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malphiguswrites · 5 years ago

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ANALYSIS of The School of Athens

Denada Permatasari. 6 November 2017.

Fig 1.0 Fresco of Raphael's Scuola di Atene (The School of Athens), 1509-11 (courtesy of the Musei Vaticani).

The School of Athens by Raphael Sanzio, or more accurately, Raphael and his studio. This elaborate wall mural is a fresco in the Stanza della Segnatura, Vatican. Measuring 584 cm in length, this artwork was made in 1509 and finished in 1511.

I think that this artwork is a phenomenal masterpiece. From a technical standpoint, it is no debate that the scale and the mastery of human figures are impressive. Every single aspect is carefully planned, apparent from the detail of the backdrop to the individually distinctive figures present in the artwork. The symbolism in this work represent the core of Philosophy through subtle means of the wall division, the composition, down to the character’s body language, where they are situated, and even from the clothes they wear. In this essay, I discuss what all of the previously-stated elements mean and how they come together to give this artwork its meaning, and its significance.

Before delving into analysis of the artwork’s components, it is important to discuss why this artwork was made. This wall mural is part of Pope Julius II’s commission to decorate his private library (Zucker and Harris). The room has four sides, with each side representing the four branches of human knowledge at the time of High Renaissance: Philosophy, Divinity, Poetry, and Justice. The School of Athens, located on the east wall, represents Philosophy and is directly facing Disputa, representing Divinity (Zucker and Harris).

This placement, and the fact that this artwork is no less impressive than Disputa, can be seen as one of the defining attitudes of the High Renaissance: secularization. Here, the religiosity and philosophy are seen as equals, alongside poetry and justice. This is a big step from pre-Renaissance times when religion tended to dominate and rule above all aspects of life (qtd. in Toman iii).

Fig 1.1 Imagined horizontal and vertical lines of The School of Athens.

Moving on to the aspects of form of the artwork itself, I will first talk about its composition. In Fig 1.1, it is shown from the horizontal blue line that “… below the vaulted architecture and celestial backdrop, [Raphael] set the assembly of philosophers in the lower half field, on earth” (Rosand). This means that Raphael deliberately separated man, who is concrete and earthly, from the abstract.

Fig 1.2 Areas of interest in The School of Athens, as labeled with numbers.

Next, the vertical red line between the two figures in the center of the artwork (Area 1 in Fig 1.2). This imagined line serves as a divider for the opposing school of thoughts in Philosophy: Plato, the older man on the left, represents the ethereal and the abstract. He represents the belief that “… there is a realm that is based on mathematics, on pure idea that is truer than the everyday world that we see” (Zucker and Harris). Whereas Aristotle, the younger man on his right, represents the belief “… on the observable, the actual, [and] the physical” (Zucker and Harris).

This divide can be seen from the other characters’ placement in the artwork. In Area 2 (Fig 1.2), which is Plato’s side, are a cluster of people who are also concerned who explains the world from an abstract, cosmic lens (Rosand). This is contrasted by the group of people (Area 3) in Aristotle’s side, who explains the world through factual and concrete means (Rosand). I shall explain how I know the aforementioned observations through analyzing the elements, aspects of form, and the identity of each figure that makes up The School of Athens.

Fig 1.3 Zoom in of Plato and Aristotle.

First, the two main figures (Fig 1.3) in the center of the fresco (Area 1). They are separated from the others by the arc frame of the background. I have said before that the older man on the left is Plato, and the younger man is Aristotle, Plato’s pupil. They are also holding their own books, Plato with his Timaeus, and Aristotle with his Ethics. This section of the essay will highlight how the subject matter and design elements reflect the meaning of the divide in schools of Philosophy.

Plato, representing the ideal and the abstract, wears purple and red. “… The purple, referring to the ether, what we would call the air, [and] the red to fire, neither of which have weight” (Zucker and Harris). Whereas “Aristotle wears blue and brown, that is colors of earth and water, which have gravity [and] weight” (Zucker and Harris). This contrast between the abstract versus the concrete is further compounded by their body language: Plato, pointing up to the heavens, to the realm of high thinking, his bare feet just merely planted on the ground. Aristotle, his hand splayed downwards to the ground, wearing gilded sandals, feet firm on the tiles (Rosand).

Second, the homage to ancient antiquity, apparent in the pagan sculptures of Apollo on the top left and Athena on the right (Rosand). The design of the architecture, with coffered barrel vaults, pilasters, et cetera, is ancient Roman design as well. The god and goddess of the ancient times only reinforce the conceptual divide of the artwork, with Apollo, the god of music and poetry, things that are appropriately platonic (Rosand). Then there is Athena, the goddess of war and wisdom, who is more involved in the practical affairs of man (Zucker and Harris).

The architecture design, which is equal throughout the artwork, represents the unifier in this artwork full of divides. They serve as a reminder that even though there is a fundamental divide in perspective, all of them are still under the same branch, Philosophy (Rosand).

Fig 1.4 The labeling of figures in Plato’s side using capital alphabets from A to F.

Third, the groups of people on Plato’s lower side in Area 2 (Fig 1.2). These figures are labeled with letters (Fig 1.4). Though the identities of many of the figures here is much debated, since Raphael did not leave any notes or annotations, let’s agree for the sake of discussion that:

A: Pythagoras, a Greek philosopher and mathematician who is arguably in the center of this group gathering. He sought to discover the mathematical principles of reality through musical harmony and geometry (Rosand).

B: Boethius, a Greek philosopher who wrote The Consolation of Philosophy (Lahanas).

C: Anaxagoras, a Greek philosopher that correctly explains solar eclipses and the presence of small particles (atoms) in all objects (Agutie).

D: Parmenides, a Greek philosopher who founded the method of reasoned proof for assertions (Agutie).

E: Hypatia, an Alexandrian philosopher, mathematician, and astronomer. She is considered to be the most famous student in the School of Athens (Lahanas).

F: Ibn Rushd (Latin: Averroes), a Spanish-Arab philosopher who wrote commentaries on almost all of Aristotle’s writings and major works of Plato (Agutie).

All of the figures in this cluster are concerned with the cosmic, bigger-picture truths, echoing Plato’s ideals. Moreover, two figures in this cluster deserve special attention: Hypatia and Ibn Rushd. Hypatia’s placement in Plato’s side is reminiscent of Plato’s principle of women’s equality (Fakhry), in fact she is the only woman in the whole artwork. On the other hand, Ibn Rushd’s placement in Plato’s side is curious, since he is more associated with Aristotle’s works more so than that of Plato’s (Fakhry). Even so, Raphael must be commended for including a woman as an equal with men and a Muslim figure, which was seen as radical and out of line in his era.

Fig 1.5 The labeling of figures in Aristotle’s side using capital alphabets from G to J.

Fourth, the group that represents Aristotle’s way of thought in Area 3 (Fig 1.2), concerned with the physical and the concrete. They are labeled with letters (Fig 1.5), with identities as follows:

G: Euclid, a Greek mathematician. He is the father of geometry and is seen bent down, applying geometry with a compass to a tablet, flat on the ground (Rosand).

H: Zoroaster, a Greek astronomer, founder of Zoroastrianism, holding a celestial orb (Agutie).

I: Ptolemy, the royal astronomer, who was the first to believe that all heavenly bodies revolve around the earth (Agutie).

J: Raphael, the artist himself in black, and his mentor in art, Sodoma, in white (Lahanas).

The figures in Aristotle’s side are arguably more interesting than Plato’s, as there is more diversity in terms of the principles that the figures represent. Of course, they are all still united in their more earthly and human-centric concerns, but the inclusion of the artist’s self-portrait is the main highlight of this area of interest. For Raphael to include himself is a historical statement, as stated by Dr. Beth Harris, “… here, the artist is considered an intellectual, on par with some [of] the greatest thinkers in history” (Zucker and Harris).

Fig 1.6 Zoom in detail of Heraclitus.

Last, but certainly not least, is the lone figure of Heraclitus (Fig 1.6), an ancient philosopher that sits and thinks alone, separated from the others (Area 4 in Fig 1.2). What makes this figure stand out is the fact that he is a deviation from the orthogonal perspective of the whole artwork. Apart from Diogenes, who is sprawled on the steps, also by himself, Heraclitus feels out of place in the artwork. This is because Heraclitus was actually added after the fresco was finished (Rosand).

At this point, I will discuss the personal aspect that Raphael weaved throughout this commission; Heraclitus’ figure is one of them. The model for this ancient philosopher is actually based off of Michelangelo, and this insertion, this acknowledgment of the older artist is very curious in of itself. The personal antipathy between them is well known; Raphael, the sociable and cultured artist was intensely disliked by Michelangelo, the brooding and melancholic artist, who accused him of stealing his ideas from the Sistine ceiling (Hale 274). For Raphael to include him in his impressive fresco can be said as an homage or a tribute to Michelangelo (Rosand). This speaks of Raphael’s respect and regard for the other artist despite their differences.

Heraclitus is not the only figure who is modeled after someone else –in fact, most of the major figures in this artwork are modeled after someone else- take, for instance, Plato who is actually modeled after Leonardo da Vinci (Toman 336), an artist that highly inspired Raphael. For him to model Plato, the central figure of his fresco and one of the greatest thinkers of all time after Leonardo is a significant honor to his person. Another instance is Euclid. The geometer is actually modeled after Bramante the architect, Raphael’s friend and professional companion (Toman 336). His tribute for Bramante doesn’t end there; the architectural design of the background is actually inspired by Bramante’s architectural design and vision (Martindale 83).

All of the analysis of the components, and how even the smallest things contribute to a greater meaning, is the main reason why I think this artwork is phenomenal. If anything is to be obvious from my essay, is the amount of planning, effort, and thoughtfulness that Raphael did for this fresco. For me, personally, there is nothing more impressive than a successful execution with an underlying concept that is well thought of in every step of the way. In this, I am very pleased with Raphael’s technical skill to make something so legible on an intimidating scale, yet still retaining a degree of thoughtfulness that is apparent in every single dot of his fresco.

To further compound this, I am not the only one who thinks that this artwork is extraordinary. The School of Athens has received high regard from the moment of its completion, even until the present day. The Stanza della Segnatura has been a famous tourist attraction because of the wall frescoes that Raphael made, and The School of Athens is arguably the main attraction in the Vatican Palace.

Most importantly, however, is Raphael’s own influence on the High Renaissance, and what follows after. As Johan Huizinga, a Dutch art historian has stated:

The Renaissance marks the rise of the individual, the awakening of a desire for beauty, a triumphal procession of joyful life, the intellectual conquest of physical realities, … a dawning of consciousness of the relationship of the individual to the natural world around him (qtd. in Toman i).

To attribute all of those values of the Renaissance to just The School of Athens is optimistic at best and naïve at worst, but it is worth acknowledging that The School of Athens is one of the main highlights of the High Renaissance, and certainly sums up the entirety of the High Renaissance. In this light, Raphael deserves much acclaim, as written by Luitpold Dussler in his book Raphael:

Raphael has left an indelible mark on art. He revolutionized portrait painting … and epitomized the style which has come to be known as High Renaissance. … Perhaps Raphael’s greatest achievement is that he appeals on all levels and makes something profoundly deep and complex appear simple and comprehensible (qtd. in Hale 275).

In conclusion, the value of Raphael’s The School of Athens is that it is invaluable. It was significant by the time it was completed, and is still significant even today, more than five hundred years later. More than just a room decoration, it speaks of the general perspective of Philosophy during the early 16th century. Raphael’s ability to condense such a difficult, multi-faceted discipline into a thoughtful work of art that can be appreciated by anyone, at any level, is a testament to his remarkable technical skill and conceptual knowledge.

I will end my essay with one conviction: that The School of Athens is one of the definitive artworks of the High Renaissance, and I hope that the significance of attributing an entire period to one single artwork is realized and acknowledged.

Works Cited

Zucker, Steven and Beth Harris. “Raphael, School of Athens.” Smarthistory. 27 Jul. 2014. 3 Nov 2017.

Toman, Rolf. Introduction. The Art of the Italian Renaissance. Germany: Könemann, 1995. Print. i, iii, 336.

Rosand, David. “Raphael’s Fresco of The School of Athens in the Stanza della Segnatura of the Vatican Palace.” Columbia University. New York. N.d. 3 Nov 2017.

Lahanas, Michael. “The School of Athens, ‘Who is Who?’ Puzzle.” Hellenica World. N. d. 3 Nov 2017 <http://www.hellenicaworld.com/Greece/Science/en/ SchoolAthens.html>.

Agutie. “Raphael (1483-1520): The School of Athens, 1509. Interactive Map.” Geometry from the Land of the Incas. 13 Jul 2014. 3 Nov 2017 <http://agutie.homestead.com/files/school_athens_map.html>.

Fakhry, Majid. Averroes (Ibn Rushd) His Life, Works and Influence. London: Oneworld Publications, 2001. N. p.

“Raphael.” Encyclopaedia of the Italian Renaissance. Ed. J. R. Hale. Lindon: Thames and Hudson,1981. Print. 274-275.

Martindale, Andrew. Man and the Renaissance. London: Paul Hamlyn Limited. 1966. Print. 83.

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breaniebree · 5 years ago

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Can you share your journey as a writer? How the idea of writing fanfics came into your mind? Do you have other own fiction too? Also how do start a particular fanfic? As in do you make notes, timeline or character sketches and stuff or do you just go ahead and write and then make notes on facts?

What an interesting question -- thank you for asking! This is literally going to be a novel response (letting you know in advance LOL)

My journey as a writer... I guess I always wrote things down, started as a child when I wrote in a diary and then as I got older I wrote a little poetry, none of it very good (though I wrote a poem when I was twelve to describe the loss I felt when my Nana, my great-grandmother died, and my aunt read it aloud at her funeral). I wrote a few short stories, just little things, prompts from teachers in school and such and then one day I decided I wanted to write my own story. But funnily enough, it actually came about through fan fiction.

I used to love this book series back when I was ten called Trash by Cherie Bennett, and I was completely in love with the characters Chelsey and Nick, and when Jazz claimed that she was pregnant and Nick was the father and it did ended on a cliffhanger and I didn’t have the next book, I remember writing my own version of what happened next -- God, looking back, it was probably terrible, I definitely don’t have it anymore. Pretty sure the book series isn’t that great looking back at it now, but when I was ten, it was great! LOL. I also wrote a side story for Demetrius and Karma, so even then I guess I branched off into subplots. When I was fourteen, I started my own original series, which I am still currently working on and probably will be for the rest of my life if I’m honest -- it’s changed over the years, but the characters and my ultimate goal have stayed the same.

How did writing fanfiction come into mind?

Well, with Harry Potter, it was because of my friend Chris. We used to talk on the phone every single night after school for hours on end and after HBP came out and Harry and Ginny were FINALLY together only for him break up with her, I was so livid that I had to wait to find out what happened! I remember Chris and I debated what would happen in the last book for ages and one day I must have ranted too much because he told me to go write my own story if I didn’t want to wait, so I did.

I was seventeen and it was Harry Potter and the Prophecy Fulfilled: Which looking back at it now, I think it’s not exactly the greatest story lol and you can definitely see where I’ve improved since then. After finishing HPPH, I ended up still having different ideas, all Hinny, and went on to write a few one-shots: Almost Too Late and Beautiful Mess. Then I started writing A Different Beginning, which turned into my Beginning series: A Different Beginning, A New Beginning, Why Don’t We Just Dance?, Life Is Fickle Like That, Graduation Party, and The Reunion. Those of you who have been reading my fanfiction since the beginning know that I originally posted the above stories on SIYE between 2005 and 2007 and had then completed (except for the second half of Life is Fickle onwards before Deathly Hallows was published). I didn’t start posting on fanfiction.net until 2008 and only recently on Ao3. Somewhere in between writing the Beginning Series, I also wrote a few other Hinny one-shots including The Greatest Gift, She Never Lets It Get To Her Heart, I Loved Her First (actually Arthur POV, which I later incorporated into the Beginning Series), The River (which is a standalone but also can be read as part of the Beginning Series), When the Sand Runs Out, and then the mini-series Padfoot’s Advice (Late Night Talks with Padfoot 1 & 2, Padfoot’s Advice, and Secrets from the Past). Then I wrote the short Hinny/Romione story: The Trouble With Secrets and was inspired to write a Jily series, which I did with Crazy Little Thing Called Love, which could technically be a prequel to the Beginning Series as I kept some of the story similar. I also wrote a Jily one-shot called Flowers and another Hinny one-shot called I Don’t Like Your Girlfriend.

I didn’t plan on writing any more fanfiction as university became busy, but then in 2017 I started writing these little Missing Moments for Harry and Ginny both before HBP and then during, and then after. I just sort of compiled them on my computer for a while, wondering if it would turn into a story or not and then the idea came to me one day for A Second Chance after seeing some fan art of a five-year-old-Harry in sunshades and a leather jacket while riding a child’s motorbike next to Sirius in the same outfit and the next thing I knew, this story just pored out of me in February of 2018, I had the first twelve chapters written by March and another five by April. I started posting the Missing Moments compilation, added a few more things including the Remus and Petunia scene from ASC and kept writing A Second Chance and in May, decided it was time to share it and uploaded the first twelve chapters.

By the time I realized it was going to be a long one, I knew which characters I would sacrifice and how it would end, but how I was going to get there I still have no idea. I’m not a writer who methodically plots. I have a few general bullet points at the end of my current WIP chapter and that’s really it. I add to it occasionally as I go, but mostly, I just write as I go along. I can’t tell you how many chapters it will be or how long it will take me to get to the next section because frankly, it’s constantly changes. I do not write in chronological order, which means I am often writing anywhere between 2-6 chapters at the same time depending on what scene has drawn my attention. I might write something today that fits in the chapter I am currently working on and then by the time I finish writing other stuff, I realize that it doesn’t really fit there and stick it ahead into the next chapter or ten chapters from now. I write where my heart takes me and where my creativity flows.

