#about thousands of years of isolation taking your mind and memory and identity

[rocketbirdie]

and time marches forward, and life goes on, and you will be changed.

[lockhartism]

Aerith and Tifa as Sephiroth’s Foils

There are a lot of moving pieces to Final Fantasy 7--something that has historically contributed to its infamous reputation of being confusing. But one consistent thematic pattern that FF7 utilizes is duality. Life and death. Meetings and partings. Loneliness and togetherness. Many of the main themes presented in FF7 fall into this same format. Even the characters can be considered dualities in and of themselves. One of the most obvious dualities in the game is that of Aerith and Sephiroth. However, in varying degrees, all of the main characters are in some way antithetical to Sephiroth.

Like in many other classic hero vs. villain tales, you’d think that Cloud is the perfect foil to Sephiroth--after all, they’re at odds, so it would make sense that they’d be opposites. However, what makes Cloud and Sephiroth’s conflict so fascinating is that they actually have a good amount in common. Both Cloud and Sephiroth struggle with their identities. They also experienced trauma and loneliness in the past, and tended to isolate themselves from others. It’s this commonality that actually makes them compelling rivals, as Cloud not only has to battle Sephiroth, but also the aspects of Sephiroth that Cloud himself struggles with.

The real foils of Sephiroth are Aerith and Tifa. While there is some debate as to whether Aerith or Tifa is the real heroine of FF7 (mostly spear-headed by weird LTD-pushers), the big-brained answer is that they’re both the heroines. This is evident in concept art from an older FF7 Ultimania, pictured below: 

As you can see, the concept for the story’s heroine started out as a hybrid of Tifa and Aerith. The character’s design resembles Tifa, and the name below the sketch reads “ティファ”, or Tifa. However, the character’s role was very different. She was intended to be both the childhood friend of Cloud Strife and a Cetra, the sister of Sephiroth (who originally looked more like Vincent). Eventually, the idea to kill off one of the main characters was introduced, and the role of the heroine was split in two: the Cetra, Aerith, and the childhood friend, Tifa. There is some evidence of the original concept still present in the series; Tifa’s iconic red eyes match Vincent’s, because originally, the two characters were designed to be siblings before eventually going to separate roles.

Based on this evidence, it would seem logical that both Aerith and Tifa retained their dualities with Sephiroth. And, indeed, even in the final product, both characters provide a foil for Sephiroth to balance the scales.

To exemplify the dynamic that Cloud, Tifa, Aerith, and Sephiroth have with one another, I’ve drawn a (crude) spectrum:

Obviously, Aerith and Tifa play different roles and have different importance to the story. Aerith’s role is more “big picture”, so to speak. She is responsible for the Planet and for protecting it from Sephiroth after discovering his plans to destroy it. Tifa’s role is more fine-tuned and detailed. She is the rock and the only stable element of the Nibelheim story, a key part of Cloud, Zack, and Sephiroth’s backstories. To understand how each of them foils Sephiroth, we have to look at them individually and analyze how they interact with both Sephiroth and Cloud.

Part I: Aerith as Sephiroth’s Foil

As stated above, Aerith’s role as foil is a little more obvious. Sephiroth and Aerith are both “Cetra”--or, at the very least, they both claim to be. For Sephiroth, his identity as a Cetra is tied to his belief that Jenova, his “mother”, was a Cetra who was betrayed by humanity when humans left the traditional Cetra nomadic lifestyle in order to colonize the land and the Planet. 

However, Jenova was not a Cetra at all--she was actually a “calamity from the skies” that crashed down and created the Northern Crater two thousand years before the events of FF7. After encountering the Cetra, the creature known as Jenova began infecting and killing the Cetra one by one. These killings only stopped when the Cetra banded together to seal Jenova in the Northern Crater; but, by the time it was done, the Cetra were dying off.

So how did Jenova become known as a Cetra? That seems like more than a clerical error to me. It was actually Aerith’s father, Professor Gast, who uncovered Jenova from the Northern Crater and mistakenly identified her as a Cetra. The Shinra Corporation, desperate to find the Cetra’s “Promised Land” thinking that it would be rich in Mako energy, enlisted the professor to find a way to create a Cetra from a human specimen. Using the cells extracted from Jenova, Sephiroth was created, and after reading Shinra’s archives, he discovered his relationship to Jenova and embraced his identity as “Cetra”. 

Aerith, on the other hand, really is a Cetra. Her mother, Ifalna, was the last Cetra--making Aerith, by relation, half-Cetra. Her connection to the Cetra race is real, unlike Sephiroth’s.

This give her declaration in the final chapter of FF7 Remake all the more important:

There’s a duality between Aerith and Sephiroth in truth versus lies. Aerith’s heritage as a Cetra is founded in truth. She is connected to the Planet in a way that is real. She is a Cetra, in covenant with the Planet to protect it that was passed down to her by her mother. In contrast, Sephiroth’s claims to be a Cetra are lies--whether he’s aware of it or not. Jenova, Sephiroth’s “mother”, is not a Cetra. She is not even from the Planet, but rather from somewhere beyond it. Jenova acted as a parasite of the Planet and is actually responsible for sending it into chaos and draining it of its life. He has no real obligation to protect the Planet, and he is not truly connected to it the way that Aerith is.

Aerith and Sephiroth also represent the original duality between the Cetra and Jenova, with both parties continuing to be at odds with one another even two thousand years later.

Tying in a more overarching FF7 theme, Aerith and Sephiroth also personify the duality of life and death, respectively. With Aerith, her “domain” of sorts, the Sector 5 church, is bursting with life. It is the only place in Midgar where flowers will grow. Even gameplay-wise, she is a healer, and is constantly giving life to other characters in the party. Sephiroth, on the other hand, only destroys. He set fire to Nibelheim and killed the townspeople, including Cloud’s mother and Tifa’s father. Cloud even notes his strength while recounting his version of the events in Nibelheim.

Cloud: “Sephiroth's strength is unreal. He is far stronger in reality than any story you might have heard about him.”

Therefore, Aerith and Sephiroth represent two different dualities: life versus death, and truth versus lies.

Part II: Tifa as Sephiroth’s Foil

Tifa’s role as foil to Sephiroth is more understated but nevertheless important, especially in the latter half of the story. Tifa, Cloud, and Sephiroth are the only survivors of the Nibelheim incident, wherein Sephiroth burned the town of Nibelheim to the ground and killed the townspeople after discovering his “Cetra” heritage. However, Cloud’s memories are clouded due to his trauma and the Mako poisoning he endured during the five-year gap between the Nibelheim incident and the start of FF7; and Sephiroth purposefully twists the truth in order to weaken Cloud’s already-fragile mental state. Therefore, the only one who can decipher what’s true and what’s not is Tifa.

Like Aerith, Tifa also represents the truth, while Sephiroth represents lies and deceit. This is very evident in this scene that takes place in the Northern Crater, and again in a scene during Tifa’s journey into Cloud’s mind. In the Northern Crater, Sephiroth tries to convince Cloud that he was never real, and that all of his childhood memories, even the ones he shared with Tifa, were fabricated.

Sephiroth: “You are just a puppet... You have no heart... and cannot feel any pain... How can there be any meaning in the memory of such a being? What I have shown you is reality. What you remember, that is the illusion. [...] Five years ago you were... constructed by Hojo, piece by piece, right after Nibelheim was burnt. A puppet made up of vibrant Jenova cells, her knowledge, and the power of Mako. An incomplete Sephiroth-clone. Not even given a number. ...That is your reality.”

Sephiroth, at first, succeeds in convincing Cloud that he is not the “real” Cloud but rather someone who never existed, who never grew up in Nibelheim, and who clung on to fake memories as a means to cope with that fact. However, later in the Lifestream, Tifa expresses a different sentiment:

Tifa: “Sephiroth once said... Cloud made up his memories by listening to my stories... Did you imagine this sky? No, you remembered it. That night the stars were gorgeous. It was just Cloud and I. We talked at the well... That's why I continued to believe that you were the real Cloud. I still believe you're the Cloud from Nibelheim...”

By reminding Cloud of a memory they both share--a true memory--she is able to provide a solid ground, wherein Cloud can begin to rebuild his true self after falling for Sephiroth’s deception.

Obviously, Tifa’s relationship with the truth is complicated, and she herself suffers from her own self doubt throughout the story. But in this defining moment, Tifa finally realizes without a doubt what the truth is, and together both Cloud and Tifa are able to reconstruct what really happened in Nibelheim and solve the mystery once and for all.

But this duality isn’t simply about truth versus lies. It’s also about hope versus despair. In deceiving Cloud, Sephiroth strips him of all his hope. Cloud is filled with such fundamental despair that he can’t see the truth and believe that he is indeed an experiment created by Hojo. Tifa, in contrast, provides him with hope when she affirms his memories with her own. Separately, Tifa’s resolve to continue the team’s journey without Cloud is another example of her hope in the face of Sephiroth’s despair.

The idea of hope versus despair in Sephiroth and Tifa is exemplified in Kingdom Hearts (although KH is not canonically related to FF7, I think it’s a neat little call back):

Tifa: “Cloud, you can have my light.”

In Kingdom Hearts II, Sephiroth represents Cloud’s darkness, while Tifa represents Cloud’s light. This is a similar dichotomy to truth versus lies, metaphorically, where Sephiroth is “casting shadows” on the truth, and Tifa is “shedding light” on what really happened. (Okay, sorry for the puns!)

Another duality that Tifa and Sephiroth represent is the dual meaning of reunion in the context of FF7. It’s common knowledge among FFVII fans at this point, but to everyone who’s playing for the first time or who has recently picked up the franchise and not gotten all caught up yet, Sephiroth talks a lot about “the Reunion”.  Like, a lot.  Sephiroth’s “reunion” is a reference to the Reunion Theory, a scientific theory posited by Professor Hojo that states that Jenova’s cells--once separated from their host, i.e. Jenova--will seek out the main body.  This makes everyone who has ever been injected with Jenova’s cells essentially part of a massive Jenova hive mind, with the primary goal to eventually reunite with Jenova.

Obviously, this is a bad thing for Cloud, who was exposed to Jenova cells and is thus connected to Sephiroth.

However, Cloud and Tifa also have a reunion at the beginning of the story--a reunion between friends who haven’t seen each other in a long time. Unlike Sephiroth’s reunion, this is a positive thing. Cloud and Tifa, on multiple occasions, discuss “meeting again” and “finding each other” after so many years apart. Even after they reconstruct Cloud’s memories, he says:

Cloud: “Yeah...... Tifa...... We finally...... meet again......”

Sephiroth’s reunion with Cloud leads him astray from the path; Tifa’s reunion with Cloud sets thing right again. One reunion destroys Cloud’s perception of what’s real, and the other helps him to find the truth once again. Reunion changes meaning with Sephiroth and Tifa, and these opposing definitions of what “reunion” is make Tifa and Sephiroth perfect foils.

Part III: Final Thoughts

Part of what makes Sephiroth such a compelling villain are the striking similarities he shares with the protagonist Cloud Strife. In the original storyboard for FF7, Tifa and Aerith shared a role as the main heroine and the perfect foil for Sephiroth. But even after the role was separated into two distinct characters, the characteristics that made each one of them a foil to Sephiroth remained. For unique reasons, they balance the scales, providing an anchor of “good” to counteract the badness of the story’s main antagonist. 

That’s all I have to say about it! I’ve been thinking a lot about Tifa and Aerith’s unique roles in the story as deuteragonists, or dual heroines, and how they both represent antitheses to Sephiroth. I figured I share my thoughts!

[lokiondisneyplus]

Holy crap. Look at Kate Herron's shirt. When the Loki director pops up on Zoom, she's donning the most glorious image anyone will see since we laid eyes on Alligator Loki: A Teletubby wearing the Loki horns. Are the Teletubbies Loki variants? Sure, why not!

"I got it on Instagram," Herron says. "There's an amazing comic book artist and he designed it. He made it into a T-shirt for me because I saw it and was like, 'That's incredible. Can I get it for the press junket?'"

Herron, no big deal, just pulled off an MCU miracle. Entering a mammoth franchise with, notably, some of Sex Education's best episodes under her belt, the director deftly brought a plot involving multiverses and Richard E. Grant in a cape and superhero mumbo-jumbo to brilliant, beautiful life. Following Loki's tear-jerking, mind-bending finale, the series has been dubbed by critics and fan's alike as one of Marvel's best efforts—which is no small feat. Of course, we needed to ask Herron how she stuck the landing. Following the most epic finale you, me, or any Teletubby can remember, Herron talked to Esquire about the Miss Minutes jump scare, filming the finale's introduction of He Who Remains, and why she won't return for Season Two of Loki.

ESQ: How are you doing?

KH: I'm good. I think I feel very relieved that I don't have to sit on the secret of He Who Remains anymore, It was a very big secret to hold, but for an important reason, right? Because it's such a good character to be launching. So yeah, I feel good.

ESQ: Loking back at your old interviews, you have such a good poker face when you're avoiding spoilers, but you're also incredible at giving aggregator crumbs.

KH: I play a lot of board games, so you need to be quite good at strategy and poker faces so people can't always read your hand. So I think weirdly board games have prepared me more for working with Marvel than anything else.

ESQ: I have to start with the Miss Minutes jump scare. What went into the decision to make her a memeable, creepy apparition in that moment?

KH: I love horror, and my executive, Kevin Wright, knew that. Me and him were talking about Episode Six and I remember that he was like, "Oh, maybe you could do something creepy of Miss Minutes." And I immediately was like, "We have to do a jump scare!" Because I haven't got to do a good jump scare in anything yet and I really wanted to, because a lot of my friends are horror directors. I was like, "I can't let them down." So I was really excited to have a shot at doing a jump scare. And Miss Minutes, it was really fun testing it because we'd kind of bring different people into the edit, me and Emma McCleave, the editor, and we'd just play it for them, watch them, and check that they were jumping when we cut it.

ESQ: One thing that I think is getting missed in all the craziness is that we see a peak moment of the love story between Loki and Sylvie. Where does the finale leave the companionship that they found in each other?

KH: When I started the show, that was always in the DNA of it—that Loki was going to meet a version of himself and they were going to fall in love. And that's honestly what drew me into the story, because I directed Sex Education. I love stories about self-love and finding your identity and your people. Loki is such a broken character when we join him, and seeing him go on this amazing journey with all this growth and finding the good points of himself in seeing her—I think that was very beautiful. It's also paying respect to the fact that Sylvie's in a very different place to him. She hasn't had the Mobius therapy session. She even says, in Episode Five, "I don't know how to do this. I don't have friends." You really feel for her because she has been on the run and her whole life has been this mission.

It's almost funny because these characters are thousands of years old, but it's almost teenage the way they both talk about their feelings for each other. I think everyone can relate to that, right? In any new relationship, there's always that kind of awkwardness and like, "Oh God, am I too keen? The important thing was the hope—like when Sylvie and him kiss, I think it is genuine and it is coming from a place of these feelings they have for each other. Obviously she does push them through that door, but for me it was a goodbye and it was with heart. But it's kind of a goodbye in the sense of like, I care about you, but I'm going to do my mission because that's where I'm at.

ESQ: I would pay for you to direct the Sex Education episode where Otis falls through a portal into the multiverse, into the main MCU.

KH: He really looks like a Loki as well, which is so funny. I always thought that. I was like Asa does look like a Loki. It didn't come to pass or anything, but it would be interesting to do a Sex Ed-Marvel crossover. I wonder who all the different characters would be within the MCU, but it would be quite funny.

ESQ: You're right, he could pull off a teenage Loki.

KH: Yeah, like a teen or a very young ’20s, maybe. But it was just funny because I was like, "Oh yeah, he looks a bit like Tom." I wonder how they could do it. I'm sure they'll find a way to do a crossover anyway.

ESQ: Can you just take me back to filming with Jonathan Majors? And you capturing him in such a compelling, quirky, scary way—I'm sure your direction was such a big part of that.

KH: I was just so excited because Jonathan is an actor that everyone was so excited about. He's like a chameleon in everything he does and he's so talented. I just feel as a director so lucky to have worked on this because I feel like I've got to work with some of the best actors out there. And when you're with Jonathan, you know you're in the presence of just someone really magnificent. For me as a director, it's giving him the space to play and feel safe. Because we filmed it all in a week, but it was a lot to film in a week. So I think it was really about creating a space where he could have fun and find this character because he's going to be playing him for a long time.

ESQ: What went into the decision to introduce us to the good guy first?

KH: I remember in the script, he comes up the elevator and it was so casual. I was like, "Oh man, that's so fun." And then Jonathan, when he plays it, he's relaxed. And I the thing he used to talk about a lot was that this is a character who's been on his own for a long time. Because at the beginning, we introduced him in a space in the universe that feels like this very busy, loud place, but actually, when we see the Citadel, he's surrounded by the Timeline and he's very isolated. Even in his costume with [designer] Christine Wada, for the idea of his outfit, he's a character who's existed for multiple millennia. So it's like, OK, let's pull from lots of different places so you can't necessarily pin down which time or which place he might be from. Also the fact that his clothes look comfy. They were like pajamas because he's living at home. He loved the idea of the office [being] the only finished part of the citadel and that the rest of the citadel was like this Sunset Boulevard kind of dusty, dilapidated space. And just again showed that he probably just keeps himself to his office. All those elements definitely fed into Jonathan's performance in terms of balancing the extrovert, but also the introvert of someone that would be living by themselves and only talking to a cartoon clock.

ESQ: It really is incredible how you pull a nail-biting finale with this battle of wits and dialogue.

KH: It was really exciting because I feel like Episode Five was a lot of fun because we got to play into all the joy of the different versions of Loki, but also just the fact that it was our big usual Marvel third act, right? Like it was where our big spectacle was as they were fighting this big monster. But I love that our finale bookends, right? We began with a conversation and we ended with one.

ESQ: I also loved that there was no end-credits scene—I think it makes the ending that much more impactful. Was there ever an end credit scene on the table, or any kind of a stinger?

KH: I think no, because weirdly, we never went after the kind of mid-credit sequences. I think we always just were thinking just of the story and where we knew we wanted it to end. For example, Episode Four, originally Loki was deleted and then we went straight to him waking up. And it was only in the edit I was like, “I think it'd be really cool actually. We should move that scene to mid-credits because then we'll really feel like Loki has died." Because if I watched that moment and then it went to the credits, I'd be like, "What?!" And then when we were talking about the best way to talk about Season Two, we were like, "Okay, well, let's do that like a little mid-credits at the end because that is exciting to confirm it in that way." I'd say we found both of those in the edit just because we wanted to kind of do it right and have a fun nod to something that Marvel does so well.

ESQ: Is there anything you can tell about the future of the story you've told here—or even where you personally would like to go with the studio or otherwise going forward?

KH: Yeah, so I'm just on for Season One. So I'm so proud of the story we told. I mean, it was amazing getting to set up the TVA and take Loki on this whole new journey. And I mean, I think we've left so much groundwork for his character, and as people see in the comics, there's so much more to be delved into. And I just am excited honestly to just see where all the characters go. Like, who is B-15? What did she see in those memories and where did Ravonna go and where is Loki? I think for me, we've set up these questions and I look forward to seeing them being answered as a fan in the next season.

ESQ: Absolutely. Well, can we please work on the Asa Butterfield Loki?

KH: I will call him and I'll be like, "You want to do some crazy Marvel crossover?"

[bubonickitten]

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 29: discussion of Jon’s & Daisy’s restrictive diets & associated physical/mental deterioration (and potential parallels with disordered eating etc.); arguing & relationship disputes (that are not immediately resolved in-chapter); self-harm (burning oneself with a lit cigarette); cigarette smoking; discussion of suicidal ideation; panic & anxiety symptoms; discussions of grief & loss; cyclical mental health issues (post-traumatic anniversary reactions; related self-loathing, internalized victim blaming, & survivor’s guilt; generally speaking, Jon’s relapsing into self-isolating, worse-than-usual headspace, esp towards the end of the chapter); depiction of parental neglect/rejection (Martin's mother). SPOILERS through S5.

There’s also a Hunt-themed statement that contains descriptions of indiscriminate violence & unprovoked warfare against a civilian population. Oh, and a cliffhanger.

Let me know if I missed anything!

_________________

“Statements ends,” Jon says, somewhat breathless as he fumbles to stop the recording.

“You alright?” Daisy asks.

“Fine.” The word is punctuated by a click and a whirr as the recorder resumes spooling.

“Are you, though?”

“Yes.” Scowling, Jon jabs his finger at the stop button – only for it to keep recording.

“It’s the Hunt, isn’t it.” Daisy sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry it’s been so prominent for the last few. I’m… not quite scraping the bottom of the barrel yet, but–”

“It’s fine, Daisy.”

“Still, I–”

“I said it’s fine–!” Jon winces at his sharp tone. “I’m sorry, that was… I’m just – on edge, I suppose.”

Which is an understatement, really.

Because it’s September. It’s September, and after September is October, and October is–

Well. These days, he can’t even look at a calendar – can’t even look at the time and date on his phone – without icy dread coursing through his veins.

Sporadic flashbacks have become an everyday occurrence, set off by the smallest of stimuli: a dropped glass shattering on the breakroom floor becomes a window bursting inward into shards; a thunderstorm heralds a fissuring sky, marred by hundreds upon thousands of greedy, unblinking voyeurs; his own voice is a doomsday harbinger, a key crammed into a lock he can’t keep from unbolting. The memories are too immediate, too vivid to feel past-tense.

It’s to be expected. Studies, common knowledge, and anecdotal evidence all point to the impact of anniversaries on mental health. He knows what a textbook post-traumatic stress response looks like. Monster or not, in this particular sense he remains overwhelmingly human. No matter how much he rationalizes it, though, intellectually understanding a psychological phenomenon does little to soften the lived experience of it.

And it does nothing to temper the chilling knowledge – bordering on conviction – that it may happen again.

“Would be worrisome if you weren’t stressed out, considering… you know. Everything.” Daisy leans back in her chair, stretches her legs out in front of her, and rolls her shoulders. “Speaking of the Hunt. Any new developments?”

“I mean… nothing since yesterday? Everything I know, Basira knows.”

“Basira… isn’t keeping me updated,” Daisy says, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

“Ah,” Jon says, with tact to spare. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

Daisy sighs. “She thinks that I think she’s wasting her time.”

“And do you?”

Daisy gives a jerky shrug. “Don’t you?”

“Not… necessarily,” Jon hedges. Truthfully, his answer to that question is as mercurial as his moods these days, shifting from hour to hour, sometimes minute to minute. Daisy gives him an unimpressed look. “I won’t lie and say I’m optimistic, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

“You sound like Martin.”

“Well, he spent ample time drilling it into me,” Jon says with a wry smile. “I don’t have the same capacity for hope as he does, but improbable doesn’t mean impossible. If I’d had it my way, I’d have lain down and died ages ago. I’m only here now because of him.”

“Mental health check,” Daisy says automatically.

“Not thinking of hurting myself,” Jon replies, just as rote. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I’ve told you, I’m physically incapable of killing myself even if I wanted to.”

“That doesn’t stop you brooding.”

“Anyway, I wasn’t referring to anything recent.”

“Weren’t you, though?” At his blank look, Daisy gives an impatient sigh. “It hasn’t even been a year since you woke up, Sims. Up until six months ago, you were wandering an apocalyptic wasteland–”

“…I found myself utterly alone. Facing down a room full of nothing eyes, willing myself to take action. I never did, though–”

“–I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – my mind had all but seized up, and I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed–”

“–there was nothing I could do to save him – he died – so did any hope I had of – doing good in the world–”

“–there’s a sort of numbness that you adopt after months or years of bombing–”

“–I did spend a lot of time just… slumped in despair – had no reason to think it would help, but I could see no choice but waiting for death–”

“–hoping against hope that – it wouldn’t be forever–”

“Hey!” Daisy’s voice finally breaks through the rush of static. Or perhaps it was the pressure: Jon looks down to see her bony fingers caging his own in a bruising grip.

“Sorry,” he says, catching himself as he starts to list woozily.

“Not to say ‘I told you so,’ but…” Daisy gives his hands another light squeeze. “You sort of just proved my point there.”

“I’m well aware that I’m – traumatized, or whatever–”

“Not ‘or whatever’–”

“–but I’m not a danger to myself, so could we please just move on?” Jon mumbles, averting his eyes. “You wanted a Hunt update.”

Daisy scrutinizes him for a long moment before she allows the conversational pivot to stand.

“Basira said you’ve heard back from that Head Librarian,” she says, “but she blew me off when I started prying.”

“Zhang Xiaoling,” Jon says, his shoulders relaxing. “She was able to confirm some of Jonah’s intel. They do have a statement about a book matching that description in their records, and she agreed to forward a copy once it’s been digitized. They’re further along in their digitization process than we are–”

Daisy snorts. “Probably because they’re actually working on it.”

“That, and they have the benefit of a Head Librarian who actually has a background in archival studies,” Jon says drily. “In any case, they have a large archive, so it’s a work in progress. She’s processed our inquiry, though, and she says she has someone on it. We should hear back by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Huh,” Daisy says. “Sounds…”

“Like a functioning archive?”

“I was going to say ‘streamlined,’ but sure.”

“The wonders of a hiring process that prioritizes job qualifications as opposed to a candidate’s apocalyptic potential.”

“What are the chances their institution is also led by a centuries-old corpse with a god complex?”

“Non-zero, I imagine.”

Daisy wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, don’t say that.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t have evidence one way or the other.”

“It doesn’t. Does she know about…” Daisy waves her hand vaguely. “All of this? The Fears, Rituals… Jonah?”

The question gives Jon pause. He thinks back to his meeting with Xiaoling all those years ago – well, last June, from her perspective.

“Some of it, I think,” he says slowly. “She seemed familiar with some of the Archivist’s abilities. There were parts of my visit that struck me as odd at the time. I didn’t realize until later that she had been speaking both Chinese and English at different points in our conversation.”

Daisy frowns. “She didn’t clue you in?”

“She didn’t, no. But…”

Elias made a good choice, the Librarian’s voice echoes in Jon’s mind. I did offer him someone, but he thought the language might be too much for him.

It does tickle me, Jonah’s voice chimes in, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose.

“I don’t know if she’s aware of Elias’ true identity.” Jon swallows with some difficulty, his mouth suddenly dry. “Or his intentions.”

“So is it really smart to trust her?”

“If she’s in communication with him, there’s nothing she can tell him that he doesn’t already know. We’re just following up on information he gave us. And he’s likely spying on our correspondence whether she’s in contact with him or not. Not much we can do about that.”

“She could have her own ulterior motives,” Daisy says.

“True enough, but… I got the sense that her primary interest is curation. Studying phenomena, building a knowledge base–”

“In service to cosmic evil,” Daisy says pointedly.

“W-well, yes, but – I don’t think she has delusions of godhood herself, and I don’t think Jonah has tempted her with the idea.” Jon huffs to himself. “He wouldn’t want to share his throne.”

“Hm.”

“I’m not saying we trust her or the Research Centre as a whole. I had reservations about their motives then and I still do. It’s not unthinkable that they’re a front for something more sinister in the same way that the Institute is. But… I don’t think there’s any especial danger in utilizing their library.”

“Sims,” Daisy sighs, “your danger meter is broken beyond repair.”

“In my defense,” Jon says, bracing one arm on the desk to leverage himself to his feet, “at this point, everything is just differing degrees of dangerous.”

As the two of them leave the tunnels, Jon’s phone buzzes in his pocket. When he glances at the screen, he sees a text notification from Naomi – in addition to two missed calls. He frowns to himself. The two of them text regularly, but she rarely calls.

“What’s up?” Daisy asks, her brow furrowing in concern.

“Naomi,” Jon says distractedly, already returning the call. Naomi picks up on the first ring.

“Jon?” Naomi’s voice sounds thick and tear-clogged.

A cold weight settles in Jon’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“I j-just” – Naomi pauses to clear her throat – “just needed to hear a familiar voice.”

“What happened?” Jon asks – and realizes too late that in his urgency to discover the source of her distress, he’s poured too much of himself into the question.

“Nothing.” What starts out as a self-deprecating little laugh quickly deteriorates into a half-sob. “Nothing new, anyway. It’s always like this, this time of year. Evan and I didn’t have an exact date planned, but we’d talked about an autumn wedding. Thought it would be fitting, since we met in September, you know? Tomorrow is our anniversary, actually. Or – or it would’ve been. A-and then by the time I’ve picked myself back up, the holidays will have crept up on me, and that’s always hard, and – and then before I know it, it’s March, a-and that’s its own kind of anniversary, and it’s just… it’s a lot.”

“Oh, I – Naomi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” she says with a sniff. “Don’t think I would’ve been able to get it all out, otherwise.”

“S-still, I–”

“It’ll be three years this March. And it still feels like it was yesterday. I spend six months out of the year feeling like I’m still stumbling through that cemetery, and I just…”

This time last year, Jon thinks with a lurch, I was still the monster in her nightmares.

And even now, he still pulls her there whenever they’re both asleep.

“When does that stop?” Naomi laughs again, a desperate, pleading thing. “When does the healing come in?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon says truthfully. “Anniversaries are… they’re hard enough on their own. It doesn’t help that… well, it’s difficult to heal from something when you’re still living it.”

“What do you mean? Evan’s dead,” Naomi says, her voice breaking on the word. “He’s not coming back. It’s… it’s over.”

“There are still the dreams. The narrative might have changed, but the stage dressing is still the same.” Jon draws his shoulders in, one arm pressed tight to his stomach. “Keeping the memory fresh.”

“It’s not so bad.” Naomi sniffles again. “Better than being alone.”

“‘Alone’ or ‘nightmares’ shouldn’t be your only options.”

“I have my own nightmares, you know,” Naomi counters, sounding slightly annoyed. “When I’m asleep and you’re not. And they’re worse, because in them, I actually am alone. Nothing supernatural about it. It’s just… me.” She sighs. “This time last year – and the year before – I didn’t have anyone. And I just… I didn’t – I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” Jon says. “Not anymore.”

“I – I know, but I…” Naomi takes a breath. “I was… I was thinking – maybe tomorrow I could come by.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says gently, “truly I am – but it’s not safe. Especially for you, especially right now. Not with Peter here.”

Naomi is already the equivalent of an unfinished meal to the Lonely. That, together with her association with Jon, is more than enough to mark her as a potential target should Peter take notice of her.

“Feels safer than being alone,” Naomi says. “The Duchess helps – a lot – but I…” She lets out a fond but tearful chuckle. “I can’t expect her to grasp the nuances of… grief, or loneliness, or what have you.”

“How about this,” Jon says. “We tell Georgie what’s going on – as much or as little as you’d like, even if it’s as simple as ‘I don’t want to be alone right now.’ I doubt she’d be opposed to having you over.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I mean, I – I’ve not spent much time with her outside of just… spamming the group chat with cat photos. I like her, but she’s your friend. I’m just… a friend of a friend.”

Nestled between the words is a familiar sentiment, unarticulated and nonetheless resounding, echoing all of the earnest conviction it had when first she made such a confession: All my friends had been his friends, and once he was gone it didn’t feel right to see them. I know, I’m sure they wouldn’t have minded, they would have said they were my friends too, but I could never bring myself to try. It felt more comfortable, more familiar, to be alone…

“People can have more than one friend,” Jon says. “I can’t speak for Georgie, but she wouldn’t go out of her way to talk to you if she didn’t like you.��

Indeed, that might be the reason Jon was able to open up to Georgie in the first place. He observed early on that she had no qualms disengaging from people whom she had no interest in getting to know. Whatever Jon might have felt about himself on any given day, the simple fact of the matter was that Georgie would never have let him get so close if she hadn’t seen something redeeming in him.

And she likely wouldn’t be letting him stay close now if she didn’t still see something worth salvaging.

“It’s up to you, of course,” he says. “I won’t pressure you. But I think Georgie would be more receptive to friendship than you expect. And I think – I think you’d get along with Melanie, too.” Naomi is silent on the other end of the line. “At the risk of overstepping, I… I know being alone feels like the natural state of things, but it doesn’t have to be. If you want, I can talk to Georgie. Lay the groundwork. I won’t give her any of the details – it’s not my story to tell – I’ll just let her know that you’re feeling alone and could use some companionship.”

“Okay,” Naomi whispers. “Just… let her know she’s not obligated.”

“I will. On the extremely off chance she says no, or if she’s busy tomorrow, I can keep you company remotely. We can spend the whole day holding up the office landline if you want.”

“It’s a Friday.”

“And?”

“It’s a work day?”

“Naomi, my job is wholly comprised of monologuing to any tape recorder that manifests within a six-foot radius and doing my utmost to render my department as counterproductive to both the Institute’s professed and clandestine organizational objectives as humanly or inhumanly possible.” Naomi barks out a startled laugh. “I won’t be fired no matter what I do – which is a shame, seeing as it became my foremost professional development goal somewhere between finding out my boss murdered my predecessor and virtually dying in an explosion at a haunted wax museum. Barring a sudden and unexpected apocalyptic threat – which, admittedly, is unlikely but not unthinkable– I’ve already cleared my non-existent schedule for you.”

“Okay.” Naomi makes a sound somewhere between a sniffle and a chuckle. “Thanks. Really.”

“Any time.”

