#also leaning heavily towards the top middle pattern for the living chair

[treefish]

so! pulling all the yucky fabric off my dining chairs and living chair and starting to plan out what i’m gonna use to reupholster them. these are all the contending swatches 😅

[fanfic-about-fictif]

Sage with a male s/o dork (dumb but loveable)? 🙈

This is only a drabble, but it just popped into my head and I found it cute, so I hope you enjoy! (Honestly I don't know if you meant something like this, I interpreted dumb as clumsy.)

"What did I say about skulking around on the piers?" Sage's voice boomed behind him, but you could hear a hint of amusement in his tone.

He turned around slowly, like he was caught doing something he wasn't supposed to. Which he was. Sage was standing a few feet away from him, with his hands on his hips, looking at him with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

After the first day as Sage's apprentice, when he accidentally fell in the sea, he was told to avoid the piers althogether. Mostly because Sage, Anisa and Felix quickly realized how clumsy and accident-prone he was.

But, what if there's a shiny fish he wanted to check out, like now?

"Uh...", he made his way to Sage, careful not to trip on the wooden boards beneath his feet.

Sage watched him closely. "Come on, we have something to finish before we get back."

He nodded at Sage and then followed him.

As they made their way through the bustling streets filled with vendors and people, he kept close to Sage, not wanting to get lost like he did a few days prior. I mean, strictly speaking, it wasn't his fault. Sage walks pretty quickly and besides, there are a lot of interesting things in the shop windows that you can't find on Earth. Curiosity simply got the best of him.

"Where are we going?" he asked as they were coming down a less-crowded street.

"I have to get something from a friend.", Sage replied, being vague as usual.

"Does this friend hold a grudge?" he asked. "Because, I'm kinda sensing a pattern with you and I'm starting to wonder if you have any friends at all. Except Anisa and Felix."

"Of course I have more friends than the two of them.", Sage huffed.

He stopped and turned around to face him. "I have you too, don't I?"

He rolled his eyes in response, ignoring the pain in his chest upon hearing Sage call him only his friend.

"Don't be a smartass.", he added when Sage turned around and started walking again.

"I may not be smart...", Sage started and then turned around again with a wicked grin. "But, have you seen my ass?"

He couldn't help but laugh at the absurd comment, shaking his head at Sage who was grinning proudly.

In a few more minutes, they were standing in the living room of a stranger, who apparently was Sage's friend indeed because he didn't try to stab him upon seeing his face. She had horns on his head, which looked polished and sharp. She was towering over Sage, which was feat in itself, and all in all, she looked quite intimidating.

They talked about a weapon of some kind, with hushed voices and without much sense, but the friend quickly agreed to lend it to Sage. It was surprising that one thing was actually going their way.

She made her way to the doors on the other side of the room, pulling a ring of keys which looked quite hefty, and swiftly picked the one she needed. The keys jangled as she unlocked the doors and then pushed them open. It looked like the doors were leading through a dark hallway, but before she let them get past them, she turned to Sage.

"I can't let your companion go in with us. He stays here.", she said it with a tone which signalled that this was not up for debate.

Sage looked at him apologetically. "Sorry. Rules are rules."

He nodded at Sage. "It's fine. I'll wait here."

"Don't go anywhere.", Sage instructed before following her in the dim, creepy hallway.

The doors closed behind them and then you could hear a definite click which locked the doors again.

He could finally look around the place, since he was more focused on the weird creature before than he was focused on the living room he was standing in.

It was bare, with old, yellowed walls and one sole carpet that looked like it was stained and burned. The furniture was sparse as well, and it generally looked like a house that hasn't accomodated many visitors. Something also gave out a feeling that the owner liked it better that way.

Against one wall, there were wooden stairs without railings, worn out and uneven, that led to the attic. When he looked up, he could see the wooden boards of the attic and the small spaces between them. Curiosity got the best of him again and he got an inexplicable urge to check out what's up there. He looked from the locked doors where Sage disappeared to, back to the planks of the attic, and decided he had a minute or two to see what's up there without getting caught.

He carefully climbed up the stairs, staying close to the wall since there was no railing to hold on to. As he finally came up, he was disappointed. Old, scattered boxes, broken chairs and various pieces of worn-out fabrics filled the room. This wasn’t mysterious at all - it was actually pretty boring. He expected she had some sort of magical objects or cool weapons stashed here, but there were none. Sighing, he decided to get back down before they get back.

But, as he made his way to the stairs, he heard the door on the bottom floor unlock and what he recognized as Sage’s footsteps.

Sage called out his name. “Where are you?”

“You’re not gonna like my answer.”, he replied from the middle of the attic, knowing that Sage could hear him as clearly as he heard him.

There was some muttering, which sounded like a string of course words, and then a heavy sigh. “Don’t you dare move!”

“Why not?” as he asked that, he made a step towards the stairs and suddenly heard a loud creak from the floorboards.

Before either of them could react, the floor beneath him splintered into pieces and he fell through the hole. Much to his surprise, he had a soft landing and didn’t feel any pain.

And that was all thanks to Sage, who was laying on the floor beneath him.

Sage coughed, groaning. “The attic... It’s not safe...”

“Yeah, I figured.”

As they both recovered, they realized the position they were laying in.

Sage smirked. “If you wanted to ride me, all you had to do was ask.”

He dismounted Sage quickly and clumsily, laying on the floor beside him. “Shut up.”

“Seriously, you should come with a warning label.”

“So I’ve been told.”, he sighed. “I’m sorry. Again.”

Upon hearing his annoyed and almost sad tone, Sage moved to stand above him, holding himself up by the hands positioned on each side of his head on the floor. There was a moment of silence as they stared at each other.

Sage studied his face. “Don’t be.”

He looked back at him, incredulous.

Sage smiled. “You always keep me on my toes. It’s never boring with you.”

Maybe it was what Sage said, or the fact that he was leaning above him, getting closer and closer, but he couldn’t help but blush. He noticed Sage glancing at his lips and suddenly he had difficulty breathing as well.

Before either of them could change their mind, he raised up his head and closed the gap between them. Sage almost fell completely on top of him, losing himself in the kiss as well. As they pulled away from each other, they were both breathing heavily. Sage cupped his cheek tenderly and gave him another quick peck on the lips.

“See? Never boring.”, Sage winked. “Now let’s go before she gets back and kills us for destroying her attic.”

[eldritchqueerture]

Chapter 7: Threads

Hello! Long time no see! The delay was unplanned and I'm sorry about that. I had an idea in the meantime to add more fluff chapters before shit starts to go down but then I couldn't get to writing them while telling myself that I will write them eventually, and then I had other ideas, and I was writing for Summer in the Archives, and so we are where we are. I decided to just keep posting what I have and if I do feel like adding fluff that would be happening in the meantime then I will just make a separate work in the series. I'm aiming to go back to my weekly schedule (haha), so I hope I can get the next chapter out next Friday. As always, please leave me a comment or come yell at me here on tumblr, it always brightens my day and keeps my motivation up! Enjoy <3

Martin looks at Jon’s sleeping face and thoughts swirl inside his head like tendrils of the mist that has been following him, tendrils that meet in one specific place – his feelings for him. He’s not proud of the fact that this is where his thoughts end up turning every time he thinks about Jon, considering the severity of the situation Sasha explained to him, but he cannot help wondering – despite his better judgement – if Jon doesn’t share them. He replays the worry in his brown eyes, the tight hugs, always ensuring he’s there, safe, and whole… He might be adding meaning to otherwise ordinary actions, of course, but he can allow himself to hope, for when that hope sparks inside him, the fog withdraws.

Jon is wrapped in a blanket on the cot in the storage room, where Martin has laid him. They found him sleeping on the desk in his office, his eyes all red-rimmed and puffed up; they didn’t comment on it. Martin carried him to the storage room and placed his glasses nearby. Tim went to take Sasha home, so she can get some rest, too, and was supposed to come back with lunch; the events of the morning are laying heavy on all of them and have left them quite hungry.

