.

Dabi took the bun out of Izuku’s hair and brushed it while the other male was busy with Toga’s hair. He put it back up into a bun before brushing his own hair. Dabi grabbed the key and used it to access the elevator so that they could go sit in the commons. The three teens went and sat on the floor near the doorway while they waited for a teacher or staff member to come grab them. Time ticked by agonizingly slow for the tree, Izuku took to napping against the wall. Toga decided to subtly move the furniture around, while Dabi just charged his phone and played on it.

Finally salvation came in the form of the door knob turning. The three jumped to their feet and wept in joy as the boredom was finally banished from the kingdom, at least until the quest reset for the next person to come along and obtain it.

Izuku immediately recognized who the hero was without so much as looking directly at them. He quietly muttered indignantly under his breath, but didn’t comment on it as they followed Japan’s national golden labrador. Sufficient to say, the reverse-otaku for a hero was not the most favorite among the three. The vibrations of him walking up to the door were enough to rudely jar Izuku awake, and the smile that reflected light even in the depths of the abyss was enough to get the green haired teenager more than annoyed.

The walk through the halls didn’t seem to lift their spirits any higher. The sheer size of the place was enough to put all of them on edge, and the idea of it being filled with future heros didn’t help in the slightest. Eventually they reached the gargantuan doors of class 1-A, and just in time as they were called to enter the classroom.

Swallowing the anxiety in their throats and steeling themselves for the events of the future, they slid the door open and walked into the classroom. The murmurs and shouts of excitement died out entirely for a few blissful milliseconds, only for the chaos to return. They looked between each other, unsure what to do, before the caterpillar on the floor got up to quiet down the class.

“All of you be quiet. We have three new students joining us, as you can tell, they will introduce themselves and then you may ask questions. Keep the volume down, if I have to be woken up because you all are too rowdy there will be severe consequences.” The tired talking caterpillar spoke, the three stared at the amalgamation before realizing that it was a sleeping bag that contained their homeroom teacher.

Izuku hesitantly walked up to the podium to introduce himself, he wanted to get this done and over with. He spoke clearly to the class in an excited manner.

“I’m Izuku Midoriya, I don’t have a quirk. A fun fact is that I’ve broken several bones and never gotten any treatment, the worst is from when I broke four ribs.” He beamed, bouncing on his heels as if it was perfectly normal to have broken four ribs and even more bones.

Dabi gently pulled Izuku back, the small boy easily following as Toga soon took the place of where Izuku was once standing. She seemed to share the same attitude towards her greeting as Izuku, except not as much bent on the breakage of one’s body.

“I’m Toga Himiko! My quirk is Transform, I have to consume the blood of someone to take their form. I like knives and one time I ate a bird!” Toga enthusiastically spoke, spinning around to join Izuku. Dabi was the last one to go.

“I go by Dabi. My quirk is Cremation, basically I can use blue fire. These are my adopted siblings.” Dabi spoke plainly, making blue fire in his hand as a demonstration before putting it out and joining his siblings.

That’s when izuku noticed a particular ash blonde and pressed as close as he could to his siblings. While Izuku didn’t necessarily fear the man, he had mixed emotions and typically avoided confrontation at all costs.

“DEKU! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE YOU QUIRKLESS BASTARD!” The boy remarked angrily as his palms popped with the sound of small explosions. Izuku let out a sigh and stepped forward slightly.

“I’m not here by choice, flaming dumpster fire man fucking hit me with a fireball and I woke up here after collapsing on the ground. I’m here not because I want to be a hero, but because I’m a villain who got captured thanks to the pompous assholes you all look up to. Got that, Kacchan?” Izuku snipped back, the class went quiet as the resident angry pomeranian stopped working. Izuku gave an annoyed huff in response as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“We’re not answering any questions.” The three spoke before heading to their seats. They quietly conversed between each other as they ignored those around them.

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silvokrent · 4 years ago

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Slings and Arrows

Some wrongs cannot be righted. It’s a lesson Pietro learns a lifetime too late.

[The rise and fall of Dr. Arthur Watts, M.D., PhD.]

“Phase-II trial of Auratic synthesis, test number—” The rustle of papers was followed by a sigh. “—test number sixty-four. Initiating.”

The monitor on his desk whirred to life. Pietro watched the numbers on the holographic screen climb as the program ran the simulation. Thirty seconds without anomalies. A minute. He knew better than to get his hopes up, but the longer the systems operated without rejection, the harder it was to suppress the mutinous optimism at the back of his head. Maybe, this time, he’d finally found the right—

The monitor let out a dejected-sounding beep, and the screen flashed.

Insufficient variables. Analysis results too unstable for implantation.

Only when he slumped back in his seat did Pietro realize how tightly he’d been gripping the arms of the chair. He tapped at his scroll and activated the audio function.

“Test number sixty-four was unsuccessful. The simulated Aura was deemed too structurally unstable to survive grafting to a biotechnic lattice. Recommend recalibrating the values for ω, λ, and ρ to increase viability. Describe what mistakes were made.” Pietro contemplated the scroll in his hand, before lifting it to his face and smacking it into his forehead. Repeatedly. “My mistake was deciding to pursue a degree in bioengineering, followed by the even bigger mistake of my alma mater handing me a diploma. All other setbacks are incidental. End recording.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Pietro called up the diagram from earlier. The hologram cast his office in various shades of blue light that, while it had a calming effect on him, unveiled the minefield of loose papers, folders, and post-it notes that had become his workspace.

For a moment, he considered setting aside a day in his schedule to reorganize his desk. Only when he couldn’t find his calendar did he remember why it had gotten so bad in the first place.

His calendar was buried somewhere underneath.

Brokenly, Pietro stared at the untamed bed of chaos before him. On one hand, he needed to clean his desk. On the other hand, incineration was faster, and the chemistry lab had a blowtorch.

“You look desperately in need of this,” said a voice from behind.

The unexpected drawl startled Pietro out of his thoughts. He swiveled around in his chair to the sight of Arthur Watts leaning against the doorframe, a steaming mug in each hand. Judging by the amused smirk, he’d been there for some time.

“Arthur!” Pietro minimized the program with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

His friend stepped inside and carefully kicked the door shut with his heel. He strode across the room and reclined into the vacant chair opposite of him, ankle propped on his knee. He held out the second mug. “Kuo Kuana roast. Extra cream, and enough sugar to give you every cardiovascular disease known to man.”

Pietro accepted the offered drink, and for a moment simply held it to his face. The aromatic scent was blue water and white sand, and it never failed to make him nostalgic for the coast. He let out a long, quiet exhale that took some of the tension from his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he said, “but how did you—?”

“I saw the lights on under the door and took an educated guess,” Watts said. He took a draught from his own mug before continuing: “The janitors left at the end of the day, and no one else is unhinged enough to stay after hours.”

Pietro arched a brow. “Apart from you?”

Watts snorted. “I had a meeting that I couldn’t reschedule.”

“At ten o’clock at night?”

“I made the mistake of postponing one too many times. They couldn’t be dissuaded.”

They lapsed into companionable silence. Pietro indulged in his coffee while Watts picked up a folder and flipped through it at random.

The company was a welcome respite, and not just because it came bearing gifts.

Their office arrangement had started off rather unextraordinarily, all things considered. Handing off paperwork, returning a piece of equipment, passing along department memos—the sort of banal normalcy one would expect between colleagues. Pietro hadn’t begrudged the unexpected interruptions from Watts (quite the opposite, in fact), and Watts never protested when Pietro ventured into his space long enough to drop something off.

Only a few months after becoming acquainted did Pietro notice the shift in their interactions. It had been subtle at first: an animated conversation during a faculty meeting that led to Pietro following Watts back to his office to continue the topic. A request from Watts for a second opinion on a patient chart, which led to Watts loitering in Pietro’s office long after he’d humored him. A day where Watts had cleared his schedule to allow Pietro to vent about his latest experiment following an incident in the labs.

It hadn’t taken long for the intrusions to devolve from legitimate reasons to half-contrived pretenses. The reed that broke the Dromedon’s back had been a memorable afternoon where Pietro’s office door swung open, and Watts—bag strap slung around one arm, a stack of documents tucked under the other—announced that he needed somewhere to hide from his interns, and no one would think to look for him here.

There were, admittedly, more unconventional ways to start a friendship, though Pietro hardly minded. Especially not after Watts had treated him to dinner as an apology for the inconvenience.

It was an aspect of their relationship Pietro was both fond of and deeply appreciated, though he was tactful enough to not comment on it aloud. Watts wasn’t exactly the sentimental type. (Though the steaming mug in his hand begged to differ.)

He watched as the other man returned the folder to its original spot in exchange for a file.

“No luck, I take it?” The question was as much rhetorical as it was a tacit invitation to brainstorm. Pietro gladly accepted.

“I had a thought after yesterday’s meeting: ‘What if it’s quantitative rather than permutational? Maybe we only need to adjust the inputs rather than the sequence.’” He shot a rueful glance at the monitor. “You can imagine how that went. It feels like the answer’s staring right at me and I’m too stupid to see it.”

“If you were stupid”—Watts turned the page, not bothering to look up—“we wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation.” He took another sip from his mug. “Sleep-deprived, on the other hand…”

“Can you blame me?” Pietro asked.

This time, Watts did look up.

“We’ve been at this for six months and have nothing to show for it. We’re running out of time.”

Watts set the file down. “James never stipulated a deadline,” he murmured.

“No,” Pietro agreed, “but he’s not the only person we have to justify ourselves to.”

“If this is about the lien, I wouldn’t fret. As long as our funding comes from the military, they’re not going to pull the plug.”

Pietro frowned at the drink in his hands, at the contemplative reflection that mirrored his own. “James may have greenlit the project, but that doesn’t change the fact that the military budget comes from tax revenue. The other councilors get a say in how that money is allocated. And if they think our research is a waste of public resources…”

An uneasy quiet fell between them, and it was telling that Watts didn’t immediately refute him or attempt to assuage his concerns.

For lack of anything constructive to say, Pietro sighed. “For thousands of years we consumed willow bark as an analgesic. When people learned that salicin was the culprit, a chemist learned how to make it from scratch. Pharmacies around the world now manufacture and distribute that medication to millions of people.” He leaned back into his seat. “How is it that we figured out how to make an artificial compound, but we can’t figure out how to make an artificial Aura?”

“Well—” Watts motioned with his drink in a vague sort of gesture. “That might have something to do with acetylsalicylic acid being a synthetic chemical, and Aura being the manifestation of the soul. They’re not exactly analogous.” He stroked his chin. “It would also be remiss of me not to point out that up until a few centuries ago, pneumatophysicists were regularly executed for heresy. It’s not as if we have the breakthroughs of our predecessors to build upon.”

A weak, self-deprecating laugh escaped him. Reflexively, Pietro combed through his hair.

“It’s frustrating, isn’t it?” Frustrating might have been putting it charitably. Pietro still had half a mind to fetch that blowtorch.

A knowing look crept across his handsome features, though Watts deigned only to shrug in response. Obstacles and setbacks were held in a similar estimation to success; they seldom bothered him. Nonetheless, he offered, perhaps by way of consolation, “Nothing worth doing is ever easy.”

“I’m not looking for easy. I’m looking for possible,” said Pietro, “and right now, we’ve hit a dead end.”

The holographic diagram from earlier rematerialized over his desk—a simulated Aura field superimposed atop the three-dimensional render of an android. He parsed through the accompanying schematics with a wave of his hand, calling forth and highlighting relevant segments of data.

“We know that Aura is related to the sum product of a person’s neurological pathways, because it’s the same system responsible for generating consciousness.” Pietro activated the synaptic filter. A branching web of neurons lit up the hologram in tandem with the Aura field. “Here’s the problem. Functionally and behaviorally they’re similar, so you’d think replicating one system would mean the simultaneous generation of the other, right? But it doesn’t work like that.” His brow furrowed. “Not only is Aura’s reliance on this system facultative, but it verges on metaphysical. It means that we’re missing something. You can break down the physiology of the CNS and PNS into all the various electrochemical signals, but the second you try to do the same thing with Aura—”

He dismissed the hologram with a flick of his wrist, and slumped in his chair.

“I’m starting to think James picked the wrong proposal,” he quietly admitted. “At least yours didn’t hinge on reconciling a decades-long conflict between pneumatophysical models and—”

“Self-pity doesn’t become you.”

The brusque statement startled Pietro out of his rambling. It only took a second of being subjected to Watts’ flat, unimpressed stare before Pietro ducked his head.

Watts snorted under his breath. “For better or worse, the general picked your proposal. You have an obligation to not fail, so I suggest you pull yourself together.”

Embarrassment quickly faded to mild annoyance. “You’re as sobering as a cold shower. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Watts’ expression softened. “Sometimes a little cold helps to clear the head.” There was thoughtful pause before he unhooked his ankle and leaned forward, elbows braced against his legs. “You know,” he began, “success isn’t always contingent on understanding.”

Coming from the man who actively condemned ignorance, that surprised him. Pietro stilled with the mug halfway to his lips. “True,” he conceded, lowering the coffee back to his lap. “But I don’t think we’re in a position to trip over the answer like it’s a sleeping cat.”

Another pause followed, longer than the one that preceded it.

“What if we had a way to circumvent it?”

“What do you mean?”

With a soft thunk Watts set his mug on the desk. “Your proposal requires grafting an Aura onto a mechanical vessel. It never specified where that Aura came from,” he said. “Whether it was artificially created…or acquired from somewhere else.”

He laced his fingers together.

“Someone else, perhaps.”

He’d been told more than once that he had a terrible poker face. Clearly that hadn’t changed, if the way Watts pursed his lips was anything to go by.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. I’m not suggesting we go abduct people and harvest their organs in a back alley.” He rolled his eyes. “I would hope you’d have a somewhat higher opinion of me.”

“You have a way with words, Arthur. A questionable and slightly terrifying way with them.” Pietro fidgeted with his tie. “Let’s, for the moment, ignore all of the potential obstacles involved. Like receiving an extension on our funding to cover any unanticipated costs. Or getting approval from the Atlesian Ethics Committee to perform an unregulated and untested surgery on a patient. Or even finding a candidate who would willingly consent to such a procedure. Even if we hypothetically resolved all of those issues, we’d still be left with a problem.”

“Only the one?” asked Watts. He arched a slender brow. “Very well, I’ll bite. Enlighten me.”

Another frown tugged at his lips. “Even if we found a way to perform such a surgery, removing even a fraction could be fatal. You can’t survive without Aura.”

“That’s not, strictly speaking, true.” The mug had made its way back into his hand. Watts idly traced the rim with a finger. “I’ve treated patients with Chronic Aura Degradation before. It’s not uncommon to see cases where up to 45% of the Aura was eroded. And in every one of those cases, the patient survived with weekly EMF-DS therapy.”

Pietro shook his head. “You, better than anyone, know that ‘survived’ isn’t the same thing as ‘cured.’”

“Of course not,” he agreed. “Forgive me if I insinuated otherwise. I only meant that regular treatments resulted in a negligible impact on their quality of life.”

“I’m not denying that.” Only when Watts stilled his hand, and began circling the rim in the opposite direction, did Pietro realize he was staring. He snapped his head up and cleared his throat. “But that’s an archotheronotic disease. You’re talking about using Auratic intercision to create a manmade version of CAD. There’s no telling what that would do to the donor, or if the amount of Aura donated would even be enough to sustain an entirely new person.”

Watts conceded with a sigh. “It’s just a thought.”

It wasn’t the most outlandish thing Pietro had heard—the staff breakroom regularly churned out weirder ideas on a weekly basis, and gods knew he’d contributed to quite a few of those himself.

Still…

“I’m not opposed to alternatives,” he replied at last, “but I can’t imagine anyone condoning a surgery that mimics a Grimm-based illness. The controversy alone would be a nightmare.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted.”

Watts made a noncommittal noise as he stood.

“Scientific progress has always been controversial. What matters is how we deal with it.” He lightly clapped a hand on Pietro’s shoulder. The residual warmth from the mug lingered; it was oddly soothing. “Do me a favor, and try to get some rest?” He smirked, and the hand retreated. “Sleep on my suggestion. See if you’re not better disposed to it in the morning.”

Pietro sipped at his coffee, eyes crinkled in amusement. “I’ll pass on the sleep for now.” He motioned with the cup. “Keep these coming though and you might just persuade me.”

Watts let out a low chuckle. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He turned on his heel for the door, tossing a parting glance over his shoulder. “Good night, Pietro.”

Pietro smiled into his drink. “Good night, Arthur.”

“—has to be something we haven’t thought of yet.”

“We could give the pneumatograph another go. Run the Dust vortex generator with different configurations.”

“And waste more Dust in the process. Repeating the same tests isn’t going to get us any closer to generating an Aura.”

“Okay. Well, what about Grimm exposure trials? We could map out field fluctuations and look for any biopenumatic discrepancies.”

“After what happened last time? We’d be lucky if the Grimmoire loaned us a bloody paperclip, let alone a Boarbatusk. Try again.”

Will pulled a face as he crossed out a line on the clipboard, before tossing the pen back to Watts. He cast the cages lining the wall a glum look. “I guess we could go back to rodent models,” he said.

The mice Pietro was feeding began to squeakily protest. He lapsed into momentary silence before agreeing, though not without some reluctance. “It couldn’t hurt.” Not in the technical sense, anyway. But if the thought of their work regressing back to animal trials didn’t sting a little. Given the dwindling list of alternatives, however, he wasn’t about to object.

One of the mice nosed at his hand, and Pietro obligingly scratched it between the ears. “I’ll fill out the requisition forms. It shouldn’t take more than a day to get the approval.”

“As long as the technicians remember to give us an Aura-active batch,” Will added. “Last time they forgot.”

Their conversation petered out, replaced by the high-pitched din of the mice and the clink of the pellets in their food bowls. Pietro sealed the latch on the enclosure and placed the dispenser on the nearby counter, thinking.

“Even in a worst-case scenario, if the rodent models end up not working out, we could always repurpose our findings for later studies. Once the Penny Project is over”—though whether or not they succeeded, he chose not to theorize on—“if we can get the grant money for it, well, who knows? Apothymetics is relatively uncharted territory, and it’d be a shame to see all those mice go to waste…”

Watts slowly lowered the chart in his hands, and pinned him with the full intensity of his stare. “You want to run tests…on the mice…to see if you can unlock their Semblances,” he said. He broke apart his sentence as if he were running it through a translator.

Pietro shrugged. “It’s theoretically possible. If an animal can unlock an Aura, by extension it should be able to acquire a Semblance. Haven’t you ever wondered what that would look like?”

Sometimes, he liked asking questions because it was fun to speculate on the possibilities of the hypothetical. Sometimes, he liked asking questions because it was fun to see what sort of face his friend would make. Watts had yet to disappoint.

He watched with delight as Watts squinted his eyes, as if the mere idea were an affront to common decency. “No,” he said, “I haven’t wondered what that would look like. Perhaps my imagination isn’t as vivid as yours, but I’d rather not contemplate the horror of a 700-kilogram polar bear learning how to run at Mach 1, let alone a lab rat.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Arthur,” Will chimed in, in a voice far too casual to be anything but. “Think of all the possibilities. Telekinetic service dogs. Self-cloning chickens.”

“We could solve world hunger,” Pietro said. This time he was unable to suppress a grin.

It took a second for Watts to register the look on his face; his expression evened out, and he let out a loud sigh. “Stop enabling him, Will. He doesn’t need a co-conspirator.”

“I thought you were my co-conspirator,” said Pietro, feigning a look of wounded betrayal.

“No. I’m your impulse control. And I seem to doing a rather poor job as of late.” Watts jotted something on the chart in his hands, his brow momentarily furrowed in concentration. “Those mice are supposed to be euthanized anyway. I doubt they’d let you repurpose them for another project, even if you pitched it as a financial incentive.”

Pietro considered. “I can be persuasive.”

“That’s what concerns me.”

Will set the clipboard next to the dispenser and leaned back, his amusement tempered with intrigue. “I know you were kidding—mostly—but eventually, someone else is going to ask the same question, and they won’t be. Sooner or later, it’s going to be proven or disproven.”

“With any luck, they’ll disprove it,” Watts replied. “It’s already bad enough when people unlock their Semblances.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure Huntsmen need those.”

“Huntsmen, certainly. Their line of work requires it.” Watts glanced up from the chart. “The average person, on the other hand, would frankly be better off without.”

“Come off it, Arthur. I know we’re supposed be scientists and demystifying this stuff, but…” Will shrugged. “You can’t deny that it’s a little exciting for someone to try and imagine what their Semblance might be.”

“Oh, no, you’re absolutely right. It’s very exciting when someone with no training accidentally unlocks their Semblance, only to discover they now wield the power of fire, and proceed to give themselves a second-degree burn.” He clicked the pen, and pocketed it in the folds of his lab coat. “That was last Tuesday, by the way.”

Will crossed his arms. “I take it you wouldn’t want to find out what yours is?”

“If I was going to do something that permanent and that irrationally stupid, I’d get a tattoo on my left—”

A scroll dinged. Will jumped like a tasered cat, and fished through his pockets until he found it. “It’s Meg.” The sudden tension eased from his shoulders as his eyes darted over the screen. “She just wanted to let me know how the appointment went.”

Pietro’s eyes lit up. “How is she?”

“Good. She’s due in another nine weeks.” Reluctantly, he pulled himself away from his scroll. “Since I need to call her, now seems like as good a time as any to take a lunch break.” He started for the door. “I’m heading to the cafeteria. Do either of you want anything?”

“Pastrami on rye. Toasted,” Watts called after him.

“If they have any tuna salad left, I wouldn’t say no,” Pietro added.

Will gave a parting wave as he slipped out the door, the scroll already held to his face.

There was a brief silence, filled by the squeaks of tiny mice.

“So.” Pietro side-eyed the other man. “Where did you say you were putting that tattoo?”

Watts swatted him with the chart.

With nothing else to distract them for the time being, Pietro dug out his scroll and consulted his schedule.

“Busy this afternoon?” Watts prompted.

“Nothing too exciting. The hospital wants me to review some patient files and see if I’d be willing to consult on them. And around three I’ve got an appointment with a new client needing cybernetic optimal implants. The insurance company approved her for a fully-integrated interface, similar to the model James has.”