_________________

The statement is an unnerving, circuitous thing: a firsthand account from an unnamed member of the Drake-Norris expedition in 1589. In many ways, it’s eerily similar to the last statement Jon accessed from Pu Songling’s archives: Second Lieutenant Charles Fleming’s shellshocked, guilt-fueled confession of atrocities committed under orders.

The historical record is rife with accounts of Francis Drake’s cruelty, Jon knows: his role in the transatlantic slave trade, the unprovoked massacres committed in his name, the preemptive strikes that incited further bloodshed. The statement giver speaks in awestruck horror of the bloodlust lurking in the man’s eyes, the vitriolic fervor with which he undertook his campaign to seek out and destroy the remnants of the Spanish fleet – and the depths of his rage when his efforts ended in defeat. Humiliated, he turned his vengeful eye to the Galician estuaries.

The writer tells plainly of his own complicity in the sacking of Vigo, razing the town to the ground and slaughtering its inhabitants with indiscriminate zeal. For four days Drake’s men carried out their rampage, retreating only when reinforcements arrived to stem the tide.

“You may ask yourself,” the Archivist reads on, “how it is that a man born into the reign of Good Queen Bess sits before you today, some four centuries past his due?

“You see, as we left the shores of Galicia that day, I heard from behind us a vicious braying, as if someone had set loose a great host of hounds. They were close – close enough for me to sense their stinking breath hot on the back of my neck. Such a thing was impossible, for we were by that time far from shore, having already rowed half the distance between the beach and the waiting armada. That did not stop me dreading the dogs lunging and tearing into me at any moment.

“I am not ashamed to admit that I let out a whimper.

“As the seconds ticked by and the pack failed to descend upon us, my curiosity grew to outweigh my terror. I turned to look – and was thus ensnared. It was, I realize now, the instant at which I became beholden to the blood. My greatest folly.

“Perhaps I oughtn’t have been so surprised to see no hounds surging toward us atop the waves, but you must understand that the proximity of their snarling was far more convincing than their visual absence. In looking behind us, though, I was able to appreciate the havoc we left in our wake: the great plumes of ash rising from the smoldering rubble, backlit by a flickering orange glow, and wails of despair so profound as to combat the noise of the wind, the waves – even the discordant shrieking of the hounds.

“It was a scene of such devastation as I had never seen before or since. Looking back, I think upon the acrid stench of charred flesh on the breeze with horror and… indescribable remorse. It shames me now to admit that at that time, I had never felt such… rapture.

“That was when a motion caught my eye. Between the distance and the billowing smoke, it should have been impossible to discern such detail, yet there he was: quarry I had left for dead, emerging from the debris and staggering away from the ruins of his… wretched life. As he looked out to behold our retreat, I could see the grief playing on his face, the fury, the fear – but what most set my blood to boiling was the spark of relief I saw in his eyes.

“It awakened something in me – a famished and merciless thing, composed of tooth and claw and a mind beginning and ending and utterly encompassed by the call of the pack. With a roaring in my ears and a single-minded violence supplanting my sensibilities, I deserted the rowboat and swam to shore. A chorus of howls carried me forward, and I let them be my wings, steering me down the swiftest, straightest path to my target.

“I slowed for nothing, and I made certain my prey did not live through the night.

“As you can likely guess, the chase did not end there. Those baying devils who had so called me forth continued to hound my steps, nipping at my heels, spurring me ever onward to the next quarry. Those who once knew me would scarcely have recognized what I became. Whenever I dared look into a mirror, I would see in myself a dogged, seething violence so akin to that which had lived in the eyes of my former commander. A cruelty that once had frightened and repulsed me had become the blood and breath of me.

“For a time I sought to refrain from the chase. The longer I refused the call, the weaker I became. The hounds’ breath on my neck grew hotter; their braying swelled louder. I found myself wasting away: always hungry, never sated. Eventually my faculties began to slip. I would lose myself to such… bestialimpulses, and only the stain of blood on my teeth would return to me my reason. It pains me to confess to you now that it did not take long before I ceased my resistance entirely.

“It was at the turn of the sixteenth century that I happened upon the artefacts now in your possession. Their previous owner was a formidable adversary. I spent nearly a fortnight tracking him before I managed to run him down, and he fought like a tempest before he fell.

“Ordinarily I did not linger after a kill, instinct hastening me ever onward to the next great game. As I turned to leave, though, I was overcome by the sense that the hunt was… unfinished. Troubled, I reached down to check the man’s pulse. I was reassured to find him quite dead, but as I drew back, I noticed the brooch.

“It was a simple thing made of tarnished copper, fashioned into an incomplete ring, the ends of which resembled the heads of dogs. The moment my fingers brushed that ornament, I knew it was meant for me. It went into my pocket with nary a conscious thought.

“The itch of the hunt was still crawling down my spine, though; the frantic snuffling of phantom hounds yet filling the air all around me. I continued to search his person until I found what was calling out to me: a thin volume bound in leather. Curiosity ever my folly, I opened it.

“Up until that point, I had never learned to read nor write Latin with any degree of mastery. Yet I could understand the text within with perfect clarity. The script did not transform to English before my eyes, nor did the book render me proficient in the language. No, I simply… beheld the pages, and the meaning flowed into me.

“The story tells of Herla, legendary king of the Britons, who visits the dwarf king’s realm. Upon leaving, he is gifted a hound and warned not to dismount his horse until the dog leaps down. When Herla and his men return to the human world, they discover that not days but centuries have passed: all those they had known have long since perished, and the Saxons have taken possession of the land. In their distress, some of the men dismount, whereupon they turn to dust. Herla warns the survivors to stay in their saddles, to wait until the dog leaps down.

“‘The dog has not yet alighted,’ the author tells us, ‘and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay.’

“The next several pages are unreadable. The language resembles none I have ever encountered, and I have yet to find a soul who can decipher it. I can however attest its hypnotic qualities. I have spent many hours mired in those words, but I could not for the life of me tell you what I saw there. Others to whom I presented the text found themselves either enthralled or agitated, though none could recall such episodes once lucidity returned to them. I expect you mean to unravel its secrets, but you may do well to let its mystery stand.

“The final passage – a single page, this written in English – tells of Herla’s escape: how, weary and driven to despair, he casts the dog from the saddle and into the River Wye. The instant the hound hits the water, Herla and his band crumble into dust, at last meeting the same fate they spent so many hundreds of years trying to outpace.

“I have had hundreds of years of my own since first reading the tale to digest its message, and that is why I come to you today. Although I have killed several times since these items came into my possession – it should come as no surprise that there are those who covet them – I have not sought out a single hunt since I vanquished the man who yielded me these trinkets. The hounds at my heel have not ceased their clamoring, but so long as the brooch is on my person, they cannot sink their teeth in me. I am always hungry, yes – but I am no longer starving.

“But I am also weary. I have come to understand that even as the hounds can never catch me, they will never leave me. In my four hundred years, I have played the role of both the hunter and the hunted, and have learned that they share the same ultimate plight. Whether I be predator or prey, I am trapped in the throes of an endless pursuit. So long as I should live, my blood shall never quiet.

“And that is the key: so long as I should live. Even now, the fervor in my blood insists that the hunt is eternal, but I know now that one cannot outrun one’s end forever. Much like my constant, howling companions, Death will always be nipping at my heels. In that sense, he is perhaps the ultimate hunter. Just as I have delivered to him so many souls, neither can I escape his judgment. If ever I am to rest, I must bow to his supremacy.

“And so, like Herla, I shall cast the dog away from the saddle. I leave it in your care now, and the book. I should be so lucky to exit this life with the dignity I denied so many others, though I fear I shall be found undeserving of such a swift end. I can only hope that, whatever my comeuppance should be, I shall have the grace to accept it without complaint.”

With a heavy exhale, Jon depresses the stop button on the recorder, then puts his head in his hands, putting pressure on his closed eyes.

“You alright?” Basira asks.

“More than I’d like,” Jon mutters.

“If I thought there was any chance this guy was still alive, I wouldn’t have given you the statement to read.”

“I know. Just…” Jon waves his hand vaguely.

“Unpleasant, yeah.”

And rejuvenating, Jon thinks bitterly. It’s only been a few days since his last statement from Daisy, and already he had begun to feel famished.

“They sent along some supplemental records,” Basira says, rifling through printouts. “The statement is cross-referenced with two objects in their Collections Storage – here.”

The document she slides across the desk contains two catalog listings:

Item No. 9820702-1

Description: Pennanular brooch, copper alloy. Geometric and interlace motifs. Confronted zoomorphic terminals (canine profile). Moderate surface oxidization and patination. Dimensions: 5.5cm x 4.5cm body; 12.5cm pin. Artefact dated ca. 500–700 CE.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports mediating effect on the Hunter’s affliction (unverified). Item implicated in subject’s alleged abnormal longevity (unverified). Further study suggests dormancy and/or lack of reactivity to unafflicted subjects (see associated Investigation Log).

Storage: Special Collections – Inorganic Storage, Container Unit No. 982-05. Acid-free board housing, etherfoam packing. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain stable temperature (16-20°C); relative humidity, 32-35%; light levels, <300 lux. Handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §3.5.3: Artefact Preservation – Metals – Copper and Copper Alloys.

Access: Upon request. Curator approval required prior to initial visit. Applicants may submit statement of intent to Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator for clearance. Terms, procedures, and degree of supervision subject to Curator’s discretion.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-2.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-1;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-1.01 through -1.03.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-2;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §3.6.4: Antiquities – Adornments and Jewelry (Inert).

Item No. 9820702-2

Description: Bound manuscript. Front and back covers unembellished leather (source undetermined) stretched over wood board (source undetermined). Leather cord binding (calf, bovine). Paper and parchment leaves. Ink corrosion and paper degradation present but minimal (fair condition inconsistent with age and media). Dimensions: 8.8cm x 14.0cm x 2.5cm. Artefact dated ca. 1190–1450 CE.

Contents: Eighteen (18) pages total, one-sided.

· Title page (1) iron gall ink on parchment (sheepskin): Gualterius Mappus – De nugis curialium – xi. De Herla rege

· Pages two (2) through four (4) iron gall ink on paper (hemp pulp, linen fiber): Medieval Latin (ca. 12th century) script.

· Pages five (5) through sixteen (16) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): alphabetic script (unknown roots); refer to Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.03 for comparative linguistic analysis (inconclusive).

· Page seventeen (17) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): Middle English (ca. 15th century) script.

· Page eighteen (18) parchment (sheepskin): blank.

Transcripts and translations (where possible) provided in Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01*.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports total comprehension of Latin portions of the text despite lack of proficiency. Text alleged to diverge from source material (De nugis curialium – Map, Walter, fl. 1200). Both claims verified upon further examination (see associated Investigation Log). Probable association with the Hunter’s affliction.

Storage: Special Collections – Secure Storage. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain temperature at 20-22°C; relative humidity, 32-36%; light levels, ≤50 lux. Housing and handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §2.5.5: Document Preservation – Premodern Inks – Iron Gall and §9.2: Special Precautions – Occult and Esoteric Texts.

Access: Restricted.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-1.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-2;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-2.01* through -2.07;

· Incident Report No. 9930214.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-1;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §2.1.1: Archival Media – Occult Books (Active);

· Interdepartmental Bulletin No. 9941002, “The Library of Jurgen Leitner: Lessons Learned.”

*Addendum, 16th February, 1993:Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01 reclassified as Restricted Access. Direct all inquiries to Pu Songling Research Library Head Librarian or Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator.

“So?” Basira prods. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, assuming the statement is a reliable account, it seems…”

“Promising, right?” Basira says, her eagerness tinted with relief. “If we can–”

She stops abruptly as the tape recorder on the table clicks back on.

“I think that’s our cue to move this conversation elsewhere,” Jon says.

Not that it will stop the tape recorders from listening in, but he has no desire to make Jonah’s surveillance any easier for him.

_________________

It takes some hemming and hawing, but Jon manages to convince Basira that this really ought to be a group discussion. As she recaps the statement and shares her own remarks, Jon keeps a close eye on the other two people in the room. Martin is listening attentively, leaning forward slightly but otherwise at ease. Daisy, though… she’s all corded muscles and jittery legs, taut and precarious on the edge of her seat.

All the while, Basira appears impervious to the storm brewing in Daisy’s eyes, even as Martin catches on and begins chewing on the inside of his cheek, darting nervous glances between the two of them. By the time Basira finishes her overview, the tension in the air is palpable, nearly electric.

For several seconds, no one speaks.

“So,” Martin says, his voice a bit pitchy. He clears his throat before continuing. “Magical, Fear-resistant brooch, huh?”

“It wouldn’t be unheard of,” Jon says. “Remember what I told you about Mikaele Salesa?”

“The apocalypse-proof bubble? Yeah.”

“That camera of his didn’t just protect him from the Eye, it hid him from the Powers in general.”

“What was the catch?” Daisy asks pointedly. “Got to be a catch.”

“Does there?” Martin asks. His hesitant smile falls at Daisy’s blank stare, and he tilts his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, alright.”

“It’s… not entirely benign, no,” Jon says. “In Salesa’s statement, he called it a ‘battery’–”

“–charging itself on all the quiet worries that come from living in hiding, and then when the sanctuary collapses, all that fear flows out at once. No doubt, if my oasis breaks before I die, the Eye will get quite the feast from me, but in this new world–”

“That’s enough of that, I think,” Martin says, resting a hand on Jon’s arm.

Jon bites his tongue, shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath in, only daring to speak once the tingling on his lips subsides. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Martin offers him a reassuring smile. “Just didn’t want you getting bogged down.”

“That’s one term for it,” Jon says, not quite under his breath. It’s true enough, though. Sometimes it feels like the Archive is pressed up against the door, watching for the tiniest crack, waiting for any opportunity to surge through and drag him under. Lately, Martin has grown uncannily adept at sensing when to interrupt these lapses before they spiral out of control – likely because they’ve been growing more frequent.

“That’s what I thought,” Daisy says. Puzzled at the apparent non-sequitur, Jon glances at her, but she isn’t looking at him. All of her attention is focused on Basira. “This thing is probably the same. It’s not some… some harmless miracle solution. If we mess around with it, it’s bound to blow up in our faces sooner or later.”

“I’m… not sure about that, actually,” Jon says. “The brooch didn’t free the Hunter, it just made it so he couldn’t be caught. I think that’s what it was feeding on – the Hunter’s gradual awareness that he was no different from the hunted, that sensation of being perpetually stalked from the shadows by a greater predator. It spent centuries charging itself on that fear, and it culminated in the realization that he would never escape it. He would always be waiting for the axe to fall, and Hunt was happy to keep him as perpetual prey. If he wanted the chase to end, he had to give up the artefact – and once it was no longer keeping him in stasis, he had a choice to make.”

“Go back to hunting, or let it catch him.” Daisy breathes a humorless laugh. “The Hunt, or the End.”

“But it would keep you alive,” Basira says. “It would buy us time to find a way to free you for real.”

“What about the Leitner?” Martin asks. “That’s what Jonah sent us after in the first place.”

“Turns out it’s not actually from Leitner’s library,” Jon says. “No bookplate, and it seems the statement giver had it in his possession since the 1500s. It’s… difficult to tell from the statement whether it had any significant effect on him. He called it ‘hypnotic,’ but he was already a Hunter by the time he found it. I imagine it might have different effects on someone not already under the Hunt’s influence.”

“He sort of alluded to that.” Basira takes a moment to peruse the statement, running her finger along the page until she finds the relevant line. “Here – they ‘found themselves either enthralled or agitated.’ A bit obscure, but… he says it like it’s an afterthought. If it outright turned anyone into a Hunter, he probably would’ve said so.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous,” Daisy says.

“I never said it wasn’t,” Basira replies coolly. “The record references a transcript, so I assume they had someone read it at some point. And it also mentions an incident report.”

“What was the incident?” Martin asks.

“Don’t know,” Basira says. “They didn’t provide any of the supplemental documentation, just the catalogue listing and the statement itself. But they acquired the book in ‘82 and didn’t make the transcript restricted until ‘93, so… either it was dormant when they first studied it and became active later, or they didn’t study it closely enough to activate its effects, or it doesn’t affect everyone the same way, or – or maybe their workplace safety guidelines just changed and they decided not to risk studying it anymore.”

“Jonah did say something about its effects varying depending on how much of it a person reads, right?” Martin asks. “Though who knows where he got that from.”

“There might be some truth to that,” Basira says. “The catalogue entry does describe what’s on the title page, so I’m assuming that part at least is safe. I’m most curious about the untranslated chunk in the middle.”

And I’m a universal translator, Jon thinks, fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie. Basira’s eyes flick to him, as if reading his mind.

“I… suppose I could–”

“No,” Martin and Daisy say simultaneously.

Jon scowls. “You didn’t even let me finish the–”

“You threw yourself into the Buried – twice – to save me,” Daisy says severely. “You can’t keep sacrificing yourself at every opportunity.”

“I wouldn’t be–”

“What, re-traumatizing yourself by reading a Leitner?” Jon shuts his mouth, pressing his lips tightly together. “It’s not worth it, Sims.”

“Daisy,” Basira begins, but Daisy cuts her off.

“No. I’m not having him throw himself to the wolves just because you’re curious.”

Basira flinches, hurt momentarily crossing her face before her expression goes stony.

“You really think that’s what this is about?” she says, her voice shaking. “Knowledge for knowledge’s sake? Me being curious?”

“You can’t tell me you’re not,” Daisy says, and then her expression softens. “And I love that about you, I do – you’re brilliant, Basira – and driven, and passionate, and…” She sighs. “But sometimes… sometimes you need to let things go.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon notices Martin cross and uncross his legs, his lower lip captured between his teeth. When Jon catches his eye, Martin jerks his chin minutely at Basira and Daisy, a grimace on his face. All Jon can offer is a helpless, equally awkward shrug. Near as he can tell, Basira and Daisy seem to have momentarily forgotten that they have an audience, and judging from their locked eyes and thunderous expressions, he doubts either of them would appreciate a reminder right this second.

“Let you go, you mean,” Basira says tersely. “When you say ‘it’s not worth it,’ what you really mean is that you’re not worth it.”

“Well, I’m not.”

The cavalier tone is the last straw, it seems.

“Why won’t you just let me help you?” Basira slams her hand down on the rickety table, straining its wobbly legs. “You’re just so ready to–” She lets out a frustrated groan. “You never used to give up this easily.”

“Maybe should’ve done,” Daisy says flatly. “Might’ve lowered my body count.”

“Giving up Hunting doesn’t have to mean giving up on living,” Basira says. “I might have finally found an alternative, and you won’t even consider–”

“I’m not doing anything that’s going to hurt someone, and that includes exposing Jon to a fucking Leitner.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Jon mutters testily, the friction finally getting the better of his nerves. “Don’t I get a say?”

“No, you don’t,” Daisy says, rounding on him. Now that all of her brimming agitation is funneled in his direction, he regrets saying anything at all. “Because lately, whenever I ask you if you want to hurt yourself, the best you can give me is ‘it doesn’t matter because I can’t die anyway.’”

“Jon?” Martin says urgently, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Th-that’s not what I–”

“You’re not thinking rationally,” Daisy speaks over Jon’s stammering. “You’re thinking like a condemned man with a rope around his neck and something to prove, and I’m not going to be the noose you use to hang yourself with.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Basira says heatedly. “You get on my case about double standards–”

“That’s enough!” Martin bursts out. “This isn’t helping. Daisy’s right, Jon. You’re not going anywhere near that book – I don’t want to hear it,” he adds before Jon can retort. “Not now, anyway. We’ll talk later. But Basira’s right, too,” Martin says, turning his attention to Daisy. “You can’t make amends by dying, and you can’t do better going forward if you’re not alive to try.”

“Who says I deserve a chance?” Daisy says.

“Whatever you think you ‘deserve’” – Martin gives Jon a meaningful glance as he says it – “you’ve got a chance, and people who want to help you through it, and you ought to consider that before you assume you’d do more good dead than alive.” He exhales a sharp breath. “Anyway, forget the Leitner, and forget what Jonah said about it. The brooch seems like the more promising option here.”

“I agree,” Jon says, cowed. “Between the book and the brooch, the statement giver credited the latter with keeping the Hunt at bay. And perhaps my bias is showing, but truthfully I – I’m not inclined to see those books as anything but tragedies waiting to happen.”

“What’s the difference?” Daisy says flatly. “It took a decade for something bad enough to happen for them to make the Leitner’s transcript restricted. The brooch could be just as much of a time bomb. Just because it doesn’t have any ‘incidents’ connected with it now doesn’t mean it never will.”

She isn’t wrong. Looking back, Jon had found it infuriating that Leitner would continue meddling with the books even after he witnessed the horror they wrought, all while claiming to have learned from his hubris. Just because this particular artefact isn’t a book doesn’t make it any less ominous.

And yet…

“I think it’s already shown its more sinister side,” Jon says slowly.

“You think,” Daisy scoffs.

“It doesn’t give a Hunter strength, it makes them perpetual prey. It… won’t be pleasant for you, I’m sure,” Jon admits, “but Basira’s right – it could keep you alive while we search for a better solution.”

“There might not be a better solution,” Daisy says stubbornly.

“Which is what I said before you browbeat me into taking statements from you,” Jon counters.

“I didn’t browbeat–” Jon raises his eyebrows. Daisy gives a flustered groan. “It’s just – it’s different, okay?”

Much as Jon wants to disagree, he knows better than to argue. They’d only end up talking in circles.

“I think it’s an avenue worth pursuing,” he says. “Given the alternatives.”

“Please, Daisy,” Basira says. “Just… consider it, at least.”

The for me remains unspoken, but Jon can hear it loud and clear. As can Daisy, it seems – the defiant set to her jaw falters for a moment before she tenses again.

“Fine,” she says grudgingly. “But if it starts to go south–”

“If it manifests any new properties, we’ll prioritize containing it over interacting with it,” Jon says.

“You promise?” Daisy asks, but she looks at Basira when she says it. It takes a moment, but Basira does nod.

“Do you think Pu Songling will let us have it?” Martin asks. “Seems like their protocols are…”

“Rigorous?” Jon supplies.

“You’d almost think they were running an academic institution or something,” Basira says drily.

“Yeah, but treating the artefacts like museum pieces, it’s… it’s weird, isn’t it?” Martin says. “It’s not as if they’re fragile, right? They’re held together by… nightmare alchemy, or whatever.”

“I suppose it’s to be expected,” Jon says. “I know the Librarian has a degree in information science. And I recall her telling me that the Curator is an historian with a background in museology. But you’re right – it would be nice if Leitners were as delicate as the average old manuscript.”

“At least they’re flammable,” Daisy mutters.

“We spoke with the Head Curator,” Basira says. “She’s willing to work out a trade.”

“A trade?” Martin asks.

“Knowledge for knowledge,” Jon says. “An artefact for an artefact. I get the impression that the Librarian and the Curator are both very… collections-oriented. True to their titles, I suppose.”

“Hold up,” Daisy says. “‘The Librarian,’ ‘the Curator’ – are those just job titles, or are they, like… Beholding Avatar titles?” Jon blinks at her, perplexed. “I mean – the way you keep saying them, it’s sort of like…”

“What, ‘Archivist’?” Jon gnaws on his thumbnail as he pauses to consider. “I… don’t know, actually. I wasn’t really doing it consciously? It just…” He shrugs helplessly. “It felt right.”

“Is it coming from the Eye, then?”

“I have no idea, Basira.” Jon leans forward, props his elbows on his knees, and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Hm.”

“In any case…” Jon exhales slowly, forcing himself to sit up straight again. “They seem to take the research and curation aspects of their roles to heart. They aren’t reckless with their pursuits, they take ample precautions, but the scholars at Pu Songling do study the items that come into their possession. And from what I understand, the Curator takes avid interest in adding to their collection. Same as the Archivist’s role is to record stories. To what extent her efforts are driven by her connection to the Eye versus her own innate curiosity, I couldn’t tell you, no more than I can make that distinction in myself.”

“Sort of a chicken-or-egg situation, then,” Daisy says.

“From an evolutionary perspective, the egg came first,” Jon says automatically. “Amniotic eggs have been around for over three hundred million years. Birds originated in the Jurassic, true galliforms didn’t evolve until at least the Late Cretaceous, phasianids don’t appear in the fossil record until about thirty million years ago, and chickens as we know them were only domesticated about eight thousand years ago–”

“Oh my god,” Daisy groans, putting her head in her hands.

“What?” Jon says, heat rising in his cheeks as Martin muffles a snicker beneath his hand. “I’m not wrong.”

“Pu Songling’s Collections Department is larger than our Artefact Storage,” Basira interjects, “but the, uh… Curator has a shortlist of artefacts she’s been on the lookout for. I checked our records and found a match. A ring – probably belongs to the Vast, based on the reports surrounding it. Looks like the Institute purchased it from Salesa in 2014, shortly before his disappearance. The Curator considers it an ‘equitable exchange,’ but she still wants to assess the ring in person before making the trade.”

“And we still have to talk to Sonja,” Jon adds. “On the one hand, she likely wouldn’t object to being rid of an artefact, but on the other hand… I imagine she won’t be keen on letting it out into the world.”

“I think it would be a harder sell if you were just going to swap it out for another artefact – something unfamiliar that they’d have to develop all new protocols for,” Martin says. “But yeah, even if you won’t be making the brooch her problem, she’ll probably still want to know what we want with it. And I can see her pressing the Curator on why she wants the ring when she gets here.”

“The Curator won’t be coming here,” Basira says evenly, casting a surreptitious glance at Daisy to gauge her reaction. “Says she’s too busy to travel.”

“So you have to haul the ring up to her,” Daisy says.

“I mean” – Basira breathes an uneasy laugh – “it’s a ring. Not much hauling involved–”

“Oh, don’t start–”

“–and there are precautions I can take. Looks like Artefact Storage has relatively thorough documentation for this one.”

“‘Relatively’?” Daisy repeats, unimpressed. “You were just complaining about how sparse their records are. ‘Relatively’ isn’t saying much.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Basira rubs at her face. “I have to do this. Just… trust me.”

“You know I do–”

“Then let me have your back,” Basira says, practically pleading. “Let me help you.”

“Fine,” Daisy mutters, her posture going slack. “Do what you want.”

It’s not exactly a resounding endorsement, but it’s as good as they’re likely to get.

_________________

Despite Daisy’s lack of enthusiasm, Basira immediately throws herself into making arrangements. The Curator at Pu Songling is more than accommodating, seemingly as eager as Basira to make the trade. The real challenge is the Head of Artefact Storage.

It takes over a week of cajoling, lengthy justifications, and a concerted, collaborative effort from Basira, Jon, and Martin before Sonja finally, albeit reluctantly, agrees to discuss the matter with the Curator. Over the following days, Basira and Jon facilitate negotiations between the two: mediating a fair amount of (professional, but nevertheless pointed) verbal sparring early on, and later arbitrating the terms and conditions of the trade.

“You’d think that in the course of dealing with literal supernatural evil on a daily basis,” Basira gripes at one point, “bureaucracy wouldn’t be the biggest priority.”

“I’ve found that the bureaucratic process gives me ample time to make assessments,” Sonja says, unruffled. “Red tape has a way of bringing out the worst in people. Sometimes that’s a procrastinating student who woke up this morning, realized their deadline is next week, and ‘needs access to our materials, like, yesterday,’” she says, complete with finger quotes and a mocking tone. “And sometimes it’s some shady rich snob who’s been consistently cagey about his motives, and eventually he starts to go from impatient and entitled to desperate and frustrated, and that’s when the red flags start popping up crimson. After a while, you learn to distinguish the mundane sort of desperation from the more sinister sort.”

“Huh,” Jon says, smiling to himself. He knew Sonja was clever, but he never knew she was so calculating. It seems Jonah made the same mistake with Sonja as he did with Gertrude – overestimating a person’s curiosity and malleability, underestimating their prudence and pragmatism, and then promoting them to a position where they were free to act in a decidedly un-Beholding-like manner.

Once Sonja is sufficiently assured that the Curator has no intentions of utilizing the artefact or allowing it to venture beyond the secure confines of Pu Songling’s Collections Storage, the process starts to go a bit more smoothly. As expected, Sonja is amenable to the prospect of having one less piece of malignant costume jewelry, as she puts it, provided the Archival staff take full responsibility – both for the ring once Basira signs it out and for the artefact they receive in exchange.

“The ring has a compulsion effect,” Sonja tells them. “Makes people want to put it on – and once it’s on your finger, it’s not coming off until you hit the ground. Luckily it’s not a particularly active artefact, at least not compared to some of the other things we have here. I wouldn’t call it safe, obviously, but” – she raps her knuckles on the wooden beads of the bracelet on her opposite wrist – “it’s never breached containment.”

The how and why become abundantly clear upon seeing the closed ring box, so caked in earth and grime that it’s impossible to make out the color or material underneath.

“Buried, I take it,” Basira murmurs, giving Jon a sidelong glance.

“Yeah.” Jon grimaces at the phantom taste of soil on his tongue. “An artefact to contain an artefact.”

“Looks like the Curator is getting a twofer,” Basira says.

“Fine by me,” Sonja says with a nonchalant shrug. “That’s the box it came in, actually. Don’t know why it works, but it does, and that’s all I care about. So long as you keep it closed, the worst you’ll get is vertigo. As far as we’ve observed, anyway. There’s always a chance that an artefact has more secrets than it lets on at first glance. Assuming you know everything there is to know is a good way to end up in a casket.”

“We’re well aware,” Jon says. “Believe me.”

“Seriously, though – if this goes tits up, I don’t want to hear it,” Sonja says sternly, all but wagging a finger. “And if you call up here a few months from now to tell me that you’ve got a rogue artefact wreaking havoc in the Archives, and I’ve got to put my people at risk to contain it, I will unleash unholy hell.”

The funny thing is, Jon believes her.

_________________

Despite the progress they’re making on obtaining the Hunter’s brooch, dissent continues to simmer within the group – particularly where Daisy is concerned. As the escalating tension in the Archives becomes ever more tangible, Martin begins to feel claustrophobic under the weight of all the things left unspoken.

Daisy is consistently ill-tempered: bellicose in one moment and taciturn in the next, frequently seeking out solitude whenever her agitation gets the best of her. Martin suspects that her volatile mood has as much to do with her deteriorating condition as it does to do with her lingering aversion to the rest of the group’s efforts. Although she and Basira haven’t had another row – so far as Martin is aware, anyway – there’s been an undeniable friction between them. On the worst days, Basira keeps to herself, burying her head in her research while Daisy slinks off to some dark corner of the Archives to brood until Jon comes to drag her away from her thoughts.

Not that Jon is much better. He’s been sullen lately, growing more withdrawn, sleeping less and jumping at shadows even more than usual. Martin often catches him in a trance, staring vacantly into space and droning horrors under his breath. More and more he lapses into statement clips mid-sentence, regardless of how recently he’s had a statement. Sometimes, all it takes is a momentary slip for Jon to lose his footing and devolve into a frenzied litany of back-to-back, fragmentary horror stories. On a few recent occasions he’s lost his voice entirely, though luckily it’s only been for an hour or two at a time.

(So far, Jon says morosely after each episode.)

Most unsettling, though, is the chronic faraway look in his eye, like he’s seeing something else. Like he’s somewhere else, lost across an unbridgeable divide.

Martin is well-acquainted with the sensation of feeling alone in the presence of others. That doesn’t make it any less distressing. It’s not that Jon intends to be distant. He might not even be aware of it; would likely be mortified if he knew just how much that detachment stirred Martin’s longstanding fears of isolation and abandonment. Jon’s still affectionate, after all. Although he seems reluctant to actively seek out comfort these days, he’s still prompt to take an outstretched hand, to lean into a kind touch, to accept a proffered embrace. Still makes a concerted effort to muster, however feebly, a soft smile whenever Martin enters a room. Still attempts to be present and attentive and open.

But sometimes it feels like Jon is out of reach, separated from the rest of the world, watching it pass him by through layers of frosted glass. Martin knows the feeling. What he doesn’t know is how to fix it.

Before long, Basira is set to leave for Beijing, an artefact of the Vast nestled away in her luggage amidst assurances to Sonja that, yes, under no circumstances will Basira attempt to take it on a plane or into the open ocean because, no, Basira does not have a death wish, thank you very much.

Martin half-expects another quarrel to break out on the eve of Basira’s departure, but Daisy is oddly subdued. Perhaps she just doesn’t want to part ways with angry words and unresolved arguments, or perhaps she’s simply come to accept the rest of the group’s decision to move forward with the plan. Considering the dark circles under her eyes, though, it’s just as likely that she’s simply too fatigued to start a fight.

A few days later, Martin descends the ladder into the tunnels to find Jon standing at his makeshift desk, staring down at the map unfurled across its surface – the product of the group’s ongoing efforts to survey the sprawling tunnel system of the former Millbank Prison. The blueprint-in-progress is an equally sprawling thing: sheets of mismatched paper layered one atop the next and taped together, its irregular borders comprised of haphazard angles and dog-eared edges.

The hand-drawn map on its surface is chaotic, reflecting the penmanship of four different authors. Jon’s contributions might be the messiest – the burn scar contracture on his dominant hand renders his lines shaky at best, and his handwriting has always been a tad chickenscratch. Daisy’s isn’t much better. Conversely, Basira’s additions are the neatest, her strokes as steady as the persona she tries to project to the world. Martin’s are passable, if only because, unlike Jon or Daisy, he actually has the patience to use rulers and book edges to trace straight paths.