Martin closes the door to the storage room and comes back to his desk. Working seems a bit pointless when you know that your boss is scheming an apocalypse somewhere behind your back and you can’t quit the job, but he finds himself needing a distraction, so he opens up his computer to do some follow up research on Jason North and the alleged ritual site he found in the middle of a Scottish forest. Martin’s never been good with research, not like Sasha, so he soon stumbles upon a dead end. He ends up researching pictures for Scottish forests and cottages, and he daydreams, with his poem notebook by his side. How nice would it be to just move to Scotland, to a cottage like that and forget everything. Grow your own vegetables and herbs, welcome the sun every morning with a cup of tea; go down to the town for some groceries, meet some good cows; and maybe Jon is there with him, and he finally gets through to his head that he shouldn’t make tea in the microwave, and they cuddle on the couch while reading—

“’scuse us,” comes a deep voice and Martin looks up, startled, to find two delivery men standing there, in the Archives, with a big package next to them.

“Looking for the Archivist,” the other man says, but Martin figures that just because the voice is coming from a slightly different direction. They sound exactly the same; he finds they look similar, too. Their clothes are identical; they’re different makes and all but somehow, he can’t tell these two men apart. There’s… something off to them.

“Sorry, are you two meant—” Martin blinks, but one of them interrupts him.

“Won’t take up your time.”

“Just got a delivery.”

Martin opens his mouth, trying to process the fact that they seem to be two parts of the same whole. He wouldn’t be able to explain this thought if asked, but this is what runs through his head.

“Look, you really can’t actually—”

“Package for Jonathan Sims.”

“Says right here.”

He looks and yes, there, on the package, says ‘Jonathan Sims’ in a very ordinary, unassuming writing. He glances over at the door to the storage room and back at the two men.

“Well, he’s not—”

“We’ll just leave it with you.”

“Be sure he gets it.”

Martin struggles for words.

“Okay, I will, but you really have to actually—”

“’course. Much obliged.”

“Stay safe.”

“I’ll… try?” He responds with the first thing that goes into his head.

“Your recorder’s on, by the way.”

“Might wanna change that.”

Martin looks at his desk and he notices a tape whirring steadily in the recorder.

“Oh… so it is. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“At all.”

They both turn as one and leave Martin, the recorder, and the package alone. He hums, looking from one to the other and back.

“Well, I know for a fact that I did not turn you on,” Martin speaks to the recorder. “Maybe Tim felt in a mood for a prank. It is April Fool’s after all,” he huffs out a laugh. “Would be his style to do something, even with… all this happening.”

He stops the recording and turns to the package; before he can do anything else, though, the recorder clicks itself back on. Martin gives it a sideways look and his heart picks up the pace. He frowns and clicks stop again. One second. Two. There; it clicks the red button on its own.

Martin stands up and takes a step back.

“What the hell,” he breathes out.

Suddenly he hears a familiar laugh from the top of the stairs and energetic steps running down. Tim emerges from the doorway and gives him a surprised look.

“You okay, Marto?�� He asks and places a paper bag on his desk, then points his chin at the package. “What’s that?”

“Uh…” Martin collects himself in a second. “Two delivery men just came by. It’s for Jon, apparently.”

Tim places a second paper bag and his coffee cup on his desk and walks around the package.

“No sender. Interesting.” He strokes his chin and looks at Martin with a grin. “We should open it.”

“Tim!”

“Look, boss is asleep, the package came to the Archives and not to his house, how private can it be?” Tim throws his arms up but seems to be watching Martin’s reaction more carefully. He doesn’t look very bothered, Tim assesses; he seems to be equally interested in the contents. He sighs and tosses him a letter opener.

“Fine, but you’re taking the blame,” Martin rolls his eyes with mock exasperation, and Tim’s grin gets wider.

“That’s the spirit!” He cuts the tape at the corners and opens the packaging to reveal an old wooden table; there’s a hole in the centre, Tim reckons about six inches square, and its surface is covered in intricate patterns resembling optical illusions. He frowns at it. “Huh. A table. Why would Jon…” He trails off as his eyes follow the hypnotizing patterns. “Interesting…”

Martin watches as Tim drops the letter knife to the floor, enraptured by the table. He wants to say something, to call out his name, but the fog from the edges of his vision spills out at the sight of the table and it blocks out the world; Martin stops feeling the chair underneath him and finds himself stranded in a sea of grey, thick fog.

“Tim? Tim!” He calls out but there’s no answer. There would be no answer, ever; he’s all alone here.

—

Jon wakes up to a nagging feeling that something is wrong. He blinks, trying to get rid of the sleep weighing heavily on his eyelids and gathers his bearings. He realizes he’s on the cot in the storage room, a blanket thrown to the floor next to him. He still feels too hot, and he takes off his sweater vest. What’s this feeling, gently pricking at the back of his mind?

He gets up, wobbly as he feels, and makes his way to the door. As he opens it, a voice makes its way to his ears.

“…friend mentioned poetry?” Jon squints his eyes, as light reaches him, yet he immediately recognizes the voice.

“…Gerry?” He asks and blinks – yes, he can make out the thin and long figure dressed in black, sitting on top of Tim’s desk. Tim is there too, leaning against Martin’s desk in front of Gerry, and Martin sits in the chair, his cheeks coloured just a little with faint pink. They all turn to him with surprise when he emerges. He can feel tension in the room, and he acknowledges the presence of something that looks like a table covered with a blanket in the middle of the room; the nagging in his mind grows into anxiety. “Something happened.”

“God, Jon, did we wake you up?” Martin jumps up to him with genuine worry and Jon smiles slightly, as he shakes his head.

“No.” He blinks again, to chase away the sleep and looks at Gerry and his inscrutable expression. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching a zombie rise from the dead, apparently.” Gerry gets down from the desk and crosses his arms. “Also saving the lives of his assistants by accident. I know you said you’re a mess but good God.”

Jon frowns with worry.

“Gerry, I’m serious.”

Something in Gerry’s demeanour changes as he sighs, and his expression clears.

“Well, I wanted to tell you that I’m in,” he says. “Whatever your crazy plan is, if you even have one, I want to hear it or help you make it; you weren’t picking up your phone, so I decided to come, pay you a visit.” He glances towards the table and his eyes cloud with a shadow. “And it turns out it’s good that I did.”

“What is this?” Jon walks over to the table and three pairs of hands shoot out to stop him. Gerry’s touch lingers comfortably, because apparently that’s what he does, and Jon isn’t so sure he minds it.

“An old table, with weird, hypnotizing patterns,” Tim says, and Jon detects a tinge of guilt in his voice.

“Did it have a hole in the middle?” He asks urgently and Tim nods.

“We need to get rid of it,” Jon looks in the direction of the stairs. “Put it in the Artifact Storage and make sure it’s covered.”

“Are you familiar with it?” Martin asks and Jon nods.

“Amy Patel case; the one where a person got replaced. Why would they—” Jon’s face falls and he turns to Martin and Tim. “Who delivered it?”

“It was two delivery men, really big, quite intimidating, but—uh, now that I think about it I can’t remember what they looked like…”

“Shit,” Jon sighs and rubs his face. “Okay, we really do need a plan.” He looks over their faces and his eyes stop at Martin’s disgruntled expression. “What is it?”

“What you need is rest,” he crosses his arms. “You pulled an all-nighter with Sasha, and you haven’t even slept for two hours now.”

“You do look like shit,” Gerry offers his insight and Jon fixes him with a glare.

“I can’t protect you when I’m asleep,” he says and looks pointedly at the table. “Clearly. Tell me wha—” He stops when Gerry squeezes his arm sharply. He takes note of the static in the air and clears his throat. “I want to know what happened.”

Tim sighs.

“Alright, it is kinda my fault,” he admits looking away. “I insisted on opening your package to see what’s inside. But in my defence, I thought it would be something funny; at least a bit humiliating for you, and we could laugh it off. The mood’s been horrible lately,” he grimaces. “The lines kind of… hypnotized me. I couldn’t look away and I started getting lost in them. It… It felt like being trapped in a web; the more I struggled to look away, the harder it was. I don’t know how much time had passed before your resident goth intervened. Then I came back to myself and Martin… he was grey again.”

Jon glances worriedly at Martin, who starts fidgeting with his fingers.

“I didn’t think you guys could see that,” he confesses. “It’s… it’s that fog you mentioned,” he says to Jon who nods, his lips pressed together. “It was… stronger this time.”