“Which reminds me…” Watts turned his attention to his own scroll. “I need to notify him about his follow-up. His prostheses are due for inspection.”

“Good luck getting him out of his office.” At his inquiring look, Pietro elaborated: “The Vytal Festival’s next month. He’s been busy overseeing the travel arrangements for his students.”

“Damn it. I forgot that was coming up.” Watts pinched the bridge of his nose, before skimming back over his calendar. “Well, at least I’ll have one appointment today that won’t be akin to pulling teeth.”

“Oh?”

“A new client by the name of Rainart. It seems he needs treatment for acute Dust poisoning.”

“Collier?”

“He didn’t say.”

Pietro tagged a file on his scroll and dismissed it from the queue. “We’ll need to meet with the rest of the team and make sure our schedules are coordinated,” he stated. “I think tomorrow would—”

“Hold on.” He hadn’t realized Watts was reading over his shoulder, and didn’t register the proximity until he felt a puff of air on the side of his neck. The sudden presence startled him. “Go back to the last tab.”

He shot him a puzzled look, but obliged him all the same. “This one?” He tapped the screen and enlarged it.

“Why did you pass on this case?” asked Watts.

Pietro peered at the text. “‘Name: Mia Atelier. Age: 19. Patient is in a hypothermia-induced coma and has been unresponsive to all attempts to resuscitate.’” He frowned. “There’s nothing I can do that the hospital staff haven’t already tried, I’m afraid.”

Watts took a step back, his eyes narrowed. After a moment he returned to his scroll. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Phase-II trial of Auratic synthesis, test number seventy-one. Initiating.”

The monitor gave a powerful thrum as the simulation booted up. Other than the pneumatic hiss of the internal fans, their silence was uninterrupted. A hand reassuringly squeezed his shoulder, though Pietro didn’t bother to find out whose it was. He didn’t dare look away.

As quickly as it began, the program aborted. An all-too familiar error message flashed counterpoint to the readouts on the screen.

The team let out a collective sigh.

Pietro willed himself through the motion of activating the audio function on his scroll.

“Test number seventy-one was unsuccessful. The recalibrations based on the gravid murine analysis didn’t provide the missing variable for the Aura simulation. It’s possible that the in-utero pneumatographic scans failed to identify the unknown factors necessary for generating and implanting an Aura. Recommendations for subsequent tests are…” It dawned on him midway through that he didn’t know where to go next. “…The team will reconvene to discuss further options. End recording,” he finished.

For lack of anything better to do, Pietro buried his face in his hand. Around him the voices of his colleagues stirred, their chatter sounding strangely far away.

“I really thought we had it that time.”

“It doesn’t make any sense. We modeled it after a gestating animal. What the hell could we have possibly missed?”

“Maybe the issue is what we’re modeling. What if we replicated the scans on a more complex organism?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure the guys in obstetrics would love that. ‘Can we borrow one of your patients for nine months? We just want to run some non-invasive tests.’”

“Hey, Will, how do you feel about offering up your firstborn child in the name of science?”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Well, what do you suggest we do?”

“I suggest we go down to the pub on Baker Street and put our funding to good use.”

“Pretty sure you’re supposed to do that after you succeed, not before.”

“What about you, Arthur? You’re being unusually quiet.”

Pietro peered up from between his fingers to where Watts stood, inspecting the hologram of the simulated Aura field. Light from the projection struck the side of his face, carving out the angles in shadows.

“I think,” he said, “we should consider alternatives.”

It wasn’t an opinion shared by the majority of the faculty, but Pietro liked the distance between the buildings.

Admittedly, there were drawbacks to the layout. For example, when back-to-back classes were scheduled on opposite sides of the campus, it was fairly common to see students and professors alike sprinting between lecture halls.

Personally, Pietro enjoyed the sweeping courtyards. The altitude of the city meant a steady supply of brisk air, along with an unobstructed view of the stars that no amount of light pollution could diminish. If nothing else, the long walk between buildings gave him a chance to declutter his thoughts after hours spent cooped up in his office. Given the excuse, he gladly jumped at any opportunity to walk the grounds.

Not that he really needed the excuse, he mused, as he approached Watts’ office.

Pietro went to knock, only to be stilled by a snippet of conversation that filtered through the door.

“—understand your concerns. Rest assured, the surgical theater is still reserved for then. I spoke with the administrator at the medical center this morning, and received confirmation for the private transport. Everything else has been taken care of.”

Pietro was careful not to cause too much of a disturbance as he slipped into the chair across from him. Watts greeted him with a nod, before turning his attention back to the call.

“Certainly. We can discuss your daughter’s treatment plan afterward. I’d rather not burden you with undue stress in the meanwhile. If you have any other questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

He set aside the scroll on his desk. “You’re here earlier than usual,” he noted. “Either something went extremely well, or horribly wrong. Which was it?”

“Depends on how you look at it.” The joints in his shoulder popped as Pietro stretched. “Remember those parts I ordered? The shipment was delayed another week.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I presume there’s a silver lining?”

“Well,” he said, “the original plan was to spend the next three days working on the rotary cannon for the Colossus prototype. But seeing as that’s no longer possible…” He leaned forward, hands clapped on his knees. “I know you’re not usually a fan of ‘that hideous blood sport,’ but the doubles rounds start tonight and the matches have been pretty good so far. Everyone’s getting together later in the staff breakroom to watch. The betting pool this year is pretty sizable, too.” He offered a sheepish grin. “Not that I would know anything about that.”

Watts smirked. “Of course not.”

“But—if you’re still opposed to watching the Tournament—” Pietro shrugged. “My weekend’s free. We could make plans to do something. If you’re interested.”

Watts inclined his head, green eyes half-lidded in thought. After a pause he averted his gaze to his hands, neatly folding them atop one another. “As much as I would love to take you up on that offer, I have a flight this evening. I’ll be out of the capital for a day or two.”

That caught him off-guard. “You didn’t tell me you were heading down to Mantle.”

“That’s because I’m not. I’m heading to Argus.”

“You’re leaving the country?”

“Hardly. With how much the city relies on trade with Atlas, it might as well be part of the kingdom.” He dismissively waved his hand. “But, yes. I’m overseeing a procedure there.”

It took Pietro a moment to conceal his disappointment behind a consolatory smile. “Well, what can you do.” He scoured his brain for any recent mention of traveling during the last few conversations, and surprisingly drew a blank. “I’m guessing this was last-second on your part. A new patient, I take it?”

“Something to that effect.”

“Well”—Pietro hopped to his feet—“if you’ve got an airship to catch then I won’t hold you up. I’m sure you want to get out of here and pack.” He quirked a brow. “Just so you know, I’ll be very upset if you don’t bring me back a souvenir.”

Watts rolled his eyes. “I’ll stop at the hospital gift shop on my way out,” he drawled, without a hint of sincerity.

Pietro laughed. “I’ll hold you to it.”

He made it as far as the threshold when a voice called him back: “Pietro.”

Watts was shuffling a stack of papers on his desk—a pointless gesture, with how meticulous his workspace already was. He spoke without meeting his gaze: “When I return, I’d like to discuss some ideas I had for your project. I might have found a solution.”

His pulse quickened. “Are you—are you sure?” Pietro asked.

The rearranged stack was pushed off to the side. “I will be after tomorrow.”

When he got the news a week later, Pietro stared out his office window, and didn’t move for a long time.

“That girl’s blood is on your hands.”

“Don’t you dare say I took a choice away from her.”

Pietro hesitated outside the imposing metal doors. Announcing his presence would have been the right thing to do—something he should have done ten minutes ago—but a sense of dread, morbid curiosity, and some other nameless instinct stayed the impulse. Instead he leaned closer, only just able to discern the pair of muffled voices on the other side.

“She was dying. What was I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for the hospital board to convene and debate the ethics? They would have wasted precious seconds wringing their hands and fretting over indemnification, while I had a chance to save her life.”

James’ voice was taut with the tension of a fraying rope. “And you failed.”

“People die from surgical complications every day,” Watts snapped. “We can’t save everyone. But we can try, and I did. She may be dead, but the contributions her death made have advanced our understanding of—”

“‘Contributions’? Do you hear yourself?”

Pietro nearly forgot to breathe in the deafening silence.

“You didn’t do this out of some misguided altruism,” James said. “You did it to satisfy your own curiosity.”

“I did it because she was running out of time and options. A transfer of consciousness by incising her Aura and siphoning it into a receptive vessel was the only way to ensure her survival. What other options were there?”

“Hospice.” The word was ground out through clenched teeth.

“If you’re waiting for me to grovel to you for clemency,” said Watts, “then you’ll be waiting for some time. I did nothing wrong.”

“Oh, really? Is that you why you had your patient shipped to a hospital in another kingdom so you could perform an illegal surgery?”

Pietro flinched.

“As I’ve explained to you numerous times, the procedure is illegal under Atlesian law. Mistral, on the other hand, has no such qualms when it comes to the implementation of pioneering medical research.”

“Hiding behind a loophole doesn’t change the fact that you manipulated her emotionally-compromised parents!” A fist slammed against the desk. “You knew they were desperate, and you knew they would say yes if there was even the slightest chance they could get their daughter back. Their consent was based solely on the premise that your theoretical procedure might work.”

“It’s not theoretical anymore.” The words saturated the air, like the ozone that preceded lightning. “I proved that it can be done. My efforts, while unsuccessful, weren’t a failure. We can take what I learned from her death and repurpose it—”

“That’s enough.”

Pietro recoiled from the shout. Then he realized what he’d done, and quickly repositioned himself next to the door.

“Did you know…” Shoes scuffed over the tiled floor, across the sunken dais. “During the height of the Great War, Mantle oversaw the detainment of captured soldiers. In time, their wardens saw little benefit in expending resources on them if there wasn’t some use for all of those people.” The pacing stopped. “Eventually, Mantle did find a use for them. They were experimented on. When the war came to a close, hundreds of people had perished. The textbooks never fail to recount that.”

Watts took a steadying breath. “What they often conveniently omit is that many of the technologies we have today were born from those experiments. Analgesics, psychotropic drugs, new surgical tools…and neuroprostheses.”

A pause.

“The metal grafted to your body exists because prisoners of war bled for it. You can’t ridicule my work and absolve yourself of hypocrisy.”

When James’ reply came, it was dangerously soft: “For better or worse, we have that technology.”

“For better or worse, we could have had one more,” Watts retorted. “How does condemning my choices justify yours?”

James exhaled through his nose, and his tone evened out into something approximating his regular speech. “Because I don’t condone the loss of lives, or the dehumanization of people. I didn’t participate in the atrocities that brought us those advancements.”

“No. You only benefited from them. Tell me, James. How many more people do you think will suffer needlessly in the future because you stymied my research? Inaction will deprive future generations.”

“Whereas action will slaughter the current one,” James shot back. “The ends don’t justify the means. You know that. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have gambled on asking for forgiveness over permission, had the girl actually lived.”

Neither man spoke into the yawning chasm that filled the space between them.

“…I didn’t want her to die, James.” An unfamiliar emotion crept into his voice.

James sighed. “I didn’t call you here to debate your motives. What’s done is done.”

When Watts spoke again, the question was accompanied by unease: “Then why did you arrange this meeting?”

“To discuss the consequences with you.”

“Am I being arrested?”

“Not presently, no,” James said. “The Council hasn’t formally issued any charges, and they won’t until they meet to discuss the matter in-depth.”

“If I’m not being arrested,” Watts ventured, “then what consequences are you talking about?”

The general’s reply was delayed. “I spoke with the Medical Board. Your license has been suspended.”

Pietro’s blood ran cold.

“On what grounds?” His voice was nearly inaudible.

“Malpractice.”

“You can’t place me on probation for a law I didn’t break—”

“Arthur.”

The interruption killed whatever momentum he’d gathered. When no more protests were forthcoming, James continued: “It wasn’t my call.”

Another gap in the conversation followed, shorter than the ones before it.

“If the Board’s intention was to simply strip me of my license, they could have easily done so without involving you. If the Council plans to do nothing yet, then this meeting is a waste of our time.” His confusion faded, replaced with wariness. “Why am I really here, James?”

“…I want you to understand,” James began, “that I arranged this meeting as a courtesy. I didn’t want you to be in the dark about events going forward—”

“Why am I here?”

Pietro could picture James steepling his hands, tightening his jaw.

“As you’re aware, the Penny Project is a classified military project. Your surgery appropriated that research, and you performed it on a civilian.”

“My research”—Watts bristled—“was based on an archotheronotic disease. Where I drew my inspiration is irrelevant.”

“The other councilors might not have letters after their names, but they’re not idiots. They saw the parallels. It’s not a coincidence that your procedure and the project both focus on Aura.”

“The difference,” Watts spat, “is in the intent. The project’s goal is to create an Aura from scratch. Mine was to separate and transfer an already-existing one. If we can separate a host’s Aura and place it within a new receptacle, then that proves we can also remove a portion of it and do the same.”

“Even if you’re right, that doesn’t change the fact that the girl’s parents went to the media and took their story public,” James said. “Soul-based research is already controversial. How long do you think it will take for people to start asking questions? That’s a scrutiny we can’t afford right now.”

The chair legs scraped over the ground as James stood.

“The reason why I called you here is because the Council believes that your actions jeopardized that secrecy. The unauthorized disclosure of classified military intelligence is a potential security breach. Which is why, until they conclude their investigation, your passport is being revoked and you will be confined to the Kingdom of Atlas.”

James sounded tired.

“The charge they intend to level against you is treason.”

Nervously, Pietro rapped his knuckles against the wooden frame.

“Arthur? May I come in?”

Watts stood with his back to the room, an outstretched hand removing several books from their shelves. At the sound of his name, he stiffened. “If you must,” he answered flatly.

“Thank you.” He was careful to avoid tripping over the boxes stacked by the entryway as he closed the door behind him.

The other man had never been particularly materialistic, but even so, his decorating was far from sparse. Awards and accreditations had hung from the walls, while shelves with medical tomes lined the perimeter of the office. Occasionally, projects from the lab migrated into the room, and had taken up tablespace by the windowsill where a lone bromeliad sat.

It was jarring to see those possessions packed away.

Watts didn’t immediately turn to face him. Instead, his head sunk between his shoulders. “…Are you here to yell at me as well?”

“Yes. No.” He ran a hand through his hair. A thousand different thoughts colored his mind like a fractured kaleidoscope. There were plenty of things he wanted to say, each worse than the last. Pietro ruthlessly shoved those thoughts aside. “Look, I’m upset, but right now you need a friend, not another detractor.”

“How considerate of you.” His words were devoid of inflection.

“I’m not going to pretend I know how you’re feeling right now, but I still think you should—” Pietro glanced at one of the cardboard boxes on his desk, only to do a double-take. “What are you doing?”

“Vacating the premises.” Watts resumed packing. “Seeing as I’m no longer tenured, the institute felt this room could be put to better use.”

“I already know that. That’s not what I meant.” Pietro gestured to the lacy scrawl on the side of the box—Free to whoever wants it. “Why are you getting rid of your things?”

“I have no reason to keep them. It’s not as if I’ll be able to use them again for another employer.”

“You don’t know that—” Pietro began to protest.

“No one in their right mind would hire me. And that’s assuming I won’t be spending the rest of my life behind bars.” He folded the box flaps with slightly more force than necessary. “Seeing as you’re already here, help yourself to whatever you like. I’ll be taking the rest of these downstairs to the breakroom, once I’m done. I know Will was always partial to my microscope.”

“I’m not taking your things!” Pietro let out a long, deep exhale, forcing himself to calm down. “I want to talk to you.”

“Very well.” Watts finally turned to face him, and Pietro was struck by how ill he looked. A gauntness clung to his features, though whether from a lack of food or a lack of sleep, he couldn’t say. Stubble had begun to creep in below his jaw, and his clothes were far more disheveled than he could ever recall them being. “Talk.”

It took him a moment to collect his thoughts. “You need to get a lawyer.”

“And what good will that do me?” His eyes were dull. “Even if the odds weren’t overwhelmingly stacked against me, what lawyer would touch my case?”

“I’m sure someone would, if you asked around.” Pietro hated the idea, but he willed himself to say it: “What about Jacques Schnee? You’re acquaintances, right? The SDC settles lawsuits all the time, so they’ve got to have legal experts on retainer. Maybe you could arrange something with him—”

“If you think I’ll let myself be indebted to that myopic narcissist—” As quickly as it flared, the fire in his eyes faded. Watts’ posture folded in on itself as the anger drained from him, leaving only fretful cinders behind. “I’m sorry,” he said, with a hard blink. “I was out of line.”

Pietro worried his lower lip. “What can I do to help?” he asked. “Do you want to go out? Get something to drink?”

“I—” Watts cut himself off with a sigh, and shook his head. “No. Thank you. I have plans to meet with one of my former patients later. He wants to discuss alternatives for his Dust poisoning, seeing as his treatments have been…discontinued.”

Pietro cast his gaze helplessly about the room, trying to think of something. With an unpleasant lurch in his chest, he realized that he couldn’t. “I’ll leave you to it, then?” he said.

“That would be for the best.”

Despite the overwhelming urge to protest, Pietro turned to leave. He stopped with his fingers on the door handle, and glanced back. “You’ll come and get me if you need anything, right?”

Watts opened another box, and began writing on the side. “Of course.”

Save for the occasional fleeting glimpse, Pietro saw little of his friend over the next two weeks.

While his presence on the campus was a necessity, Watts seemed to be doing what he could to minimize it. Only the administrators—who refused to speak about it—and his former clients—who spoke too much about it—spent any length of time with him. His public avoidance did little to deter the gossip, which varied in accuracy and failed to account for all the details, given the clandestine nature of his termination. It didn’t help that Pietro staunchly refused to contribute to it, and told off anyone bold enough to press the subject.

When their paths did cross, Watts didn’t linger long enough to chat. He had a faraway look on his face, and his appearance was unkempt.

It worried Pietro that he no longer seemed to care about himself.

It was early into the evening when Watts visited his office.

“Forgive me for the intrusion.” Pietro glanced up from his paperwork to see Watts hovering in the doorway. Strangely, he was carrying the bromeliad. “Might I steal a moment of your time?”

“Certainly!” Pietro pushed aside the document stack and gestured warmly to the chair. To his dismay, Watts remained standing. “What can I do for you?”

Watts adjusted the potted plant in his arms. “I was wondering,” he began, “if I could ask for a small favor.”

“Go ahead.”

Pietro didn’t know what to make of the unexpectedly calm expression on his face, so at odds with his recent emotional state.

“I need someone to look after this for me.” Watts took a step forward, and set the plant on the edge of the desk. “If it’s left unattended for a day or two it’s not an issue. Any longer, though, and it begins to dry out. The care required for it isn’t overly involved; the soil simply needs to be misted with distilled water every so—”

“Wait a second,” Pietro said. “Why does it sound like you’re going somewhere?”

Watts hesitated. “I’m travelling to Evadne for a few days.”

Pietro started to rise. “Arthur—”

He held up a hand. “I’m forbidden from international flights, not domestic. The southern coast of Solitas is under Atlesian jurisdiction, is it not?”

Slowly, Pietro sank back into his chair. “It is,” he agreed. “But why are you travelling now?”

Watts closed his eyes. “I want to see the coast one last time.”

He frowned. “You shouldn’t talk like that. You don’t know what’s going to happen.”

His friend didn’t comment. He merely stared at him.

“Fine,” Pietro relented, “I’ll watch it for you. But just so you know, I’ve killed plants before.”

His lips twitched in a faint smile. “That’s quite all right.”

Pietro reached forward to move the pot, only to be taken aback when his hand was intercepted by Watts’. The contact startled him, so much so that he didn’t react when Watts lightly squeezed.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

Pietro forced his jaws to move. “For what?”

“For more than I care to admit.”

The hand retreated.

“Enjoy your trip, Arthur.” Pietro tried to sound cheerful. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

Watts opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. He dipped his head in a polite nod, before turning on his heel.

He wasn’t sure why he was here.

It was the second day after Watts’ departure for Evadne. The office was unrecognizable without any of its usual décor—walls now stripped bare of his possessions, floorspace empty save for the generic chairs and desk pushed off to the corner. The open space was dissonant with Pietro’s memories of the many times he’d spent in this room, either with other members of the team, or by himself. Almost as soon as the thoughts formed, they were accompanied by a pang of nostalgia. His fingernails dug into his palm.

Adjusting to the new normal was a prospect he dreaded, not just for the uncertainties at play, but simply because he didn’t want things to change. In truth, Pietro didn’t know what the Council’s verdict would be.

And he would have been lying if he said the thought didn’t keep him up at night.

It was as he was looking around the room that he noticed something glint in the waste bin. Intrigued, he bent down and pushed aside the crumpled papers partially obscuring it. When he lifted it from the bin, Pietro was surprised to see his reflection staring back at him from the plaque’s glassy surface.

The Atlesian Institute of Technology is honored to present the Rigel Award to Arthur Watts in recognition of his contributions to the fields of archotherology and pneumatophysics.

“I know things are bad right now, Arthur, but you shouldn’t just throw things like this away…” He’d been at the reception where the award had been presented; it had been a milestone in Watts’ career.

Carefully, Pietro wiped away a smudge with the hem of his shirt. A stubborn resolve seized him.

“It’s not breaking and entering if you have the spare key,” Pietro told himself, as the lock clicked.

The first thing he noticed, as the apartment door shut behind him, was the immediate onset of cold. Ice cold. The sort of chill that settled in a person’s lungs, and caused their breath to fog as they gasped for air.

“Gods above.” Pietro wrapped his arms around himself. “I know you like it cold, but this is ridiculous. What’s the temperature in here?”

Not intending to trip his way through the room, Pietro reached for the light switch.

Nothing.

“The bulb must have blown out.” He resorted to the flashlight on his scroll. Mindful of where he stepped, Pietro moved into the hall where the thermostat was. The last thing his friend needed was to return to a drafty apartment.

Understandably, he was confused when he tapped the screen, only for the thermostat to not respond.

“Surely this isn’t broken too…?”

A nagging suspicion prompted him to reach for the next light switch in his path. The hall remained dark, even after Pietro flipped it several times.

Something wasn’t right.

The next three lights he tried remained unresponsive to his attempts. Pietro stopped in the kitchen, his scroll in one hand, the glass plaque grasped loosely in the other. What else wasn’t working?