To be fair, it would probably look a mess no matter how painstaking they were in constructing it. The tunnels are as labyrinthine as expected: a vast network of arterial corridors with offshoots along their lengths, branching into three- or four-way forks, most of which lead to dead ends. Occasionally, they find a path that loops back around and connects other parts of the maze, creating a series of meandering, convoluted closed circuits. It’s difficult to tell just by looking, but they are (Martin hopes) making progress. At the rate they’re going, they have to be on track to find the Panopticon before the winter solstice.

In any case, as Martin approaches the desk, he sees that familiar vacant look on Jon’s face, as if he isn’t actually seeing what’s in front of him. The effect is underscored by the cigarette burning away in his hand, hanging limp and forgotten at his side. Martin clears his throat lightly, in deference to Jon’s hair-trigger startle reflex. He doesn’t count the fact that Jon doesn’t jump at all as a success. If anything, it’s cause for concern.

“Jon?” Martin tries. There’s a slight delay before Jon glances over, giving Martin no acknowledgment aside from a sluggish blink before lowering his head again.

“I, uh…” Martin offers a weak smile, attempting to keep his tone light. He gestures at the cigarette. “I thought you quit?”

Jon shrugs, refusing to meet Martin’s eyes. “Not like it’ll kill me.”

“Might catch up with you later, though,” Martin says, scratching at his neck. “You know, once we find a way out of here.”

“There is no ‘out’ for me,” Jon says mulishly.

“You don’t know that. Or Know it.” Jon’s only reaction is to press his lips tightly together, like he’s biting back a retort. “Look, I’m not trying to nag you, I just wor– Jon!” Martin yelps as he watches Jon put his cigarette out on the back of his hand.

Martin lunges forward, grabbing Jon’s hand and yanking it close to inspect the damage. It’s the same hand that Jude shook, already textured and pitted with webs of hypertrophic scarring. Somehow, Jon managed to plant this newest burn on a patch of previously-undamaged skin, sandwiched between two bands of knotted tissue.

The contours of her fingers, Martin recognizes with a queasy lurch – followed by another when he thinks to wonder whether Jon sought out that scrap of healthy skin on purpose just now.

Jon barely reacts, staring into space with wide eyes and dilated pupils. Martin looks down again to see the circular singe mark already knitting itself back together, leaving only a small, shiny patch of discoloration ringed with a dusting of ash. In all likelihood, even that will be gone by morning.

If only all wounds would heal so easily.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Martin hisses, fighting to keep his voice even. He brushes a soothing thumb over the spot, as if to apologize to the abused skin on Jon’s behalf.

Jogged out of his reverie by Martin’s sharp tone, Jon stares daggers at him, his mouth open as if to unleash a scathing reprimand, the set of his jaw so reminiscent of those early days in the Archives. An instant later, though, he withers, cringing away and fixing his eyes on the floor.

“I wasn’t,” he mumbles, at least having the decency to sound contrite. “Wasn’t really paying attention.”

It’s not the first time Martin’s witnessed a self-inflicted injury. When pressed, Jon always claims that it’s not a deliberate, planned form of self-punishment, but rather a reflex reaction that kicks in when he starts feeling adrift in time. Somewhere along the line, it seems, he convinced himself that physical pain is as good a shortcut as any – a sort of panic button to bring him back to the present when he needs grounding.

Whatever his intentions, though, and no matter what rationalizations Jon wants to dole out, it’s not a healthy coping mechanism. And it’s difficult for Martin to believe that self-punishment doesn’t factor at all, considering Jon’s obsessive guilt spirals and his blasé attitude towards being hurt.

“‘S already healed,” Jon says with a spiritless shrug. He drops the snuffed-out remainder of his cigarette on the floor and unnecessarily grinds it under his heel.

“That’s not the point.” Martin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s grasping Jon’s hand until Jon winces. Although Martin relaxes his grip somewhat, he doesn’t let go. “It doesn’t matter how quickly your body heals, or that you’ve had worse, or whatever other justifications you want to make. You’re still getting hurt. That’s not okay, and – and if it were me in your shoes, you’d be telling me the same thing.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon’s hair falls to cover his face as he ducks his head.

It’s fine, Martin almost says – except it’s not, is it?

“Come on,” he says instead, guiding Jon to sit in the nearest chair before taking a seat next to him. Where before Jon was all stiff limbs and rigid spine, now he looks like he’s given up the ghost, drooping like a wilting flower.

Though he allows Martin to keep hold of his hand, Jon doesn’t return the pressure. And Jon’s skin is freezing – no doubt partly due to the damp chill of the tunnels, and partly because he has, by his own admission, always had shit circulation. Combined with his limp fingers and loose grip, though, the overall effect is far too reminiscent of those months spent keeping vigil over Jon’s hospital bed, his hand nothing but cold, dead weight in Martin’s.

It took too long for Martin to admit that he had been foolish to hope that Jon was still in there somewhere, aware of Martin’s presence, fighting to regain consciousness. The whole time, Martin was just keeping his own company. Jon wasn’t just unreachable – he wasn’t there at all.

(Martin had been wrong about that in the end. He doesn’t know that he’ll ever forgive himself for not being there when Jon woke up.)

Martin bites his lip as he formulates a response. He’s learned over the years that when Jon is like this, it’s best to strike a careful balance between docility and defiance. Push too hard too fast, and Jon will dig his heels in; approach him too tentatively, and he’s liable to interpret concern as pity; force him to talk about his feelings, and he’ll bolt; smother him with tenderness, and he’ll balk.

Granted, Jon has become much more receptive to tenderness over the years. Most of the time, anyway. When his skewed self-worth and convictions about what he does and doesn’t deserve don’t get in the way.

“At the risk of being a nag–”

“You’re not a nag,” Jon says softly.

“When’s the last time you had a statement?”

“A few days ago.” The response is too quick, too automatic.

“A few days ago,” Martin repeats, allowing a bit of disbelief to seep into his voice.

Jon nods stiffly. “Monday, I think.”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“I–” Jon cuts off his own retort, turning to blink owlishly at Martin. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, his heart sinking. Jon must be losing time again. “So you had a statement yesterday?”

“No, I – I don’t…” Jon squints up at the ceiling, wracking his brain. “I don’t think so? It’s – I think I would recall if it had been shorter than one day.”

“So, last Monday?”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” Jon says, growing testy. “I suppose. Must’ve been.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.” The admission is devoid of all the simmering agitation that had been there only moments before. Now, he just sounds tired.

“Well… I think you might be due for one.” Although Martin had been striving for gentle suggestion, there’s a harsh edge to the words. Rather than get Jon’s hackles up again, though, he seems to crumple under what he doubtless reads as an accusation.

“You’re right,” he says hoarsely. “And I’m sorry. I know lately I’ve been…”

“Tetchy,” Martin offers, just as Jon says, “a bit of a prick.”

“Your words, not mine,” Martin says with a tentative grin. Jon returns his own feeble half-smile, but it quickly falters.

“I’ve almost exhausted Daisy’s catalogue,” he confesses. “Only a handful left now. I’ve got to make them last until the solstice.”

An apprehensive chill runs down Martin’s spine at that. “And then what?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

There’s virtually no chance that Jon, prone to rumination as he is, hasn’t been dwelling on it.

“Basira said she has a few statements, right?” Martin asks. “Which… if you already have a statement about an encounter, can you still get nourishment from other statements about it, so long as it’s coming from someone else’s point of view?”

“Probably.” Jon shrugs one shoulder. “The factual details of the encounter are less important than the subject’s emotional response. Different perspective, different story, different lived experience of fear.”

“Then… you have my statement about the Flesh attack, but there’s still Basira’s. And – and maybe Melanie–”

“I’m not taking another statement from Melanie,” Jon says tersely. “She’s been tethered to me for too long without say, and I’m not dragging her back in.”

“But if it’s consensual–”

“It won’t be, because I don’t consent.”

“If the alternative is literally starving–”

“I’ll find another alternative. Or I won’t. But I’m not asking Melanie for a statement.” Jon keeps his head bowed, but he looks up at Martin through his lashes. “The first time she quit, I was worried that she might show up in my nightmares again, but she didn’t. I don’t know if her severance from the Eye will keepher out of my nightmares if she gives me a new statement, and… I can’t risk it. I can’t do that to her. Even if the nightmares weren’t an issue… I’m not going to ask her to relive yet another traumatic experience for my benefit–”

“–I shall choose to die rather than take part in such an unholy meal–”

Jon claps a hand over his mouth, a panicked look in his eye.

“…nor shall I take my own life, whatever extremity my suffering may reach,” he tacks on, too much of an afterthought for comfort.

“Which means we need to plan for the future,” Martin says, forcing calm into his voice despite the way his heart picks up its pace.

“But it can’t involve Melanie,” Jon says – gentler than before, but still firm.

“No, you’re – you’re right,” Martin relents. “It wouldn’t be fair to her. But we could still ask Basira.”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise, his expression rapidly going pinched and closed off again.

“Lately,” Martin says, licking his lips nervously, “lately it feels like you’ve been shutting everyone out again. It isn’t healthy–”

“Healthy?” Jon’s glare could burn a hole in the floor. “I don’t need to be healthy, I just need to be whatever it wants.”

Once, Martin might have been daunted by Jon’s scathing tone. By now, he knows that Jon is all bluster – and that the brunt of it is turned inward, against his own self.

“Please, Jon. Tell me what’s going on. You’re worrying me.”

Those, apparently, are the magic words, because Jon finally capitulates.

“It’s October,” he tells the floor.

“It… is October, yeah.” Bewildered, Martin waits for elaboration. When a minute passes with no response forthcoming, he prompts, “Is that… bad…?”

“Historically, yes, it has been,” Jon says with a tired, frayed-sounding chuckle.

“I… Jon, I need you to help me out here,” Martin says helplessly. “I can’t read your mind.”

“October is when it happens, Martin.” Jon glances at Martin once, quickly, before returning his gaze to the ground. He’s twisting one hand around the opposite wrist now, fingers curled tightly enough to blanch his knuckles. “The eighteenth. When everything goes wrong.”

“You mean…”

Jon’s sharp inhale becomes a choked exhale, which in turn abruptly cuts off as the Archive takes its cue.

“…what settled over me wasn’t dread; there wasn’t enough uncertainty for that. It was doom. I was certain that some sort of disaster was on the horizon–”

“–something bad. Something unspeakable. And I would have helped make it happen–”

“–the fear never really went away. I’ve heard that being exposed to the source of your terror over and over again can help break its power over you, numb you to it, but in my experience it just teaches you to hide from it. Sometimes that might mean hiding in a quiet corner of your mind, but–”

“–soon enough, I could no longer fool myself–”

“–the calm I had been getting accustomed to had been torn away completely, and where it had been was just this horrible, ice-cold terror–”

“–that – we can’t escape the ruins of our own future–”

“–a future where – humanity was violently and utterly supplanted, and wiped out by a new category of being–”

“–there are terrible things coming – things that, if we knew them, would leave us weak and trembling, with shuddering terror at the knowledge that they are coming for all of us–”

“–I think in my heart, I have been waiting for this moment. For the final axe to fall–”

“–we create the world in a lot of ways. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that, when we’re not being careful, we can change it–”

There’s a breathless pause before Jon continues, in a nearly inaudible whisper: “What could I have chosen to change? Would a different path have been possible?”

“It is,” Martin says firmly, “and we’re on it. What happened last time won’t happen again. We won’t let it.”

Jon doesn’t acknowledge the reassurance.

“I should’ve known,” he says with a quiet ferocity, in his own voice this time. “It was too peaceful. I should’ve known it wasn’t going to last. And – and on some level I did know – I knew it wasn’t over – but I just… I didn’t want to be the one to shatter the illusion, I suppose.” His expression goes taut. “Didn’t much matter what I wanted, in the end. But I still should’ve seen it coming. Can’t let my guard down again.”

“How could you have known?” Martin doesn’t intend for it to come out as exasperated. He tries to reel it back, to gentle his tone. “You’ve said yourself that you can’t predict the future–”

“No, but I knew Jonah had plans for me. And I knew nothing good could come of feeding the Eye, but I kept on anyway.”

“It’s not like you were doing it for fun, Jon! You needed it to survive, and Jonah took advantage of that. Or…” No – that makes it sound purely opportunistic, doesn’t it? In reality, it was all part of Jonah’s long game from the start. “He made you dependent on statements specifically becausehe wanted to take advantage of that.”

“I made choices,” Jon says tonelessly. “I can’t absolve myself of responsibility just because Jonah was nudging me in a particular direction.”

“You were manipulated,” Martin insists, “and I’m not having you apologize for surviving it. For not starving to death.”

“You don’t understand,” Jon says, growing more distressed, reaching up with both hands and tangling his fingers in his hair. “When that box of statements finally arrived, I… I couldn’t shoo you away fast enough. I was hungry, yes, but I wasn’t starving yet. I could’ve waited longer, but I just… I wanted one–”

“–should have fought harder against the temptation – but my curiosity was too strong–”

“You shouldn’t have to wait until you’re literally on death’s doorstep before you fulfill a basic need,” Martin interrupts.

“I should when that ‘basic need’ entails serving the Beholding,” Jon says heatedly. “And I – I should’ve known better – should’ve known not to jump headlong into the first statement that caught my eye. I’d known for a while that the Beholding leads me away from statements it doesn’t want me to know. It logically follows that it would lead me towards statements that would strengthen it. If I’d had any sense, I would’ve been suspicious of anything in that box that called out to me. It didn’t… it didn’t feel any different, but I – I suppose that somewhere along the line I just got used to… to wandering down whatever path I was led. I didn’t think, I never stop to think–”

“If anything, Jon, you overthink. You’re overthinking right now.”

Martin has known for a long time now that Jon will latch onto the smallest details, allow his thoughts to branch into an impossible number of routes and tangents, tie together loose threads in countless permutations in the interest of considering all possible conclusions, no matter how outlandish. He will apply Occam's razor in one moment before tossing it into the bin, only to fish it out again: lather, rinse, repeat. His mind is a noisy, cluttered conspiracy corkboard, and he’ll hang himself with red string if given half a chance, just to feel like he’s in control of something.

“It’s easy to look back and criticize your past self,” Martin says, “but he didn’t know what you do. If we knew the outcome to every action, maybe we wouldn’t make mistakes, but we’re only human–”

“Not all of us.”

“–so we just have to do the best with what we have in the moment,” Martin continues, paying no heed to Jon’s grumbled comment. No good will come of guiding him down that rabbit trail right now. Anyway, Martin has a more pressing concern–

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this sooner?” he blurts out, immediately wincing at his lack of tact. “That came out wrong–”

“Why didn’t I tell you how quick I was to chase you out of the house and sink my teeth into a statement the moment temptation presented itself?” Jon scoffs. “Because I’m ashamed. Why else?”

“No, not–” Martin scrubs a hand over his face. It’s a struggle, sometimes, not to grab Jon by the shoulders and shake him until all of that stubborn self-loathing falls away. “About the fact that you’ve got a – a post-traumatic anniversary event coming up, I mean. You haven’t been well, and I thought I understood why – thought it was just… all of it, in general. But here I come to find you’ve been agonizing over the upcoming date of the single worse day of your life–”

“One of the worst,” Jon says quietly.

“What?”

“I didn’t lose you until much later.”

Martin’s breath catches in his throat at that, a sharp pang shooting through his chest.

“Well… you’ve got me now,” he says meekly. “So – so you don’t have to suffer in silence, is what I’m saying. What happened to you – no, what was done to you – it was horrible, and it wasn’t your fault. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s the truth.”

“Either I’ve always been caught up in someone else’s web, passively having things happen to me with no control over my life–”

“–the Mother got exactly the result she no doubt wanted, one that would lead to a fear – so acute that I could later have that horror focused and refined into a silk-spun apotheosis–”

Jon bites down on one knuckle, eyes shut tight as he waits for the compulsion to subside.

“Or,” he says after a minute, “or I do have control, and I can change the outcome, which makes me culpable. I don’t know which prospect I hate more. Which probably says some unflattering things about me.”

“It’s not that simple–”

“It is,” Jon says viciously. “If there is another path, then I should’ve found it last time!” He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a steadying breath. When he speaks again, he’s no longer bordering on shouting, but there’s a quaver in his voice, a fragility that Martin finds more disconcerting than any flash of anger. “The way I see it, there are two options. One, what happened in my future was inevitable and nothing I could’ve done would’ve changed it – which certainly doesn’t bode well for this timeline. Or, the outcome can be changed, in which case my choices matter, and had I just made better choices, maybe I could have prevented all of this from ever happening in the first place.”

“You’re not being fair,” Martin says, his hands clenching into fists – but Jon isn’t listening.

“Doesn’t make much difference, I suppose. The consequences are the same either way–”

“–billions of – people making their way through life who had no idea what was right above their heads–”

“–would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters–”

“–minds so strange and colossal that we would never know they were minds at all–”

“–idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing–”

“–there, caught up in a series of events that I didn’t understand but that terrified me – I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done–”

“–running was pointless. To try to escape from my task would only serve to fulfill another. I finally understood what I needed to do–”

“–I don’t know if you have ever drowned, but it’s the most painful thing I have ever experienced–”

“–I do not suppose I need to dwell on the pain, but please know that I would sooner die than endure it again–”

“Would you?” Martin says abruptly. Jon won’t look at him. “Jon, I need to know if you’re feeling like hurting yourself.”

“What would it matter if I was?” Jon still won’t look at him. “I’m categorically incapable of hurting myself in any way that matters.”

Martin blinks in disbelief. “Okay, that’s blatantly untrue.”

Jon has been a glaring portrait of self-neglect for as long as Martin has known him. That simple lack of consideration for himself, together with compounding survivor’s guilt, was the perfect stepping stone to active self-endangerment. Now that Jon’s convinced himself he’s invulnerable to a normal human death, he’s all the more careless with himself.

“I don’t want to die,” Jon whispers. “That’s the problem.”

“What—?”

“Before, I was unknowingly putting the entire world at risk by – by waking up after the Unknowing, by crawling out of the Buried, by escaping the Hunters, by continuing to read statements like it was – like it was something routine, as unremarkable as – as taking tea. Now, though – now I know better. I know what Jonah is planning, I saw what I’m capable of, and still I… I don’t want to die.”

“Well… good,” Martin says. “You should want to live–”

“It doesn’t much matter what I want–”

“–I never wanted to weigh up the value of a life, to set it on the scales against my own, but that’s a choice that I am forced into–”

“–doesn’t get to die for that – gets to live, trapped and helpless, and entombed forever – powerless–”

“–a lynchpin for this new ritual – a record of fear–”

Shit, Martin thinks the instant he recognizes the statement. It’s the worst of them all, virtually guaranteed to send Jon spiraling.

“–both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you – a living chronicle of terror – a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom–”

“Okay, okay, stay with me–”

“–the Chosen one is simply that: someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck–”

“Jon, can you hear me? Jon–”

“–I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but my god, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was–”

Martin reaches over, taking both of Jon’s hands in his own and squeezing tightly. The pressure seems to do the trick: lucidity sparks in Jon’s eyes and he takes a deep, ragged breath, as if coming up for air.

“There you are. Are you okay?” Martin rubs both thumbs over the backs of Jon’s hands in rhythmic, soothing motions. “Hey, it’s–”

“I don’t want your kindness!” Jon snaps, jerking backwards and snatching his hands out from Martin’s grip.

Both of them lapse into a stunned silence. As mortification dawns on Jon’s face, Martin can feel the color rising in his cheeks. It only takes a few seconds for the blood rushing in his ears to be drowned out by another voice.

Martin can remember with cutting clarity the days prior to his mother’s departure to the nursing home. She had been in (somewhat) rare form, her already-short fuse dwindled down to nothing, sniping at him around the clock, full of caustic observations and spiteful accusations.

I don’t want your help, she had sneered as she entered the cab, swatting his hand away.

It was one of the last things she ever said to him.

“Well, tough,” Martin bites out, “because you deserve it, and you never should’ve had to go without it, and you’re not going to change my mind about that, so you may as well stop trying!”

“Martin, I – I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

He saw, Martin realizes all at once, his skin crawling with humiliation.

“I’m going to go make some tea,” Martin says, rising to his feet.

Jon reaches out a hand. “Martin–”

“I just need a breather, okay?” Martin says, a pleading note to his voice. His lungs are constricting, his chest is tightening, there’s a lump in his throat, and he really doesn’t want to have a panic attack in the tunnels – or in front of Jon. “I’m not – I’m not angry, okay, I just need some air.”

Jon opens his mouth, then immediately closes it, clutches his hands to his chest, and gives a tiny nod that Martin just barely glimpses before turning to flee.

_________________

“Stop crying,” Jon hisses at himself, furiously scrubbing at his face as the tears slide down his cheeks. “Stop it.”

He plasters the heels of his hands over his closed eyelids. It does nothing to stem the flow, only brings to mind images of pressing himself bodily against a door to hold it closed, only for the crack to continue widening, millimeter after millimeter, the flood on the other side trickling through the gap, rivulets swelling into rivers, frigid eddies biting at his ankles, a whitewater undertow threatening to drag him below the waves–

“Enjoying our own company, are we?”

Once, Jon might have been humiliated to be caught mid-breakdown, raw-voiced and puffy-eyed, especially by Peter Lukas of all people. Several lifetimes spent in thrall to cosmic horrors have a way of putting things in perspective.

“What do you want?” Jon says with as much ire as he can muster.

Peter hums to himself, starting a slow, back-and-forth pace in front of Jon. “It occurred to me that I’ve been derelict in my duties as far as the Archives are concerned–”

“That’s just now occurring to you?”

“–and, as such, I thought it was high time that I met the infamous Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.”

“Well,” Jon scoffs, gesturing at himself, “you’ve met him.”

“I must admit, I was expecting something a bit more… hm.” Peter taps a finger against his lips. “Formidable.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” The scathing sarcasm is rendered pitiful by an ill-timed, involuntary sniffle. Jon can’t bring himself to care.

“The state you’re in, you hardly seem fit to work.” A pause. “Have you ever considered taking some time off?”

“A six-months hospital stay has a way of eating up your PTO, oddly enough. I’m told that payroll already has already had to make special exceptions for my ‘unprecedented’ circumstances.” Jon chuckles to himself. “On multiple occasions. Did you know the Institute considers a kidnapping in the line of duty to be an ‘unexcused absence?’”

“I think you’ll find that Elias and I have different management styles,” Peter says mildly. “I’m open to making allowances – particularly since your department can function so smoothly in your absence. Your assistants have proven themselves to be quite capable of working independently – and seeing as your approach to supervision borders on fraternization, I imagine they would be more productive without excess drama to distract them.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Jon says acerbically.

“No need.” Jon squints at him, and Peter stare him down. “It’s not a request, Archivist. It’s an order.”

There was a time, not long ago, that sneaking up on the Archivist would have been difficult. Only Helen had consistently managed to ambush him, and that was because she didn’t waste time sneaking – she manifested and launched the jump scare in the same instant, giving him no chance to See her approach. Readjusting to a binocular point of view had been a process, but rarely does he find himself yearning for the panoramic field of vision that had been foisted upon him during the apocalypse.

Occasionally, though, there are moments when 360° sight would come in handy. Too late, Jon realizes this is one of those moments.

By the time he notices the tendrils of encroaching fog, they’re already curling around from behind him, pooling at his feet, ghosting across the back of his neck, affixing themselves around his wrists.

“It’s alright,” Peter says placidly, almost soothingly. “You can let go now.”

Jon shivers as his heart pumps ice through his veins, fingers and toes going numb as he struggles for breath.

No. No, no, no, no, no–

“I am not Lonely anymore,” Jon gasps out through chattering teeth.

“No,” Peter says with an air of nonchalance. Then he smiles, sharp and cold and cruel and the only detail Jon can still discern through the fog. “But you will be.”

___

End Notes:

Daisy: hey siri, google what to do if i suspect my bff has been possessed by the ghost of a fussy paleornithologist Jon: why are you booing me????? i’m right

Pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet? Probably bc of the statement. I could’ve split it into two, but, uh. I like that cliffhanger where it is. >:3c (Sorry for that, btw.)

Quite a bit of Archive-speak this chapter. Citations as follows: Section 1: 122/124/011/007/047/155. The Xiaoling quote is from MAG 105; the Jonah quote is ofc from 160; the Naomi quote is from 013. Section 3: 181. Section 5: 058 x2; 144/130/086/143/121/149/134/144/143/069; 147; 017; 147; 057/160/106/111/067/121/129/098; 155/128/160; 160 x3. Section 6: 170, of course.

I’m taking wild liberties with Pu Songling Research Centre’s whole deal. I’m conceptualizing their spookier departments as being like… actually academia-oriented, instead of “local Victorian corpse with illusions of godhood throws a bunch of traumatized nerds with no relevant archival experience into a basement, what happens next will shock you”. Xiaoling is out here like “our digitization is still a work in progress, I’m sure you know how it is” and Jon Sims is like “digitization who? i don’t know her”. (Listen, he tried once. Tape recorder was haunted, he got kidnapped a bunch, there were worms and things, he died (he got better), his boss used him as a battering ram to open a door to Fearpocalypse Hell – it was a lot.)

Likewise, we didn’t get much info about Sonja in canon, so I’m having fun envisioning her as a certified Force To Be Reckoned With (and a bit of a Mama Bear wrt her assistants). Most of the Institute is leery of the Archives (& especially Jon) but Sonja’s seen a lot of shit and Jon Sims doesn’t even rank on her list of Top Spooky Scary Things.

re: the statement – it’s not clear in-text, but I want to clarify that I’m not conceptualizing Francis Drake as being influenced by the Hunt. Fictionalizing aspects of history is tricky, and I’d feel personally uncomfortable chalking up Drake’s real life atrocities to supernatural influence, even in fiction. In the case of this particular fictional member of his crew, he was (like Drake’s real-life crew) complicit in following Drake’s orders for entirely mundane reasons and was only marked by the Hunt at the point in his statement where he first recounts hearing the Hunt chasing after him.

At some point in writing this chapter, I had 137 tabs open in my browser for Research Purposes and like 20 of those were bc my dumb ass seriously considered writing that statement in Elizabethan English before going “what are you DOING, actually.” If I’d tried, it would have come off as inauthentic at best, if not ridiculous, bc I’m unfamiliar with English linguistic trends of the 1500s, and I’d basically be badly mimicking Shakespearean English, which isn’t necessarily indicative of how everyone spoke at the time, and I don’t know what colloquial speech would look like for this particular unnamed character I trotted out as exposition fodder, and it was probably unnecessary to formulate a whole-ass personal history for him for the sake of Historical Realism for a single section of a single chapter of a fanfic, and… In the end, I decided that this pseudo-immortal rando can tell his life story in modernized English, as a treat (to me) (and also to those of you who don’t think of slogging through bastardized Elizabethan prose as a fun endeavor).

Speaking of research – shoutout to this dissertation that had an English translation of the Herla story in Walter Map’s De nugis curialium, and if you want to read the whole story, you can find it on pages 16-18 of that paper. I feel it’s important for you all to know that IMMEDIATELY after Map dramatically proclaims, “the dog has not yet alighted, and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay,” he goes on to say in the next breath “buuuut some people say they all jumped into the River Wye and died, so ymmv. ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯ anyways, can I interest you in more Fucked Up If True tales?” (Herla throwing the dog into the river wasn’t in the original story though. I made that part up.)

Thank you so much for reading! <3

[sevman49]

I promised myself to write about my pilgrimage south to meet the woman I believe I now belong to. The Woman I Believe I Belong To. Sounds like the title of a country song. I'll write it later. I'm inspired. I went to meet her and planned on spending the weekend if we hit it off. That was my hope. I ended up staying two and a half weeks.

I'd like to tell you more about her, how beautiful she is, how well off she is, how she became so well off, describe her elegance and the environment she inhabits. But I'm not allowed to. I can't tell you her name, not that you would recognize it if you aren't a local. She knows I will write about her, and will allow it only if my discretion is absolute. I understand why it's necessary, I just can't tell anyone else why. I'll just refer to her as She and Her. I can't even describe her house or it's location, that would give her identity away. She is known and she is important. And powerful. And secretive.

As I wrote earlier, she wanted a wife, she's not gay, she wanted a male wife. A companion who would handle all the so called wifely duties in the household. Keeping it clean, doing the laundry, do the cooking and serving, be her confidant and company, amuse and entertain her, obey her, be her sexual toy and tool, keep my mouth shut and my opinions to myself, and most importantly, be prepared to be fucked, battered, trampled and physically and mentally womanhandled when she returned home every evening. I had no problem with that. And one last thing, be invisible to the outside world. I would never accompany her in public and when she had visitors, I would be locked away in a very private room built just for that purpose.

So, what's in it for me? In no particular order, these are my benefits. I would be fucked, battered, trampled and physically and mentally womanhandled by this exotically beautiful, lithe, flowery but firm gynarchistic minded female every day and night. I would be her very secret, forcefully confined, oft beaten, heavily disciplined wife who sucked her dick ( or the female version of that) any time she snapped her fingers. I would live well and be well taken care of by her and be monetarily rewarded on a monthly basis. All I had to do was whatever she said and keep it all to myself and her.

I would maintain my own residence back home and live my normal life there whenever she traveled for business purposes, which would intermittently add up to about to about 6 months out of the year. When she departed I would slip out in my new sports car in the morning darkness to drive home and slip back in the same way upon her return. We have it all worked out. It's doable and I'm excited about it. I'm to give her my final assent when she returns home in 3 weeks. I already know yes is my answer. But there are things I need to think about before I sign the contract regarding our nondisclosure agreement and the financial terms I would agree to.

Har! I would do it for nothing! But I won't tell her that. I DO need income of some sort after all! Might as well consider this my dream job. I should ask about insurance benefits also. I could get hurt doing some of the things she has in mind for me. Again, I'm ok with that!

What things, I imagine anyone asking? I shouldn't say, but, fuck it. Let's talk about the last two and a half weeks. During this part, I'm going to reveal how I came to be as submissive as I am. Why it's a part of me I couldn't change if I wanted to. And I don't want to. It's who I am, as long as I remember, and I'm most at home and comfortable in this state.

No one who knows me now knew me when I was growing up. My life before my college years was a thousand miles away from here. My father, before he passed away when I was 7 years old can best be described as a reclusive yet hugely successful financial genius. He saw trends others didn't and invested in what are now universal corporations with well known brands and worldwide recognition. With his blossoming fortune and his disdain for populated areas, he bought the land others considered wilderness and built an estate for his family where our nearest neighbors were 60 miles away. The everyday items people shop including food and substance were delivered to us on a weekly basis. There were people employed to take care of things so we had contact with these people but otherwise we lived by ourselves, like rich pioneers in uninhabited areas. There was him, my mother, then in a 6 year period 3 children. My older sister two years my senior, then me, and two years later my younger sister. We were all born into isolation and it's all we knew. We had all the amenities other kids grew up with except television, we just didn't know the other kids. We were diligently home schooled 3 days a week by Miss Kerr, a young teaching assistant who had a room of her own in our home who stayed with us Monday through Wednesday teaching us about scholarship and society in a variety of subjects.

Now for the facts of life about what made me who I am today. My mother was a beautiful woman even by today's standards, and she was an early day Female Supremist. My earliest memories are of her as the boss of our household, the absolute ruler of my father, who did whatever she told him to do and if he didn't, she was quick to punish him physically and mentally. Not behind closed doors but in the presence of my sisters and I. Father never complained, he just took his punishments and apologized for angering her. Mother was a slapper and a spanker. She never forgave a misstep by him and took no pushback nor excuses. Just instant correction we witnessed a thousand times. Mighty slaps that sent him staggering backwards apologizing while she advanced on him landing WHAP after WHAP like a well trained prize fighter. This was everyday life for us. My sister's and I couldn't even imagine a world where a male was even equal to his partner. We all knew my future role in this family. My sister's sure did and they would strive to be the woman my mother was. They just needed the go ahead from Mom. They got it when Father had a heart attack and was gone in the blink of an eye. After a week of mourning and services Mom called us into the parlor for a family meeting. I knew my life had changed by the seating arrangement she dictated to us. Her and my sisters on the couch on each side of her, and me on the floor sitting at their feet facing them. I wasn't shocked, what else did I expect? My life as a male was about to take shape. But there was, indeed, a surprise I never saw coming. And she led off with that. My sister's were equally caught flatfooted. But, it meant something different to them, and it made them smile when it was spelled out to them.

"Stephen", she began, " You are now the man of the house. You've always been like a son to me (well, of course, thought I) but the time has come to tell you this. You are my adopted son. We love you as if you were born to me but we adopted you at birth and raised you for this very situation, in case your father , your adopted father, passed on. When Kate was born, we decided to adopt a male to serve her and for her to train as she matured. We were certainly glad we did when Cindy was born two years later. She also needs a male to train. You are sitting at our feet for a reason, Stephen, do I have to spell it out any further?"

There I was, a seven year old boy, receiving the news of the world, that my whole existence was a lie, that I was brought into this family to become a servant for my sister's when the time came, and that they really weren't my sister's. Imagine the shock and trauma I should have felt. Here's what I felt instead. I'm sitting on the floor with 3 females sitting over me, each now putting their feet on me and none of them are related to me. I remember that as my first intentional sexual hard on in my life.