I rarely ever work on more than one story at the same time, though I did write the short Newtina one-shot for my friend Heather as a Christmas present in 2018. She requested it and I couldn’t write it, I found it so hard as I like them but it’s not characters I loved enough to write so I did it with a Luna spin-in, which I found helped. I never take writing requests so this was very different for me, but I think it turned out cute: Say Love, ‘Cause We Got All the Time in the World. I only recently uploaded it a month or so ago because I found it on my computer LOL.

Do you make notes, timeline or character sketches and stuff or do you just go ahead and write and then make notes on facts?

Once I am into the story, my notes are EXTREMELY detailed. I do have a time line and separate documents for the following:

Character lists and family trees

General notes on: Political stuff, bills I’ve written, the sacred 28 document I wrote, tattoos mentioned, important dates, moon cycle dates of Remus’ life, classes I’ve invented (what they are about, who teaches them etc), textbook list per school year, notes on each Animagus form and information about their animals, actual time tables I wrote up Monday to Friday for Harry’s third/fourth, and fifth year, details of Zee and Tonks’ engagement rings, history and outline of Dante’s circles of hell with notes on how to incorporate into story, notes on pregnancy, character’s wands, geographic locations of characters, and any other little notes I think are important but don’t belong in the bullet points at the end of my current WIP chapter

History and ancestry of each family (from Harry Potter Lexicon, Pottermore, Harry Potter wiki, and my own personal creations). This also includes manor information for Potter, Black, Longbottom, Nott, and Malfoy.

Hogwarts lay-out including stuff I’ve added or made up

Ministry of Magic departments and people (known and created)

List of spells (including ones I’ve made up and which chapter and which character introduced it to who)

List and pictures of Sirius’ motorbikes with information on each one

List of Pensieve memories and marauder moments (crossed out which ones I’ve shared already, some are written and waiting to be used and others just a general idea)

Terms and phrases from different languages I’ve used in the past

My playlist of songs I have mentioned in the story

An entire document dedicated to Operation FUVP including a Voldemort timeline which I have now shared in the story itself (also includes when and where each character found the Horcruxes)

A list of some of the recipes I mentioned, and

I have a 72 page document that is literally just detailed chapter summaries to help me remember what the hell I’ve written LOL (also highlights introductions to new characters in a different font colour to help me find out when people were introduced).

Hope this answers your question -- thank you again for asking!

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nutmegpirate · 5 years ago

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Tao Kallan

[GENERAL] Age: 343; looks/feels 22 Gender: Female Species: Tiger Therian Height & Weight: 5'6 (167.6cm); 130lbs (59kg) Birthday: May 15th Occupation: Waiter (former mercenary) Relationship Status: Single Orientation: fitesexual currently undecided Faction: Rosario

[IDENTITY] Personality: + Confident + Fearless + Enthusiastic = Competitive - Hot-headed - Stubborn - Reckless

As a born fighter, Tao loves the thrill of a good brawl, whether it be an impulsive scrap in the street or a coordinated, weapons-out battle. Despite her explosive personality, she keeps her head clear in heated situations - especially those she creates herself. While not at all shy or introverted, she is a natural loner due to her hard-headed stubborness. She works best alone and even better against others, preferring casual rivalries to actual friendships. Fortunate is the soul whom she calls friend. She uses her love of fun and competition to bury uncomfortable feelings such as grief, loneliness, and especially romantic ones, which confuse her the most. These feelings do not exist, okay??!! Despite her ability to hold rational thought under stress, she often overextends herself when the blood runs hot, throwing herself into situations much too large for her to deal with or addressing people with too much enthusiasm or anger and driving them away. She views frightening things merely as new challenges to take on, which she does with glee. Backstory:

When Tao was young, she ran away from home.

Not for long, of course. She was still a child, barely tall enough to turn the door handle on her own. She slipped away when her tutor's back was turned, leaving her history lesson on the table, and was almost a mile into the woods around the estate by the time her family caught her and took her home. It was her first escape, and it wouldn't be her last.

Tao's family were artists, all of them in different disciplines. Her mother was a writer, a literary architect, crafting great literature and collections of poetry. Her father sang, and had once graced the stages of concert halls before settling down at the estate to raise his family. The eldest brother learned music from him and filled pages with compositions both vocal and instrumental. And the second brother became a master of paint and canvas, drawing forth worlds of color and light with his brush.

And not a single one of them knew how to have fun! So Tao ran away from home. She got better at it, the more she practiced. The longer she stayed away, the fewer fistfights she got in with visiting families' children, and the fewer scoldings she received for dancing too wildly at the stately dinners and galas held at the estate. She learned new lessons, not from a tutor, but from nature. She learned to stand in the stream until the fish nibbled her ankles and to snatch one out of the water with her claws. She learned how to snap sparks using magic into a dry pile of leaves for a cook fire. She learned how the animals moved in hidden trails through the underbrush, and how they rested, camouflaged, in sun-speckled shadows. She learned how the winds brought the weather and how to dig out an embankment for shelter in a storm. At first, she could stay away for hours. When she reached her teens, she was gone for days.

Then she never came back at all.

Her shirking of lessons came back to bite her. With little knowledge of the lay of the land, Tao went a little too far from home. The wilderness called her, and within a few weeks, she had lost the way back entirely. She felt a change in the land while wandering the vast plains and rolling hills - a drought, it felt like. Foliage withered, prey grew scarce, and the little brooks she drank from became muddy and shallow. The sparks she made with her fingertips came less and less easily.

Just a few miles away in the ruins of an old outpost, secluded from civilization, lived a sorcerer who feared death. Despite his elvish longevity, a terrible sickness had taken hold of Aegis, and so he shut himself away to find the secret to immortality using dark and forbidden methods. Each day he grew weaker, and so used the life force of other living things to sustain his spells and experiments with no regard for the waste of life he perpetrated. In the cold undercroft of his outpost he devised a spell - successful in theory, but risky. He'd need a test subject first before applying it to himself. Out here, though, where could he find one in time?

Tao stumbled across the outpost, footsore and fatigued after days without food or rest, desperate for a safe place to bed down. She entered the ruin without her usual wariness and selected a level section of the earth floor to make camp.

"You'll do."

As Tao turned, a cold numbness gripped her limbs, spreading quickly through her body. Her eyes remained fixed, frozen, on the elf before her. He looked crestfallen. "Can you move at all?" he asked her. Tao longed to tell him what she would do to him if she could move, but of course, being completely encased in frost, she could not move, and therefore not speak. Nor could she blink, or look away, or even breath. Rage consumed her, but it did no good, and her life for the next immeasurable span of years became one monotonous day after another, with the sorcerer pacing before her, in and out of her field of vision, studying her and the effect of his spell.

He had accomplished at least part of his goal, it seemed, as his captive did not age or wither over the years. But being unable to move or free oneself made the spell a failure, useless to him. Existing, frozen, for eternity? That was not living. He began anew, though death drew ever nearer, determined to preserve himself even if it meant the end of more lives, and Tao could only watch him with ever-burning hatred.

Then the day came when Aegis left the outpost and never returned, and Tao's endless fury, without a person to focus on, gave way to fog. In the fog, she found, she didn’t notice the time passing so much. And so she slept. Nothing is infinite, however. Without the sorcerer to sustain it, the spell, regardless of how strong the magic, began to degrade. The fog in Tao's mind cleared a little when she felt the change. The process was slow, agonizingly slow, a true test of her mental fortitude as she waited for the right moment. Years further must have passed by the time she felt the icy bonds become brittle. With a roar pulled from the darkest reaches of her tiger soul, Tao moved, and the ice shattered. She collapsed on legs that couldn’t remember how to stand and struggled to draw breath after forgetting how for over three hundred years, years she had no idea had passed.

When she recovered, she wasted no time heading home, but found she could not quite remember the way. What should have been a few days' journey stretched to nearly a month. When she at last found the estate, it was not the home she remembered; it had been converted to apartments and flats for rent, and the people there were little help with their strange, garbled speech. They directed Tao through the woods, and there she found a city that had not existed before.

Thus began her time in Almaria.

First, she studied. Through a great deal of questioning and delves into the library's special collections and archives, she found that more than three hundred years had elapsed since her imprisonment by Aegis, and in that time, the Kallan line had died out with her youngest brother's family. The estate and all its contents had been auctioned off or donated - much of the art ending up in the archive itself - leaving Tao with nothing.

Except her drive for vengeance.

Burying all the complex feelings that came with finding out one's family has been dead for 300 years, Tao began her hunt. She tried her best to exist peacefully in the modern world, all the while honing her fire magic and gathering whispers. Three hundred years should have barely touched an elf; Aegis had to be out there. The archives bore no record of him, nor did any of the graveyard headstones. She gathered allies, friends and rivals, and walked dangerous roads with them, getting into trouble here and there. At last, a lead, but a false one. The return to the outpost gave her nothing but more secrets and ash. Though the world is altered now, and Arcadia's history different from what Tao remembers, she knows Aegis is still around, somewhere, well hidden. She won't let the paradox in her memory deter her. She will find him, and inflict all the pain on him that he ever did on her.

Abilities: - Tiger Senses: Sense of smell and hearing are stronger than your average human's, and she has night vision. - Firestarter: This covers creation of sparks with a snap, or heating small objects in her hands. - Flame Resist: She is somewhat resistant to her practiced element of choice, but not immune. - Burning Hands: Allows her to light her hands on fire and extinguish them at will, as well as maintain and control the flame's intensity. (unlocked through RP) - Blaze Command: Tao can manipulate the movement fire to a small extent, even blazes she did not create, though they do not listen as well as her own flames. (unlocked through RP) Strengths & Weaknesses: + Fighter: she’s got moves and muscle and can take quite a few hits + Survivor: she knows how to last in the wilderness a loooooong time + Rhythm: despite her lifelong rejection of her family's practice of the arts, Tao has an excellent sense of rhythm and beat and can tap a drum quite well - and dance along to it even better. - Hard-headed: good luck getting her to function on a team or to follow orders she disagrees with. - Loud: when around other people she can get pretty… shouty. Usually not tactful things, either. - Short fuse: not always in an angry way, but she’ll challenge anything with a “fight me,” and not sarcastically. - Ignorant: there's a lot she just doesn't know yet, from slang to locations to magic to technology.

Likes & Dislikes: + fighting or competing (and winning at both) + exploring the outdoors + swimming + free food + dragons - confined spaces/being trapped - bossy/stuffy people- formal events - being touched in a friendly way (wrestle? yes. hug? no.) - Aegis

[EXTRA] - She's flown twice on dragonback, fulfilling a lifelong dream of flying, and longs to go again someday. - Her hair used to be long, worn in a ponytail. She cut it short not long after breaking free. - She has pads on her hands and feet, and fur on her ears, tail, lower legs, and feet. - Enhanced vocal chords allow her to make these kinds of sounds. - Her speech is still pretty old-fashioned, but she's making a conscious effort to adopt modern speaking patterns.

Relationships: - Whole immediate family has passed away. - Akane: Best friend and slam-dunk pool buddy, troublemaker-in-arms, etc etc; current employer. - Aithne: Fire rival; secretly friends but Tao will never admit it. - Yao: Detested enemy for minorly poisoning her when they first met. - Delta: An ally, though kind of a fragile one. - Nisha: Boss with the money. But not anymore! Because she has a new job now. :D - Yelena: Sharp! And fighty, like herself. They get along pretty well, though Tao is not totally sold on the person-shaped-sword thing - it mystifies her. - Takuto: Another fighting ally. Though they met on shaky terms, she'd have his back in a scrap. [RP PREFERENCE] Media: [Discord] | [Google Docs] Methods: Paragraph | Literature | Script | Headcanon Timezone: MST

#arcadia #art

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destiniecomeau · 5 years ago

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Poetry: How We Got Here

I got a few sentences into this post and realized it was a mistake. Maybe I can line up the novels and short stories that inspired me on my journey to be a writer because I’ve had to do it several times before – most notably for my senior portfolio when I graduated from college. I have never had to do any such thing for poetry so already my head is a jumbled mess of poems, poets, dates, and times.

I think (keyword here being ‘think’) I got my start in poetry with Edgar Allen Poe. Okay, technically it was Shakespeare, but I didn’t know what a sonnet was until high school, so I didn’t realize I was reading poetry. “The Raven” rhymed and almost sounded like a song or chant when read appropriately, therefore it was a poem. And damn did I love “The Raven.” I still have pictures of birds I drew way back then and I remain somewhat fascinated with the macabre. I blame Poe for that.

But let’s not forget Shel Silverstein – my actual introduction to poetry before I knew what poetry was. I still read some of those childhood stories.

A lot of my poetry study in high school came from the big names: Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, and Walt Whitman. I loved all of them and went out of my way to find poetry like theirs, but the poets that influenced me most were still to come.

As a creative writing major in college, literature classes are a given. Two classes in American literature and one in British literature brought me more familiar names: Lord Byron, William Blake, Siegfried Sasson, Sylvia Plath, Langston Hughes, W.B. Yeats, Thomas Hardy, Charles Bukowski, Rupert Brooke, Tennessee Williams, and on and on.

But I think it was my senior poetry class where I read the most influential poets to my writing. Let’s start with one incredibly relevant to the current sociopolitical state of the nation. The first book of poetry we were assigned to read was the 2017 Pulitzer Prize winner “Olio” by Tyehimba Jess. This was my first experience with poetry that could be read multiple ways – I’m talking forward, backward, starting from the top or the bottom. Every direction was a different poem, each telling the story of a black American icon. I cannot say enough good things about this book of poetry. Please go read it for yourself. You will not be disappointed.

The last poet to influence my writing in college was Sabrina Orah Mark, specifically her book of surrealist poetry, “The Babies.” Before this book, I had no experience with surrealist poetry and after reading the first couple, I expected to hate it. But something clicked in the second part of that book. I think I realized I could read these poems without analyzing them. They didn’t need analysis because they didn’t make sense – they weren’t supposed to make sense. And yet, they were still beautiful. I wanted to try that.

This brings us back to the present. I’ve been doing a lot with surrealist poetry in the last year. I’ve really enjoyed it and I think I’ve created some of my best poetry in this style. But what does this mean for my fiction writing? The more I studied poetry, the more I realized it was not an entirely different art form from fiction. The focus on lyricism and imagery in poetry contributed to the development of my writing across the board, culminating in my most recent short story, “Ribbons.” I’m very proud of this piece. It incorporates methods I learned with fiction and with poetry. I believe now that the two art forms benefit each other. And I will continue to preach this for as long as I write.

#writing #Writing tips #poetry #poets #fiction #Author #books #prose #blacklivesmatter

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emsartwork · 6 years ago

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Since I saw you do the specialists as children, how would their parents look like (those that didnt show their parents which were only two of them)?

Sure thing!!! here are…. basically all of them because i like to torture myself lmao

Riven’s dad is a long term researching studying the extreme temperatures at zenith’s poles. Riven was unplanned, and for the first 2 years he didn’t know Riven existed so suddenly being handed a toddler was very stressful.He’s emotionally and physically distant with Riven, who he does not understand and can’t figure out how to relate to. Riven’s mom isn’t in the picture.

Helia’s dads met at Lynphea college, and were at each other’s throats for most of it lol. Tan dad is Headmaster saladin’s son and refused to go to red fountain because of that (they don’t have a bad relationship, it was just teen/20s rebelliousness) so he went to Lynphea college and joined the sorcerer program there. (lynphea college is a mixed school including fairies, witches, sorcerers, wizards, and warriors all together). Pale dad was/is a very disciplined paladin who refused to use any magic at all and thought it was “cheating”. They got put on a rescue mission together and it was chaos, but they were dating by the end of it lol. They feel they represent the duality of earth and sky, and wear corresponding necklaces.

Timmy’s mom is the head engineer for the Comet Colony, keeping the giant inner working of the comet working. She’s a total genius, but her methods are…. questionable at best and insane at worst. She and Timmy both need to wear the red tinted glasses to filter light. Her unique blood chemistry kind of makes her a living metal detector. Timmy’s father was a short term crew member, before taking off who-knows-where.

Nex’s parents live in one of the few heavily industrialized cities on Lynphea. Mom is a Mare Lynphean and is a guide for extreme adventure tour planning company who take adrenaline seekers on camping trips or hikes to Lynphea’s more dangerous areas. Dad is a Silva Lynphean and is a manager at an insurance company, as well as a part time beach bum.

Brandon’s parents are both employed by the Eraklyon Royal court. Mom is captain of the royal guard. Eraklyon was ruled by a very evil queen for a while in their history, and as a result people are hesitant to put women in leadership positions. Brandon’s mom is fighting that and encourages young women to pursue goodness and compassion(she takes Diaspro under her wing in the guard in season 5 but realizes its gonna take a whiiiiile to change that girl’s attitude so diaspro’s still a work in progress). Brandon’s dad is the Royal Chef, and doesn’t really understand Brandon’s more modern hair and clothing but wholeheartedly supports his son in all of his endeavors. They are both HUGE fans of stella and dote on her whenever possible.

Samara and Erendor are about the same as canon. Samara and Erendor are both strict and value the traditions of Eraklyon, which can lead to some problems both within and outside of of their marriage. Erendor still feels incredible guilt for breaking his promise with Oritel and while Samara always says he did the right thing by protecting his people he still specifically avoids Oritel at formal events(even tho oritel just wants them to be bros again) Erendor is older than his brother by only a few years.