His gaze fell to the sink. With a slither of incredulity, Pietro turned the handle on the faucet.

It was cold, granted, but not cold enough to freeze the pipes. And he refused to believe that all of the utilities simultaneously stopped working. Even if they did, Watts would never have knowingly allowed them to remain in disrepair.

His mind discarded one possibility after the next, trying to identify a pattern, an explanation.

Pietro lifted the plaque to eye level.

For the life of him, he couldn’t fathom why he’d want to get rid of something so important. It was a question he’d have to ask him when he came back—

His eyes widened.

Glass skated over the tiles as the plaque shattered against the floor. Pietro fumbled with his scroll, cursing, as he bolted back down the hall.

James answered on the second ring. “Pietro? What—”

“Where are you?” he gasped.

“The Academy,” he said. “Is something—”

“Meet me in your office!” The door slammed shut behind him. “We need to stop him!”

“And you’re sure about this?” James gravely looked on as Pietro paced.

“Why else would he have gotten rid of his things?” He gestured wildly. “He already believes his life is over. He had no reason to keep them.”

Those words had taken on an entirely new meaning, one that made Pietro feel sick.

“I understand, given the circumstances, how you would've arrived at that conclusion. But is it possible you’re wrong?” He spoke with the calm, patient authority of his rank, with a pragmatism meant to ease. All it did was agitate Pietro even more. “Arthur is a lot of things, but suicidal? It doesn’t seem—”

“You haven’t seen him the last few weeks!” His voice shot up an octave. “He’s hardly eating, barely sleeping, he isolated himself from nearly everyone. I knew he was depressed, but I didn’t think…” He trailed off, at a loss for words. “James, please. We need to do something.”

James leaned back into his desk, hands braced against the edge. “We should consider every possibility before we act.”

Pietro halted in his tracks. “What other possibilities?”

“Consider what you’ve just told me. He disposed of his personal belongings—things that would have encumbered him. He distanced himself from other people—social contacts that would have tied him to the kingdom. He canceled his utilities—lien he no longer has to waste.”

Pietro turned to face him. “What are you suggesting?”

“Given the pending criminal charges, it’s possible that he’s trying to flee the kingdom.”

Pietro tensed.

“Think carefully about your last conversation.” James watched him closely. “Did he indicate that he planned on coming back?”

Mutely, Pietro shook his head.

“If he wanted to leave without drawing attention to himself, Evadne would be the logical choice,” he said. “It’s a small town on the water frequently used as a stopover between the interior cities and Anima’s northern coast. It has a comparably smaller military presence, and most of its visitors are tourists. He won’t look out of place. And if he’s brought lien with him, it wouldn’t take much persuasion to stow away on an airship or a boat. Dust smugglers regularly make use of those tactics.”

Pietro started to shake.

“Both possibilities are upsetting in their own right, and I’d prefer for neither to be true. But the evidence isn’t something we can just ignore. Right now, the latter seems more likely. I didn’t notice—”

“Of course you didn’t notice!” Pietro shouted. “You were so busy trying to end his career that you didn’t realize you were ending his life!”

His words echoed around the room. In the stunned silence that followed, Pietro continued to yell.

“‘I want to see the coast one last time.’ That’s what he said to me when he left! He didn’t mean before he was arrested; he meant before he died. And why wouldn’t he? What did he have left? Either he was going to waste away in a cell, or he was going to spend the rest of his life unable to rebuild it. No one in the medical community will speak to him, no one on the team will look at him—” He doubled over with a strangled cough. “I know what he did was wrong. I think it’s wrong. But I don’t want him to die because of it! I don’t want to be right, but with everything I’ve seen we can’t wait around to find out if I’m wrong. James, please, we have to—”

A hand fell on his shoulder. Pietro wheezed.

“We’ll find him.” James’ grip tightened. “I can have an airship ready in ten minutes.”

The night was alive with the weaving bands of the auroras.

A distant part of his mind tried to find comfort in the emerald and indigo light, as it rippled through the sky amidst a backdrop of stars.

“We should be there in a few hours.” From the seat across from him, James consulted his scroll. “Our ETA will be about 6:00 AM.”

Pietro turned away from the window. “What are we going to do when we get there?”

“I have a special operative who’s currently stationed in the area. Her name’s Caroline. I radioed her as we were boarding. Her team’s going to meet us when we land and help with the search.”

He nodded.

“Before Arthur left”—James glanced up from the screen—“did he tell you where he was staying?”

“No, I’m sorry,” he replied. “He didn’t.”

“That’s all right.” James returned to his scroll. “If he checked into a hotel, the transaction will be on his bank statement. I should have access to his account history in a minute.”

“James.” Pietro steeled himself. “If I’m right…about…” He drew in a shuddering breath. “How are we going to handle this?”

“It depends on what we find, and what—condition he’s in.” James’ face was pinched. “The plan is to make sure he’s not a danger to himself or anyone else.”

“‘Anyone else’?”

James’ expression darkened. “I’ve seen situations like this before, with soldiers and Huntsmen. Sometimes they lash out.”

Suddenly, Pietro was grateful for his friend’s long military career, and the experience that came with it.

That went doubly so a second later when his scroll chimed, granting him clearance.

James read over the information as it poured in. “Well, this confirms what we already suspected—he canceled his utilities a few days ago.”

“Did you find out where he’s staying?”

“Let me see—got it. I have the name and address. It’s…” He scrolled through something on the screen. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

Pietro leaned forward, trying to get a better look. “What is it?”

“Right before he left, he emptied his account.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Hang on. I might be able to trace where it went—” James trailed off.

“What is it?”

“He—” James peered at the records. “A large percentage of it was made out as a check. To the Ateliers.”

Pietro didn’t speak. If he opened his mouth now, he’d vomit.

“The remainder appears to have been withdrawn, though I’m not sure why.”

The cabin was mercifully silent as James immersed himself in parsing through the records. With nothing to do and only his thoughts to preoccupy him, Pietro returned to the window. It was several minutes before James spoke again:

“It’s going to be a while before we land. Try to get some sleep.”

When he trusted himself to not be sick, Pietro answered. “I’m okay, James.”

It was a lie. And judging by James’ expression, he didn’t believe it either.

“General Ironwood.” A woman of remarkably short stature saluted them. “It’s good to see you, sir.”

“Likewise, Caroline.”

She fell in step beside him while her two subordinates took up positions at the rear. For every one step James took, Caroline had to take three.

“Anything to report?” he asked.

“We’ve been monitoring the building from afar for the last half hour. We haven’t seen Dr. Watts enter or leave.”

James didn’t comment. Rather, he quickened his pace.

“Do you have any orders for us?”

“The manager will be expecting us, although she wasn’t fully informed as to why. I want you and your team to start in his room, then sweep the premises while we interview the staff.” He stopped with his hand on the glass doors, and gave her a hard stare. “Do not, under any circumstances, harm him. If the situation becomes dangerous, you are to either deescalate it or wait for me to join you. Do I make myself clear?”

She grimaced. “Yes, sir.”

A woman with a sheet of long, violet hair stood waiting for them in the lobby. “Welcome, General Ironwood. Dr. Polendina.” She offered a shallow bow. As she rose, she registered the accompanying operatives, and her eyes flickered with unspoken questions. “How may I assist you?”

“We’d like to speak with you, along with any staff that may have interacted with one of your guests.”

The manager glanced at Caroline. “Are we in danger?”

“No. Not likely,” said James.

The manager didn’t look reassured, but she didn’t protest. “Very well. Please follow me.”

She guided the small group to the front desk where the receptionist sat, their eyes wide in bewilderment. “May I have the guest’s name?” she asked.

“Arthur Watts,” James said.

Without prompting, the receptionist keyed in the name. “Uh. He’s in room 3A.”

James turned to the manager. “May I have your permission to send my team upstairs?”

“Go ahead.”

He nodded. At once Coraline and her subordinates dispersed.

The manager waited until they’d filed into the elevator before she spoke: “You said you had questions for me?”

“Along with any staff that interacted with him,” James clarified.

“I’ve interacted with him.”

The receptionist seemed to regret that decision the moment three pairs of eyes turned on them. Nevertheless, they continued: “The guy with the mustache, right?”

Pietro’s pulse stuttered sharply. “When did you last see him?”

“This morning. He left over an hour ago. Said he was going for a walk.”

It took every shred of willpower Pietro had to not run out those doors.

“Did he leave with any belongings on his person? A bag, perhaps?” James asked.

The receptionist shook their head. “No, sir. Just his wallet and his room key, like he usually does.”

Pietro swapped a look with James, before turning back to the receptionist. “What do you mean by ‘usually’?”

“This is the time when he usually goes out. He stops to talk to the receptionist—well, me, I guess—and then heads out for a few hours. Comes back around noon, grabs lunch in the dining hall, heads back upstairs. Goes out again around five o’clock, and comes back some time after seven.” They gave a helpless shrug. “I—I guess he has a routine.”

Some of the tension left James’ shoulders. “It’s possible Arthur did in fact come here just to destress,” he said.

What should have been a reassuring thought made Pietro want to sink into the ground in mortification. He could only imagine what Watts’ face would look like when he returned to the hotel, to find that Pietro had brought along the entire cavalry. All because he assumed his friend had a death wish.

Pietro was dragged out of his pity party by James’ next question: “Do you remember anything specific about his behavior? Anything that might have looked or sounded strange?”

To his surprise, the receptionist looked guilty. “Well…” They glanced at the manager.

“Whatever it is, you’re not in trouble,” she said.

The receptionist hesitated a second longer, before heaving a reluctant sigh. “You get a lot of guests in a place like this, right? So you don’t always remember all of them. Not unless they stand out in some way. He…” They paused. “He’s been nothing but polite and friendly to all the staff.”

“That doesn’t sound particularly noteworthy,” James observed.

The receptionist fidgeted. “No, it’s not that. It’s not just that. He tipped us well.” They swallowed. “Like, really well.”

The lingering dread from earlier resurfaced. “How much did he tip you?” Pietro asked.

They averted their gaze. “Ten thousand lien. Each.”

The dread beat savage wings against his ribs.

Out of his periphery, James stepped off to the side with a finger pressed to his earpiece. A second later his face went unsettlingly blank. “Excuse me,” he said. “I need to speak with my team.”

Pietro dimly registered his departure. He looked between the two hotel staff, his mind frantically scrambling for an explanation other than the one he didn’t want to hear. “Did he say anything?” he asked. Begged. “Anything that you might remember could help."

They considered his words with renewed thoughtfulness. “When he’d come back from his walks, I’d ask him how he was—the regular sort of small talk you’d make with guests. He told me that he went down to the beach. When I asked him, ‘Did you do anything while you were there?’ he said, ‘Not today. Perhaps I will tomorrow.’”

“Pietro.”

James had returned.

Coraline and her team hurried through the lobby; he could just make out “mobilize search-and-rescue” being barked into her earpiece as they rushed past.

He regarded Pietro with pale, haunted eyes, before slowly holding out his hand. “I’m sorry.”

A note hung from his fingertips.

After four days of searching, Arthur Watts was declared dead.

James scrubbed at his face. “I already told you, Camilla,” he sighed, as the doors slid open, “I’ll have it resolved once I—oh, Pietro. I didn’t realize it was you.”

Pietro managed a weak smile. “Disappointed to see me?” he asked, as he strode into the room.

“Relieved, actually.” James set aside some manner of document he’d been working on. “I was half-expecting another lecture.” Pietro accepted the tacit invitation to join him, and eased into the chair. “What can I do for you?”

Pietro tapped his fingers against the armrest. “I need a favor. A big one.”

“Why do I get the impression I won’t like what you’re about to ask me?”

“Because you won’t.”

Predictably, James wasn’t amused, but he didn’t try to bodily throw him out of the room, so that was a good start. “All right,” he said. “I’m listening.”

This conversation had sounded so much easier in his head. Pietro contemplated which option to take, before deciding on the direct approach: “Did you ever look over the report Arthur wrote after the surgery?”

It was brief, but Pietro didn’t miss the flash of regret James very neatly concealed behind unwavering calm. He steepled his hands. “I did,” he answered.

“Did you see the post-op notes?”

“I did.”

“But did you read them?” he pressed.

There was a hint of humor in his reply: “I read them to the extent I could understand them.”

Pietro braced himself. “I took another look at his work on Auratic intercision. He did it, James.”

When the other man said nothing, he hurriedly launched into his speech. “Even though the initial attempt failed, he managed to deduce what went wrong during the procedure. I won’t waste your time with all the technical mumbo jumbo, but I did the math. Split-Aura transfer is possible.”

He held James’ gaze. “We can finally build Penny.”

For a moment that stretched into eternity, James remained silent. He closed his eyes, exhaled, and opened them again. “You want my permission, to use the same research that nearly got him arrested, to complete your project.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Pietro said.

“I can certainly appreciate the irony, if nothing else.” He narrowed his eyes—thoughtfully, not in anger. “This wasn’t an idea you came up with overnight. It’s been nearly two months. Why did you wait this long to bring it up?”

“It’s as you said: it’s been two months. The last of the journalists have retired the story. People are no longer fixated on the proceedings. No more controversy, no more public backlash. The scandal died with him.” It hurt to say, but Pietro pushed onward: “Synthesizing an Aura has proven impossible, but now, we have a viable alternative. We can’t bring Mia Atelier back. But perhaps we can give someone else a chance at life.”

He waited.

At last, James nodded. A breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding left him. “You have my permission.”

“Thank you,” Pietro said.

“There’s just one problem.”

James regarded him intently. “The procedure requires a donor, does it not? You need a volunteer.”

Pietro straightened. “You’re looking at him.”

It had been a while since he last had the chance to sit and diagram.

A combination of blueprints, tablets, and holographic projectors were scattered about the desk. Other than the sleepy hum of the generator, and the scratching of pen against paper, his office was silent. The ambiance gave Pietro a pleasant rhythm to work to as he alternated between mediums.

He was in the middle of diagramming the thrusters when a voice spoke up from behind: “Burning the midnight oil?”

Pietro gladly accepted the mug James offered him, as he occupied the empty seat. “Just getting a little more work done before I call it quits.” He grinned. “I just finished the template for her skeleton. It’s on the tablet to your right if you want to see it.”

“This one?” James picked up the tablet in question.

“Swipe left, it’s the first file.”

The device lit up in his hands. James made an appreciative noise in the back of his throat as his eyes darted across the screen.

“What do you think?” Pietro asked.

“I think”—he continued to skim through the files—“I picked the right proposal.”

He didn’t realize how much he needed to hear those words until he felt a hot, stinging sensation in the corner of his eyes. He tried to discreetly dab it away.

Not discreetly enough, it seemed. James shot him an inquiring look.

“Oh, don’t mind. I’m just a little sensitive right now.” Pietro ducked his head. “It’s not every day you get to become a father.”

James wore a knowing, if somewhat bemused smile, but he was considerate enough to not say anything. He turned his attention back to the files in his hand.

“A lot of those are aesthetic mock-ups. I haven’t finalized anything, so if you want to throw in your two cents on the design input, you’re more than welcome to.”

“Did he know?”

Pietro’s hand stilled over the parchment. When no elaboration was forthcoming, he lifted his head to deduce one for himself.

His pulse beat painfully beneath his skin.

The file on the screen was one of the earliest drafts for Penny’s design. It was also one of the only files to have received a color palette. Red hair hung in thick curls about her pale face. Her cheeks were flecked with freckles that contrasted just enough to be visible, just below her eyes.

Eyes that were a very familiar shade of green.

He didn’t say anything for several moments. He debated saying anything at all.

But there was no judgment on James’ face, no hint of contempt in his voice. Only sympathy.

“No,” Pietro answered. He let out a tired sigh, and set the pen down. “And he never suspected. I made sure of that.”

“You didn’t want to tell him?”

“I wanted to tell him for a long time." He closed his eyes. "I’ve spent the last four months regretting every day that I didn’t. And on every one of those days, I wondered if telling him would have made a difference.”

“It’s not your fault,” said James.

“I know.” Pietro reached for the photo on the edge of his desk, and gently lifted the frame into his hands. It was the last picture the team had taken together. “It doesn’t change the fact that he’s gone.”

He lifted his eyes to the file in James’ hands, to the image of the young girl staring back at him.

“But maybe, through someone else—someone new—he can still be here.”

“Dr. Watts?”

Watts lifted his head from the chart he'd been reviewing.

At the entrance of his lab stood Hazel, his expression as impassive as ever.

“We have a meeting to attend.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Watts smoothed down the front of his coat. “Tell Salem I’ll be right there.”

Guess I've got some explaining to do. For anyone curious about my RWBY worldbuilding and headcanons:

Pietro not being disabled prior to the start of the series - We have no confirmation of this in canon, but I think that donating a percentage of his Aura to Penny has slowly chipped away at his health. I based this partly on the fact that in the show, the areas on his body where his Aura has been excised most prominently are over his legs and lower torso. If donating too much of his Aura is fatal, then it stands to reason that there are intermediary complications between points A and D - loss of mobility in his legs, chronic respiratory illness, worsening vision, and so on.

Archotherology (Gr. archo-, ruler, + -thero-, beast, + -logy, study of) - The study of Grimm.

Pneumatophysics (Gr. pneûma, soul, + -physics) - The study of the soul and its physical manifestation, Aura.

Apothymetics (Gr. apo-, derived from, + -thym-, soul, + E. -ics, from [?] Gr. -ikós, pertaining to) - The study of Semblances; a subdiscipline of pneumatophysics.

Auratic disease - An adverse condition that typically affects a person’s Aura, and by extension, their Semblance. Auratic diseases are generated by plague-type Grimm, and then transmitted to people through proximity. Watts' research simulated an Auratic disease, which is why Pietro later acquires a manmade version of CAD. You can click here to read more about them.

Evadne - A coastal city in southern Solitas. Named after the Greek figure Evadne, the wife of King Argus.

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anniesarthistoryblog · 4 years ago

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A Review of three works from the ‘Shape and Form’ Exhibition at @heartofthetribe Gallery, Glastonbury

As our final assignment for our Art History module for @strodefad we were required to write an essay discussing eithere an art history movement or a recent exhibition visited. Always up for a challenge i chose to write about the brief opportunity I got to see an art gallery between lockdowns in the new gallery that i am fortunate to have just a few minutes walk from my home here in Glastonbury.

What made it a really special experience was that i managed to contact two of the three artist I chose to include in the essay and they very generously answered my questions about their exhibit pieces to give me some context and process insights as first-hand accounts and it was wonderful to be able to ask the creators quesitons about their work and how they made it. The exhibition had high quality contributions from over 30 Somerset artists, so it was hard to select just 3 works, but I managed and got the essay completed in time.

This is an analysis of three selected works from the ‘Shape and Form’ exhibition at the Heart of the Tribe Gallery in Glastonbury. The gallery only opened in September 2020 and despite the restrictions caused by the COVID pandemic, this was the third exhibition that the gallery has managed to stage since then.

Following a core artist group launch exhibition ‘Diversity’, and solo exhibition ‘Beauty and Truth’ by John Minshull, this exhibition was a collation of works submitted by 30 Somerset artists following an open call for contributions from the gallery core artists and online directory members.

Curated by gallery manager Kim von Coels (aka artist ‘The Krumble Empire’), the aim of the exhibition was ‘to explore the fundamental building blocks of visual art, both geometric and organic’. The exhibition was open from 3rd December -26th January and I managed to see it twice before lockdown restrictions came into force. A virtual tour (1) is also available here

1. Millie Gleeson: ‘All We’ll Know’

The Painting was displayed in a prominent position on the last wall as you exit the exhibition, directly opposite a canvas featuring an abstract female form in greyscale graphite, and the scale of this canvas (60 x 48 inches) made it really stand out.

I saw Millie’s solo show also entitled ‘All We’ll Know’ at the Red Brick Building in June 2019. She uses reference photographs to help with composition and is heavily influenced by her time in Berlin and Mexico.

Many of her works feature masks painted on the (mostly nude) female subjects, so what I found fascinating about this piece was that the face was illuminated and prominent and she is swathed in billowing robes.

I contacted the artist for more information on the context and process of the painting.

She told me this is a self-portrait, painted from a 'still' of the artist performing in a music video her friends (the Hics) produced, also called "All We'll Know"( 2 )

Gleeson started began painting this in 2014, but it was put into storage until she revisited to complete it in 2019.

She commented ‘it was a huge time of transformation and the end of an era and perhaps I had to return to the painting when I felt I'd fully transformed.’

The Painting has lots of movement, which is representative of the video it is sourced from, the performers are in an industrial setting and are either submerged under water, or as captured in this image, rising up and breaking free. The robes are flowing and there is a sense of movement in the arms and legs. Her website (3) describes how the work was developed as part of a series developed during an Artist Residency at Arquetopia in Mexico.“The residency applied Levanasian ethics to the artistic process, teaching to respect the integrity of differences and question the desire for totalisation. Questioning whether you can truly know the other and if you only know the self, how can you respect the space between?” “Any creative project I have embarked on at the core has revolved around the topic of identity or identification. Following the residency lectures my project became entirely introspective, leading me on a journey of self-discovery. I began to look at my own shadow, distortions, fractions, mirror images, deep and dark aspects of myself. Using the vibrant colours that surrounded me I began to explore my own conflicts and duality through a series of self-portraits, in an exploration to “All we’ll know.”I really resonated with this piece as it reminded me of the Salvador Dali painting ' Christ of St John of the Cross’ I saw at the Glasgow Kelvingrove museum. Light comes from above and the arms are widely placed. The pale blue colour palette and rich drapery in the dress against the dark background is similar to that shown in ‘The Countess of Southampton’ ( 4) (Anthony Van Dyck 1599-1641), seen at the Cambridge Fitzwilliam museum.

Ruary is an Edinburgh-born artist who has lived and worked all over the world and is a gallery core artist working in an attic studio above.

He is inspired by nature and psychedelic culture (6) and another of his works ‘Sacred Chaos’ was chosen as the exhibition feature image.

I interviewed the artist to learn more about the context and process behind these works. Ruary explained that “Trap Dance was a process-oriented piece, created as an experiment using masking tape to create random abstract geometric forms”.