“He was a step from disappearing,” Gerry says, looking at Jon curiously. “I thought you guys were new here.”

“We are,” Tim says, looking at Jon pointedly. “You said you know why that happens.”

“I did,” Jon sighs and leans against the desk, next to Gerry. “I’m—Martin, I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Martin looks away and he mutters something along the lines of “don’t worry about it”.

“The fog is… another one of the fears; called The Lonely or The Forsaken,” Jon says, looking somewhere into space. “It’s the fear that you’re all alone, that you can’t connect with anyone. Martin…” He exhales. “I have reasons to believe that your connection to the Lonely might have appeared in this… reality, along with my memories.” He finally looks up at Martin; there are no emotions on his face. “When did the fog first appear?”

“S-Sometime when I got transferred into the Archives,” he nods. “I thought it was just anxiety, but… y-yeah, it makes sense, I suppose.”

“You still don’t remember what you did to end up here?” Gerry asks and Jon shakes his head; Gerry clicks his tongue.

“So, what do we do now?” Tim looks at Jon. “What is Elias’ plan?”

“I…” He rubs his forehead. “I don’t remember exactly. I…” He trails off looking at them. They are waiting for him to tell them what to do. Martin, with colour in his eyes and something else there, something Jon doesn’t let himself think about; Tim, whom he hasn’t hurt yet, who still has hope and who isn’t filled with bitter anger and sorrow; and Gerry who’s alive, here with him, offering his help. Jon thinks about Sasha, the real Sasha who’s still there. He can’t protect them all from other Entities and Elias. Even with all of his knowledge, Elias still has more power here than him, and Jon sees that his threats weren’t a bluff. Jon deflates with a sigh. “We need to know if there’s a way to fill the tunnels with CO2 before the Hive attacks; and I need the table sealed shut - it’s not getting anyone this time. Other than that, I think we need to work the statements, like before.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim raises his eyebrows. “Elias is serving an Eye power and not letting us leave, and I’m supposed to still work for him?”

Jon swallows.

“Elias… He’s dangerous. Even with everything I know, he can still hurt us. I’m not risking an open war with him.”

“What is he gonna do, kill us?” Tim scoffs but he goes quiet when Jon gives him a hard stare. “Fuck off.”

“Murder isn’t usually his style of dealing with things, he generally prefers threats and blackmail, but he can definitely do that, too,” Jon says. “Let’s just say we don’t want to piss him off more than is necessary.”

“You literally punched him in the face today.”

“Yes, I know.” Jon grits his teeth and looks away. Tim narrows his eyes.

“He threatened you, didn’t he?” He asks and takes a step towards Jon. “What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jon says coldly. “We need to get back to work.”

“Oh, no, you’re going back home and getting some sleep,” Martin shakes his head. “Or we refuse to work.”

Jon groans but Gerry places a hand on his shoulder.

“Go, Jon, I’ll keep an eye on them,” he promises and after a second of searching his face, Jon gives in.

“Fine. Be careful.”

“You, too,” Martin says and hands him the paper bag from his desk. “Eat this.”

Jon gives him a grateful smile and, with a last look at them, walks to the stairs and climbs up.

—

Gerry Delano sits comfortably on a park bench with a cup of coffee in his hand and sips on it slowly; he thinks about the things the new Archivist – Jon – said to him this morning. He looked tired; the bags under his eyes, the messy hair, the absolutely horrendous smoking habit (at that Gerry just chuckles to himself) and the clean but messy clothes speak for themselves, and Gerry didn’t want to say it, obviously, but it was this entire image of an absolute mess of a confused man that made him believe him. The marks are curious, yes, but Gerry has seen many things which he doesn’t understand, and he’s okay with that. No, this man is clearly in need of support and if he’s really taken over for Gertrude (and, judging by the sheer amount of his energy just screamingBeholding, that was very probable), he is in for one hell of a ride.

If Gerry would have to describe his perfect life, with his mother and Gertrude gone, he’d probably say he wants to find a normal job and get some peace and quiet; that being said, he did try that as a teenager, running away from his mother and her life. He told himself then that he didn’t belong in the normal world and would always find his way back to his mother. He abandoned that dream for a while, until Gertrude offered to help him get rid of his mother’s ghost. He thought that maybe if he helped Gertrude for a while, burned some Leitners in the meantime, maybe he’d have enough and manage to build a life that didn’t always border on getting killed by something supernatural; and so his life went on and he never really grew to feel at home in the “normal” world. He’d about accepted the fact that he’ll probably die on the job with the old Archivist, and he wasn’t very surprised to find how quickly he accepted it. It seemed fitting; much more so than getting a job at a coffee shop or other, and just living among people who had no idea what’s really out there. Then he got shot in Pittsburgh – a Slaughter case he’d tried to prevent – and he was forced to stay behind in the hospital. In some fleeting moments of consciousness he saw Gertrude holding the Catalogue of the Trapped Dead and he prepared himself to wake up as a ghost any time; instead, he woke up to an empty hospital room and a note in her handwriting – “Build your life here. Stay safe.” He thought if this weren’t his chance to build the life he’d imagined for himself then it would never come; and he was right. He soon discovered that making friends is way too difficult when you’re able to tell which Fear Entity marked them in that supernatural encounter they’re too scared to talk about, and he returned to London, searching for Jurgen Leitner himself. He thought he found him, but he ended up beating up someone who turned out to just be some pathetic old man. And here he is, back in the world his mother dragged him into without his consent. Gerry sighs and takes another sip of his coffee. Maybe the universe simply needs a pyromaniacal, angry goth who did in fact end up in the business of helping strays.

He directs his thoughts back to Jonathan Sims and the Institute. They need to form a plan and Jon said he would fill his assistants in on at least the basics. He takes out his phone and checks the time – 1 PM. He rules that’s enough time to explain the basics of the metaphysical functioning of the Fear Powers in the world.

He finds his last messages and opens the one Jon sent at his request for contact saving purposes – “Here. – Jon Sims”. He’s a creative one, isn’t he? Gerry saves the number as Jon Archivist, then changes it to Jarchivist, and grins; then swipes to call.

No answer. He tries again and it still goes to voicemail.

Gerry shrugs and finishes his coffee. He burned his last Leitner in the alley just before he met Jon, so he doesn’t exactly have any new leads. He thinks he might as well pay the Archives a visit; it’s been a while since he was there last time, with Gertrude.

The street is quiet when he walks up to the building. The aura of Beholding is quite strong here already and he looks at the Latin words above the entrance. “I watch, I listen, I wait.” Tacky.

He comes inside and turns towards the stairs leading down. He’s not surprised when the lady at the reception calls out to him.

“I’m sorry, sir! Can I help you?”

Gerry turns to her. She’s a small Chinese woman with a bob cut and huge glasses; she smiles but Gerry can recognize a customer service smile when he sees one.

“Oh, actually, I’m a friend of Jonathan Sims, the, uh, Head Archivist. Saw him this morning, I promised I’d drop a few notes.”

“Notes?” She glances over at the papers at her desk. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Gerry Delano,” he tries to smile as she checks something.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I have you anywhere as a potential source—”

“Oh, that’s weird. I worked with the previous Head Archivist, Gertrude Robinson? Jon had a couple questions about her management style, you know how it is,” he waves his hand. “New job can be stressful.”

She looks over his clothes and tattoos with a frown for a second and then sighs.

“Alright, Jon’s office is right downstairs, through the Archives, Mr. Delano.”

“Thank you very much,” he nods his head and runs down the stairs.

Gerry doesn’t know what he expected to find down in the Archives, to be honest. Probably Jon being interrogated by his assistants, or maybe no one at all; he definitely did not expect to find one tall man staring into swirling patterns of a table that gave him very mixed signals of the Web, and another man in his desk chair, staring into space with a very unnaturally grey stare and his form dissipating into mist.

“Oh, I swear to God,” Gerry curses under his nose and looks around. “Can’t I meet people normally once in a blue moon?”

He picks up a blanket that lays stranded on the ground and covers the table. He then snaps his fingers in front of the tall man’s face and waves his hand.

“Hey, you still there?” He asks and the man draws in a breath, rapidly, and blinks, then looks around in confusion.

“Wh-Wha…” His eyes land on Gerry and he frowns. “Who are you?”