Throren’s parents are third in line for the throne (if erendor/samara and sky/bloom died or abdicated they would be in charge) currently they rule over one of Eraklyon’s larger states. Dad is fairly similar to Erendor, strict and stubborn. Mom can be a bit absent minded, and writes poetry which is actually pretty popular (published under a pseudonym of course)

Roy’s moms got together after roy was born. they were childhood friends and worked together in Roy’s family’s boat business as adults. Roy’s bio dad is still sort of around, but is more like a weird uncle that shows up occasionally than a parent, roy considers leg mom and fish mom his actual parent. Leg mom handles a big part of the finances for the business (math genius as well), and fish mom handles design development and implementation as well as boat repairs in the water. They both worked on the wheelchair design, and have patented it, but donated most of the proceeds to a foundation that makes accessibility tools for merfolk-human hybrids.

Nabu’s parents are incredibly successful, multi-generational, business owners. dad has a huge library, and when stressed out will hide away in there for days. Mom is into pottery and occasionally has commissions for her clay work. They do love nabu, but had a lot of unrealistic expectations for him. They met aisha when she brought Nabu’s body back to Andros and, in grief, were very harsh on her, blaming her for their son’s death. They are still working through their feelings and have reached out to aisha asking for forgiveness as part of the healing process.

hope you like!!!

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panda-noosh · 6 years ago

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Hold Me While You Wait {Shiro x Reader}{The Rockstars Series}

The Rockstar Series: a series of fics documenting rockstar!Voltron falling in love.

Words: 14k

Summary: What a coincidence that the first person to catch you breaking and entering is also the lyricist for your favourite band.

Genre: angst

Warnings: swearing - violence - abuse

Notes: masterlist - well the rockstar series took an angsty ass turn.

The window was open. That was their first mistake.

It was almost as if this stranger wanted you to crawl into their house. The open window, the fact that they were never home. It was the perfect setting for a perfectly set out plan – one you were going to put into action today.

Lotor took the lead, struggling to fit his broad shoulders through the relatively cramped window panes that apartments on this side of town provided. You stood impatiently behind him, arms folded over your chest and eyes gazing up into the sky – nobody could see you, considering the stranger hadn't cut down their trees in a number of years.

“Take your time,” you jabbed. “I'll just wait here.”

“Be quiet!” Lotor hissed, before he finally managed to squeeze himself through the window. He stumbled, just barely catching himself on a small coffee table holding an empty fruit bowl. You followed in after him, managing to squeeze through a lot quicker.

Lotor glared at you as if that very fact was an insult on his pride.

You ignored him and started what you had come here to do; even though you knew you had all the time in the world, there was still a sense of rush that came with doing things like this. Zarkon would never forgive you if you and Lotor walked back to the house with nothing to show for the days endeavours – those were the worst kinds of punishments. He hated it when you spoke back to him, hated it when you were out late, hated it when you didn't pick up the phone, but the worst kind of punishments always came when the two of you didn't do your job right.

The apartment was smaller than you were led to believe from the outside. There was a sofa, a small TV, a small kitchen and three steps leading to a hallway that directed you to what you assumed had to be a bedroom and the bathroom.

“I'll take the living room,” Lotor said. “Stuff in here is heavier.”

You nodded, refusing to argue. You darted up the three steps and headed for the first door you could see. Opening it revealed a bedroom, a double bed in the middle, a guitar propped up in the corner, multiple crumpled up pages strewn across the floor. You didn't fail to notice the half-open bin of notebooks at the end of his bed – where most people kept a hamper of clothes, another desk perhaps, this stranger kept a bin full of old, used notebooks.

You would be lying to say the curiosity within you didn't peak, because it certainly did. You had broken into many, many houses in your time, and each one had a story of their own. Why did they choose that wallpaper? Why did they like the pattern on that sofa? What made them not want to get Sky and instead suffer through the limited channels of Freeview?

For this particular house, why did this stranger decide to keep an abundant amount of notebooks?

You couldn't give yourself the time to think of an answer. Downstairs, you could already hear Lotor shuffling around, the crinkle of his bin bag as he stuffed it full of possessions that were not his own. You shoved the guilt to the side and darted into the bedroom, unrolling your own bin bag and starting from the bottom.

You started with clothes. Mens clothes, mainly consisting of black and whites, a few grey shirts thrown in for selections sake. They looked close enough to Zarkons size – he would be happy about that. He would praise you for those.

You moved on to the wardrobe. Inside, another guitar was propped up. You ignored the twitch of your fingers, that voice in the back of your head that was telling you to just give it a go. Just this one time. But already you had passed boundaries that nobody should ever pass, and you didn't want to throw any further risk on yourself or Lotor.

So you shoved past it and dug inside the shoe boxes that were lined up by the wardrobe wall. Inside was even more notebooks.

You frowned. What the hell? Were you dealing with a collector? Were any of them actually used? You didn't know, but you wanted to find out.

Lotor was still rummaging around downstairs. You were ahead of the game, had a few extra minutes to kill before the two of you would start going through the escape plan and getting the hell out of here...

You convinced yourself. You reached forward and snatched one of the notebooks up, leaning back on your heels to read through it.

Lyrics.

Lyrics, poetry – whatever it was, it littered each and every page. The words were accompanied by tiny doodles, the words 'Smokey Saturdays' written across the top of one of the pages in big, bold lettering.

So the stranger was a fan of Smokey Saturdays too.

The fact amused you; you had been a fan of Smokey Saturdays for years now, having bought their debut album entirely on a whim when you and Lotor were out perusing the high street for Zarkon. You had been a fan ever since, and here you kneeled in a strangers home, getting ready to steal their belongings, only to get distracted by the fact that they had something in common with you.

“It's a small world,” you mumbled, before Lotor's heavy feet came barrelling through the hallway.

You whirled around just in time to see his red face appear in the entrance. He skidded to a halt, grasped the door frame and said three little worlds that sent your heart stamping into overdrive; “He's home early.”

You had no time to think about your actions, to think about the bin bag you had left stranded on the strangers bed. You shoved the notebook back into his shoe box, slammed the cupboard door closed and followed Lotor out into the living room – the living room that lad been left an absolute mess by Lotor's grappling hands.

You froze. “We can't leave it like this.”

Lotor was busy stuffing towels into his bin bag. “We don't have a fucking choice, alright? Now help me haul this thing back down the fire escape. Did you get yours?”

Your heart thundered as you shook your head. Lotor's gaze hardened, his mouth opening; he was on the verge of yelling at you, on the verge of telling you how stupid you were because you both knew what this meant – you would arrive home empty handed, and Zarkon wouldn't like it. He would lose his head. He would punish you.

Nonetheless, Lotor was smarter than that. He was also aware of the time crunch, and refused to spend another moment dwelling on your failures – not whenever the man who owned this house was on his way upstairs.

“Fine,” Lotor said, going back to his own collecting. “It's fine. We're fine. Maybe my bag will be enough. Now help me-”

He swung the bag over his shoulder and darted to the open window. You stumbled after him, gripping the window frame-

Lotor tried to squeeze through and got caught halfway. Your heart sank.

“Not now,” you whispered. “Lotor, not now.”

“I can't help it!” he hissed, struggling against the frame. “Fuck, this hurts!”

He had managed to launch the bag through the window, but his body refused to follow. You shoved your shoulder into his side, but you did nothing besides cause him pain. He swung his head back, white hair billowing over his shoulder.

“We'll need another method.”

“Hurry up!” you hissed. “You said he was home!”

“I saw his car pull into the car park,” Lotor replied, before he inhaled deeply, turned back to the window and-

He fell down the fire escape seconds before the front door opened and a voice echoed out in the living room.

“What the hell?”

Of course there was nothing you could say to explain what was going on. You didn't even want to turn around, afraid of what you would see because it was obvious what you would see – the stranger would be stood there, and he would see you and he would see the mess Lotor had left behind. It wouldn't take him long to add two and two together.

You pursed your lips and slowly rotated to face him. He stood in the doorway, handling a guitar case, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed with what was obviously exhaustion and shock mingling into one. He didn't look up to meet your eyes when you turned. He just stood there and stared, grip tightening on the handle of his leather guitar case.

You recognised him.

You recognised him, because he had been on the back of those albums you adored so dearly. You recognised him, because his name had been plastered over the acknowledgements of those very same albums, the word 'LYRICIST' stapled to his name. You had watched interviews with him, had never taken much notice of him because he wasn't part of the band but in more ways than one, he made the band.

You swallowed thickly. This was Takashi Shirogane – Shiro. The man who wrote all the songs for Smokey Saturdays.

He was a celebrity, and you had just been caught stealing from his apartment.

You were so lost in your own thoughts that you barely registered the moment he looked up and met your eyes. They were a harsh grey colour, but you could only imagine they looked ten times more fierce now.

You coughed, scratching the back of your neck. “I can clean this up if you want.”

“Who the hell are you? And what did you do?” he barked. The anger had been released. He dropped his guitar case to the floor and darted forward. You flinched, half expecting him to grab you and toss you out the window, but he did no such thing. As you curled back against the wall protectively, he dropped to his knees beside his shredded sofa.

“It wasn't – I mean, it wasn't me exactly,” you said, before wincing. “But that doesn't really help the situation, does it?”

“I'm calling the police.”

Your eyes widened. He stood up, headed towards his phone but you latched on to his arm before he could get very far. Where the momentum had come from, you could not pinpoint, but the sudden adrenaline rush that came with such a threat was unlike anything you had ever felt before.

He looked down at where your hands wrapped around his bicep and raised a brow. A muscle continued to twitch in his jaw, a sure sign that he was still furious, and still had every intention to call the police on you.

“Listen, why don't we just talk for a minute?” You were trying. It wasn't working.

“I've got nothing to say to you,” he growled. “Get off me before I get you done for assault, too. It'll be easy enough with the theft charges.”

“No, look, we don't have to go down that route.” Even as you continued begging, you uncurled your fingers from his arm. You stood back and watched him as he headed back into the kitchen – the window behind you was open. The fact you weren't running and clambering back out onto the fire escape was one that confused you just as much as it must have been confusing Shiro.

He wasn't listening to you. He continued to stare, but the desperation in your voice was clearly not registering with him; he dialled those three essential numbers, pulled the phone to his ear-

You dove for him.

Hurting him was not your intention. You were wiser than that. Plus, you had eyes. It was clear that Shiro could overpower you in a matter of seconds if he so wanted; the idea of pinning him down was beyond even your imagination.

Instead, you reached for the phone and smashed it against the sink.

It shattered. Pieces of plastic and glass flew left, right and centre. A pain welled up in your wrist, and you bit your lip to stop from crying out because, at this moment in time, you had no right to be complaining about your pain. Blood dripped from a fresh cut in your hand, but you span around and darted for the living room before Shiro could mention it.

“Hey! Hey, don't you dare!”

You stumbled, catching yourself on an upturned piece of furniture. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. That was so uncalled for. Jesus Christ, I'm making this worse for myself-”

“You're gonna fucking bleed out, you maniac.”

You jumped, turning just in time for Shiro to catch up to you. He grabbed your wrist and tugged you – not kindly – back into the kitchen, shaking his head.

“You broke my fucking phone,” he mumbled almost to himself. “You broke into my house, ruined my stuff, and I'm sat here bandaging you up...”

“I'm sorry,” you repeated.

Shiro glared at you. “Stop saying that.”

Never before had you been so confused.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. You were supposed to be in the back of a police car at this point, or at least handcuffed to a table leg as you waited for the polices arrival. However, you were doing neither of those things – instead, you were being lowered onto a wooden chair with a celebrity cradling your wounded hand. Blood welled up from the fresh cut, and it took everything in you not to pass out at the sight. It reminded you of Zarkon, something you did not want to think about right now – it brought you back to your punishments, the punishments that he would inflict on you if you eventually got home, the punishments he would inflict on Lotor.

You shivered. Shiro's grip tightened on your hand, stilling you as he dabbed water onto your open wound.

“I want answers,” he said, ignoring your clear discomfort. “I want answers, or else I'm calling the police and getting you arrested.”

You swallowed thickly, looking up at him. He didn't look back at you, but instead continued to dab at your open wound with his black hair falling into his face. He looked so much taller than he did in interviews. His voice was a lot sterner, though you had a vague idea that that was more due to circumstance than anything else.

“Anything,” you replied. “I'll answer anything.” And you would, because you could not afford to go to prison.

“How did you get in?”

“The fire escape.”

“What did you take?”

“Nothing.”

He raised a brow. “Was that a lie?”

“I'm still in your apartment. I didn't take anything. I never got the chance to.”

“But you wanted to.”

You paused. “I guess.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

You shifted your gaze to the open fire escape. “None of it was for me.”

He tested this statement out for a second, narrowing his eyes. “Did you find my address online or something? Was it leaked?”

“No. I didn't even know this was your house until you walked in.”

“You know who I am?”

“Oh yeah. Big fan.” You cringed. “Sorry.”

He shook his head, pushing his tongue into his cheek. “You're too young to be doing this kind of thing.”

“I'm not much younger than you.”

“That doesn't mean anything,” he snapped. “I would be too young to be doing this. It's not right. You have so much left to do, and you're spending your time breaking into other peoples houses.”

“Not by choice, you know.” The words were out before you could stop them. Fear spiked in your system as soon as you realised you had spoken aloud, eyes darting back to the fire escape. Somehow, somewhere, Zarkon had heard that sentence and he was on his way to punish you right now, no doubt having already beaten Lotor to a pulp, maybe even to death. Your heart thundered in your chest, and you reached your good hand up to your pulse, pressing down on it as if that would-

Shiro grabbed your wrist and lowered it. He was looking up at you now, eyebrows raised and mouth quirked. “Woah. Hey. What's wrong? You look like you're about to pass out.”

“I'm fine,” you snapped, not entirely meaning to. You shook Shiro's hand off of you and stood up. Your hand was still bleeding. You ignored it. “Look, are you going to call the police or not? I can – I can help you clean up. I can get your stuff back. I just need to get back home before – before people realise I'm gone.”

Shiro didn't answer. He just stared at you, a grey gaze that held so much emotion and power it almost made you stumble. In any other circumstances, you would have perhaps been hit with a wave of awe at the fact one of the most respected celebrities in your repertoire was standing before you, but the panic that had risen to the surface was blocking out any other natural, human emotion.

You needed out. You needed to make sure Lotor had gotten home safe, was still breathing, that Zarkon hadn't gone too hard on him. There was no doubt in your mind that he would receive some sort of punishment – that couldn't be avoided – but Zarkon needed to understand this was your fault. You were the one who had gotten distracted by some stupid lyric book, the one who had left their bin bag on the bedroom floor, the one who had insisted Lotor go first, only for him to get stuck.

You swallowed thickly and turned away from his gaze. “I need to go home.”

“Your hand is gonna get infected.”

“It'll be fine.”

“No.” Shiro reached out, grabbed your hand and tugged you forward again. “It won't. Now sit down and let me get some bandages. And then you're gonna tell me who you're so afraid of.”

---

It was silent. It shouldn't have been silent.

He should have been yelling. He should have been screaming, threatening you, asking questions you could never safely answer. He should have hated you, and yet he was sat cradling your bandaged hand in his own, refusing to look at you.

You were good at profiling people. A trick Zarkon had taught you from a very young age, because he liked to know that nobody could slip past him – not when you and Lotor were around. Lotor was basically a human lie detector, whilst you had been trained to slip into the minds of others, get a glimpse of their next move before they had even done it.

It was easy enough to do with Shiro. Though he was quiet, he wore his emotions on his face. Already he'd made a comment on your age, how you were too young to be doing this kind of thing. Judging by the way he refused to look up at you, the way he treated you so delicately, it was obvious he still believed that, and it was obvious that he was conflicted over whether or not to punish you for the crimes you had committed.

His silence was good, though. Unnatural, but good. It gave you time to come up with a lie about why you had been so startled only a few minutes prior – something you were still ashamed to admit. Zarkon would call you all the names under the sun if he knew you had let your guard down so easily.

“So when are you gonna start talking?” Shiro piped up.

“When you tell me what you wanna know.”

“I've already told you.” He looked up, your hand dropping to your side. “Who are you so afraid of?”

You pursed your lips. “An awfully personal question for someone I've just met.”

��A question you should be answering if you don't want me to call the police.”

You faltered. “Good point.”

He simply nodded. You were hoping he would talk some more, but he knew what he was doing – if he started talking, you would only stall further.

You inhaled deeply. “It's just . . . . somebody I know. Somebody I've known for a while.”

“Is this person friendly?”

Your silence was answer enough.

Shiro sighed, running a hand through his black hair. He crouched on the floor in front of you, one hand resting on his knee whilst the other tousled and messed with his hair. He chewed the inside of his lip, mind no doubt working at a million miles per hour.

“It's okay,” you said. “If I just get home to him now, he shouldn't be too angry...”

Shiro glanced up. “Do you wanna go home?”

The question struck you into silence. Having lived with Lotor your entire life, you had grown used to the tactic of just falling silent whenever you wanted to lie; you could never lie around Lotor. You often forgot that not everyone in the world could sense deception as easily as him.

By the time this realisation dawned on you, it was too late to backtrack your silence. Shiro had caught on to it, examined it and was staring at you intently. You bit the inside of your cheek and looked away.

“This is – This is gonna sound ridiculous,” he started. “But you can stay with me overnight if you want. If you really don't wanna go back there.”

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Your jaw dropped open. Your mind worked at a thousand miles per hour, because nothing he had said made sense; he was meant to be fuming. He was meant to hate you! It was common practise, common knowledge that a person wasn't supposed to offer the person that had stolen from them refuge, even if they needed it. Even if the idea of going home was so gut wrenching it almost made them double over.

But Shiro didn't look like he was joking. His face was relaxed, shoulders slouched with just an eyebrow peaking to show that he held any emotion to his words at all. It made your stomach flip.

“You can't be serious,” was all you could say.