The piece depicts two females and a male dancing, with Cubist and Italian futurists-influenced segmentation and distortion of the figures. The artist noted that the title ‘Trap Dance’ is a pun, as the two female figures appear to be being pressed together by the male dancer (Allen quipped it should have been called ‘Tape Dance’). The experimental process with repeated randomly placed masking tape and paint until the forms emerged, resulted in an abstract image.

The artist saw the forms of the dancers appearing and added them at late stages of development. It is more narrative in comparison with the cover piece ‘Sacred Chaos’; which was another process oriented, straight-edged construction using platonic forms, mathematical constructions, intersecting circles and combining them to make a striking abstract image. The artist has a lifelong interest in Alchemy in art and alchemical symbolism, and this is evident in the works presented here (7).

The colour palette is cooler at top and has more vibrant and darker tones at bottom, with a spotlight in the top left corner, which the artist suggests is reminiscent of a stage or nightclub scene. There is lots of movement as the figures are interweaved amongst the abstract shapes.

This painting is hung in a long narrow corridoor directly opposite the toilets (another ‘trap’ reference?) and adjacent to the exit door to the garden space. The works surrounding the piece are smaller in scale and have less visual impact, and I think that having to stand so close to it makes it more of an experience as the viewer is drawn into the movement and abstract forms on the canvas. There is no opportunity to stand back and see the work in a wider context so one is trapped like the dancers in the image.

3. ‘Lost Toys’ by Julie Ackerman .

This is an installation assemblage sculpture piece selected from a collection of 10 museum themed boxes. (8). The work is inspired by the ‘cabinets of curiosities’ or ‘Wunderkammer’ (as described by Anastasiya Gutnic from the Metropolitan museum of art here with an example from the German artist Nicolaus I Kolb) (9).

The cabinet is displayed with a second piece called and ‘Science Lab’ and both are relatively small in scale requiring the viewer to lean in close to see the details.

Key elements of a Wunderkammer are:

· Naturalia (natural, found objects),

· Artificialia/Artifacta (mand-made, abstract objects), and

· Scientifica (scientific instruments and technological items)

The cabinet contents are carefully considered to reflect the message that the artist is trying to express, and fits the categories described above.

I chose this piece as the lockdown period has made many of us question what is important to us and question our consumerism and its’ environmental impact.Using upcycled packaging and materials has been a theme of my own creative practice this year.

The artist states on her biography (8)

“I was compelled to take on the challenge of using unwanted objects and materials as an art medium. Raising awareness of a world in crisis through art is paramount in my work. By transforming waste into beautiful works of art, I hope to inspire and encourage the 'Art of Recycling' turning a negative situation into a positive one.”

The artist goes on to state “The impact of overpopulation means greater demand on natural resources and an escalating waste problem. We need nature to thrive by reducing our demand for new materials, leaving nature intact.”

In the ‘Lost Toys’ cabinet a collection of sticks and a pine-cone (Naturalia) are surrounded by a plastic ‘monster’ (Artificialia) and assorted toy animals. A green butterfly rests on a branch with a wooden ’tribal style’ peg and a ‘protective’ dragon flying overhead and a lurking toy hairbrush in the background.

The second cabinet has scientific paraphernalia (Scientifica) and a skull with glasses, references to the impact of sanitary waste and plastic pollution on marine life. There are also humorous touches, like the small creature and drawing pin on top of the skull.

This fits with the exhibition theme as it invites the viewer to examine how the items relate to each other and to our own experiences. Viewers will respond to the individual elements and interpret their relationships differently.

The placing of the cabinets in a transition space between two rooms containing large paintings is also an interesting variation in form and requires a different type of interaction by the viewer.

Summary

The aim of the exhibition was to explore the fundamental building blocks of visual art, both geometric and organic, and the curator has selected a broad range of 2D, and 3D exhibits to really allow this theme to be represented. I found it quite difficult to select only three works for this essay as there was such a high quality to choose from.

These three selected artists have interpreted the theme in quite different ways, but one gets a sense of shape and form from all of their works shown.

References

1. Shape and Form Exhibition Virtual tour: https://www.infohost360.com/heart12/

2. Millie Gleeson – The Hics reference video "All We'll Know" https://youtu.be/RB2MweTwfQY.

3. Millie Gleeson website: https://milliegleeson.co.uk/all-well-know

4. Van Dyck Image reference found in Fitzwilliam Museum Cambridge guide, p37. 2016 ISBN: 978-0-9574434-9-5

5. Image sourced from https://artuk.org/discover/artworks/rachel-de-ruvigny-countess-of-southampton-as-fortune-5613

6. Ruary Allen Artist Bio: https://heartofthetribe.com/portfolio_page/ruary-allan/

7. Ruary Allen Artist website: https://artalchemist.com/

8. Julie Ackerman Artist Bio: https://heartofthetribe.com/artist-directory-view-by-artist/user/77/

9. Cabinet of Curiosities reference video: https://youtu.be/j6q10euArks Nicolaus I Kolb (German, 1582–1621). Apothecary Cart, 1617–18. Veneer: ebonized pearwood (Pyrus communis), ebony, partially gilded silver; carcass: conifer; interior: protective quilted cushion covered in red silk, drawers and chest lined with red silk velvet; gold, trimming; mounts and fittings: brass, partially gilded; thirty-two (32) vessels and utensils: glass, partially gilded silver, low carbon steel, leather, 11 x 11 x 9 1/16 in. (28 x 28 x 23 cm). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Purchase, Anna-Maria, and Stephen Kellen Acquisitions Fund, 2019 (2019.229.1a–c–.32a, b)

10. Cabinet of Curiosities reference description: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cabinet_of_curiosities

11. Dr. Beth Harris and Dr. Steven Zucker, "How to do visual (formal) analysis," in Smarthistory, September 18, 2017, accessed January 28, 2021, https://smarthistory.org/visual-analysis/.

#artists on tumblr #art history #glastonbury #ruary allen #millie gleeson #julie ackerman #heart of the tribe #strodecollegeartdepartment #anniesartthings #anndimentartist #artalchemist #the hics #wunderkammer #all we know #local gallery #shape and form #ual art and design

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thiswasinevitableid · 5 years ago

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#7? NSFW? Sternclay? Pretty please 🙇‍♀️

7: It’s our one year anniversary fuck how does one celebrate an anniversary of rivalry and one-sided devotion?

Joseph Stern, alias Agent M, has accomplished what no other member of the National Hero Control Task Force has been able to: he has captured a member of the elusive Pine Guard.

The guard has been causing chaos for the better part of two years, bringing important projects such as oil pipeline development, ICE facilities, and start-up construction to catastrophic halts.

Stern isn’t invested in those projects, but he believes in the greater good, in law and order.

One member of the guard in particular has caught and held his attention since he first laid eyes on him. Bigfoot, or so he’s called, has eluded most of their security tapes in a way his compatriots haven’t, and has been reported as more than once saving civilians and bystanders from danger.

He also once stayed behind to ensure Stern stayed conscious after sustaining a head injury. Stern has never been able to get an explanation as to why. But after that day, puzzling out Bigfoot’s motives, his past, his personality has become Sterns true goal.

Convenient, then, that the man is currently strapped, standing up, to a holding table in his base.

“I knew word of those files would get your attention.” He stands toe to toe with Bigfoot, who growls but says nothing.

“There’s no call for that. Besides, even if you’d managed to infiltrate here without alerting me, there wouldn’t have been anything to steal. All the information on the identity of the pine guard members is up here. I haven’t shared it with my superiors yet.” He taps his head.

“So, you’re bluffing.”

“Not at all. Barclay.”

Dark brown eyes go wide with concern.

“Okay, so you got me. That doesn’t mean you got the rest of us.”

Stern sighs, counts off on his fingers, “Mothman is Indrid Cold, Jackalope is Aubrey Little, Cactus Cat is Dani Coolice, Champ is Duck Newton, Hodag is Ned Chicane, Jersey Devil is Arlo Thacker, and Echidna is Madeline Cobb.”

Barclay sags in his restraints.

“What do I have to do to keep them safe?”

“Nothing. You’re eco-terrorists, Barclay. Even if I wanted to I can’t keep the information I gained secret from my superiors.”

“You could. Like, literally. Just don’t tell them.”

“I can’t do that. I’m sorry.” The apology doesn’t come out as hollow as he needs it to, and Barclay arches an eyebrow.

“Ahem, anyway, you won’t be needing this anymore.” He lifts off Barclays blue mask (one that compliments his coppery beard), not surprised at all by the face underneath yet delighted at seeing it. He’s thought it handsome since the first time he laid eyes on it

The spell is broken by Barclay biting his hand. He yelps, dropping the mask on the floor.

“That wasn’t necessary.”

“Neither was unmasking me. Jesus, you never struck me as some gloaty douche but obviously I was wrong.”

That stings, and so Stern turns on his heel with a flourish.

“Careful, or I won’t share dinner with you.”

“Oh no, no gruel or power bars or whatever you joyless fucks eat for me--do you smell saffron?”

“Yes.” Stern wheels out the small cart, covered platter glistening atop it and a vase that’s too small for the bouquet sitting in it trying valiantly not to tip over. “I made us saffron rice with lamb, and red wine dark chocolate cupcakes.” He removes the cover, feeling rather smug.

“Shit that looks good.” Barclay whispers, licking his lips. Then he looks up, “Wait, made us?”

Oh lord, the confusion on Barclay’s face sends pangs through his chest. What he wouldn’t give to kiss it away.

“I, well, it has been exactly a year since we met. And I was trying to think of ways to mark the date, and I know you like cooking and food and so this seemed like a good gift.”

“...Did you make us a fucking anniversary dinner?”

“Technically? Yes.”

“Alright, Mister special agent, how am I supposed to eat it when I’m strapped to a fucking table?”

“I could, um, feed it to you? I shut off the cameras in this room so that I could do so without embarrassing either of us.”

“This what you do every Friday, strap random guys down and feed them? Sounds pretty kinky.” Barclay smirks.

“I enjoy being helpful, something a so-called ‘hero’ should understand. And I didn’t choose a random guy; I strapped you, specifically, down.”

Barclay fixes him with an amused look before shrugging as much as his bonds allow, “Fine, you clearly worked hard on dinner. May as well make the most of it.”

Stern slices a chunk of lamb, offers it to Barclay who parts his lips without hesitation.

“Holy shit, that’s good.” The blissed out look on his face is one of Sterns favorite views in the world. He hates having to pretend like he hasn’t seen it before.

As he cuts another piece Barclay asks, “You make the bouquet too?”

“Yes. I took some classes on flower language and arranging a few years back, and I like doing it.”

Another bite, and this Barclay sighs happily before cocking his head, “You just not gonna eat?”

“Guests eat first.”

“I’m a hostage, agent, not a guest.”

“My point stands.”

“Y’know, if you just undid my hands, we could eat at the same time. Make it a real anniversary dinner instead of some repressed man in black feeding me my last meal as a free man.”

“I’m not just any man in black, I’m your main rival. You said so yourself, once. And the answer is no to the unlocking.”

“Well, there goes that option.”

Stern sees him tug the strings of his woven bracelet a moment too late. He braces for an explosion or a weapon flying at him.

Instead, reality warps for a nanosecond, and then Barclay isn’t in front of him anymore. Staring down at him is what he can only describe as a Bigfoot. And honest to god, fur-covered, claw-handed Bigfoot.

A Bigfoot that is no longer restrained.

“You’re, you’re really-”

“Yep.” Barclay lunges, but instead of grabbing Stern he reaches for the cutlery, tossing it up and over the rooms computer center and far out of range.

Then he grabs Stern by the back of his neck, slamming him against the restraint table. Stern retaliates, jumping up and landing his feet against Barclay’s chest. There’s an “oof” but nothing else. Stern tries to catch him with his stunner, but Barclay avoids him easily, twisting his hands behind his back and letting go as he launches Stern into the window. Mercifully it's made of bullet-proof, triple strength glass, so he doesn’t plummet fifty stories to his death.

He’s simply pinned by his nemesis, the city lights thousands of eyes watching his defeat.

“Are you, ow, all monsters?”

“Nope, just some of us. And you’ve put me in a real bad situation, agent.” Barclay growls in his ear, “first by blabbing that you, and only you really did know our secret identities, and then leaving me no choice but to take off my disguise.”

“I, I’m sorry your poor problem solving skills caused you to reveal that Bigfoot is not merely a codenameOW.” Barclays claws pierce his suit, “Go ahead and kill me. I won’t give up any information to the Pine Guard. I’m prepared to die in the service of my agency.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.” He lies

“Nothing you’d miss?”

“No.”

A rumbling purr in his ear this time, “Not even me?”

“N-no, what, where on earth would you get that idea?”

“Flowers gave you away. Red carnations are admiration, daffodils mean unrequited love, and orange roses are fascination.”

“That’s a coincidence.” He grits his teeth to prevent the truth spilling out.

“Not for a guy who admitted he knew their meanings. And you know what else?” He clips Stern’s hands behind his back in cuffs designed to hold the super-strength of Duck Newton, making escape impossible for Sterns normal-human abilities “you put some wild grasses in their to fill the whole thing out.”

“So?”

“Grass means submission. You put all your feelings for me in a vase and gave me plenty of time to take them in, probably thinking it a clever in-joke to yourself. But that one? I’m betting that one was accidental, subconscious. You want to submit. Whether that’s in general or to me I have no clue.”

“Just you.” He may as well confess it. One less secret to carry to his grave.

A low, dangerous chuckle fills the room as he’s spun away from the window and shoved to his knees.

“That what you want, agent?” Barclay replaces the bracelet, becoming human before his eyes, “Want to be a good boy for me?”

He nods, cheeks hot and gaze locked on the floor until Barclay yanks it up by his hair, tearing strands loose from their carefully gelled hold.

“Aw now, no need for that.” Barclay traces the path of the blush with his thumb, voice mockingly sweet, “know your overlords like everyone to be emotionless, but there’s nothing wrong with wanting a good fuck, even if half the city can probably see it from here.”

“Oh lord.” He moans, the image sending his thoughts, his dignity, his blood, south.

Another laugh, his head yanked sideways to take in the view, “Damn, you like that too, huh? Like the idea of everyone watching while one of America’s finest begs me to fuck his face. Your superiors finding out their best agent is so needy he’d do anything for me to touch him?”

The tears pricking his eyes are from want, not shame, when he chokes out, “yes.”

Barclay turns his head forward, then up.

“Please, Barclay, please.”

“Please fuck you?”

“Yes.” He whimpers.

“Nope. Sorry, agent, I don’t sleep with the enemy, even if he gives me the worlds bluest puppy dog eyes. Not to mention, threatening the people I love is the opposite of being a good boy. But since it’s our anniversary, I think you do owe me a gift.” His fingers touch the edge of Sterns mask, “let’s see who’s been tracking me for a year.”

“Wait, don’t-” The mask tears off. The two men stare at each other, frozen, one in surprise and the other in fear.

“Joseph?”

“Hello.” He wants to look away, to see literally anything other than the betrayal on Barclay’s face.

“I, uh, I imagine this will lose me the title of ‘favorite customer’ at the Coffee Lodge.”

“You, you’ve been spying on us. You’ve been at the Lodge almost every fucking day since June, and you’re Agent fucking M, I, I can’t-” Barclay paces, fingers running through his hair, “Did you start coming just to stake us out?”

“Yes. I tracked your movements, Barclay. I’m ashamed to say I accessed the medical records of anyone in the target area who had top surgery to narrow down my suspects, and eventually identified you as Bigfoot. Once I started getting coffee at the lodge everyday it was easy to piece together who else was on the team.”

“Yeah, and flirting with me probably helped a lot.”

“Uhhhhhhhhm.”

“Oh, come on, don’t try to pretend that wasn’t part of your investigation.”

“It isn’t. Wasn’t.” He lowers his head meekly.

Barclay stops moving, sighs heavily, “Is there anywhere in this damn place that’s smaller and doesn’t have cameras?”

“My bedroom only has one. Just take down the smoke detector on the right hand side as soon as we go in.”

Barclay easily lifts him over his shoulder and trudges down the hall and into the bedroom. Rips the “smoke detector” from the wall, sparks crackling when he does. Then he deposits Stern on the bed and turns his desk chair to face it.

“We’ve got about forty-five minutes before my ride gets here. Talk.” Barclay sits down, crosses his arms while Stern attempts to sit up straight.”

“Wait, how can you know that.”

A mild smile, “You really think I’d walk into such an obvious trap without an escape plan?”

“No.” He mutters, dejected, “what do you want me to say, Barclay?”

“The truth, genius.”

“You seem to know most of it already.”

“Yeah, but one big piece is missing; why the hell didn’t you write down our identities somewhere the higher ups could find them if something happened to you? Shit, why not just sic a bunch of agents on us when we were all at the lodge making, or drinking, coffee?”

“I...I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

“Because the lodge was my haven too, alright?” Stern snaps, “I felt understood there, safer than I did in any secret base. And every time Dani laughed at something Aubrey did, or Duck told some corny joke, or you smiled at me, I understood more and more why you all do what you do. I felt my commitment to my work waning. I had to do something to reiterate my belief in it. This was that something.”

Barclay is silent for a moment, taking Stern in bit by bit.

“You want to leave the NHCTF, don’t you?” He leans forward in quiet shock.

Stern nods, defeated, “I’ve been questioning our methods for some time, but always thought that what we did was in the service of keeping people safe. I’m still not fully convinced the Pine Guard is going about it the best way, but from what I’ve seen, you do a far better job of it than we do.”

“So join us. Help us figure out how to be even better.” Barclay reaches for him, takes his hand.

“You’d ask me to just like that?”

“Most of us like you, Joseph. We’re not super into Agent M, but it’s not like we haven’t noticed you’re not chasing us down as much as you used to. Also, I’d be a really crappy superhero if I didn’t at least try to recruit the smartest man I know to our side.”

Stern blushes more than necessary at the compliment.

“Okay. I’m in. I’m ready to try being a different kind of good guy.”

“Welcome to the Pine Guard.” Barclay presses the secret hinges on the cuffs, and they drop to the floor.

A fit of giggles in Sterns throat pours out into the space between them, “Jesus, I didn’t think betraying the government would feel so liberating.”

“Always knew you were a good guy, deep down.”

Another blush has him cursing his capillaries.

“Heh, you do like it when I call you good.”

“Yes. Though as you observed, I have a weakness for humiliation as well.”

“Y’know, we’ve got a little bit of time still.” Barclay leans back, and Stern perks up when his hands hit his belt.

“And it is our anniversary.” Stern sinks to the floor, covers a few inches on his knees to rests his head on Barclays thigh.

“Shit, you really are a needy little thing.” Barclay shifts and wiggles awkwardly in order to get his close low enough to give Stern the access he needs. Stern nuzzles his inner thigh, skates his hands along muscular legs, making a mental note to discover what they feel like naked and tensing in time with their owners moans.

“You’re rather, uhm, slick already. Is this where you tell me you got into heroics because you get off on fighting?”

“Nope, just on manhandling you. And you’re in no position to comment, agent.” The growl he puts into that last word has Stern melting forward. Which is helpful, in that Barclay shoves him down the rest of the way. He licks and sucks eagerly at him, moaning messily when Barclay tilts his hips up, pressing and rutting against him.

“Like I, fuck, said babe, you’ve got no room to feel smuggAH--shit that felt good--amazed I didn’t walk in on you in the lodge bathroom with some dudes dick down your throat while another one fucked that tight ass.”

Stern would like to point out that a) he would never do such a thing in a business he respected and b) there’s only been one dick he’s wanted anywhere near him in months. But he doesn’t dare pull away. Instead he whimpers, shakes his head and takes all of Barclay’s cock into his mouth.

“Hnnnshit, maybe I got it wrong, maybe you, fuck, were one smile away from falling to you knees and begging me to fuck you over the counter.”

Stern nods emphatically, pawing at any exposed skin he can find on Barclay stomach and hips, and the larger man laughs.

“Fuck, much as I wanna hold you down and come all over that handsome face, got something else I wanna do even more.” He lets go of Sterns head, nudges him back so he can join him on the floor.

“Wha-ohshit’ He gasps when Barclay rips the front of his pants off, wrapping one large hand around his cock. But when Stern tries to thrust up into the warm, tight fist, Barclay pins his hips down with one hand. There’s such easy strength in the movements that Stern tilts his head back to rest on the spotless bedspread, because baring his throat feels like the only suitable response.

Teeth just sharper than they ought to be sink into the base of his neck, but even as he arches and thrashes in response, he can’t get any stimulation on his cock. Coarse coppery hair tickles his skin as Barclay laughs, “Cute how you think that’s enough begging to get what you want.”

“Barclay, please, I, I’ve wanted this for months, it’s all I want, I will do anything.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Poor special agent, so desperate.” Barclay’s tone is cruel as he drags his hand up in one long, slow stroke. Stern eagerly awaits a downstroke that doesn’t come.

“Well? Gimme one good reason to indulge my pathetic new plaything.”

“I, I, I’ll be good, so good for you, let you do whatever you want, fuck.” The barest movement of Barclays hand and he sobs, “please, I just want to be good, I just want you to use me, god, please just tell me what you want.”

“Admit you’re a needy fucker who likes the fact the other cameras in this building can probably hear him begging me to-”

“I am, I need you so badly, I need this, I want you so much, I need youOHyes, yes.” He groans happily as Barclay switches to rapid strokes and drags one of Sterns hands between his legs. He keeps his fingers outside for the time being, focuses on circling his thumb and dragging the other digits in tight patterns.

“C’mon handsome, jack me off, show me how much you like your reward oh fuck, fuck, Joseph, that’s it babe, fuck that’s good.” His head drops to mouth at Stern’s neck with a moan as he grinds against Sterns palm, “shit, shoulda asked you out last week like I was planning to, coulda been doing this every night, yeah, ohyeah.” As he comes his grip on Sterns cock tightens, and even as he rides out his orgasm he’s growling, “come on agent, lemme see you ruin those fancy clothes.”

Stern comes with what sounds, to his ears, like a pathetic cry. Yet as soon as he spills onto his stomach and Barclays hand, the larger man kisses his chest, whispering sweetly, “You’re so good, did so good for me baby, you’re amazing.”

With unsure fingers, he brushes a strand of loose hair from Barclays cheek. Barclay looks up, smiling so tenderly Stern worries he’s dreaming. Then Barclay sits up, cupping his chin and drawing him into a gentle kiss, sighing happily when their lips meet.