“Someone who just saved your ass from something nasty,” Gerry says, turns to the other man and touches his shoulder. Still there.

“Oh, God, his eyes are grey again.” The tall man grabs his shoulders and shakes him. “Martin? Martin!”

“How did he manage to go so deep into the Lonely with you there?” Gerry asks and moves to look inside the Head Archivist’s office. Empty.

“Into the what? Martin!” He shakes him again and Martin blinks and exhales but does not acknowledge him at all. “Do you know what’s happening to him?”

“Where’s Jon?” Gerry looks at the man sternly.

“Jo—who the hell are you?” The man exclaims. “We need to snap him out of it!”

“It’s not that easy.” Gerry rolls his eyes and looks through Martin’s desk. “What does he love?”

“What?” The man looks at him confused and Gerry stifles a groan of frustration.

“Martin. He needs an anchor, something that he loves that will bring him back here.”

The man’s eyes search the desk frantically.

“Come on!” Gerry rushes him and the man groans.

“Can he hear me?”

“Allegedly.”

“What does that mean?!” He looks at him pressingly.

“It means I don’t know!” Gerry grabs one of Martin’s hands. “He might, if he’s not too far gone.”

“Martin,” the man grabs Martin’s other hand. “Martin, think about tea. Poetry. Um, about—” He’s cut off by Gerry’s groan of frustration. “What?!”

“That won’t work,” he shakes his head. “He’s in the fogs of The Lonely; he thinks he’s alone and that it’s never gonna change; that he can’t ever make meaningful connections with other people.”

The man’s eyes move frantically as he puts something together in his brain.

“Martin,” he squeezes his hand again. “I’m here with you, you hear me? You’re not alone and Jon is here too, and Sasha will be here soon, and we will all be with you here because we are your friends, okay? We’re—” His voice catches when Martin’s grey gaze lands on his face. Gerry unknowingly nods for him to continue. “Look, I know you’re convinced that you’re no help here because of that fake resume that everyone pretends not to know about, but you’ve been such an amazing friend through these couple of months and—” he searches for words before continuing. “And I know you have feelings for Jon, and you need to think about him because if you ask me, he’s head over heels for you too, and you’re just too oblivious to realize, both of you,” he laughs and a tear streams down his face. “So you need to think about him because he needs you to be here and stay here, and we need you too, okay, Marto, we—we really do…” He inhales, as Martin squeezes his hand back and blinks. The man sighs deeply with relief and leans his forehead on their joined hands.

“Tim…?” Martin speaks up with a very gentle, detached voice and then his gaze lands on Gerry who has now let go of his hand and stands back up. “Who’s that?”

Tim looks up and wipes away another stray tear, then stands up to face him.

“Yeah,” he frowns. “That’s a good question.”

Gerry smirks and climbs up to sit at one of the desks.

“Seeing how I just might have saved your lives; I’d rather think some thanks are in order.”

“I’m not kidding, who the fuck are you?” Tim crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. Gerry notices he stares at his tattoos like he’s trying to remember something.

“Eh, fine.” He rolls his eyes. “Name’s Gerry Delano, but you may know me as Gerard Keay.”

Recognition flashes in Tim’s eyes.

“We had a statement about you!” He says and immediately frowns. “You killed a man.”

Gerry chuckles.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

“What are you doing here?” Martin asks and Gerry crosses his legs.

“Waiting for Jon, actually. I thought I may find him here, but it appears I must have found his assistants, am I correct?”

“And you know Jon how?” Martin follows up; his voice gains a bit of depth to it, and he tilts his head, much more present than a second before.

“We met in an alley outside the Institute this morning,” Gerry shrugs. “Or, late night. Morning might be pushing it. He didn’t mention it?”

Tim sighs and rubs his face and Martin shakes his head.

“Eh, that’s fine. You two look like you have enough information to process for the next two months.”

“Something like that,” Tim nods and leans against Martin’s desk. “Jon’s getting some sleep and we’d rather have no one disturb him. It’s been a… hard morning.”

“He did look like he hasn’t slept in a week, I’ll give you that.” Gerry shoots a glance at Martin; his skin is regaining color, but his eyes are still unnaturally grey, and the edges of his form are blurry; the fog still lingers. “Hey, um… Martin?” He asks and Martin looks at him with surprise.

“Yeah…?”

“Just getting your names since you haven’t introduced yourselves. But that’s okay, I’m good at picking up from context.” He smiles and continues before Tim can speak. “So, Martin, what is it that you do here?”

“Uh… excuse me?” He blinks.

“I’m just interested, tell me what your usual day consists of. What do you do for fun? Your friend mentioned poetry?”

He notes the blush on Martin’s face with some satisfaction; the dark green colour returns to his eyes, though, still, his edges remain blurry. Martin can’t answer however; as he takes a breath, he’s interrupted by the door to the storage room opening.

Jon looks, frankly, even worse than he did before; in addition to everything aforementioned, his eyes are now puffed up from sleeping and he has apparently ditched his sweater vest, leaving only a creased, light blue shirt.

“…Gerry?” He frowns at him and takes in the room. “Something happened.”

“God, Jon, did we wake you up?” Martin shoots upright and the edges of his form become solid for a second. Just a second.

“No,” he shakes his head and blinks at Gerry. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching a zombie rise from the dead, apparently.” Gerry jumps down from the desk and crosses his arms. “Also saving the lives of his assistants by accident. I know you said you’re a mess but good God.”

“Gerry, I’m serious.” Jon gives him a look and Gerry sighs, but it’s a sigh of mock exasperation which hides only fondness. From the moment he learned Jon is the Head Archivist, he knew he would be a lot different than Gertrude; even if at first it was “this kid is a proper mess” contrasted with Gertrude’s calculated craft. He can see that what actually makes him different, better, is that he cares. Even though Beholding has him in its grasp far stronger than it ever had Gertrude, he has that spark of human empathy that she deemed an obstacle. He wouldn’t be the kind to sacrifice his own assistants to stop the Apocalypse, which maybe doesn’t give them big chances of success, but makes Gerry trust him. It makes him feel safer and it makes him stand stronger, and maybe that is exactly what is needed. And that one detail, that seriousness in his voice when he asks what happened to his assistants – to his friends – and the worry in his eyes when he checks if they’re okay, that’s what fully convinces Gerry that this man is worth his effort. If they can’t save the world with a strength like that then maybe no one really can.

—

Martin opens the door to Jon’s office to see the man reading something in a book. He looks up at Martin and his lips twitch towards a smile.

“Hello, Martin,” Jon says and immediately yawns. “God, sorry.”

“I was about to ask you if you’re still working.” Martin takes a look at his desk; there’s two empty mugs pushed to the side, a tape recorder (not recording), and some books and papers. Martin notices Jon’s glasses are still where he left them after he found them near the cot in the storage room. “You’re wearing contacts now?” He asks and Jon raises his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Well, I- I noticed you didn’t wear glasses today,” Martin shrugs and points his chin at them. “You forgot them yesterday.”

Jon’s eyes stop at the pair of glasses, and he frowns.

“Huh.” He rubs his chin. “Checks out, I guess.”

“What?” Now Martin frowns and Jon looks up at him, breathing in.

“The, uh—The Eye powers,” he grimaces. “This happened before too. I don’t—I don’t need them anymore.”

“Oh.” Martin shifts. “Well, I just wanted to tell you, you should get some rest. It’s—It’s late.”

Jon smiles fondly, staring into the air. Martin wonders what he's thinking about. Is he going back to memories he doesn't have?

“I really should, shouldn't I?” Jon asks no one in particular and sighs. “Thank you, Martin.”

“F-For what?” Martin laughs a little bit confused, and Jon looks at him for a moment before he shrugs.

“For caring. For being there.”

Martin looks away and shifts awkwardly again. Jon's stare, though gentle, is piercing; overbearing. Martin can't yet decide if it's good or bad, but it is certainly a lot.

“I should—”

“Could you—”

They start at the same time and look at each other. Jon shakes his head and gestures with his hand.

“Please, go first.”

Martin takes a deep breath.

“Could you tell me what—what it is that you want me to remember?”

Jon opens his mouth and closes it. His forehead ripples.