“I can set a room up for you quickly,” he said, already standing up. “If I can't, I can just hire out a room across the hall for the night. It's not a big deal.”

You scrambled up after him, wincing at the pull of your hand. “You don't have to do this. I tried to steal from you, for christs sake.”

“And you clearly regret it,” Shiro shot back. “You're young. I'm giving you a chance.”

“You keep calling me young as if that excuses anything.”

Shiro shrugged. “It doesn't. But I'm young, too, which means I know just how much life you have left to live. Life you won't be able to live if you keep doing what you're doing.”

He wasn't listening. He was being generous for the sake of it, not knowing the true extent of his actions. Zarkon would come and find you eventually. He would grow tired of waiting for you to return home on your own like the good little lap dog you were, and he would come for you – with Lotor in his reach, it would be easy enough to get your location.

He would kill Shiro for even trying to protect you, because in Zarkons eyes, there was nothing to protect you from. In Zarkons eyes, he was doing the right thing. Always.

Shiro was heading towards his bedroom by the time you finally caught up to him. You tried to grab his arm, but he pulled it out of your grip and pushed open the door before you could; it was then that he saw the damage you had done.

It wasn't much, not nearly as bad as the living room, but your bin bag was still slung carelessly on the bed, and there was no denying that you had definitely been rummaging around in his stuff. You faltered in the doorway – maybe this would be it. Maybe the evidence of your infiltration would finally break him, and he'd throw you out and tell you to never come back again – that's what he needed to do. That was the wise thing to do.

But he simply inhaled, shot you a glare over his shoulder and said, “At least you didn't take the covers. You're gonna need those.”

You closed your eyes. “You're fucking insane.”

“Ah well.”

---

You fell asleep and woke up in Shiro's bed.

He had slept on the sofa downstairs, generously giving you his own bed despite your protestations. The two of you had been up until the early hours of the morning, with you questioning him on his motives, and him simply shrugging as if this arrangement meant nothing. He was too casual. He was treating you too kindly.

Nonetheless, you had never slept better. You awoke with no pain in your neck, no pain in your lower back – not like you usually do. It was a good change, and you found yourself smiling as you hauled yourself from beneath his covers and made your way downstairs.

He tried to clean up the living room. It was still a mess, the coffee table still broken, but it was beginning to look a little less messy than it had the night before. Maybe that could calm some of your guilt.

Shiro was still asleep on the sofa when you walked in. One arm was draped over his forehead, the other dangling off the sofa that looked two sizes too small for him. His bare feet dangled over the opposite arm rest, the spare quilt bundled between his legs, his pillow long since knocked to the floor.

Despite his cramped form, he looked peaceful.

You made your way to the kitchen, pulled two mugs out of the cupboard and started the morning tea. It must have been the sound of the kettle boiling that roused Shiro into consciousness, as he groaned, rolled over and just barely managed to catch himself on the floor before falling flat on his face.

You turned. “Good morning.”

“You're still here,” was his immediate response, as groggy as it was. “I thought you'd have taken off by now.”

“How is that any way for a person to say thank you?” You folded your arms over your chest. “I'm making tea. Do you drink tea?”

“I'm more of a coffee person.”

“Diabolical.”

“What time is it?” He sat up, the quilt sliding down to show off his bare chest.

“8:30.”

His eyes immediately widened. He struggled against the quilt before stumbling off the sofa and grabbing for his phone. He opened it, groaned and ran his hands through his hair in that way you had seen him do so often the previous night.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. My alarm didn't go off.”

You raised a brow. “Alarm?”

“I was meant to be meeting Hunk and Keith at the studio today to go over some last minute details for the album,” he replied, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. “I'm already a half hour late.”

You frowned, despite the thumping of your heart and the urge to smile brewing in your stomach. You knew who Hunk and Keith were. They were the voices you heard on your albums, the guitar and the drums that pulled the songs together. You wouldn't admit it to Shiro, but the idea of meeting them was exciting to say the very least.

You quickly reigned that hope back in, because it was pointless. Shiro would never let you meet his friends, because you weren't a friend. You were someone he took pity on.

“I have to get down there now,” he continued. “Get dressed.”

You faltered. “Sorry?”

He clicked his fingers, already dragging the quilt back onto the sofa. “Get dressed. We're leaving as soon as possible.”

You stumbled. “I don't have any clothes to wear, and I can't just-”

“You can borrow some of mine,” he said. “Forgive me, Y/N, but I don't exactly trust you alone in my apartment at the moment.”

You ignored how greatly those words affected you.

“Go pick something from my wardrobe and meet me back down here.” He looked down at his phone, gritted his teeth and said, “Fuck,” one final time before you shot off upstairs and got ready.

---

Shiro might not have called the police on you, but forcing you to appear in front of two musicians you looked up to wearing his clothes was punishment enough for your actions the previous afternoon.

Even Shiro couldn't keep the small smile off his his face as the two of you approached the doors of the studio. His grey shirt reached your knees when you first put it on, and you were forced to tuck it into a pair of basketball shorts he gave you – basketball shorts that you were pulling up every two seconds.

“This is humiliating,” you said through gritted teeth, trying to keep your voice low in the quiet hallways.

Shiro glanced down at you, said nothing, but you made out the twitch of his lips. You rolled your eyes.

Soon, you both stopped at a door made of glass, a black curtain drawn over it from the inside. Shiro opened the door, and your heart immediately lurched into your throat.

Because they were there, and they were real, and this entire situation was actually happening.

Your throat closed over. You forced yourself to follow Shiro into the room, even as your legs felt heavy and your palms became sweaty with nerves. You quickly dashed them along Shiro's basketball shorts, hoped you were being subtle enough for them to not notice.

Keith turned around first, a black bass guitar propped up on his knee. His black hair was partly hidden beneath a grey beanie, and he wore a red jacket affixed with a black shirt underneath. A large brown belt dug into his abdomen, keeping a pair of dark, ripped jeans fixed upon his waist.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” he said, strumming a few low tones on his bass. “Over half an hour late, Shiro. What kept you?”

“Nothing,” Shiro replied without missing a beat. “I just slept in. What have you got so far?”

Hunk had yet to turn around, but you were swooning nonetheless. His large bulk was huddled over a computer, a complicated looking program pulled up on screen. He was chewing at his thumb nail, his dark eyes narrowed and focused purely on what he was working on. In one hand he held the mouse, the other a single drum stick which he twirled round and round his index finger with professional precision.

“We're doing the basic chords for Keiths solo,” Hunk replied without turning round.

“So why am I here?”

“We agreed that you would control the panel whilst I did the drums.” Hunk raised a brow, shooting Shiro a sideways glance. “Jesus, Shiro. You're usually on top of your game. What's wrong?”

Keith raised a brow in your direction, the first sign of anyone in the room noticing your presence. “I think I can tell you the answer to that.”

Shiro clicked his fingers in Keith's face, forcing the boys attention back to him. “Leave them out of this. They're just here because they didn't want to be left alone in my apartment.”

“Apartment?” Keith said, slowly pulling himself out of his usual slouch. “You were in his apartment?” The question was directed at you. If you weren't still trying to figure out where your fluency of the English language had suddenly disappeared to, you would have replied with a snarky comment.

But you could only stay silent, gaze bouncing between Keith and Shiro in a desperate attempt to get Shiro to acknowledge that he really needed to take the reigns right about now.

With his eyes still glued to the computer screen, Shiro sent a swift kick into Keith's leg. “I said, leave them out of this.”

Keith hummed, narrowed his eyes at you one last time before he stood up and headed towards the booth on the other side of the room. “Just tell me when to start.”

Hunk sent him a thumbs up, and that's when business ensued.

You hovered by the door, watching the magic unfold with utmost interest. It wasn't faked. You didn't grow bored, despite the fact that you were doing nothing. You watched as Shiro and Hunk took control of the panels, as Keith blasted his bass guitar in the microphone, closing his eyes and getting lost in the rock music you had listened to so many times by now.

Rock music had never been your forte. In fact, music as a whole wasn't something you would say you particularly enjoyed – it was difficult to enjoy something you weren't allowed. Your memories of music consisted of you and Lotor sneaking around the house with your mothers old CD's, lowering the volume extra, extra low so Zarkon wouldn't be able to make out the soft bump of the bass guitar, the dull thump of the drums, or the harmonic voice of Lance McClain. The two of you would sit shoulder-to-shoulder and just listen, but it never lasted long. One of you would get paranoid that Zarkon could hear, and you would switch it off and scuttle back to your rooms before this paranoia became a reality. A lot of the time, you had to listen to one song in two sittings, purely because it was almost impossible to get all the way through a song without one of you getting cold feet.

But this was different. This was the closest to a concert you had ever been, and you would be lying to claim it didn't make you feel alive. You would also be lying to claim that it didn't wake you up to the startling reality of just how little of a childhood you had really been given.

“What do you think?”

Your head shot up, eyes darting to Shiro. You hadn't noticed him standing up, but he was stood beside you now, awaiting your answer.

You nodded. “He's good. He's always been good.”

“I forgot you were a fan.”

“Big fan.” You shrugged. “I'm glad you brought me here.”

Shiro scoffed. “It wasn't a treat. I brought you here so you wouldn't steal from me again.”

You frowned and looked away, quickly composing yourself. He had every right to bring that up. He wasn't exactly wrong that it was one thing letting you stay with him when he was in the house, but it was a completely different thing to leave you unattended in his apartment whilst he went to work.

He wouldn't trust you, and he had absolutely no reason to.

“We've got a few more seconds to record and then I think we're all gonna get something to eat.” Shiro looked down at you, spoke as if the words pained him to say. “Do you wanna join us?”

Knowing you had nowhere else to go was the only reason you nodded along to his offer; you couldn't go home now. It was too late. If Zarkon didn't already have some of his men looking for you, it wouldn't be long until he did. You would be better off trying to lay low for as long as possible, no matter how odd the circumstances were.

And so you waited until Shiro, Keith and Hunk wrapped up in the studio before you joined them for lunch at the cafe, located helpfully in the lobby of the studio. Shiro and Keith took your order and headed for counter. Hunk, on the other hand, joined you at the table, sitting down directly to your left.

The big man leaned into you, a straw already dangling from his lips. You, Keith and Shiro hadn't even ordered yet, so it was a complete mystery to you as to when Hunk had acquired a smoothie of his own.

“So,” he started. “Now that I'm not distracted by work, I think it's an appropriate time to ask who you are.”

“Y/N,” you blurted out. “My name's Y/N.”

Hunk hummed. “Have you been staying with Shiro long?”

“Only last night.” My final night, because there was no way you planned on spending another day in his house. Staying in one place for too long would be dangerous, especially considering Lotor knew where you were.

Hunk looked up then, glancing over at the counter. Shiro and Keith stood side-by-side, Shiro with his hands stuffed in his pockets and Keith doing air drums as he waited for his turn to order. Knowing the coast was clear, Hunk leaned in and said, “And how did that night go?”

You jerked back as if Hunks words were a physical blow. You looked down at him, one eyebrow raised, hands clenching the leather of your seat. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Hunk shrugged, playing the innocent card now that he could see you hadn't taken his question lightly. “I've just never known Shiro to let some random person stay in his house before. He likes his solitude. It's how he writes all those moody lyrics we're forced to sing.” He rolled his eyes. “Honestly, if it wasn't for the rock beats I put over them, those songs would lead someone to tears.”

“I only slept in his house because I had nowhere else to go,” you admitted. It wasn't the whole truth, but you could see the tiny bit of reality in your words; that was good enough for you, good enough to release the guilt you may have felt if you were to have come up with an entirely different story.

“Do you not have a family to go back home to? A house of your own?”

“No,” you mumbled. “Shiro and I didn't exactly meet under normal circumstances.” You were treading on thin ice now, getting closer and closer to a truth you did not want to admit.

Hunk opened his mouth to respond to your eerie comment, but never got a chance to question you before two more people appeared at the side of the table – people you recognised instantly.

The gasp escaped you before you could stop it. Your eyes popped open, hand clamping over your mouth. Shock overtook you, and you could do nothing but sit completely still as Lance McClain and Pidge Gunderson looked at you like you were insane.

Hunk chuckled. “Y/N L/N, meet-”

“Hi,” you squeaked out. “Nice to meet you.”

Pidge raised a brow, fighting an amused grin. “Nice to meet you, too.” She turned back to Hunk. “Friend of yours?”

“Friend of Shiro's.” Hunk gestured to the empty seats. “Go ahead and sit down. I'll tell Keith to get you something to drink.”

Lance grunted, slumping down in the seat directly across from you. His knee nudged yours beneath the table. He refused to sit up straight, instead slouching until his shoulder blades were digging into the top of the chair. His head tilted back, his brown hair falling away from his forehead.

Pidge rolled her eyes, sitting beside him. “Don't mind him.”

“Is he tired?” you asked.

“Exhausted,” Lance replied. “Do you know how difficult it is trying to get the ticket companies to just pick up the fucking phone? I've been making phone calls since eight am this morning, trying to figure out where the false tickets are coming from.”

“We told you that Coran was gonna deal with that,” said Pidge.

Lance shrugged, folding his arms over his chest. “I don't want Coran to deal with it. Nobody with a fake ticket is getting into one of our shows, and I'm going to be the one to make sure of it.”

Pidge rolled her eyes again. “Forever the hero, aren't you?”

“I better be.” Lance's head suddenly snapped up, his eyes trained solely on you. “Wait, who is this?”

“I think Shiro might be hooking up with them,” was Hunk's casual reply.

You squeezed your eyes closed, resisting the urge to turn and belt him across the face. “You thought wrong.”

“Why would you think that?” Lance asked. There was now a glint in his eye. His attention had been piqued. He sat up straight and leaned across the table for details. Even Pidge – who so often pretended like she didn't care – glanced between you and Hunk with an eyebrow raised.

Hunk glanced at you. The fact that you were covering your face with your hands didn't seem to matter to him. “Shiro let Y/N sleep over at his house yesterday, and then he took them to work this morning.”

Lance's eyes popped open wide, snapping to you. “Ooooh, is this true?”

“Yes, but-”

Lance reached over and grabbed your hand, giving it a firm shake. “Lance McClain. It's an honour to meet someone who can finally get Shiro to loosen the fuck up.”

“What are you doing?”

Shiro's voice startled the table into silence. Lance dropped your hand, grinned brightly as he placed his own hands on the back of his head. Shiro carried two smoothies whilst Keith sipped idly at his own on the other side of the table.

“Absolutely nothing, my boy,” Lance replied. “Come, have a seat! It feels like I haven't seen you in ages.”

Shiro narrowed his eyes, handed you your smoothie and lowered himself onto the seat next to Lance. “We saw each other yesterday.”

“Only briefly. You went home early.”

You grunted. He did indeed.

“I was just talking to your good friend Y/N here whilst you were getting your smoothies,” Lance continued. “I was getting told all about how you spent the night together.”

Shiro scoffed. “You make it sound like a lot more than what it was.”

“That's what I was trying to explain,” you spoke up.

Lance waved a dismissive hand through the air, as if you and Shiro denying any unspoken claims was irrelevant. “Are you two planning on taking this little fling to our concert next week?”

You faltered. A concert?

Growing up, you hadn't even been able to listen to music on CD's, let alone go to live shows. It was always something you wanted to do, always something you craved to experience, but at the time, it looked impossible. You had one job and one job only, and that was to serve Zarkon in whatever way he needed you to serve him.

Now, here you were, being all but offered the chance to go and see one of your favourite bands perform live. It was enough to choke you into silence, enough for you to dart your gaze over to Shiro, silently begging for him to take the reigns and answer the question. At the end of the day, it was entirely up to him; if he didn't want you there, you wouldn't blame him.

Shiro took a long, drawn out sip of his smoothie before shrugging. “We'll see.”

And that was that. He put the lid on the matter quickly, swiftly changing the subject to instead talk about a new song he had been working on. Everybody else looked at you, gouging your response to such a simple reply, but you hid your emotions well enough so as to not provoke any suspicion. You were good at that when you wanted to be.

As Shiro and the others fawned over Shiro's brand new notebook, already littered halfway through with fresh lyrics that they all critically analysed, you let yourself sink into the background. Your heart was still thundering. The conversation had distracted for only so long, but now the attention was diverted and you were allowed to dwell on the thumping of your heartbeat and the thrum of the blood in your ears; all of this was utterly insane.

You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the seat, inhaling deeply. It would come to an end. All good things did, and you knew that. You had trained yourself not to get your hopes up, and as much as it hurt to put that training into practise now, there was no other choice. Not unless you wanted to be completely crushed in the long run.

----

You tried to protest. Not very much, but the attempt was there.

Shiro took you back to his apartment after lunch. The others had broken up for practise, meaning Shiro had no reason to hang around; he claimed he had lyrics to catch up on, an album to plan that would not write itself; you tried informing him that you would be fine on your own, but he insisted on taking you back to his place.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked him at one point during the drive. Your arms were folded over your chest, eyes still set firm on the window. You watched the road skip past, the trees and the houses, the children coming home from school. You imagined yourself in their shoes, just like you always did. They were living a childhood you had never been given – it was a bitter sweet feeling.

Shiro didn't look away from the road when he answered. “I don't know what you're on about.”

“Yes you do. You're being nice to me for no reason. I don't deserve kindness from you.”

“I'll decide who I'm kind to, thank you very much.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “You should have called the police on me. You should have knocked me out, saw me as dangerous as soon as you saw the state your apartment was in. You definitely shouldn't be giving me a place to stay.” You looked at him. “It doesn't make sense, and I refuse to believe you're doing this out of the kindness of your heart.”

It took him a minute to respond. You profiled him, slipping into his head without really meaning to – he had already proved to you that he wasn't a man to make rash decisions out of nowhere. He didn't want to be spontaneous, didn't want to risk hurting the career he spent years building up. He didn't even have to tell you that his journey into the music business had been a long and bumpy road; nobody loved their occupation like he did. Not unless they had to work for it.