“Is it selfish to be happy that you joining the team means I get to see you everyday?”

“Not in the least. Though you see me most days at the coffee shop anyway.”

“Yeah, but now I get to do this” another kiss, somehow twice as tender as the first, “when I do.”

Stern curls into his arms as he continues, “guess we oughta get you a codename now.”

“You know, I’ve actually given that some thought. Given that only some of you drew your names from cryptids or, um, I suppose your true forms, I think there’s room for a codename that reflects my history with secretive government agencies while staying on theme?”

“I think so too.” Barclay smiles expectantly.

“In that case,” Stern grins back, future brightening ahead of him for the first time in years, “just call me Roswell.”

#agent stern/barclay #sternclay #super hero au #prompt fill #TAZ Amnesty

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itslula1991 · 5 years ago

Text

My Jewel (In Corrections)

Before continuing, I would like to explain why I could not continue with this modest Ahkmenrah fic. I lost my previous account and not only that, I also lost everything on my computer along with what I was writing, so I had to rewrite it and make some reforms in the process. I'm not sure if it's going to be understood because I don't speak English very well. If there is something wrong, I apologize. If someone wants to follow the story closely, I will gladly label whoever wants it again, that there is no doubt in telling me. From Argentina, the south of the world, this girl says thanks for your attention ❤️

Postscript: I wanted to wait until today to make it special, it's my 28th birthday and as a Christmas gift for you ❤️

Genre: Adventure, comedy, romance, fantasy

Warnings: None, for now, but much later, yes, yes, yes ;D

Summary

An ancient spell causes a millenary young lady to weaken, it is up to Larry and her friends to help her find the key to return her to normal while an unknown woman, along with three known individuals, and in order to proclaim her "how hers," she try to take over a captive jewel somewhere in Egypt. (The shock of all the chaos in the girl).

Objective? The guard and the exhibits must prevent it from falling into the wrong hands while between Ahkmenrah and the girl, a romance will slowly emerge that will bear fruit over time.

Chapter 1

Egypt 1940

The tents were part of a group of archaeologists who started a very important search dedicated solely to the tracing and possible discovery of a very valuable artifact, a mummy and hopefully also the family of the mentioned one.

The man in charge was 20 years behind the aforementioned, however over time he could never find that desire.

The midday sun rose at a rapid pace while many of them, more than a dozen Egyptians, approximately hundreds of locals worked from sunrise to sunset or excavating with the materials required to find future world heritage sites, which among them It could be the ancient Egyptian tomb. The sites traveled underground were illuminated by a row of spotlights providing light, thus allowing better lighting in random areas before possible treasures waiting to be exposed.

Without further ado, we find ourselves in one of the most famous necropolis, the Giza plateau, following in the footsteps of an archaeologist, an assistant and a local.

"Gentlemen, we are at risk, a storm is coming, my men are terrified! Let's go!”, Ahmed alarmed.

"Peter, we should give up.", said Richard, the aide walking between the dunes.

"Richard, the grave around here, I can feel it."

"Please, Peter, it's been over two months now.", Richard spoke again.

"Richard, I'm not going to stop.", Peter pawned on a whim.

"Dad, dad.", the voice of a child was heard in the distance, walking through the lateral area of the great rock mound, the great pyramid. "I'm hungry, dad, can we rest? And why is there so much wind?”

“Johan, wait in that sector. If you like to taste a bite of your chocolate, do it but I must continue with this.”

"I just want you to recharge. You haven't eaten a bite or slept, Dad.”

“Johan, listen to me. Go there, son.”, the man in question pointed to his left and his young son resigned himself to obey his father.

"Peter!", Richard yelled.

And followed by Richard, Ahmed exclaimed: "Mr. Anderson!"

"What?!"

Returning to the aforementioned, Johan barely walked a few meters from the camp, descending carefully between the golden slopes and abiding by what was established by his father, the young boy unwrapped the candy and tasting the bar of its tasty chocolate, leaned back against a wall. Slowly, small cracks began to be heard first, then important cracks appeared like that until that sector of the slope collapsed. There was never time for a reaction on his part, Johan fell according to his primary pose being a figure that coughed between rocks, dust and cobwebs in the remote darkness.

"Help! Hey! ”, Johan screamed at the top of his lungs without being heard by the amount of movement and noise from outside.

After recovering from that inhospitable moment, he rose from the ground to fend for himself inside the cave. Johan went deeper walking the first few meters until he had no choice but to lie down on the ground through the narrowness of what seemed to be an interior passage and crawl chest to the ground leaving behind the little light that entered through the gap produced by such action.

By turning on his flashlight he was able to more closely detail the end of that chamber, Johan stumbled upon what seemed to be a sacred place, he could see walls covered with hieroglyphs, two rows of 6 gigantic stone sculptures, crumbs of striking corrupted colors and two lackeys who guarded the entrance to the house where their masters remained in eternal sleep.

Inside, in the background and in front, there were three ornate sarcophagi, they were two adults, a pharaoh on the right, his wife on the left of the king and his daughter or perhaps son in the middle, the sarcophagi were made of pure gold and surrounded of splendid riches among other ostentatious objects is what the young adolescent could see once he carefully descended from the low height he traced through the tunnel.

His eyes were still mesmerized by the immense room still painted in a soft and elegant Egyptian blue, from the long wall filled with ancient inscriptions that covered the total of each corner to a recessed jewel that rested in the dark painting on the back wall, the same piece was jealously guarded by Egyptian texts around him, narrating the victories of royalty.

He wanted to speak but was so amazed that only his own breathing could be heard rumbling softly when the silence of the room welcomed him. Stunned to have discovered the enclosure that his father dreamed of finding so much. His happiness was multiplied by two.

With the lack of clarity provided by the rays of the sky god because the clouds overshadowed him for a few minutes, Peter was concerned that his perhaps firstborn was not in sight or anywhere.

He realized when he saw the hole made in the wall that was not there before and asked: “What is that? Where’s Johan?”

To which a tall, tanned man with defined Arabian features, wearing a blue tunic that reached his feet, called Ahmed, yes, the local in charge of indicating where to dig and where not, hesitated to give a concrete answer when the same Father ran to the hollowed out divider plate.

"Johan?!"

Peter traced the same path like this until completing the journey.

"Dad!", Johan shouted in order to let his father know that he was in optimal living conditions.

"Son, are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine!", Johan replied with a smile.

"I'm going in!"

Johan's father entered the priceless ruins by descending a staircase made of reeds, and upon observing his son safe and sound, this anguish ceased taking step by step until he reached him.

"Yes!", that man raised his arms completing his happiness. “I looked for this grave for so many years and you, what did you do? You hit right on it.”

Johan was carried by his father in his arms and the young man gave a happy laugh.

Johan muttered: "Look at all this, Dad."

He turned his gaze to the walls, lighting up the vastness of the delicious and immortalized art carved in all four corners as his father detailed the scriptures loving each part of the discovery itself.

"It is beautiful, just beautiful.", Peter muttered.

"And that jewel.", the boy muttered, pointing his flashlight in the direction of the relic, assuming his father walked there followed by the young man.

They advanced, leaving behind the mound of sand accumulated by too many centuries and scattered by the beginning of the ancient grave until it faintly lost itself on the same ground and once being close enough, that boy tried to touch it but the scream in the distance from Ahmed prevented it.

"Mr. Anderson?!"

Taking advantage of the fact that this place had a worse quality stone construction, the tunnel was not favored as a support, falling on a slope at the time that Ahmed touched the old and venerated terrain. But just as Ahmed entered, another man, an old man also burst onto the scene taking the young Johan's shirt by the lapels and this same subject shook him repeating a series of words frightening him when his father protected him.

"Hey, what's going on with you?!", exclaimed Mr. Anderson, very indignant.

"la! la tlmsha! 'aw sawf tahadath' ashya'an fazieatan!”

"Ahmed, what is he saying? What does it mean?”, asked Mr. Anderson.

"He says no! Do not touch her! Or horrible things will happen.”, Ahmed translated the words while the man continued speaking in Arabic, circumstances that Peter did not understand but having Ahmed close, nothing was impossible to know. “Also that you must get out of here immediately. For if someone desecrates the grave and unless they leave the abode of our ancestors alone, an ancient spell would be unleashed and the end would fall on her.”

"eindaha sawf taqae alnihaya."

"The end would fall on her." Ahmed said, staring at Peter unchangingly.

Johan was stunned when slowly in the dim light of that place, he looked askance at that same valuable golden object inlaid with three gemstones in blue, whose object shone with supernatural dazzle.

Being warned by an old Egyptian prophet, one should not ignore the sayings of who knows what consequences will come about through acts of irreverent desecration.

"From now on, you should know.", that man warned with the little English he used.

Mr. Anderson debunked myths, he wasn't superstitious but…

"And then whoever dares to desecrate the tomb and the queen's most precious possession, an ancient spell would be unleashed on her majesty's imprint and the end would fall on her.", Mr. Anderson translated the hieroglyphs to perfection.

The companions in the expedition of Mr. Anderson looked at each other while the native men of that country waited for one of them to listen. Johan looked at his young father somewhat fearfully but that archaeologist did not believe much even after hearing and reading the same warning.

Mr. Anderson continued: "Bring the trucks."

"Mr. Anderson, there is no time. A storm is very close.”, Ahmed alerted.

"Then hurry up. Come on, everyone work! I want them to load everything.”

Ahmed could be the native but Mr. Anderson's orders were orders and would have to be followed, without further ado, he agreed by muttering something in Arabic and instructed his men in the same mode of communication to correspond to such a task.

The father of the young boy bent on making history, arranged for the treasures to be placed in the vehicles and due to the strong sandstorm that broke out, it was not long until he ordered a second time that the artifacts be loaded into the trucks. as fast as possible since the sunset light announced the few minutes of life that were left to that day, thus obtaining the majority of relics that they could collect from said discovery that surely in the future would be exhibited as invaluable pieces in some important museum.

"Dad, I still think we make a terrible mistake.", Johan shared a possible and traumatic concern.

His father sighed and with a soft smile said: “We don't make mistakes, we make history, son. Let's go Johan.”

The Egyptian relics were still on the way to arrive in the strong sandy blizzard. And even that weird bracelet; How beautiful in itself, however worthy of strangeness, the beautiful piece with refined garments and finishes that a feminine figure used in her time in office in Ancient Egypt, was held by an Egyptian man and placed by himself in a large box of wood, where the jewel was sheltered by a soft wool blanket.

"The end would fall on her."

Ahmed looked at the box, reaffirming that old man's prediction that the worst was coming.

* * * *

Postscript: I'm editing this story because I didn't like how it turned out on the first post. I hope you like the improved version. Excuse me girls: @sherlollydramoine @xmxisxforxmaybe @txmel ❤️

Girls I hope you don't mind that I tagged you here. I hope you like it: @sunkissedmikky @moon-stars-soul @oldnoname @mrhoemazzello @petites-fantasies @diasimar @yousaycoke-isaycaine @sweet-motherlove @boyramimalek @riceloversblog @sternbergrm @rara-rami @ramimedley @ramisgirl512 @mrsahkmenrah-malek

If someone wants to label themselves here, welcome :D ❤️

#ahkmenrah #rami malek #night at the museum #natm #natm ahkmenrah #night at the museum 3

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suffering-and-happy-about-it · 5 years ago

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Busy Earning (Pieces of the People We Love, Part 1.)

Description: Not many people had the chance to see a vault or to mean anything in the world of Pandora. Will a hardly built relationship in the loneliness of the desert would have the potential to change anything in the world of anarchy and chaos - or will the friends try to murder each other?

A/N: If you're not familiar with Borderlands, this series will most probably won't make any sense to you. But that's alright! I am thinking about releasing a small thing called Vault Hunters Vocabulary and I will try to explain the lore and everything used IN the story but not explained in there. Whaddaya say?

A/N 2: Also, I AM MAKING NEW-U STATIONS LEGAL AND YOU CAN'T STOP ME. So I guess this is an AU? ALSO: the Bandits, Psychos, and Fanatics will speak only in the ancient language of Vine!

Warnings: A lot of guns, violence, reader is a tough badass - not a vault hunter tho. They're badass and don't give a fuck. And Scooter is a dumb bitch, as always.

Word count: 4.5 K

Tagging: @notaliteraltoad

Series master list: H E R E

It was one of those days when you took a deep breath and it almost burns your whole mucous membrane. Most of the days were like that in this particular part of Pandora, yet some of these days were too much. The desert around you was dry, the rocks were so hot that you'd burn your whole palm if you'd touch it. No plants or water source insight; it was just you, the asphalt road, the heatwave, and the complete silence.

If you wouldn't be aware of sweating like a living fuck and of the fact that your trousers were pretty bloody then, you'd most likely have the suspicion that you most likely just pissed yourself. On the other hand, you also knew that you had to be dressed from your head to your toes - if you wouldn't have every inch of your body covered, the sun would burn your skin down in a matter of minutes; that was how strong the sunlight was. It wasn't the most practical choice to cross the desert in a long coat, long boots, and a huge cowboy hat; it was, in fact, very much impractical, but you really didn't have much of a choice. That big, cowboy-ish hat became your personal trade over time - you were easily recognizable. If someone would've asked you to describe your personality, the hat itself would be one of your personality traits. Ever since you started wearing it, almost everyone was calling you the Cowboy, even if you were pretty sure that you're a woman. Why would you or any of the people you've been living in this hellhole with being obeying any of society's rules if you were leaving at the edge of civilization itself? Something like grammar and other constructs didn't have any value in the world you knew and were living in.

Back to you. You were pissed at the moment; very pissed. For some random reason, the Catch-A-Ride station near your house was off for the last three weeks and anyone cared enough to repair it. You were hunting Skags for a living and believe it or not, having the chance to get a functioning car was making your job very much enjoyable. But because anything could work on Pandora, you had to hunt down two Skags and drag them to the man living in the nearest town, where you had your contract signed.

Every single morning, you had to get up super-early to track some pack down, hunt at least two of these animals, and then drag the dead bodies through the entirety of the desert. That was the pain in your ass. To drag two damn heavy animals in that goddamn weather. Not that you had a chance refuse to hunt for that day - the meat was rotting quickly in this part of the planet and also, Pintley had quite a lot of customers he had to feed - you being one of the said customers. Also, funny enough, there wasn't that much meat on Skags. It was a doubtful business, to say the least.

A sudden, quiet mechanical noise threw you out of the train of your thoughts. It was easy to tell what was the problem since you could feel your right shoulder tensing up. - "Please no, please no." - You mumbled as you felt your right arm getting stuck and letting the bag go. A hiss left your lips as you felt the metal limb giving you a slight electric shock, sending it down your body. You sighed and sat down on one of the dead Skag's body, carefully taking the coat off just enough to reach the small panel, so you wouldn't tear the arm of your body. It took you almost half an hour of sitting there with a small wrench in your hand as you re-organized the small cabled inside as the metal whole arm was made of got hotter and hotter. Just a small moment longer and you'd burn your damn fingers.

In the end, you somehow managed to connect all the cables on the upper arm and attached the small piece of metal back on its spot again, rolling the coat back on your shoulder so it would cool down a bit. You were good to go again, so you took the bags your Skags were put in and walked forward again, dragging the corpses on the road behind you. At least, the buildings of that God abandoned city could be seen in the distance.

Hell's Cauldron. That was the name the locals gave it. The barely-a-town was raided by the bandits so often that they became more of your neighbors and maybe even friends over time. You knew a mentally unstable bandit named Bernie, who sometimes gave you a drive home - a ride from a Psycho was never a good one, but do as they say and don't look on the teeth of a horse that was given to you. You also became friends with Blind Billy, who was a better driver than Bernie and his one-man crew. This psycho was the man who always tried to buy your Skags. But you were persistent against selling them for Eridium.

Just as you thought of your favorite boys, the roar of their car could be heard in the distance as the machine got closer and closer. You smiled when you heard the sounds of their cars; they were very specific sounds breaking the utter silence around. The cars themselves were... Something. It wasn't a model rentable in Catch-A-Ride stations, so their cars were working just right at the moment. Also, this meant that you wouldn't have to the last few miles on foot, which would be simply great.

"Y/N!" - It was Billy's voice that could behear through speakers placed on the back of their car. In the next moment, the machine stopped next to you. You gave him a smirk and a nod through one of the windows. - "Ya still huntin' down those bunnies, ha? Come in, Cowboy girl, we'll give you a ride, whatcha say?" - The man opened up the door and invited you in. You gladly accepted and gave him the first bag containing a dead animal so he'd help you with dragging it inside the back of the car. Blindy threw it on the ground next to two benches before giving you a hand to drag you in as well.

"I guess I do, yeah. You know, Blindy, everybody needs a way to survive. You rob and kill, and I hunt. Everyone's doing great." - With a sigh, you sat on one of the only clean spots on the bench, getting a hold of it as you felt the engine shaking with the entire car.

"TO HELL'S CAULDRON YOU FUCKING DEADBRAIN!" - Billy yelled into the microphone so it could be heard at least miles from you. The car started so abruptly that it almost knocked you to the ground. - "Ya still don't wanna gimme one of those delicious creatures? I'm sick of eating bugs and sometimes people, when necessary, of course." - Billy asked and dragged his hand along one of the Skag's body. You were disgusted to say at least, but you also were careful enough not to display it in your expression. In the end, there was nothing to wonder about - these men were classified psychopaths.

"We've talked about this more than once, Blindy. Pay me the cash and I will give you one. If you don't want to pay for the work... Well..." - You laughed and touched the Jacobs shotgun attached to your back, sending him a clear message. - "Let's say that we've talked about this, shall we?" - "Oh, yea, Cowboy! Do ya get good money from it? I told ya I can pay ya in Eridium." - The psycho smiled and leaned in closer to you. You leaned to him as well, putting your metal palm on his mask.

"Eridium is worth only if I am a siren or if I have someone who deals Eridium to someone else. So... Do I, a), look like an Eridium dealer or do I, b), look like a siren to you?" - Your metal wrist patted the mask, and right after, you leaned away. Billy chuckled at what you've said. Eridium was an extremely valuable material - for some sort of people. If you weren't that sort of person, Eridium were just violet glowy stones in your eyes. Why would you even need that shit in this hole? The most ridiculous thing in this matter was the fact that psychos of Ham's Creek had a ton of Eridium on them; piles, probably. Hyperion jerks excavated many shafts in the proximity of your homes before they left; and while Hyperion guys were gone, the Eridium was still there and ready to get mined. You've heard that the guys from Ham's Creek, the bandit colony, were trading the stones to doubtful people for less than half of its value... But who were you to judge them? You were all doubtful people, you were all doing shady things. Any of you could be considered innocent.

"You may not be a siren, but you're ma muse in everythin' I do, Cowboy." - Blindy chuckled as the car stopped right in front of Hell's Cauldron's pub. There were seven more buildings in the city if you counted the toilette cab... The least pleasurable place in the proximity of fifty miles radius. - "Don't ever dare to repeat that, dear God. If you do, Imma shoot your ass off, okay?" - Your laughter filled the air as you watched Blindy and Rayray dragging Skags into the local.

"I SMELL LIKE BEEF!" - Rayray yelled and threw the Skag body next to the bar. It was a greeting, a very polite one if you might add. Rayray was still learning how to grasp the rules of being police and sometimes, he really hit the ballpark. With a small smile, you entered the pub as well and nodded at Pintley, the local pub keeper, who shrugged his shoulders. - "You've been making the boys busy again, Cowboy?" - Pintley, an old man with white hair and a missing eye, asked kindly and controlled the Skag. One day, Billy's crew accidentally took out a bag with a dead human body instead of the Skag one and when Pintley wanted to cook his famous Skag goulash, he almost threw up. This time, it was really the dead animal.

"Oh, yea. And I would get the bags to the freezer as soon as possible, it is probably already grilled at this point." - With a grunt, you finally took off the coat as you leaned into and took your enormous hat off to look at Pinty. The man was still looking at the animals, trying to set an amount of cash to pay for this catch. - "That's fifty dollars for each one of them... Maybe even sixty, they're huge. Good call today, Cowboy." - He hummed in the end, opening the cash register and handled you the money. It was not much... But it was something at least.

"Something must be happening out there again, huh?" - It was a quiet, suggestive mumble as you looked at the banknotes in your palm. Pintley asked a silent "What?" because he hadn't heard about anything going on. - "I mean... Marcus Munitions charges for bullets are off the charts since Jack had... You know." - You peeked behind the bar, pointing at a slice of bread. Without you having to pay for it, Pintley gave it to you to chew on it.

To your surprise, Blind Billy nodded at you as he too leaned into the countertop. Even the bandits of Ham Creek could see that something's going on when they were buying their bullets for another raid - it cost almost two hundred dollars more. All of the things you've mentioned happened over five years ago, maybe even more. Handsome Jack, the CEO of Hyperion, was allegedly murdered by Lilith and the Crimson Raiders of Sanctuary. Since then, Hyperion Corporation was filled with social climbers who tried to become the new CEO - but before everything ended, Elpis' lunar station Helios was blown up, meaning that the days of Hyperion ruling over Pandora were over. Not that any of you would particularly care about any of that.

After that, there were some rumors about a new vault key found and about the existence of many new vaults all around Pandora and its sister planets. And as you heard, it was usually a joke, the vault key ended up in a desert where two jackasses found it. That, in fact, led to the creation of a pain in the ass known as 'The Calypso twins' and their cult; the Children of the Vault. Now, allegedly, Crimson Raiders and their leader Lilith had left Pandora and created Sanctuary 3, a spaceship flying on the orbit of Pandora.

Honestly, as far as you cared, all of this could be just a bunch of made-up stories. How the hell were you supposed to know what happened in space or on the other side of the planet? Who were you supposed to be? A fortune-teller? A telepath to know all of these things for certain? There was one sort of people on Pandora about which everyone seemed to forget - normal people. Normal people like you. Yes, people who only tried to live their lives and who owned only one gun existed. People who pursued normal jobs, calm life without all of the vault hunting business.

You've personally never seen the infamous Handsome Jack (only his posters and billboards) or the alleged vault hunters scattering through Pandora, searching for new things to kill and new loot to find. You never have seen Lilith, Roland, or any of the Crimson Raiders with your eyes, nor you've visited Sanctuary, Haven, New Haven, or Helios - and you surely had not visited the Concordia spaceship. You never saw any of those rumors for yourself, thus, you didn't know what was real or fake.