“I...” he begins and sighs, looking at his desk. “I don't think it was you. I mean—I think that... that it was a different version of you. In my past.” He looks up and his brown eyes are sad. “So it makes sense you can't remember because it never actually happened for you.”

Martin deflates with a little “oh” and looks down. The hole in his mind is settling nicely in the fog and he doesn't question it. Why would he? It was always there. He’s only lived this life, not anything else – if anybody would know it would be Jon. And obviously, it was a different Martin that Jon fell— That Jon cared for.

“Were we…” Martin stops, the word “together" left hanging in the air, and Jon looks at him for a second before something flashes in his eyes.

“We don't—I mean, I can't really— It's, it wasn't you so...”

‘I can’t really expect you to have the same feelings now’ is what Jon does not say, but Martin, of course, has no way of knowing that.

“Right,” Martin nods, and he can see Jon's cheeks blush, much the same as his own must right now. Martin swallows the awkwardness and nods again. “Alright, I'll, uh... I'll leave you to it. Then. Get—uh, get some rest.”

He closes the door and exhales deeply. Well, that was disastrous; he thinks, as he walks towards the document storage. There’s something heavy weighing down on his chest but he chooses not to dwell on it; it wouldn’t provide him with any insights he didn’t already know.

[cecilspeaks]

163 - “Bravo”

Our moral compass has been demagnetized. Welcome to Night Vale.

Night Vale, Carlos and I went to see a new play the other night. It’s been ages since we went to the theater. I think the last show we saw was “Hamilton”, which is a Tony and Pulitzer winning hip hop musical about figure skater Scott Hamilton, who died in a duel to fellow Olympian Katarina Witt. “Hamilton” was wonderful, but live theater is so expensive. It’s a rare treat for us to get out of the house, what with the cost of tickets plus dinner, parking, a babysitter, tuxedo rentals and all that time spent watching YouTube makeup tutorials for jamming facial recognition cameras.

But my friend Charles Raynor invited us as his special guests to watch the premiere of a new play at the Night Vale Asylum, where Charles is the warden. The play was called “The Disappearance and Cover-up of Flight 18713 as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Night Vale under the Direction of Undercover Agents from the National Safety and Transportation Bureau.” Or, “18713/NTSB” for short. I’m used to seeing plays at the New Old Opera House or in the high school auditorium. There’s also the Black Box Theatre, which presents some of Night Vale’s most experimental drama from young performance artists. No one has seen any of these shows, or if they have, they’ve never emerged from that doorless black box, its walls perfectly smooth and faintly warm.

But this particular play was at the asylum itself. The Night Vale Asylum perches atop a craggy peak in the Sand Wastes. It’s brutalist concrete walls intermittently slashed with slivers of windows. I do not personally know anyone inside this intimidating institute, other than warden Raynor himself. And I’ll admit to being a bit nervous venturing out at night to a heavily guarded home for the criminally insane. But Carlos put me at ease by rolling his eyes. He said it was neurotypical ableism that makes us think this way. That movies and TV shows often play up harmful tropes about psychopaths and lunatics, planning daring escapes so they can return to a life of criminal misdeeds. Carlos explained that asylums are merely places where we hide away the people who most remind us of the inexplicable fragility of the human brain.

Driving out past the Scrublands under an indigo sky, the full moon low over the horizon backlighting the Night Vale Asylum atop its jagged rocky ridge, my nerves returned. I thought I heard coyotes howling in the distance, but it was the car stereo. Carlos had put on his favorite new Frank Ocean album called “Various Animals Screaming”. When we arrived, warden Raynor greeted us at the gates. Two guards wearing army style green dress uniforms flanked him. Their right breasts were laden with medals, chevrons and stripes. They each were armed with billy clubs, tasers and slingshots, and one of them was wearing an eye patch, but it was positioned in the middle of his forehead.

The warden escorted Carlos and me to our seats, which were simple wood chairs. There were only ten seats total, all in a single row along the rear wall. There was no standard stage to speak of, no curtain. The actors were all in costume in the center of the room, already in character. The other seats were already filled. Warden Raynor, Sheriff Sam, three of Sam’s secret police officers, two of Sam’s overt police officers, and an angel I had never met before, but who introduced themself to me as Erika. With a K, they added. “Nice to meet you, Erika,” I said. “You got ten bucks?” Erika asked. “Uh, sure,” I said. “What for?” “Not everyone gets to know everything,” they said. “You either got it or you don’t, man.” So I handed them ten bucks and minutes later my lower back pain, which has plagued me for the last six months, was gone. I looked back at Erika and I saw the wink at me, or I think they winked? They have ten eyes, so it could have just been an asynchronous blink. It’s hard to even tell what they’re ever looking at.

The play began with an introduction by warden Raynor, who welcomed us all to this unusual night. The first ever performance of an original play by inmates in his asylum. He introduced the writers/directors of the piece. There were three of them, each dressed in an electrical blue jumpsuit. One of them had a blister on his upper lip, another a swollen red lump along the cuticle of his right index finger. One of them had an unceasing nose bleed. I recognized them as the agents from the National Safety and Transportation Bureau in Washington, who had come to Night Vale two months ago to investigate the disappearance of Delta flight 18713. Sheriff Sam had placed these agents undercover in the asylum to try to meet with an inmate named Doug Biondi, who claimed to have pertinent information about the missing aircraft. Upon remembering this, I flipped quickly through my playbill to find the ensemble members’ names. And there on the title page was the name Doug Biondi, who was cast as airplane pilot. As the warden returned to his seat and before the house lights dimmed, I leaned over to Sheriff Sam and asked, “How is the undercover operation going, Sheriff?” Sam glared at me and said, “I’ve no idea what you mean.” “You know, with the NTSP officers here in the asylum trying to interview Doug Biondi?” I asked perhaps a little loudly for a theater. “The NTSP officers are criminally insane, Sessil,” the Sheriff said unironically and with more than a touch of scold in their tone. “That is why they are here. They are a danger to themselves and others.” I had many more questions, but before I could say anything, the lights faded to black, and I heard the first voice of the play.

“Find us,” called the voice in the dark. “Find us,” it echoed again. A faint glow coated like frost the wild-eyed faces of the inmates on stage. The frantic visages made all the more panic by deep eyeliner, rouge and lipstick. Most were dressed in common street clothes: slacks, jeans, buttoned-down shirts, mid-length pattern skirts. Two were dressed as flight attendants and one as the pilot. I could only presume a small budget, as the uniforms worn by the latter groups were largely suggested by navy blue hats and little plastic wings on their lapels. The pilot wore anachronistic aviation goggles and so it was difficult for me to see and remember the face of this actor, this inmate, Doug Biondi. But I could see his mouth, which was unusually white. The corners of his lips extending well past the width of his eyes. He had an unusual number of teeth in his harsh smile, a smile which never abated, even in his most somber of scenes.

“Weeee surviive,” said Biondi’s pilot character. “Weeeee livve. Weee cannot dieee. Noot here, noot in No..Where.” He said it not like the vague concept of “in no place”, but “No Where”, two words capitalized, like the name of a specific place. Each actor was seated in short tight rows of four, a narrow aisle in between, mimicking the floor plan of a common fuselage. At the front of the troup sat Doug Biondi, as airline pilot. “How did we get here, in No Where?” said one of the passengers. “And how shall we return?” said another. “Only,” they said in unison, “when you find ussss.” This last line they said with a quick twist of their necks towards the audience. Then the scene shifted, the chairs cleared and all of the actors stood in the profile of a Greek chorus. They explained the flight from Detroit, the view of lake Erie, they told stories of different passengers. One who had a job interview, one who was looking for an apartment, another who went to Palm Springs on vacation. They told the story of a bright light and a loud pop, and suddenly the engines were silent. The plane felt still, unmoving, and then the chorus all pantomimed the leaning, concerned gaze out airplane windows. Instead of tops of clouds or distant shapes of great lakes, though, they looked out and saw – children in a gymnasium. They heard the squeak of sneakers and the joyful cries of playful exercise. It felt like minutes, maybe a whole hour. They could not understand what they were seeing. They could not comprehend an elementary school gym six miles above southern Canada. But they were not six miles above southern Canada. They were only a few feet above the American Southwest, inside an airplane, inside an elementary school gymnasium, in a town called Night Vale. And as quickly as they had appeared there, they disappeared. Off the radar, gone from the skies, out of known existence. Throughout this chorus, the speakers filled our ears with the joyful shouts of children, the hollow metallic thumps of red rubber balls, and the collective panicked inhale of a 143 passengers and crew of a displaced plane, and then it was silent. And then it was dark.