So why was he taking the risk with you?

His jaw twitched. “Do you wanna put some music on?”

You gritted your teeth behind your lips but did as he said; you knew an indirect order when you heard one. He didn't want to talk, and you could respect that. It wasn't your place to question him.

When he finally pulled up, the two of you walked into his apartment in utter silence. He held his notebook under one arm, a pen clipped to the collar of his black shirt. You had come in barehanded, fingers knotted in front of you. The silence was heavy. Too heavy for you to feel any type of comfort.

Shiro closed the door behind you and gestured to the sofa. “I'll get the kettle on.”

“Let me do that. You've got work to do.”

Shiro raised a hand. You paused, raised a brow at him. “I've got it. Sit down.”

You sighed and did as he said. It didn't take a profiler to recognise when someone didn't want to argue.

You tapped impatiently at your leg as you waited for Shiro to finish in the kitchen. All that separated you and the door was a broken coffee table and the knowledge that Shiro was only a few feet away; he would hear you, but when had that fact ever stopped you? It was strange. You sat there, perfectly still, listening to the buzz of the boiling kettle and you didn't even really want to move; you weren't entirely comfortable, but the idea of stepping outside and risking the sight of Zarkons men was a lot more terrifying than the idea of sitting inside with Shiro.

You supposed you should have been grateful. You were still here. His men hadn't come for you yet – he hadn't come for you yet. Maybe Lotor managed to get away with just a mild scolding, or maybe he had taken his chance and run for good. Maybe the two of you had left Zarkon in the dirt, just like you should have done years ago.

As soon as you set eyes on the page tucked behind a sofa cushion, you knew your thoughts were misplaced.

It was an intuition. Maybe it was because you had been anticipating disappointment this entire time. Maybe it was just because you were good at this kind of thing – before you even reached over and looked at the page, you knew what it was. It was the same cream paper you had seen so many times, stapled on the walls of your childhood home, locked in some oversized binder that held details so descriptive and so tormenting it was difficult to bring them to the forefront of your mind. It was that same paper.

You grabbed it. The handwriting was familiar. The weight of the words was familiar. The entire thing was familiar, because you had been at his elbow so many times when he had written these notes in the past. He was never happy when he had to do it, and it was very rare that the person the letter was addressed to lived long enough to take the chance Zarkon always offered them. It was more of a throw-away kindness than a genuine offer.

Dear, my sweet little Y/N.

I understand. I really do. We all do. You got caught, and you're embarrassed, and you don't want to face us. You don't want to tell us the truth of your failures. I understand.

I'm giving you a chance to come back. A single chance, one that you would be wise to take because you have nobody else. Lotor is with me, safe and sound, but worried. You don't want to worry him, do you? You know how he gets when he's worried, and if he explodes at me, my little Y/N, I will not show him the same kindness I'm showing you.

You were always my favourite. It would be sad to lose you just because of a little blip in the system. You can make it up to me. I won't be mad. I promise.

Come home and see for yourself just how understanding I can be.

Hugs and kisses,

Zarkon.

“What's that?”

Shiro sat down beside you, had already grabbed the letter from your hands before you could protest. A quiet whimper escaped your throat. You wanted to sob, but you couldn't. You wanted to scream, but you couldn't. You wanted to jump up and run as far from this place as possible – but you couldn't.

Not whenever Shiro's eyes turned and clicked onto your own, wide and desperate for answers you knew you could never give him. Not now. Not now that Zarkon's men knew where you were.

Shiro was on his feet in seconds, throwing the piece of paper back onto the sofa. He darted towards the fire escape, checked to see if it was locked – it was. He bolted towards the door, did the same thing and again, the door was locked and secured just as he had left it after walking in.

He turned to you. “What the hell is that?”

“Ignore it.” It was a demand, not a suggestion.

His face fell. “Y/N. Y/N, what the fuck? What the hell did he mean? Who is Zarkon?”

You stood up abruptly. “I'm leaving.”

“You're not going anywhere. It's obviously not safe for you-”

“It won't be safe for you if you don't let me go.”

Shiro stared. “And who's gonna be the one to hurt me – you or this Zarkon guy?”

Your stomach clenched. This whole thing was a mistake – you had said it from the very beginning. Shiro had given you refuge, taken care of you, made sure you didn't go out into a world that wanted nothing but the absolute worst for you, but he would never trust you. He would never look at you and think you were worth anything, because your initial meeting had set off the time bomb that would go off as soon as Zarkon grew tired of waiting.

Which wouldn't be long.

Shiro's words told you only one thing – he thought you were capable of hurting him. He looked at you, and he saw the mess left behind in his apartment, the way you had snatched the phone out of his hand and slammed it against the sink, the way you barely winced when the glass sliced your hand. He saw something that wasn't there, an idea based off of loose statistics.

You looked down at the ground and bit your lip. Maybe it was because you idolised him. Maybe it was because he was right – you were capable of a lot. You could have hurt him. You could have got up in the middle of the night and slit his throat. But you hadn't, because he was Takashi Shirogane.

He stepped forward. “Come to the concert with me next week.” It wasn't an invitation. “That way I know you're okay.”

You squeezed your eyes closed, clenching your fists. “This has gone too far already. I can't stay with you for another week.”

“You can't go out there either,” he replied. He sounded desperate. “I read the note. I read the threats. I don't – I don't understand a lot of it, but I'm not stupid. Somebody wants to hurt you.”

“He doesn't want to hurt me yet.” Why were you standing up for him? “He wants me to come home.”

“And what's gonna happen if you do go?” Shiro stepped forward again, so close that you could feel the heat coming from him.

Your silence was enough. It was always enough.

Shiro hummed. “I'll take the sofa again. Tomorrow I'll get the guest bedroom set up so we both have proper places to sleep.”

“Shiro-”

He turned on his heel, snatching the piece of paper up. He didn't let you finish your sentence, didn't let you protest before he turned to the lit candle placed upon the counter. He tilted the edge of the paper into the open flame and watched the words burn.

---

Days passed. Your anxiety didn't waver.

Shiro was trying. He woke up every morning, and he greeted you with a smile and a cup of tea, made exactly how you liked it. He tried to make casual conversation, to the point where you could genuinely sit down with him and talk like he was a good friend of yours.

But it wasn't enough.

He tried to distract you, but it wasn't going to happen. Days had passed. Zarkon knew you'd received his letter. It was becoming clearer and clearer that you were ignoring him. You weren't planning on coming home, and that was going to make him very angry.

You slid into Zarkon's head on this particular morning. Morning, because it was four am and you hadn't slept yet. Your mind had been racing as you tried to fight off the urge to profile the man with the dark thoughts, the man who had raised you, the man who had tormented you and clearly had no plans on stopping. But it was as the clock struck four that you let your thoughts go, the exhaustion making it too difficult to fight. You slipped into his head.

He knew who the apartment belonged to. He was a smart man. He knew Shiro was a celebrity, so he wouldn't risk breaking and entering. No. He would wait until you were loose on the streets and then he would take his aim. He would wait until you were completely vulnerable – maybe in a public place? A place where you would least expect it. He would put snipers on the roof. You had seen him do it. He would take you down and he wouldn't think twice, but he wouldn't risk getting Shiro involved in the story.

You squeezed your eyes closed and pushed your thumbs into your temples. His head was too scary for you. You had been profiling people since you could understand the basics of the English language, and even now you were unable to bare the process of slipping into his head.

You were awake now. You came to terms with the fact that you would not be getting any more sleep and slid from beneath the covers of the guest bedrooms bed. You headed downstairs to the kitchen, flinched in the doorway when you saw Shiro standing by the counter, drinking from a carton of milk.

“You're awake.”

He whirled around. His hair was a mess, and he was in his usual bedtime attire of no shirt and a pair of sweatpants. His grey eyes widened when he saw you standing there, looking no more dishevelled than you had done when you went to bed that evening.

“So are you,” he replied. “Have you slept yet?”

“Nope.” You snatched the carton of milk from his hand and took a gulp, savouring the brain freeze.

Shiro raised a brow, folding his arms over his chest and eyeing you like a father eyeing a sick child. It made you almost want to roll your eyes. “Did you have a nightmare or something?”

“I don't have nightmares.” A lie.

“So why couldn't you sleep?”

“I just couldn't.” Yet another lie. Why the truth was so difficult to admit, you weren't sure, but you didn't intend on indulging him any further. “Why are you awake at this time of day?”

Shiro shrugged. “I was finishing up some songs and kind of lost track of time.”

“Really? What were you working on?”

Shiro tapped the side of his nose and slowly turned away from you, snatching the carton of milk back on his way round. You pouted, both grateful for the sudden shift in mood and frustrated at the fact he wasn't going to tell you what it was he had spent his time working on.

“Come on,” you grunted. “I'm a fan. You can't just tell me you're working on something for my favourite band and then refuse to tell me anything else.” “The fact that you're a fan is a big enough reason for me to keep quiet. You might post it on a forum or something.”

You scoffed. “You take me as the type to have some kind of fan account?”

He shrugged, smirking around the lip of the milk carton. “You never know. I've seen some crazy things in my career.”

You grumbled. “Fine. Don't tell me. When are you going back to the studio?”

“Whenever the others can find time. They've been rehearsing for their show next week.”

You faltered at the reminder – the show. It startled you that you had forgotten all about it, considering this was the first concert you would ever be attending, and it was the concert of one of your favourite bands. You should have been ecstatic, counting down the days, marking it on your calendar.

But once again, Zarkon had crawled into your mind and stolen those remnants of normal human emotions. Even when he wasn't physically there, he still somehow managed to alter the thoughts in your brain.

“I was thinking we could get you some clothes for the night,” he continued. “Don't get me wrong, you suit my shirts and my shorts-”

“I absolutely do not.”

“But this seems like a more. . . formal event. We're gonna have to get you something nice.” He lowered his voice. “Something to make you stand out.”

Your breath hitched. You looked down at the attire you were wearing now – a pair of Shiro's old boxer shorts and an oversized Nirvana shirt that he claimed he had worn back in high school. It was one of the only shirts in his wardrobe that wasn't completely plain.

“How about tomorrow?” He glanced at the clock. “Well, today, I suppose. We can go out after breakfast and see what you like.”

You nodded dumbly. Shopping. Clothes. New clothes – something you very rarely got to splurge on.

Shiro grinned and kicked himself away from the counter. “Good. I'll see what I can do.” ---

“You look...”

“Just tell me you hate it. Just tell me you hate it, so I don't have to embarrass myself any further than I already have.” Your eyes were squeezed shut. Your hands were curled into tight fists at your sides. Your shoulders were bunched up around your ears-

Shiro's hands on the back of your neck startled you back to the present. “Would you calm down? I was gonna say you look beautiful, but I didn't want to make you more flustered than you already are.”

Your eyes snapped open, darting immediately to Shiro's own. Over the past few days, you had grown used to those storm grey eyes, the way they always managed to be the first thing you noticed. Even in a room full of people, Shiro's eyes stood out.

He smiled at the eye contact and gently turned you towards the dressing room mirror. Your breath hitched, because it certainly wasn't the Y/N L/N who had been cooped up in Zarkon's home who stared back at you. This was different. The clothes hung loose on your body, but it somehow worked. A pair of black skinny jeans, a dark orange button up shirt that showed a tiny bit of your chest, tucked half into the jeans, half hanging out around your sides. Along with it, Shiro had insisted you try on a pair of grey ankle boots.

You looked good. You looked expensive.

“This is too much,” you said. Shiro stiffened. “I don't even have the money for the top, let alone the jeans and the boots.”

You started towards the dressing room, already tugging on the buttons of the shirt, but Shiro caught your wrist. You whirled around, startled at the sudden action but immediately your face heated up at his amused expression.

“What have I said now?”

“Just go get changed and put the clothes in the bag,” he said. “I can't believe you thought I'd make you pay after I offered to take you shopping.”

It took a minute for his words to settle in your brain. “Wait, what? No. You're not paying for my stuff.” You said it with a scoff and a roll of your eyes, as if the idea of Shiro paying for you was a joke.

Shiro narrowed his eyes. “You do know that I'll just buy it anyway. Buying you an outfit isn't going to put me into bankruptcy.”

“But I'm an adult, and I shouldn't expect-”

“Just go get changed,” he groaned, throwing his head back like a child having a tantrum. “It's my treat, alright? Now go!” He nudged you towards the dressing room door, leaving no room for argument.

---

The crowd was big. Much too big for your liking.

You thought you'd be fine. You were excited, craved to hear the music that had been promised – the music of Smokey Saturdays. The music you had grown up listening to, no matter how stealth you had to be to do so.

But a crowd like this was dangerous. A crowd like this could hold so much danger and you wouldn't even be aware of it until it was too late.

That was why you stayed as close to the edge of the room as you could possibly get. You tugged on your dark orange shirt, silently cursing your lack of carelessness – orange wasn't exactly a subtle colour. You would stand out amongst the array of people in black rock shirts and leather jackets. But it was too late now. Shiro had already disappeared back stage, and you were left to your own devices as you waited for the show to start.

You were on high alert, even when the first chord was played and suddenly Lance, Keith, Hunk and Pidge appeared on stage.

You wanted the breath to be sucked from your lungs. You wanted to jump up and scream and lose your head, perhaps even faint, because that was the concert experience. That was what the articles said.

But even Lance's melodic voice and Shiro's gut wrenching lyrics could not pull you back to the surface. The crowd had swallowed you up. The realisation that you were completely vulnerable was suffocating you until you were shoving through the crowd in search of an exit.

In search of Shiro.

He had become a constant comfort. You hated to admit it, because it was dangerous territory to be on, but he had. Any time he saw you growing panicked, he was by your side, making sure you remembered to breathe, letting you know that everything was going to be okay no matter how terrible things felt in the moment. He was there for you, and you needed him to be there now.

The music blocked out the sound of his voice in the beginning. You were on the verge of running, tackling people to the ground in any attempt to get to the exit. Zarkon's written words came back to the forefront of your memory, reminding you just how thin the ground you were walking on truly was. He was going to get you if you didn't leave now. He would have figured out that the concert was happening today and he would follow you until-

A hand wrapped around your waist and dragged you backwards. You stumbled, getting ready to cry out but a low, deep voice cut you off before you could do so. It was close to your ear, the stench of smoke on the culprits breath.

“If you scream, this entire place goes up in flames, and everyone with it is going too.”

You clamped your mouth shut, curled your fingers into the palm of your hands. Crescent moons indented into your flesh. It kept you grounded, because you recognised that voice. He had come for you directly – what a strange move on his part.

“Zarkon.” His name was a curse. It burned your tongue. “You found me.”

“As I promised I would,” he replied. “Are you enjoying your little break, Y/N? Your little taste of freedom?”

“I was going to come back.”

“Bullshit.” His spittle slapped against your ear. You didn't wipe it away, too scared to move. “You and that Shiro bloke were far too enamoured with each other to remember little old me, weren't you? He took your mind off of things. He made you feel special.”

Zarkon had taught you everything you knew about profiling. He could slip into your head just as easily as you could slip into his. You wanted him out. You didn't like him tracing your thoughts without even trying.

“This man who should have hated you gave you a place to stay, a comfort blanket, gave up his own bed for you-”

“How do you know that?” You knew the answer. You just needed to make sure your voice still worked.

He continued as if you hadn't spoken. “So what were the chances you were going to give that life up to come back to me, hm? Me. The man who gave you a home for your. Entire. Life.” He punctuated each word by pinching your hips. You squirmed against him, pain flaring through your body. “You call it growing up, I call it being an ungrateful little bitch.”

The first song ended. Zarkon leaned forward. His grin was against your ear. “Pretend we're dancing. Pretend we're just enjoying the show.”

You did as you were told, because that was all you could do. That was all you had ever been able to do. It hurt – physically strained you – but you put a smile on your face and swayed, cheering to the sound of Lance's voice. The lead singer didn't even look at you as he addressed the crowd, already panting from the performance of the first song. He messed with his ear piece, taking it out to listen to the unfiltered screams of his fans – you wanted him to hear you. You wanted him to get the hint, hear your desperation even as you grinned and pretended everything was fine.

He put the ear piece back in and announced the second song. The band started to play. They started to jump around on stage, and the crowd only got wilder.

Zarkon took his chance.

He made it look so casual. His arm was resting on your waist, and he was grinning from ear to ear – that's all it took, really. The crowd parted for him as he led you out towards the back door of the club, nobody questioning the tears brimming in your eyes. They took one look at your smile and just assumed you were perfectly fine.

The fresh air hit you like a wave. The crowd was gone. You no longer had any security around you, no witnesses. If Zarkon were to kill you now, he would. He could, because he was good at what he did and he knew that.

You broke out of his hold as soon as the door swung closed. You were trapped in the alleyway. Nobody was here. The music was too loud, thumping through the walls. If you were to scream, no one would hear you.

The smile on Zarkon's face told you he knew that.

He stepped forward, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I don't want an explanation.”

“Where's Lotor?” you asked. “I want to see Lotor.”

“He got home safely.” That meant nothing to you. Not coming from him.

You wrapped your arms around your middle.

Zarkon sighed. “Did someone let you dress yourself this evening?”

“Don't treat me like a child.”

“Shiro must really care about you,” he continued, talking with a childlike drawl just to get under your skin. “Buying you all these expensive clothes, giving you a roof over your head – a refuge, if you will. A refuge from me and mine.” Zarkon grinned. “You used to be mine. Do you remember that?”

“Why are you talking?” you demanded, stepping back. “You're mad at me. You lost your control. You lost the one thing you thought you had forever, and you're mad.” You were profiling him. His nostrils flared. “Why are you talking then? Why don't you just kill me and get it over with?”