"No, maam, I get it" Ex-mom smiled and told me she was proud of me, that she always knew I was a good boy. My older now stepsister had her foot resting on my shoulder and I asked her if I could lick her feet. She nodded, pleased as punch, and covered my face with both feet. I did that to mess with my 5 year old stepsis. She was actually gonna be tougher than her elder sister. In time.

There's a lot to tell about the path my life took for the next 10 years.but, I digress. That's another story and I'm anxious to relive it as I look back on how it shaped me. And led me into the life of servitude with a remarkable very respected socialite that no one, not even you know about yet.

I could keep on and tell you what I expect, but I'm heading back to her tomorrow, so I'll just let the realty dictate from here. I hope I have a good story for you.

.

[janus-stanus]

It Seemed the Better Way

Rating: Teen and Up | Category: General, Angst, Character Study

Characters: Virgil and Janus, + a Remus cameo (and maybe someone else?)

Setting: Half when Virgil and Janus were around 10 years old; half in early July 2017, right before the Season 1 finale

Summary:

Years and years ago, Virgil came to Janus with a problem. They both swore themselves to secrecy. In doing so, Janus discovered his purpose. Now, as Virgil looks back on that decision, Janus comes to him with some questions. This time, they don’t see eye to eye. Virgil has to pick a side. He chooses neither.

Content warnings:

Imaginably standard for fics about Virgil choosing to duck out, but we get into his self-hatred and wanting to disappear

Homophobia (the characters don't literally experience it but the description of it is fairly intense)

Spider-related body horror, not much more extreme than Patton turning into Lilypadton though

And temporary possession

AO3 Link (13k words, one chapter + a short epilogue)

Because the fic is so long and mostly one part, I won’t be straight up posting it here to tumblr. Fortunately, you don’t need an AO3 account to read it. I will put the first ~1,700 words below the cut as a preview (plus the taglist). Since this is my first complete Sanders Sides fic, reblogs, kudos, and comments would be greatly appreciated! Hope you enjoy!

[props to @books-are-cool for beta reading the fic for me!]

Virgil had to steel himself before entering Janus’s room. It always unsettled him how empty yet cheery it was. The daffodil yellow walls and carpet, plus the faint scent of lemon air freshener, made him queasy, and there was nothing else to add any character or additional color. The one object that wasn’t a yellow-tinted carry-over from Thomas’s bedroom was the cushioned yellow chair Janus was currently lounging in. He seemed to have dozed off in it, still in his black pants, bright yellow polo shirt, and sparkly dark purple waistcoat. The sight made Virgil feel somewhat underdressed in his lilac pajamas.

The door shut behind him, and Janus’s eyes fluttered open. When he saw the intruder, dragging behind him a thin black blanket patterned with skulls, he let out a beleaguered yawn.

“Yes, Virgil?” 

He approached cautiously, rubbing his fingers against his safety blanket to calm his nerves. He did his best to block the clips of the evening broadcast from his mind for the moment. Instead, he forced eye contact with Janus, and, in a hushed tone, spat out the words that had plagued him for the past hour:

“Is Thomas gay?”

“…What? You mean, does he like guys? No, obviously,” Janus retorted as he rubbed his eyes. However, when he lowered his hands and saw the sincere concern in Virgil’s face, he paused.

“Are you sure?”

Present-day: Early July 2017

It’s a quarter past midnight, and Virgil finds himself in a paradox. His body has dissolved into jello and cries out to sink into bed, yet it turns to stone whenever he even thinks of leaving his post. His face sags like melting wax, but his eyes remain wide open, staring with laser intensity into the formless darkness of his room.

Usually, it’s easy for him to pin down the origin of his fatigued insomnia; some issue he blew out of proportion during the day, or a potential problem lurking on the horizon. Not this time. It was a good day. Just like yesterday, and the day before, and every other day in the past week. It’s standard for Thomas, and presumably the other three, but for Virgil specifically? It’s the first time in Thomas’s adult life that he’s experienced this level of calm. He could get used to it - if it didn’t come with the itching need to do something about it, to tear back the curtain and drag out the monsters lying in wait, to make himself useful. In combination, he’s left with a light, murky haze of apathy filling in the gaps where his emotions should be, creating the sensation of him slowly rising into the air. He needs to feel something. He wants to feel bad.

So he slides off the desk into the leather chair, closes out of the Evanescence playlist on his laptop, and pulls up the video that has rooted itself in the back corner of his mind. While it was uploading, it was the typical brand of anxiety that made it monopolize his attention. As Joan and Thomas had said, coming out was something you’ll never be done doing; however, this video was as close to a final statement of intent as anything would be. There was no turning back from here, no more lying hiding. And, even this many years on, he was still terrified of the fallout.

However, now that it’s immortalized on the web and thousands of unknowable eyes and ears have consumed it, with comments still rolling in by the dozens, the uneasy feeling wracking his body is of a different nature. Because they love the video, of course they do. The online community that has formed around Thomas never ceases to amaze him. Just a year or two ago he’d have laughed at the idea that he’d choose to scroll through the comments on one of Thomas’s posts, but here he is, once again proving his visions of the future wrong. It’s the most he’s smiled in years (though the competition for that honor has been more heated recently than it was for a long, long time).

He scrolls past multiple “I’m here, I’m queer” jokes, compliments for everyone who took part, proud declarations of identity, and allies sharing their support. Those all warm his heart, but the ones which make him pause are the uplifting coming out stories: people who opened up to friends and found they have more in common than they knew; people who gathered the courage to have the talk with their parents (not in the foolhardy way he had, god no, he has yet to watch through the video without skipping that part); people who found acceptance in their communities, even religious ones, even at school. And more than that, people, total strangers from every corner of the globe, who claim Thomas as an inspiration for them living their truths.

It’s those comments that trigger the uneasy feeling. That, and whenever the word “repression” resounds in his headphones like a high-pitched whistle.

Virgil lives in the negative. He deals not just in apprehension and fear, but in embarrassment, regret, and guilt; and he exaggerates each instance by his nature. But this whirlpool in his gut is the result of more than just one bad memory, one isolated failure. It was a chain of choices that formed the armor which has since fused to his bones; actions taken and opportunities passed over, things said and unsaid, truths suffocated and lies that gained a life of their own,

“You called?”

Virgil slams the laptop shut almost hard enough to shatter the screen. He flicks the desk lamp on, then swivels his chair to face the intruder, shaking his head a few times to part his bangs.

“...Janus.” Not the bad feeling he was looking for.

“You remembered,” he grins, an artificial glimmer in his eyes. He takes a second to adjust his capelet and ensure that the golden clasps on his shirt are perfectly in place. “Forgive me for the lack of professionalism, I had to take care of, a thing.”

From the way he says ‘thing’, Virgil knows exactly who he’s talking about. Some things never change. “You couldn’t have knocked first?”

“I thought we were beyond that point in our relationship,” Janus pouts, putting his hand to his chest. “You’re not going to kick me out, are you?”

“Depends,” Virgil responds, without missing a beat, as he pulls his headphones off his ears and tosses them onto the desk. “Why are you here?”

“To talk.”

“About what?”

“...I was hoping you would take the lead on that front,” Janus says, “You’ve always been so good at that. But if it’s up to me, I suppose I could provide a starting point.” He makes a show of glancing around the dimly lit room, recoiling slightly at the inexplicable smell of lavender and expired Halloween candy, before he locks his gaze on the anxious side with the most neutral smile he can muster. “What are your feelings on last month’s ‘Having Pride’ video?”

Virgil huffs as his body tenses. He wants to say ‘fine’, but then he remembers who he’s talking to. “In all honesty? They’re mixed.”

“Really?” Janus gasps, with all the subtlety of a piano plummeting from a third-story window. “I’m, quite frankly, astounded to hear that from you. Why?”

Virgil rolls his eyes. “Look,” he hisses, “I don’t know what you’re hoping to get out of this, but we are not going there.” He flips up his hood and spins the chair a full 180 degrees. “Good to see you, now get out. Maybe try again another time.”

For a moment, the room goes quiet, music to Virgil’s ears. Then Janus fires back, with words like daggers:

“If you say so. It’s all water under the bridge now. Just, don’t sit there and make yourself out to be the victim.” When he gets no reaction, he gives a final thrust: “I did it for you, remember?”

Virgil’s hands clamp down on the armrests. He tries not to say anything, to just let him have the satisfaction of having the last word and leave. But the last statement out of his mouth devolves into outright mockery as it echoes in his ears, begging to be challenged.

In the blink of an eye, he rises and sharply turns to face his opponent. “You keep on saying that,” he growls, leaning in with his arms crossed atop the back of the chair, “But you and I both know it stopped being true a long time ago - if it ever was true.”

Janus’s eyes narrow. He briefly flashes his fangs, but he bites his tongue. Instead, he plants one hand on the chair, as if throwing down a dueling glove, then shoves it toward the other wall. Virgil catches his balance just before he’s sent tumbling forward, his hood sliding back down.

“Apologies, let’s try that again,” the scaly side smirks. “You were saying?”

Virgil takes a moment to refocus his frustration. “How mature of you,” he mumbles (not that he should have expected better from him). Then he jerks his head up so he can drill his eyes into the snake’s as he continues. “I won’t pretend I wasn’t in on it to start, because believe it or not I’m better than that. Thing is, I realized later that it was a terrible idea, that it would only make things worse in the long run, for all of us. So I asked you to give it up. Did you listen? Of course not. And you never said why you couldn’t, you just-”

“Because you knew,” Janus cuts in, his voice sparking with indignation, everything else about him suddenly stone cold. “You knew exactly why.”

All Virgil can do is stare blankly back at him. While he waits for further clarification, he idly notices the dark smudges fading in under the other side’s eyes.

Janus cocks his head in turn, scanning every inch of Virgil’s clueless face. He opens and closes his mouth a few times. When he fails to find the words, his arm begins moving with a will of its own.

Virgil notices the trembling hand in his peripheral vision right before it lands on his shoulder. He takes an abrupt step back, and from the depths of his subconscious something roars, “Don’t you dare t-”

And it clicks.

END OF PREVIEW

If you want to read the rest, here’s the AO3 link again!

TAGLIST: (massive thanks to @the-taglist-repository!)

@smileyzs @robinwritesshitposts  @thatgaydemigodnerd @arya-skywalker @itsabsurd-and-terrifying @potatsanderssides @legendsgates @demoniccheese83 @rainbowbowtie @kieraelieson @star-crossed-shipper @a-fandom-trashdump @just-your-typical-trans-guy @idont-freaking-know @katelynn-a-fan @dwbh888 @royal-stormcloud @ananonsplace @ollyollyoxinfree @brain-deadx0 @the-grounded-raven @grouptalekindnesssoul @the-hoely-bleach @anvil527up @fanficloverinthesun 

[sparklyaxolotlstudent]

I blame my own brain for coming with new things instead of continuing with the WIPs that are really in need of working on them!

Based on my recent Crack Theory of Lila having a broken Miraculous

(I’m lacking a name right now)

-

“WHAT THE HELL?!”

Lila jumped back from her desk, as she looked at the green… thing that had appeared from her earring. The thing was looking everywhere, and their eyes seemed to move independently, which only freaked Lila even more.

“Finally! After a thousand years I’m free again!” The thing proclaimed happily. Then it turned to Lila. “Took you long enough, Lila”

“How… how do you know my name?” asked Lila, clearly afraid.

“Oh right.” The thing focused both eyes on Lila. And honestly, she didn’t know if this freaked her more or less than that thing having her focus elsewhere on her room. “You know what a Miraculous is, don’t you?”

Lila nodded, a slight fury replacing the fear on her face. “Yes, it’s how that Ladybrat and that Mangy Cat get their powers”

The thing rolled their eyes, which grossed Lila out. “Yeah, that. Well, turns out your family heirloom was also a Miraculous” said the thing, pointing to the earring she was polishing before. “Some family heirloom that turned out to be, huh?”

“What” Lila made a run for her earring, picking it up and examining it again. “How?” she asked. “Why now? I have worn this practically all my life! And who the hell… WHAT the hell are you?”

“Let me begin from the start. Hello Lila Rossi, my name is Glamm, I’m the Kwami of Perception, the Kwami of the Chameleon Miraculous, which now you have in your hands”

“Chameleon?” Lila at least now knew why the thing was so weird. “Wait, Miraculous? I have a Miraculous?” she was finally processing the words of Glamm.

“Yeah, it seems that paste you stole from that girl with pigtails fixed my Miraculous”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t steal this from Marinette! She offered it to me!”

Lila quickly remembered how she had acquired that paste. Marinette was cleaning those horrible earrings she was always wearing with it during recess, and thanks to her crafty manipulations of the rest of the class, she had made her give it to her.

Glamm rolled their eyes again. “I have been alongside my miraculous for a long time Lila Dolores Rossi. I have seen every lie, omission and manipulation you have dished out. The fact that my Miraculous was broken was the only reason why your pathetic lies were believed in the first place”

“What?” Now Lila was furious. She was a Master Manipulator! She had been doing this her whole life she… had been wearing the Miraculous this whole time too… “What do you mean?” she asked more calmly.

“Kwamis are the Anthropomorphic Personification of an abstract concept. In my case, I’m Perception, how you see and how other people see you. Normally, my Miraculous allow the user to shape shift into other people, and even copy their powers if they have some”

Lila’s mind started going a mile a minute about how she could use this to discredit Ladybug.

“BUT! Ever since my Miraculous was broken, my connection to the physical world was broken too, and I was unable to interact with anything. But my power still seeped out of the Miraculous, although in a more passive way.”

Lila blinked in confusion. “What do you mean, exactly?” she narrowed her eyes, imagining where this conversation was going, but hoping she was wrong.

“My power allowed you to be perceived as you wanted. Why do you thing all people believed your frankly ridiculous claims without even checking?”

“I’m… I’m very good at lying”

Glamm raised an inexistent eyebrow.  “Really? The journalist wannabe doesn’t check with Ladybug, who she encounters every other day? The napkin to the eye is believed by a child who was able to create artificial intelligence? Your teachers believe your many many disabilities without a doctor’s note? Your own mom believes your school is closed without checking for herself?”

Lila let herself fall on her seat. “But… they always believe me… it was because of you?”

Glamm nodded. “Yes, I had no choice in that.”

Lila looked at the earring in her hands and felt a myriad of things about it. Anger, regret, disillusion... If an akuma wasn’t currently attacking the city (Either that giant baby or the pigeon guy, she hadn’t pay attention to the Akuma Alert, other that it was a repeat akuma) she was sure she would have attracted an akuma by now.

“You have a choice now, though. I know you, you probably think that you can use my power to make trouble to Ladybug, don’t you?”

Lila opened her mouth to argue, but knew this thing already knew the truth. “And what if I do, Pascal?”

“Pas… Oh I get it, very funny, ha ha.” Glamm replied sarcastically. His eyes focused on Lila again. She recoiled. “Naturally, you can do whatever you want, and I will assist you, but you are smart. You should understand what will happen now that my Miraculous has been repaired.” He waited a few seconds, until saw Lila change expressions. “Your silly lies won’t be believed as easily. Your previous lies will not be believed as easily.”

Lila grabbed the earring and tried to break it with her bare hands. Glamm rolled their eyes again. This girl really had a thick skull.

“Only a Cataclysm can break a Miraculous… which is how it happened last time, by the way, thanks for asking.”

Lila glared at Glamm. “So what do you suggest?”

“Well, like I said, you have options, and you probably won’t like any of them” Lila glared at him, but just sighed. “Well for starters, you could give me to Ladybug”

“HELL NO” she said, putting the earring back on her ear. “No fucking way I’m doing that”

“I’m just listing your options, you dolt. Option number two, you keep your life as is, and become better at lying”

“I like that one”

“Of course you’ve had my power basically all your life; so again, your lying abilities are basically the same than when you were five years old. People will catch up really quickly, and you will be humiliated, isolated and probably sued by all those people you have lied to and about to.”

Lila gulped. If Glamm was right and all her “expertise” was actually their power all along, she was very much screwed.

“Another option, of course, is what you already planned. Use my power and transform into Ladybug”

“Yeah! She will be hated by everyone and…”

“And she and Chat Noir will eventually caught you and take me, and since this is no akumatization, you will be again: humiliated, isolated, sued and probably end up in jail”

“Yeah, like they would catch me, look at their track record!”

“They always catch the akuma. The only reason Hawk Moth is still at large is because he sends akumas instead of going himself.”

Lila glared at Glamm again, but knew they were right.

“So basically, I’m screwed either way I go. I always thought getting a Miraculous would be better than this” She sunk in her chair, holding her legs.

“I’m not finished.” Glamm flied to Lila’s range of vision. “There is another thing you can try… like I say, you probably won’t like it, but…”

Lila perked up. What she didn’t understood is that while she merely thought she was a good manipulator, Glamm was the real deal, and while all they were saying was the truth, they were also playing Lila like the cheap kazoo that she was.

“There is another way to crew with Ladybug… and that Cat too, if you want”

“Really?”

“Really. Remember when you were Volpina the first time?”

Lila nodded. She had always thought that everyone was lying when they said they didn’t remember the things they did when they were akumatized, as she remembered her time as Volpina (Both times) and as Chameleon. Now she realized that it was probably because of her own Miraculous that she had her memories of those times.

“Well, you can become a hero again. A real one this time. We can help take Hawk Moth down… and easily upstage Ladybug as Paris best hero”

“We’ll have to help her?”

“Yes. And keep a secret identity too”

“Pfft, work without credit? No thank you”

“Should I remind you that Chloe is Queen Bee and still no one likes her?”

Lila looked at the kwami. One of their eyes was wandering again. Lila will take some time getting used to that quirk. And to the fact that they were right… again.

“If you really want to screw with Ladybug and everyone else, we have to play the long game. You can’t claim to be ‘Paris Greatest Hero’ on your first outing, or ‘The only hero that Paris needs’ or any of those silly things you said as Volpina.”

“That’s boring”

“But effective. Do you want to be recognized by Ladybug immediately? I mean, it’s the same for me if she takes my Miraculous, but you might have other plans…”

“But what about my normal life then? Without your powers…”

“Without my powers you might want to lay low for a while. You’ll have to fight against the urge to claim outrageous things, or to make that pigtailed girl miserable. You’ll have to play nice, for real, and try to tell the truth. Your old tricks won’t work anymore.”

Lila contemplated her new life. She wasn’t opposed to be a hero, really, having the adoration of the public would be rather nice. After all, Chat Noir was admired and respected despite Ladybug doing most of the work anyway. She would need to think on a good super hero name. A shame she couldn’t be “Volpina”.

“We could go on now, you know?”

“And make my debut be against a giant baby? No thank you.  Magnifique Caméléonne will have a debut worth of the gods”

“… Magnificent Chameleon? What did I just tell you? Caméléonne will suffice”

“… dammit”

-

Notes:

Glamm is supposed to be nonbinary, so please tell me if I refer to them as “he/him” or “she/her” instead of they/them so I can correct it. 

Glamm’s phrase is gonna be “Glamm, tongue lash” unless I find a better pun.

Caméléonne is simply the french word for a female chameleon. I’ll change if there is something better. The italian word would be vetoed by Glamm as being “too obvious”, so either something in french or english. (Countess Chameleon has a nice ring to it, but it’s too long)

The Chameleon Miraculous power is “Replication”, where the holder transform into someone else, powers included. Their Five minutes start counting when they change, and if they transform into another miraculous holder, they can use their power only once, their counter is unaffected. I’m debating in whether giving them the drawback of not being able to change back until their counter runs out or not. 

the Chameleon hero’s weapon is one of these bad boys

but shaped like a chameleon tongue(or just without the “fingers”), of course. I was going to use a whip, but this is waaaaay more fun. 

Opinions? Suggestions for Lila’s hero name?

Her suit will probably be just heavily based on her Volpina one, ‘cuz let’s admit it, that thing looks rather good. 

[daisyquakes]

Gives You Hell || Discord

summary: Robbie takes it upon himself to break Daisy out of the Raft. But they see something unexpected on their way out that neither of them can let sit. trigger warnings: death mention, murder mention, suicidal ideations, mentions of torture, and general mentions of grief, depression, anxiety -- it’s dark and everyone is sad featuring: @vengeancedemons​

DAISY: There was a part of Daisy that wondered if the Ice Box would have been a kinder place to be hidden away inside. But there... there they had experimented on people like Daisy. Inhumans. Made them stronger - tried to weaponize them - but Dasiy was at the point of her isolation where she would have been happy to see anyone. Even a doctor with a blade in their hand and a devilish look in their eyes, just someone who would speak to her. But in the Raft, there were two guards that were posted at the end of the hall, watching the others like her that were in isolation. Ready to jump into action if anything ever happened.

Not that it did.

The only thing that ever happened was when they whispered to each other, and their incoherent words bounced around the otherwise empty space.

She had a moment with Matt and one with Alex... but since then? She had been on her own. Restrained in a straightjacket and left to sit in a room with nothing. No chair, no toilet, no sink. Three walls and the fourth made out of bars. And her only constant companion. Silence. (She wished she could hear the water currents running against the exterior, but Daisy was sure that she was in the center of the facility. There was no chance for Daisy to lose herself to white noise.)

Alex had told her that she’d get her out of here - that Daisy would be back on the outside but that it would take time, and Daisy didn’t know how much of that she had. Or how much of it had passed. (It felt like time passed differently inside the Raft... or maybe not at all.) Patience was hard when you were turned so far around that you weren’t sure what side of the planet you were on anymore.

tucked into the corner of her cell, Daisy stretched out her legs and tipped her head back, gazing off towards the other corner of her cell. A blank wall. Wondering if now was the time to start praying to the God she had turned her back on years ago - wondering if she could ask for anything after all this time.

ROBBIE: It would surprise no one to know that Hell brought with it no shortage of nightmares. Some nights, Robbie didn’t sleep at all. He lay in his bed for hours with screams still echoing in his ears, roamed the streets with the heat of phantom flames still biting the air behind him. What some people didn’t expect, however, was that Hell wasn’t the only thing that haunted him. Hell wasn’t the only thing marring his sleep, and his memories of fire and brimstone weren’t the only ones keeping him up at night. There was more to it than that.

Mostly, there was Eli.

A lot of moments with his uncle followed him around but, more often than not, it was the end that made his breaths come in short gasps, the last part that made his heart pound. Robbie’s mind went back to that last conversation, to the carbon spike through his chest and the madness in Eli’s eyes. Why’d you do it? He’d asked, wanting desperately to understand. Become a killer? And Eli, god, Eli hadn’t missed a beat. Well, I guess it runs in the family.

Eli Morrow tore Robbie’s life to shreds. His mistakes left one of his nephews in a wheelchair, the other dead on the concrete and damned to Hell. He’d ripped apart every piece of Robbie’s life that mattered, left him in shambles.

And it was, at the end of the day, a habit that ran in the family.

He’d been sloppy. That was all there was to it. He’d showed up at Daisy’s place drunk and stupid, begged her to take him to his Charger so he could steal it back. He’d been so desperate to regain that last piece of his uncle that he hadn’t wondered whether he might turn himself into Eli in the process. One mistake, and that was it. That was all it took. Robbie tore Daisy’s life to shreds with one mistake. And now, it was on him to fix it.

The moment he heard about her imprisonment, the moment he showed up to her apartment after those unanswered texts to hear her neighbor chattering about how they arrested the freak, took her to where she belongs, no doubt, Robbie began planning. He refused to be the man who raised him, refused to let this be just another of the awful things coursing through his veins. When Robbie tore someone’s life apart, when his actions resulted in someone innocent losing everything, he was going to make an effort to fix it. Even if he had to walk through Hell to do it.

God, he wished that was a fucking metaphor.

It was something he’d learned in his travels, something he’d discovered in researching how to get back to Earth. Time wasn’t the only thing that moved differently between dimensions --- space did, too. One step in Hell might mean a thousand on Earth. You could pop in in one place and pop out in another.

You could enter a portal in your shitty apartment and exit it in the Raft.

It wasn’t a perfect plan by any stretch of the imagination, and it took time to get it right. Robbie spent hours in his apartment figuring out exactly where he’d need to go, looking at coordinates and scouring shady internet messaging boards. He used his insomnia to his advantage, didn’t sleep for his own reasons. A tendency towards murder, as it turned out, wasn’t the only quality Robbie had inherited from his uncle. When he put his mind to it, when he really focused, he could tap into Eli’s smarts, too. He could plot the world’s most dangerous goddamn prison heist in a few days.

(And he knew a few days might still be too long. He knew that stories of the Raft painted it as the sort of place where minds were lost in hours. He knew that. He was just trying not to think of it.)

Getting the Rider to agree was difficult… but not as hard as it would have been if it were anyone but Daisy on the line. The Devil had always had something of a soft spot for her, and with the two of them working together, Robbie found himself stepping out of his portal just inside the door to her cell. He stepped into the cramped space on shaky legs, swallowing as he tried to put on the mask of a man who hadn’t walked through Hell to get there. Glancing down at her, he clenched his jaw and tried not to explode at the sight. She hadn’t been treated well, that much was clear. Robbie wanted nothing more than to walk out of this cell and kill every goddamn guard in this place, and he didn’t think the Rider would stop him. But… They had to go. If they wanted to make it out without him landing in a cell identical to this one, they had to go.

“You look like shit,” he greeted. “Wanna head out?”

DAISY: There was that crackling in the air again. That familiar sound that came with a smell of burning in the air - one that she had only smelt twice before. When Robbie was dragging his uncle to hell, and that day when he finally came back. It had the same smell in the air and Daisy could feel her heartbeat pick up with hope.

But it was short-lived.

Because as soon as Daisy’s brain started to process the expression on Robbie’s face, the familiar clench of his jaw - the way he looked as if he was about to tear apart a person with his bare hands. It was a look she had seen in his eyes before, and Daisy was over the ledge of delirium. So, she laughed. Of all the people she could hallucinate. Robbie.

“You know,” Daisy started, as the laughter finally subsided. “I expected to see Coulson, you know?” But saying his name caused her heart to ache immediately. (And what Daisy would give to hear some parting words of advice from Coulson?) Her eyes had locked into her hallucinations and she could feel her eyes burning. She wanted to ask him why he was there, why, out of everyone, he was the person she was losing her mind about.

Had she really gone so long without food and water? Would they leave her like this? Imagining people she cared about, stumbling into her cell, with some misguided hope to save her? Robbie told her she looked like shit and Daisy couldn’t help but smirk. “Sorry, Reyes, they confiscated my makeup -- if I knew I had a hot date coming, I would have at least brushed my hair. Now... get lost.” Daisy moved her leg and kicked Robbie.

Only... her leg made contact.

Her leg made contact.

Daisy leaned forward, her head tipping so she could look up at him. “You’re really here.” She tried to catch her breath, wanting to latch onto some sort of humor and pretend that she wasn’t completely fucked up - but she couldn't. She looked at Robbie, her mouth was slightly open while she processed the fact he was actually there. “Get me the fuck out of here.”

ROBBIE: For a moment, a fraction of a heartbeat, there was almost a smile on her face. Robbie wasn’t used to people looking happy to see him, particularly not when he showed up like this, with the smell of burning air and smoke following in his wake, but Daisy wasn’t most people. And, shit, Robbie wasn’t exactly his usual self around her. Typically, Ghost Rider reared his ugly head to send people into Hell. He was the last thing they saw before fire and brimstone took them over completely, the last face they saw on the right side of the grave. But Daisy was different. Daisy was always different.

At least, Robbie thought she was. But then that smile was slipping from her face and, suddenly, he wasn’t so sure.

Did she hate him for landing her in here? He wasn’t sure he’d be able to blame her if she did. It was his fault, after all, his selfish demands that launched her from the government’s nice list to the world’s most secure super prison in a matter of hours. Robbie’d been in Hell for years now, and in that time, Daisy seemed to have made out all right. She’d been alive when he came back. She’d been free. A few days of him back in her life, and she was here. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together.

She spoke, and Robbie’s brow furrowed, confusion clear on his face. “I expected to see Coulson, you know?” It took a moment for the realization to strike, took a beat for his mind to catch up to the situation.

Hallucinations were fairly common in Hell. Robbie had seen them often, either in the form of people he wanted to see, like Gabe or Daisy, or in the form of people he wanted to avoid, like Eli or Santino Noguera. He’d never stopped to think that the conditions here were dangerously close to the ones some people faced in Hell, never paused to consider just how thoroughly isolation could torture someone. Guilt washed over him in droves, and he pushed it away quickly. There’d be time to hate himself later. There always was.

Her foot made contact with his leg, and it was her turn to get that burst of realization. He noted the way her eyes widened, the way that flicker of hope was back and, selfishly, he was relieved for it. She didn’t hate him. For the moment, at least, she didn’t hate him. Maybe it was only because he was her ride, maybe she’d find time to be pissed at him the moment they landed back in New York, but it still felt good.

“I’m really here,” he confirmed with a curt nod. “And I’m really hoping you haven’t lost it completely, ‘cause the next part of this field trip’s really gonna suck if you check out on me.” He offered her a hand, ready to pull her to her feet. “We’re gonna get you out of that fucking jacket, Johnson, and then we’re gone. Won’t be much sightseeing on the way out. My shortcut doesn’t exactly come with a scenic route.” He nodded back to the portal still open behind him, Hell staring back at them both from within the circle. He doubted she’d like the ride, but the destination was definitely better than this shithole. And it was temporary. It was a few minutes at the most, and they’d be free. They’d be out. Robbie reminded himself of that over and over, desperate to calm his racing heart.

DAISY: The diet they had her on, Daisy knew that they were trying to control her more than just with the collar. The proportions, the choices, it was all to keep her body and her mind weak, so that just in case the collar failed, she’d still be docile. But how long had she been in here? Daisy didn’t know - and without knowing how many days had passed, she didn’t know how weak her muscles would be.

She wasn’t entirely sure what to tell him. Sorry that she thought he wasn’t really there? Or confess that it wouldn’t have been her first hallucination inside the Raft? It was one of those things that no matter how flippant Daisy wanted to be about it, it twisted her insides. She bit down on her tongue and tipped her head downward, hoping he wouldn’t notice the look in her eyes or call her out on how casually she talked to him like she had spoken to hallucinations before.

Maybe he was waiting until they were out of here - maybe he’d confront her about what she had been seeing on the other side of that portal... but she was thankful for the time to settle her mind. “I didn’t think---” Daisy cleared her throat and shook her head. “Alex said it’d take time. I would have told her not to worry about it if I knew that you were planning a jailbreak.” Not that Robbie had any way of letting her know he was on his way - it wasn’t like she could track him on her phone like Uber.

Robbie stretched out his hand and Daisy glanced up, shifting so that he could grab her arm easily. Her hands weren’t exactly an option considering the way the jacket was wrapped up. “I mean, I’m trusting you to navigate me through a hellscape and take me back to the real world - and -- really? We can’t do a direct flight?” Daisy quipped before turning so that he could undo the buckles on the back of the jacket. “Have to lose it a little to think a route through hell is the best way to travel.”

Joking was all she could do to try and tame the pounding in her chest. Her eyes darting towards the guards who were already on the radio, watching them - but thankfully, they had only seen Robbie from behind, and with any luck, the camera wouldn’t have caught his face either. (She’d double-check once she was on the outside. Brush off her hacking skills to protect Robbie from the consequences of his stupid choice to try and save her.)

“Hurry.” She urged. Daisy took a deep breath and glanced over her shoulder at Robbie, “And please tell me... we’re not going to spend two years in there.”

ROBBIE: She wasn’t all there, though Robbie wasn’t sure if it was drugs, malnourishment, or the collar around her neck making her feel off. It could have had less to do with her and more to do with their surroundings, too, of course. Hell raged to his side, the portal wild and chaotic and, above all else, impatient. Hell didn’t like to be kept waiting. Behind him, too, there was Hell. Robbie didn’t know what went on within the walls of the Raft, didn’t know what sort of punishments they designed for those deemed dangerous enough to be imprisoned within it, but he knew it was bad. The Rider was stirring within him at that sense of desperation in the air. This is Hell, he was saying. This is Hell, too. Hell is mine, Reyes, you know it is. Robbie clenched his jaw, pushed the Devil down, and turned his attention back to Daisy. It wouldn’t be so easy once they stepped foot inside that portal but for now, they were still in Robbie’s world. Barely, but still.

She looked a little better than she had a moment ago, a little more settled. Maybe it was the knowledge that she was getting out, the fact that she’d soon be as free as a person could be with the United States government on their ass. Still… She didn’t look great. She’d still thought he wasn’t real, still looked prepared to fall over at any moment. Part of him wanted to squat down beside her, wanted to kneel at her side and take her face in his hands and look her in the eyes, to make sure she knew she was safe. Another part wanted to tear his way through the wall of bars behind him, to tear apart the guards outside, the ones on the other end of the radios they were speaking into, the ones in the cushy offices with the big paychecks coming in every month, every goddamn person in this hellhole. In the end, he did neither because neither would help her in the moment. Neither would get her out of that goddamn jacket faster.