A single green light appeared on the far wall, a dot, a blip. A radar blinking on, then off. And the voice of Doug Biondi said: “Weeeeeee are not passengers on a plane. Weeeee are actors. Weeee are inmates of the Asylum of Night Vale, but weeeee do not belong here. Weeee are people who know truths. People who know more than is allowed, and for that, weeeeeeeee are kept in cages. Weeeeeeee are fed poisoned pills and circular logic.” And at this point in the play, I felt movement in our small audience. The warden had stood up and was shouting: “This is not in the script, Doug!” But Doug spoke louder, faster. “Iiiii am not insane, I say! Only the insane would say such a thing they say. Then I am insane, I say. Yes you are, they say. I am trapped, I am framed, I spit out your poisoned pills! I reject your propagandist blather. I know what I know I say. Hold him down they say.” Warden Raynor had gone to the tech board and turned on all the lights. He shouted “code blue” into a radio receiver, and we saw half a dozen security officers in their green medal laden uniforms lurch from the corners of the room, penning the ensemble of inmates into a tight circle in the center. “Return them to their rooms,” the warden called.

But as the guards encroached, the three men from the NTSP stepped to the perimeter of the mass of inmates. They were holding little plastic wings just like those on the costumes of the actors playing flight attendants. One of the NTSP agents, the one with an unceasing nose bleed, opened the back of the wings, revealing a long sharp pin, and thrust it into the neck of a guard. Simultaneously, the other NTSP agents and several other actors did the same, and the guards fell to the ground. One of the NTSP agents, the one with a blister on his upper lip, grabbed the keys and weapons from an unconscious officer. “Dearest audience,” he said in verse. “We mean them no harm. ‘tis but a sleep, a little pharmaceutical rest for a uniformed guard who kept us confined, made life hard for us low level agents doing our jobs, trapped ‘neath the lies of a warden who robs our freedom and murders our spirit. At last we can go, approach the wall and clear it, but heed my warning: as we this coup fly, every man for himself, better run – or die.” And upon this last line, the alarm bells of the asylum rattled my ears and my nerves, shaking Carlos and me from our seats. The inmates scattered in every direction as Sheriff Sam and their officers gave chase. Carlos was nearly stepped on by one of the escapees, and as I bent to help him up, I was knocked over by two officers in full sprint.

When the commotion died down, I looked up and saw Erika still sitting calmly in their chair, and I asked: “Erika, what is happening?” Erika looked down at their playbill, and then back at me, and said: “I think it’s intermission.”

And now the weather.

[“One One Thousand” by Raina Rose rainarose.com]

After 15 minutes, Carlos and I returned to our seats hoping, but not truly believing it really was an intermission. We’ve seen immersive theater before, like “Sleep No More”, an interactive show in New York City where audience members are placed inside a huge warehouse of actors dancing out the plot to “Macbeth”, and at the end everyone is granted the ability to live out the rest of their lives without sleep. It’s expensive and not for everyone, but totally worth it if immersive theater is your thing. But this show was not that. No. “18713/NTSP” had gone wrong. Or, perhaps it had gone right. Under the strict critique of plot structure, character development, and production value, the play failed terribly. But as a piece of political or (agit prop) theater, it was a rousing success. The Sheriff’s Secret Police have placed roadblocks around the entire city, hoping to keep these supposedly dangerous inmates from leaving the area. It is bad optics, to say the least, for the entire population of the town’s asylum to escape custody.

But as Carlos and I left the theater space, we walked down the long corridors, cells and rooms open, no security detail in sight. In one of the cells, below a cot, was a journal. It was the journal of Doug Biondi. Page after page was filled with monologues, narratives and conversations from various people. People who were on a plane, people in transit between checkpoints of life, between relationships, between homes, between jobs, between vacation and work. These stories were written as verbatim dialogue, as if Doug Biandi had transcribed them himself. As if he could hear the voices of those very people. Like former air traffic controller Amelia Anna Alfaro. I wonder if Doug heard the same voices. The same passengers of the missing plane. I had my intern Seamus go down to the library and look up public records on Doug Biondi, hoping to find some connection between Doug and Amelia, but Seamus still has yet to return with that information . I even double checked my playbill looking for Amelia’s name in the cast or crew, but she was not listened here. She was likely never in the asylum.

One thing I did find, though, was a note in the back of Doug’s journal. This note seemed to be in Doug’s own voice. “They tell us we are kept here for our safety, but they keep us here for their safety. They fear what will happen when the people on that plane are found. But I think they have already been found. They should be afraid of what happens when the people on the plane find us.”

Night Vale is on lockdown, so stay home and stay safe, listeners. I do not believe any of us to be in danger from those who escaped the asylum, but I do believe us to be in danger of most everything else. Stay tuned next for a serious of audio clicks, which is definitely not federal agents tapping your radio. Don’t worry about it.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

[e350tb]

Steven Universe: Marooned Together - Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Seven

In over twenty years, no outside invader had ever come to New Earth.

Sure there had been problems - the recent coup, only five years previous, still weighed heavily on everybody’s minds. But as far as Homeworld went, the people of New Earth considered themselves safe. This was their haven, for human and gem alike, where the Diamonds saw nothing and knew nothing. Sure, there was a Home Guard - their green uniforms and simple tin hats making them much less imposing to the population than the Human Resistance - but that was to help the pirates and scavengers, not to actually have to protect the people.

It was a lovely image of total, insular safety.

And, incidentally, it was also a lie, which was about to be shattered.

Life in New Earth was changing, which wasn’t so much a shift in epochs as it was a way of life in the fluctuating settlement.

Every time they returned, Stevonnie was told of some new expansion or technological marvel brought online to help the people, of new areas often literally bolted onto the city. Building out was hard, because New Earth was basically on a platform floating in space, so increasingly they built up. The new towers contrasted the older buildings - they were uniform in colour, pastel greens and glossy blues, looking almost like something that might have been seen on Homeworld. The time of scarcity had passed away, and now they had something approaching… if not plenty, then certainly sufficiency.

It boggled their head, and as they wandered the new streets, they realised more and more that they didn’t belong here. It was too big, too crowded, too bright in some places and too dark in others. They’d grown accustomed to their little island, where things moved at a slower pace.

They wondered if that meant there was something wrong with them.

“So we have a penthouse now,” said Peedee, leaning back on his chair outside the Diamond’s Lament. They had stopped here for a break before heading up to Jeff and Peedee’s new home.

“It’s not a penthouse, Peedee,” replied Jeff, with exasperation of someone who’d had to say this multiple times, “It’s an apartment at the top of one of the new towers. It’s no better than anyone else's.”

“He’s being modest,” chuckled Peedee.

“I am not,” said Jeff firmly, “I am not using my power as a mayor to let you live in luxury! The Bismuths have better things to do then…”

Stevonnie sighed.

“What’s wrong, ‘Von?” asked Lapis, putting a hand on their partner’s shoulder.

“Sorry, just… thought of Bismuth for a second there,” replied Stevonnie, “You were saying?”

“It is a step up, though,” mused Jeff, “We built the old apartments out of scraps, and now… it’s like living on Earth, but…”

“But it’s not at all,” finished Peedee.

“Yeah,” sighed Jeff, “Not at all.”

There was a long, sober silence.

Then Peedee grinned impishly and began to speak in a deep, raspy voice.

“But New Earth makes the best condos…”

“Peedee, don’t…”

“...at the best prices,” continued Peedee, “‘Cause I’m Jeff. Eat Jeff Steaks.”

“Peedee, I swear to god…”

Lapis chuckled.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but the voice is funny,” she complimented.

Peedee grinned.

“Thank you Lapis, very cool,” he continued, “I-”

There was a loud boom somewhere down the street.

“What the heck was that?”

The four stood up, gazing down the street. A plume of smoke, lit by flames, blanketed the east-facing rows of pavement and houses - whatever had happened was only a little way past the Museum, and a few of the Home Guard were already running towards the scene. Stevonnie found themself already making a beeline for the scene, their protective instinct immediately activating. They hoped nobody was hurt.