Zarkon grinned even deeper. “I taught you better than that, Y/N. Use your skills. Use the skills I gave you – you tell me why I'm not killing you right now.”

You slipped into his head again. It was easy. The answers were laid out in front of you, but you wanted to ignore them because sometimes pretending it wasn't there was easier than falling victim to an obvious truth.

Your voice trembled when you spoke. “This isn't about me. You're not mad at me, you're mad at Shiro. You're mad at him for keeping me away from you.”

“Go on...”

“You're keeping me alive so I can watch you make him suffer. You're preserving me.”

Zarkon shrugged. “Guilty.”

“You can't hurt him. People will know. People will care.”

“You say that because you care,” Zarkon pointed out. “But when has that ever mattered to me?”

The door behind Zarkon swung open. You knew even before you looked up who it was – it was a gut feeling. You were yelling before you could stop yourself.

Zarkon swirled around and laughed. He laughed at the expression on Shiro's face, the draw back of his shoulders, the flare of his nostrils. Shiro didn't move from the doorway, because of course he didn't. He didn't know who this crazy man was. Chances are, he saw you get dragged backwards and followed you out. But he didn't know that this was him, the author of the cryptic note that had been mysteriously left tucked behind his sofa cushions.

“Shiro,” you cried out. “Go back inside. Now.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” Zarkon shoved you with his shoulder. “Where's the fun in that? There's enough room in this ballroom for another, I think.” He grabbed Shiro's hand.

And he twisted it.

Shiro's eyes popped open in surprise and pain. He grunted, his knees trembling beneath him, but he was strong. He managed to swing his other arm around and catch Zarkon in the jaw just enough for the older man to release his hand. Shiro took the chance and stumbled to the side, gripping his wrist.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed.

Zarkon growled and whirled back around. “So you're a feisty one, are you? That's okay. I've dealt with worse.”

“It's Zarkon,” you said, eyes pointed on Shiro. “You need to go. You need to-” You grabbed for Zarkon's collar, tried to pull him back, but you weren't as strong as him. Zarkon taught you how to be sneaky, how to profile people, how to get around without being detected. He was wise enough to know how bad it would be if he were to teach the people who hated him how to fight.

Zarkon's elbow slammed into your chin, knocking you backwards. You grabbed for the wall in any attempt to keep yourself upright, but there was no use to it. Your fingernails welled up with blood and you fell to the floor with an 'oomf.'

Shiro made to rush towards you, but Zarkon hooked him in the stomach before he could get very far. Shiro kicked out, slamming his toe into Zarkon's shin like a child – it was the only thing he could do. One of his wrists had already been broken, and now he was winded.

Zarkon simply grinned at Shiro's sad attempts. “You know, Y/N – I don't really know how I feel about you letting this excuse for a man protect you. Clearly he doesn't know what he's doing.”

“Zarkon, let him go,” you wheezed. Your vision was growing blurry. “Let him go and I'll go back with you. I'll do whatever you want.”

“No,” Shiro grunted. His voice was barely audible, but you could make out the definition of desperation in its undertones.

Zarkon sighed. “I find it very cute that you really believe you're not going back with me if I kill him.” He turned. “We both know that's impossible. Once he's dead, you'll have nowhere else to go. Your finger prints will be all over the crime scene. You'll be known as the person he let into his house, the stranger who showed up out of nowhere. You'll be the first one on the suspects list, and you'll have nowhere else to go except back home with me, or prison.”

You shook your head. “I'd rather go to prison. I'd rather die than spend another minute in that hell hole you call a home.”

Zarkon's nostrils flared. You hit a nerve. You meant to.

He stepped forward. “There you go again with that ungrateful attitude. I think you're forgetting that I gave you everything. I kept you breathing. You and Lotor were mine.”

“We were never yours. We were just too young to go anywhere else.”

“And where is Lotor now, huh? Lotor came running right back to me after I asked him to ransack Shiro's apartment. He respects me.” Zarkon slammed his boot into your side. You squeezed your eyes closed, bit so harshly into your lip that blood dribbled down your chin. “You, on the other hand, need to be taught a lesson. I thought I'd raised you to know better, but I guess I was wrong.”

You caught your breath. It was a gasp. Maybe it would be your last one. With the pain you were in, you were beginning to sink into that hopeless mindset of I hope so.

“I guess you were,” you managed to choke out.

Before blood sprayed out from the side of Zarkon's head.

You cried out, jerking back as well as you could when his body tumbled to the floor. His legs wobbled, gave out and then he was beside you, and there was blood pouring from a wound in his skull, and his eyes were closed, and your breath escaped you, and-

And Shiro's arms were wrapped around you. His lips were pressing into the side of your head. His tears were soaking the side of your face as he rocked back and forth and whispered soothing words in your ear that were probably meant more for him than for you.

You panted, looking to the rock at Shiro's side. The rock he had just used to knock Zarkon unconscious. The rock stained with that monsters blood.

Shiro's words fell away. They crumbled. You listened as they descended from words of comfort to one simple phrase that captured the nights mood perfectly.

“Oh god.”

This, he spoke on repeat until the ambulance arrived.

---

“Lotor has been taken into questioning. He was asking about you.”

You nodded at the police woman, still dazed from the slumber she had woken you from. “Is he going to jail?”

The lady pursed her lips. “If his story is the same as yours, he'll be okay. You two are victims in this.”

You nodded again. It was all you could do, words no longer computing. There was a phrase you could think of; goodbye, maybe. It seemed like the decent thing to say as the police woman gave you a warm smile, squeezed your fingers before she exited the hospital room.

You should have said goodbye.

“You didn't even give her a goodbye.”

You looked up as Shiro entered the room. His wrist was cradled in a cast. His lip had been split open. He was shirtless again, revealing the bruise that was slowly forming on his lower abdomen.

You smiled at him, the first person you had properly smiled at since you had been locked up in this hell hole and questioned until your voice was hoarse.

He sat beside you. “The others are in the waiting room. I told them it would be a bad idea to overwhelm you right now.”

“Are you okay?”

Shiro's grey eyes softened. A small smile formed on his lips, and he spoke through a light hearted chuckle. “Yes Y/N. I'm fine.”

“You've never had to . . . you've never had to do that before, have you?”

A cloud shadowed his expression. “No.”

“I'm sorry,” you croaked out. “He was after me, but he blamed you. I should have known better than to ignore his note, but-”

“Don't, Y/N.”

You faltered. “What's wrong?”

Shiro ran his hands through his hair, inhaling shakily. “Don't apologise. Don't try and pin this on yourself. He's not here any more – the police have him in custody. You don't have to think about it. You can move on.” He reached over and gingerly touched your fingertips, silently asking permission. “We can move on.”

You swallowed thickly. Slowly, without any comment, you flipped your hand over and intertwined your fingers with his. He looked down at the point of connection, a tiny, tiny smile gracing his face that had you unable to fight the smile that took over your own.

“He was the one that made you break into my house,” he said. Again, it wasn't a question. “You and that Lotor guy.”

You nodded. “We've been ransacking places for him since we were eleven. It doesn't excuse our actions, but-”

“You were brainwashed.”

“We were scared.”

Shiro nodded. He nodded as if he understood, even though you knew he didn't, and for some reason that didn't frustrate you like it used to. He was trying to understand. He was trying to make sense of a situation that didn't make any sense, and you were grateful for his attempts.

---

Shiro took another sip of his coffee. And another. And another, until he eventually tilted his head the whole way back and downed it.

You looked up from the documentation in front of you, raising a brow. Whilst you were busy going through the piles upon piles of documents the agency had given to you to read over, Shiro was busy trying to come up with lyrics for Smokey Saturdays new album.

He was clearly struggling a lot more than you were.

“This isn't fair,” he grumbled, slamming his coffee cup back down on the table. “How come you're a natural profiler and I can't even get a hook down?”

You chuckled. “That's what's got you so stressed?”

“Of course it is.” He turned his notebook in your direction, letting you look at what he had done so far; once upon a time, Shiro's lyrics had been his most prized possession. It took a good six months of living together for him to finally trust you enough to let you read what he wrote.

On the page, however, was not words, but a simple drawing – two stick figures. One in a detectives hat, and one with a guitar.

Your cheeks warmed. “You're so cheesy.”

He grinned from ear to ear, yanking the notebook back. “Isn't it perfect? Love of my life – the FBI profiler! And me – the lyricist who genuinely can't get a hook down.” He frowned, flicked his eyes to your own. “I wasn't joking about that. This song has been driving me crazy for weeks.”

You rolled your eyes, putting your pen down on top of the pile of suspect profiles given for you to study. “You just need inspiration. I've seen you do it before – you get an idea, and you come up with something amazing. It'll hit you eventually.”

Shiro pouted, looking down at the page. “There is one thing that usually sparks some inspiration in me.”

“What's that?”

He looked up. He didn't say anything, simply puckered his lips and leaned forward. You raised a brow, immediately gripping on to what he was getting at – your stomach flipped in that way it always did, and despite the heaps of work you had to get done, you couldn't help yourself when you leaned forward and kissed him.

He hummed against your lips, pressing a hand to the back of your neck, gently stroking the chain of the necklace he had gotten you – the necklace that held the key to your shared home. The first home you and Shiro had bought together.

You pulled away quickly, picking up your pen and shaking your head. “This is why I never get any work done when you're with me.”

Shiro's eyes were still closed. He dragged his tongue along his lower lip, nodded, and then his eyes flicked open and he started writing.

You watched him with your jaw hanging open. “Are you serious?”

He smirked. “I told you. You inspire me.”

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kusunogatari · 6 years ago

Text

[ ObiRyū October | Day Thirty: Musical Soulmates ] [ @abyssaldespair ] [ Uchiha Obito, Suigin Ryū, Hatake Kakashi ] [ Verse: The World’s a Stage ] [ Previous || Next ]

It takes him a while to notice that something isn’t quite...right. And not just because he hears music at odd hours in his head. Everyone does that…it’s part of how people claiming to be soulmates find one another, after all. Whenever music gets stuck in your head out of nowhere? Your ‘other half’ is listening to it. And the same goes in reverse.

He’s always wondered if his supposed match has any interest in his favorite genres. Blues and metal isn’t the most...typical combination. But he considers it fair game given that his head tends to fill with any manner of music. Orchestral, pop, jazz, swing, rock...it’s like they can’t stop flipping through stations, it drives him nuts!

And yet, in a way...he finds it comforting.

...not everyone hears music in the quiet.

So, he endures. Some people actually join message boards telling what they’re listening to, hoping to find a match and figure out who’s on the other end of their musical experience the easy way. But Obito puts off such a method for a while. In truth? The notion scares him. Is he really supposed to be bound to one person for life? That just sounds so...forced. Besides...people change. Sometimes the music you hear switches. And at times, he wonders if his own mental music being so sporadic is the result of his heart not being able to make up its mind.

Sometimes he looks up the music he hears that has lyrics, but he avoids the forums. There’s just something...holding him back. All through high school he dodges the opportunity, still uncertain.

...but then something...odd starts happening. He hears music in pieces. Bits at a time, and it...changes. He scours the net for the lyrics, but comes up empty handed. Several songs in a row - his other half bouncing between them a few days at a time, but otherwise hyper fixating. And either this stuff is way indie, or...it just doesn’t exist. He can’t find it anywhere.

So, he finally takes the plunge...and starts asking on one of the bigger musical match sites. He posts inquiries about the lyrics, but...no one else has heard of them either. A few people pitch in to try and find the obscure references, but...nothing. Eventually they all get bored and leave him with his mystery music.

Sitting in a quiet diner one night, Obito absentmindedly rolls a quarter under a finger, back and forth, back and forth. There’s only one other occupied table: one full of teenagers that his early twenties mind finds obnoxious. He doesn’t have much for a tip tonight, but he’s managed to dig out the change from the bottom of his coat pocket, idling it while he waits for a coffee refill.

And then...he hears it.

Staring forlornly at the coin, it comes to a halt, eyes widening as the speakers in the diner suddenly switch to a tune he knows. One he’s never actually heard before - not with his ears. Only in his mind…!

Turning to stare at one in shock, he listens, hearing the familiar tune. But...he’s looked for months...and nothing! Now it’s on the radio?

...is he losing his mind?

The song plays through, the radio DJ taking over as it fades out.

“And there you have it: the titular track from up-and-coming artist Marshmallow’s first ever record! New to the scene and soon to be climbing the charts, we’ll be playing her new tracks hot and heavy, so prepare your ears! Now, on to the chart topper -”

Focus shifting, Obito pulls out his phone, quickly searching the name. Scrolling past pages about literal marshmallows, he finds what he’s looking for. A new pop artist, huh…? Then...that explains it. He was hearing something no one else had heard...because she was making the music as he heard it…!

...holy shit.

Surely a few other people have had this happen - after all, musical artists are people too, and people have matches. Well...most of them do. Why didn’t he think of that…?

But...that presents him with quite the dilemma. How is he ever supposed to contact her? Surely her social media will be flooded with fans - he’ll be drowned out! And there’s no way he’d ever get into some kind of private message, or a phone call. Is he just...doomed to be unnoticed forever?

...and then he gets an idea. A rather...interesting idea.

If he can hear her make music, then...maybe he’ll just have to make her a song…! He’ll just...put an explanation in the lyrics, and where to find him, and...there! She’ll hear it!

...won’t she?

...he has to try…!

Jogging home, he keeps his phone to his ear, hearing it ring. “Come on, pick up…!”

“Hello?”

“Kakashi! Kakashi, I need your help -”

“Whoa, slow down - you okay?”

“You still know how to play guitar?”

“...uh...yeah? I mean, it’s been a few years, but -”

“Great! Listen, I need you to help me write a song.”

“...didn’t know you were into making music.”

“I’m not...but someone important is! I’m coming over - I’ll explain when I get there!”

“Obito, dude, it’s almost eleven o’clock, I’ve got work in the -”

“It’ll just take a minute!” He cuts off any refusal with a hang up, grinning widely. This is genius…!

Obito doesn’t stop until he reaches Kakashi’s building, making his way up and knocking almost frantically.

A very irritated Kakashi opens the door. “...I’m gonna kill you.”

“Just let me explain -!”

“You’ve got five minutes. And then I’m going to bed. Because some of us have work in the morning, Obito.”

Ignoring his friend’s complaints, Obito makes his way in, trying to catch his breath. “Okay, so: music soulmate thing.”

“...uh huh.”

“I found mine!”

“...that’s great.”

“She’s a songwriter! A new one!”

“...and?”

“And...I don’t think I’ll be able to talk to her because she’s, well...y’know…”

“Cooler than you?” Kakashi offers, folding his arms with a smirk as Obito scowls.

“...you’re an asshole.”

“And you aren’t letting me go to bed on time. So we’re even. Keep going.”

“...I thought maybe, since I could hear her writing a song...if I wrote one, and put all my info in it, she’d know where to find me, and I wouldn’t get lost in the crowds!”

“...that’s a good point. Good luck DMing someone that far out of your league.”

“Hey, she’s my soulmate!”

“...yeah. She’s yours. But soulmates don’t always line up...remember?”

The reminder sobers Obito slightly. “...well yeah, but…”

“...I’ll help you try. Just...don’t get too bummed out if she doesn’t hear it, okay?”

“...she will. I know it…!”

“Whatever you say, buddy. I’ll make you a five minute ditty, just...let me blow the dust off the ol’ six string, okay? Like I said, I haven’t done this for a while.”

Obito, in the meantime, scribbles down what he wants to say. Which Kakashi quickly scraps.

“If you’re gonna make me do this, at least make it rhyme.”

“Rhyme? There’s no time!”

“You literally just did. C’mon. It’s not that hard.”

“Ugh, all right! Uh…” Sitting and thinking for a while, he scribbles something else.

Kakashi picks it up.

“Hello, my name is Obito.

You’re someone that I’d like to know.

I hear your music in my mind.

You’re someone that I’d like to find.

Before your songs were on the air,

I’d hear them daily, everywhere.

Long before the others knew,

I heard the music made by you.

Maybe that means we’re destiny

Us together, you and me.

If you hear this song of mine,

Could you please text me sometime?”

After come his phone digits, and Kakashi looks up to his friend, seeing the anxious look on his face.

“...this sounds like a fourth grader wrote it.”

“I’m in a hurry! And I never said I was good at poetry, okay? I’m desperate…”

“Yeah, well...that much is obvious.” Sighing, Kakashi drag his empty hand down his face. “...tell you what. I’ll work on this when I get home from work tomorrow -”

“But Kakashi -!”

“And that way...I can try to make this dumpster fire sound decent. Right now I’m tired and I’ve got an early morning ahead of me. You can wait another twenty-four hours, Obito.”

The Uchiha huffs a curt sigh. “...fine!”

“And you owe me for this.”

“Owe you?”

“I’m helping you get your soulmate, and it’s not out of the goodness of my heart.”

“And here I thought we were friends…”

“Buy me a beer next time we’re out, and I’ll call it even.”

“All right, fine. Sorry for...barging in…”

“...it’s fine. Now scram. I need to get to bed.”

Leaving the apartment, Obito scuffs his shoe against the carpet dejectedly. Maybe Kakashi is right...maybe this is a stupid idea. But...he has to try…! At least if he tries...he’ll know one way or the other. Heading home, he puts on his favorite blues album and eventually falls asleep.

Being as he’s between jobs, he doesn’t wake to an alarm, staring at his ceiling before throwing an arm over his eyes. He’ll have to wait until Kakashi gets home...and even then, Kakashi has to write the song. And then...all he has to do is hear it. Maybe a few times, just to make sure she hears it. Then maybe…

Not wanting to dwell on it, he gets up and goes through his morning routine: a quick workout, a run, and then breakfast.