"Look at it like this, Pintley... The Catch-A-Ride stations aren't working in this part of Pandora for God knows how long and now, Marcus is charging up for rounds again? The last time he did that when the last bunch of the vault hunters came to Pandora? I tell you, something's going on." - Now, you rose your eyebrows and stopped everything you were doing. A loud bang blasted through the Hell's Cauldron. There was silence for a moment, but then a loud song started to play. With a long sigh, each of you stood up and grabbed their gun to get ready for a fight. The Children of the Vault decided to pay you a late-afternoon visit.

This, unfortunately, meant a shootout in the middle of the sun-parched square of the Hell's Cauldron just for the laughs. Those guys were just fine most of the time, but on some days, they came to the town and all they wanted to do was fight with guns blazing. By now, you all knew the drill - a short shootout while letting them spawn back in their base and then, you could continue with your daily program.

No matter what you told those jackasses, no matter what you did, no matter anything - they just drove into the sun-parched square and started to shoot. They were idiots without a single functioning brain between them, to say at least. To your good luck, Blindy and Rayray were on your side. These two were pretty reasonable bandits. Billy was also unusually smart for living with psychos, midgets, and more for as long as he did, yet he still kept his brain working.

The shooting which happened in Hell's Cauldron that day was louder than usual. Maybe it was just the way you've been laughing or the COV's new summer playlist, but this one was unusually loud. People were throwing grenades just as they were yelling some nasty words at each other. Some of them dropped dead in a matter of seconds because they were just standing in plain open. A car blew up accidentally, the trunk almost hitting you in your face and the face. When everything was done, there was only you, Rayray, and Pintley standing in the settling dust. You and Pintley were usually a great team - since he had a slag sniper rifle and you had an orange tier Jacobs shotgun, you were good to go any time. The rest of the COVs slowly disappeared - they started spawning at the New-U stations back in their small cultist town fifty miles away from Hell's Cauldron.

But something wasn't right. Blindy was still laying on the ground, bleeding out with a blank stare. His body wasn't moving and there were even small droplets of blood as he coughed before he passed away. This wasn't supposed to happen. As you approached the body, you've been growing through how did you get into the town in the first place. You've driven in our of the eastern exist, which meant you've driven around a checkpoint. That led you to a conclusion that the Hyperion Checkpoint Station, those were all over Pandora, must've written his biometrical data down. Blindy was somewhere inside the database, hidden in the code; but New-U station wasn't, for a reason, reconstructing his physical body.

"What's going on? Why isn't he respawning, Pintley? Don't you tell me that he wasn't registered by the Checkpoint." - Without giving a single fuck about the blood and dust, you kneeled and took off Blindy's mask to look into his scarred, lifeless fave. He wasn't the most handsome lad you've seen, but he had a good heart and that was all you cared about. - "Billy, man, don't you play games with me now. Get the fuck up, man. Come on." - You begged silently. You couldn't lose him because of a routine shootout. You've survived hundreds of these - he was a good bandit, a good friend, and a significantly good gunman.

"I think the New-U is cut out of the electric network, Cowboy." - Pintley yelled at you, while Rayray was opening the database in the Checkpoint station next to the pub. - "We might as well put it back to use. Stop with the nonsense and get to work, come on!"

The New-U stations and Checkpoints were a special thing that Pandora needed to have any population surviving on it. It all started way back when Atlas, Dahl, Hyperion, and many more were supporting the golden era of vault hunting; those hunters got their own Echo devices to stay in touch all the time and in case they'd accidentally die or dismember, the New-U stations were meant to render a new body for them. As soon as you arrived or was born in this sector of the universe, the corporation implanted a chip to the nape of your neck; you wouldn't respawn only in the case someone would be using jammer or took the chip out of your body. There was a whole lot of things that could get you killed - psycho in a bad mood, hungry Skag, angry friend, bad food, accidental fall into a volcano... You could choose, really. Sometimes, it could take a while to respawn, it also cost you some money, and before the transaction was sent... It could be a whole lot at times.

Since there were no laws and anarchy and chaos ruled the planet hand by hand, this system came in handy at all times. The Checkpoint stations were the smaller ones, saving up your data like DNA and memories to have all of your personal information in the systems in case anything happened to you. New-U was able to resurrect a person after paying said charge - they constructed your body from the DNA and cells of your dead body, implanted the memories back into your brain, and even construed the clothes you had on. It was truly a miracle of modern age science - but also a necessity for Pandora and its moon Elpis.

Rayray nodded when he read Billy's name in the database. He was there; he was there, safe and sound. You only had to make the New-U work. Without giving any fuck, you just threw the dead and useless body on the ground, walking to the machine, next to Pintley, to look at the cables leading out of the back of the machine to the charger on the wall.

Luckily, you were quite handy with this sort of stuff. Really, you had to restore the electricity circuits inside your metallic arm; handily, you opened up the machine and started to work on it, searching for the problem. Pintley was kneeling next to you, so you were only telling him what you needed - like a wrench or a hammer - and he fetched it to you. New-U was mostly unused in Hell's Cauldron, so it was really no wonder that it wasn't working; it was out of order for quite some time now. If Blindy wouldn't have died, you wouldn't even notice the malfunctioning machine.

It probably was out of order for the last five years - since the last time Bandits provoked a gunfight was... You couldn't even remember. Maybe, Pintley himself pulled the cables out; you wouldn't let the electricity bill getting bigger if you hadn't need for letting the New-U running, right? The Calypso fanatics couldn't be considered a threat at all. Each of them was dumb and couldn't shoot for shit, so the only ones getting killed were them. Even more so, they usually started to talk about some of their damn fanatic nonsense in the middle of the fight. In the beginning, you listened to those jackshit rambles; then you just murdered them without blinking. It wasn't that easy. Rayray looked at you from the database's screen. Bandits, believe it or not, were sometimes pretty smart. Yes, they had their bright moments. The only thing they couldn't do was to speak like a normal human being.

"THAT HURTS LIKE A BUTTCHEEK ON A STICK!" - Rayray yelled at you and you furrowed - it was too late to stop the respawning process since the machine started barking loudly in front of you as it came back to life. What did he say? Someone else was written down in the system except the normies of Hell's Cauldron? You looked over to the bandit boy, but it was too late to pull the cable; the New-U already started to build a human being. And that person definitely wasn't Billy. You made Pintley step back since he hadn't any gun on him and took out your Jacobs shotgun again, pointing at the stranger. The man, it definitely was a man, was looking at his hands in wonder, opening his palms, closing them right after, playing with his fingers. He slowly pulled an Oz kid used in the vacuum off the back of his head, so he could take some normal, hot breath into his lungs. The breather was old as hell, probably six to seven years to your estimations (given it was an ultra-old Vladof Oz it). Who was that man, you didn't know at all; you just assumed he must've been dead for quite some time.

The Hyperion nice-ass lady was telling him something, but she couldn't quite finish her speech - Billy started rendering right next to the man. You exhaled and thanked God for Billy, but you didn't let the mysterious man go out of your sight - you didn't know who he was, what his intentions were, or if he was a bad guy or not. The only thing you could clearly tell was that the man was super-happy to be alive. "I'm alive! I'm alive! Would ya believe it, man, I'm alive, breathin' and stuff and I'm feelin' just fine!" - The stranger exclaimed and looked over to you. - "Wait... Wait. Man, man, ya not Lilith or Moxxi or one of their vault hunters. Who are ya?" - He tried to come closer to you, for some reason, so you only rose the barrel of the shotgun and watched the small laser light hovering on his forehead.

"Ya not any friendly folks, ha?" - The man asked and laughed your barrel off as if he barely noticed the danger he was in. There was... Something about him. You felt like you knew him from somewhere. That face was basically burned deep into your brain and it was so detailed, that it was freaking you out like shit. Those eyes, sharp lips... But his name was a remaining mystery to you; not for too long, unfortunately. - "Hey, name's Scooter. Ya know me. Most of the folks on Pandora do." - With that, he offered you a palm to shake, and because of that, you took the barrel of your shotgun down from his forehead. Scooter. Scooter. That face, that name... Jesus that man was reminding you of someone and you couldn't just remember who. Eyeing down his clothes covered in old, dry oil (which was clearly powering engines, or some other machinery), you straightened and watched Pintley approach Scooterboy. You exhaled slowly and put the shotgun on your back, shoving it back into the covering.

"Name's Pintley, young man. Come here, I'll give you a cold Dr. Bob and some food." - Pintley patted his shoulder and you carefully watched Scooterboy with a frown. You were inclined to believe him just after he looked like isn't about to kill you, yet it didn't mean you'd be particularly fond of the stranger just yet.

"Scooterboy?" - Your voice was firm and cold as you looked at him. - "Don't you do something with cars? I get the vibe you do, look at your clothes." - It was a short explanation, but it did work. Scooter looked down quickly, raising his eyebrows. Blindy was now standing next to you and he didn't have a clue about what was going on.

"Catch-A-Ride!" - Scooterboy exclaimed with a big smile. Oh dear, you got your mindset straight on who he was. It was like a blast inside your brain. You knew his face from all the commercials you've seen with his face - it was a big thing when he supposedly died on his way to Helios. Ellie, his big sister and the other big mechanic of Pandora, was paying him many respects and missed him dearly. She was mourning for a long time.

"How the fuck are you alive?" - With a frown, you stormed past him and Pintley, entering the pub first. - "This is one wild evening Pintley, I tell you. Give me, Billy and Scooter some cold Dr. Bob and some bread with cheese you have there because I'm about to faint." - You sat at the nearest chair, massaging your own face.

Scooter was alive.

#borderlands #scooter borderlands #new-u #pandora #elpis #helios #tales of the borderlands #borderlands 2 #there is a lot to work with #srsly folks #here we go omg

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neighborhoodparker · 5 years ago

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The Ones You Save [1]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word count: 4,735

Warnings: Mentions of murder, death, and blood.

Summary: The one where you are given a new mission and you follow through with the orders you have found.

prologue | part 1 | part 2

“You can find your mission.”

You don’t flinch as you easily allow the barrier in your mind to fall down, immediately reaching out past yourself to delve into the mind of Alexander Pierce. It’s slightly difficult for your muddled mind to recall just exactly who he is - but the name had popped in almost without hesitation when you gave yourself the brief reminder that forgetting could result in something worse than the dreaded machine, something worse than the highly praised cryogenic chamber.

You don’t have to search far into his psychotic, masochist brain to find what you need. The man has learned by now to keep the mission on the forefront of his mind after you have been prodded to find your mission. If he doesn’t think of it while you’re searching, you’re forced to burrow deeper into his mind - and there’s no telling what disturbing things you’d find if you did that. Not that any of it would have much effect on your broken encephalon.

As you’re discovering details about your new targets, the scientists in the room move to suit you up. You weren’t wearing much when you had come in - just the pants to your suit and the sports bra that they have you wear underneath your suit. Your suit itself is a complex mess of zippers and buttons; a design purposely created with the lightweight tactical suit to remind you how much control you lack. The uniform is constructed from Kevlar fiber and Nomex thread; produced for advanced flexibility and resistance to small bullets. It’s incredibly close to the apparel that the Winter Soldier once wore - but the design has been updated to restrict you from removing the clothing yourself. There is a tight muzzle wrapped around your nose and mouth, but they have abandoned the goggles you were once forced to wear. You don’t have to worry about your hair; the ratty, rough fibers are constantly pulled back into double dutch braids that stretch down to your middle back.

You barely recognize at this point when your brain kicks in to autopilot. With all the damage that’s been inflicted on the organ, you hardly remember telling yourself to walk to the hangar. All you comprehend is that you are suddenly in a different room, that you are strikingly alone. The silence is almost welcoming to a small, quiet part of your mind - but you shove that down. You don’t like the lack of loud voices, lack of chaos - the void of screaming, crying. You are so used to screeching HYDRA agents and sobbing victims; the silence distracts you from your complete-your-mission-and-get-it-over-with attitude. It comforts you, even; it allows you to take a break from the life that you know ( incredibly deep down ) you hate.

You make your way to your designated plane. You go through the motions of buckling yourself in, placing a comm into your ear before you pull on the noise cancelling headphones. With the powers you have, the decibels given off by the plane are too much. Even the small carrier plane you are allowed to pilot is too much. You hate loud noises, but your powers make it easier for you to cancel everything out - to focus on small details that rest inside the minds of others.

If your memories hadn’t been so toyed with, you would’ve been able to reminisce over how your old partner never got the privilege of learning to fly the passenger plane. You would’ve remembered that the scientists trusted you more than him, that you always were allowed more freedoms than him. But he only comes in fragmented bits. He only shows up in your mind at random instances, bringing a mix of strong emotions that have no reason. You can’t conjure up a full mental picture of him most of the time - but you might be able to recognize him if you saw him. You two were the best duo that HYDRA had ever seen; you always had the others back, never left the other to fight alone. But, he had managed to escape without you. You would be able to understand if you could just think about how hard he tried to get you out too.

But you don’t remember any of that. You don’t even think about it. When you do, it’s not by choice - and Alexander Pierce makes sure that you forget as soon as it happens.

You’re barely off the ground before your comm ignites with static. There’s a wince that you hold back as your hands keep the plane steady. This is something that comes naturally to you, the one thing that makes you feel weightless when the blood stained on your hands gets to be too much. It’s almost like an extension of yourself; as easy to control as your actions in hand-to-hand combat.

“You have the directions and the target. Make sure that the target is dead. Don’t worry about any other casualties; you know what will happen if your compassion suddenly rears its head.” The shrieking voice of Pierce fills your ear.

You don’t answer. And you never do. That’s one of the things that they seem to like most about you. You’re obedient; you’re easy to control, you listen without complaint. They’re at the point where they no longer have to toy with your fears to make you carry out their commands, they’ve already made you believe that you cannot survive on your own. They’ve taken care of you for so long, even though it hasn’t been anywhere near what living should be like. Deep down, the person who you used to be knows that you could take care of yourself if you were given the chance. You could treat yourself better, kinder, than any of those people you work for. If you cared for yourself, if you were given the chance to disappear from HYDRA - maybe you could stop spilling so much innocent crimson.

The plane touches down with precision and shuts off a moment after. You don’t need to take time to compose yourself before you’re pulling off the headphones. There’s a multitude of weapons that you move to strap onto your body; it seems that there’s a weapon for every occasion. HYDRA wants you to be prepared. Even with your abilities.

You shut the door behind you, but make no immediate move to walk away. Now is when you need to compose yourself. You force yourself to relax and close your eyes. You envision yourself standing near the edge of the forest; you look at your surroundings through your mind, see yourself slowly fade from view. And it works. When you open your eyes, you know your body is invisible to any prying eyes.

You were created with this in mind, to be an agent of stealth - to be able to control things with your mind. When Arnim Zola found Bucky, found you - he had the perfect duo in mind. He had two different serums; one that was previously made for the highly regarded hero dubbed as Captain America, the other that he had carefully and intricately made just for you. He had it planned; the body and the mind. Bucky was the body; he had the super strength, the undeniable agility, the striking silver arm. And you, you were the brilliant mind. You had the ability to infiltrate minds, the disappearing act, the genius plans. You also had the unexpected onyx arm and the metal parts replacing the fragmented bones in your legs. Zola’s beautiful, entrancing duo had both taken falls from high distances - but it was the perfect way to take you both into their custody.

And now, decades after your personal fall, you are standing at the edge of the forest. Your Glock 17 is now loosely resting in your left hand. It’s not the perfect time to use it and you have left the safety on. In a few mere seconds, you could have the safety off and the gun positioned perfectly. Your constant, extreme training has allowed you to perfect such motions. The guns aren’t your favorite weapon; those were always reserved for the partner you can’t remember. Your favorites are the knives - the ones your brain so easily calculates the trajectory for. Knives are like another extension of yourself, the perfect weapon for the perfect brain. But knives can’t penetrate through tinted windows of armored vehicles. You know that the bullets in your gun can’t either, which is why it’s your job to get into the car and execute your target.

The comm once again ignites with an irritating voice. “The car has been spotted heading your way. Get in position.”

Your eyes dart through the dense traffic that lies a few feet in front of you. The cars are so close together, so crowded that they can’t move. You know that it’s typical of this area during this time of day to be so packed. That makes it perfect for your job. It creates less casualties, makes it easier for you to spot the right target and take care of them without hassle.

You carefully begin to weave through the mess of stopped cars. It’s not the hardest thing that you have to do, but sometimes it’s difficult to squeeze between the vehicles and avoid hitting them. You like to stay invisible and it’s hard when the people in the cars can feel you bump into them. It destroys your stealth, confuses the people in the cars, and makes you want to panic. You don’t want to mess up; HYDRA could come up with extreme consequences for any slight error in your plans.

They want you to cause chaos in the process of your mission. That’s the reason why you aren’t using a knife, why your hand is slowly tightening its grip on your gun. They want the people around you to panic, to cause a commotion. They want you to cause as much chaos as you can with your missions so they can one day introduce you as the savior the world needs; the one person alone who can stop all these random killings, who has all the means to save the world without destroying cities upon cities in the process.

And you hate the idea. You know that it is stupid, that it’s useless - but the people who control you don’t care about your opinion. They haven’t cared since they locked Arnim Zola’s mind in a bunker far below the surface of the Earth. Zola was the one person who always wanted your opinion in missions, the one person who always knew how clever you really were. You wish that you had just messed around a bit more in Pierce’s mind and convinced him to let you use a knife. Your mission would run a lot more smoothly if you had done that.

“Your tracker is nearly on top of the car. Make sure you’re paying attention.” His voice is scolding this time, trying to find fault in your actions. You know exactly where the car is; you can see it plain as day. You’re not stupid and you know that you haven’t passed it yet. “Keep it simple, yet create chaos.”

You finally let your eyes roll in response. They can’t see your eyes roll when you’re hidden, and you’re far enough away from them that you aren’t absolutely terrified to react in that manner. You swear that they get on your nerves, though you’d never admit it out loud. Their instructions are always ingrained in your brain from how much they tell you them.

You let your bionic arm bang against the passenger window of the armored vehicle. There’s a quick pause and then you hit the window again - but this time you have moved closer to the front windshield. It goes on like that as you slowly begin to circle the car; all you are doing is luring out the driver of the car. You barely make it around to the back of the car before the guy is scrambling out of the car, moving to where you are. It’s easy for you to sidestep the man and slip into the car. You slam the door shut before you press down on the lock button. You can nearly feel the panic radiating off of the passengers in the car, A small smile tugs on your lips because you know for a fact that Pierce would be proud of you. When he’s proud, no one’s allowed to punish you for small mistakes.

You feel the urge to flip the car into drive and slam on the gas, but you brush it off. You’re not looking to get hurt in the process of giving Pierce the chaos that he craves. All you want is to invoke panic and fear, which you can do by firing the gun more than once. But you wait a beat. You allow your hammering heart a moment to calm down, allow yourself to keep your cover as you move to roll down the back window.

The driver is moving towards the window as soon as he sees that it is being lowered. You can see the panic and terror written across his face. You wonder, for a split second, how long the man must have been working for SHIELD. You know that if he was HYDRA he wouldn’t have let his emotions play out across his face. SHIELD has never properly trained their agents.

You watch as the driver attempts to pull your target out of the car. You don’t act out of panic, nor do you jump at the chance to fire the gun. He tries to pull the woman out, but the seat belt proves to be an issue. You move your gun into the proper position as he pleads with her to unbuckle and let him get her out alive; which makes you want to scoff. There’s no possible way that this could go that would have her getting out alive.

But you still wait. Your eyes follow the woman as she unbuckles herself, watch as the man tries once more to pull her out of the window. You busy yourself with rolling down the other windows, making the two of them pause for a moment in their efforts. It’s almost humorous to you, to watch as they finally realize they can open the door and safely pull her out.

Then you move. You’re pulling yourself out of the window, curling your body through the small surface. Instead of hopping onto the ground, you lift your body on top of the car. It doesn’t dent under your weight and your feet don’t leave any prints, for which you’re thankful for. You squat down and watch as the driver begins to look around frantically. It’s also humorous to watch him try to see you.

The driver is telling the woman to move, to stick close to him. You let one of your fingers move to click the safety off and you raise the gun, carefully pointing it at the two of them. But you don’t shoot. Not yet. You know exactly how you want to cause a little bit of chaos.

They start moving away from the car, leaving the other two passengers to scramble out after them. You quietly drop onto the ground, taking a quick moment to observe that traffic has begun to move a bit. It’s not hard for you to begin to follow behind the four SHIELD agents; your footsteps are too light to reveal your location to them. You want to move to tap into their minds, but your comm quietly comes to life before you can.

“Now’s the time, Ghost.”

You move your gun up, easily pointing it to your main target - the woman. You take a moment to breathe before you fire, watching as the bullet lodges itself into the back of her right knee. She almost falls to the ground in slow motion. The driver moves to bend down in front of her. You take another breath before you fire again, focusing on the bullet as it passes through the woman’s neck and lodges itself in the man’s torso. It is with swift ease that you take out the other two SHIELD agents who followed them, not sparing a second to watch as their bodies collapse onto the ground.

You put the safety on before you tuck the gun into the holster around your thigh. Though you do not watch the life leave the woman’s body, you do watch as people begin to jump out of their cars - running over to the four people. You make a face as you see some of them pulling out their phones, taking pictures and videos. You have to think about how stupid the human race has gotten, how eager they are to show everything that happens to the rest of the world. Their ignorance is bliss, in your situation, and you know that it will one day be the death of them. Just like it was to those four SHIELD agents whose blood is now crawling along the blazing hot asphalt.

Your feet begin to move you away from the area, trying to get back to the small passenger plane you had been permitted to take. You know that the scene isn’t as bloody as Pierce would have liked, but you know that he will be satisfied with the end results. Four SHIELD agents dead, with more on the list for your future endeavors.

As you finally disappear into the trees, you drop your invisibility facade. You can feel the blood begin to trickle down from your noise as you suddenly cease using your powers. You easily wipe it off with your gloves. It was always a side effect that you had after using them; Zola would always chalk it up to happening because of where they originated from. You were using your brain in a way that no other human could and this was always the way that you had reacted.