“What happened?” they heard Jeff yell behind them, “Did anyone see it?”

A powder-green pearl, who was holding tightly to a middle-aged woman’s hand, turned around.

“Something fell out of the sky!” she replied, “I-I don’t think it hit anyone but… was it a comet?!”

“It had some kind of engine,” the woman said quietly, “Comets don’t have those.”

“Scavenger might’ve crashed,” mused Peedee, “Not good.”

They approached the crash site, the smoke still too heavy to see anything. Immediately, one of the Home Guards - a bluish-purple Amethyst - turned and held up her hand.

“Restricted area!” she called, “I…”

She stumbled over her words as she realised who she was talking to.

“Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Fryman, Mr. Fryman,” she said, “I-I’ve been asked to keep people away from here in case…”

“It’s all good, Nines,” replied Jeff, “Do you know what it is?”

The Amethyst - Nines, apparently - shrugged.

“It’s a pod of some sort,” she replied, “Corporal Jenkins is taking a look now, but we don’t think it’s armed or anything. I…”

“Shit! Take co-”

There was a loud bang and a flash of red. A soldier flew out of the plume of smoke, slamming into a wall and bouncing painfully down to the floor. He landed with a crunch, and Stevonnie could just about see a small plume of smoke emitting from the back of his jacket.

“Corporal Jenkins!” exclaimed Nines.

“What the hell was that?” demanded Peedee.

“Rebel targets detected. Engaging at will.”

There was another flash of red and a scream. A helmet bounced out of the smoke and along the road, stopping as it hit Stevonnie’s boot. They looked down - a few fragments of shiny red rock could be seen in the metal shell.

“Was… was there a Ruby in there?” asked Jeff.

Nine swallowed and nodded.

Suddenly, a figure floated out of the darkness. It was a peculiar contraption - a completely round, white head on a body that vaguely resembled a chess piece. It had two arms, both of which ended in what looked like a limb enhancer with no fingers, and a skirt that was covered by a diamond pattern. In fact, there were diamond insignia all over the robot - whites and yellows and blues.

“Targets acquired. Exterminating rebel presence.”

It raised its limbs -- arms? -- and the extremities began to glow red. Stevonnie had just enough time to raise their shield before it fired, a crackling, scarlet beam ricocheting off their pink shield and off into the sky.

“Okay, get everyone out,” snapped Stevonnie, “I’ll handle this.”

Lapis stepped forward, putting a hand on their shoulder.

“We’ll handle this,” she corrected.

Jeff nodded.

“Alright! Everyone get inside, now! Move!”

Any of the remaining people or gems who did not have the forethought to leave already quickly did as they were bid, scurrying into the nearest shelter as the strange drone began to advance again, its smooth, mechanical voice blaring once more.

“Targets identified as Rose Quartz and Lapis Lazuli gems. Surrender immediately for painless termination.”

“Wow,” grunted Lapis, “You drive a hard bargain. How ‘bout instead I do this?”

She raised her arms, and one of the sewer manholes burst open. Water streamed into the air, forming a giant hammer above the strange drone. The drone, sensing the oncoming attack and, more importantly, its source, immediately shifted its arm to face Lapis, the beam charging again.

“Look out!”

Stevonnie side-stepped, bringing their shield up in front of Lapis and deflecting the blast before hurling it back towards the drone. It slammed into the arm and forced it upwards, sending a second blast firing harmlessly into the sky.

Before it could correct itself, the hammer came down with enormous force, knocking the drone onto it’s back. Sparks flew and it beeped, spluttering loudly, arms glowing and flickering as the water seeped into the machine’s electronics. Then, with a final pathetic sizzle, the backlit plane of gem tech went dark, head dropping backwards onto the ground.

Slowly, Stevonnie and Lapis approached their seemingly disabled opponent, the former with two shields out. They stood over the mech and smashed each shield into it, following a smooth downward arch; one could never be too careful.

“I think it was already broken,” said Lapis.

“Just making sure,” shrugged Stevonnie, “What the heck do you think this is?”

“Whatever it is,” replied Lapis, shaking her head, “It’s not good…”

“So it just landed and started blasting everything?” asked Amethyst.

Amethyst and Peridot had joined Stevonnie and Lapis by the ruined drone, which had now been cordoned off by the Home Guard. A few Guards stood over it, poking and prodding the machine in an attempt to work out what it was, while Lenny looked over the drone and took notes. Jeff was at the edge of the cordon, trying to explain the situation to curious passersby.

“Yeah,” nodded Stevonnie, “We think it’s from Homeworld…”

“Which means,” Amethyst’s voice darkened, “They know where we are. Jeff n’ Peeds letting people know that?”

“I dunno,” shrugged Lapis, “They didn’t tell us.”

“But if they know where we are,” asked Peridot, “Why not just destroy us?”

“I-I-I think it’s a Reconnaissance Robonoid of some… of some kind.”

Lenny had wandered over, Carl following close behind.

“I-i-it would make sense,” she continued, “They… they’d want to know what def… defences we have before… before they…”

“...before they destroy us,” finished Peridot, “Well, that’s a pleasant thought.”

“Tell you what, it’s definitely gonna drive down the price of Jeff’s penthouse,” chuckled Amethyst.

“It’s not a penthouse!” Jeff shouted.

“Yeah, sure, you keep telling yourself that, Jeff!” Amethyst called back.

“Hey, look!”

One of the Guards was prodding the helmet of the drone with his bayonet.

“I’ve found a hatch here, I think I can open it…”

“W-wait, no, don’t break it!” exclaimed Lenny, “I…”

Click.

The helmet began to open outwards, splitting into four quarters as each hatch raised up and away, revealing what lay underneath.

“There’s something in…” the Guard paled. “Oh my god!”

He stepped back and doubled over, dry-heaving. A strange and unpleasant smell filled the air, and slowly, the group approached the opened helmet.

“Oh no,” Stevonnie breathed.

“Aw, dude,” muttered Amethyst, shaking her head.

“Is that…” Carl began.

Lenny nodded grimly.

“I think… we’ve found the power source.”

Inside the helmet, there was a half-rotted, noseless, mummified human head, attached to the drone body by a series of thick tubes. The brain was exposed, large chunks crudely replaced with smooth, bright white metal. A single cybernetic eye, black with a white, diamond-shaped iris, stared up at them, almost as if it was gazing into their very souls.

“But… but Homeworld has computers to do this!” exclaimed Peridot, “Why would they do something so… inefficient?”

“I would’ve gone with ‘disgusting’ myself,” muttered Carl.

“I dunno,” replied Stevonnie, averting their eyes from the horrific scene, “But I don’t know if I want to find out…”

With the recent acceleration of Project Chrysalis, a conspicuous number of things had started going amiss in these mines. Deposits of minerals vanished, pieces of equipment broke, gems were found poofed in the dark tunnels. As a result, security was being tightened, but some of the peridots and quartzes feared that such safety measures still wouldn’t work. They believed some kind of monster lurked beneath this gem-forsaken planet.

And, in a way, they were quite right. Something did lurk in the mines. Something was sabotaging their work, doing everything she could think of to disrupt the progress of a project she honestly knew next to nothing about.

All she knew was that it was helping the Diamonds do something. That was enough reason enough for her to destroy it.

After all, there was nothing better than ruining an upper-crust’s day.

[ginnyweasleypottter]

Who Needs A Heart-Chapter 2

So I’m co-writing a story with @nostalgiamisha and @piperandkatoptris based off the “In A Heartbeat” short- basically a bunch of one-shots from different fandoms and ships in that type of AU! Here’s my first chapter, featuring Harry and Ginny!

Take Care      

ao3 link                      

It wasn’t just the things that everybody knew that caused her Heart to glow for him. It was the things that she noticed herself, the things she found out through careful (but so-totally-subtle) observation and stilted conversations. Growing up hearing stories about the Boy Who Lived was something that every wizarding child was familiar with- he was a local hero in the Wizarding community after all. She supposed her feelings were close to hero-worship, akin to a celebrity crush. That’s what everyone told her, after all. But she knew that it wasn’t just that. She knew Harry, more than just the stories about him.