...by then it’s ten o’clock, and the hours left are going to kill him.

He tries watching TV. Tries surfing the web. But nothing is enough to fully distract him, and he spends most of the day moping before getting a text from Kakashi that evening.

Think I’ve got it. Get over here so I never have to do this again.

In a flash, he’s out the door. Never has he made it to Kakashi’s so quickly.

“All right, it’s...nothing fancy. And I can’t sing very well, so...brace yourself.” Adjusting his guitar, Kakashi strums a few chords, and then gives Obito’s lyrics a go.

Sitting with rapt attention, Obito nods along, gesturing for a repeat once Kakashi finishes. She needs a chance to write his number down, after all! In his hand, he clutches his mobile, pleading for it to buzz.

Kakashi goes around and around for ten minutes before stopping.

...nothing.

“...maybe she’s asleep,” he offers. “Uh...I can record it real quick, if you want. Put it on your phone so you can listen to it later?”

“...sure.”

Hearing the dejection in his friend’s voice, Kakashi does as promised, moving the file to Obito’s phone. “Give it a try a few times tomorrow. See what happens.”

“Yeah...thanks, Kakashi.”

“...no problem. And hey...good luck.”

Obito manages a flicker of a smile before making his way back home, pace sluggish. Flopping into bed later, he puts in earbuds and listens to the track a few more times...just in case, before doing his best to sleep.

Come morning, he stutters awake as his phone vibrates, nearly falling out of bed as he checks his message.

...it’s Kakashi, asking if he’s heard anything yet.

No, not yet. I’ll text you.

Sighing, Obito reattaches his earbuds, going through his routine while listening. Then a short break...and he listens again.

By mid afternoon, he’s getting awfully sick of Kakashi’s voice. And still...nothing.

Sitting at his table with his head in his hands, his vision blurs before a few tears impact against the surface. He’s running out of ideas for excuses about why he hasn’t heard from her yet. She’s travelling. She’s ill. She’s...busy. Something. It’s not that she can’t hear him...it’s not...it can’t be…

Folding his arms, he burrows his brow against them, sulking self indulgently. He’s always been afraid of this...afraid of being unheard. Of being...alone.

Nearby, his phone vibrates, but he writes it off as Kakashi again. But then, it...keeps vibrating. Someone’s calling…? Maybe he’s finally gotten an interview. Picking the mobile up, he doesn’t recognize the number, swiping and holding it to his ear. “...hello?”

“Hi! Um...is this...Obito?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, um...h-hello. My name is Ryū! I’m...well, you might know me better as...Marshmallow…?”

Stiffening, Obito’s eyes fly wide, unable to answer.

“I’m so sorry I’m getting to you so late...I literally just finished a tour yesterday and I was exhausted and on a plane, and couldn’t call! But as soon as I landed I tried your number! I...I heard your song. But...the voice is different…?”

“T-that, uh...that was my friend! Kakashi. He...plays guitar. I...well, I don’t, heh…”

“Oh! Well that was such a good idea! I never even thought about that...and to think, you’ve been hearing my silly music for months, even before it was ready! I’m so embarrassed…”

“No, no! It’s not silly at all!” Grinning against the phone as it sinks in, Obito replies, “I mean, I can’t write or make music, so...I was impressed! You heard my pitiful attempt, heh…”

“Oh, no! It was good! Perfect - I knew just what was going on, and who you were! Really, it was a genius idea.”

His chest warms, smiling so wide his scars ache.

“But, listen...I’d really like to meet you, if...if that would be okay? I understand if that’s too forward -”

“I’d love to!” Obito blurts, going red as he realizes his manners.

Ryū, however, only laughs...and man, he already loves her laugh… “O-okay! Well...um, do you have an email? It’d be easier to get all the information back and forth that way, right?”

“Yeah, yeah - uh, one sec…” He relays the address, waiting as she jots it down.

“Okay...perfect. I’ll get something figured out! You...do you need some time to arrange your schedule, or…?”

“I’m, uh...I’m actually wide open right now,” he admits a bit sheepishly, itching his neck.

“That’s great! I’ll see if I can get something in the next few days - will that be okay?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Okay…” There’s a small pause, and then she admits softly, “...I already can’t wait to meet you...I’m so excited…!”

“Yeah...me too…”

“I was so scared I’d be someone matchless, you know? I mean...well, I won’t ramble, but...it’s a frightening thought. I’m so relieved…!”

“I know what you mean.”

“...well...is it okay if...if I text you between now and then?”

“I’d...love that, honestly.”

“Okay! If I’m ever annoying, just...tell me to can it,” she laughs.

“I doubt that’ll ever happen.” He doesn’t admit to how lonely he’s been - about how he’d be happy if she just sent him random emojis. Something, anything.

Ryū laughs. “Well...I’ll go work on getting you here. We’ll have to arrange all the details based on where you’re at, but...yeah! Just let me know all the info, and we’ll make it happen.”

“Okay.”

“I guess I’ll...talk to you later?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

“All right...bye…!”

“Bye…” Hearing the line click, he lets his arm go slack to his side, suddenly a bit dazed.

...he’s got to text Kakashi.

...okay I actually really like this, it's so cute xD This is based on a prompt (one of many lmao) that Meg generated off a site I...can't remember the name of. I've always loved soulmate AUs, and this is my first attempt at one, so...hopefully it's okay! Very cliche, and both Obito and I were rushed coming up with his lyrics, but...at least it worked! It was very clever of him x3 Anywayyy...only one prompt left...I'm kinda sad...but then I remember all my WIPs and I feel better xD But that's it for today's - thanks for reading!

#obiryū october #abyssaldespair #uchiha obito #suigin ryū #hatake kakashi #the world's a stage [ au ]

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smilingformoney · 6 years ago

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Platinum Diamond Scene: Act in a Sketch with Raleigh

Josh Morello: Awesome! Josh Morello: First off, we wrote two different versions of the script. Would you rather play a parody of yourself, or a parody of Jaylen Riaz? You: Jaylen? Fiona: Playing up your beef with Jaylen would amp your popularity up immediately. Avery: Then again, Cadence, it really just depends on whether or not you want to play up your rivalry with her. You: Hmm…

Who do you play on Last Call? -Jaylen

You: The people want what they want. Besides, I don’t owe her anything. Fiona: Good call. Josh Morello: Works for me!

-Yourself

You: I’d rather just make fun of myself. I barely know her, anyway. Josh Morello: Works for me!

Josh Morello: And don’t worry, this is last minute, so we’ll have teleprompters in case you forget your lines. Shane: Go forth and slay, you guys! Shane and Josh leave together. You: Guess we’re really doing this… Raleigh: I guess we are…

Soon, it’s almost your turn to go onstage with Raleigh for your skit. The curtains roll back. The lights blink on. The studio audience roars. You wait in the wings for your entrance. Host: Hello, hello! We’re back with Pop Star Jeopardy, your favourite place to feel validated when you know a piece of trivia a celeb doesn’t. Host: With us tonight, we have… your favourite rebel and heartbreaker, currently in the head and in trouble for crashing yet another yacht… Host: …Raleigh Carrera! Raleigh Carrera: Yo, what’s good. I didn’t think I’d be able to make it tonight… but turns out it’s pretty easy to blow off community service when you’re famous. The crowd boos loudly, but they’re loving it. Raleigh Carrera: What? What’d I say? Host: O… kay! Next up! Our other contestant decided it was better for their image to do charity work in Africa for the Pictagram posts… so we found a replacement! Host: Don’t ask which country in Africa… because they won’t remember! The audience boos again! Host: Bravely taking up the mantle, we have a surprise guest, your fave pop star killing it on Charttopper…

-If you’re playing yourself

Host: Cadence!

-If you’re playing Jaylen

Host: Jaylen Riaz!

You walk on stage, trying not to trip, and place yourself behind the podium. The crowd cheers loudly, stomping their feet, when they recognise that it’s you.

-If you’re playing yourself

You: Hi, New York! I was busy… -Writing Raleigh Carrera’s name with hearts in my diary, but…

You: …I’m here now! You: Have I told you how head over heels in love I am for my wonderful partner yet?! Have you seen the thing they do when they flip their hair? They’re amaz--

-Talking about how much I idolise Avery Wilshere, but…

You: …I’m here now! You: Have I told you how big an inspiration they were and is to me, my life, and all of my music?

Host: Yes… many times! Let’s move on!

-If you’re playing Jaylen

Jaylen Riaz: Helloooo, New York! I was busy… -Adopting all the sick kittens in a shelter, but I’m here now! +2000

Jaylen Riaz: I was, like, definitely not gonna tell you guys I did this awesome, angelic thing because I hate humble bragging… Jaylen Riaz: But honest is just like, the most important thing to me, you know?

-Having ghostwriters write all my music, but I’m here now! +2000

You: Which is to say, I wasn’t busy at all!

The audience laughs appreciatively, which encourages you. +5000 Audience Member: Cadence acting onstage? What a twist! She’s so multitalented! Host: In Pop Star Jeopardy, all of the winnings go toward our celebs’ charity of choice… Host: …which typically means their next booze cruise in Ibiza! But we deal with it because of the ratings! Isn’t that right? Raleigh looks up from texting. Raleigh Carrera: Oh, sorry, you were saying? Something came up with my private island off the coast of Bora Bora. Host: …I think that means it’s time to start the actual game! Host: Today, our categories are… ‘Living Frugally,’ ‘Methods Of Public Transportation,’ and ‘How To Be Relatable.’ Host: Raleigh Carrera… You’re up. Raleigh Carrera: Thanks, Josh, you’re the man. I got this on lock. I’ll do ‘Living Frugally’ for 400. Host: Alright! You’re on a first date, but you only have $20 on you. How do you make that money go far… and win your date’s heart? Raleigh Carrera: Easy. What is… ‘Take them back to my penthouse for a topshelf nightcap…’ Raleigh Carrera: ‘…and spend the $20 on a Ride XL Lux Black so send them home and make sure they don’t spend the night?’ The crowd erupts into more jeers, but they’re all grinning. Raleigh Carrera: What, come on? It’s cost effective! Raleigh Carrera: I’m just saying what I know y’all are thinking.

-If you’re playing yourself

Host: That is… an incorrect answer! Cadence, take us home.

You: Well, Josh, what is… ‘Skip the date and donate $20 to…’ -‘Singer-Songwriter Broken Hearts Foundation?’

You: It’s for a good cause. We pour everything into our music. We have a lot of feelings. You: We also say ‘heart on our sleeve’ a lot.

-‘Escaped My Hometown And Never Shut Up About It Club?’

You: No one even knows where my hometown is, but I feel like it’s important to remind people of this a lot. And I support other people who do the same.

-If you’re playing Jaylen

Host: That is… an incorrect answer! Jaylen Riaz, take us home.

Jaylen Riaz: Well, Josh, what is… ‘Skip the date and donate $20 to…’ -‘Yachts for Tots?’ +1000

Jaylen Riaz: Because no one should have to grow up and not have a Tubular Two birthday bash along the lush, golden sands of Turks and Caicos.

-‘Screens for Teens?’ +1000

Jaylen Riaz: This foundation puts 4K TVs with 3D options into every classroom. Jaylen Riaz: Because no student should have to suffer through low-res movies.

-‘Equestrian for Pedestrians?’ +1000

Jaylen Riaz: Because no one should have to get to their destination in anything less than a gold-plated saddle.

The name of the organisation gets a big laugh, and you see Josh smile at Shane backstage in the wings. That must have been one of Shane’s lines! Shane: … Host: And that response is… also incorrect! In order to win, you have to actually go on the date! Host: Who hurt both of you? Host: Let’s just skip forward to our final round!

-If you’re playing yourself

Raleigh Carrera: Alright, let’s go, Cadence. It’s getting real now.

-If you’re playing Jaylen

Raleigh Carrera: Alright, let’s go, Jaylen. It’s getting real now.

Host: The category is… ‘What do you do for fun?’ As long as you write or draw your answer, you will win! Host: So please… be sure to follow directions! Host: And don’t forget to select a wager!

-If you’re playing yourself

You glance behind the podium to see two notebook props.

Pick a notebook! -Diary with hearts -Journal titled ‘Poetry’

Host: And now… It’s time to reveal the answers of our celebrity contestants! Cadence, you go first. You lift the notebook up so the crowd can see.

DEFINITELY YOUR OWN, ORIGINAL WORK! -Show the hearts diary/poetry journal

You: In my spare time, I love to write beautiful songs… And let people know that I wrote my own songs! You: Like, I really, really write my own songs. Did you know how much I hate using ghostwriters? Host: Oh, yes, actually! This is a well-publicised fact! Host: You know, you only had to write a sentence or draw a picture on the lectern, not author a whole book… You: In my pursuit of authenticity and art, I cannot be silenced. Host: Marvellous, I suppose! And what did you select as your wager? You: I went all in.

-If you’re playing Jaylen

You glance behind the podium to see two painting props.

Pick a painting! -Rembrandt Self-Portrait prop +1000 -Mona Lisa prop +1000

Host: And now… It’s time to reveal the answers of our celebrity contestants! Jaylen Riaz, you go first. You lift the painting up so the crowd can see.

DEFINITELY YOUR OWN, ORIGINAL WORK! -Show the Rembrandt/Leonardo da Vinci painting

Jaylen Riaz: In my spare time, I love to create beautiful art… Especially those already created by other people! Host: Beautiful, Jaylen! Most people just, uh… Use the pen we offer on the podium. Not create a whole painting. Jaylen Riaz: In my pursuit of truth, my art cannot be restricted by any medium. Host: Marvelous! And what did you select as your wager? Jaylen Riaz: I went all in, so to speak, just like my ailing grandmother raised me to do. Host: How moving! You mention your ailing grandmother so often, I feel like I already know her!

Host: And Raleigh, what do you have to share with us today? Raleigh lifts up something from behind the podium. Raleigh Carrera: This is what I like to do for fun, no doubt.

BOTTLE OF ABSINTHE -Watch Raleigh take a swig!

Raleigh hiccups. Raleigh Carrera: Is this show over yet? I have places to be. Host: Uh, Raleigh… That definitely does not qualify as a written entry or a drawing! Host: In that case… given that she wagered all of her earnings thus far and won this round, I’m pleased to announce that the winner is…

-If you’re playing yourself

Host: …Cadence! You: Ohmygod, thank you so much! You: I’d like to thank my family and my best friend Shane, who I talk about repeatedly even though none of you know who he is…

-If you’re playing Jaylen +2000

Host: …Jaylen Riaz! Jaylen Riaz: Ohmygod! Ohmygod! I’m so moved! I’m speechless! Jaylen Riaz: I’d like to thank my family, my life coach, puppies, marshmallows, rainbows, the cat I definitely didn’t kick on the way here…

The audience oohs, ahhs, and explodes into laughter as confetti bursts from the ceiling and begins to rain down above you. +45,000 Host: Congratulations! Raleigh: And now, live from New York… +50,000 You: …IT’S LAST CALL! Josh Morello: We got a great show for you tonight! Cadence is here! Stick around!

You run backstage together with Raleigh, giddy from the rush of performing. Soon, you can hear Josh beginning his opening monologue… Josh: Now, I don’t know about you, but I have been keeping up-to-date on the newest season of The Debutante… You: (That monologue must be what Shane helped write! I’m so proud of him!) You head back to wardrobe and change…

Raleigh: That was pretty wild, huh? You: That was… thrilling! My heart’s still pounding in my chest. Raleigh: Well, congrats, superstar. Looks like you’ve got a back-up career in comedy if this whole singing thing doesn’t work out. You: Oh, hardly. I had to keep biting my lip to not break into laughter because of you and Josh. Raleigh: Happens to the best of us. You: You know, it’s cool that you didn’t mind making a bit of fun of yourself. Raleigh shrugs. Raleigh: Yeah, it’s good to not take that stuff too seriously. I had a blast up there. Raleigh: Besides, it’s like my image has a life of its own, one that’ll carry on even without me. It’s not fully mine anymore. You: You think so? That must be unnerving. Raleigh: We have images of ourselves, whether we want them or not. I’d rather have this one. You: Rather than…? Raleigh just grins, not answering your question. You: Okay, have it your way. You: So… I guess I’ll see you later after my performance? Raleigh: Sure. Unless… Raleigh’s eyes gleam mischievously.

You: (I should…) -Make out with Raleigh.

You lean in close, and cup Raleigh’s chin in your hands, placing one soft kiss on their lips. Raleigh: Oh, I see. Trying to wind up in the headlines with your fake partner, huh? Raleigh: Starring in a Last Call sketch together, making out backstage… You: I’ve got a taste for the headlines now… Although I doubt anyone will find us back here. Your lips meet again, and Raleigh’s arms enfold around you. They draw one of your knees up, pulling you closer. Raleigh: Cadence… You jump and they catch you, holding you at the thighs as you wrap your legs around her. Raleigh walks backward until they reach the couch, and you fall down upon it together, hopping on their lap and kissing them more. You: Mmm… You intertwine your hands together, until they gently push you back so you lie against the cushions. On top of you, they trail kisses down your neck. You reach a hand back behind you to brace against the couch. Raleigh: Shouldn’t you be getting ready soon? You: Shhhhh… You groan as they press against you, your fists clenching, bunching up cloth on her shirt. They slip a hand under your top… You: I… The door opens. Zadie: Ugh, I’m so glad I moved my silk swatches away from that couch before you all got to it. You break apart from Raleigh, blushing furiously. Zadie’s standing behind a rack of costumes, blinking rapidly. Zadie: Not to bust this up, but Cadence needs to get dressed. Not un-dressed. You: I should, uh, go do my fitting… Raleigh: No problem. Gotta give the people what they want right? You: See you later? Raleigh gives you one last kiss on the lips. Raleigh: Maybe. Raleigh squeezes your hand as they slip away.