He swallowed, throat dry and aching as he shook his head slightly. “Fuck time,” he said quickly, because he knew time wasn’t feasible. If you left someone in a place like this, took time to get them out through the legal channels, they wouldn’t come back the same. Robbie knew firsthand what it felt like to take your time clawing your way out of Hell. He knew from personal experience just how broken it left you. “I don’t know who Alex is, what she’s got planned, but fuck time. We’re leaving now. Okay?” He hoped she didn’t say no, hoped she didn’t ask him to leave her there. It would be a painfully Daisy thing to do, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to stomach it. If she told him to leave him, he’d try to convince her until those bars came down, until those guards came in, until they tested their strength out on him. He’d already walked through Hell to get to her. It wouldn’t be much harder to stick around in it, if he had to. At least then she wouldn’t be here alone.

She shifted, and Robbie pulled her to his feet as quickly as he could, making short work of the straps on the straight jacket. He eyed the collar for a moment, but he could hear the crackling of the radio behind them and he knew they didn’t have time to deal with it here. “Yeah, well, if you don’t like the transportation I can always look for another flight. Just, you know, might take time. And I don’t think either of us want to spend a layover here.” He kept his voice light, but there was a tightness to it, too, a discomfort he couldn’t hide. They were both good at this, both skilled in telling stupid jokes while the goddamn world fell apart, but fuck, it wasn’t easy now. Nothing was easy now, not with most of his energy split between keeping the portal open and keeping the Rider at bay. “Plenty of people’d kill for a first class trip through the Underworld, you know.”

Behind him, he heard boots on the ground, and he knew they were out of time. It was now or never, this Hell or that one. Daisy told him to hurry, and Robbie nodded. “We’ll take care of the dog tags when we get settled,” he told her, taking her arm and leading her quickly into the portal. He caught sight of a guard entering the cell behind him, positioned himself between the portal and Daisy as the bullets flew in after them. The gate closed before anyone could follow, and Robbie sighed, letting out a groan as his lungs reinflated. “Stings like a bitch every goddamn time,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders with a grimace. Two shots landed. Not the worst show of resistance he’d ever faced. He could feel the Rider thrashing against the proverbial walls, desperate to get out of his cell now that Daisy was free of hers. “Uh, yeah,” he said, turning his attention back to Daisy. “I’ll do my best there, Johnson.” He grimaced again, shaking his head. “Look, I --- I’m not sure how long I can keep the other guy down. He gets out and I might not get out of here, but you will. Me and him have an understanding there.” Robbie shook his head again, taking a step forward. “Come on. New York’s this way.”

DAISY: Robbie knew the risk of coming here to break her out. He knew that if he wasn’t careful that there would be a cost - he had to know. Because Daisy’s faith in him in this moment hinged on her assuming that he understood what he was doing was dangerous and stupid and could harm everyone around them. If they got a good picture of his face, it wasn’t just Daisy and Robbie that would be in trouble, it would be every person they had wrapped their arms around. Every person that they looked at with even a hint of fondness in their eyes.

Neither of them had many people. Their families were limited - Robbie had Gabe and Gabe still thought Robbie was dead and Daisy... she had Matt (another person who had returned from the dead only for Daisy to find a way of fucking things up). But that bonded them, that burning feeling to protect the ones they did care about - and both of them were willing to walk through hell or take a bullet for the people they cared about. Robbie might not have been the hero type, but he was enough like Daisy for her to recognize it. The recklessness, the running headfirst into the fire, the Rider might not have given two shits about what happened to her.

But Robbie Reyes did.

And after all the shit she had dragged him through... he could have left her there. He could have shrugged off her being in the Raft and settled on it being someone else’s problem - he could have left Daisy to suffer the consequences on her own. But he didn’t. Not that Daisy would have blamed him for leaving her to the wolves - he had people to take care of himself, after all. (Him being there… it meant something. Even if it was unsaid, even if neither of them looked at each other and said that it, it was something.) “Fuck time,” Daisy repeated in a murmur. “Yeah... we’re going now.” Repeating his words, letting them echo in the space around them a second time - made them feel more real for her. Alex might have been able to clear Daisy’s name if given time, but as disoriented as Daisy was now, she wasn’t sure who she’d be once Alex sorted everything out. Daisy wanted to think that she could resist it, that she’d be the same at the end of it… but she knew better. Every mission she had gone on had left a deep scar across her psyche, why would the Raft be any different?

Space had taken so much from her. The Framework. Every other mission she had followed Coulson and her team on – it all took something. It was a miracle that there was any Daisy left to salvage. There was a very real possibility that it was Daisy that gave up on herself long before anyone else did... but in this case? How many could say they survived the Raft? This was the end of the line for most people like Daisy. Giving up was logical. Giving up was what sane people did. Coming to terms with their reality - another thing that sane people did. (Was Daisy sane? Or would she have driven herself crazy with some misguided idea that she’d be freed from this prison?)

But fuck time. Robbie was there - and there was no need to worry about what might have been. Robbie was there and Daisy hadn’t lost her mind. That’s all that mattered. The now. Daisy just had to focus on it. "That a joke about murder, Reyes?” Daisy huffed a laugh, letting herself find some odd comfort in his humor. (Focusing on anything but their surroundings - and even if it was Robbie’s gallow humor, she’d embrace it.) On the other side of the portal, Daisy turned around to watch as Robbie’s body threw out the bullets it had taken. She tried not to think about it as she started undoing the rest of the jacket. It wasn’t even about the heat of hell, it was the feeling of being restricted. (She would have torn off the collar too, but Daisy wasn’t sure what could force the damn thing off.)

“Fuck that, Reyes,” Daisy shot back immediately. The Rider wasn’t something that Robbie could control - not always - and this... this was his domain. She could only imagine how loud the Rider got here. “Don’t you fucking dare,” she warned. He had just gotten back - and he was already jumping back into hell? (No that wasn’t what was freaking Daisy out - it was another person willing to give up their life for her without asking what she wanted. Another person that would be destroyed because of her. How many names until it would end? Or would it end with her name?)

And what fucked up universe brought Robbie back to Earth and then stole him away immediately after? (The one they lived in, clearly.) She was ready to start yelling at him, Daisy stepped closer to him, reaching for his collar, ready to threaten to fight the Rider herself if the other guy thought for two seconds that Daisy was going to let that happen - not that she was much of a threat with the collar locked around her neck... but before she could start, she heard screaming. The anger quickly faded and Daisy couldn’t tell if it was because of the screaming - or the place they were in - but she was on edge. “Robbie...”

He said something about New York being a certain way - but all Daisy could focus on was the cheering and screaming, the sounds of a mass of people grouped in one area. On the horizon, it came into focus, it looked like a coliseum, an arena, a battleground. There was a woman being dragged towards it. A blonde - not just any blonde, Daisy recognized her. Trish Walker. “Do you see that?” Daisy asked, rubbing her forehead as she blinked, and when she opened her eyes... it wasn’t Trish she saw anymore. It was Coulson.

(It couldn’t be. It wasn’t the real him - it was a specter. It had to be.)

Daisy grabbed Robbie roughly by the arm, fueled entirely by panic. “Where is it? The portal - we need to go now.”

ROBBIE: There were a thousand different ways this could go wrong. Robbie knew each and every one of them, had a lengthy list of worst case scenarios lined up in his head. He could get caught here. They could put him in a cell in the Raft and he could rot until the Rider finally allowed his body to give out on him, until the Devil let him go from one Hell to another. He could get stuck between here in New York. The Rider could take him over at the last moment, could shakel him in his own mind all over again, send him back to that world where all he had was a freeway that lead to nowhere and his own thoughts reminding him whose fault it was he was there.

And those, those were some of the better options. There were things he wouldn’t let himself consider, thoughts he was afraid to give name to. They could realize who he was. They could go back to that shitty house in L.A., they could find Gabe and use him to draw Robbie out in the open. Or… he could fail. He could go through all this, he could walk through Hell to find her, could stand in a new version of the nightmare that still plagued him and plead with her to come along and she could tell him no. It was something Robbie learned the hard way, something that Eli and his parents and Coulson all taught him in different ways. You could fight for someone with everything you had, could walk through Hell for them, and sometimes it still wasn’t enough to save them. Sometimes, people were just lost.

He wasn’t going to let that be Daisy. That wasn’t how this story ended. Daisy didn’t get to disappear into the world’s worst prison for the crime of helping him. She didn’t get to spend the rest of her life in a cell because Robbie fucked up. He knew a thing or two about one person paying for another’s mistakes, had seen Gabe in a wheelchair because Eli fucked up. It was the Bauers, Eli had insisted, Joe and Lucy, they started this. They lied. And god, Robbie had felt like laughing. Gabe was in a wheelchair, Robbie had died, and Eli was still going on endlessly about his reason for it all. As if it mattered, as if any of that shit made a goddamn difference at the end of the day. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, that was how the saying went. Robbie could vouch for that personally, had seen just how Hellish good intentions could make someone. He’d never meant for this to happen to Daisy, just as his uncle never meant for Robbie and Gabe to be caught up in his shit.

Well, I guess it runs in the family.

Daisy spoke, repeated his words back to him, and the relief was nearly enough to take Robbie off his feet. Sometimes, you didn’t get to save people. Sometimes, you did everything you could, you went to Hell and back, you fought with every part of you, and it wasn’t enough. Sometimes. Not today. Today, he at least got her out of the fucking cell. He didn’t know what would happen next, didn’t know how this story ended, but it wouldn’t be with her spending the rest of her life in a manmade Hell because of his mistakes. And maybe the next story ended differently, maybe Robbie couldn’t get away from the things that ran in his family, but for the moment, they were all right. He could recognize a win when he saw one, even if it was a single battle in a war that would go on for years to come.

He huffed a quiet laugh, half genuine humor half leftover relief from the realization that she was coming with him. Shrugging, he offered her a brief nod. “Hey, joke about what you know, right? Murder’s kinda my thing. Seem to remember somebody labeling me a serial killer once.” If you’d told him back then, when Daisy Johnson was just a girl who showed up at his shop talking shit and pissing him off more than anyone else had in a long time that he’d one day walk through literal Hell for just a chance at making sure she was all right, Robbie would have laughed. He would have called you a goddamn idiot, would have done anything but believe you. Back then, the idea of saving her would have seemed insane. Now, the idea of leaving her felt far crazier.

She was taking off the rest of that jacket, and Robbie took a moment to close his eyes. It was an action with two purposes --- assessing the soon-to-be-healed damage to his back and attempting to push the Rider a little further down. The back would be fine. Already he felt the wounds stitching themselves shut, a stark reminder that the Devil wasn’t finished with him yet. His eyes snapped open when Daisy spoke again, noting that familiar anger in her voice. Robbie’d had a talent for pissing her off since the day he met her. Going to Hell hadn’t robbed him of that.

“You really think I get a goddamn say? What, I ask nicely and the Devil’s gonna see my side of things? I say please and he’s gonna give up his gig here and let me go back to drinking him into a fucking corner? I’m not giving up here, Daisy, I’m not telling you to leave my ass behind. I’m giving you a warning. Letting you know what might happen. If it’s up to me, you’re buying me a drink when this shit’s over.” But it wasn’t up to him. Not entirely, not with the Rider pushing and scraping at the edges of his mind. One second, that was all it would take. One second of Robbie letting his guard down, one moment of losing control. He remembered the church his mother used to drag him to in the days before she’d decided parenthood wasn’t for her, remembered the sermons the preacher spat out from the pulpit. Damnation takes just a single slip. He wondered if the man had known just how literal that statement could be.

But, of course, Daisy wouldn’t accept that. She was stubborn and, right now, she was angry. Robbie saw it reflected in her eyes, recognized the storm brewing behind her expression. He knew he was in for an earful… and he was kind of touched. Who else would take time to scream at him in the pits of Hell? Who else cared about him that much?

Her expression shifted suddenly, and Robbie tilted his head to the side, curious as to what might have caused the change. It took him a moment to recognize the screaming. He’d gotten so used to the sound over the last few years, heard it so often that it blended into the background as easily as the sound of his own heartbeat. It had been a constant soundtrack for so long that he forgot not everyone was accustomed to the noise. Turning back, he caught sight of a woman being pulled into the arena, shrugging at Daisy’s question. “That’s where they fight,” he said simply, as if it was obvious. “She looks new. Won’t be fun for her, but that’s not our problem.” He was about to turn back to Daisy, about to tell her they ought to get a move on when he caught sight of another face at the edge of the arena.

Coulson.

Their eyes locked for a moment, Robbie sucking in a breath as the older man held his gaze. His throat was dry, his heart pounding. After a moment, Daisy’s hand on his arm pulled him from the trance and Robbie whirled back around to face her. “This way,” he said quickly, taking her arm and tugging her towards it. “We need to go now. If we can get out of here fast, I can keep the other guy down.” He hoped.

The portal was visible up ahead and Robbie dragged Daisy towards it quickly, wanting to get out before Coulson or the terrified blonde woman or any of the thousand ghosts Hell had to offer could step into their path and slow them down.

DAISY: It was the extreme of the situation that was making the laughter bubble up from Daisy. The fact that of all the people to break her out of the Raft, it was Robbie, and his path back to the city was through hell. Why was she surprised that this was the turn her life would take? But maybe it was a good thing that she could still be surprised. That there was still some crazy left in the world that could sneak up on her. And maybe there was that small blip of hope that reminded Daisy that no one in the future ever mentioned her being imprisoned in the Raft or escaping it – which meant… it meant she had done something differently. And maybe the future she had seen – the one that she had created – it could be avoided.

“I was wrong,” Daisy said. It felt strange to smile after everything that had happened, and to be smiling in hell? Another thing entirely. “And no, I won’t ever say that again, Reyes. So, enjoy it. It’s never happening again.” For a moment, everything felt light, despite the oppressive atmosphere of hell. Maybe that was delirium or hysteria some part of Daisy desperately trying not to think about what they were actually doing here... but she was laughing. For the first time since she was arrested, she was laughing. Catching her breath, she wanted it to stay like this. To stay in this small moment of peace they had found in hell... but this was only the start of the journey. They had to get through hell, literally, and then she’d be faced with a new mountain of problems.

The collar. Being a fugitive. Find a place to stay - Daisy wasn’t going to be able to step back into her life as though nothing had happened. Once again, Daisy had made a series of choices that would turn her life upside down. (And those around her were sucked into this storm as well. Alex, Robbie... Matt.) And to highlight that, Robbie was trying to tell her that he had made a deal with the other guy to make sure she got out. Maybe it was their location that was fueling her anger or that she was reminded once again, she had no control over anything. None. Not who lives, not who dies, and not for what fucking reason. Robbie was willing to trade his life for hers, to make sure she got out (he didn’t get a choice, he claimed, but he had made one when he stepped through hell to reach her, he had a choice, even if he didn’t feel like he did).

Hell seemed to have the same impact on Robbie, he snapped back at her - and Daisy didn’t have the capacity to call him out on any of it. The drinking, the way he was making decisions for her (even unconsciously) - but the last part, she could do that much. But she never had a chance to shove him away and tell him a drink wouldn’t do him any good if he got stuck. Would her admitting to giving a shit about him help - or just give the Rider more leverage over Robbie’s soul? A new way to manipulate the body he borrowed.

(Daisy needed to start keeping a list of things she wished she had said. Moments she let slide right past her. Because she knew she was going to regret not saying anything... but the moment flew past them so fast, Daisy didn’t have time to form words.)

“Do they make everyone fight?”

A question she didn’t want the answer to. Whatever the answer was, it wasn’t like Daisy could do shit about it. Her stomach turned as Trish was pulled away towards the arena - it wasn’t their problem - but watching someone be pulled away to a place where Daisy knew they’d be suffering? Trish was right there but Daisy couldn't do anything to help her. A feeling of uselessness pooling in her stomach as Daisy tried to come to terms with that reality. (She was no hero and Trish wasn’t her problem. If Daisy believed that, this would have been easier.)

“Robbie,” Daisy said his name in a panic, barely nodding her head at his words. As much as she wanted to focus on him, her eyes and her attention had gone back to the figure on the horizon. Coulson. Coulson was in hell. Her mind was already tipping into a downward spiral, but as Robbie pulled her arm, she snapped out of it. (Mostly.) But thankfully, Robbie was aware enough to know what to do. Stable enough to guide her to the exit. With the urgency in his tone, Daisy let her adrenaline and panic move her - and she ran. As fast as she could. Her grip on him changed, her hand finding his - a reminder for herself that he was still there, and her grip tight enough to tell him she wasn’t about to let go.

When they reached the portal, Daisy practically threw herself through it, gasping for breath as she hit the ground. “Robbie - I -” Daisy looked at him, shaking her head. Did you see him too? That was what she wanted to ask, but the words died on her lips. Too scared to know if she was hallucinating or if it had been reality.

Daisy squeezed her eyes shut while she continued to struggle to breathe. Her mind running through all the wisdom she had received over the years. But nothing seemed to fit. So, she focused on the one thing she could control. Forcing everything else down. “Can you get this damn collar off me?”

ROBBIE: It was telling, Robbie often thought, that the Rider had never presented saving people as an option when he was convincing Robbie to make his deal. The Devil didn’t ask him if he wanted to be a superhero. He wasn’t given a choice that involved making the world a better place, wasn’t offered a chance to save people from those like the ones who’d killed Robbie. ”Do you want to punish those who hurt your brother? Do you want to avenge your own death?” There was nothing noble in the offer, nothing heroic. And yet, Robbie’s answer had been the same.

”Yes. More than anything, yes.”

For a long time, Robbie put a curtain up between himself and the demon inside his head. That wasn’t him, he’d swear. He wasn’t the one killing all those people. It was something else, something inside him, something that he couldn’t control. He told himself that over and over again, muttered it every time he left a trail of bodies behind, insisted on it any time someone attempted to hold him responsible for the dead in his wake. It wasn’t Robbie who craved vengeance, wasn’t Robbie who tore people apart. It wasn’t him, it was the Devil. It was Ghost Rider. It was someone else.

But it wasn’t.

It wasn’t the Rider who killed Santino Noguera in his cell, wasn’t the Rider who was so enraged at the sight of a former gang leader lying on a cot and reading a paperback that he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. It wasn’t the Rider who saw Eli standing across from him and lost all control, wasn’t the Rider who was willing to spend eternity in Hell himself if it meant he could personally deliver the man who’d raised him to the same fate. The Rider craved vengeance, but he hadn’t made Robbie take that deal. He hadn’t made Robbie answer with such desperate want in his tone. The Rider craved vengeance, but he wasn’t the only one.

Gabe had known it. Robbie didn’t think he’d ever forget the disgust on his younger brother’s face when he’d shoved Robbie’s touch away, the way his lips curled up when Robbie insisted that those gangsters got what they deserved for what they’d done to Gabe. Don’t you put their blood on me.

Robbie wasn’t a hero. He’d never once been that. Not before the Rider, and certainly not after. This, breaking into the Raft to save the one person in his life who was still willing to speak to him, this wasn’t heroism. It was selfish. Everything Robbie did, at its core, was selfish. He glanced over to her now, smiling faintly and huffing a laugh that wasn’t entirely genuine. “Yeah, I’ll put it in my memory banks. Take a mental snapshot. I’ll remind you you said it later.” It wasn’t what he meant to say. What he meant to say was, ’You probably weren’t far off.’ She hadn’t been. That initial assessment, the one that labeled him a serial killer, it was harsh but it wasn’t unfair. It wasn’t uncalled for. There was a difference, Robbie knew, between justice and vengeance. He’d never once pretended to fall on the right side of that line.

Daisy was laughing then, and Robbie wasn’t sure if he ought to be relieved or concerned. He’d seen people crack under far less pressure than this, seen Hell break strong willed people into shards of glass too small to hold between your fingers in less time than they’d been standing here now. He wondered if, after all this, she’d be lost anyways. If he’d come all the way here just for her to lose herself on the route home. You could walk through Hell for someone, but sometimes it still wasn’t enough. Some people, you didn’t get to save. Robbie was one of them, he knew. That was part of what had made this decision an easy one. It didn’t matter, in the end, whether or not he got out of Hell today. It didn’t matter if that portal closed before his feet were on the other side, because this was the deal he’d made. This was what was waiting for him when all was said and done. No matter how it ended, no matter how he got there, Robbie Reyes’s story only ever ended in one place. Sometimes, Eli would have said with that crooked grin and those eyes that never stopped laughing, the light at the end of the tunnel is fire and brimstone.

(Had he known back then that that was how his story ended? Had he known Robbie would be the one ending it?)

There was a fire burning all around them, warm and familiar and terrifying, and there was a fire burning inside him just as furiously. He was angry at Daisy for caring enough about him to risk her skin for him again and again, angry at her for being caught, angry at her for wanting a way out for him when all he wanted was for her to be okay. He was angry at her for daring to believe that he deserved more than this. He was angry at her for making him hope, even for a second, that she might be right. .

The anger drained out of him all at once when she spoke, eyes flickering back over to the familiar sight of the arena, the familiar chorus of cheers raising up from within it. Do they make everyone fight? For a heartbeat, that fire was back. It was burning in his eyes, in his chest, in whatever was left of his soul, and he remembered being here without her, remembered the rush of adrenaline, the way he didn’t know which feelings were his and which were the Devil’s, the way he almost didn’t care because as long as he felt something, if didn’t matter where it came from. “No,” he answered at last, jaw tight. “Some people, they don’t have to make.”

Robbie had never been like the blonde woman, fighting and clawing and trying with everything she had to escape her fate. Vengeance or peace? That’s what the deal he’d made boiled down to, in the end. Did he want to die on that dirty street with the world on fire around him, or did he want to live to set those flames himself? Did he want to go to his grave with only his own blood on his hands, or did he want to soak the earth with so much blood that the soil was damp with it? Vengeance or peace? Robbie had made his choice. He still wasn’t sure he regretted it.

(It was the choice Eli made, too. Robbie remembered Lucy Bauer, smiling at him with teeth that had rotted out of her head because Eli killed her, remembered the way she looked at him. ”You’re his nephew. Gabriel. Like the angel.” She’d sneered at him with those rotting teeth, smiled like she knew him, like she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. And Robbie --- Robbie had felt like laughing. ”No,” he’d said, shaking his head. ”I’m the other one.” Not an angel. Never that.)

(Well, I guess it runs in the family.)

She threw herself through the portal like a drowned swimmer desperate for shore, and Robbie stepped out after her with a relief so heavy it nearly knocked him off his feet. The Rider pounded on the wall that separated his consciousness from Robbie’s as his feet touched the earth, but Robbie knew it was too late. The portal closed behind him, and he was on the side that came with his mind in the driver’s seat, the side that meant he’d go to work in the morning and pay his rent on time and buy groceries before the milk in the fridge went bad. (Robbie didn’t know if it was the right side. It was the side he wanted to be on, but it certainly wasn’t the side he deserved.)

His name on her lips again, and he knew what she was thinking. He knew what she wanted to ask. Selfishly, he hoped she wouldn’t. Gabe hated him now. Robbie had known it the moment his brother pulled away from him in that containment module, the moment he said Ghost Rider in a breathless tone that was disappointed and terrified all at once. His brother hated him, his parents walked out on him, and he dragged the only father he’d ever known to Hell and left him to burn. Daisy was all he had, the only person who knew who he was and liked him anyways. And if she asked that question on the tip of her tongue, Robbie would tell her the answer.

And she would hate him for it.

There was a moment, a stuttering, heart-wrenching moment where she stared at him and he stared at her and the end was right there in sight. She would ask the question and he would answer it and she would hate him. He would get every goddamn thing he’d ever deserved, carve out the fate he’d earned for himself.

She shut her eyes and he steeled himself, ready for the world to implode around him, and then it didn’t. She asked another question instead, and Robbie hated himself for the surge of relief that came with it. One day, he knew, that other question would come. One day, she’d ask it and he’d answer her and it would be the end of everything. The world would burn away around him, just as it had on that dingy street where his blood still stained the pavement.

But not today.

“Yeah,” he said, the word coming out in a single quiet breath. “Hold still. We’ll see what we can do.”

[mouazkhaled]

A Hidden Life, written and directed by Terrence Malick is yet another marvelous gem in this unforgettable year in cinematic achievements. However, this statement wouldn’t be fair for this particular movie, as its without a doubt one of the best in the 20 years of the 21st century. Malick is an extremely unique and visionary director, a deduction that can be quickly made even after watching only one of his pictures. I have seen only two, this and Tree of Life. Tree of life is also hailed by critics as one of the greatest achievements in this century, but that was not apparent to me when I watched it on my small laptop screen in 2012; So it must be mentioned that Malick’s style is meditative and poetic, something that can feel like an extremely challenging yoga class, its slow, can be “boring”, yet to some who adore it, can be their favorite training style. However, there are two specific differences that must be made regarding this particular picture. First, the story is more concise and focused. Few tangible characters in a limited life span with a particular story and very well specified impacts and messages; this (along with flawless performances and mesmerizing cinematography) made this 3 hours picture much more captivating, especially in comparison with the longest this year, the Irishman (yep, it was too long to me). Secondly, A Hidden Life is an important human story that by itself is a much-needed testament about the unsung heroes of history.

A Hidden life is an epic, its very hard to justly praise its alluring cinematography, genius editing, intimate storytelling, heavy monologues, and its impeccable performances. Much can be said and studied but will focus here (especially for personal attachments) to the story itself.

The film follows the life of an Austrian farmer that defiantly chose not to join the Nazi army during WWII. It follows the simple yet precious life that he had with his loving wife, his beautiful 3 little girls, their wheat fields, their barns and farms and cattle in the heaven-like Austrian countryside, their small warm house, and the cherished memories of their lives. Malick undeniably was intensely passionate about drawing the life that was. Yes, there were the hardships of the farmer's life, but (specifically the first act) didn’t leave anything up its sleeves in portraying the warmness and the wholesomeness of this life. The clear cut contrast between the heavenly old days and horrors of what comes after is a dangerous tool if handled by immatures, as it can easily be drawn in a tedious and pretentious sea of melodrama. But in the hands of an experienced poet such as Terrence Malick, here, this contrast is nothing short of enchanting. This creates an extreme in the emotional, which highlights the endless sacrifices and their holiness; sacrifices that the farmer had to make so he can hold onto his humanity and identity.

The second act excruciatingly draws the evading Nazi Germany into this farmer’s peaceful little village. Malick tells the stories of the physical and ideological occupation of Nazism. Soldiers wander within the village taking volunteers and ensuring their constant presence, and with that, the notions of national socialism start to make their ways into the minds of everyone surrounding the farmer. Malick goes the extra mile with his emotional realism in affirming that people didn’t show embracement of Nazi ideology, but were chained with the fear of tyranny, which enslaved them and tore out their sanities. This act throws the farmer and his family in a sea of discrimination and evil that creates utter solitude stretching his adamant decision not to join the army to the extreme. He finally yields and intends to join as a medical asset to avoid participation in the killing, but one thing stands in his path, which is the imposed pledge of allegiance to Hitler, which he considers as the ultimate abandonment of what makes him free.

The third act, the most terrifying and torturing, acts as the utter darkness of life after the farmer’s separation from his family. It follows the physical and physiological torment of imprisonment of the farmer as he was considered a “traitor” and the social isolation that surrounded the wife along with this act’s more apparent hardships of the village life. This is the longest act in the film and has particular parts that absolutely broke me personally and brought me back to memories that actually should not be forgotten. As I was protesting against the Syrian regime, I was (as millions of Syrians) imprisoned. It was less than a month, during which some but not much affected me physically. However, two particular memories came back to me while watching the third act, one of the “ceremony of greeting” to the prison (which is basically to be severely hit and humiliated by tens of soldiers along your long slow path to your cell), especially when the movie used what can be described as virtual reality scene where the viewer was made to be the one who is receiving the punches and the kicks of the ruthless prison torturer. The second memory elevated this movie for me to a new level, which is of an imprisoned defected soldier who was bleeding after his long torture session, and his screams. In Syria, thousands of soldiers had defected the regime’s army after it started shooting at demonstrators killing tens of thousands of them. These soldiers and their stories are not as documented or known as the other tragedies in my country, because the regime made it a quest to silently eliminate these cracks in its steely structure. The few known stories resemble the zenith of human bravery and goodness that can ever be imagined, and they are hidden from us. Thus, I finally understood the title of the movie, A Hidden life, not of the farmer’s from his surroundings, but from the recorded history; from us.

A certain element that threw me off for a while was the messiah complex leitmotif. The movie focused for a while on the pure Christian spirituality of the farmer and his wife, but also highlighted the inevitable doubt that can wrap the heart and shake the beliefs even of the most devoted theists in such an environment. In my opinion that was an essential part of this emotional story, but what I am hesitant in embracing is that the farmer was portrayed by others (and maybe by Malick himself) as a parallel to Jesus and the biblical story, which is undoubtedly the richest and the most emotional, and it might be justified in such a theme, but there is a certain addiction to it that I didn’t appreciate. However, this remains to be a small and easily negligible part of this magical picture.

A Hidden Life tells a story with an obvious end, but the little details are what matter because they enlighten the weight of the sacrifice on one hand, and attache it to the very meaning of humanity in the other. Malick is saying as we all should that this hidden life simply shouldn’t be hidden, it should be known and celebrated and followed, it’s a debt that must be repaid to those who endured it, and a promise that we need to keep to ourselves as a whole species. A hidden life is a true story, in particular with this farmer, and generally with millions of others throughout the human history of battles against tyranny, thus, Malick’s picture is nothing short of one of the most important pieces of art, that must be sought and experienced by everyone.

“The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs”. -George Eliot

[anneapocalypse]

On Carolina, Epsilon, and Mutual Isolation

@blaze-edge​​ asked:

Okay, Anne, question abt your 'AIs always isolate their hosts' post. I've kind of been thinking abt it on and off since I read it, but was it Epsilon that really isolated Carolina from the Reds and Blues? I could totally be missing smth here bc my memory is bad but wasn't she the one that convinced him to go out and find the missing Freelancer tech? I know you said that Carolina didn't stop to get to know everybody until after Epsilon was gone but that was also after everything on Chorus was all wrapped up. No more mercs with Freelancer gear they shouldn’t have, no more Hargrove, no more civil war. Say, if after s10 they’d all actually gone back to Blood Gulch, do you think Carolina would’ve stayed isolated? Genuinely curious abt your thoughts here.

This is a good question and it’s going to be a complex answer, and a long one.

First, I feel like I can’t really answer this without addressing that elephant in the room, the authorial decision to leave Carolina out of the first half of the trilogy. I mean, I could but I’m not going to. Carolina’s isolation from the Reds and Blues during the first half of the Chorus trilogy can be discussed without addressing the decision to keep her offscreen almost entirely during that time, and I realize that they are two separate discussions; I just want to address both of them.

So, let’s get the Doylist side of things out of the way first. If you’re not here for that please feel free to just skip ahead to the Watsonian section, which will be loudly delineated for your convenience below!

Authorial Decisions and the Problem of the Epilogue

It’s entirely possible we wouldn’t be having this discussion at all if not for the season 10 epilogue. Watched in isolation, it’s incredibly obvious that the epilogue was written with no idea what season 11 would be about. The dialogue that leads into the epilogue suggests not that the Reds and Blues are stranded on a strange planet, but that they have gone home to Blood Gulch.

Carolina: What about your teams? What will happen to them? 

Church: Well there’s still one place we haven’t visited. Somewhere we can make a home. 

Carolina: Show me.

And when next we cut back Epsilon and Carolina, it’s the epilogue, now shot in Halo 4, in which Carolina and Epsilon are overlooking a vaguely Blood Gulchy looking canyon as the Reds and Blues run around below.

Carolina: Seems like they’re getting settled. 

Church: Yup. 

Carolina: So I guess everything is finally getting back to normal. 

Church: What passes for normal around here, sure. What can I tell ya? We’re home. I mean, they’re home.

So anyway, this didn’t happen.

There’s no plausible continuity in which this conversation actually takes place on Chorus after a devastating ship crash in which the Reds and Blues are the only survivors out of thousands, on a planet they know nothing about. The above dialogue has been retconned to the point that there is no way to reconcile it with the canon that followed. This scene was clearly supposed to indicate that the Reds and Blues had returned to Blood Gulch, and Carolina and Epsilon were about to leave on a new mission of their own, knowing that the Reds and Blues were home and safe.

It’s not a question of “Is this action in-character,” it’s a matter of “Outside of its intended context, a context that no longer exists, this dialogue straight up does not make any sense.” I am that obnoxious person who will go to just about any lengths to reconcile continuity for the purposes of my own writing, and I am saying here and now: as of season 12 canon, the above conversation did not happen. Like we’re past Recovery One and into season 9 trailer levels of did not happen.

So to answer one of your questions from an out-of-universe perspective: Yes, if the Reds and Blues had actually returned to Blood Gulch, Carolina and Epsilon would still have left--because that was the original intent. The Reds and Blues were going to be back in Blood Gulch, and Carolina and Epsilon were going to leave.

In spite of retconning all the content of that conversation that established the obviously-intended setting, tone, and context of that epilogue, the decision was made to keep the point of Epsilon and Carolina taking off and leaving the Reds and Blues without saying goodbye. (Without saying a word, and yet somehow Wash and everyone else seem to be aware they just ran off on their own, instead of being worried they might be, you know, in trouble, or dead.)

And thus we have a season and a half where Carolina and Epsilon are not only shoved offscreen and denied further character development, but the one piece of characterization we can draw from their actions paints them both in what is almost certainly a much worse light than that epilogue originally intended.