Ginny was too young when she first saw Harry Potter for her Heart to react too strongly. She felt the warmth glow in her chest when she saw him, but she still had a few year before her Heart would start making decisions like that. Despite knowing this, the warmth faded once the train faded out of sight, and she missed it more than she thought possible. She was determined to get that feeling back.

The next time Ginny felt that glow was greeting her brothers when they came home that summer. She noticed Harry immediately next to her brother, and the glow instantly came back. (She was grateful that it wasn’t outwardly noticeable yet; she could almost hear the ribbing she would get once people realized). As Harry and Ron drew nearer to her and her mother, she kept her eyes on Harry, drinking in the smallest details about him. Her Heart began beating faster as he got close enough that she could make out the green of his eyes, and her face flushed almost as warm as the glow in her chest.

Ginny was 11 when her Heart began to make decisions. She thought she would be safe for a few more weeks from Harry- but when she woke up one day, he was sitting in her kitchen, casually eating breakfast. She turned red when she felt her Heart glow again and ran from the room, hoping that the glow wasn’t noticeable to the others. Ginny knew about Hearts, everyone did. It wasn’t even something that was separated between Muggle and Magic- everyone experienced the HeartBeats. However, what Ginny didn’t know- what no one knew- was exactly when people started being led by their Heart. It seemed to start around age 11, or as anyone in a the Wizarding World thought of it- HeartBeats started when you got your Hogwarts letter. Ginny hadn’t yet gotten her Hogwarts letter that summer, but she knew it was on its way- and she had no way of testing if her HeartBeats had started yet. Nearly a week after Harry appeared in her kitchen, and a few days after Ginny turned 11, she could feel the beating of her Heart more than ever. It was at breakfast one day that everything changed. Ginny was already at the table, buttering her toast when she saw Harry and Ron come down the stairs. Clumsily, she dropped her knife and stuck her elbow in the butter (which she was grateful that no one seemed to notice). When she sat back up from retrieving her knife however, she noticed everyone staring at her. She looked around confusedly, her blush rising as she noticed Harry staring at her too, his face quite red as well. It was then that she noticed her Heart straining out of her chest, reaching toward Harry. Blushing even redder, she grabbed her Heart and pushed it back towards her chest. She stumbled out of her chair, letting it crash backwards and ran to the stairs, her hands still crushing the struggling Heart inside her chest. She ran to her room, slamming the door behind her and leaning against it, breathing heavily. She shut her eyes tightly against the embarrassed tears welling in her eyes, letting her hands drop to her sides. Her Heart burst out of her chest, floating in front of her with a lovesick smile on its face. Ginny face fell panicked as the Heart shot toward the door, obviously trying to get back downstairs to Harry. She grabbed the edge of the Heart and pulled it from the door, but it managed to grip tightly onto the doorknob. As she pulled, she noticed a tear beginning in the middle of the Heart. She let go quickly and fearfully, not wanting to break her Heart this soon after gaining her HeartBeats. The small tear stayed in the top of the Heart, but the Heart appeared to calm down after it happened, and stopped trying so desperately to leave the room. Ginny gently grabbed her Heart, stroking gently at the tear. The Heart had a terrified look on its face and it looked extremely less happy than it had when it first burst out of her chest. She slid down her door slowly, the Heart lying still in her hands. She knew enough about the HeartBeats to know that her Heart would never look the same once it was broken- that scar would remain forever. The only way to keep her Heart from being broken was to keep it away from Harry- if he didn’t reject her feelings, if she didn’t know for sure that her feelings weren’t returned, she could fool herself into thinking that it was possible, she could fool her Heart into staying whole.

Keeping her Heart away from Harry was easier said than done. Though her Heart didn’t fight her as much after the near-break, it still took chances to go find the boy. Her Heart made decisions whenever she wasn’t paying attention, causing certain things to fall through the cracks. Her Heart spent some time locked in her trunk after a certain Valentine’s Day event. As the year continued, she noticed she was getting stronger, or perhaps her Heart was getting weaker. Indeed, the Heart seemed duller in color and was moving much slower, as though it was sick. As far as Ginny knew, Hearts didn’t get sick unless the target of one’s affections was completely unapproachable, and as much as Harry seemed unapproachable, she knew that she could let her Heart go to him if she chose. She couldn’t bring herself to worry too much however, as by this point she was extremely distracted by other things.

These distractions came to an end when Ginny woke up, shivering and wet, on the stone floor of the Chamber of Secrets. Harry was a bit to the side of her, covered in blood, grime, and holding some very interesting object -- one of which happened to be her Heart. She felt a pit form in her stomach at the sight. Harry let go of her Heart when he noticed her wake, allowing it to settle on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry Ginny. I’ll take care of your Heart for as long as it’s with me,” he said.

And he did. For years, her Heart stayed with Harry, not once fading from sight. They never spoke about it, and even her brothers stayed quiet on the subject. (She could only assume that her parents had but the fear of God into them if they dared- or more likely the fear of Molly Weasley). She never saw her Heart in public, and could only assume it was snuggled up in Harry’s pocket or something, which she was grateful for. It took her years to get comfortable enough to talk to Harry, knowing that he knew exactly where her Heart was.

Harry had gotten used to having Ginny’s Heart with him ever since the incident in the Chamber. At first, he was a little embarrassed and awkward, not entirely knowing what to do or how to act around her, considering his Heart did not feel the same (he also had to get Hermione to explain the HeartBeats to him, but that was beside the point). He tried to ignore it at first, which proved difficult as her Heart was very stubborn. Eventually he learned that if he just allowed the Heart to sit in his pocket, everything would be fine. After realizing this, having the Heart seemed like second nature. He could feel the Heartbeat with him at all times-- something he definitely appreciated at the Dursley’s. He felt calmer knowing her Heart was with him. He was so used to her Heart being with him, that he didn’t know what to do when he couldn’t feel it anymore. He first noticed its absence in his fifth year at Hogwarts. Her Heart wasn’t in his pocket one day, causing panic to strike through him. His own Heart had finally burst out one day, and was currently following Cho Chang around the school (along with a couple other Hearts). Harry had a fair few Hearts following him around, but Ginny’s had always been the brightest and stayed the closest. That is, until he saw Ginny holding Michael Corner’s hand, both their Hearts trailing behind them. Despite this, her Heart appeared in his pocket again that night. This became a pattern over the next few weeks. Her Heart would drift further and further away, stay away for longer, but it always returned at some point. Harry was grateful for this, the feeling of an old comfort whenever the Heart returned. His own Heart had returned to him later that year, broken and scarred. The semi-permanent return of Ginny’s Heart after her and Michael’s breakup was a welcomed comfort.

When Ginny’s Heart left him in order to follow Dean around instead, Harry felt the absence even more strongly than before. (No one mentioned the awkwardness that appeared in the dorm when they woke up to find Ginny’s Heart on Harry’s bedside table instead of Dean’s). Harry had been ignoring the glow in his chest all summer when he was around Ginny, chalking it up to simply being in his second favorite place in the world. When his Heart once again burst out of his chest however, he could no longer ignore his feelings- despite Ron, despite Dean, he couldn’t ignore his Heart’s decision. Ginny, wonderfully enough, never mentioned that his Heart was following her, even to Dean. She returned the favor that he had done for her years before, taking care of his heart in total silence.

At last, Dean’s Heart was returned to him, and Ginny’s returned to Harry. Despite his fear of Ron’s reaction, Harry couldn’t bring himself to stay away from Ginny for too long, and it was only a short time before the Hearts were united together as the two kissed in the Common Room. Their Hearts were brighter than ever, never straying far from their chosen. After the events of the year, both Hearts returned to their owner, broken and scarred- but still glowing for each other. As far apart as they were during the war, both Ginny and Harry could feel the ache in their chest at being separated. During the final battle, at the first sight of each other, neither of them could keep their Hearts from bursting out of their chest, flying to the other. As Harry walked into the Forest, he was not alone, because Ginny’s Heart was beating for him. As Ginny knelt by her brother’s side, she felt Harry’s Heart stop, then start beating again, knowing what had happened before anyone spoke a word. When the battle was over, the war won, they didn’t feel the need to speak right away. Ginny and Harry had each other’s Hearts, and their Hearts would stay with each other, until the very end.