-Give Raleigh a hug.

You lean in close, and wrap your arms around Raleigh. You: See you later, partner. Raleigh: Yeah, we did great up there. Good luck during your show. You give Raleigh one last squeeze, and then you let them go.

#playchoices #choices stories you play #choices platinum #platinum

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douxreviews · 6 years ago

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Star Trek: The Next Generation - ‘Interface’ Review

Geordi: "Until I see some hard evidence, I'm not going to give up hope."

By nature I love brevity: A rather decent emotional story that was undercut by the final act. Strong performances, though, and some good material earlier on.

The first thing you notice about 'Interface' is its odd sci-fi premise: Geordi hooks himself up to a probe that feeds him sensory information so that he can perform missions too dangerous to risk an away team. This is somewhat interesting, sure, and the fact that it allows Geordi to receive visual information makes those sequences entertaining enough to keep me watching for the first few minutes. But it's not even close to some of the interesting premises that TNG comes up with, and it only really serves as a vehicle to present the emotion and character in the story.

The central premise of this half of 'Interface' revolves around the disappearance of the ship Geordi's mother captains. Everyone, including Geordi's other family members, has given up hope and has begun to mourn, but Geordi refuses to accept it without hard evidence. Unless he can see the wreckage, he will continue to believe his mother is still alive.

This is where 'Interface' begins to deliver its best work. Some well-acted scenes between Geordi and Riker, along with a touching effort by Data to comfort his friend, give it weight and impact with the audience. It becomes very clear very quickly that Geordi is just in denial, and that his friends need to help him accept that his mother is gone. That's when he encounters her on one of his trips with the probe.

The resulting sequences are heartbreaking to watch, as Geordi goes from denial to outright fantasy as his crewmates frantically try to keep him from hurting himself even more. He pushes the probe to its limits trying to save his mother, injuring himself over and over again. I think the episode could've used a little bit more variety here; it gets a little old seeing Geordi get injured in a very similar way, and then watching him get examined in the same corner of sickbay, as Doctor Crusher explains similar information to Captain Picard. Still, it does serve to show us Geordi's journey towards false hope. It helps as well that the episode makes it clear Geordi's theory is theoretically possible. As a result, we don't know when Geordi returns to the crashed ship whether his hopes will be vindicated or dashed.

This is where the episode takes a sudden turn, copping out and doing neither of those things. Geordi's vision of his mother turns out to be neither real nor a hallucination. It's an out-of-left-field alien species that's trying to manipulate him. Not only did I see this coming from the very beginning, I actively hoped the episode wouldn't use that twist. It dodges the consequences of the story and lets the writers have their cake and eat it too; now Geordi can be wrong about his mother but also not crazy for hallucinating her presence on the ship. To make matters worse, the reveal that she is an alien comes as a result of an action she takes that is completely inconsistent with her goals. Her plan was to lure Geordi into bringing the ship down to the surface of the planet so that she could get her people off of it. But instead of continuing the ruse, which was working, she puts her hands beside his head and does something to his brain. This immediately tells him that she isn't who she says she is, and also simultaneously prevents him from doing what she wanted him to do. The twist isn't even a unique one - TNG has done this reveal in other stories countless times before – and it's a shame it had to mess up the good story they had going for the first four acts.

Strange New Worlds:

The planet featured in this episode, Marijne VII, is a neptune-like gas giant whose unusual atmosphere causes subspace distortions.

New Life and New Civilizations:

The species of noncorporeal beings that imitated Geordi's mother are the latest in a long line of noncorporeal aliens in TNG. Their communication methods killed any humans that experienced them.

Pensees:

-What is the probe doing when Geordi bends down and checks people's pulses? Is it scanning them for life signs? How does it know what sensory information to give him?

-On the same note, how does moving his foot have anything to do with his height on the ladder? The probe seems to float in midair. For that matter, how is it ascending or descending with the ladder in the first place?

-Data is such a good friend. He knew Geordi needed this in order to have his closure, and he knew if he didn't help, Geordi would be in more danger. It both makes logical sense and is touching, just like Data's actions should be.

-Great performance by Jonathan Frakes when he told Geordi about his own mother.

-Robert Wiemer's direction is dynamic or subdued at the appropriate times. I appreciate it.

-It was during the production of this episode that Producer Ron Moore realized that TNG was running out of ideas and needed to end.

-Ben Vereen, who played Doctor LaForge in this episode, played the grandson of LeVar Burton's character in the show Roots. Madge Sinclair, who played Captain LaForge, was also on the show as the wife of the older version of LeVar Burton's character.

Quotes:

Data: "The ancient Doosadarians. Much of their poetry contained such 'lacunae' or empty spaces. Often these pauses measured several days in length, during which poet and audience were encouraged to fully acknowledge the emptiness of the experience." Geordi: "I can remember a few lectures from Starfleet Academy that seemed that way."

Data: "You may experience the emptiness with me if you wish."

Riker: "They told me it was important to accept the fact that my mother was dead and that she wasn't coming back and all the hoping in the world wouldn't make it so. In my mind, that was the day my mother actually died."

Geordi: "You know, we could both get in a lot of trouble for this." Data: "There is a high degree of probability that you are correct."

3 out of 6 lacunae.

CoramDeo doesn't mind; the thing that bothers him is that someone keeps moving his chair.

#Star Trek #Star Trek The Next Generation #TNG #Geordi La Forge #Star Trek Reviews #Doux Reviews #TV Reviews

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horowitzbekker5-blog · 6 years ago

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Release Anything

My story is that an author that 'd done online composing for such dot gones as Themestream, Created By Me, and also The Vines, someone striving to have fiction, poetry and also nonfiction in print for real, suggested PublishAmerica. She claimed it was a conventional publication author. I was struck with their slogan, "We deal with authors the old fashioned method-- we pay them." Had not been that what authors were intended to do? However considering that my novel was simply resting on the DiskUs Posting site and doing nothing but providing me with sufficient loan to acquire a pair of skate laces every three months, I believed maybe it would have a better chance over at PublishAmerica where it would be readily available as a profession dimension book both on and also off-line. So this author, Ellen Du Bois, had a big thing on her Geocities website about publications being available in brick & mortar bookstores & they would certainly have ISBN numbers and also be online and all that things. Additionally had her full dimension publication hide so I rested there for 5 minutes waiting for the damn thing to show up. Not impressive, however she liked it. Ellen was a supporter for her book as well as sent out reviews from a weekly neighborhood cloth and also she bulk e-mailed numerous pieces of correspondence throughout those spirituous days when her book was in prerelease, after that launch phase in the summer of '03. I damaged down and got a copy from Amazon.com-- took virtually 3 weeks to get. And I battled to read all 176 web pages. Tripe. Clichés abounded. Spelling/grammatical errors weren't there at the very least. But the writing was slim. The tale relocated also swiftly. The primary personality was one of the most reasonable as it was probably based on the writer. The discussion was okay. The descriptions were marginal. Had there been an actual editor, the book could've been very good. I wrote to Ellen and told her the positive things about the story, preventing the negatives thoughts. She would certainly been an on-line correspondent for almost two years, yet after I didn't assess her book on Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble she didn't contact me. Practically a year later she sent me one more e-mail-- to advertise a publication of her poetry. I was simply somebody to market a book to as well as she was just thinking about the sale and with any luck a radiant write up. A Future PublishAmerica Author Since I 'd currently authorized the agreement with PublishAmerica, I wished to cancel it after reading that trash. Currently my publication would be affiliated with a business that produced almost any piece of creating that came its way. I wasn't expecting a lot what with my dealings with the extinct eNovel and also RJ's digital books, along with a tiny digital book author named Crafts Throughout America where I had not been paid monthly as promised. And my unique as well as narrative collection suffered at DiskUs, residence of the alleged Number One Best selling digital book writer of perpetuity, Leta Nolan Childers. PublishAmerica sent me an author's questionnaire where they requested for basic biographical details; cover art tips, and a lengthy checklist of individuals who could intend to review my upcoming story. " Please prepare a listing (names, and addresses,) of individuals that know you all right to be curious about your success as a writer: personal friends, colleagues, loved ones, etc., to receive a publication announcement ... Please limit your listing and your tags to an optimum of 100 get in touches with. Likewise, please do not consist of companies or companies of any type of kind, consisting of book shops, media contacts, or government companies. Consist of buddies and affiliates just." The editing process of my manuscript took two weeks over the Christmas vacations. LA restaurants had the ability to determine that the very first few pages had actually been read as some minor modifications had been made, yet no adjustments adhered to for another 50 or so web pages. Among the mistakes that happened was plainly the outcome of a spellchecker on the part of PublishAmerica as an enigma appeared after the end of a declaration. I 'd check out of real authors obtaining guidelines to alter phases, change endings, erase various web pages, in other words, really struggle to rewrite a book. Why so much initiative? Names. Track record. The publisher intended to put their name on the most effective high quality book that they had purchased. The writer desired a publication that was salable but additionally well composed as well as something they took pride in. PublishAmerica's editing consisted of neither perfect as all they did was put the computer program's spelling/grammar mosaic right into action. My 2 complimentary writer's copies showed up in very early March as well as it behaved to see my trade paperback publication in print sans a cheesy cover and stapled spinal column. 'North of Sunset' really had good looking stock cover art of a couple of silhouetted palm trees, a noticeable font, and also a spine where the book title, publisher and also writer's name appeared. It would look excellent on book shop racks, I thought of. Testimonials-- What Examines? What was Publish America doing to make sure my book was evaluated? Nothing. I made a decision to get in touch with local everyday and regular papers by e-mailing a press release. The only responses I obtained were two e-mail autoresponders introducing the editors were on holiday. I invested $40 on copies of my book's galley and mailed them to 3 national papers as well as the Collection Journal magazine. Then I phoned a book reviewer at the 'San Diego Union-Tribune' and also asked if he would certainly want evaluating my publication yet prior to I can even describe what it had to do with, he asked who my author was. I told him. "We don't evaluate publications by that author," he mentioned. I called all the regional bookstores and also talked to the managers as well as/ or area relations individuals concerning my book, consisting of a number of shops that were literally situated on the road I 'd blogged about. An independent book shop proprietor told me that because PA really did not have a return policy she was incapable to equip my book. Another said that I can sell my book on consignment. The chain stores of Borders and Barnes & Noble said my publication would certainly be offered with Ingram if any individual selected to order it. Tried getting PublishAmerica to send out testimonial duplicates out and it took them weeks to do so. Had to call as well as make certain on 2 events that guides had actually been sent by mail. Maybe estimating one of their passionate marketers on the message board, an individual with a natural wizard for advertising and the budget plan to back it up, got 3 publications sent out to reviewers. After that I sent my book to Piers Anthony, kept in mind sci-fi as well as dream writer of greater than 100 books. I would certainly been in touch with him considering that 2000 when I notified him to the truth that eNovel was a rip-off. Although the action in his books usually occurred in alternate time periods/universes, he really did not mind checking out a mainstream Hollywood novel. He did so. "North of Sundown by Lisa Maliga. She's the one noted in my Study as I'm a Released Author Ha Ha! Ha!, a pertinent caution for starry-eyed aspiring authors. Her web site www.lisamaliga.com deserves checking similarly; she informs it as it is. If you took a couple of years off my age and altered my sex, the result might appear like Lisa. North of Sunset is fun, regarding a Hollywood manufacturer as well as his temporary secretary, revealing a bargain of what I assume is fact. It is written with the omniscient perspective, which I dislike, however it held my rate of interest no matter. " I would certainly found with a distressed author on the messageboards, which I keep reading occasion, that a person was whining concerning PublishAmerica. Uncovering the Absolute Write History Inspect area I invested several hrs reading, at the time, greater than 40 web pages of problems regarding PublishAmerica. Authors not obtaining books in time for booksignings that they set up themselves. Bookstore owners/managers rejecting to stock their shelves with unedited PublishAmerica titles. Writers not able to obtain their publications assessed. Doing a search on LexisNexis, the respectable on-line legal research study system, for all PublishAmerica publications receiving paper testimonials, I saw that from July 2002 to June 2004, only 24 books had been assessed across the country. Papers in Syracuse NY, Tulsa, OK, Fort Pierce, FL, Wilmington, NC and Lakeland, FL were stood for. Just Salt Lake City's 'Deseret Morning News', the 'Tulsa Globe', 'Pittsburgh Post-Gazette' as well as the suburban paper, the 'Chicago Daily Herald' were in fact major papers. Seemingly, the 'New York Times' or the 'Los Angeles Times' were not evaluating anything by PublishAmerica's authors. According to the PublishAmerica website in the Realities and Figures area, "Fact # 3: Once more, exceptional among all standard publication posting business, each day an ordinary 15 times a PublishAmerica author shows up in the news media, in newspapers, publications, radio or TV." Yet also mathematically tested folks can identify that by using the LexisNexis search stats, we find out that the standard is a puny when a month that a PublishAmerica book gets discussed in a paper somewhere in the United States. Editing-- What's That? Below's a treasure of a post on the PublishAmerica message board: "When it appeared in book develop a month back, my friends discussed the editing and enhancing issues in it, so a buddy of mine with a masters in education and learning went through it for me. It had close to a thousand editing and enhancing errors in a 182-page book. So, have some who really recognizes what literary web content should remain in a book, go through your publication for you before you send the final draft back to PublishAmerica. Due to the fact that the last draft, IS!, just how guide will be when it appears." I discovered that via the misspellings, grammatical mistakes, as well as basic poor writing that practically any person was publishable via the 'standard' author located in Frederick, Maryland. Such posts as: "I also am not the very best editor LOL! I did get my finished books. And when I consulted with a woman that is significant in the advertising and marketing area, she informed me that my publication at it's length of 132 web pages needs to have phases." A couple of PublishAmerica writers reviewed editing and enhancing. "I felt like you did when I found mistakes, yet after that I recognized, hey individuals read it for the tale, not seeking blunders in typo land! LOL Now I just keep a keepin on!" Sales Figures Question: I 'd actually like to recognize the amount of copies I've offered. Solution: Purchase all of guides on your own and afterwards count them. No matter how naïve PublishAmerica authors showed up, they will eventually concern the realization that PublishAmerica isn't really a traditional author, specifically when those twice-yearly aristocracy checks arrived. Every few months or two PublishAmerica sent them an e-mail proclaiming their success, extoling a heavyweight author they're discussing with, or, more just recently, doing a take care of the New York Times. On August 17th, an e-mail bearing the pleased subject heading 'Marketing Our Topsellers in the New York Times' appeared in author's online mailboxes. PublishAmerica was well named because they intend to publish any individual in The United States and Canada who has churned out a manuscript, despite quality. They declare to have anywhere from 9,000 to 12,000 "pleased" writers and also they want more and more of them as that undoubtedly suggests more money for the hoggish owners, specifically Willem Meiner and also Larry Clopper. The PublishAmerica name and logo is seen as a joke to those in the media, bookstores and also collections. Publications can not be returned. All PublishAmerica titles do not have the essential CIP [Cataloging-in-Publication] information, which is essential for collections to buy titles, and also who wishes to check out unedited and overpriced tomes besides the writer's cronies? Oh yep, and also while PublishAmerica asserts that they're a 'typical publisher' why on earth do they have in their major page keyword phrases note the term 'self publishing' three times? As well as in their website's summary, they boast: "PublishAmerica, Inc., a traditional publisher, approving and also publishing manuscripts and books at ON THE HOUSE to the author. Aristocracies paid to authors, books sold in shops. Manuscript submissions by mail and online" In the beginning of September I got a royalty check. To my shock, I was not only able to manage to acquire a set of shoelaces for my skates, I forked over the $12 it set you back to develop my blades. That recognized that this company would offer extra earnings allowing me to continue participating in my recreational skating hobby? Yet it cost me more than the $160 in author-bought publications, the $40 for galleys, which were possibly plunged into a recycling bin, the $87 shade calling card, $20 press release-- as well as the many hrs building and also reconstructing my website so people would take place throughout it and also buy a book that was only available online-- like any various other book. PublishAmerica enables the misconception of being a 'typical' publisher, a term not utilized before the development of the Web, to fester. The lie is perpetrated in those HTML resource codes that search engine spider robots deliver; the future writers led to the guaranteed realm of posting, a net web of woven myths fanning across the online world. PublishAmerica resembles most various other ePublishing companies guaranteeing tales of bestselling publications and authors. PublishAmerica is just another scam, just another future dot gone. If you are a PublishAmerica author, or know of one, that is sadly released and also will certainly tell your story, please get in touch with: Federal Profession Commission attn: CRC - 240 Washington, DC 20580 FTC Consumer Problem Form Frederick County Board of Region Commissioners Winchester Hall 12 E. Church Road, Frederick, MD 21701 Telephone: 301-694-1100 Fax: 301-694-1849 www.co.frederick.md.us/BOCC/ John L. Thompson, Jr., President Winchester Hall 12 E. Church Street Frederick, MD 21701 Telephone: 301-694-1028

Fax: 301-631-23 Discuss the following factors: Your publication is not offered in traditional bookstores and collections Your book is not returnable if a bookstore owner/manager must stock it 7-year-long contract is considered in inappropriate amount of time Your book is released by a vanity press You had to pay for your own copyright PublishAmerica will not look for the CIP, which allows it to be acquired by collections PublishAmerica overprices guides PublishAmerica offers a nonstandard price cut PublishAmerica's service version is to offer to their own authors PublishAmerica's books are NOT modified-- absolutely not line-by-line as they claim on their internet site but have actually since admitted that they only edit for grammar as well as spelling PublishAmerica approves about 80% of submitted manuscripts [most authors decline 99% of their submissions] PublishAmerica will just accept charge card orders over the phone when booking for one of their workshops or to purchase your own titles https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m7pJcweygAg

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