When they do return--well, we’ll get to that, but I think it bears remembering that Carolina on Chorus is so detached from the Reds and Blues onscreen that we have discussion spanning years in this fandom over which team she is actually on, because while blocking fairly clearly aligns her with Blue Team (yes, even on Chorus), she has so few meaningful interactions with other members of Blue Team that in the minds of a lot of viewers, she might as well not be there. And it’s no coincidence that Carolina’s season 13 subplot is almost entirely isolated from the rest of the main cast, and has very little to do with Chorus directly.

And by the time we get to season 13 and Miles starts consciously trying to give Carolina character development, he’s dropping things that, while Feels™-inducing, have not been properly planted throughout the trilogy. Carolina thinking of the Reds and Blues as family is planted very hastily in the beginning of season 13. Her physical gesture of comfort toward Kimball strongly suggests familiarity between them, yet this has not been set up at all, as they have barely shared screentime or even spoken one on one. And because these elements have not been properly planted, their payoffs are confusing, and become difficult to interpret in-universe, which we’ll get to in a minute.

Even Carolina fighting side-by-side with Wash in “Great Destroyers” comes very much out of the blue, when there has been almost zero interaction between them for most of the three seasons. And this, I think, highlights the greatest narrative tragedy for these characters, which is that neither Epsilon nor Carolina ever get any real resolution with Wash. There is no conversation about their histories, no sharing of their pain, no acknowledgment of the ways they have been hurt and hurt one another. Wash and Epsilon never discuss what happened between them in Freelancer, to the point that we, the viewers, still don’t really know--and Epsilon dies without the show ever giving them that closure. We don’t get to see Wash’s initial reaction to Carolina being alive, and so we don’t really know how he feels about it at the time. We see them fight together with near-seamless cohesion at the end of 13, but their relationship lacks a kind of emotional continuity that can only come from letting them acknowledge their shared history directly.

So all of that is why we are where are. From an in-universe perspective, then, what can we take from this mess?

ALL ABOARD THE WATSONIAN TRAIN, PLEASE MIND THE GAP.

Here’s what this post is actually about:

Carolina and Epsilon’s relationship during season 10 and the Chorus trilogy, and how, while they are positive forces in one another’s lives in some ways, they also keep one another isolated.

I say “keep one another isolated.” Two critical points here:

It goes both ways.

They’re both already isolated when they meet.

To expand on point 2, by the time Carolina meets Epsilon, she has been isolated for a long time. She watched her team fall apart around her in Freelancer, was betrayed and attacked by multiple teammates, was left for dead by her own father, and spent several years in hiding before resurfacing to find closure. Carolina’s relationship with Epsilon by no means creates her isolation. What it does is prolong it, by delaying the formation and reconciliation of other meaningful relationships in her life.

Equally important is Epsilon’s own isolation, though it’s a bit more subtle. @epsilontucker pointed out once that Epsilon coming to identify as “Church” following his reactivation by Caboose didn’t just happen--it was a process. Epsilon’s struggle is that he both is and is not Church. He takes on the Church identity as bestowed upon him by Caboose. He accepts Caboose’s stories as if they were his own memories (which creates its own problems, notably passing on Caboose’s dislike of Tucker and causing significant friction between Tucker and Epsilon). But he is not Alpha. Nor does he have Alpha’s attachment to the rest of the Reds and Blues, not right away. Epsilon spends most of season 8 figuring out his own identity and pursuing his own goals--most notably, recreating Tex from his memories--and as recently as the end of season 8, Epsilon says of the others, “You know, they’re not really my friends.” His time in the memory unit, while surrounded by facsimiles of the Reds and Blues, is devoting to resolving his relationship with Tex. And when the Reds and Blues pull him out of the memory unit, he’s not terribly pleased. He only really makes an effort to connect with the others in 10 out of a mistrust of Carolina and Wash, and that connection, as we will discuss, is tenuous.

I want to make it clear here that I don’t believe either of them at any point do anything deliberately to hurt one another. Epsilon loves Carolina. In fact I think he loves her as dearly as he has ever loved anyone--yes, including Tex. And I think Carolina cares deeply for him too. Relationships can have unhealthy elements without warranting that a-word. This is not an abusive relationship; I wouldn’t even go so far as to call it a toxic one necessarily, though it might have toxic elements at times.

I would characterize it as an intense and insular relationship, of the sort in which two people may both mirror and intensify some of each other’s bad habits--and in their case, these habits have an isolating effect on both of them. I’ll stress again that I think the effect in their case (and probably in the case of other human-AI partnerships too, but that’s another post) is reflexive. It’s not just one of them doing it to the other, consciously or otherwise; it’s the effect of their partnership on both of them.

It’s true that a lot happens on Chorus, and all the characters are kept busy. But that doesn’t prevent, for example, Wash from having significant moments with Caboose and Tucker, or the Reds having moments with one another. Carolina and Epsilon’s isolation is somewhat unique to them. And it begins long before Chorus.

Present-Day Season 10

Carolina and Epsilon first connect mid-season 10, when Epsilon, concerned about her plans for the Reds and Blues, covertly follows her to the site of York’s death in hopes of learning more. His plan backfires when he reveals himself accidentally and incurs Carolina’s very justified anger for invading her privacy at a deeply personal moment. But by sharing York’s salvaged logs, Epsilon is able to get Carolina to open up.

This encounter changes both of them. Carolina decides that Epsilon can be trusted, and starts making him her first point of contact. While her relationship with Wash is already rocky, this certainly uh, exacerbates it.

Once Epsilon gets close to Carolina, he discards the connection he’d begun to build with the Reds and Blues almost immediately. He starts riding around in Carolina’s armor and withholding information from the others just as she does. Far from bridging the gulf between Carolina and the Reds and Blues, Epsilon exacerbates the situation by simply jumping over to her side, becoming impatient with the others for not blindly following along. This culminates in the disastrous attempt at a mission briefing in the holochamber, where Carolina resorts to threats of violence to maintain control of the situation, and Epsilon viciously lashes out at the Reds and Blues, alienating everyone, even Caboose.

In this scene we see both Carolina and Epsilon react to a situation that brings up past trauma for both of them. The Reds and Blues rejecting her authority is reminiscent of Carolina’s old Freelancer team fragmenting, losing cohesion, becoming insubordinate, and in a few cases outright betraying her. His companions walking away from something so important to him clearly brings up something painful for Epsilon too, evident especially in the way he lashes out at Wash.

I do want to note a difference in how they react: Carolina threatens, but she’s straightforward. Epsilon fights dirty. When he’s angry at his friends, he dredges up whatever he can think of to hurt them, and I think this is again, a side effect of the fact that he both is and is not Church. He has the knowledge of their history, but doesn’t yet have the affection that comes with time and familiarity, and that can be a very ugly combination. Though Carolina is stunned to see Wash turn on her, it isn’t Carolina who drags up painful history to hurt him back. It’s Epsilon. Though we’re missing a lot of context for what exactly happened, we know that his removal from Wash wasn’t Wash’s choice, and so there’s a sense of something distinctly unfair about what he says.

“So that's it, you're just gonna turn your back on us? No, no, you're right. You know, I guess I should've seen that one coming. It's not exactly like you're new to the concept, is it?”

Carolina and Epsilon’s past traumas resurface in this scene, and they both react very badly, and hurt the people they care about and who care about them. This is the paradox, perhaps, of this kind of intense and insular relationship. Carolina and Epsilon find that they relate to each other deeply, as they uncover the shared pain of their histories with Project Freelancer and how those histories intersect. And in a very real sense, they do need each other--Epsilon needs a friend he chooses for himself rather than one attempting to mold him into the perfect best friend they want him to be. Carolina needs someone who will go to bat for her even when she is far from being her best self.

But neither of them, at this point, are healed enough or self-aware enough to recognize the harm they are doing others. Rather than balancing each other, they amplify each other’s pain and also each other’s displacement of that pain. They’re both Churches. They share some of the same bad habits. Like shutting people out emotionally, and like lashing out at people close to them when they’re hurt.

And so they lash out at their companions, including the one person in the best position to understand and sympathize with both of them, the one person who has been supporting both of them even when they’re hurting him, who does not object until he feels he has no other choice: Wash.

Wash understands what both Epsilon and Carolina have been through in a way the Reds and Blues simply cannot. Whatever he went through with Epsilon, we can only imagine it was deeply traumatic for both of them. Whatever his emotions about Carolina being alive after he thought she was dead for so long, it’s enough that it drives him to want to help her, right up until he simply can’t go along anymore, and we shouldn’t discount what it probably costs him to stand up to her. Wash needs resolution with both of them, desperately. But neither of them will allow that resolution to happen, because in clinging so close to each other, they shut everyone else out, including Wash.

Of course, it doesn’t end there. The Reds and Blues show up after all, and help Carolina and Epsilon make it to the Director. It’s made clear, though, that they’re doing this for Church, not for Carolina. It’s Caboose’s sadness over losing his best friend all over again that prompts Tucker’s change of heart, and then one by one the others follow. Even Wash, it’s pretty clear, goes along not for Carolina or for Church, but for the Reds and Blues. After all, they gave him a second chance, and if they’ve decided to make this their fight, then he’ll be at their side.

And though no one says it to her directly, Carolina surely knows this. She knows they didn’t come for her.

In some ways, Wash was lucky. The worst things he did were worse than what Carolina did--Wash, after all, actually pulled the trigger. Twice. But what he did was witnessed only by the Reds and Doc. And it’s Caboose who forcibly adopts Wash into Blue Team--Caboose who knows nothing of what Wash has done, and simply longs for a surrogate best friend. He puts Wash in Church’s armor and calls him Church. Who Wash is and what he’s done is basically incidental.

But everyone gets to see Carolina at her worst, and so she doesn’t get the kind of forceful adoption Wash does. And season 10 ends, not with Carolina having become one of the Reds and Blues, but with Carolina and Epsilon standing alone--and then deciding to leave.

I start from season 10 because I want to make the point that Carolina and Epsilon are not isolated on Chorus because they leave at the end of season 10. They leave because they are already isolated--because neither of them feel like they belong.

It’s true that it’s Carolina who suggests hunting down stolen Freelancer tech. However, I think what Epsilon says before she ever makes that suggestion is equally important. Even though practically speaking this conversation has been mostly retconned out of existence, it’s still worth paying attention to because it shows where both Carolina and Church are emotionally following season 10.

“What can I tell you,” Church says. “We're home. I mean, they're home.”

Even the blocking of the shot reinforces this sentiment. Carolina and Epsilon are standing alone at the cliff’s edge, watching the Reds and Blues from a distance, commenting on how things are getting back to normal for them. And however we might reinterpret or overwrite this dialogue to make it fit with Chorus canon, one thing is clear: neither Carolina nor Epsilon believe that this is their home, that they belong.

With Carolina, it’s easy to see why: she has not been a friend to them and she knows that even in the end they did not come for her. Epsilon is bit more complicated. Why, after his friends risked so much to come back for him, twice, does he decide to leave them? I think Epsilon, at this point, still feels that his position on Blue Team has been usurped by Wash. And after the way he treated his friends, I think he still feels a certain amount of shame. He’s not sure he belongs.

And so the two of them hang back. Neither of them so much as speak to any of the others after the confrontation with the Director. We hear them thank each other for what they’ve come through together, but not the others. They have a conversation in which they reinforce each other’s sense of not belonging, of being unwanted by anyone but each other. And then they leave, and don’t say goodbye--almost as if they don’t really believe they’ll be missed.

Which, as we later learn, is not true.

But I think the ways things end in season 10 leaves both Carolina and Epsilon feeling like they only really have each other. And this begins a pattern of them sticking to each other while keeping everyone else at a distance.

Season 12

We get a brief snippet of Carolina and Epsilon’s time wandering Chorus alone, and from these flashbacks we can gain a few insights about their relationship as well as how they’re doing individually. Epsilon’s bullet time sequence, in particular, tells us a lot. We learn that Carolina does not sleep well and has nightmares about Sigma--whose memory is still a part of Epsilon, with whom Carolina shares brainspace. We see Epsilon himself eager to brush off these difficulties, insisting to himself, “She’s fine, don’t worry about it.” We see that he can’t fully control the manifestations of his own fragments, as seen when he has to push away Omega. We see that he gets flustered by the many voices talking at once, even though they’re all him.

And we hear him say that he gets lonely sometimes.

Incidentally, there’s never any clear indication that Carolina knows Epsilon talks to his own fragments this way, or that she can hear him doing it. It’s also worth noting that she doesn’t actually take all of his advice in the ensuing fight (she vaults over the door and uses it as a weapon, rather than staying in cover behind it) but this might be just because they briefly lost connection.

All of this lays the groundwork for the cracks that will start to show in Carolina and Epsilon’s bond in season 13.

It is when Carolina and Epsilon return to the story, and to the Reds and Blues, that we see the continued effects of their prolonged isolation.

It’s clear they still do care about the Reds and Blues. The minute their intel leads them to believe their friends are in danger, Epsilon says, “We have to go back,” and Carolina doesn’t disagree. Yet as soon as they are reunited, Epsilon is calling Tucker a “whiny bitch” for being upset about being left alone and kidnapped by mercenaries.

Initially Carolina largely stays out of their bickering. Soon after they all reunite, she runs off with Epsilon to study the new weapons, rebuffing offers of help. She barely says anything in season 12 that isn’t tactical. The rest of Blue Team’s beef seems to be with Church, and Carolina largely seems to agree, not speaking up to take sides, and no one directs their anger toward her even though she left them just as much as Epsilon did. No one seems to have any feelings about Carolina, positive or negative; emotionally, it’s almost like she’s not even there.

But this is where we come back to Epsilon’s staggering lack of empathy toward his supposed friends. His behavior toward Tucker in particular is shitty in a way that Tucker absolutely does not deserve. The data transfer disaster at Crash Site Alpha brings the tension between Tucker and Epsilon to a head, when Tucker aborts the transfer early out of fear for all of their lives, and Epsilon explodes at him--insisting he knew that they only needed a few more seconds, even though a minute before, he said he didn’t know how long it would take.

(Tangent: Tucker’s comment about how Church couldn’t find the zoom on the sniper rifle could only be about Alpha, therefore Tucker is still trying to apply what he knows about Alpha to Epsilon, and he hasn’t fully grasped the fact that Epsilon has different capabilities than Alpha because Epsilon actually knows he’s an AI.)

It’s not just that Epsilon doesn’t know what Tucker’s been through while he and Carolina have been gone. It’s that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t try to understand, and when Tucker tries to explain, Epsilon insults and belittles him. Once again, Epsilon consistently hits below the belt when he’s angry, lashing out at people who care about him using whatever he knows will hurt them. And as soon as he realizes his behavior is making things uncomfortable with the whole group, he declares that “shit’s getting weird” and runs off with Carolina to avoid dealing with it. Even Carolina sounds exhausted when she announces they’re going to check the perimeter.

Tucker is then guilt-tripped by Caboose into apologizing for basically nothing, because Caboose always takes Church’s side (and the codependent nature of Caboose’s relationships with his best friends could be an essay in itself).

This is the first time (and the only time in season 12) that we see Carolina bring up Epsilon’s behavior. She doesn’t quite call him out, but she does express incredulity that Epsilon never actually apologizes to Tucker, despite his own conscience (in the form of Theta) telling him he should. Epsilon deflects this super hard with the whole “We’re dudes” thing, which Tucker then goes along with. Playing his refusal to apologize as a sign of masculinity is, intentionally or not, really manipulative and really effective against Tucker who is struggling hard with his own insecurities in season 12.

It’s really no surprise that Tucker has already started leaning on Wash as an emotional support as soon as they’re reunited--despite the tension between Tucker and Wash back at the crash site, and despite how he has missed Church. Tucker misses Church right up until he remembers what the present Church is actually like.

Which brings us back to Wash, whose distance from both Carolina and Epsilon is perhaps the most glaring of any character. Of course there’s no guarantee that he would have a real conversation with either of them even if they weren’t joined at the brain--he is, after all, not great at “emotional stuff.” But it certainly makes it more difficult.

When Carolina chastises Wash for accepting Freckles from Locus, Epsilon joins in, neither of them quite understanding what Freckles means to Caboose, and what getting him back for Caboose meant to Wash. There’s no question that Carolina and Epsilon care about Caboose; we see this in the way Carolina (and presumably Epsilon since he runs her armor mods) springs into action on a wounded leg to save Caboose from a pirate. It’s not a lack of caring. But there’s a disconnect there all the same.

In episode 17, Carolina and Epsilon lay out three options for their next step with both armies converging on the capital for a final fight to the death. It’s Wash who comes up with the fourth option of putting the Reds and Blues on the ship home while he and Carolina stay behind, an option Epsilon and Carolina hadn’t yet heard, suggesting the three of them didn’t discuss these plans all together.

Carolina and Wash seem to have no problem working together, and Wash doesn’t even particularly seem to avoid Epsilon (note how he follows Carolina off to patrol the perimeter after Epsilon’s outburst in 12.16, knowing full well Epsilon is with her). They just don’t talk. And we see firsthand with Tucker just how impossible it is for anyone to talk to either Carolina or Epsilon privately.

There’s an additional significance to the option Wash presents, in that it very likely represents a worst-case scenario for everyone. While we can’t know for sure, this option seems incredibly likely to get everyone killed--the Reds and Blues by walking straight into a trap, the Freelancers and Epsilon by simply being outnumbered and outgunned. I think there’s a really important message we can take from the fact that they consider that option, and reject it. “Never split the party” is an adventure game truism for a reason. The first half of the Chorus trilogy involves the party being split into multiple pieces and while we get some great character development out of that for the Reds and Blues, ultimately the goal is to get everyone back together because together they are the strongest. This is an important theme, and comes up even more prominently in season 13.

The cooperation between Tucker and Epsilon to entrap Felix at the end of 12 is a high point, and shows that, however incomplete their reconciliation might have been, their teamwork is vital to their success. It’s the first time Epsilon rides with anyone other than Carolina since season 10. And I think it’s worth noting that it was Tucker who reached out to smooth things over, not Epsilon--and if Tucker hadn’t done it, it probably wouldn’t have happened at all.

Still, season 12 closes with Epsilon and Carolina celebrating their victory alone, down at Kimball’s thinking spot and away from the others, for no apparent reason.

It’s clear that Carolina has developed some positive feelings toward the Reds and Blues, but it’s also clear she’s still holding them at a distance--that she still doesn’t really believe herself to be one of them. As for Epsilon, he really seems to consider her his team, even more than the Blues. Both of them seem to believe, genuinely, that they mostly work better on their own.

It isn’t inherently a bad thing that they’re close. But it also make it very easy for them to emotionally shut everyone else out--after all, they always have each other. They are literally in each other’s heads. Carolina struggles to open up as it is--why should she make the effort to express her feelings to anyone else, when Epsilon already knows what she’s thinking? And Epsilon seems to feel the same, remaining so closed off in his conversation with Tucker that even Carolina notices.

But even if they do only open up to each other, is that really a problem? Well… yeah. For both of them, and for the rest of their team. Epsilon’s friction with Tucker has real consequences. Perhaps if he and Carolina were actually communicating to the others what the two of them pass back and forth automatically in their shared brainspace, Tucker wouldn’t have panicked and aborted the data transfer early. What they’ve missed and what they do not share creates a rift between them and the rest of the team, and that affects how they all work together.

We see even more why it’s a problem in season 13.

Season 13

Early in 13 we finally do see Carolina forming some connections with the Reds and Blues--not just running missions, but laughing and joking with them. (It’s also worth noting that this is the first time since the reunion that we see them form squads for missions not based on their Red and Blue teams; Carolina’s out working with Sarge and Tucker.)

This scene shows us that Carolina is getting more comfortable with the group but still has a long way to go--particularly evident when her attempt at a joke goes over like a lead balloon. All this time since season 10 and she hasn’t actually been around the Reds and Blues long enough at a stretch to have picked up on the fact that “bow chicka bow wow” is Tucker’s personal catchphrase. Her sense of humor and desire to be playful is emerging, but she hasn’t worked out all the social dynamics of this group yet.

We can see right from the beginning of this season that something is eating at Carolina. That she’s still pushing herself hard in training might not be particularly noteworthy, but there’s more than just her usual perfectionism behind it. In season 12, she doesn’t really let on just how rattled she is by Felix getting the jump on her; it’s in 13 that we start to see that it’s still really bothering her. She sounds uneasy when Wash talks about them taking care of the mercs, and at the portal she’s eager for a rematch even with a construct of Felix. She needs to find her confidence again.

It’s Carolina’s experience inside the portal that highlights just why she’s so rattled. Separated even from Epsilon and forced to watch all of her friends new and old die, Carolina is forced to face her greatest fear, and face it alone. It’s not just a fear of failure. It’s a fear of letting everyone down, losing everyone she loves.

That fear closes Carolina off. From everyone, including Epsilon. When pressed about what she saw, she responds with her primary defense mechanism, anger. Though she and Epsilon share a certain amount of brainspace, it’s clear they don’t share everything, because it’s not until much later that Carolina tells him what she saw.

Epsilon is able to keep things from her, too--despite everything we, the audience, learned about him from his bullet time sequence in 12, Carolina herself does not seem to realize Epsilon is having processing issues until late in 13.

And it’s these things, the things they have kept both from each other and from everyone else, that cause problems for Carolina and Epsilon at a critical point. The intense, insular partnership that has allowed them to shut everyone else out has also allowed both of them to avoid introspection--to avoid being honest even with themselves and with each other. The portal fractures Carolina’s already shaken confidence, and it takes only a few strategic words for Sharkface to seed doubt in her mind. While she and Epsilon argue over strategy, it’s Dr. Grey who comes up with the plan that saves them.

This tension culminates in the disastrous confrontation with Sharkface on the mountain, when Carolina takes his bait and leaves her team behind. I want to recall their season 12 dynamic here--both in the flashback episode and directly following the fight with Felix. In both cases, Carolina and Epsilon both blame each other for what goes wrong. There’s a playful, teasing element to that, of course. But we can hear a similar tone in their smug banter after Carolina knocks Sharkface down the first time, when Epsilon chides her for stroking her ego and Carolina retorts, “Oh please, like you’re one to talk.” Neither of them are particularly wrong there, either. But they’re both so busy ribbing each other that neither of them notice Sharkface rising out of the snow--and he gets the jump on both of them.

And as the tide of the battle turns, Carolina panics. I don’t think there’s any other way to interpret her calling for all of her armor mods at once--especially since some of them, like the adaptive camo, don’t really do her any good in this situation. She overestimates Epsilon’s raw processing power, and yes, she absolutely pushes him too hard. Certainly no harder than she pushes herself. But being made out of numbers means Epsilon can’t push through the pain of an injury and deal with the consequences later. When his memory space is gone, it’s just gone.

And thus their teamwork breaks down, Epsilon fails at a critical moment, and Carolina falls off a cliff.

This, a near-death experience, is what it takes to get them to share their deepest struggles even with each other.

To Carolina’s credit, she’s the one who pushes for a serious talk, and even then, she has to pry it out of Epsilon. He puts up one hell of an effort to avoid the subject and deflect with humor, something Carolina has never appreciated at tense moments. (You see the same thing with York during the Freelancer seasons.) There’s something heartbreaking about how difficult they both find it to open up like this, because when you come down to it, what’s holding them both back is the very same thing.

They’re scared. That’s what it comes down to for both of them, just fear. They won’t be able to protect the people they care about at the critical moments. They’ll fail. Everyone they love will die, and it will be their fault. Carolina still can’t let herself be emotionally vulnerable in front of the Reds and Blues or even Wash, yet she is so terrified of losing them that instead of standing with them and fighting alongside them, she throws herself at danger like a human shield.

Carolina’s always been a doer and not a talker. There’s not a lot of setup for her calling the Reds and Blues family. But from another angle, we might say it’s been there in her actions, in her almost reckless protectiveness of them. The only way she knows, perhaps, to show that she cares.

And Epsilon’s not so different. But his terror, I think, is of losing her. Carolina isn’t really anything like the Meta, nor did Epsilon really know much about either the Meta or Maine. But underneath that comparison is simply his fear of losing her--of being unable to keep up, unable to protect her. And this fear makes a lot of things about Epsilon fall into place--his defensiveness, his fudging numbers, his pushing his friends away--even the abandonment issues we hear in his outburst at Wash all the way back in season 10. Epsilon was created by loss. It is woven into the very fabric of who he is. He can’t lose Carolina too, and he can’t admit how scared he is of exactly that--not even to himself.

This scene is, without a doubt, a huge step forward for both of them. It’s a harsh wake-up call, a sign of how much growing they both still have to do.

And it doesn’t fix things all at once, either. Here’s a hot take: Carolina’s entire second fight with Sharkface is tactically unnecessary. Hear me out. When Sharkface finds her in the city, Carolina is flanked by Wash and Kimball. It’s true they’re in a hurry. But if we look at what happens in the very next episode, we get a perfect demonstration of the fact that Kimball and Wash could take down Sharkface on the spot with a few seconds of concentrated rifle fire. He’s well within range. Instead, Carolina deliberately sends them off, choosing to confront Sharkface alone.

I think the real reason for this is less a need to defeat him on her own, and more a desire to apologize and offer mercy. But this also suggests that she doesn’t think Wash will go along with that. A chance to confront their past together could be really powerful for Wash and Carolina, especially if they could agree to try and end it without killing him. After all, both of them fought Sharkface and his grudge is ostensibly against both of them. But Carolina still believes she has to face him alone.

So Carolina and Wash don’t get to share that moment, don’t get to face their past together, and ultimately Sharkface doesn’t accept her mercy and dies anyway.

There’s something really sad about that.

The ride out of Armonia to escape the nuclear blast serves as sort of a do-over for their stalemate at the portal site. It demands a moment of seamless teamwork from Carolina and Epsilon, in order to save themselves and their friends. They succeed, but not without cost, as Epsilon crashes after performing the maneuver.

In a way, this scene also validates Carolina’s feelings as expressed earlier--they cannot afford not to push themselves, not with so much at stake. Just as Carolina saved Caboose without hesitation even at the cost of reopening her leg wound, Epsilon helps her use the bubble shield to save all of them, even though it pushes him past his own limits. It’s complex moment, one that validates their worst fears, but also their capabilities. And of course, it foreshadows the ending to come.

“Great Destroyers” is a turning point. At long last, Carolina and Wash fight side by side, and their teamwork is near seamless. Though we haven’t seen them talk, or demonstrate much emotional vulnerability to each other, there’s a deep sense of camaraderie and trust in the way they move together as a team, proving themselves a match for the mercenaries. It’s significant, I think, that Carolina doesn’t rely too heavily on her armor enhancements during this fight--though Epsilon is with her, his presence is understated, taking a backseat to her connection with Wash.

It’s a powerful demonstration of the value of teamwork and trust over high-tech equipment, one of the major recurring themes of Red vs. Blue.

Following the destruction of the Purge Temple, Carolina sends Epsilon with the Reds and Blues to the Communication Tower. It’s the last time she ever sees him.

It matters that Epsilon’s sacrifice is not to save Carolina, but to save the Reds and Blues. I think if push came to shove he absolutely would have done the same for Carolina alone, and that’s not in itself a bad thing. But Epsilon, like every iteration of Church, has a tendency to hyperfixate on one person. Like I said above, his greatest fear isn’t losing everyone. It’s losing Carolina. And probably his greatest flaw throughout his arc, in season 10 and in the trilogy, is the way he treats his friends, especially Tucker. That’s why his ultimate resolution comes not from saving Carolina, but from saving Tucker and the rest of his friends--while trusting Carolina to be okay on her own.

The victory at the end of season 13 comes not from Epsilon and Carolina working alone, but from both of them connecting with their other teammates--Carolina with Wash, Epsilon with Tucker. They win not by working as an isolated pair, but by working with their team. That victory comes at great cost, as all their victories do. But it is still a victory.

Conclusions

Overall I think the biggest thing to be taken from from Carolina and Epsilon’s whole arc is that as strong as their bond is, shutting everyone else out actually weakens it, and weakens both of them in turn. They are at their best when they don’t isolate themselves, but form and maintain connections with their whole team.

Season 13 sees both Epsilon and Carolina confront their worst fear, one they share: failing to protect the people they love. And so it’s important that the season closes with both of them overcoming their fear, and successfully protecting the Reds and Blues. But it’s also important that their biggest obstacle in doing so--both facing their fears, and protecting their friends--has been the way they have allowed their relationship to isolate them from their friends in the first place.

Epsilon finds his resolution in sacrifice. Carolina’s isolation does not yet fully resolve in the Chorus trilogy--which is okay, because her story isn’t over. It took us until season 15 to really see Carolina acting like family with the Reds and Blues, and to see her share a moment of emotional closeness with Wash. But she does get there.

Her relationship with Epsilon is important, and no doubt has affected her profoundly. But it’s not the only important relationship in her life, and shutting everyone else out has limited her growth. Taken as a whole, I think Carolina’s emotional journal from season 10 to season 15 shows us that her healing cannot be complete without her opening herself up to genuine connection with others as well.

[norgad-vcd]

COPY: First Revision

Introduction.

What goes on, online?

Anything and everything. It’s a beautiful and vibrant mess of human interaction. Everything from trivial and thoughtless acts to the most sincere and genuine deeds. It’s grounds for the vicious and the virtuous alike. The internet is what you make of it; A tool as good or bad as it’s wielders.

What this book is

It’d take a thousand lifetimes to see it all.

How about a quick glimpse instead?

Hiya, I’m Tom! I’ve spent enough of my life online that I can confer some of my findings to you. This book is a smörgåsbord of experiences, phenomena, and memories I’ve been witness to and participant in during my time here. While not a full picture, it should help you navigate the ballpark of possibilities out there. My experiences are just one sample from billions; perhaps after this you’ll seek to venture out further into that world-wide web, or - at the very least - understand a little better those who do.

Heads-up

Listen a moment, before you go.

I am only one person. My field of view is limited, as is my foresight. Take my advice with a grain of salt, I can’t prepare you for everything. There’s so much more out there waiting for you, some good, some bad; be sensible.

Who am I, online?

Personas and the separation of meatspace and cyberspace.

Online, your real-life identity isn’t attached to you by default. Of course there’s places where the expectation is indeed a connection to real identities - like Facebook for example - but this is not a requirement. I’m not known as ‘Tom’ online, people know me by my username, and t.

It’s not a fake me, or a way to lie to people, it’s just an alternate expression of myself. We act differently to different people in so many social situations, - from time with family, to at work, and to hanging out with friends - the internet allows even more possible ways to express parts of ourselves. For me, it’s liberating to exist in a state that’s disconnected from the tangle of my real life self, and to keep the tangle of my internet presence away from real life as well.

Equal ground, just another user.

On the internet, nobody knows who you are.

Unless you divulge them, your identity, physical appearance, background, nationality, gender, race and so on are completely unknown; this is the great equalizer. Free from biases based on your physical self, you can be perceived as purely another person.

Still a person, despite appearances.

A clean slate can tempt some however to act recklessly. If an identity and stigma can be shed so easily, some people feel emboldened to act without the threat of consequences; verbally beat someone up, and then wash your hands of the whole incident.

It’s important to remember that people online are still people; while their faces might be obscured, they still have thoughts and feelings.

In general, talking to people online has the same potential as real-life to be great, awful, or somewhere inbetween. It’s just luck of the draw who you’ll encounter.

Who else?

I’m hanging out with my friends.

“Go outside and spend time with your friends!”

What a classic line. Truth is I’m already spending time with my friends, just on the computer. It can be hard to organise in person meetups sometimes, and meeting up online can be much more spontaneous. All it takes is noticing someone else is online and flicking them a message, Boom, instant hangout, and before you know it you’ve got all the boys bantering away.

Over the first lockdown in 2020 me and most of my real-life friends started a minecraft server together and played through it for the duration of our stint stuck at home. It was like a little clubhouse, each time we logged in and saw things change slightly since last time. We left each other notes and set up gifts and pranks for when people left and returned. It was a great way to keep in touch when we were otherwise very isolated from social contact.

Guest speaker, Josh

[Josh text]

In general, hanging out online is pretty great. It might not be perfect, and sure we could get a little more sunlight, but for what it’s worth it’s good for the soul and sometimes the best thing on hand. Friendships don’t care about how you nourish them, just that you do.

[WHY ARE YOU STILL AWAKE?]

I don’t know the names of some of my closest friends.

What about friendships that never were from real life, rather that grew from the internet.

I don’t know the names of some of my closest friends.

That doesn’t mean I don’t care about them; it’s just we all know each other by our usernames and whatever funny profile picture we’re rocking at the time. I still know their personalities, their sense of humor, what they like and don’t, and everything else you’d know about a friend. We still have inside jokes, favourite group pastimes, and all the rest.

This has caused some strange moments though. When I was younger and my parents would ask who I’m talking to on the computer, I wouldn’t know how to respond. Do I tell them “I don’t know” and spark images in their heads of catfishers and criminals? Do I tell them my friend’s username and get told “that’s not a real name”? There really wasn’t any good solution in my head at the time, so I’d just say “someone from school” and pray the topic of the conversation would change as fast as possible.

A couple of times an internet friend has accidentally let their real name slip in a conversation, and that instantly got met with waves of banter about how “you’re not an Alex” or whatever the name was. We’d quickly forget about it though, we still see each other as the identities we met each other with; someone’s real-life name doesn’t change how we see them. In that sense, I suppose usernames are like a self-determination thing; you get to pick a name for yourself, based on who you see yourself as.