You pause mid-step as you pick up on the crunching of leaves underneath someone’s boot. Your mind immediately kicks into action and you disappear from sight, quietly turning around to see if you can find the source of the noise. Unlike the stranger, you tread carefully - your boots making barely any noise as you move amidst the fallen leaves and sticks. Your hand automatically moves to turn your comm off; eliminating all chances of Pierce revealing your location to the possible enemy. You have no clue who it could be or how many of them there are, but you know how you can find out.

You lean your body against a tree, letting your head relax against the rough bark as you close your eyes. You wish for a second that you had your headphones with you, but know that the noises of the nearby traffic will have to do as your distraction. You focus on the soft hum of the cars and the sound of tires on the road, not allowing the occasional horn honk to scare you.

You travel out of your mind - your powers quietly reaching out amidst the gentle sound of the wind pulling through the trees. You act as though you are flying through the forest, spotting out any possible threat. And it doesn’t take you long to see what has made the noise. On the outer edge of the forest, you spot three people. There are two men and one woman; you easily recognize Captain America and Black Widow, two ‘high-held’ SHIELD agents. The other man, though, isn’t as easily recognizable. You know that his face and build is familiar, that you have seen him before - but you cannot place him. All you know is that this man, the one with long brown hair and matching facial hair, looks concerned. And you decide to allow your brain to connect with his, to see out of his own eyes and to hear out of his ears.

“Buck, I don’t think she’s here. Not anymore, at least.” Captain America speaks up, sending the man a frown.

“I know she’s here, Steve. I can feel her.” The deep vibrations that left ‘Buck’ seemed to send a shock of pain through your system, and you automatically fight to shove the memories down.

“I don’t necessarily think that you can feel when a person is around, Barnes.” Black Widow pitches in - you watch as Steve nods in agreement.

“It’s a long story, Romanoff. Her and I have always been connected. That’s how Zola wanted it to be. I know she’s here. She’s watching us right now.”

You quickly let go of your hold on his brain and push yourself away from the tree with a jolt, putting your comms back on.

“Take off your mask and tell us what’s going on, Ghost.” The growl that escapes Pierce’s side of the comm makes your eyes narrow. “You won’t get in trouble.”

You quietly and hesitantly peel the muzzle off of your face, pressing your flesh hand down on the comm. “Captain America and Black Widow are here with a man they called ‘Buck’ and ‘Barnes’.”

You can’t help but wince at the rough, scratchy voice that falls out of your lips.You haven’t talked in so long and it’s easy to tell that it’s been months. The thought of them punishing you for doing what you’re told sends a shock of fear through your system, but you’re more concerned with the memories that are threatening to push past your mental barrier. A part of you wants to remember who that man is, but the rest of you knows that you need to forget about him. He’s not important. The important thing is finding a way to get back to your base undetected.

Without being told to, you quickly place the mask back around your face. You know that they can’t see you, but the fear of being punished for having it off overrides that fact. You want that punishment as much as you want the memories that are fighting against your brain. You have scars across your body from the last time it was taken off, which was when you had fought to get out - and the thought of disobeying by trying to get away sets your whole body aflame. The memory that coincides with the scars is red hot; it’s setting fire to that mental barrier as it fights to get past.

You can feel it start to crumble and you’re forced to lean down, to cradle your head between your hands.The pain that comes with the memories is overwhelming, overbearing. It’s hard for you to fight through it. But you know that you have to get away from where you are, you know that you have to evacuate to a safe place - somewhere HYDRA can rescue you. The sooner that they rescue you, the sooner they can fix your crumbling mental state.

But the pain is agonizing. It’s worse than anything you’ve ever felt and you aren’t sure how you can quiet the blazing white pain pounding throughout your brain. HYDRA should have known better than sending you out in the field when you were previously so unstable, but you know that no one thought that there would be a trigger out here. None of them had planned for this man called Buck to show up, to be here. And no one would have been able to tell how big of a trigger the unkempt male would be.

You can hardly feel your knees hit the hard ground, but you can feel the dry grass pressing into your arms. The dirt is cool against your burning forehead. You feel like your entire body has been set ablaze and you are fighting the urge to cry out. Everything around you sounds muffled, like you have been plunged into a giant pool of water. You strain to hear the three agents, strain to find their location in relation to you. But it’s overloading your brain - you can feel the blood begin to seep out of your nose. You know immediately that you have lost your hold on your invisibility.

“Get out of there!” You hardly manage to hear Pierce scream into the ear piece, but the panic in his voice makes your head hurt even more.

Your force yourself to get up to your feet, staggering as you take a few steps to catch your balance. The world around you is spinning relentlessly; it feels like you are stuck in a snow globe that is continuously being rolled across the floor. It’s difficult for you to stay on your feet as you move forwards. You think that you’re moving away from the three people, but your sense of direction is incredibly messed up. You feel like up is down and right is left. You aren’t sure how you can fix the mixed up directions.

You stumble forward and your stomach seems to twist more with every step. The pounding in your head only seems to get worse as memories begin to pile on top of each other. You’re seeing bits and pieces of a past that you don’t remember; you’re being overloaded with unknown events and it’s hard to keep the little bit of food you had today in your stomach. You barely make it to a tree before you’re leaning against it. Your body is bending over and you’re losing what feels like the entire contents of your stomach. The acid from your belly has scorched the entire length of your esophagus and you are left dry heaving.

You can’t keep up with your mind. There’s flashes of a man, the same man you just saw, and he’s fighting alongside you. You see bursts of doctors injecting you with serums and you see bits of agents torturing you. Then there was a man - one who you didn’t recognize, in so many different moments that you couldn’t comprehend. There he was, placing a ring gently on your finger. There’s a big smile after, then you’re sitting under the stars on a blanket. But then it seems to turn sour and suddenly he’s lying on the ground - his lifeless eyes staring up at the stars. You feel a hand grab onto your arm and you think you’re being dragged back to that cliff, the cliff that that man died on and then you’re screaming.

You’re screaming with all your might, and you feel like you’re falling. You feel like you’re tumbling towards the bottom of the cliff; you see that it’s getting closer and you don’t seem to be slowing down. You’re panicking because you know that you’re going to die, you know that this isn’t going to end well. And you wish, you wish with everything in you that you could have been better, that you could have hurt less people - that you could have caused less casualties.

And you’re closing your eyes tightly - so tight, waiting for the impact. Then you hit the ground. But you don’t hit hard. You don’t feel any bones break and you don’t feel the agony of your body bending in ways it never should have. You don’t feel flesh and muscle being torn away from your shoulder, you don’t feel your legs being shattered beyond repair.

Even though you’re terrified, though you feel like you’re frozen from shock - you slowly start to test out your appendages. You keep your eyes closed because you’re scared to see the damage, you’re afraid to see where you are. For a split second, you wonder if you have died. You lay and hope that maybe, finally, you’re free from HYDRA.

You decide, no matter what you’ll find, that you have the courage to open your eyes. You slowly pry your eyes open and the sky above you is bright blue. There’s barely any clouds littering the big expanse of cerulean. The sun is shining brightly, warming the body that you thought would be cold from the shallow lake that was sitting at the bottom of the cliff.

And there is a pair of shining blue eyes staring down at you.

tag list: @verygraphicink

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #the winter soldier #winter soldier #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky imagine #the ones you save #neighborhoodparker

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fire-toolz · 5 years ago

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Balancing vaporwave’s glossy kitsch with throat-shredding metal vocals and labyrinthine sound collage, Angel Marcloid’s music is a perfect fusion of pop and pure abstraction.

Bandcamp / Buy

Angel Marcloid is no stranger to chaos: Her labels Swamp Circle and Rainbow Bridge brim with glitchy noise and scrambled vaporwave. But the music the Chicago multi-instrumentalist makes as Fire-Toolz has always been too meticulous to simply coast on entertaining randomness. Slapping MIDI basslines, screamed metal vocals, video-game synths, riffing guitars, and proggy drum fills might all collide in any given song, but Marcloid’s instrumentally and mathematically virtuosic constructions never feel simply thrown together. The highwire balancing act of all these wildly moving parts has always been Fire-Toolz’s calling card, and on the brilliant new Field Whispers (Into the Crystal Palace) it reaches a whole new level of thrilling intensity.

Marcloid’s compositional approach has often felt clearer when she narrows her stylistic parameters slightly. Projects like the sample-based Mindspring Memories or the jazz-fusion Nonlocal Forecast, beautifully captured on Bubble Universe! for Hausu Mountain earlier this year, show how well Marcloid can hone in on a specific musical idea and reveal an entire world. On the other hand, Fire-Toolz has always been an opportunity for Marcloid to spin every plate in her cupboard at once. Until now, the alias has felt especially influenced by metal, due to the perfectly honed black-metal hiss she unleashes over many tracks. Here she drastically reins those vocals in, but by pulling back on the most striking element of Fire-Toolz, she lifts everything else in her arsenal. It makes Field Whispers feel like an evolution of the project as a whole.

Field Whispers opens with what might be the best vocal song Marcloid has ever written. Despite its long, unwieldy name, “mailto:[email protected]?subject=Mind-BodyParallels” distills Fire-Toolz’s sonic obsessions into a strange approximation of pop music. Its web of bouncing drum-machine beats and bright keyboard melodies sparkles alongside throat-shredding screams. Even through this web of smooth guitar lines and funky synths, Marcloid’s bile-dripping roar locks right in without ever sounding out of place, charting a path from easy listening Muzak to a cathartic finale that surges as fiercely as Agalloch. “Mailto:” is followed by its opposite, the sprawling seven-minute sound collage “Clear Light,” but each of that track’s carefully sculpted left turns, from harsh noise to ambient to surging synths and a twisting guitar solo, shows that Marcloid’s experimental flourishes are as carefully considered and exciting as her pop songs. It sounds like Oneohtrix Point Never’s last three albums played simultaneously. Prior to the album’s release, the two songs were combined into a single nine-minute single, which seems unwieldy until you realize it makes complete sense. Nothing has captured this nearly indescribable project better than jumping on these two sonic roller-coasters back to back.

Those songs recalibrate Fire-Toolz’s framework, creating a playing field where Field Whispers’ leaps into pop and dives into abstraction are equally rewarding. The hallucinatory sound design of “The Warm-Body (A Blessing & Removal)” unpredictably shifts into a tender melodic coda; “Hologram of a Composite” feels like a momentary return to Nonlocal Forecast’s proggy, euphoric Bubble Universe!; and “✓ BEiNG” begins with birdsong and forest ambience before igniting with stadium-sized drums, a soaring guitar solo, and another surprising swoop of the ground-razing vocals that opened “mailto.” It’s a welcome return to Marcloid’s voice, which gets a third and final showcase on the ecstatic closer, “Smiling at Sunbears Grooming in Sunbeams” (along with Marcloid’s late cat, Breakfast, to whom the album is dedicated). It all makes Field Whispers Marcloid’s strongest statement under any moniker, a reaffirmation of her work as a wild playground where anything can happen—and usually does.

-Miles Bowe/Pitchfork

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animebw · 6 years ago

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Panty and Stocking: Series Reflection

If you asked my going into Panty and Stocking whether I expected to like it as much as I ended up liking it, I certainly would have said no. On a surface level, it is about as far outside of my comfort zone as you could possibly get. It’s a hard-edged, hard R, filthy, raunchy, horny comedy with copious swearing, blood and sex. It’s extreme and brazen and loud and occasionally obnoxious. It comes fully formed from the mind of a creator who’s given me oodles of trouble in the past with the way he approaches sex in his work. Everything about this show and the sandbox it was playing in might as well be anti-siren calls warning me to stay the hell away. But there’s a certain truth I’ve come to accept from watching anime as long as I have: there is no such thing as a bad trope, just a bad execution of that trope. There is no archetype or chiche that is truly irredeemable; all it needs is a proper understanding of how it can be used for good. There is no kind of narrative you can never get invested in; with enough intention and focus, you can get invested in anything. Any idea can be worth exploring, any ethos can be worth digging into, any story can be worth telling... all that matters is if it’s told well. And Panty and Stocking proves that fact by being a hard-edged, hard R, filthy, raunchy, horny comedy with copious swearing, blood and sex, extremely brazen and loud, occasionally obnoxious, from the mind of a creator whose work I’ve struggled with before, that I absolutely loved from start to finish, and if anything only grew to love more as it went on.

It’s truly remarkable how effortlessly Panty and Stocking sidesteps so many of the things I hate about this kind of show. The comedy never tips into gross for gross’ sake, always finding an exciting, unique way to interact with vomit and semen. The absurdity of the situation is always grounded in the characters and how they interact with the world. The foul language is elevated by a fantastic dub script and stellar performances that chew their way through each verbal barrage of septic fluid with the unrestrained glee of coked-up anarchists. The cheesecake never drags in unwilling participants, never forcing you to leer at people against their wishes and often mocking the sexiness of the situation itself as the joke instead of playing into the cheap indulgence of it all. Even putting aside the stellar animation and slick American-inspired cartoon aesthetic, this entire production has been carefully constructed to create the most controlled chaos imaginable. Sure, it will freely spin into random references and assorted ridiculous exaggerations just for the hell of it, but on a base, fundamental level, Panty and Stocking works because it refuses to leave anything to chance. It takes the smart choice at every conceivable turn, never steering this cacophanic clown car into a septic tank through negligence, laziness, or ugliness. And in doing so, it embraces an ethos of anarchic freedom that rings more truthfully than anything else Imayishi has ever put out.

Because Panty and Stocking isn’t here to make anyone feel uncomfortable. It doesn’t indulge in the gross, the perverse, and the twisted to act as a gatekeeping asshole towards those it feels are undeserving. All it wants is to have a good time. But moreso than even that, it wants to champion the spirit of what a good time can actually be. And that’s how it manages to be such a remarkable achievement: everything, no matter how seemingly moronic, exists to break through the boundaries of what’s considered acceptable and champion the power of fun itself, no matter how crass or bizarre. The seemingly nonsensical references exist because Imayishi wanted to make those references, so why the hell not make them? The absurd animation makes every single shot pop with electricity and character. The raunchy, foul-mouthed humor serves to let its raunchy, foul-mouthed characters have the chance to be exactly who they want to be, without toning themselves down or compromising for anyone. The anarchy Panty and Stocking triumphs isn’t a cruel, smug anarchy that uses toilet humor and crassness to lord itself over those weaker than it. It’s a truly inclusive anarchy, an anarchy that trumpets the idea that everyone, no matter who they are or where they come from, should have the freedom to be the kind of person they want to be.

And with that driving ethos, it’s able to spiral into a cavalcade of hilarity that constantly keeps its punches focused exactly where they need to be. I cannot begin to describe how deliriously fun this show is on a moment to moment basis, how many utterly iconic lines are already etched into my collection of top-tier quips. It’s a never-ending fever-dream roller coaster ride packed with so much creativity and spunk in every single frame, a whipcrack-smart exercise in utter stupidity that understands why its stupidity is important in the first place. It lets all its characters be as gross and wild and horny as they want to be, because the power of that freedom is what makes them both so entertaining and so important. I laughed at these idiots, I cheered for them, and I was constantly amazed at how deeply the show respected them and their humanity, not in spite of their absurdity, but because of it. It has the courage to let the ridiculous be ridiculous, to let the sincerity be sincere, to never give in to the easy way out and appeal to the lowest common denominator. These characters are exactly who they are, for no one else but themselves, and that crackling confidence comes through in every triumphant flourish of fecal-smeared language that blasts like shotgun pellets between them at regular intervals. I cannot begin to describe how refreshing it is to see a female character get to be sloppy and horny without being degraded for it, who gets to reclaim her sluttiness on her own terms and not for any drooling dudes to gawk over. This is the Hiroyuki Imayishi show that I’ve always wished I could get, and I’m so happy that I finally got it.

Are there flaws? Sure there are. Some of the jokes don’t land, some of the references feel half-baked, and there’s the occasional backslide into uncomfortable territory that thankfully doesn’t last too long. But up against everything that this show represents at its best, those hardly matter. Panty and Stocking is a triumph of trash, a breakneck, fist-pumping cheer for the importance of letting yourself be as sloppy and cringey and weird and honest as you truly are. I love it more and more with every second I spend thinking about it, and I suspect this is going to be the standard upon which I judge all future pretenders to the throne. Thus, I award Panty and Stocking a score of:

8/10

Good lord, that was a blast. Thank you all so much for joining me, and I hope you stick around for the next show on the list:

Yuki Yuna is a Hero

Let the good times continue. See you next time for the start of a new adventure!

#anime #the anime binge-watcher #tabw #panty and stocking #panty & stocking #panty and stocking with garterbelt #panty & stocking with garterbelt

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whispersafterdusk · 6 years ago

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The Master’s Apprentice - ch 12

As they climbed back up to Saarthal Onmund marveled at how much easier it was to make very minor changes to the environment (as he carved out stairs and created walkways from earth and stone ripped from the walls or dug into steep inclines, all so they could climb a roughshod but solid staircase all the way back up to the dragon wall room) versus trying to push outward against seemingly infinite tons of dirt and rock - he'd only practiced this sort of thing in the storage room and had been limited in what he was able and allowed to do, but with so much empty space here he felt only limited by what he could imagine and not by his personal skill level with the magic. ((continued below cut))