Timeless zones.

Because everyone lives in different time-zones, it can often be difficult to pre-plan hangouts. Oftentimes me and my friends have planned to have a movie night at a specific time, and then once that time rolls around, one or two people are still offline, probably asleep. Oftentimes whoever was missing will come online several hours later and be sorry and upset that they held everyone up and wasted everyone’s time. Of course, we had all just postponed the movie night and just hung out and chatted instead.

Perfect is the enemy of good. Oftentimes we have to accept that it’s near impossible to have everyone hang out at the same time; it’d require half of us to be up at god awful times or to wake up at 4am for something. Instead of trying to plan big ‘everyone’ events every once in a blue moon, we try to have frequent but smaller hangouts. It might mean that we don’t get to see everyone at the same time, but it’s still workable. If we were to hold out till everyone was free at the same time, we’d never end up hanging out at all.

My version of the morning paper is skimming what my mates have been talking about in the group chat. Most of the time it’s pretty coherent and I can tell what was going on, but sometimes it dissolves into a mess of completely unrelated images and text that doesn’t read like a conversation at all. Using my expert detective skills I have deduced that our two culprits were actually talking in a voice chat, and were just using the text chat to show each other stupid pictures of dogs.

That time my friend went missing.

A while ago, someone in one of my friend groups noted that someone hadn’t been online for two weeks. Dread set in. We all knew that our friend was very prone to getting ill, and we didn’t want to say it but we were worried she might have died. Since we don’t know each other in ‘real life’ it was entirely possible that someone could drop dead one day and we’d never get any confirmation; just left wondering what happened. We asked around in common friend circles, and nobody had heard from her, coming up on about three weeks at that point. We had to do something.

Multiple friend circles of people from all around the world, scrambling to find any scrap of information about our lost friend. One person had ‘maybe’ an address that they sent something to once, but it might have been an old house. We found about three different possible legal names, and had no way to be sure which was right. We ended up sending a letter addressed to three different names ‘or the family of’. It was a desperate shot in the dark, but we were worried sick.

It turned out she was alright, but she had been stuck in hospital for a while and didn’t have access to a phone. We all had a laugh over how everyone overreacted, but it really did scare me. I’ve learned to really value the time I get to spend with my online friends; next time might not be so lucky, and if something were to happen it’s hard to ever get closure on it.

Wider World.

Community

One thing the internet’s really helped with is connecting like-minded individuals. Before the internet, if you had a niche hobby, you were probably the only person you know in your town with that hobby. Kinda lame, yeah? Nowadays, you can reach across the globe and connect with everyone who’s into the same stuff as you! Mainstream topics can have gargantuan communities, but what I find even more interesting is the weird obscure hobbies and groups, the kind that would never survive without the internet.

My personal favourite is the community around the video game ‘Space Station 13’; it’s a simulation roleplay game that’s been kicking around for about 18 years at this point, kept alive by a cult following of obsessed players. The programming sucks, and the controls are horrifically obtuse, but it’s got a charm that I can’t deny. It’s not for everyone, and I think that’s great. It’s not for everyone, but thanks to the internet enough people can still get together that they can enjoy it.

Someone sends me a funny picture. There’s three layers of delight. The first - of course - is that the picture is funny. Beyond that, there’s also the impulsive knowledge that I know who else I could send it to that might like it; it’s a chain letter that for once isn’t a scam. And the third layer is knowing that whoever sent the picture to me first got it sent to them and thought “Hey, I know who might like this”!

Random people

Strange patterns can emerge after lurking and watching from the sidelines.

In the rules discussion channel of a board game group I’m in, I swear sometimes it’s like I’m stuck in a time loop. I watch a random person ask a common question about the game, and then someone else will get the rules clarified for them. A few hours will pass, the conversation drifting elsewhere as people drop in and out. Suddenly, I spot it; the same question from before, but from a different person. Like clockwork, another nameless devout will rise up and deliver the answer. And again. And again. It’s like a two-line stage show where the audience is also the cast, over and over and over.

Since profile pictures and usernames are self-selected you do get a weird little keyhole view of who you’re talking to might be like. This person has a picture of a cat as their profile image. Is it their cat, or did they just think the cat looked nice? Their username is ‘Millie’, is that their real life name; maybe? Or what if it’s the cat’s name? Are they pretending to be their cat? Are they a cat?

Getting popular, online presence & all eyes on you

Having a large presence online - that is, having other people follow or be ‘fans’ of you - is a mixed bag. For me it’s been really good in allowing me to get my art out there and get clients, but it’s also weird. It feels a bit like I’m up on a stage sometimes, everyone’s watching me. I’ve lost the feeling of being ‘just another guy in the crowd’. What if someone reads something I posted the wrong way? Do I keep being aloof and carefree, or will that hurt my image. Should I care?

Getting weird; parasocial relationships, doxxing, and personal armies.

People with large presences can feel familiar, friendly, like you’re already friends.

I’ve caught myself falling into this in the past. Parasocial relationships. There was an artist I really admired the style of. The brain’s great at filling in the details you want to be real. I realised that I had it written in my head that this person was super cool and the best and that it’d be really cool if we hung out. All extrapolation. While it’s entirely possible that they were everything I had imagined them to be, until it’s tested it’s all just imagination and fantasy. If you’ve never talked to them, how could you know?

Guest speaker, Chai

[Chai text]

Connecting with meatspace

Back down to earth. What happens when the digital and the physical self have to intersect? The two identities are from the same person, but they’re not the same.

My family found my twitter.

One time, my parents sent me a text: “Lucy showed us your art, looking really cool Tom!”. How. I’d never sent my family any of my online profiles. I check my Twitter; sure enough in front of my eyes the screen tells me my sister has followed my twitter account. Abject horror. How much did they look at? What did they think? Should I start looking for a flat?

It’s not that I had anything to hide, it’s just that it felt… misaligned. Like two worlds coming together that shouldn’t. I’m sure for them it was just “Wow, look at our son go!”, but for me it was a wave of confusion and dread.

Visiting internet friends. (They weren’t murderers.)

One time, I was lucky enough to have a few of my internet friends visit in real life. I was showing them around my house, when I ran into my mum. It hit me. Who do I even introduce these people as? We all know each other by our online names and had been using them in conversation minutes earlier, but that would make no sense to my poor mum. And so, awkwardly, one by one my friends rattled off a set of names entirely alien to me. We all kept straight faces as each of us discovered “Wait, this person’s called WHAT?”.

We all promptly forgot each other’s names within about two minutes.

LDRs

Thanks to the internet, I met my partner.

Almost four years later, we’re still going strong. It helps a lot that a lot of our common interests can be done online, chiefly gaming and watching shows. But even the other stuff, we can still do together in some aspects. We always say good morning and goodnight to each other on the phone, and fill each other in on what we’ve been up to that day. If we go somewhere and see something cool, we can still share pictures and videos. If I make a really nice dinner, I can send them the recipe and they can have a taste (though that last one might depend on their cooking skills).

Of course, it’s not identical to an in-person relationship, and it can be more stressful. You have to put a lot more effort into reaching out to each other and making time to hang out and talk; it won’t happen by accident. We’re both really looking forward to being able to move together, but until then, being together apart isn’t all that bad.

Signing off.

[petersvibes]

cranes in the sky - peter parker

thatonesoftgrungegirl asked: Could you do a Peter/Spider-Man x Reader, she’s bffs with Peter, where the readers feeling rly sad due to bullies and Spider-Man cheers her up and suddenly confessed that he loves her and then school happens and Peter seems rly weird and she figures it out then fluff?????? Sorry it was super long

song: cranes in the sky - solange

pairing: peter parker x fem!reader

warnings: bad words, depressive thoughts, a batman v superman reference

author’s note: THIS IS SO LENGTHY. i love it. for a second there it got really bvs i’m SORRY i laughed writing it. requests are still open. happy thanksgiving friends :) 

Entering your bedroom, the gaping hole in Peter’s chest is ripped further apart, filling with the guilt of knowing that you’re not okay. Although it is nearing three in the afternoon, the thick, drawn curtains make your room nearly pitch black. The decorations lining the walls - photographs, tickets, posters - used to indicate so much of your personality and what you held dear, but the joyous girl in those photos has been notably absent from Peter’s life, and it’s killing him. He carefully steps over your carelessly strewn belongings, closing the window that is letting the cold autumnal breeze into the small space. You’re slumped on your bed, but you barely react as Peter moves about, as you’re covered by a mountain of blankets that insulate your desolation. 

Peter takes a seat at the edge of your bed, his jaw hard set but his eyes wide. The only sign of life from you is the rise and fall of your breathing, but you’re curled upon yourself with your face to the wall as if the blank color was of any intrigue. He drops his uncharacteristically heavy backpack by the nightstand, both his and your work spilling out. “Peach,” He says, dragging out your infamous nickname, “I brought notes from what you missed today. MJ said all you missed in lit. was a discussion about themes in the poem your teacher posted.” 

As expected, you don’t respond, the only acknowledgement he receives being a few blinks directed at your wall. Peter squeezes his eyes shut, running his hand through his hastily styled curls. In the years he’s been your best friend, you’ve never been so reclusive and it’s been torturous trying to figure out why. Your parents remain oblivious as per usual and since you’ve avoided school at all costs, your friends offer him no resolution. You don’t answer texts, phone calls, and judging by the pile of the homework he’s been bringing you that has steadily accumulated on your desk, you could care less. 

“(Y/N).” Peter rests his hand on one of your concealed body parts. “Talk to me. Please.” 

You turn your body and expose your face, Peter’s breath hitching. Your complexion is ghostly, like you’re an empty vessel. Through hazy eyes that he suspects are raw from tears, you peer up at him, your expression blank. “What do you want?” 

Peter looks around the dark expanse of the room, shaking his head in disbelief. “You haven’t been at school. You don’t answer my calls or my texts and you... (Y/N) I don’t even recognize you anymore.” He says, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. You’re his best friend, but you’ve been everything to him for sixteen years and with every second you spend distant, it’s like a piece of him chips away, and at this rate, there will soon be nothing left. 

Using your tired muscles, you sit up, resting your back against your headboard. You make eye contact, but it’s disjointed at best; his eyes are full of sympathy but yours are blank. For reasons unbeknownst to him, you look at him like you are genuinely shocked that he cares about what’s wrong with you. “Why are you here Peter?” You ask, your voice scratchy from underuse. 

Peter takes your cold hands in his, just as he has a thousand times before, but you stare at the interaction like it’s foreign. He grimaces, giving your hand a strong squeeze. “Whatever is going on,” He pauses, using his other hand to tilt your chin up so that your eyes meet his, “Peach, you can tell me. But hiding in your room isn’t healthy-” 

“You should leave.” You deadpan, withdrawing your hand from his tight grip. Peter’s lips part and he feels like he’s received a low blow to the gut. He stares at you curiously, cursing whoever or whatever happened to make you so apathetic. Unmoved by his words, your eyes narrow and your jaw tightens with it, fire growing in your eyes.

“Did you hear me?” You roar, Peter flinching. Suddenly, you’re out of bed for the first time and moving around your room, kicking even the slightest of obstacles out of your path. Clothes are launched at Peter’s chest and you shove his backpack onto his lap, the loose papers flying around like they’re part of a snowstorm. “Leave Peter! I don’t want you here! Get out!” Your face is hot and your chest heaves as you attempt to catch your breath. 

Peter stands up, holding his hands up as a means to surrender. Fear, confusion, they cloud his features and he can’t even find it in himself to say anything. Just as quietly as he came, takes his belongings and slips out of your room. By the time your knees give out and you collapse on the floor, sobbing violently, your best friend’s presence is nothing but a distant memory. 

A few days later, Peter trades in his overwhelming concern for his Spider-Man suit. As he goes about his evening, he patrols the neighborhood in effort to keep the painful look in your eyes out of his mind. The thought of your anguish makes him feel like he’s separate from the world, the rush of his powers subdued. He misses you; he misses the way you tease him about his nerdy obsessions and how you try to impress him with puns. He misses your smile, the way it radiates from within and causes crinkles to form by your eyes. Peter misses your hugs, your laugh, your obnoxious cheek kisses, and he loathes the fact that although you’re dwelling only a block away from him, you’re far away enough that it’s like he’s mourning you. 

“I’m sure (Y/N)’s fine Peter.” Karen says. Peter sighs, shooting his web at the top of the bank, landing atop the roof only seconds later. 

“I wish she would just tell me what’s wrong.” He replies, collapsing in a heap onto the concrete. “She’s refusing to talk to me.” 

“Maybe, she can’t talk to you.” She offers, but Peter grimaces. 

He presses the heels of his hands to his eyelids, letting out an exasperated groan. “I’m her best friend, Karen! And she knows how much I care about her and how important she is to me and I just don’t understand! She should be able to tell me anything, everything, but it’s like she resents me for even caring and it’s driving me insane-” 

“I mean,” Karen interrupts, her voice authoritative, “Maybe she can’t talk to you because you are her best friend. Whatever is going wrong, she might not want to hurt you, or for you to see her differently. But say, if someone else were to ask her what’s wrong, like a stranger, maybe she’d open up.” 

The emerging moonlight illuminates the frown overtaking Peter’s face.“How does talking to a stranger help me find out what is wrong with her?” 

Peter swears if she were a human, Karen would’ve rolled her eyes at him. “Have you forgotten that you’re Spider-Man?” 

He immediately shakes his head. No, no, he could never, right? “I can’t just, pretend I’m not Spider-Man. I would be lying to her and I can’t do that.” 

“Don’t you want to help her?”

Peter nods, “Of course I do.” He says, chewing on his bottom lip. Whatever Karen says afterwords falls upon deaf ears. If you found out, you’d kill him, first for not telling you about his secret identity and second for using it against you when you were at your most vulnerable. But if he didn’t at least try and something happened to you, he would never be able to forgive himself. He could perfectly envision your fallen face, complete with a gaped mouth and teary eyes, but the apathy you expressed in your bedroom that day was arguably worse. 

He groans heavenward, swearing under his breath as he stands up, leaping off the roof and setting about the route to your apartment. 

When he arrives, the sight he’s met with fills him with sorrow. He expected to see your window open, letting the cool night breeze flow through your dark room as it has for the past week, but what he finds is anomalous. Your back is pressed to the small space of brick wall on your fire escape, and your knees are tucked tightly into your chest. You don’t move, nor speak, and if not for the few sniffles he hears come from your body he would’ve assumed you already frozen to death. Taking a deep breath, he lowers himself down from the fire escape above yours, perching himself on the corner. 

You’re too wrapped up in your own thoughts to notice the noise he makes, startled only by the clearing of his throat. Taking in the visual, your hand flies to your chest as you let out a little squeal. Unsure if your isolation has somehow driven you to insanity, you blink a few times, only to find that yes, Spider-Man, as in the superhero, Avenger Spider-Man that saves old ladies and decathlon teams, is on your fire escape. “What the fuck man?” You yell, your hands thrown up in the air. “You can’t just show up on girl’s balconies like that you creep!” 

Peter is truly relieved to see any form of emotion from you, but he refrains from both sighing and giggling and maintains his composure, making sure his voice disguise his in effect. “I’m uh, Spider-Man.” He says, mentally face palming. Of course she knows you’re Spider-Man. 

You squint, folding your arms across your chest. “I know who you are, dumbass. Just because you’re a superhero doesn’t mean you can stalk people.” 

The eyes of his mask reflect his narrowed ones. “I am not stalking you. I’m here to tell you that...” He pauses, racking his brain for a ruse, “It’s cold and, you should definitely get a jacket or something.” 

“Maybe I want to be cold.” You say, but the once playfulness of your tone has subtly dissolved. 

He carefully slides across the railing of your fire escape until he’s directly in front of you. “Why do you say that?” He asks, and you chuckle, but it’s not light and infectious like he wishes it was, rather it’s humorless. 

You shrug, taking your eyes off him and resting your head on the metal posts. “I dunno. If you get cold enough, you can’t feel anything. I like that feeling.” 

Startling him, Karen’s voice quietly enters his ears. “Now’s your chance Peter.” 

Peter swings his body over the railing and takes a seat adjacent to you, his back facing outwards towards the street. He wants to reach out to you, but he knows that as much as he may want to be, he can’t be your best friend right now. “What’s wrong?” He asks. 

Again, you shrug, but you’re unable to even force a smile. “Nothing much. Just your typical, average teen stuff. Nothing you’d care about nor understand.” 

“I think I may understand more than you think.” He offers, and you sigh, your breath forming a small cloud just past your lips. 

You turn your head, looking at the masked man and contemplating whether you have enough sense to cease the conversation before it starts. But your bottled up emotions are now eating away at you parasitically and strangely, Spider-Man has an eery familiarity, so you decide to speak. “The kids at school... they’ve always been mean to me. It’s stupid stuff, like snide comments about my looks or the things I like. Usually I can just brush it off because I always had my best friend Peter. But lately it’s like, it’s like I’ve lost control of everything. I haven’t been to school in a week because the thought of being there gives me so much anxiety that I can’t breathe.” 

Peter doesn’t realize that what once was a casual hold on the metal of the fire escape has grown tight enough it’s bending under his grip. You’re being bullied. You’re being bullied. The kids at your school have been tormenting you for no reason other than their own sick gratification and he’s been too caught up in his extracurriculars to even notice. His stomach turns and he curses himself for being so stupid as to let you suffer in silence. With his voice thick, he answers. “Why didn’t you tell your friend uh, Peter?” 

“You don’t know Peter.” You say, as he shifts uneasily. “We’ve been friends since we were babies. He’s been through a lot the past few years and I’ve always been the first one to support him. But this? Being bullied isn’t a big deal. Who am I to burden him with the stupid problems I should already be able to deal with?” 

“Your problems aren’t stupid. And being bullied is a big deal.” He sits up straighter, leaning in towards you. “I don’t know you. But I’m sure you’re an amazing, smart, beautiful girl that doesn’t deserve the shit she’s getting. High school sucks, and people suck, but that doesn’t mean you can’t talk to m-Peter. If he’s really your best friend, he’s probably dying for you to be honest with him.” 

“And what if he doesn’t care? Or if he hates me like everyone else? If I lose him I’ll be completely alone and I don’t know if I can survive that.” You confess, your eyes filling up with tears. Peter finally reaches out, his gloved hand resting on your foot. 

“He’ll listen.” Peter assures, staring her dead in the eye. “I know for a fact he will. And I’m sure he’ll punch whoever’s been bullying you without question.” 

For the first time in what feels like forever, you laugh, a genuine, light, eye crinkling laugh. “Peter Parker wouldn’t punch a fly.” You giggle, wiping your tears away with the back of your sleeve. “But I think I may take your advice after all, Spider-Man.” You wink, glimpses of your unique playfulness shining through the cracks of your stony exterior. In one swift motion, Peter stands up and perches himself back on the railing, preparing himself to disappear away into the night. 

“I’m glad you showed up when you did. If not for you I probably would’ve frozen to death out here.” You joke, starting to follow his lead by collecting yourself and starting to climb back into your room. Peter laughs, looking at you like you’re the only girl in the world. 

If it weren’t for the sight of your mouth gaping and the color draining out of your face, Peter would’ve thought what he said next was merely contained to his thoughts. His heart, which was once beating at a fluctuating, but stable pace, goes completely still from the sheer disbelief. He’s either beet red or sheet white, but the color doesn’t matter; because to her, her friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man shattered her world with one, unforeseen sentence. 

“You know I love you too much to let that happen Peach.” 

Your heart beats once, twice, three times, but your mind is completely blank. A few feet away from you, Peter is shocked, he’s panicked, and although he could easily swing away and never speak to you again, he’s frozen in place.

“Excuse me?” 

Peter sputters incoherently, but both you and him know he’s at a loss for words. Not only has he revealed that he knows your name, but he’s just- he’s confessed his love for you, the love love way. You stare at him, your forehead creased as you try to convince yourself that the pieces your brain are putting together are disjointed and incorrect. 

“H-How do you know that name?” You ask, your voice raspy. He doesn’t respond, his now functioning heart pounding in his ears loud enough that he can hardly hear you. “I said,” You murmur, approaching him slowly, “How do you know that name?” 

Peter’s frigid body loosens and he lowers himself from his stance, feeling his feet come into contact with the freezing iron. His words have already failed him once, and if he contemplated it more he probably wouldn’t have reached out to you, but at this point, he’s so distraught that he sincerely believes nothing could make it worse. 

He takes once step forward and you take another back, shaking your head as your eyes start to water. “No. No.” You push his hands away, covering your face with your practically purple hands. It can’t be. It can’t be. You think, your face flooding for what feels like the millionth time just this week alone. “Peter?” You say, less to him and more to yourself. He crumples to his knees, his head turned up as to look at you. From this angle, your hair is blowing in the harshness of the breeze and under the moonlight you look like an angel high above him. 

With as much ease as one would use to remove their own skin, Peter peels off the mask, exposing his somber and shameful expression to you. Although you now knew what you would see, you gasp anyway, unable to do much more than stutter and stare. 

You point to him with a trembling finger. “Y-You let me talk about you a-and the bullies and you were here the w-whole time. You’re Spider-Man and you didn’t tell me. You love me.” You blink, your shock unwavering. “You love me.” 

Peter opens his mouth to speak, but what comes out is barely above a moderate whisper. “I-I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you (Y/N) I just,” He pauses, tears flowing profusely down his cheeks, “I needed to know what was wrong so I put on the suit and I came and-” 

“-And you just thought the logical thing to do was to pretend you were someone else while I openly talked about you?” You snap, quickly wiping away at your face. Peter hangs his head, but you capture his attention again with a swift punch to his shoulder. “What kind of asshole gets superpowers, doesn’t tell his best friend, leads her on about his identity only to tell her he loves her!” 

He peers up at you through damp lashes, clearing his throat. “I was really, really worried.” He offers, unintentionally sheepish. 

“Because you love me.” You reiterate, but a smile is playing on your lips that not even you can deny. Peter slowly stands up again, his eyes wide as he gathers up the remnants of his courage. You don’t fight as he comes closer to you, letting your hands come in contact with the texture of the suit around his waist

“Because I love you,” Peter starts, placing his warm, gloved hands on your cheeks, “I didn’t tell you about being Spider-Man. Because there are bad things and bad people and if you got hurt because of me, I don’t know what I’d do.” He steps only a half step closer, running one hand through your knotted hair. “Because I love you, I’m going to punch the sons of bitches who’ve been bullying you.” You smile, and a huge weight rolls off his shoulders. It’s okay. “Because I love you, I’m stood out in this brick weather confessing what I’ve been feeling for sixteen years because I was too much of an idiot to do subtle reconnaissance.” 

You giggle, falling into the warmness of his eyes like its the only solace from the cold surrounding you. “I would be livid at you if I didn’t love you so much.” You mumble, closing your eyes and letting him press his cold lips to yours. It’s soft and it’s sweet, just like he is, and when he pulls away from the force of a gust of wind you want him back for more. 

“You’re not off the hook asshole.” You tease, burying your nose into his muscular chest. “But I’m definitely going to yell at you from inside of my room. With the windows tightly shut.” 

Peter laughs, pecking the flushed tip of your nose. “Will there be more kisses?” He asks hopefully, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs. 

 Feeling the color rush to your cheeks, you smile brightly. “Definitely more kisses.” 

[gukiex]

Doppelgänger- Ch 1

Genre: Doppelgänger AU, smut, angst, fantasy, fluff.

Paring: Jungkook x Reader

Word Count: 5k

Summary: Remember, all that glitters is not gold.

The steady beeping of hospital equipment was the first thing you heard when you woke from what felt like the first proper rest you had in two whole years.

Your sense of perception was still hazy and vague when feeble limbs pushed you up to lean against the headboard of the bed, the thin sheet covering you slipping into your lap as wary eyes scanned the dimly lit surroundings, your mind trying to piece together why you just awoken in a hospital room.

You inspected yourself, looking for any telling signs of cut's or broken limbs but when you came up short you were left even more stumped than before.

"Oh, you're finally awake."

It was a familiar voice, one you'd heard countless times and shared many memories with throughout your life yet it sounded so foreign since last time you heard it was over a year ago before you abandoned it without reason.

Hoseok's lips were painted with a meek smile, holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand while the other stayed tucked in the front pocket of his loose sweats. You scanned over his features, a pang of guilt aching dully in your chest as you looked at the man whom you once called your bestfriend, who you would still call your best friend if it weren't for your incessant need to push everything good out of your life, selfishly isolating yourself into your cold sorrowful world.

"You still had me down as your emergency contact but if you um, you want your space I can ah—just leave." Hoseok read into your silence, deeming it to be a way of you telling him you didn't want him here, which truthfully wasn't the case. When he turned to walk out of the door a frail voice spoke, halting him in his tracks.

"No, Hobi I want you to stay—please."

Hoseok's body tingled at the sound, it had been so long, so god damn long since you spoke to him and though your voice was hoarse and cracking from dehydration, it still enchanted him like a siren with the promise of heaven on earth.

He turned back to you just as you shifted to move yourself to stand and immediately he was at your side, deterring you and tucking you back into the bedding.

"Hoseok I'm fine, I shouldn't even be here." You dejected swatting his hand away when it went to pull the thin blanket higher up your body.

"If you were fine you wouldn't be here in the first place Y/N." He rolled his eyes when you persisted that you were okay, ignoring the pleas to stop babying you and just take you home to your own bed.

"That's not my decision to make, wait until the doctor comes back Y/N and if he gives you the okay than I'll take you home."

You were coping his previous action, rolling your eyes while crossing your arms over your chest and shooting the male a playful glare. "Since when were you one to actually follow rules Hoseok?"

"Since I got a call that my best friend who hasn't spoken to me in almost a year and a half fell unconscious on a sidewalk."

His jab didn't go unheard, stinging just enough to pile on even more shame to your guilt stricken conscience. And you would have apologized for everything, for every ignored call, deleted text and unanswered knocks to your door right then and there, you swear you would have if it weren't for day's forgotten event's that came rushing back in as if flood barriers had just gave in.

Keys. Collision. Coffee. Tanned skin. Brown hair. Black eyes.

Christian.

Only it wasn't your fiancé and this wasn't some apocalyptic miracle where the dead would rise and roam the earth once again. It surely wasn't another cruel prank he just taken to far, though it wouldn't be the worse scenario because it would result in him still being alive. But that was wishful thinking because you were there, you watched the explosion out of your very own two eyes and even the highest qualifying stunt double couldn't pull off escaping a blast like that.

Hoseok picked up on your change in character immediately, brows furrowing in concern and you couldn't bring yourself to look directly at his face, already knowing how bizarre it would sound to say those thoughts out loud.

"Y/N what is it? What's wrong?"

You were battling with yourself, Hoseok's concern radiating off of him as he shifted himself to sit on the end of your bed, trying to read into your apprehensive expression.

"Hoseok, I—" You racked your brain, trying to figure out a proper way of explaining that you just saw a man who looked identical to your deceased lover. "Something happened today, something so fucked up and unexplainable, I-I don't even know where to start."

Hoseok reached towards you, curling his hand around yours and giving it a squeeze of encouragement, beckoning for you to go on.

"Hoseok I don't know exactly how this is possible but -" You trailed off, losing your nerve but Hoseok's gave another reassuring squeeze, silently telling you he was here for you and you could confide in him, no matter what.

"It saw Christian Hoseok, well not actually Christian but a man who looked exactly like him. W-we collided on the street and than I saw him, his face—his everything, it was so—the same. Like a, I don't know, a doppelgänger or something?"

Hoseok just stared at you. Quietly. The silence deafening, wrapping around you and taunting you for such foolish beliefs. You knew how this sounded, how comically deranged you probably looked to him.

"Y/N please—" Hoseok bowed his head, shaking it slowly before looking up into your eyes with such repentance and pity. "Please don't do this to yourself, it's not healthy. You're slowly killing your self over this, can't you see that? You're in a hospital for fuck sakes Y/N, I don't want to be some insensitive asshole right now but he was my best friend too, I lost him too Y/N, I know how much it hurts, how empty you feel. But if you would have just let me be there for you, let me be here now and help you—"

You ripped your hands from his hold and Hoseok looked crushed by the action until you placed both palms on either sides of his face, his eyes snapping up to look into your own that peered deeply back into his, sparkling with so many emotions, so many unspoken words. You wanted him to see that you were being truthful and honest, that you hadn't created some maniacal delusion on the day you were supposed to be morning the loss of your fiancé.

"Hobi stop talking to me like I'm crazy, I'm not crazy—actually, yeah, I do feel crazy right now but I'm not going insane Hoseok. Listen, I know what I saw and I swear to you if it wasn't a hundred—no a thousand percent sure that it was him, well not him but someone who looked like him, I would check myself into a mental facility right now as we speak."

He still looked unsure but you could tell he was easing off of his qualms the slightest bit, hearing the genuineness in your tone and seeing the pleading look in your eyes.

"I don't understand Y/N, that's not possible, there's no way—"

"I've been telling myself the same thing Hobi, believe me I have. But I'm so serious right now, I saw what I saw why do you think I'm even here? I was so overwhelmed I fainted because of it. He was there, standing right in front of me Hoseok, clear as fucking day and god, I broke; I shattered into a million pieces at the sight of him, I can't tell you how or why this is possible but I know he's real and he's out there and—"

"And what?" Hoseok interjected with a scoff. "You're going to go find him? And than what Y/N? Tell this kid that he looks like your dead fiancé, show him some pictures and sing a fucking joyful song? What do you expect to get out of this? Closure? Because you won't, it'll open up every memory and wound, it will only destroy you Y/N, whatever comfort you're looking to seek from him will only do more harm than good because he's not Christian, he'll never be Christian."

His words hurt. They ripped you apart and rounded up whatever pieces of you were left and tossed them to the abyss. He was right though, he was so fucking right it scared you just how perceptive he always was with things like this. You tended to make irrational decisions, never second guessing your actions until you faced consequences that you never foreseen, but Hoseok always did. Only right now, you didn't care about his warnings, you knew what would happen if you looked for this man, if you tried to find answers.

"Don't you think I know that Hoseok?" You jeered, tears brimming your eyes but you fought them back, you didn't want to cry, you cried to much.

"I'm not looking for closure or seeking comfort from a fucking stranger, I just want answers. If I don't find them it won't be him who wrecks me it will be my own curiosity will kill me. I'll be miserable Hoseok, more miserable than I am now and if you expect me to get better, I won't, especially not after this—not this Hoseok." Your voice broke when you concluded your confession, you didn't want to cry but the tears fell without warrant, an ugly sob wracking your frame when you finally you let it all out for the first time today without holding back.

Hoseok's immediate response was pulling you into his arms without any hesitation because even for as long you kept him away, he was still so uninhibitedly taken by you, his unrequited love unfaltering and he wanted nothing more than to see you return back to the girl who unknowingly stole his heart all those years ago.

He placed you into his lap, rocking you gently in his embrace while he whispered quiet nothings into your hair, trying to soothe your dreary soul.

Hoseok couldn't bring himself to accept your terms but he found the heart to understand where you stood with your decision. He knew the risk, what this could do to you and how it could ruin you beyond repair so if he wanted to make sure you didn't dive to deep, lower yourself to a point of no return he would have to be there, guiding you all the way through.

"If this—lookalike is real than surely there would be record of his name on your file since he's most likely the one who brought you in."

Your head shot up from where it laid on his chest, tear filled eyes meeting his own that already settled down on you, uncertainty still apparent and swirling around in his dark orbs. With the unspoken exchange you knew what his words meant from the way he looked at you, silently telling you he was willing to help you, willing to find this mystery man and get the answers you craved.

Wiping at your dampened cheeks, you slid out of Hoseok's lap, positing yourself back at the head of the bed and pulling your knees into your chest and wrapping your arms around the front of your legs.

You silently pondered Hoseok's revelation, perhaps they had taken down his information, surely it was required, especially given your unconscious state wouldn't it be some sort of technicality?

"I doubt they'll give that information willingly to the public."

Hoseok nodded almost accepting defeat until an idea struck in his mind.

"Well actually, I'm sure I can persuade our favourite nurse to lend a helping hand."

Your eyes widened.

"Jimin? The Park Jimin works here? At this very hospital?"

A devious smirk appeared on Hoseok's lips, recalling the many favours the younger man owed him from their younger days back in post secondary school.

"The one and only. I'll give him a call, stay here and don't move and I mean it Y/N—Don't. Move."

You rolled your eyes, Hoseok's dramatics entirely unnecessary considering you weren't physically hurt, you simply fainted due to an overwhelming situation and that be it all. But he always was one to be extra cautious, something you once were grateful for.

After a few minutes Hoseok was re-entering the hospital room, a triumphant smile, the first genuine one you had seen since his arrival, plastered on his face.

"Jimin is on his way in now."

You resisted the urge to get up and hug the man who'd surely request the doctors to get restraints to keep you immobile after his insistence that you say bedridden.

"How did you get him to agree so easily? Isn't this going to put his job at risk?" You implored, wondering who in the right mind would breech patient confidentiality so willingly. Than again, this was Jimin you were talking about.

"Let's just say a certain man is indebted to me and wouldn't have the career he did if it weren't for my father being the Dean of our university."

You groaned loudly, recalling how many other people Hoseok had on his list of debt, you also being one of them.

"Do I even want to know Hoseok?"

He snickered. "I think little Jiminie wouldn't be to keen on anyone else knowing about his uni life mishap."

After your Doctor came informing you the faint was from you experiencing Neurocardiogenic syncope, a short-term malfunction of your autonomous nervous system. Resulting in you experiencing hypotension, a sudden drop in blood pressure & slowing of your heartbeat, causing the brain's oxygen/blood level supply to be temporarily interrupted. He questioned wether you had a sudden surprise, or an abrupt change in emotion, to which you skillfully lied, not wanting to explain the situation to a stranger, especially since the diagnosis wasn't dire. And after reassuring Hoseok, five times,that you were perfectly healthy, besides apparent signs of sleep deprivation and dehydration and slight malnutrition, he concluded a good nights rest and lots of fluids would surely do the trick.

Hoseok was wheeling you down the hallway as you weren't allowed to be discharged on foot, much to his satisfaction, you both caught sight of a certain brunette, dressed in normal clothes and chatting with the young male receptionist behind the desk he leaned on.

"No, I mean it, you're absolutely radiant today Brian. Did you do something different? New hair? New love interest? Ha! you got laid last night didn't you hot shot?" Hitting the head on the nail, Brian sank further back into his office chair and Jimin knew exactly how to play out the situation.

"It's about time man, a stud like you shouldn't be allowed to roam freely, you're stealing all of the women from us how do you expect the rest of us to compete with the likes of you." He fake scoffed, pretending to be genuinely offended by the younger male who looked like he hadn't touched a pair of boob's in his entire life.

"Okay enough with the bullshit Park, what do you want?"

"The file to room 127 please, patient Y/L/N to be precise."

"This is the last time Park, I'm done helping you pick up on chicks who are supposed to feel safe in the comforts of their hospital."

"You make it seem like I'm sort of animal?" He gasped, placing a hand over his heart in mock hurt.

"Because you are."

Jimin's head snapped over at the sound of your voice. His eyes landing on Hoseok first as he wasn't the one stationed in a wheelchair, until they finally drifted down and settled on your disapproving face.

"Well if it isn't princess Y/N in the flesh, still as hot as I remember, even when you look like you just stared death himself in the eyes."

"And if it isn't Park Jimin, the walking STD. Bet it's nice to be able to get free testing now that you're a nurse, too bad you can't get a refund from your daily trips to the clinic back in university."

Jimin waved your file teasingly in front of your face.

"You must be forgetting why I'm here doll, be nice to me considering I have all the power over you placed between my very own fingers."

You glared at the vanilla folder that he dangled inches from your nose until it was snatched away from his grip.

"Actually, the only one with the real power, here is me, or shall I remind you again about profess—"

"Fuck, okay Hoseok no need to go there. I was just having a little innocent fun with my favourite noona, that's all."

You gave a questioning look to Hoseok, curiosity burning wildly about what dirty secrets he had over the infamous pain in your ass Park Jimin.

"Before you get us both in shit, I'll take that—" Jimin quickly took the file back from Hoseok, looking over his should to see if the goody two shoes receptionist he corrupted saw his friend holding a classified file. "Back, thank you very much."

After a few more words were exchanged, the three of you were tucked away in an empty quarter of the hospital Jimin claimed went unoccupied majority of the time. You didn't even want to know how he knew this piece of information, especially considering he was the living embodiment of what one would classify a,"fuck boy."

"Now, if we get caught and I lose my job you're taking me on as your personal well paid assistant who isn't required to show up to work Mr. CEO. I don't care what dirt you have over me, it's definitely not worth my termination." Jimin's words were directed to Hoseok who successfully ran and owned his very own business by the age of 27. Hoseok simply rolled his eyes, leaving the request unanswered as Jimin handed the file to you.

You stared at the folder, swallowing loud and thick, the anticipation of what was held inside fuelling your nerves because inside was either confirmation of your impending insanity or a name that would forever change your world. You hoped it be the latter for you weren't ready to admit yourself into any mental hospitals in the near future.

"Well what are you waiting for Y/N, this is what you wanted right?" Hoseok placed a hand on your shoulder as he peered down at you, eyes flicking from your own to the manila folder you clutched so tightly as if it would dissolve into mid air.

A staggered breath left your lungs when you flicked it open. Your eyes scanned the admission report, taking in the information that was scribbled messily on the page. You read the details about your arrival, vital signs, tests and medication that was given to you but so far nothing about anyone who brought you in, the revelation that maybe you were just simply crazy playing in the back of your mind.

"Jimin, would there be anything in here about who brought me to the hospital?"

"Typically no—" Jimin started and you felt bile rise in your throat, Hoseok too looking a bit perplexed by Jimin's words. "It's not mandatory but sometimes, depending on the receiving nurse, they will ask for a name or contact information to update whoever brings you in. So if there would anything—" Jimin took the folder back into his hands, shuffling through a few papers before finding the one he was looking for and with a celebratory click of the tongue he was handing the paperwork back to you. "It would be in the nurses notes, right here." He pointed to a few scribbles on a page and low and behold, you were presented with a phone number and a name and a brief summary of how this person was connected to your admission.

"Accidentally bumped into patient on the street, noticed signs of excessive ventilation, dilated pupils and loss of strength. Patient then collapsed to which bystander assessed situation, wasn't receiving response and deemed medical attention required resulting in bringing her in to the emergency. Does not wish to be contacted with update but gave information anyway incase need be.

Name: Jeon Jeongguk Contact information: Mobile phone: 773-263-8821 Address: 2250 W. Kenmont st. Apt 312 "

Your chest felt so tight and your head spun with so many emotions as you processed what this meant. It was real, everything you remembered, everything you told Hoseok, was confirmed in these barely readable scribbles on an irrelevant page in a stack of files containing your medical history.

You sent your blessing's to whomever this nurse was that took the time to write down a name for the sake of doing their job efficiently when other patients probably required their assistance.

"Jeon Jungkook." You said the name aloud, allowing yourself to hear name through your own ears just wanting to confirm that this was actually happening.

"Holy fuck Y/N, you were telling the truth."

"Of course I was, I told you Hoseok I know what I saw." You elated, spinning around in the wheelchair to look at his face only to see his expression didn't match yours in the slightest. He appeared perplexed as his eyes scanned over the words endlessly, not sure wether to be happy or pissed off that this lookalike named Jeongguk character was actually real.

"Who's Jeon Jeongguk and what's so special about him?" Jimin pried when he saw the mix matched reactions to said stranger.

Hoseok came out of his troubled daze, straightening up and gripping the handle's of the wheelchair tightly to alleviate the sense of annoyance that fuelled inside of him. He sighed up for this, he came up with the idea of checking your folder and called Jimin himself to obtain it. He knew what he was getting into yet he didn't expect himself to detest it, not this much.

"I think we better get going now Y/N, it's getting late and the doctor said you need the rest."

Just as your lips parted another voice spoke out instead.

"Nope, I don't think so."

Jimin's foot landed on the break of the wheelchair, halting Hoseok from pushing you any further down the vacant hallway.

"You called me out of the comfort of my home when I should be sleeping for my 12 hour shift tomorrow, all for a stupid name and you're not going to tell me why exactly I put my job at risk for said reason. I haven't seen either of you in over a year, I think I at least deserve an explanation for my troubles."

Hoseok was just about ready to strangle the male before you until your voice broke out, stopping him from making any rash decisions.

"You wouldn't believe me even if I told you."

Jimin eyed you skeptically, even more interested now from your presumption.

"Try me."

"Jeon Jeongguk is Christian's doppelgänger."

Jimin blinked, staring blankly at your serious expression.

After a few seconds of silence, a roaring laugh filled the hallway, Jimin doubled over and clutching onto his stomach as boyish chuckles slipped past his lips.

"Told you. Okay Hoseok let's go now. Thank for your help anyway Park, it wasn't nice seeing you again."

"Wait, wait." Jimin wiped a tear from his eyes, trying to calm himself even though your reasoning was hilariously absurd. Who in their right mind would believe that.

"I'm sorry, listen everyone grieves differently I get that and man do I ever miss that kid. As much as I wanted you to myself back in our university days, I really respected your relationship, envied it too if I'm being honest. You kids had a love I'll never know but if you honestly expect me, or anyone else to believe Christian has a doppelgänger, than you're definitely fooling not only them, but also yourself."

"Listen Park, as almost kind as that was I don't need to hear any shit from anyone, let alone you—"

"I believe her."

Both heads turned to look at the older male who spoke the three words you'd been waiting to hear.

"You do?" You and Jimin spoke simultaneously, it would have been a comical occurrence had the situation been different.

"Yeah I do, as fucking crazy as it sounds, I do believe you Y/N. Even though it's absolutely insane but from what you've told me and how it lines up perfectly with those notes, I just now I have to believe you even if my mind is telling me I'm a fucking moron for doing so, my gut just...—listen fuck, I just do okay?"

You blinked up at Hoseok, awe struck and completely jubilant that you completely disregarded both males telling you to get back into the wheelchair as you wrapped your arms tightly around your best friends neck.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you." You cried and if Hoseok wasn't so shocked by having you in his arms again in less than two hours after not being able to hold you like he wanted in over a year, he would have picked you up over his shoulder and never let you walk again.

After finally making it out of the hospital, the three of you were situated in the parking lot in front of Jimin's car.

"Okay, let me get this straight Y/N. You mean to tell me theres a duplicate of your dead fiancé walking around the city, completely oblivious to the fact that he shares a face with another human being?"

You nodded sheepishly, hearing the words spoken back to you allowed you to realize just how bizarre they actually sounded.

"Well, I don't believe you—"

Jimin raised a palm, silencing you before you could shoot another insult his way.

"But I'm willing to help you find the kid, I simply have to see it with my own eyes to actually comprehend that another living, breathing human being looks like my punk roommate who threw up in my bed after a bender and didn't tell me until I went to sleep in it."

You snorted, the memory of your boyfriend at the time and Jimin practically ripping each other apart all the while Jimin was covered in day old barf manifested in your mind. You remembered how the smell from that incident was one that none of you could get out of the dorm for weeks.

A sense of sadness clouded over you as the memory reeled so vividly, as if it had just occurred yesterday and by the bleak expressions on the two males before you, you knew they two were suddenly feeling the weight of the loss of their best friend.

"Fuck, I miss that kid."

"Me too."

"Get in line."

You were all silent for a while, the moment used to mourn yet appreciate the once futile member of your now lacking triad.

"I miss us."

Your words were unexpected but as you looked at the two faces you once had seen every day without failure you felt them stronger than ever before.

"I can't blame you for ghosting us considering the circumstances but, I blame you."  

You jabbed Jimin in the arm, something you used to find yourself doing more times than breathing back in the days you all used to be closer than any iconic quartet that comes to mind.

"Things don't have to go back to how they were after this you know? I still care about you, as much as Jimin will probably deny it, he still cares about you too. I don't think—he would want us to just up and forget about each other now that he's not here holding the group together like he used to. Christian is probably pissing down on us right now from heaven seeing how grown apart we've become. We used to be best friends, we used to dream about growing old and raising our families together. What happened to that? We're better than this, we should have gotten closer after losing him, it shouldn't have gotten like this."

You took him Hoseok's wisdom filled words, he always did know exactly what to say. It made your chest ache in guilt for the millionth time today knowing you were one of the main reason's for your groups drifting apart.

"You're right. I'm sorry for pushing you guys away, I-I should have let you be there, I should have been there, I always forget I'm not the only one who lost their bestfriend that day. So I'm sorry, for everything. I don't deserve your forgiveness but just know I am truly sorry."

"It's okay Y/N but Hoseok was wrong about one thing." Jimin contested and you raised your brow at him, wondering what exactly Hoseok could be wrong about when his words spoke nothing but the truth.

"I can admit that I care about you. As annoying as you are and I'm sure I'm just as annoying to you, I care about you. I'll admit this, every few months after he passed I found myself driving through your neighbourhood, looking at your building and trying to find the courage to go inside and just see how you were doing when you never called. But you know me, I'm a stubborn son of a gun but I shouldn't have waited for your call, I should have done it first. And yes, Christian was all of our best friend but he was the love of your life. So I get it, I get why you closed off and shut us out, your grieving was much more than ours and no one should compare who felt more or who didn't but I know you did, I know you still do. But Y/N I'll be here now and Hobi will too. And if finding this mystical fucking creature called Jeongguk is what you want to do, I'll do it with you. No questions asked."

[royalbloodlp]

ROYAL BLOOD cover & interview in French magazine MYROCK #47, July-August 2017 (click to enlarge)

Translation of the interview below (thanks to @believersdie​ for their help)

                                               ROYAL BLOOD

                   AN ALCHEMY IN THE MIDDLE OF CHAOS

Three years after winning the title of this generation's most exciting challenger, the duo composed of Mike Kerr and Ben Thatcher is coming back with "How Did We Get So Dark?" a long-awaited second album which exceeds our expectations by far. It's an authentic classic, played with only drums and bass guitar, to prove once and for all that no, guitar isn't the ultimate rock instrument.

(Thomas Malfrouche / Photos Manon Violence)

Three years ago, no one had heard about Royal Blood. Since then, you've played shows all over the planet and you've been taken under the wings of Dave Grohl, Jimmy Page and Iggy Pop. Doesn't all of this make your head feel dizzy?

Mike Kerr (lead vocals, bass guitar) : My head feels good, thank you!

Ben Thatcher (drums) : So does mine, but I try to protect it as you can see [he's wearing a typically French beret, note from the author]. Hats are my new thing. I decided to swap my usual cap for the local hat. Today, we're in Paris so it's a beret, but I intend to get a cool cowboy hat in the US!

M.K. : To answer your question, our lives did completely change in the space of three years. When we started Royal Blood, we didn't think that one day, our music would be listened to by people other than our friends. Playing our songs all over the world, in front of an audience who was always asking for more, that's what I'll remember from this two-year madness.

People are under the impression that playing shows helped a lot to increase your visibility. When your first album was released, some were skeptical. But whoever saw you live joined your adventure. Each night, each concert, were they just battlefields?

M.K. : Absolutely. Since the beginning, concerts are the essence of Royal Blood. It started up like this, making the most noise we could in a basement. We kept this. The location doesn't matter, whether it be a club, a stadium or a festival, each time we try to see ourselves in our small rehearsal premises and play with the same spirit as we did there. Moreover, being only two in the band accentuates this. We can look each other in the eye, react automatically to the other. On stage, we just follow our guts. And we lived awesome things on the last tour. I remember this concert in the plains of Quebec for the Festival d'Eté, where we opened for Foo Fighters. We played in front of a hundred thousand people, it was huge. There was a tornado notice, and the weather was becoming more and more chaotic as we were playing. We were literally seeing the lightning unleash. So much that we had to leave the stage after playing six tracks, for security reasons. But these six tracks will stay in my memory forever.

Did you get the chance to party with Dave Grohl anyway?

M.K. : Obviously! We spent almost three months on the road with the Foo Fighters guys, and we saw Dave every day.

Is the rumor true, is he the coolest guy in the rock'n'roll scene?

M.K. : No, he became number two. Right after me (laughter).

B.T. : And after me! So Dave is the third coolest dude. But it's okay, he's still on the podium!

M.K. : We're joking around, but for us, two small guys from Brighton, all that's happening to us is still unbelievable.

B.T. : Every day, I feel like I'm living a dream. For example today, being in Paris to talk about our music is completely surreal. And we were just told we are headlining a show at the Zénith [huge concert venue in Paris, note from the translator] at the end of the year [November 9th, note from the author]. That's crazy! This world is crazy!

M.K. : We would never have imagined all of this. Let's take Jimmy Page, for example. One of our heroes. An untouchable musician. An icon. He came to see us live a few times, and he met us after the show to talk and party. He's a real gentleman, he is very polite and sophisticated. He doesn't live in a castle tower, like most of the rockstars of his level. He keeps being passionate about music, he goes out a lot, sees many concerts, discovers new bands. It's an honor to know he likes our work.

                                     MELODIES BEFORE ALL

With all the concerts you played, how did you find the time to write this new album?

M.K. : The secret is that we didn't take any vacation, we got back to work right away. It's impossible for us to write on the road. We could have, during sound checks, especially since we're only two. But we prefered to rest and keep our energy for the show. So we wrote this record after we went back home, in Brighton, like we always did up to now. We're used to going to the Brighton Electric, a small rehearsal studio that we love. Then, we recorded at the ICP studios, in Brussels. It's the best studio which we ever had the chance to work in, a place filled with gear, with lots of microphones, amplifiers, and other toys. The location is quite isolated, and at the time the weather was cold. It was very immersive and very solitary. We spent two months there, literally cut off the world. It did us good. Especially when you see the state of the world we're living in...

The production of this record is incredible, the audience feels like you wanted to highlight the melodies. Of course, there are good old riffs, but the choruses are overpowering, they remind of the 80's, when Kiss', Alice Cooper's, Bonnie Tyler's and Joan Jett's hard rock was on the radio.

M.K. : We've always loved pop music, choruses that blow you away and make you want to sing them. For this album, we wanted to declare our love to melodies and stop hiding them behind our wall of fat sound. For me, a good chorus is the heart of a good song, it is what makes you want to listen to it over and over again. As such, I consider that this album is our most direct album. What's melodic isn't necessarily hot tempered. It's just a matter of balance and dosage. Desmond Child mastered this harmony perfectly. For instance, "Livin' On A Prayer" by Bon Jovi [co-written by Desmond Child, note from the author] is a pop song, and at the same time it's very hard, with fat guitar riffs. I love this kind of contrast.

              BEHIND THE ALBUM COVER, BY MIKE KERR

"Firstly, we wanted to create a unity between the cover of our first album and this one. When I saw this photograph for the first time, I felt like it represented exactly the impression I wanted to give with this record. It's difficult to choose an album cover. It must be aesthetically pleasant, but it must go well with the music too. And especially, it must be cool on vinyl format! What's funny is that, on our first album, you could only see the eyes of the character. Here, it's the opposite, you can see everything except the eyes. Is it the same person? You can create your own story..."

                      BASS, DRUMS, AND NOTHING ELSE!

Just like the previous one, is this album guaranteed without any guitars?

M.K. : Totally! You know, we worked hard to find our own sound, and I'm sure that if I played a guitar, we would sound like many other bands. And we'd rather keep our identity with the restraints which became our strengths, than make it easier with a guitar and blend in with the crowd. But I have nothing against guitars. Maybe one day, we'll end up adding some here and there.

B.T. : We'll call Jimmy Page then. (laughter)

Speaking of sound, did you use some new finds on this album?

M.K. : Not really, I always combine a lot of pedals with effects that transform my bass' sound. But no need to hope that I tell you my tricks, they're secret. (laughter) Let's say that this time, we minded the details way more, we made each song unique, when in our first album, all the tracks had the same sounds. In these new songs, there are a lot more variety and textures.

The drums are very wide, as if you were playing in a stadium. Did you play in a huge room with a natural reverb in the studio?

B.T. : Not at all, it was actually the opposite! The drums were in a tiny room, with a very muffled sound. I moved them in an angle of the room, which left me more space so that my hits could resonate. Sometimes you just have to be creative in the studio. The best thing is that for the first time, I was able to play in live conditions, with enough microphones to record all the parts at once. In the first album, I had to learn to play differently and record each part separately. It's very different, and it makes the tracks more groovy.

          STRENGTHENING THE BLOOD RELATIONSHIP

The album gets its name from this song, "How Did We Get So Dark?". A good old rock hit just the way we like them, heavy and overpowering at the same time. It's so efficient that we're under the impression that writing songs is quite easy for you.

M.K. : Yet we suffered with that one! The music was composed quickly, but as much as I wrote and wrote the lyrics again, I couldn't find a catchy melody. So, we left it out, and it nearly didn't make it to the album! Then, last January, I made our producer Tom Dalgety listen to it. He saw the potential of the song right away and encouraged us to keep working again and again on the chorus. Eventually, we managed to dig this crazy melody up. And in the end it became my favorite track. But it was far from easy.

Is this album title, "How Did We Get So Dark?", an assessment about the current state of the world which we live in, or is it more personal?

M.K. : A bit of both. How did we get there, why are we at the bottom of the pit? Is the planet fucked? Am I speaking to politicians? To my girlfriend? To my friends? It's hard to tell. This ambiguity made us choose this particular title. Each one can read into it whatever they like, I find it more interesting. And, well, I don't like explaining my lyrics.

Why?

M.K. : Because once they are released, they don't belong to me anymore. They literally belong to the audience. They can listen to my lyrics the way they want, there are no instructions for use.

A track like "She's Creeping" is really surprising. It's got a very 90's groove, it reminds of Nirvana, Weezer, and even the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

M.K. : We wanted a track that reminds of the greatest hours of alternative rock, with a groove that smells like sunshine. There's also a bit of a Bill Withers side. It's the first time we had ever written a song like this, and it was very pleasant to do. The approach was very minimalistic, but it reassured us on our process, because with only a bass guitar and a snare drum, you can write fucking good songs! The groove doesn't need anything else. It's also a song that says a lot about us, since it was born from an exchange between Ben and I. That's a band, it's an alchemy, an improvisation in the middle of chaos. We're in the same plane, we're working together to reach our destination. The complementarity which is the base of Royal Blood, you can really hear it on this particular song.

You were friends before starting the band, did Royal Blood change anything in your relationship?

M.K. : Oh yes, Royal Blood tightened the bonds between us. We have shared so much during these last three years... We spent more time together than with anyone else. In this kind of situation, hatred and love are your only options. We could easily have torn each other apart on the road, we could have learned to hate each other, but the opposite, we became closer than ever.

[naknaknakadile]

So I was getting to thinking about Mother 3 and its characterization and a few different topics so this post is probably going to get really convoluted really fast.

##warnings for Abuse, abuse, and more abuse mentions, but also for hallucination and death

First i was thinking about tanetane like always, since that was a huge way to look inside the characters' minds since you get a load of everybody's deepest insecurities.

Theres so much to unpack there!

This is the big place where we see that Kumatora is fully aware that her title of princess is based on absolutely nothing, and that in the end she feels very isolated from everyone else. The magypsies, her only family, are flighty and seemingly immortal and look at humans as silly frivolous creatures who barely start to live by the time death comes to collect them. She's isolated from the rest of Tazmily by being raised by them, and due to her title of princess, and even that title gives her nothing due the rundown, ghost-filled nature of the castle she calls her home.

Duster unfortunately doesnt get much depth added here besides the obvious fear of his abusive father, though I think it's important to take into account how the themes of isolation, loneliness, and abuse are so prevalent in this game. Duster is highly coded as suffering from depression (sleeping all day, hardly showering, seeming to have trouble interacting with others, etc) and its hard to say whether that came into effect naturally or due to the physical and mental abuse his father inflicted on him (causing him to even become disabled with a permanent limp). Unfortunately, even before the colonization of Tazmily by the Pigmask army, he's treated like an outcast by the rest of the village. Whether its because of his father or his awkward manner, hes never taken seriously and everyone appears to laugh off his abuse or believe it was warranted because hes just some awkward, stinky guy who likes cheese and oversleeps.

And then Lucas, which is the most blatantly obvious. The hallucinations he faces are the most jarring and iconic of the game, due to the chord of his family's tragedy being plucked time and time again. However, it still manages to be a complex tragedy, and the way the lines are handled hint at more than meets the eye.

Before we start with sifting through his experience on Tanetane though, I'd like to start with his experiences.... outside of Tanetane.

Lucas grew up in Tazmily, a town of less than a hundred people, who were so tightly knit a person could walk into anothers house at just about any time and theyd be offered company and food and any need that needed to be met would be offered by the community. There was no money, because love was the biggest commodity. Compassion, humanitarianism, genuine kindness. If something bad happens, its felt by everyone. If a person cant provide for themself, then others would provide for them.

However, once the community began being invaded by capitalism and tourists, Tazmily become a much less welcoming place. The sympathy for Lucas's loss turned sour, and he became a burden and even someone to gawk at. He and his father are the ones who wont change, theyre too stuck in the past. Theyre so silly, not assimilating like everyone else. Why cant they just get over it and buy a tv or something. Lucas and Flint didnt just lose their family, but their very roots in the community.

This all ties in to one of the most iconic and offputting lines in the game.

"Everyones waiting for you. Everyone's waiting to throw rocks at you, spit on you, and make your life hell. Who's "everyone"...? Everyone you love."

Its the community, everyone Lucas has ever known have drifted apart from him, leaving him isolated, abandoned, and outright fucking terrified.

Speaking of drifting away! Another one of Lucas's hallucinations involve his father, Flint, who's spent the last 3 years hunting the mountains for his son that everyone knew was dead. Now, its hard to say if Flint actually believed Claus was dead all along, or if he was just too stubborn to come to terms with it, or if there was an alternative reason he was constantly in the mountains.

I personally believe it was for a few different things, but this is simply my interpretation:

1 I believe it helped him personally to clear his head by being alone

2 Isolating himself kept him from having to deal with the thoughts and feelings of the other villagers

3 Well, let me get into the second quote from Tanetane....

"I'm gonna beat you. I'm gonna beat you, boy. Daddy's gonna beat you."

Now, this line can be taken more than one way. One can presume Flint grew physically abusive after the death of his family, or that Lucas was deathly afraid that he was /going to/. I personally prefer the second interpretation because I feel it makes more narrative sense that Flint came close. That something in their relationship sprung lose and Flint snapped at Lucas, probably over the tension of sadness, and it almost became physical. And that is another reason I personally believe he isolated himself to the mountains for so long- to stop himself from ever hurting his only remaining family member. But I feel the memory of that encounter stuck in Lucas's mind as an egging fear that one day Flint would come home and would not stop himself, and that this fear became embodied in his time on Tanetane.

Now that just leaves one other emotion that we havent discussed, but its one that plays a huge and obvious part in Lucas's character. This feeling is guilt, which is shown a thousand times on Tanetane. Pretty much every time Claus appears, he makes comment marring the line between himself and Lucas.

"Let's switch places. Let's switch places. Lucas. Lucas. Let's switch places. You're more... You're more..."

Lucas throughout text appears to be terrified of dying yet feels overwhelmingly that Claus's death was his fault and that he should have been the one to die instead, mostly illustrated in the above quote in which Claus suggests they ''switch places" so that he could be alive again.

Besides this, Lucas also seems to have a loose grasp of his own identity (eg. Looking at himself through the mailbox and looking through the post cards), which may just be chalked up to mushrooms if youre uncreative and dont want to read into things. Really all of this could be chalked up to bad mushrooms for the most part, but its nearly one in the morning and I said what I said. And theres your sign.

Play Mother 3.

[joannalannister]

I complain a lot about how GRRM writes such isolated characters -- and don’t mistake me, I’m still not done criticizing GRRM for the scarcity of female friendships depicted on the page in ASOIAF -- but I read GRRM’s “A Song for Lya” and I feel like it gave me some new perspective on this topic. 

The characters in the story allude to a poem called “Dover Beach,” which suggests that being alone on a “darkling plain” is central to the human condition. 

I think GRRM takes this idea of the “darkling plain” and puts his own twist on it throughout his writings, specifically that each of us is alone on this darkling plain, but being alone isn’t the point. The point -- the central part of the human condition -- is to search, and find, and savor all the connections we do manage to make, because it’s these connections with our fellow human beings that make the darkness a little more bearable.  

SPOILERS but the story’s about a telepath (Lya) and an empath (Robb) who are assigned to a distant planet to try and figure out why people are choosing to commit suicide by being absorbed by this ... blob thing, an act called “Union”:

“That’s why your men are converting, Dino, that’s why people are going over. They’ve found God, or as much of a God as they’re ever likely to find. The Union is a mass-mind, an immortal mass-mind, many in one, all love. The Shkeen don’t die, dammit. No wonder they don’t have the concept of an afterlife. They know there’s a God. Maybe it didn’t create the universe, but it’s love, pure love, and they say that God is love, don’t they? Or maybe what we call love is a tiny piece of God. I don’t care, whatever it is, the Union is it. The end of the search for the Shkeen, and for Man too. We’re alike after all, we’re so alike it hurts.”

Lya and Robb are lovers, but in the end even their telepathic connection isn’t enough for Lya. She still feels alone in the universe, even at her most intimate moments with Robb. So she goes over to the Union, to be absorbed by it: 

“Robb. Please. Join us, join me. It’s happiness, you know? Forever and forever, and belonging and sharing and being together. I’m in love, Robb, I’m in love with a billion billion people, and I know all of them better than I ever knew you, and they know me, all of me, and they love me. And it will last forever.”

This was a heartbreaking story to read. Lya lost herself in the Union, and Robb fled the planet because he was teetering on the edge, close to losing himself too, to join Lya. 

Lya whom I could still have. Whom I could have now. It would be easy, so easy. [...] Union and joy, and no darkness again, ever. God. If I believed that, [...] then why did I tell Lya no? Maybe because I’m not sure. 

Maybe I still hope, for something still greater and more loving than the Union, for the God they told me of so long ago. Maybe I’m taking a risk, because part of me still believes. But if I’m wrong… then the darkness, and the plain… 

But maybe it’s something else, [...] something that made me doubt what I had said. For man is more than Shkeen, somehow; there are [some] men [...] who fear love and Union as much as [other men] crave it. A dichotomy, then. Man has two primal urges, and the Shkeen only one? If so, perhaps there is a human answer, to reach and join and not be alone, and yet to still be men.

It’s like GRRM’s idea that man is neither wholly good nor wholly evil; he is, instead, shade of grey, with a bit of both inside him. 

It’s not about absolutes. Being human is about being alone and being together both. If you’ve never known darkness, how can you love the light? If you’re never alone, how can you savor the connections you make with another person? That’s what I think GRRM is saying here. It’s like we’re all Edmund Pevensie, gobbling the turkish delight after living for years in a war-torn country experiencing severe rationing of sugar and other foodstuffs. 

And that’s what I think GRRM is doing in ASOIAF too. ASOIAF is deliberately dark so that all of those small moments mean that much more. We enjoy summer all the more because we’ve felt winter’s bite. Deprivation makes us savor the times of plenty. 

So perhaps writing such isolated characters was a deliberate stylistic choice made by GRRM, so that the ultimate relationships made during the War for the Dawn (COUGHJONDANYCOUGH) will shine all the more brightly in ASOIAF. 

idk if this theory entirely works, because GRRM writes some great male friendships we get to see develop on page (Jon&Sam, D&E, etc) but, idk, for example, GRRM does send Sam away from Jon a lot, and one of Jon’s major mistakes in ADWD was isolating himself. The isolation vs togetherness is an important theme imo.

ANYWAYS

in “A Song for Lya” there’s this beautiful exchange between Robb and the planetary administrator (think of a less evil Tywin):

“Robb, that’s absurd, and you know it. You think the Shkeen have found the answer to the mysteries of creation. But look at them. The oldest civilized race in known space, but they’ve been stuck in the Bronze Age for fourteen thousand years. We came to them. Where are their spaceships? Where are their towers?” 

“Where are our bells?” I said. “And our joy? They’re happy, Dino. Are we? Maybe they’ve found what we’re still looking for. Why the hell is man so driven, anyway? Why is he out to conquer the galaxy, the universe, whatever? Looking for God, maybe…? Maybe. He can’t find him anywhere, though, so on he goes, on and on, always looking.”

-

“Where are their spaceships? Where are their towers?”

“Where is our joy?”

I JUST LOVE THIS EXCHANGE SO MUCH

GRRM, YOU GOD-DAMNED ROMANTIC, I THINK I LOVE THIS EXCHANGE AS MUCH AS “He dreamt an old dream, of three knights in white cloaks, and a tower long fallen…”

THESE PEOPLE HAVE CROSSED UNIVERSES, VISITED A THOUSAND WORLDS, THOUSANDS OF YEARS IN OUR FUTURE, AND STILL THEY ASK, “WHERE IS OUR JOY?”

“so on he goes, on and on, always looking.”

oh dear god, i love ripping my heart out of my chest and handing it to George to stomp on, it’s my favorite thing and I’m literally not even being sarcastic

and the planetary administrator, the less evil tywin, responds to this conversation:

“We’ve got the only Tower on their world”

AHAHAHAHA HUMANITY HAS ISOLATED THEMSELVES ON SHKEEN, BUILT A TOWER SO TALL IT STANDS ABOVE THE CLOUDS AND THEY’RE ALL ALONE UP THERE AS THEY LOOK DOWN ON SHKEEN IN THEIR ARROGANCE AHAHAHAHAAHAHA kill me

if GRRM uses towers in ASOIAF as a metaphor for isolation and loneliness (which, lbr, he does: “lovely, and lonely, and lethal”), how do towers isolate in ASOIAF, and what does that mean overall? For example, Lyanna was isolated in her tower ofc, but what about how the memory of the “tower long fallen” served to isolate Ned from Cat and Robert and everyone else, to keep Jon’s identity secret? And people like the wildlings and the Dothraki didn’t have towers, perhaps reflective of their more communal culture and openness (think about dany/drogo public sex and jon/ygritte (fairly) public sex)? Other towers, lots of towers, too many towers to list here, I’d need to make a whole nother post on towers in asoiaf. Like what about Winterfell’s Broken Tower, where Jaime and Cersei joined themselves together after months apart, and Bran found them and it put him on this whole path... too many towers