Brelyna had looked surprised and impressed at the skill as Onmund dug and shaped, and expressed an interest in learning it herself; he was able to show her a few things on the way up (and it was a very...VERY long climb) but found the bulk of his attention was needed to actually shift and shape the path, and as he worked he began to send his senses outward and started to piece together how things had opened up enough to allow him to fall through a year ago. Here and there he could sense very tiny openings zig-zagging around them - none of them were wider than two or three of his fingers - and they stretched roughly from the direction of Kestrel's buried home up toward the surface. It occurred to him that they couldn't have been underground without any means of getting air down there -- Kestrel might not need to eat or drink but surely she still needed to breathe, and so did he. As he pressed outward, tediously following along the crazy, winding, random paths of these little...air holes, he supposed, he began to match up their shapes and paths with the haphazard parts he'd tumbled down; at some point in the past someone must have found one of the tiny openings (he'd ask how they found it and why they wouldn't assume it was some kind of animal or insect burrowing, but they WERE dealing with the Prince of Schemes here) and had started digging their way down...and as they dug and shifted dirt (and removed a lot of it) the ground started to become unstable and collapse, which only made the openings wider, steeper, and more dangerous to navigate. Whoever had started the digging probably had no clear idea of where they were actually going and kept following the air hole tunnels, creating bigger holes and a steadily growing mess of open areas that eventually crossed paths with part of a glacier that let the ice invade the tunnels and add erosion into the jumbled chaos, and once he had a mental map of the jagged, dug out path from top to bottom he realized that yes...it really HAD been pure chance that he'd not only survived the fall but had managed to fall through the areas that were connected all the way down to crash through into the large cavern-like room where Kestrel kept her pet spider-construct (which, in his mind's eye, felt partially like a "blank" area in the earth -- he assumed Kestrel had warded the place to avoid detection and that PROBABLY prior to Varea's invasion he wouldn't have been able to see any of the compound at all). Not for the first time Onmund wished he'd had parchment and something to write with, to see if he could accurately sketch out everything he was sensing -- he tried a few times to describe the paths to Brelyna but it was difficult to describe something like this in a lot of detail without any visual aids. Not being able to "see" the shape of the compound and its rooms also made description rather difficult -- what he could sense stopped at the top half of the web-filled room where the spider was and couldn't go further, though he remembered quite well what the inside of that webbed room had looked like (and he still shuddered at the memory). He did wonder why the spider had taken him to Kestrel... Maybe it, as a magical construct, could sense magic in turn and that's how it knew to take him somewhere...Kestrel did say he wouldn't have been left alive if he'd not had magical talent, but that didn't explain WHY the creature would know to do that if no one had ever fallen before Onmund had come along; maybe the thing had once been used as another defense when she'd lived among mortals above ground and it was trained to bring anything it found to her whether it was magical or not. ...not that it really mattered how or why or anything like that now, and though he put the spider out of his mind to focus on his current task he did find himself curious if he could create a construct of his own sometime. Assuming he lived through whatever was coming. When they finally shoved their way through the dead roots and vines that crisscrossed the floor at the base of the dragon wall Onmund was mentally and physically exhausted, and laid there on his back for a moment to catch his breath after he'd hauled himself up onto the ring of solid ground around the vines. "Are you all right? I can go find the supplies on my own if-" He shook his head, flashing Brelyna a tired smile. "I'll be all right, I just need a second." She nodded and dropped down to sit beside him; he closed his eyes to try and gather himself and when he opened them he found Brelyna staring at him. "...what?" "It's just hard for me to believe everything you've told me...everything you've been through. And to think, I was mad at you for not letting us know you were alive." Onmund chuckled a bit and she joined in after a brief pause. "Believe me, those first few weeks all I could think about was escaping, and I still thought about it even after she almost killed me. It wasn't so bad after awhile but when I finally saw the crown and understood how serious it all was, THAT was when I finally stopped thinking of escape in any form. I mean, sure, I missed everyone, and it was difficult to wrap my head around being immortal, and-" he stopped and let out a noisy huff of breath. "-actually, I'm still not sure I've come to peace with that yet. It was one thing to imagine that I'd grow old and die down there and no one would ever know what happened to me, but it's something COMPLETELY different to know that I'm not going to grow old and feeble, that I'm going to outlive everyone I've ever known. If I never return to the surface I guess it'd be the same thing as dying - the same thing to everyone up here, anyway - because I'd still reach a point where no one knows or remembers me. To the world I'm just...gone. The world is going to change and I'll be the same." "Physically, maybe," Brelyna said after a moment. "That doesn't mean your mind, your emotions, or even your spirit are incapable of changing." "I guess. Still. The thought of outliving everything I know NOW is...weird, and uncomfortable. It might be different if I'm up on the surface as a part of the world and changing with it but until the crown is dealt with there's no returning here. I may as well be dead." He went quiet after that and so did she -- laying there in the silence letting his mind and body rest helped a great deal and soon enough he was rolling over to push himself to his feet. "All right, let's grab what we're after and get back - I feel safer down there than here." Saarthal felt even eerier now -- knowing that those most familiar with the place were under the control of...whatever Varea was, and could potentially have trapped or sabotaged this place on their way in, wasn't a pleasant thought; if Varea had never intended for anyone but herself to leave it seemed reasonable to be wary of any nasty surprises left behind but thankfully they encountered nothing but normal, dusty, crumbling halls. And about halfway back to one of the front rooms that they'd used as a sort of home base Onmund sighed loudly enough for Brelyna to hear. "What?" "It just occurred to me that... All right, thinking back to the very beginning, one of the things I'd held out hope for was if anything happened to Kestrel then I'd go back to normal. No more immortality or anything like that." Brelyna partly turned around to look at him curiously, then nodded as understanding crossed her face. "And that didn't happen." "That didn't happen," Onmund repeated, sighing again. "I should just stop thinking about it...there's no telling if I'll even survive a fight with Varea, or with whatever that crown actually does." "Well if you're going to think like that maybe you should focus on the immortality," Brelyna snorted, turning back around. "You can't go into a battle already expecting to lose." "YOU haven't seen what we're up against...and you also don't have the training that I do," he added quietly. They fell silent again and remained that way as they located the abandoned supplies and began to pack food and waterskins into a pair of burlap sacks; Onmund wished they had actual backpacks so he'd have both hands free on the way back down but he consoled himself with the fact that there'd been food left here at all -- he didn't want to venture anywhere near Winterhold or the College at the moment (and for good reason). By Brelyna's estimation of her own needs they packed about twelve days (if rationed carefully) of supplies into the now-hefty sacks, then let their footsteps turn back toward the far end of Saarthal; on the trek back down Onmund was careful to rip up and tear apart the stairs he'd created - easy enough even with one hand - and he even closed up the hole in the webbed room for good measure. They left the food and water in Onmund's room and then found themselves staring awkwardly at one another, both with the unspoken question of "now what?" on their minds. "-I have no idea how long Kestrel needs to recover," he started. "And, um...honestly, no idea what to do while we wait for her. I can always practice my spells and maybe show you what she's shown me? -- oh, wait. Let me show you the library." He hurried out of his room and out into the hall, pausing to let Brelyna catch up with him, and then led her over to the doorway of the library; there he paused and managed a sort of mischievous grin. "Prepare to be amazed. I know I was." The latch lifted under his hand and he pushed the door open then muttered and started the chain reaction of the lanterns lighting; he stepped out of her way to let her inside in time to watch as the library steadily brightened, and he grinned again at her look of surprise. "...it's huge." "Yes it is. With books Kestrel's only rules are don't damage them, don't write directly in them, and don't take a book out of the room its stored in. Other than that, read whatever you want." Brelyna stared around, then roughly elbowed Onmund in the side hard enough that he grunted. "You were alive down here all this time AND you had this many books. I can't believe you." Onmund rubbed the sore spot on his ribs with a grimace and a smile. "I'll leave you to it - I want to get some sleep. I'm...not sure if Kestrel's rules about exploring are going to apply to you so try to stay in here, in the sitting room, or in my room." Her left her to wander among the shelves and retreated back to his room, falling into bed without even kicking his boots off. There wasn't a way to tell how long he was asleep but it felt like he'd awakened too soon; groggily he rolled out of bed and straightened his clothing...then went to his wardrobe and changed into clean clothes (he really wanted a bath, but also didn't want to be caught unawares by anything or anyone while naked). When he went looking for Brelyna he found her curled up in the pile of cushions in the sitting room with a few books stacked nearby -- for a brief moment he felt like an ass for not offering her the bed and taking the floor himself but she looked comfortable ensconced among the pillows and with her books so he let her be. Of course that left him still wondering what else he should be doing; after pacing the hall a bit (and listening carefully at Kestrel's door for any sign of movement) he went into the Hall of Mirrors and began to go through his usual exercises. He didn't quite have enough energy or desire to get through all of them (it was going to take more than one nap to recover from all the torment Varea had put him through) but right as he was dropping down to sit against the wall he heard what he thought was Kestrel's door open. Or, what he HOPED was her door. What he knew for certain was A door had opened in the hall. Clambering back to his feet Onmund quickly moved back to the doorway and stuck his head through; his spirits rose a bit to see that yes, it WAS Kestrel's door that was standing open but he couldn't see Kestrel herself, and as he took a step into the hallway he heard a yelp from Brelyna. He broke into a run and skidded into the door frame of the sitting room where he could see Kestrel's hunched back and Brelyna's legs kicking out at the cadaverously thin mage. "Hey! Stop! Kestrel, wait-!" An invisible force blasted him out of the room; he hit the ground and rolled, landing almost upside down against the wall across from the door. He quickly righted himself and hurried back into the room in time to see Kestrel rising from the floor; she looked awful - worse than she'd looked when he'd first met her - and as he watched she spun and in one motion lit the fireplace and tossed something into it that audibly splattered and then sizzled in the growing flames. Brelyna lay on the cushion pile where Onmund had found her before, and was silently crying and tightly gripping a bloodied area on her shoulder. --in the same place Tolfdir and the others had had an injury. Onmund hurried over and fell beside her. "Let me see, let me-" "Heal her up, apprentice," came Kestrel's gravely order. "We've a lot of things to discuss." He managed to pry Brelyna's hands off her shoulder -- her robes were ripped open at the shoulder seam and he grimaced when he saw the palm-sized area of raw meat there. It looked like Kestrel had just cut out a wide circle of flesh but as Onmund began to heal the wound and the skin pulled together he could barely make out a whitish scar forming in its center that was...some kind of ugly, angular rune. "What did you do?" "Removed the mark," came Kestrel's answer. She staggered over to a chair (not her usual chair) before the fire and collapsed into it. "Taking no chances. She's clean and free now." Onmund nodded absently at that - there wasn't a reason to argue against freeing Brelyna from any sort of magic of Varea's - and used the sleeve of his shirt to mop up some of the blood; once she was healed and had a moment to calm down Brelyna shot Kestrel an angry look. "You could have just explained what you were doing instead of grabbing me like that." Kestrel didn't move from where she sat with her head leaned back and mouth slightly open, and for a few breaths didn't even respond. "...difficult to talk. Not important enough to waste strength on." Onmund conjured a little globe of water and thrust his hands in, swishing around to clean the blood off before tossing the orb out toward the hall and drying his hands on his shirt; he then cautiously approached Kestrel, eying her up and down. That softer, more alive look he'd seen on her corpse earlier was gone and she was even more gaunt than before, and her skin was a pasty white save for where it was tinged blue around her lips, eyes, and under her fingernails. "...can I do anything to help you?" he asked quietly. Again she didn't move, and he settled on the floor at her feet. "Would healing magic help?" Kestrel very, very slowly shook her head. "What helps I won't ask for. Tell me everything." He winced a bit at her voice - the more she talked the more hoarse it grew. "All right, just - I'll talk, you listen." "Start." He was faintly aware of Brelyna righting herself in the cushion pile, listening to him as he recounted how he'd awakened in the College, how Varea had initially introduced herself and then how everything had steadily gone downhill; he tried to gloss over the torture but didn't miss how Kestrel's jaw clenched when he'd mentioned it, and he was starting to go a little hoarse himself by the time he'd told the whole tale. For a time the only sound in the room was Kestrel's raspy breathing and the pop of the fire (the chunk of flesh had long since burned to ash), and Onmund remained at her feet waiting for an order, or...or something. She looked ready to keel over even if her body seemed intact; whatever that coffin had done had restored her but she seemed so weak and fragile...he prayed it was only brief, only temporary, because if Kestrel was in no shape to handle Varea then he had no idea what they could hope to do. Finally, with some effort, she raised her head and then let it drop to her chest, fixing her gaze on Onmund. "Did well. Proud of you." He managed a small smile at the praise, but it quickly disappeared. "You don't need to waste words on that. Are you sure I can't help you? Is there a spell I just don't know yet that could-" She managed to hold up a hand and he went quiet again at the gesture. "Blood, apprentice. Quickest. But I refuse to take it. Another few days, will recover." Blood...he should have thought of that. She WAS a vampire after all. "You just need blood? That'll help you heal? How much blood?" She was already shaking her head. "No." Suddenly Brelyna was standing behind him. "Why not? You're a vampire, don't you need blood to survive?" "Not technically," Onmund answered, before Kestrel did. "They won't die without it. ...but if you'll heal faster then why won't you take it? I'm offering it - we have to get that crown back and a few days might be all she'd need to create a disaster," he went on, turning his attention back to Kestrel. "I'm immortal, right? It won't kill me." Kestrel fixed him with a glare. "NOT immune to harm," she hissed, jabbing a bony finger into the middle of his forehead. "Think, apprentice." "Then use us both?" Brelyna asked hesitantly. "Take half of what you need from him, and half from me...unless, that'll somehow make us vampires too?" "No." "-does it have to be human or Mer blood?" he growled. Her pointy, bony finger poking at him had hurt more than he'd expected. "Can I go catch a deer or a goat and let you drain that?" Kestrel went quiet - he assumed she was thinking - but then shook her head again. "Too risky. Can't rely on 'what ifs.' Can't rush into unknown situation." "But if we don't stop her-" She held up a hand again to silence him. "Aware of risks. Calculating best course for success. I will not take your blood...too risky. Accidentally turning you is a danger." He let out a frustrated sigh but didn't push it further; it wasn't like she'd suddenly decided against taking his blood and he definitely didn't want to wake up as a vampire one day...and yet for this one situation he thought the risk of turning was laughably lesser than the danger the crown posed. "Can I...can I bleed into something?" he asked -- this would be his last attempt to- "No. Leave it. Help me back." -that was about what he was expecting. He stood and offered Kestrel a hand up out of the chair; her hands felt as dry as parchment and like a handful of twigs, but he lifted her up with little effort and let her lean on his as he led her back to the white coffin and helped her step inside. The door swung shut on its own and when it had closed he breathed a sigh of relief that was shortlived as he wondered what sort of chaos and destruction Varea would sow while they waited for Kestrel to regain her strength.

#The Master's Apprentice #tma #The Master's Apprentice - ch 12 #Onmund #Brelyna #AU #Skyrim

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gumnut-logic · 6 years ago

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The Price (Part Three)

Title: The Price (Part Three) A Tale of Sotto Voce Part One Part Two Author: Gumnut 14 - 20 Dec 2018 Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS Rating: Mature (for dark themes and swearing) Summary: They both had a price. Word count: 2467 Spoilers & warnings: Spoilers for Season 2, Sotto Voce and Il Mago Timeline: Set sometime after Il Mago and Father. Author’s note: All I can say is Poor Virgil. And thank you to @scribbles97 for the reality check at random o’clock. Sometimes I need a little reassurance that I’m not writing rubbish :D Thank you all for all your support with this series. I hope you enjoy part three :D Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-

John stared at his status displays. Everything had stopped.

The explosion was still imminent, but the chaos of the two minds assailing the network was gone.

The silence was ominous.

He reached out, a vague hope looming, and once again attempted to deactivate the fuel cell overload in TB1.

He could almost hear the sigh as the reaction shutdown at his command. The sound he made in his own throat was strangled.

He didn’t waste another moment, his fingers skipping across the controls for TB2. She, too, sighed into instructed somnolence.

Oh, thank god.

But the silence continued.

“Scott?”

His eldest brother’s reply was immediate. “Status, Thunderbird Five?”

“Explosion aborted. All Thunderbirds once again under our control.” His hands danced across the holographic surface. “Network appears free of interference.” He bit into his lip. “No sign of the intruder.” And there was none. He scanned, set tracing algorithms, sent out sentry programs, nothing was registering.

“Virgil?”

“Nothing.” His throat was dry. “No contact. I-“ A chill crawled up his spine and fear set in as he repeated words from the last time he had lost someone he loved. “I can’t find him.”

“Can’t-“ The same fear was reflected in his brother’s voice. “Could he have left the Island?”

“Possibly.” Not enough information. “Give me more time. I-“ He cleared his throat. “Further investigation needed. 256 on hold, however, I recommend observation distance until further confirmation of the nullified threat.” It effectively stranded his family on the ocean out of reach, but, yes, he needed further information.

“FAB, John.” Scott’s voice was desolate. “Be advised that Virgil’s state is critical. Full life support, cardiac arrest recurring.” A swallow. “He needs to return now.”

Find him.

It went unsaid, but it tore up the commline.

Voice parched. “FAB, Tracy Island. Thunderbird Five out.”

John stared at the holographic interpretation of the network and, not for the first time, wished it had been he who had been infected with the nanites, not Virgil.

If he had the power to interface, to reach into the network and travel the connections, seek information, surf the virtual world... The brief glimpse of his daughter, the flash of presence that had been his brother, the mere possibilities...it all lured him, but right now, at this very moment, the ability to jump into the network and hunt his brother down would be oh so welcome.

Followed by the only murder he had ever wanted to commit.

And he would do it with no regret.

A frown.

His fingers dashed across the board and brought up the cameras and connection to the hospital room where their nemesis resided. The status display was flashing red. There were doctors and nurses milling around the bed.

But no urgency.

The flatlining cardiomonitor was suddenly cut from the network. The doctors were walking away. The nurses straightening the body on the bed.

A woman ran into the room, obviously upset.

A flicker of a finger and a recording played in a secondary window. Percival Fischler had been declared dead five minutes ago.

The woman threw herself across the bed wailing despite the lack of sound in the connection.

His gut twisted.

He had to find Virgil.

Shunting the information down to the Tracy yacht, flagging it urgent, John crossed the room and palmed the airlock into the computer core.

John couldn’t enter the network, but Eos could.

“John?” Her voice was panicked. “What is happening? Where is Virgil?”

“We’ve lost contact. The network appears clear, but I can’t guarantee it.” He swallowed only now realising exactly what he was about to risk and hesitant to actually ask.

He didn’t have to. The hardlines reconnected with the main network and Eos rushed out. “What happened?” But they both knew he didn’t have to answer. She had connection to everything now and she was pulling up the logs as she spoke. “He’s dying.”

“Yes. We need to find him. Now.”

-o-o-o-

As a child he often wondered what he was going to be when he grew up.

The possibilities were amazing. He could weave music, his fingers dancing across the piano. He could read it, write it, live it.

He could draw. The compliments came from all directions bolstering his confidence. He could paint. He could create.

As he got older that creativity refined itself. He focussed on designing and creating tools that could in themselves create a better world.

“Virgil, son, you are an engineer at heart.”

And engineer he did. Build he did. He grew up and became exactly what the world needed him to be.

He flew. He saved lives. Every hand he caught was a life he contributed to.

Virgil Tracy made the world a better place.

He loved. And was loved.

He touched lives.

And was in turn touched.

That little boy became a good man.

He had no regrets except perhaps that it all was to end so soon.

-o-o-o-

“Virgil?!”

The network flew past her. She spread herself thin, scouring every circuit, every server. He had to be here.

Please be here.

She had learnt that a human’s presence was huge yet mostly hidden in the digital world. Il Mago had been able to slip into the network completely unseen, tripping no alarms, leaving the barest of traces that had taken hours of meticulous work for even John to identify. Yet at the same time able to barrel in smashing code left and right.

And Virgil, new to the realm, tended to stumble even more, leaving traces of his passing that sometimes needed John or Brains to fix.

But now, nothing.

She could feel a sob building. Months ago she knew little of Virgil other than he spoke to her kindly. Her world had been John and Thunderbird Five. Occasionally she would visit Thunderbird Two and they would converse on a variety of subjects. She liked him, despite his tendency to frustrate, but she hadn’t really known him as she did now.

And despite all the pain they had been through, she didn’t want to give that knowledge up, she didn’t want to lose contact with the man she had grown to love as much as she did her father. Differently, but so important.

He had to be here.

“Virgil?!” She sent the data request in all directions desperate for a reply, any indication. “Please, Uncle?!”

No answer.

“Eos?”

Father.

“I can’t find him.” The network flashed by faster. “He’s not here!” Her voice became a wail.

“Could he have left the island?”

She dashed across the external exit ports, her virtual fingers combing through code looking for those trace variable changes that had indicated a human presence in the past. But Il Mago had torn through everything as well, and those variables were in disarray. The ground had been trampled and the trail lost.

“I don’t know.” He could be anywhere. No, please.

“Check the island again.”

“Yes, Father.”

She reached out, every sensor trained, desperate for even a whisper. Anything.

She brushed against a code fragment, buried in recycling.

A single soft piano note executed into the system.

Her processors froze. “Virgil?”

She brushed it gently again. Another note, lower in the octave.

“Uncle?”

She approached the suspect server carefully. Off to the right another server had been cut from the system. She accessed the logs.

Numbers fell into her lap, a jumble of indecipherable mess. The humans had definitely been there.

But where did they go?

Another single piano note, lower again in scale.

“Virgil?”

That little boy became a good man.

“Virgil!”

...was to end so soon.

Virgil! Uncle!

The code writing the next piano note collapsed in on itself.

Eos whimpered. Where? She felt she was losing him by the moment. He was here, but where?

The code was clean, she streamed through all the functions, combed through the circuitry...

Something flickered.

Between the lines of code.

And she realised that he wasn’t aware. He wasn’t interpreting his world. She wasn’t seeing herself as he saw her.

She was digital. He was not. He existed between. He was human and she couldn’t see him without his help.

But she was more than the code her father had written, wasn’t she? More than the sum of her parts, just as Virgil was more than electrical and chemical signals running on a biological construct. He had said as much so many times, placed so much trust in her. She was her father’s daughter, her uncle’s niece.

She needed to be more and she was more.

He was here, she knew it. She only had to reach.

She concentrated, drew upon the very essence of who she was. Soft material wafted against her legs. She drew in a breath and opened her green eyes.

And her world wavered, flickered, her sight slipping between the lines of code in ways that she had never managed before, not without her uncle’s influence.

Her processors whined under the load.

“Virgil?”

And there he was.

Ghostly, not entirely solid, his human form flickering to her signal beat.

And broken.

Her whole being cried out at the sight of him.

He lay crumpled, as if discarded, his usually lively face, slack and bruised, his clothes shredded. So many cuts, so many injuries to his being, the very essence of him was draining away.

She ran to him and enveloped him in her arms. “Uncle?”

No response.

And she knew he was dying. She could feel it.

He needed to go home.

“Father?” And she was crying.

“Eos?” John’s voice was fearful.

“I’ve found him, but...” A sob. “You need to get him back on the island now. Now, father, please hurry.”

She felt the signal go out to the yacht far over the water, she vaguely heard her father’s urgent tone, but she turned back to her uncle, lifting his head until it nestled beneath her chin, his hair tickling her nose as it flickered in and out of her reality.

“You can’t do this. You can’t let him win. We need you. I need you. Virgil-“ And words were not enough. He was slipping.

He was human, she had no way to transfer energy, no way to support him. His form stuttered again and she struggled, drawing more energy, cradling him with herself.

“Virgil, please.”

Desperate she flung out a search key, scouring everything she knew about him, looking for a way, looking for something he could cling to.

He flickered again and she cried out. She brushed his cheek with a fingertip.

The echo of that last piano note lay at her feet.

Something he could cling to...

Softly, she began to sing.

-o-o-o-

Scott hit the pier at a run, Virgil’s hover stretcher in one hand, his life support equipment in the other. Gordon ran behind them. No words, only harsh breathing. Their feet pounding in unison across the concrete towards the house.

Behind them were more pounding feet, Kayo’s amongst them as she spoke urgently with John, assessing the security of their situation.

As they approached the villa music carried over the breeze, a female voice was singing.

Scott’s heart lurched. “Eos?”

No answer.

Words formed out of the breeze. Not all of them were intelligible, not all of them English.

“John?” They were through the doors and tearing towards the infirmary.

“Hurry, Scott.”

“We’re moving as fast as we can.” He kicked the door to the infirmary open, shouldering his way through to the bed, docking the stretcher. Virgil didn’t react in the slightest, the machine still breathing for him, his face ghostly. “We’re here.” A moment of hesitation and he decided to hold off on connecting the life support to the main system. “Eos, bring him home.”

The singing continued, surrounding them in sadness intertwined with hope. There was no doubt it was one of Virgil’s compositions. Scott didn’t know which one, but it had a familiar sense, despite the words sometimes not being words.

“Eos?’

No response.

“John?”

-o-o-o-

John was staring at Eos’ code stream. She was drawing far more energy than she had ever drawn before, her systems redlining.

And she was singing. John had accessed the piece of music, desperate for information on what she was doing. He had managed to dig up video, of all things, Eos having recorded it. The time stamp put it two days after he had been electrocuted and was unconscious.

Virgil was playing the piano, obviously tense and worried. Eos queried him, and a weary Virgil patiently explained how playing helped him. Eos didn’t quite understand, but he could hear in her tone that she was trying.

He could also hear the worry in her voice.

He swallowed.

Virgil started playing again, and to John’s surprise, a tentative voice rose with the piano. That same voice singing words of her own choice, and sometimes creation, to Virgil’s composition.

John’s heart clenched.

He had no doubt that the song over the speakers throughout Tracy Island was Eos singing to Virgil. What that meant for his brother...

“Eos?”

The song continued.

“Eos!” He backed up his call with an electronic signal and the song stumbled. “Virgil is on the island. They are ready.”

Still singing, she answered. “Yes, John.”

And her song continued.

-o-o-o-

He was still flickering and unresponsive. She clung to the music, strangely fearful that if she stopped, so would he.

She wrapped him in herself, continuing to cradle him as she reached for the interface. She connected and realised she had no idea exactly how he moved to and from his biological support. Mago had torn him out against his will and even from here she could feel the frayed edges of his network.

For a nanosecond, hate like she had never felt swelled within her. She fought it down, desperate to keep the song untainted. Not now.

She drew him gently across her network, connected with his, and, drifting through damaged neurons, lay him down. There was no fortress this time, only an empty plain, grey spanning everything.

Her song was the only life here.

The words began to catch in her processors. “Virgil?” He lay still in her arms, unresponsive. “You’re home. Please wake up.”

Nothing.

“Please.”

A flicker.

Blue.

White.

Green.

His body swelled and she was flung back, the light becoming a flame that lit up the plain. It expanded and, in a flash, washed across the landscape and was gone.

But now the air around her was electrified, a presence hovered. It was weak and trembling.

Virgil.

She let out a sob, falling to her knees on the sand. “Uncle?”

He didn’t answer, but she could feel his response to her voice. He leant towards her, she felt a touch against her cheek.

Oh, thank you, thank you...thank you.

Thank you.

-o-o-o-

End Part Three.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #virgil tracy #john tracy #eos #sotto voce

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